Jock (Emeritus)

A Post-Manic Grindr Update

 Jock (Emeritus)

Author's Note

This is about opening Grindr again after a year that went sideways. If you’ve ever had to update your dating profile after your life imploded, this is for you.

---

You don’t decide to get back on Grindr.

You’re lying in bed, scrolling nothing, and your thumb just… taps the yellow mask.

Muscle memory.

Like your thumb still thinks you’re hot.

The app opens and there he is: Past You.

Past You is 29, apparently.

Bold choice for a man in his mid-thirties.

But sure, let’s honour the historical record.

Past You is jacked and smug in every pic.

Flexing in a gym mirror.

Cycling in full spandex.

Sailor outfit at Pride.

Speedo on a rock, flexed so hard you can practically hear the hamstrings screaming.

Pink tank top covered in flip-flops, arms crossed, biceps bulging, expression: I don’t wait in lines; I cause them.

This isn’t a profile; it’s a thirst chapel.

Underneath, the bio:

EN | FR

Active gamer, hiker, dungeon master.

Cribbage over sex.

You read it and think, incredible. You somehow managed to sound both wholesome and like you had a sling.

Tags: gaming, hiking, workingout, adventurous, drugfree.

Tribes: Clean-Cut, Geek, Jock.

You stare at it all like it’s forensic evidence.

This is the man who used to hit the club until 3 a.m., jog to brunch, then have group sex for dessert.

(Current you schedules one social interaction a week and needs a nap after.)

The man who could do a full rugby game, then bike home, then answer “u hosting?” with “give me twenty.”

(Current you gets winded doing a single load of laundry.)

The man who thought “drugfree” was accurate while microdosing ketamine like it was vitamin D.

(Current you runs on coffee, lithium, and spite.)

You scroll down to the stats:

Age: 29

Height: 178 cm

Weight: 75 kg (ok).

Body type: Toned (cute).

Position: Vers Top (ambitious).

Looking for: Dates, friends, relationship, hookups. (Really hedging your bets there, bud.)

You look down at yourself.

Less “vers top” and more “introverted spoon.” Your muscles have gently vacated the premises; your ass is now a suggestion. You still have bone structure, but it’s working overtime on a skeleton crew.

You know you should update the photos. Put something closer to reality. A current selfie, maybe. Something with the Abilify cheekbones and the “has seen some shit” eyes.

Instead, you sit there and mentally bully yourself for ten minutes.

You look at the photos again and think, that guy had no idea what was coming.

You barely recognize your own shoulders. Those are Death Star delts; Luke hasn’t taken the shot yet.

You hover over the little X in the corner of each photo.

Delete?

Don’t delete?

Is it catfishing if it’s only been three years?

(No. You decide the statute of limitations on thirst traps is five.)

You go back to the main page.

The grid loads.

Torsos, torsos, headless torsos, a plant, a dog, one man whose only picture is a close-up of his sneaker.

The usual.

Someone taps you in under a minute: “Into?”

Past You would have answered “come find out 😉”.

Current you treats it like a wrong number from a previous life.

Another ping:

“nice arms”

You look at the picture they’re seeing — sunglasses, rolled sleeves, biceps at full inflation — and resist the urge to reply, “thanks, they don’t live here anymore.”

Instead you send a neutral: “hey :)”

You are trying very hard not to overthink the fact that your profile is technically a museum exhibit.

More taps:

“Woof!”

“Host?”

“Stats?”

You could answer: height, weight, sexual preferences, availability.

What you want to answer is:

“Into kisses, card games, and not repeating my last season finale, wbu?”

You don’t.

You send the usual bland polite nonsense.

You log off.

You log back on twenty minutes later, as if the men within 200 metres have respawned with fresh stats.

Eventually you connect with one guy you actually like talking to.

He’s cute. Not terrifyingly shredded. Has an actual face picture. His bio says he likes books and board games. He uses punctuation.

You chat for a while. It’s easy. He makes fun of himself. He roasts you for “Cribbage over sex.”

“Bold claim,” he writes. “You that good at crib?”

You type: “I’m okay at crib. My real talent is losing gracefully and then making out.”

Your thumb hovers. You erase. Replace with: “You’ll have to play me to find out 😈.”

You hate yourself a little for the emoji, but we all cope.

The question comes eventually:

“So what are you looking for?”

You pause.

What are you looking for?

Not hookups, not really. Your libido is on long-term disability. Last you checked, it was somewhere in the mail, filed under “lost packages.”

You want… company. Someone whose touch isn’t transactional. Someone who will look at you and see more than the guy who fell apart.

You type: “Honestly? Mostly connection. Chill hangs. Maybe more if there’s chemistry. No rush.”

He types back: “Sounds good tbh.”

You feel a small, annoying flicker of hope.

Then: “So what do you do?”

Here we go.

Should you mention you resigned and crawled back like a raccoon returning to the same trash can?

You type: “Gov job. Boring but stable.”

