Photos by Benji Johnson and Coco Amos for Grindr
Words by Benji Johnson

Grindr invited Feral Regular Benji Johnson to Hoopla Malta to Hunt for Pals, not Peen.
He accepted the challenge.

In short: Speedo-Clad Journalist with a boyfriend at home gets distracted by Trixie Mattel at Hoopla Malta on a mission to use Grindr strictly for platonic reasons

“Have you ever made friends on Grindr?”

It was a question I asked in the lead-up to Mighty Hoopla Malta, the festival’s inaugural overseas venture, sponsored by the app that all gay men love to revere.

“I’ve met some of my best friends through Grindr!” came the most common response, often uttered with a seemingly smug grimace, as if the gay in front of me had defied a stereotype while he counted companions on his fingers.

“But did you fuck them first?” I would reply. And each time, that same look of pride washed from their face when they realised they hadn’t quite managed to exclude themselves from the belief that Grindr was, foremost, a hook-up app. A platform opened in the height of horn or boredom, later cast aside in the same time taken to ejaculate, mop up, and exit; most likely leaving lingering feelings of shame… at least in my experience.

That doesn’t mean that it wasn’t daunting. Outside the obvious anxiety that people wouldn’t trust the idea of just friendship, or that I would be hounded by blank profiles looking for a thrill, I felt very aware that I was downloading Grindr once more.

My first experience with the app was as a closeted teen whose father’s family held tightly to the teachings of religion. I learned early on that desire, which I linked to Grindr at the time, was something to hide. Into my 20s, when I used the app for casual sex or to tempt arousal, I’d often remove my face from my profile, not always out of secrecy but out of habit: a reflex born from guilt. In downloading Grindr for this trip, I worried those feelings might return. Not because I was using it for sex, but because the app carries a history for me. One built on secrecy, shame, and the quiet belief that even wanting connection could be seen as wrong. Would these feelings return? I prayed not.

A few weeks later, I was strapped into seat 23F. The plane was already half a party before take-off with gaggles of gays (and theys) chanting for the weekend, getting louder with each complimentary mimosa. Shortly after landing, I settled into my hotel and pep-talked myself for the quest ahead, my head fuzzy, having already shared a litre of Baileys on the way from the airport. I decided to call it a night. 

The next morning, I sat for breakfast with Benny and Peyton from Grindr’s marketing team. I was briefed on the weekend (essentially: have fun) and created my profile before heading to the hotel poolside. At this point, I realised I didn’t have a plan. My mind had been so preoccupied with the thought of downloading Grindr that I hadn’t contemplated what to do next. But since making friends is rarely planned, I decided not having a plan was the best strategy.

I uploaded some photos and a short (read, lame) bio: “Just looking for friends at Mighty Hoopla,” and started browsing. It felt familiar, yet different. There was an ease and self-assurance that felt new. The majority of profiles on the grid showed faces and often even had social accounts linked.

It might have been because I was at a queer festival on a small island where much of Clapham’s gay community had descended, but since users were being so transparent, using the app didn’t feel as shameful to me as it once did. In turn, users can now display their travel plans, showing others the dates and destination of their upcoming trips. With this alone, space is being carved out for establishing friends on Grindr, particularly for travellers. “Mighty Hoopla Malta” was a widely chosen trip option, and a little aeroplane emoji filled nearly every profile closest to me. While at the pool bar, a couple smiled at me. I smiled back. A few moments later my phone buzzed.

“Are you the smiley boy from the bar?” the message read.

I returned with a “Probably” and asked if they were “One of the two sat eating?”

He confirmed, and we soon discovered that we were both here for Hoopla, him with friends and me for work. I then pointed out that I was in fact just looking for friends (confirming that many still don’t read profiles first).

“Oh shame, I was hoping to get into your pants!” he replied with a winky face. Yet, before I wrote off the conversation, he followed up, “But socialising is always good!” I gave the situation the benefit of the doubt. He was Greek, living in London, and had just earned his doctorate. While I can’t quite remember the degree, I do recall telling him that I had no idea how to discuss the topic. So it definitely wasn’t anything to do with the English language or Avatar the Last Airbender. After that, the conversation teetered out and died peacefully (as often they do on Grindr), but it was nice to see his face as he waved at me the next day during breakfast. We spoke, I was introduced to his friend, and I left for my table, happy to have had a genuine human interaction first facilitated by Grindr. This might just work, I thought to myself.

