I’ve had my fair share of relationships. And, in the periods between them, I’ve also had my fair share of gay dating apps, dating profiles, awkward conversations and the occasional late-night decision that probably didn’t need to happen.
So I like to think I’ve seen enough profiles by now to know what I’m looking at.
Apparently not.
Because somewhere along the way, reading a gay dating profile became less like getting to know someone and more like trying to decode a mildly flirtatious ransom note.
“Good vibes only.” “Looking for something real.” “Just seeing what’s out there.” “Ask me.” “No drama.”
Such insight into their unique characteristics. Two words short of the next Barbra Streisand autobiography.
The strange thing is that profiles are supposed to make this easier. They’re meant to give you some idea of the person behind the torso, the holiday photo and the suspiciously flattering bathroom lighting. Instead, we’ve somehow developed an entire vocabulary of phrases that sound like they’re telling you something while revealing almost nothing at all.
And the more of them you read, the harder it becomes to work out whether you’re looking at your future husband, your next regrettable Wednesday night, or simply that rare specimen who has bravely chosen to announce that he enjoys travel and food.
So what exactly have I learned from years of reading these things?
At first glance, I’d say nothing.
But in the interests of serious journalism, I decided this deserved a proper investigation.
“Looking for something real.”
A noble start.
But what does real actually mean?
A relationship? A husband? Or someone who’s going to make me get off the couch, go to his place, do the deed, and get me home just in time for another episode of The White Lotus?
Because depending on the app, the time of day and how flattering your third photo is, “something real” can apparently cover quite a lot of territory.
It’s one of those phrases that sounds wonderfully sincere while committing to absolutely nothing. Everyone wants something “real.” Nobody opens a dating app thinking, Ideally, I’d like an emotionally hollow imaginary boyfriend.
And yet there it is, proudly sitting in thousands of profiles as though the rest of us have been specifically requesting counterfeit affection.
Information acquired: subject would prefer his romantic interactions to exist in reality. Promising start.
“Just seeing what’s out there.”
A phrase so noncommittal it could belong on Tinder, LinkedIn or Uber Eats.
What exactly are you hoping to discover? Men?
“Just seeing what’s out there” manages to sound casual, open-minded and completely unavailable all at once. It gives you the impression that he has no expectations, no agenda and absolutely no intention of being held responsible for whatever happens next.
Maybe he wants a boyfriend. Maybe he wants a hookup. Maybe he wants someone to chat to for three weeks before disappearing without warning. At this stage, all options remain beautifully on the table.
There’s something wonderfully fantasyland about keeping every possible option open before you’ve even met anyone. It’s a bit like subscribing to a kitchen-cabinet newsletter when you don’t own a house and, realistically, probably won’t in this lifetime.
A heart full of dreams. A wallet full of dust.
Information acquired: subject has opened the app and is currently observing the available live stock.
“Good vibes only.”
Naturally.
Because nobody has ever opened a dating app thinking, You know what I’m really looking for? Tension. Emotional instability. Maybe a small argument before drinks.
“Good vibes only” sounds less like a personality trait and more like a terms-and-conditions agreement you’re expected to accept before speaking.
And what counts as a bad vibe, exactly?
Taking too long to reply? Asking what he’s looking for? Mentioning an ex? Suggesting a restaurant he doesn’t like?
The trouble with “good vibes only” is that it either tells you absolutely nothing about the person, or tells you quite a lot. Because if you feel the need to specifically warn strangers that only good vibes are permitted, there’s a subtle warning that your internal turmoil may unleash the demon the second a reply takes 12 minutes to arrive.
Information acquired: unlike the rest of us, subject is broadly in favour of pleasant experiences.
“No drama.”
This one always feels slightly ominous.
“No drama” should be reassuring. In theory, it means he wants a calm, uncomplicated life with mature communication and absolutely no unnecessary chaos.
In practice, it can also read a little like a restaurant putting “NO FOOD POISONING” on the front door.
Because most people who genuinely live peaceful, drama-free lives don’t usually feel the need to announce it. They just quietly get on with things, answer messages normally and generally don’t need a warning label in their bio.
Of course, maybe he really is completely drama-free.
Or maybe you’re about to become episode six.
Information acquired: subject has strong feelings about drama. Origin of those feelings currently unknown.
“Ask me.”
About what?
You’ve given me absolutely nothing to work with.
No hobbies. No interests. No clues. Just “ask me”, as though I’ve stumbled into a job interview where I’m somehow responsible for preparing both sides of the conversation.
And yes, technically I can ask you things. But the whole point of a profile is surely to save us from having to begin with: So… what do you like doing?
At least give me a hook. A dog. A weird obsession. A hatred of coriander. Anything.
Otherwise this isn’t flirting. It’s admin.
Information acquired: subject has outsourced his personality to the chat function.
“Not on here much.”
Of course not.
You just happened to be here when I opened the app. And yesterday. And, by an extraordinary coincidence, at 1:14 in the morning last Saturday.
There’s something especially beautiful about reading “not on here much” directly underneath “online 9 minutes ago.”
“Not on here much” is one of those statements that immediately makes you wonder why it needed to be said at all. Nobody is judging your screen time. We’re all here. This is not a support group.
Maybe it’s meant to suggest he has a rich, fulfilling life beyond dating apps. Perhaps he spends his days hiking, reading literature and having meaningful conversations with friends, only occasionally remembering that Grindr exists.
