What I Look for in Every Grindr Date, and Won’t Admit

I’ve thought about it so many times that I’m already embarrassed to admit it out loud, so I’d rather write it. What follows isn’t a story I made up to seem interesting. It’s what I really write in my head every time I open the app, scroll through photos, and delete conversations that go nowhere. It’s my perfect date. The one that almost never shows up, but one night did.

I’m going to be clear from the start, because lying about this would be absurd. I’m not looking for a love story. I’m not looking for someone to take me to dinner or send me good-morning texts with a little heart. I’m looking for a mouth, mine, put to work for a man who really needs it. I’m looking to kneel. I’m looking to suck cock and do it well, eagerly, until he forgets my face and only remembers the throat that swallowed it all.

No anal sex. That isn’t even on the table. My ass doesn’t play. What turns me on is something else: being used from the waist up, with the tongue, with the throat, with patience. Being treated like his slut without beating around the bush. No courtesy, no “are you comfortable?”, none of that. Just him, his hard cock, his urgency, and me there to empty it for him.

I like getting into a role-play where I’m the one surrendering and he’s the one giving orders. I don’t need him to be some textbook dominant, one of those guys who learn lines online and repeat them like they mean them. If he were, I wouldn’t complain. But what I really need is for him to talk dirty. To spit out raw words, unfiltered, to tell me I’m his little faggot, to open wide, to swallow everything. To call me what I am in that moment—fag, cock sucker, whore—and say it like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.

I have a pretty precise mental picture of him. I imagine him with a fat-headed cock, thick, the kind that fills you up before it even starts. Uncut, with the foreskin that has to be slowly pulled back with the tongue to expose the shiny glans. I don’t give a damn about length, I swear; what drives me insane is the thickness, that feeling that it barely fits, that I have to open my jaw until it hurts and relax my throat just to take it all. If it’s white, pale, with the pink head peeking out and a thick drop of precum hanging from the tip, then I’m already lost before I even touch it.

And it turns me on immensely that he’s older than me. Much older, if possible. I want to feel that difference, that sense of being at a disadvantage, of him using me because he can, because I’m younger and I’m there for that. If he’s my age and has the attitude, that works too. But a man with years on him, with that confidence that comes from having nothing left to prove, unmans me in seconds and makes my mouth water on its own.

His physique doesn’t matter to me. He can be tall or short, skinny or with a belly, hairy or smooth. I don’t care. In the end all I want is his swollen cock in my mouth and whatever he decides to do with my throat. Everything else is set dressing.

***

The man who fulfilled all of this didn’t have a name. Or he did, of course, but he never told me and I never asked, and that was precisely the part I liked most.

He showed up on a Thursday at eleven at night. His profile photo was a hand on a steering wheel, nothing else. The first message was direct, no greeting.

—I know what you want. Your profile says it without saying it —he wrote.

I stared at the screen longer than I care to admit.

—And what do I want? —I replied.

—You want to serve. You want a cock in your mouth and you don’t want to be treated nicely while you suck it.

I didn’t answer with words. I sent him my location.

He lived fifteen minutes away, in a bland apartment building, one of those places with hallways that smell like other people’s food. He opened the door in silence. He had to be in his mid-fifties, graying hair, an old T-shirt, and a cigarette smell that should have bothered me and didn’t. He looked me up and down like someone checking an order before accepting it. His eyes stopped for half a second on my mouth.

—Come in. And shut up —he said.

I went in. I shut up.

On the dining table there was an open laptop. I caught a glimpse of what he was playing and almost laughed at how perfect it was: straight porn. A woman on her knees, a guy grabbing her hair, his cock going in and out of that mouth with strings of saliva hanging off it. He left it running like background music.

—Gay porn doesn’t turn me on —he said, before I asked—. That bother you?

—No —I said. And it was true. It doesn’t turn me on either, and the fact that he felt the same way heated me from the inside in a way I still can’t quite understand.

—Married? —I asked. It was the only thing I allowed myself to ask.

He lifted his left hand. The pale mark from the ring was still there, even though the ring wasn’t.

—She’s asleep. She sucked me off badly a little while ago, got tired halfway through and left me hard as a rock —he said, and he brought his hand to the bulge in his pants, squeezing it over the fabric so I could see the size—. That’s why I called you. So you can finish it.