This got me wondering: What exactly is a friendship, and how does it happen? Given the limited timeframe, I understood that a life-long friend was not likely on the cards and that my best hope was starting at values – the aligning of viewpoints, outlooks and beliefs.

On the first night of the festival, I met my first real “friend.”

I was on the VIP balcony at Cafe Del Mar with team Grindr, excitedly outlining my “assignment” for the weekend, when someone cut in. “What are you doing here then? Why aren’t you on Grindr looking for friends?” She was right. The free champagne had led me astray, but my mission was waiting. I logged in.

Hundreds of profiles were suddenly within touching distance. Moments later, along came a message from Emmett. I’m unsure what prompted our conversation, but it ended with us agreeing to meet, and I sent him a picture of the palm tree I’d be standing under.

Now for the part I’d been dreading: the meeting. I arrived first, waiting awkwardly and scanning the crowd for a stranger. I soon spotted him. Emmett came with a friend – for company, safety, or a blend of the two – and we greeted each other with an uncertain hug as the intro to Bimini’s set sent the gays hollering.

We chatted about life in London as people who weren’t raised there: him being Irish, me a small-town boy. We discussed his career as a musician, his ambition, and we even dived into trauma, mentioning it with a lightness that allowed us to “know” each other in the short time we had. We left the party together before closing.

After a stop at a 24-hour minimarket for beer and water, we headed to my hotel for a final nightcap. Emmett spotted the TV and insisted on playing vocal trance after we discovered a shared love for its wavy beat. After a smoke and more life stories, he left and I passed out. My mission was off to a good start.

The friendship continued the next day. We met at the Bora Bora Beach Party – whose pool, I assume, was mostly tanning oil and sweat by that point – and later snuck onto a party bus to the next location. We danced behind the decks at Mel Blatt’s set, and I introduced him to the rest of the Hoopla crew.

Throughout all this, I didn’t tell him I was writing this article. I didn’t want to taint the forming of a friendship by stating that I had challenged myself to create it, risking that he might pull away or, worse, force it. However, the guilt was there for not divulging the whole truth, but I called him when I got back to London. I explained everything, and he graciously agreed to be in this little tale of newfound friendship.

I can confidently say that I made a platonic connection with someone on Grindr that I would gladly see again. Success.

Our time together ended that second night, as he went off with his friends. My own evening was spent with Kaiden Ford and the queens of Sue Veneers, who were all categorically certain that Grindr was no place to make friends.

In their defence, Grindr has always been a sex app before anything else. So, why would they want to change that? As it turns out, they actually don’t.

They want to evolve.

This desire for evolution was the core of my conversation with Tristan Pineiro, Grindr’s charismatic CMO, who has spent the best part of the last two years changing Grindr’s image from a hookup app to a more nuanced reflection of queer connection.

“So, is it possible?! Can you make friends on Grindr?” he exclaimed when we met, a smile stretching as wide as the LA-tanned arms he extended for a hug. I had to double take. I wasn’t aware that my pitch had reached his desk, let alone that he would show such enthusiasm – I suddenly felt very confident.

Tristan explained that Grindr’s goal was to expand. It will forever be a space for sex, but they want it to become a safe space for the community to meet and engage in other ways outside of sweaty coitus.

“I want Grindr to be in a position where a monogamous couple can create a profile to meet friends and like-minded individuals,” he stated. “We are leaning into the idea of the ‘Gaybourhood,’ a community found through Grindr wherever you are, whatever you’re looking for.”

As he spoke, I thought of the ‘Right Now’ page on the app. Once just a tag, it’s now a separate section designed for exactly this purpose. Like clockwork, Tristan brought it up before I could. “This is why we have the ‘Right Now’ section,” he said. “It’s accessible to those who look for it but far enough away from those who aren’t searching for immediate relief.” He explained the aspiration was to move away from the narrative of shame often associated with the app, making it a more approachable space for all kinds of interaction. My earlier concerns about using the app were clearly not uncommon, and I felt seen and understood.

Now, I’d love to say I stayed laser-focused on my challenge after this conversation. But I certainly got distracted along the way. There were poolside cocktails with the Grindr team, dancing on stage in speedos next to the audacity that is a Trixie Mattel DJ set, and catching up – or rather coming up – with familiar faces until 6 a.m. It was a festival, after all. As a result, my next attempt at friendship via the app only came on the final night.

