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Progressive technology, stagnant politics: how dating apps perpetuate gender hierarchy and transform relationships in urban China

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Progressive technology, stagnant politics: how dating apps perpetuate gender hierarchy and transform relationships in urban China

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PROGRESSIVE TECHNOLOGY, STAGNANT POLITICS:
HOW DATING APPS PERPETUATE GENDER HIERARCHY AND TRANSFORM
RELATIONSHIPS IN URBAN CHINA

by

Lik Sam Chan

A Dissertation Presented to the
FACULTY OF THE USC GRADUATE SCHOOL
UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
In Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirements for the Degree
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
(COMMUNICATION)

May 2018

Copyright 2018 Lik Sam Chan
ii

Acknowledgements

I could not have finished this dissertation without the support of the following people and
organizations. My dissertation advisor, Larry Gross, has offered me with unconditional support
since the very early stage of the project. I am extremely grateful to have worked with my
wonderful dissertation and qualifying examination committees, which consisted of Christina
Dunbar-Hester, Yu Hong, Margaret McLaughlin, and Patricia Riley.
I am deeply indebted to the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, the
Graduate School, and the Center for Feminist Research at the University of Southern California
for their research funding support, which I used to collect fieldwork in China for this
dissertation.
I owe special thanks to the School of Communication and Design at Sun Yat-sen
University, Guangzhou, which provided not only financial support but also office space to me
during part of my fieldwork. I am very fortunate to know Yunxi Pei from the School of
Sociology and Anthropology at Sun Yat-sen University, who helped me recruit research
informants. Xuan Chen, a graduate student I met at Sun Yat-sen University, also assisted my
fieldwork.
Thanks to the dissertation writing group members at Annenberg—Cat Duffy, Michelle
Forelle, James Lee, Nathalie Maréchal, Raffi Sarkissian, and Sarah Myers West—for their
constructive feedback to my writing.
Finally, I want to thank my partner, Kei Imafuku, for his listening to my repeated vent
and nascent ideas.
iii

Table of Contents
Acknowledgements ii
List of Tables iv
List of Figures v
Abstract vi
Chapter 1: Introduction 1
Chapter 2: Liberating or Disciplining? A Technofeminist Analysis of the Use
of Dating Apps Among Women 14
Chapter 3: Performing Chinese Masculinities on Dating Apps:
Interpretations, Self-presentations, and Interactions 35
Chapter 4: A Phenomenology of Dating Apps: Space, Purposefulness, and
Neoliberalism 58
Chapter 5: Conclusion 82
References 91

iv

List of Tables
Table 2.1. Female in-depth interview informants’ details 22
Table 3.1. Male in-depth interview informants’ details 44

v

List of Figures
Figure 3.1. Results of a search on Baidu 49
Figure 3.2. A billboard advertisement in a Guangzhou metro station 50
Figure 4.1. The interface of Momo 62
Figure 4.2. The interface of Tantan 63
Figure 5.1. A tri-level analytical framework for digital objects 87

vi

Abstract

Mobile dating apps such as Momo and Tantan have been catching the public’s attention
in recent years in China. This dissertation does not regard dating apps simply as an artifact, but
as a lens to examine social phenomena. It examines how gender dynamics and the changing
nature of relationships manifest in the use of dating apps in urban China.
This dissertation is based on my fieldwork conducted in Fall 2016 and Summer 2017 in
Guangzhou, a city in southern China. The fieldwork involved in-depth interviews, focus groups,
and observations of dating app-related social events. I also employed the walkthrough method to
examine the intended purpose of dating apps.
By examining the lived experiences of female dating app users, I argue that, while dating
apps might be a feminist tool, they conceal the structural gender inequality embedded in the
sexual double standard, marriage expectations, and state policies. I also examine the ways in
which Chinese heterosexual men perform and negotiate their masculinity on dating apps. I show
that their performances are better understood relative to wen masculinity, an indigenous Chinese
concept associated with literary and sexual pursuits, and the neoliberalization of such wen
masculinity. Finally, I present a theoretical-driven analysis of dating apps. I argue that the
essence of dating apps is nothing technological, but is about users’ seeing each other as a
relational potential. The potential is situated in an ambiguous virtual space created by dating
apps and such an ambiguous space is reflective of the motifs of neoliberalism in China.
In the concluding chapter, I propose a framework for understanding digital objects and
three directions for future research.

