The notification buzzed on my phone with another hopeful match on Grindr. I swiped through the usual profile pics: Gym selfies, shirtless shots, the occasional travel snap. Then I saw it. ‘Looking for my BBC king,’ the bio declared, complete with a bicep emoji. ‘I’m an older white male. LOOKING FOR BLACKS ONLY.’ My stomach lurched. Here we go again.
For anyone unaware, ‘BBC’ is a racist term for a Black man’s anatomy, meaning ‘big, Black cock’. It’s a long-running stereotype – as a relic of slavery – about Black men having big penises, which is one of the most dominant themes in pornography. But the objectification and fetishisation didn’t stop there. ‘Hey big boy,’ he messaged me, followed by a barrage of offensive ‘compliments.’ My muscles were ‘huge’, my ‘BBC’ was ‘legendary’, and my skin ‘ exotic ’. There was no mention of shared hobbies, favourite movies, or even a simple ‘how’s your day?’ It was all about my physical attributes, reduced to fit a narrow fantasy. I was repulsed so I ignored all of his dozen or so messages, then he left me alone.
This isn’t just about bruised egos. It’s about a dehumanising experience that reduces Black men on dating apps to little more than stereotypes. We’re more than that – we’re individuals with desires, vulnerabilities, and a thirst for genuine connection. We deserve to be seen for who we are, not the colour of our skin or the size of our physique.
There’s a moment every Black gay man experiences – a subtle shift that marks the line between appreciation and objectification. It can happen in a crowded bar, on a dating app, or even in a seemingly innocuous conversation. It’s the dawning realisation that you’re not being seen for who you are, but for the colour of your skin.
For me, it came early. Fresh out of university, I ventured into the world of gay dating apps in my early 20s. Initially, the attention was exhilarating. In the 2000s, I would be added on social media by random white people, but all our friends in common were Black. I was extremely naive and thought it was a good thing or just a mere coincidence. But then I’d get messages from friends saying to steer clear of certain people because they had a reputation online only liking Black guys. They were called ‘chocolate chasers’. I found that characterisation unfair and I actually used to challenge it. However, true colours would eventually show, and it would always boil down to how much of a novelty my race was to them.
It got to the point where I would constantly ask myself: ‘Was this interaction based solely off the fetishisation of my race?’ In the years since, the cold, hard reality has sunk in. Nearly every single message I get on Grindr from white guys is them informing me how much they love BBC or that they want to try a ‘Black’ cock because they hear we have big ones. Most times, I do not reply or I tell them their language is disgusting and then their true colours show. In fact, the last time I confronted someone about his problematic language on the dating app Scruff, I was called a ‘monkey’. Thankfully, I used to work for Scruff so my complaint was actioned within 24 hours and this person’s account was deleted.
Then there’s the promotional shoots I do for sex shops like Clonezone. When they post my modelling photos on their social media, they often have to delete comments that fetishise or objectify me. When I talk about it with my Black friends, they all get the same thing, too. And it’s not just online. At a club night – which caters to a lot of Black men – I have had white people infiltrate the safe space and come up to me to ask if they can touch my ‘BBC’. One time, I was at a gay bar and a random white guy told me: ‘Bet you’ve got a BBC’. I was appalled, but I didn’t say anything.
Constantly having to navigate these physical and online spaces is exhausting. It chips away at your self-esteem. It makes you wonder if anyone ever sees you – the real you – or if you’re just a collection of racialised features to be objectified. I think porn is partly to blame for this. Categories like ‘BBC’, ‘thug’ and ‘bull’ perpetuate stereotypes about who we are, which trickles down into dating apps and in real life.
For this reason, I have found myself joining groups that create a safe space for people who look just like me, like WhatsApp group chats and club nights. Speaking to others who just ‘get’ it really helps me. We see life through a completely different lens and we bond over that. I have tried to have these conversations with people that aren’t Black and their ignorance masks their ability to think objectively. But the thing is, I can’t – and shouldn’t have to – live my life excluding myself from certain situations due to other people’s stereotypes or prejudices.
The good news is, there are plenty of people in the LGBTQ+ community who get it. People who see me, not just my race. But until that becomes the norm, we – as Black gay men – have to navigate a world that often reduces us to a fetish. It’s a constant battle, but one we fight because we deserve genuine connections, just like everyone else.
Here’s the thing: I’m proud of who I am. My Blackness is an integral part of my identity, but it’s not my only quality. I have interests, hobbies, a sense of humour (hopefully!), and yes, a body that deserves respect – not objectification.
