Saturday, 31 December 2016

Grinding Poetry: queer men and hookup apps (& websites)

In this blog we want to collect poems (and short prose pieces) written by gay men in reaction to hookup apps (and websites), the likes of Grindr, Scruff, Daddyhunt, GuySpy, GROWLr, Mister X, Hornet, Randy, Gaydar, GayRomeo, Buttheads, Manhunt, Gay.com... and any other app or site that you know but I may have missed. 

Multimedia material (e.g. visual art, sound, ...) is also welcome . 

If you have any piece on the topic, would you like to share it with us? If you don't, would you like to write one and contribute it to this website? 

To submit a piece, email: ernesto@sarezale.com

Copyright of each piece remains with its author.

These are the contributions so far: 

Look forward to your submissions!

Tuesday, 14 June 2016

FOUR POEMS by Dominic Berry

Titles: 'When Grindr Guys Send Me Their Dick Pix', 'date in delhi', 'Men Locked Behind Toilet Doors (Part 1)', 'My Rude Elbow'.

When Grindr Guys Send Me Their Dick Pix

The biggest and smallest are on show;
from slender bananas to thick bricks;
I’ve many a frame-worthy photo
from Grindr guys sending me dick pics.

They’re husbands. They’re fathers. They’re loners.
When I’m feeling sad, it’s a quick fix
to log in and look at their boners.
It’s lovely when blokes send me dick pics.

Sometimes they want wank-offs while skyping.
They never want flowers or picnics.
When I say, ‘let’s meet’, they stop typing.
They often just ask me for dick pics.

Sometimes they will not show their faces.
Sometimes they say girls smell of fish sticks.
Sometimes what they write’s really racist
right after they’ve sent me nice dick pics.

They don’t care about my Bjork LPs.
Sometimes all they want is to click pricks
and share these below-the-belt selfies.
Sometimes their best bits are their dick pics.

===

date in delhi

many queers here do not put their faces on grindr
sometimes they use superheroes
batman scowls
black widow winks
sometimes they use pictures of open mouthed tigers
bare teeth
longing tongues
often the image is blank

several lizards are panicking up my hotel walls
one is trying to hide behind the long strip light
but I see the narrow fingers of its statuesque hand
jut out like points of a cartoon explosion

street police have big guns and bigger smiles
it is a good morning sir

when i meet mike our coffee mugs look like egg cups
mike has bold muscles and shares his confident belief
that india will treat its gays like england does now
within the next three years or so
between swallowed shots of scalding latte

i am told to walk carefully
mosquitoes and homophobes are everywhere

i am told to eat carefully
but the confident flow of my fiery diarrhoea
has long since taken its residence
in this delicate stomach
relentless with its stinging certainty
it doesnt seem like it is ever going to change

===

Men Locked Behind Toilet Doors (Part 1)

Jack and Ben are men locked behind a toilet door. Jack is fucking Ben's arse. The air is hot and smells of vomit. Ben knows Jack owns every Bjork CD even the remix ones yes even the shit remix ones Ben's shit is on Jack's legs and inside Jack's boxers. Ben thinks don't stop. Never. Be. Lonely. The sound of half a phone call is heard outside another man explains to someone else that he needs it Thursday not Friday no it has to be Thursday no listen it must be Thursday no you don't understand Thursday Thursday fuck. Ben thinks don't stop. Great pain. Jack does not know Ben's name Jack adores the taste of his own sweat mmm yes he licks his upper lip mmm yes he wishes someone was filming him right now xtube this is love mmm yes this could go viral.

===

My Rude Elbow

My elbow is so sexy
it could detonate a church.

Just a peak of its raw flesh triggers
hard ons from all males in a one hundred meter radius.

I
am
a boner bomb.

Married men's vows of fidelity will be forgotten
as trousers drop to ankles
and the united seismic force of their
violent, public masturbation will threaten to
rip apart Britain's economy,
overthrow the monarchy
and release total orgiastic anarchy.

Your grandmother once saw me expose myself.
She had to pretend she was appalled
but I know that one fleeting sight of my nude elbow
gave your nan her first multiple orgasm.
She said she hadn't felt that alive since the war.

International terrorists have created an iPhone app.
A close up pic of my elbow can be sent
to any screen anywhere in the world.
If you see my elbow that close, that naked,
both your eyes turn inside out.
Squelch! Squelch! Elbow porn murder.