1

Chapter 1: Introduction

Mobile dating apps have been catching the public’s attention in recent years. According
to PEW Research Center (Smith, 2016), 9% of US adults have used a dating app on their phones.
This is a threefold increase in the number of users since 2013, when only 3% of US adults
reported ever using a dating app on their devices (Smith & Duggan, 2013). Nielsen estimated
that 13.7 million Americans used a dating app in 2012 (Jayson, 2013). The dating app industry is
a huge business: in 2014, it made US$572 million of revenue (Wells, 2015).
The popularity of mobile dating apps is not unique to the United States. Momo, founded
in 2011 in China, is now the most widely used dating app among the heterosexual population in
the country. It had over 85 million monthly active users at the beginning of 2017 (Momo, 2017).
It is also a public listed company in the United States.
Momo is just an exemplary Chinese dating app. In Tencent Apps Center, where
smartphone users in China can purchase or download applications onto their phones, one can
easily find mobile dating apps such as Tantan, iAround, Bilin, or apps with strong sexual
connotations such as Chuangshang (meaning “on the bed”) and Chuangyou (meaning
“bedmate”). Apps such as Blue’d, Aloha, LesPark, and LESDO are some of the apps for gay
men and lesbians in China.
This dissertation examines how dating app users experience this emerging technology. As
Latour (1990) argues, “technology is society made durable” (p. 103). This dissertation does not
regard dating apps simply as an artifact, but as a lens to examine social phenomena. In particular,
this dissertation explores how gender dynamics and the changing nature of relationships manifest
in the use of dating apps in urban China.
2

This dissertation consists of three distinct, but related, studies. In this general introduction
to the three studies, I provide the overarching conceptual, theoretical, and methodological
frameworks of this dissertation.
Dating Apps, Hook Up Apps, or Networking Apps?
Combining the Internet and mobile phones, mobile dating apps utilize the Global
Positioning System (GPS) receiver built-in into many smartphones to locate other users nearby.
Quiroz (2013) pointed out that the mobile dating app was launched in 2003, but most apps did
not appear until 2008, when Apple released iPhone OS2, which for the first time supported third-
party apps. The location-awareness (Gordon & de Souza e Silva, 2011) of mobile dating apps
marks a critical difference from conventional dating websites.
There is no consensus on the name of this dating technology that runs on a smartphone
and uses the GPS. Researchers refer to this technology as “location-based real-time dating app”
(Handel & Shklovski, 2012), “satellite dating app” or “GPS dating app” (Quiroz, 2013),
“location-based mobile dating app” (Birnholtz, Fitzpatrick, Handel, & Brubaker, 2014),
“location-aware dating app” (Blackwell, Birnholtz, & Abbott, 2015), or “mobile dating
application” (Corriero & Tong, 2016). Moreover, there is a tendency to differentiate which
platforms are for dating and which apps are for hook-ups (see Finkel, Eastwick, Karney, Reis, &
Sprecher, 2012, p.8). This division is a false construction, however. First of all, there is no
effective mechanism for any dating platform to completely ban its users from looking for either
hook-ups or romantic dates. Second, app users can have various relational goals at the same time
when they use an app. Even in Grindr, an app known for hook-ups among gay men, Landovitz et
al. (2013) found that 67.2% of their respondents reported using the app for dating. Therefore,
“networking app” is perhaps a better term to refer to these apps because the term covers a range
3

of potential relationships. However, this term is not commonly used by the public nor the media.
Therefore, I use “dating app” to refer to this technology in this dissertation.
Current literature on dating apps largely focuses on the uses and motivations, risks
associated with using these apps, self-presentations on the apps, and the spatial feature of them.
First, on the use of dating apps, Gudelunas (2012) adopted the uses and gratifications
approach (Katz, Blumler, & Gurevitch, 1974) to explore what media gay men use for what
purposes. Gudelunas found that gay men often use Grindr to look for eye candy or casual sexual
partners nearby. Some people use Scruff, another dating app, to be connected to the wider gay
community. Sumter, Vandenbosch, and Lightenberg (2017) examined the motivations of young
adults of using Tinder, but, to date, the most comprehensive research on the motivations behind
Tinder’s use was conducted by Timmermans and De Caluwéb (2017). The research team
employed a four-stage mixed methodology to identify a total of 13 motivations of both straight
and LGBTQ-identified users, covering from seeking romance to killing time.
1

The second cluster of studies looks at the health-related risks associated with meeting
sexual partners via Grindr (Landovitz et al., 2013; Rice et al., 2012). These researchers, mainly
from the public health and social work domains, see Grindr as a popular infrastructure through
which young men who have sex with men (YMSM) meet their sexual partners. Among the 195
YMSM in Los Angeles surveyed by Rice et al. (2012), 75% reported having sexual encounters
with people whom they met via Grindr. But the rate of condom use with partners met on Grinder,
around 60%, was significantly higher than the rate of condom use with partners met through
other channels such as bars, websites, or through friends, which was approximately 42%.

