Charanja Thavendran23 November 2018
My romantic life has always been one that is tumultuous. To my friends, it’s one heck of a reality tv show that is always on demand – ready to provide spicy content, tears and drama. A real life ‘The Bachelorette’ that they so happily tune in to weekly or have a one-sitting binge watch.
The bath bomb had been a delight for about five minutes. The walls became soaked in the scents of pear and cinnamon as the bomb fizzled into a pool of green. With her classical playlist serenading her, Jesmintha enjoyed her muscles sighing and her thoughts slowing their buzzing wings. Then the twitching began.
Tinder. The dating app we hate to love and love to hate.
It’s a Friday night and your day has been a little too straight. Luckily Netflix has that LGBTQ section to fix things up. For the next hour and a half, one of the worst films you will ever see in your life flickers across the screen. It can only be one of the worst, since you would have faced the same problem last Tuesday. Queer cinema is a mess.
I started dipping my toes in the dating pool at 14 years old. It was an exciting time. I remember when I had my first boyfriend, Clark, a Melburnian boy just a few years older than me. Clark had blonde hair, blue eyes and baby scruff on his face. He reminded me a lot of Michael Clifford from 5 Seconds of Summer, except Clark didn’t play the guitar and spent most of his days playing Assassin’s Creed. Clark was sweet and 14-year-old me thought he was a 10/10 quality boyfriend because he’d often tell me how much he loved me and shower me with a million compliments: “you’re so beautiful”, “you’re so pretty” and “you’re so exotic”. Yikes. Exotic?
I wonder what it’d be like if Grindr had existed in the Roman Empire. Nude torsos, an appetite for gay sex and toxic masculinity—the Romans certainly weren’t that different (well, except for 4G and smartphones). In fact, if we compared the Roman Grindr to today’s, we’d find a surprising number of similarities, including users’ fear of “fems”.
You might well need a Foxtel subscription to notice, but a spectre is haunting Australian cricket–the spectre of capitalism.
I was sitting in bed working (read: procrastinating) on an upcoming essay when the infamous “heyy” text lit up my screen. Here we go again, I thought to myself.
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