Chennai's LGBTQIA+ community has a tough case for a queer date

Vedica Reddy is caught in a dilemma. As a cisgender lesbian, she is hesitant to seek romantic relationships among the casual needs online and the closeted people in-person. The latter is born out of experience, one of rejection and embarrassment.

"I once fell in love with someone but when I confessed to them, they reacted poorly. It was an important point in my life and that incident damaged my confidence. I am embarrassed to even run into them again. If I were to like someone again, I don't think I would ever open up about it," she laments. Now, with family pressure to get married building up, she has another worry to address.

In a society where the existence of LGBTQIA+ is yet to be normalised, how does one explore their options? Is there a clear choice between online and offline? And what can one expect with either method? Several members of the community reveal their experiences in the city, the struggles that come with it and how Chennai fares as a potential dating pool.

The issue at the core

The problems begin at a fundamental level, according to Alex Murugaboopathy. When you grow up watching exclusively heterosexual relationships in media, a member of the community has to navigate their way through relationships from scratch.

"We lack maturity in Indian society. Relationships on television or movies are shown as a land of butterflies and hetero marriages are celebrated, but it is not the same for gay men holding hands. This makes many gay people feel lonely, and then jump into situations, often sexually," says the non-binary gay person.

Where there is a lack of recognition, there is also hypersexualisation by men and women, as Lakshmi Gunasekar, a queer tarot reader who identifies as pansexual androgynous, explains. "I am often approached by people assuming I’d be interested in threesomes, even by my exes and their girlfriends or wives. Many straight, cis men are fueled by porn and its attraction, but in a very predatory way," they observe. This phenomenon is more damaging to a rape survivor like her, she adds, who may comply with the expectations of being sexual as a trauma response.
Then, being polyamorous, there were other situations to be dealt with in their life. Once a part of a throuple (a three-person couple), Lakshmi admits to facing societal challenges, along with some internal ones.

"I was the unicorn in the relationship (the third person, the two others are called primaries) and it was a difficult situation; a lot of miscommunication and insecurities. However, we were very afraid of just being. We all lived in a house and were afraid of neighbours who would question the three of us living together. Friends’ opinions were also a concern, and we only shared our relationship with one friend. We all tried to keep each other safe and eventually, parted amicably," she reveals.

An inside job

But, discrimination and hypocrisy are not limited to those outside the community, there are favourites within it, as well. "There is a clear stereotype. People don’t want feminine bodies, there is a preference for masculinity," reveals Alex, who deduces that this, too, is a result of the societal portrayal of men as protectors.

Another defining variable is age, finds out Harish, who identifies as a gay man. "There used to be a time when profiles said no 28-plus people. It is only now that people are opening up to older prospects. Even then, only certain people are attracted to me, since I am not hunky. I am 5ft 7' and weigh 55 kg. There are also other wants - can't have body hair, must speak proper English, should be properly groomed. As I am older, people also expect me to be a manager or well-off, even though I rerouted my career a few years ago," the 32-year-old explains.

In earlier years, Harish and many in the community often found romantic interests through Planet Romeo, a social network for gay, bisexual and transgender people. This is where he came across his first boyfriend from Chennai while he was in Tiruchy. "Back then, we discussed everything but the fact that you were gay. We both knew why we were there but it was unsaid out loud," he says.

Unfortunately, the relationship had a rather sour ending but it has not deterred Harish from using apps, which have made access much easier. But that, too, is not a catchall statement.

"These apps are saturated by cis men. There are many who are bicurious, which is a good thing. But, it's a difficult situation because I want to know if we are on the same page. If I ask them to figure it out, they also ask 'Where will I do so'. I’m not sure I have an exact answer. Then, most men I have matched with have been married. They don’t reveal anything about themselves for fear of me knocking at their house but, in a way, I understand. It’s a huge price to pay - your family, business, job - and for what?" he questions.

He also reveals that it is far easier for cis gay men on these apps than others in the community. Non-male queer people often go through a lot of trauma and abuse, he mentions. And Natasha can attest. The non-binary, trans woman has often been exposed to transphobia on these platforms.

"Dating apps are an extension of society. Unfortunately, when people say something transphobic and are called out on it, before I can even screenshot what they said, they unmatch and so, there’s no accountability," she rues. Such experiences with other users is enough to get you off the site, it seems. And one day, they found her profile banned on Bumble.