Sometimes, wish I had no arms.
I never asked to have elbows this erotic.
No wonder some only share their elbows
behind locked doors.

Picture this:
your elbow, my tongue,
everyone watching.
Slobber, slurp, lick,
everyone, rolling up sleeves,
everyone, bare arm joint on bare arm joint,
every gender, creed and age,
indiscriminate, unleashed, undeniable,
no longer locked under shirt.
Understand,
we’re unstoppable.

Join me!

No one will laugh or make fun of your elbow
because your elbow is fucking hot.

With all this joy
how could we not
create
a sexier world?

Monday, 13 June 2016

GRINDR by Jack Bateman


  (shortlisted for NozSlam 2016)

Today I opened Grindr. Because, well, I mean, I'm gay; astray, away from that straight and narrow arrow, sharpened from blunt, shooting hard into a- I can't.

Today I opened Grindr. An application for the masses of a niche which applies the application of clichés that helps raise these pillars that divide us further inside of our already stifled state. Wait... We're the queer; the abnormal whose formal role is to represent the diverse that presents itself today, but adverse circumstances have taken stance. We chop ourselves into sectioned groups, digestible scoops, of this warm silky substance that slides softly down to the stomach of... heteronormativity.

Today I opened Grindr because I was horny - needed action, a transaction of lustful energy. I wanted to pick which pic of the dick I lick and stick in my-I whole heartedly believe we are forced to single ourselves out - of the closet and we close it, only to be cloaked in the 'butch', the 'lipstick', the 'straight' or the 'camp' - ; clamped on shelves as straight studs or feminized fairies. It's fairly simple - top or bottom? Postman or letterbox? which is it? wait a minute Mr Postman; tell me do give or receive because we believe these decisions are needed to retrieve your personality? I'll let you slip that letter in, letting you be the wrecker of my treasure, feeding my ever needing desire. My diet has gone quiet for quite a while, so your sausage in my roll is welcome, playing the role of your always prepared - never scared rectu- STOP. Ugh this nonstop divide; I preach this speech that each person should not be burdened with certain sickly, sticky, signatures.

Today I opened Grindr, and I've clawed at gender politics, but I'm flawed, growing bored of these lies, guys, listen. I'm a contradiction - I fiction myself as this activist - what an actress I've become. The truth is the smoothness of the rainbow i follow - is harsh, defined - a shrine to the strange -an obsession, and you do not question the queer you steer towards... And I don't. Wait a minute Mr Postman, can I be the Jane to your Tarzan? The Wendy to your Peter Pan? Will you fuck me?

Thursday, 9 June 2016

CATFISH ON A DATE by Thomas smith

My Dad must know something is going on
I have taken a strange amount of interest
In how I look today, which is unusual because
It is completely immaterial to how I write

And I have shaved the bits of my beard
That don’t quite look beardy enough
I have trimmed my moustache until my lips
Are actually visible, I suppose all of this

Is a nod to the fact that the only pictures
You have seen of me are three years
Out of date, which I have admitted to
As I didn’t want to appear a Catfish

I pull on my Christmas Star Wars socks
It's C3P0 today, and I wonder if I wear them
You will wonder if I am gay, but then
As an artist and a poet, so the chances are high

Which wouldn’t matter, if it was a date
With a boy as I guess I would want him
To think I was gay, I mean there are a
Couple of men I like, but she’s not one of them

I stick with the socks, It’s a first date
I can’t imagine we will get to the socks on
Or off point, that’s definitely third date territory
Also I decide that not liking C3PO is a deal breaker

I wonder why I worried about my toe nails
I wonder why I am worried, this is meant to be enjoyable
Right? Right… oh fuck, now I really am worried
Can’t wear matching T-shirt I plump for Matrix

It has the three main characters, Neo, Morpheus, and Trinity
If she can name one of them its two thumbs up
If she can name all three I will explain to her if offered the red
And blue pill option I’d take both grind them to dust

And snort them off Trinity’s bottom
Which is essentially what living in the 21st century is like
If she laughs at that it’s three thumbs up
(I’ll find another arm) likewise if she groans

I’m a little worried that if I stop writing then It’ll
Actually happen, I’ll have a date, which leads possibly
To more dates at best, no more dates at worst