I can’t quite explain why that thrilled me so much. The double life, the woman in the other room, me coming in to solve with my mouth what she hadn’t been able to solve. It made me feel like a dirty, useful secret at the same time. Exactly what I wanted to be.

***

—On your knees —he said, and didn’t repeat himself.

I knelt on the cold dining room floor, with the blue light from the screen flickering across the walls and the muffled moans of the woman in the video filling the silence. He stood in front of me, unhurried, enjoying the moment when I was already down and he still hadn’t done a thing.

—Look at me —he ordered.

I looked at him. He had tired eyes and a mouth half-crooked in a smile that wasn’t kind.

—You’re going to do this right, aren’t you? Because if not, you’ll leave the way you came with an empty mouth.

—I’m going to do it right —I said.

—I’m going to do it right, what?

I swallowed. The word came out on its own.

—I’m going to do it right, sir.

He liked that. I saw it in the way he breathed and in the way the bulge jumped under the fabric. He unbuckled his belt slowly, lowered the zipper, let his pants fall, and then his underwear, and there it was, exactly the way I’d imagined it for months without knowing it: thick, heavy, already half hard and growing in front of my eyes, uncut, with the foreskin covering almost all of it and only the tip of the pink glans showing. A masculine smell, skin and sweat from a long day, hit me all at once and made me clamp my thighs together. He brought it up to my face without touching me yet, just holding it there, a couple of centimeters from my mouth, so I’d go crazy with need and feel myself watering inside.

—Ask for it —he said.

—Give it to me. Please.

—Please what?

—Please, sir. Let me suck it. Please.

Only then did he let me. I started at the base, with my tongue flat, licking from the balls upward, following the thick vein running along the shaft. I kissed the skin, breathed against it, felt it pulse. I took his testicles in my hand and weighed them, heavy, hot, and put them in my mouth one by one, sucking carefully while above them his cock went fully hard against my forehead. He let out a short groan.

—That’s it, up top. What you came for.

I went up. With my tongue I slowly pulled back the foreskin, exposing the swollen glans, shiny, with that thick drop hanging there that I collected with the tip of my tongue to taste it. Salty, dense. The first taste confirmed everything: the thickness that filled the mouth, the shape that forced my jaw open, the heat of the taut skin. I circled the head with my lips, squeezing it, sucking only the tip, letting saliva gather and soak it all. Then I went down. I took him in as far as I could, feeling my throat open by force, letting my jaw protest, my eyes fill with water, and I stayed there for a few seconds with my nose pressed against his pubic hair and his cock buried to the hilt.

—That’s it —he said, grabbing my hair with an open hand, not violently, but possessively, closing his fist in my fringe with his fingers—. That’s what you’re good for, little faggot. Look how it slips out of you. Look how you’re drooling all over it.

He yanked it out of my mouth and slapped my cheek with it, two times, three, leaving my face wet and sticky. Then he parted my lips with the glans and shoved it back in, this time slowly, all the way, and started fucking my mouth with short, firm thrusts that made me swallow saliva by force.

And he kept talking. That was the part that finally broke me. He didn’t shut up for a second. He said things I’m not going to repeat in full, because they’d sound worse written down than spoken, but the tone was always the same: that I was his toy, that’s what my mouth was for, that his wife didn’t know how to do it like this, that she got tired after five minutes and left him half-finished, that thank God there were little sluts like me to swallow the cock she couldn’t handle. That I should look at myself properly, with the drool running down my chin, my eyes red, my throat open. Every word sank me deeper and every word I liked more. I could feel my own cock hard against the fabric of my pants and I didn’t even dare touch it.

—Do you like hearing me tell you what you are? —he asked, pulling out to let me breathe for a second.

—Yes, sir —I panted, with a thread of saliva hanging from my lip to his glans.

—Tell me. Tell me what you are.

—I’m your whore. I’m your cock sucker.

—Very good. Open.

I opened. He shoved it back in to the hilt.

