So Instagram yielded two of the most interesting, decent guys I’ve recently met. Maybe it’s not surprising: This simple photo stream is an intimate (albeit edited) record of our lives — a roadmap, and at best, a humorous, even sexy one. It conveys a surprising amount of information: your neighborhood and surroundings, preferred alcohol, favorite locales, an exhaustive picture of your dining habits, whether you have a sense of humor at all, the general attractiveness of your friends, the overall creepiness of your point of view. The effect of that nonchalant percentage of GPOY (read: “Gratuitous Pictures of Yourself”), slipped delicately between photos of painted toes and rooftop sunsets, the lot of it aglow with the addition of a skin-illuminating “Rise” filter, is one of rosy, mysterious appeal.
Granted, Instagram is a long-game, compared to, say, OKCupid. But it lets straight people circle each other aggressively and unabashedly without having to be on a dating site. Especially straight people, because honestly: Are there any girls on Blendr? I don’t know any. Instagram is a portrait of yourself beyond selfies, almost an accidental profile that spares you from having to list your favorite movies or perfect Friday night (and thus leap flailingly from the window while you’re at it). It may not be Grindr, but it’s lubricant.
Last week I took a photo of a handsome colleague, sitting on the floor of my office, sipping coffee, sunlight streaming through his blond hair (highlights courtesy of “Amaro”). It was only moments after I posted it that my phone started flashing. The first comment, from a fashion editor uptown: “Into it.” A few more girls chimed in. He’s taking one out next week. If it doesn’t work out, he can try the others.