It is a tech company in a society that has been transformed by free-market reforms, but also a gay tech company operating under a one-party government with an ambiguous stance toward L.G.B.T.Q. It’s like “Grindr crossed with Facebook, and more,” one former employee told me.īlued is in a peculiar position: It might be the biggest app of its kind, yet it is also the most precarious. testing and a surrogacy service called Blue Baby - and integrating them as quickly as possible. Like WeChat, Blued aspires to be a Swiss Army knife for its users, absorbing features from other apps, like newsfeeds and livestreaming functions - as well as real-world resources like H.I.V. It is easily among the most popular gay dating apps in the world. Blued (pronounced “blue-duh” or “blue-dee”) has a reported in-country user base of some 24 million, suggesting many Chinese have opted for some middle ground. But according to a United Nations estimate, less than 5 percent of gay Chinese choose to come out. population larger than all of France, around 70 million people (based on the assumption that about 5 percent of any given population identifies as queer). The company’s slogan, “He’s Right Next Door,” embodies its ethos: to bring together gay men from all segments of Chinese society into one digital ecosystem.Ĭhina is home to an L.G.B.T.Q. When Duan opens up the app anywhere in the country, be it in Beijing’s bustling commercial district Sanlitun or back in Xinzhou, he’ll find an endless scroll of users: cosmopolitan yuppies dressed in drag, rural blue-collar workers with faceless profiles. There are other options - Grindr operates in China - but Blued is the most popular by far. Whereas Duan once sought out gay communities in small groups and quiet bars, today, as a 33-year-old working in publishing in Beijing, he can join gay meet-ups on WeChat follow blogs and coming-out stories on Weibo, a Twitter-like platform and, perhaps most crucial, he can connect and find partners on Blued, a gay social networking app. Today that number has swelled to more than 900 million, and a vast majority of them are using mobile devices. In 2000, when he was still in grade school, there were about 23 million Chinese internet users the nation’s first internet cafes had only recently opened in Shanghai.
CHINESE GAY CHAT SITE TV
To familiarize himself with China’s burgeoning gay culture, he listened to the talks by the gender-studies scholar Li Yinhe on the popular television channel Hunan TV read “Crystal Boys,” a novel about gay youth in Taipei by the Taiwanese writer Bai Xianyong and frequented online chat rooms for gay men like Boy Air, BF99, Don’t Cry My Friends and the local Tianjin Cool, where he met his first boyfriend, a graduate student five years his senior.Īs Duan came of age, so did the Chinese internet. He caught a glimpse into a future he never knew existed - a future that was perhaps within his reach too.Ī diligent student, Duan aced his gaokao - China’s national entrance exam - and moved from his secluded hometown to the city of Tianjin, studying literature at a top university. Duan was moved by one scene in particular, in which the businessman brings his lover home for the Chinese New Year to share a customary hotpot meal with his family. When he was 17, he watched “Lan Yu,” a 2001 Chinese film about a love affair between a male college student from northern China and a businessman in Beijing, based on a novel published online by an author known only as Beijing Comrade. Online, he stumbled into a world where he finally felt he belonged, a place where gay people like himself sought kinship and connection. Even in grade school, while his male classmates talked about girls, he nursed a secret crush on a boy, a gregarious, basketball-playing class monitor. Offline, Duan had known for a long time that he was different - and he knew no one else like him. Then he’d go to QQ, the new instant-messaging service and online forum, and type in the Chinese word for “homosexual” - tongzhi, or comrade. He would pick a desktop facing away from the wall so that nobody could look over his shoulder. After school, he would visit the newly opened internet cafe in his hometown, Xinzhou, a small city in Shanxi Province bounded by a veil of mountains. Like many gay Chinese growing up at the turn of the millennium, Duan Shuai began his long, deliberate process of coming out online.