"I think it’s because when I tell them I was assigned male at birth, they say something transphobic and assume, I'm an 'imposter'," they surmise. Unfortunately, Bumble does not have the option for a person to contest their ban and thus, there is little Natasha could do about this. These apps are designed for the majority, she states.

Twenty-three-year-old Sai, who identifies as bisexual genderqueer, shares that the problem is in the way the apps are coded; for a binary and heteronormative world. "While you can choose to present yourself as non-binary, you can only seek out men or women. But, I came across many non-binary people when I selected women, how is that possible? It’s because the apps are coding them as such," he shares.

The interface may be lacking, but Sai’s experience with the people on the app has only been positive. "I don’t know if I am one of the few lucky ones because I know many people have terrible experiences. When I first joined (then a bicurious woman), I was exploring my sexuality and met many people who were very welcoming. I only spoke to women, and many of them were bisexual or bicurious themselves so they understood where I was coming from," they note, wondering if the situation would have been different had they matched with men.

As an introvert, dating apps were an easy option for Sai, but Natasha prefers Instagram and Facebook. "On Instagram, the profile gives you a little more access to one’s personality and that is why, despite matching on apps, conversations often move to these platforms when they are going well," they say.

While she has seen their fair share of toxicity and fake allies, Natasha has met many congenial people who have become friends, and also met her current girlfriend on Tinder.

Going offline

Despite easy communication through these platforms, some still prefer sticking to offline methods. DK, a cisgender gay man, finds himself favouring in-person encounters over apps, having tested both. "I like meeting people organically through events where you can talk and connect with them. In Chennai, there is an International Queer Film Festival, Pride parades, events by a few organisations like Orinam…and they are not for dating, but you may find like-minded people, exchange numbers and move forward with the conversation," he says.

For Deepthi K, a cis gender lesbian, this was the only access to others in the community from 2010 to 2013. So, she found herself at meetings, disappointed by the lack of queer people on online platforms. But meeting people offline, then, was not an easy affair either.

"I was very nervous. I had expected 40-50 people and had decided to quietly stay in a corner. But there were only about 20 people and no other lesbian. There was one more cis person, but they were a volunteer so I didn’t know if they were a part of the community. I wondered 'Am I the only lesbian in all of Chennai'," she shares.

While DK’s experience can attest to better tidings in the future, safety is still a concern. There are many cases of blackmailing, threats, and abuse that are highly prevalent in the community. "Cases have slowed a little since Section 377 was abolished. Before that, people (especially on apps), would threaten to out you if you didn't send nude images of yourself, and then threaten to show them, if you didn’t pay them or comply with what they said. And then, if you tried to report it, you were asked 'But what were you doing there in the first place'," elaborates Harish.

To safeguard themselves, there are many unsaid rules people in the community follow. "If you are meeting on an app, ask for pictures, get on a video call, see their face in case they are catfishing you. Also inquire about their sexual history, if they have multiple partners, meet in public spaces and remember that if they try to threaten or blackmail you, many organisations have great lawyers for the cause," reminds DK.

The city of love?

Safety is a universal concern, but one still wonders how Chennai fares in terms of dating and accepting the queer. According to Alex, while it showcases conservatism, it also is quite open. But, while the city’s queer network has spread its wings, public relationships are a new game.

Natasha finds herself sticking to only the groups that they know are safe, and admits that this comes with social privilege not everyone has access to. Safety is also proportionate to how you present your gender, observes Sai, who maintains that the city can be that much more unsafe for identities who present themselves out of heteronormative standards.

"Places frequented by a young crowd are a little open, but elsewhere, you would have to behave as expected of you. This also means that you have to spend a little more money to go someplace," he elaborates.

For Lakshmi, public displays of affection are out of the question. "Chennai is very scary. I wouldn't dare do PDA with someone of the same sex, or even the opposite, for that matter. Once, a random guy came and yelled at me for kissing someone. Queer communities are understanding and open, yes. So, I would say within community space, it is much better. It would help queer people feel comfortable with hangout places hired more queer staff," they confess. According to Vedica, there is a need for a mental revolution.

It is only possible for the community to date comfortably when they are accepted in society. "Our sexual preferences do not hurt or affect you, but people constantly talk about their 'culture'. People need to have an open mind. Thankfully, this is changing with new generations," she concludes.

Perhaps, one day, we might manifest a city inclusive, open and welcoming for the queer and their romantic interests, but today, there is much to be changed for the hopes of posterity.