1
For an elaborate discussion of Timmermans and De Caluwéb (2017), see Chapter 2.
4

Landovitz et al. (2013) found a similar result in their 375 young Grindr users sample. They found
that around 61% of their respondents always had protected receptive anal intercourse in the past
three months. Both research teams identified Grindr as a potentially useful platform to
disseminate safer sex and HIV prevention messages. However, compared to the sample reached
through emails and phones, the Grindr sample tended to be young and white, and to have more
sexual partners (Burrell et al., 2012). Public health campaigners have to take this into
consideration.
Third, scholars are also interested in how dating app users represent themselves on the
apps. The visual and textual profiles are the self-presentations users create for themselves
(Goffman, 1959). Fitzpatrick, Birnholtz, and Brubaker (2015) collected 25,365 profiles
mechanically from Grindr. Out of 1,000 profiles that they coded manually, around 69% showed
a face, 18% headless torso, 4% other body parts besides the face and torso, and 10% non-human
images. Users who were older and disclosed their race were less likely to show their face,
whereas users who had a higher body mass index, disclosed their relationship status, and stated
that they are looking for friends or relationships were more likely to show a face. Chan (2016)
found out that there were cultural differences in terms of showing one’s face photos on dating
apps by gay men living in the United States and those living in China.
The final cluster of research departs from the mainstream online dating research because
it looks at the spatial feature unique to dating apps, particularly dating apps for gay men. Using
the GPS receivers inside the smartphones, dating apps not only bring gay men to the same
platform but also help identify who is gay nearby. It turns the “invisible” visible (Gudelunas,
2012). Crooks (2013) critically reflected upon his experience of using Grindr. He used Grindr
not only for seeking relationships but also for learning about the community when he just
5

relocated. Grindr pulled gay men together and created “an ad hoc social space” (para. 18) that
paralleled the gay village, where gay men needed to use symbols to communicate their
sexualities to others. While Crooks noted the creation of a common space on Grindr, Blackwell
et al. (2015) examined how the sense of co-presence affected social interactions and
presentations on Grindr. A user can log onto Grindr anywhere at any time, even if he is in a
straight bar. One’s presence on the app is only visible to other users who are physically nearby
and are on the app. In this way, Grindr creates an overlaying space, a gay space, on top of the
actual physical place one is at. Finally, Roth (2014), commenting on Scruff, argues that this
overlaying of the virtual on top of the actual space blurs the traditional gay and straight places.
Building from these existing studies of mainly gay male dating app users, this dissertation
explores the lived experience of using dating apps of Chinese heterosexual-identifying users,
including their interpretations of dating apps, challenges they face when using dating apps, their
self-presentations on these apps, and the relationships they seek on these apps.
A Constructive Account of Dating Apps in China
Momo and Tantan are two of the popular dating apps in China that will be discussed in
the subsequent chapters. Momo is an all-in-one app, putting multiple functions—including
“updates,” “people,” “groups,” and “clicks”—into a single application.
2
Tantan, compared to
Momo, is much simpler. It is primarily modeled on the design of Tinder, where users can swipe
left to indicate “dislike” or swipe right to indicate “like.”
Momo and Tantan, the same as other technologies, did not come into being from a
vacuum. There are multiple forces that shape them into how they appear now. Working within

2
See Chapter 4 for a detailed description.
6

the parameter of science and technology studies, Pinch and Bijker (1987) propose the social
construction of technology (SCOT) perspective. SCOT aims to reveal that the development of
technology is not as teleological as it may appear but comprises a series of variations and
selections, which are subject to the political influence, economic strength, and social status of
social groups relevant to the technology in question. These groups can be regulators,
competitors, investors, designers, and so on. For example, Cowan (1985) traces the failure of gas
refrigerators, which were technically superior to their electrical counterparts. Her archive
research shows that, during the 1920s to 1950s, the manufacturers that researched and produced
gas refrigerators ran out of financial capital, skilled labor, industrial competition, and support
from utility companies; therefore, gas refrigerators eventually lost its market share to their
electrical counterparts. This case illustrates how the social factors, particularly economic and
industrial pressures, drive technological development. In a similar vein, Molotch (2003) refers to
the process in which external forces shape the form and function of a product as “lash up.” For
example, the social environment influences what designs are socially appealing. Economic
considerations play a vital part in the product manufacturing, thus product design. The larger
technological environment also affects new product development because new things often have
to fit into the existing systems. Governments also play a role in shaping the designs of the
products through regulations. Following SCOT’s perspective and based on existing literature, I
trace some of the socio-cultural, technological, economic, and political forces which play a role
in the development of Momo and Tantan.
First of all, with the gradual opening up of the economy from the early 1980s, the state
has been retreating from citizens’ romantic relationships and marriages. Activities such as dance
parties used to be organized by work units and the Communist Youth League of China for young
7