Or perhaps he checks it 38 times a day but would simply prefer that this information not affect his brand.
Information acquired: subject is on here enough to tell us he’s not on here much.
“Chill guy.”
Amazingly, every man on a dating app is chill.
Because nobody describes himself as “a bit intense, likes to know your location at all times, and hobbies include silently climbing through your window to watch you sleep after the first date.”
No. Chill.
The difficulty is that “chill” has become one of those words so stretched by online dating that it can now mean anything from genuinely laid-back to please never ask me what this is between us.
Sometimes it means he’s easygoing. Sometimes it means he wants absolutely no expectations placed upon him. And sometimes it means he’ll send “??” because you looked away from your phone for two minutes to check whether your food was burning on the stove.
Which, for the record, is not chill.
Information acquired: subject has declared himself chill. We await the first minor inconvenience.
“I love to laugh.”
Thank God. A rare find.
Because the rest of us just tolerate laughter when absolutely necessary and prefer to move through life in grim, dignified silence.
“I love to laugh” is one of those dating-profile statements that sounds positive until you realise it tells you absolutely nothing. Almost everyone likes laughing. It’s not a niche interest.
And yet people keep listing it as though they’ve just revealed something wonderfully distinctive about themselves.
Maybe the intention is to say they want someone funny. Fair enough. But if that’s the case, say that. Otherwise all we’ve established is that your nervous system responds normally to humour.
Information acquired: subject enjoys one of the most universally enjoyed human experiences.
“Foodie.”
Another courageous position.
He enjoys food.
Not just consuming it for survival, apparently. He actually likes it.
“Foodie” always sounds as though we’re dealing with a man of sophisticated tastes, when there is every possibility he simply knows where the good burgers are and has strong opinions about brunch.
Or maybe he once ordered truffle fries and the title just stuck.
Either way, I appreciate the confidence of taking one of the basic requirements of staying alive and turning it into a personality.
Information acquired: subject is pro-eating.
“Friends, dates, maybe more.”
So, basically, every possible human relationship available on the planet.
Friendship? Yes. Dating? Yes. Sex? Potentially. Relationship? Maybe. Casual? Sure. Serious? Could be. Something undefined that drifts along for four months until one person finally asks what this actually is? Also apparently covered.
And technically, there’s nothing wrong with keeping your options open. But mentioning every single possibility instead of just saying “open to anything” feels a bit like ordering the whole menu because you couldn’t decide what you were hungry for.
Information acquired: subject is open to everything but likes to detail what “everything” is.
“Looking for chemistry.”
Another unique, mind-blowing statement.
Because the rest of us mortals are apparently just hoping to meet someone we feel absolutely nothing for and then see how far we can drag it.
Of course you’re looking for chemistry. We all are. That elusive combination of attraction, conversation, timing and whatever neurological malfunction makes you suddenly decide a man’s forearms and pecs are enough reason to ignore several obvious warning signs.
But stating this as though it’s some mind-blowing revelation?
Mind-blowing.
Information acquired: subject would prefer to actually fancy the person he dates.
“Down to earth.”
A reassuring quality, mainly because the alternative would be alarming.
Nobody is writing “absolute diva, extremely high-maintenance and likely to throw a plate at the wall over the most minor inconvenience.”
“Down to earth” is one of those phrases people usually award themselves, which is already doing some interesting work. It’s a bit like announcing that you’re humble and hoping nobody spots the contradiction.
And maybe he is. Maybe he’s lovely, grounded and easy to be around.
But if you have to formally certify your own lack of pretension in the bio, I reserve the right to inspect the evidence.
Information acquired: subject has personally reviewed his personality and found it refreshingly normal.
“Not looking for hookups.”
Finally, something we can work with.
What I can’t work with is when this appears underneath a shirtless photo, a close-up of one bicep and a bathroom selfie in underwear.
Because now the message and the marketing materials are telling two completely different stories.
And to be fair, there’s nothing wrong with being proud of your body. But if the bio says “not looking for hookups” while the photo gallery looks like the opening credits of a porno, I’m going to need a little clarification.
Information acquired: subject has stated a clear boundary. His photos have filed an appeal.
“Discreet.”
Ah, the good old “discreet.”
I used to assume this meant “not a raging queen.” Although, based on several past dates, even that definition seems to have been applied with considerable flexibility.
And let’s be honest, we’re all a little camp when the lighting is right.
So what does “discreet” mean now?
You’re not out? You’re married? You never want to be seen with me in public? Are we having dinner, or does your boyfriend currently think you’ve just popped out to walk the dog?
Because there’s a fairly large gap between “I value my privacy” and “if we see someone I know, keep walking.”
Information acquired: I have no clue.
After this extremely serious investigation, I can confidently report that gay dating profiles tell us almost nothing. We all enjoy food, laughter and chemistry, nobody wants drama, and half the time we’ve already swiped based on photo number two without reading a single word anyway.
Which perhaps raises the more interesting question: why did we match at all if neither of us is going to get beyond “hello, how are you?”
From this behaviour, combined with all the noncommittal profile adjectives above, I’m led to conclude that most of us simply like having a shopping cart full of faces saved for “one day”, without sacrificing the freedom to take three different loads today.
Or maybe we’re all just psychopaths.
Perhaps the most honest dating profile of all should simply read:
Open to anything but mostly silence.
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