July 21st 2024.
It was yet another dehumanizing experience as my phone buzzed with a notification from Grindr, a dating app. I opened it to see a new match, hoping for a genuine connection. However, as I swiped through the usual profile pictures of gym selfies and shirtless shots, I came across a bio that left a sickening feeling in my stomach. The person was looking for their "BBC king," specifically stating that they were an older white male only interested in Black men. My heart sank as I realized that I was being reduced to a narrow fantasy based on my race.
For those who may not be aware, "BBC" is a racist term used to describe a Black man's anatomy, specifically referring to their genitals as "big, Black cock." This stereotype, rooted in the history of slavery, is a dominant theme in pornography. But the objectification and fetishization didn't stop there. The person messaging me bombarded me with offensive "compliments," reducing me to nothing more than my physical attributes.
There was no mention of shared interests, favorite movies, or even a simple "how's your day?" It was all about my skin color and the size of my physique. It was a repulsive experience, and I chose to ignore the person's dozen or so messages until they eventually left me alone.
But this isn't just about bruised egos. It's a dehumanizing experience that reduces Black men on dating apps to nothing more than stereotypes. We are more than that - we are individuals with desires, vulnerabilities, and a longing for genuine connection. We deserve to be seen for who we are, not judged solely based on the color of our skin or the size of our bodies.
Darren, a fellow Black gay man, shares my sentiments and believes that this issue goes beyond the online world. There comes a moment for every Black gay man when we realize that we are not being seen for who we are but for the color of our skin. It can happen in a crowded bar, on a dating app, or even in a seemingly harmless conversation. For me, this realization occurred early on when I first ventured into the world of gay dating apps in my early 20s.
At first, the attention was exhilarating. I was naive and thought that being added on social media by random white people was a good thing or just a coincidence. However, I soon started receiving messages from friends warning me to stay away from certain people because they had a reputation for only liking Black men, often referred to as "chocolate chasers." I found this characterization unfair and would often challenge it, but their true colors would eventually show, and it always boiled down to them seeing my race as a novelty.
It got to the point where I constantly questioned whether my interactions were solely based on the fetishization of my race. In the years since, it has become a cold, hard reality. I receive countless messages from white men on dating apps, informing me how much they love BBC or wanting to try a "Black" cock because they have heard that we have big ones. Most times, I choose not to respond, but when I do, I often tell them that their language is disgusting, and their true intentions come to light.
I have also faced fetishization in my work as a model for sex shops like Clonezone. When they post my photos on social media, they often have to delete comments that reduce me to nothing more than a sexual object. And when I talk about this with my Black friends, they all have similar experiences. It's not just limited to the online world; it happens in physical spaces too.
I have been approached by white people at a club night, specifically catering to Black men, asking if they can touch my "BBC." And in a gay bar, a random white guy once told me, "Bet you've got a BBC." I was appalled, but I didn't say anything. Constantly navigating these spaces, both physical and online, is exhausting and takes a toll on my self-esteem. It makes me wonder if anyone truly sees me for who I am or if I am just a collection of racialized features to be objectified.
I believe that porn plays a significant role in perpetuating these stereotypes, with categories like "BBC," "thug," and "bull" further reinforcing these harmful ideas. That's why I have sought refuge in safe spaces, like WhatsApp group chats and specific club nights, where I can bond with others who understand my experiences. Speaking to people who "get it" helps me feel seen and understood, but I shouldn't have to exclude myself from certain situations because of other people's stereotypes or prejudices.
The good news is that there are plenty of people in the LGBTQ+ community who see me for who I am, not just my race. But until this becomes the norm, Black gay men will continue to fight for genuine connections in a world that often reduces us to mere fetishes. It's a constant battle, but one we are willing to fight because we deserve to be seen for all of our qualities, not just our race.
I am proud of who I am, and my Blackness is an essential part of my identity, but it does not define me. I have interests, hobbies, a sense of humor, and a body that deserves respect, not objectification. Have you ever experienced objectification on dating apps? Share your experiences in the comments below. And if you have a story you'd like to share, please get in touch with James by emailing him at his email address. Let's continue to have these important conversations and work towards a world where Black men are seen and valued for all that we are.
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