The last party of Mighty Hoopla was led by Amsterdam’s Milkshake crew: a group marvelled at for skimpy thongs, lean torsos, and a whole lot of sass. After a last-minute venue change, we were back at Bora Bora, and you could tell people were less than pleased. “€80 bottle of prosecco?! You have to be joking!” I heard someone shout at the barman.

I decided I had one last adventure in me, much to the surprise of Benny who thought I’d already checked out – it was already 4am to be fair – but was quick to praise my journalistic dedication.

I ordered an Uber and travelled 15 minutes out of the centre to meet Maximilian. He was staying in a sprawling villa and greeted me by the gate. We walked down to the pool, and there, for roughly four hours, we talked about life. I discussed my relationship, my career, and where I grew up, explaining everything with an ease I didn’t know was possible when meeting someone in this context.

This time, I opted for transparency and told him about the article. He thanked me and chose his own pseudonym. We discussed childhood and ideas of home, and he opened up about a recent health diagnosis and how it had impacted his life. We laughed and joked, drank and smoked. The night turned quickly into day, and it might have continued had I not realised my airport car was due in two hours, and I had neither sobered up nor packed.

I began with shame and curiosity, entering a digital space that once symbolised secrecy and lust, and found that friendship (or something very like it) can also live there. More than that, it provided an alternative approach to intimacy, one that is un-sexualised yet still deeply queer. My prior experience of the app offered anonymity and short-lasting connection as the standard. Opening it a few years later, I found a new sense of openness and geniality from its users. Perhaps this was a sign that I, too, am more comfortable with who I am.

I am also aware of the privilege I hold as a cis-white man undertaking a task like this, and I am sure that the experiences of others will vary. Yet, I now know that Grindr has developed into a space where connections beyond physical intimacy can grow. It might not be everyone’s first port of call, but it’s good to know it’s a possible stop along the way.

A special thanks to the teams at Mighty Hoopla and Grindr for their hospitality, especially Tristan Pineiro for his infectious enthusiasm, and Benny, Peyton, Aggie, and Jasmine for the warm welcome. Thank you to Shelley, Mel, Katy and Bestley for the good times, to Corine “Coco” Amos for being the calm in the storm of a missed airport transfer, and to Alix Fox, the patron saint of quick comebacks and phallic patterns. And finally, to Jon Dean, for greeting the ensuing chaos with that perfect, knowing grin.

Photos by Benji Johnson and Coco Amos for Grindr
Words by Benji Johnson

Grindr invited Feral Regular Benji Johnson to Hoopla Malta to Hunt for Pals, not Peen.
He accepted the challenge.

In short: Speedo-Clad Journalist with a boyfriend at home gets distracted by Trixie Mattel at Hoopla Malta on a mission to use Grindr strictly for platonic reasons

“Have you ever made friends on Grindr?”

It was a question I asked in the lead-up to Mighty Hoopla Malta, the festival’s inaugural overseas venture, sponsored by the app that all gay men love to revere.

“I’ve met some of my best friends through Grindr!” came the most common response, often uttered with a seemingly smug grimace, as if the gay in front of me had defied a stereotype while he counted companions on his fingers.

“But did you fuck them first?” I would reply. And each time, that same look of pride washed from their face when they realised they hadn’t quite managed to exclude themselves from the belief that Grindr was, foremost, a hook-up app. A platform opened in the height of horn or boredom, later cast aside in the same time taken to ejaculate, mop up, and exit; most likely leaving lingering feelings of shame… at least in my experience.

So, when Grindr reached out inviting me to Malta with them, I wondered if it was possible to bypass sex on an app so central to the gay sexual experience. Can a platform built on sex become a space for friendship, and what does that mean for our understanding of intimacy? Simply put: Can you make friends on Grindr? 

I decided to try and find out. 

For a bit of personal context, I haven’t used the app in about two years, since entering a relationship with my wonderful boyfriend. He and I are now navigating what “openness” looks like for us, and thus far this hasn’t included Grindr. We have waited for organic circumstances to present themselves, rather than search – or hunt – for them.

We sat down several times to discuss this project before the trip. Were we both nervous about me using the app? Absolutely. Did we know what to expect? Kinda, virtually every gay man does. Was I concerned about provocation? Of course. But for curiosity, fascination, and a step into investigative journalism, we knew the challenge was worth it.

That doesn’t mean that it wasn’t daunting. Outside the obvious anxiety that people wouldn’t trust the idea of just friendship, or that I would be hounded by blank profiles looking for a thrill, I felt very aware that I was downloading Grindr once more.

