Dating as a Black Gay American Digital Nomad
From 2019 to 2024, I was a digital nomad who traveled across Africa and Europe. This was after twenty years as a graphic designer for a Los Angeles-based investment banking firm. During my time abroad, I created Our Black Gay Diaspora Podcast, a biweekly platform where I interview Black LGBTQ professionals from around the world.
One question I got was, “How is dating in Europe?” My experience, at least with dating apps, was that I didn’t really notice a difference. However, as an introvert, someone most comfortable “spending time with just one or two people, rather than large groups or crowds (WebMD, 2020),” casual dating wasn’t something I was the most adept at doing.
I was a Black American who grew up in a Eurocentric society.
When I left the U.S. in October 2019, my goal was to build a network in the hopes of finding employment in Sweden, a country I first visited in August 2015. I was in Stockholm when the COVID-19 pandemic hit, which kept me in the country longer than planned. As a visitor, I didn’t see the point of devoting energy to pursuing romantic or sexual exploits.
There were Black citizens in most of the European countries I visited. But the populations are smaller than most major U.S. cities. Thus, I knew that finding a Black gay man with whom to form a healthy romantic connection could be a challenge.
I didn’t disapprove of interracial dating. But I was cautious. Similar to the United States, there is sexual fetishization of Black men in Europe. British journalist Jason Okundaye’s October 2020 GQ article states, “This is how white people objectify black men as more masculine and sexually potent than our white counterparts. The size of our penises are obsessed over and apparently betray our monstrosity.”
In the past, I’d received interest from non-black men who said things like, “I love Black men and your beautiful chocolate skin!” How does one respond to a declaration like that? I would never think to say to a white man, “Oh, my God! I love your beautiful vanilla skin!” Plus, the statement overlooked the hours I spent curating my profile. In hopes that my profession, favorite films, and daily-life mantras sounded interesting.
I was a Black American who grew up in a Eurocentric society. So, I was aware of how racism influenced my perceptions of myself and those around me. This included racial hierarchy, the “system of stratification that is based on the belief that some racial groups are superior to other racial groups (Wikipedia).” I also had to be conscious of biases.
In spring 2020, I met someone from a popular dating app at a café in Stockholm’s Södermalm district. His friendly eyes were what first caught my attention, complemented by a shaved head, reddish-brown mustache, and beard.
For the first time in a while, I was open to being vulnerable with another man.
Our conversation flowed smoothly as we sat outside, soaking up the sun’s rays on a crisp spring afternoon. But I would be leaving. I didn’t see our date going past what we were enjoying at the moment.
In summer 2020, my Swedish friend remembered I was in the UK and reached out to see how I was doing. I enjoyed our conversations and how they progressed to our shared interests. I looked forward to seeing him during my next visit to Stockholm.
For the first time in a while, I was open to being vulnerable with another man. To experience a new sexual awakening and embrace my sexuality in ways that went beyond the cerebral.
That experience helped me to be more honest about who I am and what I want in life. White and Black labels categorize people. But they’re generic monikers that don’t capture a person’s ethnic or socioeconomic background. I am a Black American, a creative introvert who loves international travel and the sound of honest-to-goodness laughter. I am me.