Stable. That word feels like both a lie and an aspiration.

He sends “haha relatable” and moves on.

You are both relieved and slightly offended he didn’t pry.

Next landmine: “Tell me something interesting about you.”

Your brain helpfully offers: “Well, earlier this year my mind went supernova for the first time and I started collecting hospital wristbands like Pokémon cards.”

Instead you type: “A bit of a nerd, dungeon master. You?”

He writes back about his plants, his dog, his weekly trivia night, and how he’s “trying to be more spontaneous this year.”

You stare at that line and briefly consider replying:

“Buddy, if you ever want to ruin your life for the plot, I take referrals.”

You don’t. You keep it light and keep texting.

A few days later, he suggests coffee.

You say yes.

You meet him in person. He recognizes you from the photos, which is nice, because you were secretly worried you’d walk in and he’d ask, “sorry, is your brother coming too?”

He compliments your beard. You resist the urge to say, “thanks, it’s doing all of the work right now.”

The date is… normal. Stupidly, beautifully normal. You talk about games, hiking, vacation disasters. You make him laugh twice hard enough that he hits the table. You store that one for later like a squirrel.

At some point he asks, casually, “So how’s your year been?”

You choke on your coffee.

How do you summarize a year that could be shelved under a Greek tragedy?

You could lie. “Mostly fine. Normal amount of chaos.”

You could overshare. “Well, I had a full-blown manic episode that rearranged my life like a drunk interior decorator, but I’m heavily medicated now. So how’s your latte?”

You aim for the middle: “Honestly? Kind of rough. Took some time off for health stuff. Doing a lot better now though.”

You let him think rough year means burnout, not breakdown.

He nods. “Same, actually. Burnout wrecked me.”

You exhale slowly. Parallel trauma. Excellent.

He does not ask what “health stuff” means. You are 60% relieved, 40% disappointed, which tracks with your general attachment style.

You go back to his place. You make out. Your body remembers how to do that, at least. Things progress.

Halfway through, your brain starts filing reports: Is this pleasure? Did I take my meds? Is my body doing what it’s supposed to? You catch yourself narrating instead of feeling and have to say, out loud, “Stop. Be here.”

He pauses. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just—getting out of my head.”

“Take your time.”

It is not the sex life you used to have. Less porn montage, more fumbling under soft lighting. But it’s… fine. Human. Present.

Afterwards you lie there, slightly stunned. Not because it was mind-blowing, but because you did it at all.

“You’re really quiet,” he says. “You okay?”

You’re still trying to decide if that was pleasure or just muscle memory, but what comes out is, “Yeah. Just out of practice.”

He laughs. “Same. No rush. We can just cuddle.”

He shifts closer, drapes an arm over you. Comfortable. Trusting.

And that’s when it hits you: the scariest part isn’t that someone might hurt you. It’s that you might scare them. You’ve already watched one life detonate in real time. You know what you’re capable of if the railings fail.

You chase those thoughts away.

His apartment has plants. Living ones. That’s a good sign. People who keep plants alive are probably less likely to file restraining orders.

(You’re aware this logic is unhinged. You’re going with it anyway.)

You leave his place later feeling… not fixed. But less ghost.

Back home, you open Grindr again. You look at your profile.

The photo of pre-apocalypse you still stares back, but it feels less fraudulent. That man didn’t vanish; he just got nerfed.

You finally start editing.

Age: update to the real number.

Brutal but necessary.

Weight: nudge down a little.

Body type: quietly retire “Toned,” select “Average,” and hold a small private funeral.

Tribes: you search for the “jock (emeritus)” status but finally settle on “sober.”

You move the “Cribbage over sex” line to the end and add one more sentence:

“Recently stable, morbidly funny, open to coffee, cuddles, and people who know life isn’t a clean arc.”

You hover. You almost delete “recently stable.” You don’t want to invite questions you’re not ready to answer.

But it’s the closest you’ve come to honest without handing over your medical chart.

You hit save.

Your profile drops a few tiers on the algorithm’s thirst scale. That’s fine. You’re not recruiting for your own pyramid scheme anymore.

A new message pops up:

“‘Recently stable’ same 😂”

You open his profile. He’s cute enough, mid-30s, bio says “anxious but decent.” You feel an immediate, stupid kinship.

You reply: “Congrats on surviving.”

He sends back: “u too. want to be mildly awkward together sometime?”

You grin.

You are not the man in the pink tank top anymore. You’re not the guy who could bench press his feelings and then fuck them away.

You’re the guy on his couch, phone in hand, letting strangers see a slightly dented truth.

You’re still lonely. Still rebuilding. Still not sure where your libido went or when it plans to return.

But you’re here. On the grid. In the mess. Letting people connect with the buggy, beta-test version of you instead of the highlight reel.

It’s not the triumphant comeback montage you’d prefer.

It’s quieter. Funnier. A little tragic around the edges.

Recently stable.

Darkly honest.

Still, somehow, here.