Come, let us drool together.

I sent a photo of a hot guy on Instagram to a friend recently. But wait, there’s more. My friend’s response was the stuff of nuance only possible between two gay men.

“BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARKBARKBARKBARKBARK”

Nestled amid our thoughtful conversation about a novel we’d both read and tepid dates we’d been on that month was this unsubtle explosion. With a single image, my friend and I were activated. Our considered taste in fiction: out the window. Our desire to understand how each other’s weeks were going: girl, that could wait. Now was the time to pant. I replied to his barks with a GIF of Miles Teller in Whiplash, bathed in sweat, drumming very fast. When our ping-pong of lust subsided, we texted about astrology.

If we are friends, if we are lovers, if we are casual DM acquaintances, there’s a specific joy in sharing this kind of moment—a ringing confirmation of common ground. If attraction is a moving archery target, this random guy online is where our arrows meet at the bullseye. What we learn about each other in the process of simply drooling is priceless.

*

Once a social media platform figures out that you’re a horny adult with a pulse, the likelihood of being inundated with suggestions of sex skyrockets. My Instagram Explore page is an algorithmic mirror so loud and exacting that I both cherish it and avoid opening it in public (it’s mostly guys doing suggestive barbell squats and archival videos of Stephen Sondheim productions). It’s my fault. To quote TikTok lifers whose For You pages deliver them tailored goods, I built this FYP brick by brick. Instead of keeping this all to myself, though, my impulse in the moments I’m confronted by the butts and the barbells is to share them with someone else. Yes, the artificial Tinker Bell in my phone has determined that this 10-second video of a chubby hottie with a dark caesar twerking to Doechii is for me. But, maybe, it’s also for you.

I asked a group of my friends and online acquaintances who they share treasures with when they stumble on them. Digital exchanges like these, particularly for the queer folks I polled, exist in a more sacred space than public pronouncements of attraction. The barking isn’t performed for the rabid town square (“raw, next question,” “run me over,” “I’m on PreP”). Instead, it lives in a private kennel we make for ourselves. This took many forms: A bestie group chat named after a Black OnlyFans creator that’s a repository for jokes and hot posts. A kinky flirtation centered around the slow burn of mutual arousal. Two platonic friends who share a love of pillowy pecs like art collectors in a gallery, glasses slipping down their horny noses.

This spectator sport of shared thirst is a jolt to the senses, a warm rush of dopamine not unlike finding a gift you know someone will love. Context and consent are central to what makes it feel safe and welcome. And it can be a reminder: I am here, you are here, we both hold desire, that desire is being witnessed, and therefore it is real. I feel obligated to note my full reporting: for the most part, the straight men I asked looked at me like I was insane (fair). “I think most straight guys are too self consciously enlightened now for that sort of thing,” one told me. Sounds fake, I thought. But sure, throughout history, you all have frankly gazed enough.

For me, a lot of this has to do with my own relationship to desire—a love-hate dance tinged with shame and a bit of slapstick humor. Photos of male models in the underwear aisle at Walmart made me trip over my Reeboks as a pre-teen. When a man my mother once dated walked out of the shower adjacent to my bedroom one night, I rushed to the crack of my door so fast that I dragged my sheets with me and peed a little. There were no outlets for me to put the feelings that bubbled up in those moments. Who do you tell when you’re rewinding a VHS of The Prince of Egypt to catch Moses taking a bath? Who do you laugh with as you find dessert for your eyes on the margins of a world not built for you? Who can awooga with you when you want to bark? If I could put words to the voice that still echoes in my head as an adult when I see someone who sets me off, they’d be: Hello?? Is anyone else seeing this shit?

In some ways, I’m still regaining that lost ground, retraining myself to not feel like I exist in a vacuum. Sometimes, asking someone’s permission to share in the trenches is key. O, sister, sit with me and tell me: is this influencer with two bad singles on SoundCloud and a spicy Twitter not fine as hell?

*

We all, to varying degrees, want to be seen on our own terms. I post thirst traps of my own when I want to celebrate my face, my belly, my butt, and when I don’t mind a little attention. I like the idea that people can appreciate those things while, I hope, also aligning with my values and the portrait, albeit incomplete, that I paint of myself online. It’s a negotiation some of us are used to by now: if I offer you my eyes on Monday, and a grin on Wednesday, will you still show up with urgency for my friend’s GoFundMe on Friday, my spiraling internal monologue on Sunday?

A friend of mine frequently gawks with another buddy of his at a guy who’s a vocal advocate for trans rights. His online persona oscillates between highlighting the body that carries him through life and protesting legislation that seeks to erase LGBTQ+ bodies writ large. I appreciated the multitudes, and found the overlap to be imperfect, sexy, and maybe even a bit clunky—which is to say, deeply human. I sent a post of his chest to another friend of mine when it showed up on my feed.

“Wooofff 😛,” they replied.

Then we texted about how each other’s weeks were going.