I guess that’s win-win, shit I am such a Catfish 

Wednesday, 3 February 2016

GRINDR by KKG


It’s hard to know what I used to do when I had a spare thought
What did I do to procrastinate? When work wasn’t frought

But the truth is its being there is a distraction in itself
My productivity ceases as the papers mount my shelf

My inbox less important than this time consuming app
Wondering who is close by and if he’s a handsome chap

The urge to see if that man appearing next to me
Is a face, a torso, blank image or maybe he’s a she

If he’s after, sex, love or dates and better still can host
Seems to be the question I ask now more regular than most

But this urge I have to see these men and if they like my pic
Affects the tasks I’m paid to do and makes me call in sick

These many men defining themselves by their listed tribe
Makes me think I understand them and think I get their vibe

But the truth is all these hours spent checking who is keen
Are affecting my performance and my boss is turning mean

Only last week himself a member told me he that It has to stop
If you keep trawling that app all day I’m giving you the chop

But these threats do not scare me and I am prepared to sue
If he can spend all day on it and then surely I can too

That drunken chat between us both and those photos of his cock
Could end up in the wrong hands and give his boss a shock

In reality he can do nothing as I continue playing this blinder
With one eye on the job I do and the other one on Grindr 

Monday, 1 February 2016

THE GRIND BEFORE CHRISTMAS by The Sex Shells

‘Twas the night before Christmas and on every iPhone

The hook-up apps were buzzing with men who felt alone.

Their stockings hung limply, no fire in their grate

But their fingers were typing: “Hi,”  “Alright, mate?”

And suddenly Christmas, so cold and so heinous

Began slowly to thaw through the power of Venus. 

“What u up 2?” asked one – “Not much,” t’other replied

As his chestnuts started roasting ‘twixt his festive thighs

“Not much?” thought young Tom, “Well, I’ll soon change that”

And he sent him a nude in a Santa Claus hat.

With a whoop, John received it, and leapt to his feet

Rushed over to the window and looked out at the street

Though outside winter snow past the lampposts was falling

Inside it was hot – but his pubes were appalling.

Kicking tinsel aside with his frantic young feet,

“Come round in 10” he replied, as he groped for the veet.

“Gr8, send location.  BTW, r u smooth?”

“I’ll send him a hole-pic, his worries to soothe”

But as his hairless derriere winged its way through the air

Came a problem: though he squeezed, no more veet was there there.

“OMG!” cried the twink, “Bloody hell, ain’t it tough?

He wanted me ass smooth, he won’t want it rough!

If only there was something – someone I could turn to!”

“Ho ho ho” said a voice, “Merry Xmas to you!”

From up by the chimney came a crash and a clatter

As eight great fat reindeer and one even fatter

Old bear hit the roof – “Love a night on the tiles!

Quick, pass me a pie: I’ve been mincing for miles”

“Could it be, is it him?” gasped our unshorn hero

“That voice is as jolly as a double-mulled-five-spiced-chai-soy-latte from Café Nero!”

With a house-shaking thud, first a bum, then a face

Plopped down firm and resounding in his fireplace.

“Ho ho ho – oh, pardon me, there’s just one of you, not three”

Cried the soot-streaked old vision ‘neath the twinkling’s Christmas tree.

“I heard you a-wailing ‘bout your hairy knick-knacks,

And hark! Lo! Behold! I bring a strip of wax!”

“Outside now” came the message from John’s paramour

“Not a minute too soon!  Quick, I’m one hairy whore!”

And so Santa’s experienced hands grasped his sack

And where once there was hairy excess was hair-lack.

“WTF?” Tom cried, “Who’s this doddering old codger?”

“Oh he’s no one!” John replied, “Just my venerable lodger.”

“Lodger my eye!” boomed the angry St Nick

“Why, I’ve just plucked your plump Christmas turkey, you prick!”

“Wait a sec,” Tom exclaimed, “Now I look at you twice

It’s you, innit Santa – old naughty-or-nice.

Since you’ve been instrumental in smoothing my way,

Why don’t you join us for a roll in the hay?”

Well, the jolly old man flushed and twinkled his eyes

And as he got busy between the twink’s thighs

He was heard to exclaim as he thrust out of sight

“Merry Christmas to all – and good God, this is tight!”