***

We went on like that for a long while. He wasn’t in a hurry, and neither was I. He set the pace with his hand on my neck, pulling me forward and back, forcing me to take him all the way every two or three thrusts and leaving me there, with my nose crushed against his skin, until the gagging started and he pulled out just before everything inside me turned over. Saliva streamed down my chin, down my neck, soaking my shirt. When he got too close to finishing, he’d yank me away by the hair and leave me with my mouth open, tongue out, panting, waiting, his swollen cock throbbing a centimeter from my lips, and that was almost worse than anything else. He made me wait on purpose. He made me feel like the pleasure was his and I only had permission to take part when he decided.

—Stick out your tongue. More. Like that.

And he laid his cock on my tongue, heavy, hot, sliding it from side to side over the wet surface, looking down at me with a half smile while I kept my mouth open like a cup waiting to be filled. He rubbed it over my lips, my cheeks, let it slip over my chin. I tried to reach it with my tongue, to stick it out farther, to beg for it without words, and he chuckled softly.

—Hands behind your back —he said at one point.

I crossed my hands behind my back, not touching myself, not touching him with anything but my mouth. I wanted it that way. I wanted everything to depend on tongue and desire, on doing it so well that he could never send me home again without wanting a repeat first. I felt the pain in my knees against the tiles and I didn’t even care.

He sat on the edge of a dining chair, legs spread, and made me crawl to him. There, with his cock pointing at the ceiling, hard and slick with spit, he made me go down on it again, setting the rhythm with his hand on my neck, pushing me down until I felt it hit the back of my throat and I was left breathless for a few seconds. I rose, swallowed saliva, breathed through my nose, and went back down. Again. And again. The muffled moans of the woman on the screen kept time and I thought it was perfect, that this was exactly it.

—Do you want us to get this properly recorded next time? —he said through clenched teeth, his voice rougher—. Your face, on your knees, begging. My cock covered in your spit going in and out. I swear I’d record every bit of it. All the load on your tongue, your mouth open showing it to me before you swallow it.

The idea shot through me like a current. Yes. I wanted exactly that. I wanted him to film me begging him, and I wanted to film it too, my tongue playing with him, the way I’d swallow it all and ask for more. But that night there were no cameras. That night there was only the straight porn on the screen in the background, his hand in my hair, and my mouth doing as it was told.

When he finally couldn’t hold back anymore, he told me in a dry order, almost a growl: “Now. Swallow everything.” He held my head with both hands so I wouldn’t move an inch and thrust two, three more times, deep. I felt his cock swell against my tongue and then the first spurt, thick, salty, hitting the roof of my mouth. It was abundant, more than I expected, one spurt after another forcing me to swallow fast so I wouldn’t choke. Four, five times I felt it pulse in my mouth as it unloaded. He kept it inside me until the end, hard and throbbing, and I swallowed everything, everything, feeling the warmth go down my throat. He didn’t let me pull away until he wanted to. He wanted me to take the last drop, and I wanted to take it.

When he finally pulled out, he ran the glans over my lips to clean it on them and said:

—Open. Let’s see.

I opened my empty mouth, tongue clean, to show him I hadn’t wasted a thing.

—Good boy.

He let go of my hair. I stayed on my knees for a second, catching my breath, with my head barely resting against his thigh, feeling his cock soften little by little against my cheek, and for a moment I felt something like peace.

—Good —he said, pulling up his pants—. You did good.

Three words. That was all I needed to hear.

***

There was no conversation afterward. He didn’t ask how I was, what I did for a living, or if I wanted a glass of water. And far from bothering me, that was the perfect ending. I got up, straightened my clothes, wiped the drool from my chin with the back of my hand, and he walked me to the door with the same economy of words with which he’d received me.

—If I text you another night, will you come? —he asked, his hand already on the knob.

—I’ll come —I said.

—You’re not going to know my name.

—I don’t want to know it.

He smiled faintly. He closed the door.

I went down the stairs of that ugly building with a warm emptiness in my chest, the taste still in my mouth and one single thought going around and around: I hope he texts. I hope he sends me a message any night, after his wife sucks him off badly or doesn’t suck him off at all, when he’s horny and needs to unload and remembers that I exist. That he sees me as his available toy. That he uses me because he can.

That’s my perfect date. It isn’t romantic, it isn’t pretty, I’m not going to tell it at any dinner party. But it’s mine, it’s real, and I’m writing it here so I don’t have to say it out loud. Just slut over here, daddy over there. No names, no rules, no tomorrow. Again and again.