My first experience with the app was as a closeted teen whose father’s family held tightly to the teachings of religion. I learned early on that desire, which I linked to Grindr at the time, was something to hide. Into my 20s, when I used the app for casual sex or to tempt arousal, I’d often remove my face from my profile, not always out of secrecy but out of habit: a reflex born from guilt. In downloading Grindr for this trip, I worried those feelings might return. Not because I was using it for sex, but because the app carries a history for me. One built on secrecy, shame, and the quiet belief that even wanting connection could be seen as wrong. Would these feelings return? I prayed not.

It might have been because I was at a queer festival on a small island where much of Clapham’s gay community had descended, but since users were being so transparent, using the app didn’t feel as shameful to me as it once did. In turn, users can now display their travel plans, showing others the dates and destination of their upcoming trips. With this alone, space is being carved out for establishing friends on Grindr, particularly for travellers. “Mighty Hoopla Malta” was a widely chosen trip option, and a little aeroplane emoji filled nearly every profile closest to me. While at the pool bar, a couple smiled at me. I smiled back. A few moments later my phone buzzed.

“Are you the smiley boy from the bar?” the message read.

I returned with a “Probably” and asked if they were “One of the two sat eating?”

He confirmed, and we soon discovered that we were both here for Hoopla, him with friends and me for work. I then pointed out that I was in fact just looking for friends (confirming that many still don’t read profiles first).

“Oh shame, I was hoping to get into your pants!” he replied with a winky face. Yet, before I wrote off the conversation, he followed up, “But socialising is always good!” I gave the situation the benefit of the doubt. He was Greek, living in London, and had just earned his doctorate. While I can’t quite remember the degree, I do recall telling him that I had no idea how to discuss the topic. So it definitely wasn’t anything to do with the English language or Avatar the Last Airbender. After that, the conversation teetered out and died peacefully (as often they do on Grindr), but it was nice to see his face as he waved at me the next day during breakfast. We spoke, I was introduced to his friend, and I left for my table, happy to have had a genuine human interaction first facilitated by Grindr. This might just work, I thought to myself.

This got me wondering: What exactly is a friendship, and how does it happen? Given the limited timeframe, I understood that a life-long friend was not likely on the cards and that my best hope was starting at values – the aligning of viewpoints, outlooks and beliefs.

Now, I’d love to say I stayed laser-focused on my challenge after this conversation. But I certainly got distracted along the way. There were poolside cocktails with the Grindr team, dancing on stage in speedos next to the audacity that is a Trixie Mattel DJ set, and catching up – or rather coming up – with familiar faces until 6 a.m. It was a festival, after all. As a result, my next attempt at friendship via the app only came on the final night.

The last party of Mighty Hoopla was led by Amsterdam’s Milkshake crew: a group marvelled at for skimpy thongs, lean torsos, and a whole lot of sass. After a last-minute venue change, we were back at Bora Bora, and you could tell people were less than pleased. “€80 bottle of prosecco?! You have to be joking!” I heard someone shout at the barman.

I decided I had one last adventure in me, much to the surprise of Benny who thought I’d already checked out – it was already 4am to be fair – but was quick to praise my journalistic dedication.

I ordered an Uber and travelled 15 minutes out of the centre to meet Maximilian. He was staying in a sprawling villa and greeted me by the gate. We walked down to the pool, and there, for roughly four hours, we talked about life. I discussed my relationship, my career, and where I grew up, explaining everything with an ease I didn’t know was possible when meeting someone in this context.

This time, I opted for transparency and told him about the article. He thanked me and chose his own pseudonym. We discussed childhood and ideas of home, and he opened up about a recent health diagnosis and how it had impacted his life. We laughed and joked, drank and smoked. The night turned quickly into day, and it might have continued had I not realised my airport car was due in two hours, and I had neither sobered up nor packed.

I began with shame and curiosity, entering a digital space that once symbolised secrecy and lust, and found that friendship (or something very like it) can also live there. More than that, it provided an alternative approach to intimacy, one that is un-sexualised yet still deeply queer. My prior experience of the app offered anonymity and short-lasting connection as the standard. Opening it a few years later, I found a new sense of openness and geniality from its users. Perhaps this was a sign that I, too, am more comfortable with who I am.

I am also aware of the privilege I hold as a cis-white man undertaking a task like this, and I am sure that the experiences of others will vary. Yet, I now know that Grindr has developed into a space where connections beyond physical intimacy can grow. It might not be everyone’s first port of call, but it’s good to know it’s a possible stop along the way.