Another year, another Valentine’s Day spent single and alone. Woof. What does a queer gal have to do to get a date around here? Isn’t Portland supposed to be, like, the gayest city on earth or something? Where are all the lesbians? Where is my future wife?
Well, as it turns out, she’s probably busy ignoring me on Her, Hinge, or even the most godforsaken app known to humanity—Tinder.
In a twisted act of self-sabotage fueled by a combination of laziness and anxiety, I’m probably ignoring her right back.
At this point, I’ve given up all hope of finding love online. You may be asking yourself, why is a young and sprightly 27-year-old so jaded and bitter? So here’s an example of what my online dating life has been like for the past few years.
Several months ago, I was chatting with a lovely woman on Her, the popular dating app for queer women. Things were going well and there were plans to meet in person.
As far as I can recall, I hadn’t said anything particularly alarming to this woman. I had yet to disclose my passion for analyzing episodes of The Real Housewives as if they were classic works of literature, nor had I mentioned that I regularly lay in bed and sing the entire Wicked soundtrack from start to finish—off book, I might add—and that I am often moved to tears by this particular activity.
I guess you could say I had kept all my red flags at bay up until this point, which is why what happened next shook me to my core.
It all began with a simple question. Amid what was otherwise a lovely, flirty conversation, this woman casually asked me what music I was listening to. A classic, often harmless question. I replied that I had been listening to John Grant and Weyes Blood—an honest answer I felt was both safe yet quirky enough to be endearing.
I turned the question towards her, curious to see if our tastes would match up when our entire chat history was deleted from my inbox.
I refreshed and refreshed, searching for her face among my other matches. But she was gone.
She had blocked me.
Seconds later, I was furiously googling “John Grant problematic” and “Weyes Blood problematic,” horrified that maybe these musicians had gotten up to some terrible things when I wasn’t paying attention.
But alas, my searches turned up dry. Maybe she didn’t like my taste in music, or perhaps she just didn’t like me? I guess I’ll never know.
The saddest thing about this story is that it is not at all uncommon—not for me and not for most of the queer women or non-binary people I know who have tried their hands at online dating.
Countless times, I have struck up a perfectly lovely conversation with someone on a dating app designed for queers of my ilk, only for it to fizzle out and result in nothing.
Now, I’m not saying I am a victim in any sense of the word. I claim full responsibility for many, many of these online relationships fizzling out.
My frustration is with the fact that dating, as a queer woman, seems to be a never-ending cycle of disappointment. Surely, there must be a better way.
Even in Portland—a city that praises itself for its acceptance of LGBTQ+ people—it feels next to impossible to date as a queer woman, much less as a queer woman working two jobs and going to grad school full time.
As an introvert with very little free time, online dating often feels like my only option. It’s not like Portland has a good selection of lesbian bars or other spaces to hang out at—believe me, I’ve checked!
Whether it be conversations fizzling out, cisgender straight men somehow finagling their way onto apps meant for queers or couples sneakily looking for a third, the online dating scene for lesbians, queer women and non-binary people is a bleak one. I know I’m not the only one who thinks this.
After scouring Reddit and talking to some of my queer friends, it seems queer women and non-binary folks of all ages can agree on one thing—lesbian dating apps are a bust.
Or perhaps dating apps, in general, are a bust. Nothing appeals to me about getting to know strangers via a shallow, looks-and-vibes-based platform.
In fact, in the time it took me to write this article, I’ve realized that I rather enjoy being single.
If forced to choose between chatting with strangers online with the slight possibility of finding love or enjoying peace and quiet by my lonesome, I’d most definitely choose the latter option.
I don’t need online dating to feel fulfilled. Maybe—just maybe—I don’t need a girlfriend quite as badly as I initially thought.
You know what? I may as well delete my dating apps at this point. I’m doing just fine on my own. Maybe I’ll have better luck finding love the old-fashioned way—in the wild.