women and men to meet ceased to exist in the 1990s; leisure activities gradually shifted to
private spheres (Yan, 2003). The marriage law has also been revised several times to reduce the
state’s involvement (Davis, 2014). From a cultural anthropological perspective, Rofel (2007)
argues that the economic reform in post-Mao China has also unleashed the desires of the citizens,
which were suppressed in the Maoist era. In Rofel’s words, new “desiring” subjects have
emerged. Upward mobility and opportunities to accumulate wealth allow some people to be
independent of their parents and to choose their romantic partners. The gradual relaxation of the
hukou (“household registration”) system also allows greater geographical mobility, thus
expanding the pool of potential romantic partners or spouses (Yan, 2009). These socio-cultural
changes set up an environment where dating someone unrelated to one’s family or work is
increasingly common.
The technological circumstance has also impacted on dating app development. After
2008, China has been eager to develop its network infrastructure and information communication
technology sector. Hong (2017) argues that this is part of the state’s effort to become a global
information communication technology leader. These state’s endeavors created a favorable
environment for mobile phones and apps companies. According to China Internet Network
Information Center (2014), China already had 618 million Internet users in 2013. More than 80%
of these Internet users used mobile phones to access the Internet. Internet access via mobile
phones is a prerequisite for the success of mobile dating apps. Since 2001, mobile phone services
have come with more valued-added services and lower costs (Wallis, 2013). Furthermore,
Chinese Internet companies are extremely capable of adapting overseas technologies to their own
context. Baidu, Weibo, and Renren are the Chinese counterparts of Google, Twitter, and
8

Facebook due to China’s ban on these Western services (Fuchs, 2015). The design of Chinese
dating app Tantan is also based on Tinder.
Economically, state-led capitalism was constitutionalized in 1998 in China (Fuchs, 2015).
Since then, enterprises have adopted the profit-driven model. Mobile dating apps, as businesses,
have to develop a sustainable business model. The economic imperative is even stronger if it is
publicly listed such as Momo. The tricky issue for many dating and marriage-matching services
is that satisfied customers who find a long-term partner via these services will not return (Fiore
& Donath, 2004). Therefore, many online dating websites rely on advertising revenue (Wen,
2015); some apps operate on a membership system (e.g., Tinder Gold or Grindr XTRA), in
which paid members have access to a wider range of services to non-paid users. Momo’s
multiple functions, from the “people” function to the “group” function, aim to keep users
entertained and retained on the platform. Its recently-added service—live streaming—was able to
generate around $195 million in the fourth quarter of 2016 (Lee, 2017).
3
Tantan also began
developing its membership services in June 2017 (Russell, 2017). In short, mobile dating apps
are expanding their functions to cater for people who are looking for different relationships
(Fiore & Donath, 2004).
Finally, China is still an authoritative country with a powerful party-state, which plays a
decisive role in shaping the design of dating apps. On the one hand, China’s banning of
Facebook means that Western dating apps that rely on Facebook’s authentication are impossible

3
While watching live streaming is free of charge, viewers can pay to buy virtual gifts for
the broadcasters; the monetary value of these gifts are shared between the broadcasters and
Momo (Lee, 2017).
9

to take off. On the other hand, the state also regulates what dating apps can do. When Momo was
first launched in 2011, its promotional materials were explicit about using the app for hooking
up. Since 2014, the state has been extremely concerned about prostitution on the app (see
Abkowitz & Geng, 2015). Liu (2016) traces the ways in which state censorship may have shaped
the development of the app. She discusses the “sanitizing” project that Momo underwent after it
received a warning from the state in 2015. Momo’s launching of online games and live streaming
can be considered as a way to dilute its sexual connotations.
Taking a SCOT perspective, I have briefly traced the forces that have collectively
constructed Momo and Tantan as they are. I have shown that the development of these two apps
was not in a vacuum. This picture is, of course, partial. However, it should suffice to provide
adequate contextualization for dating apps in China.
Reflection on Methodology
This dissertation is based on my fieldwork conducted in Fall 2016 and Summer 2017 in
Guangzhou, a city in southern China. Guangzhou is the third largest city in China in terms of
population. It is close to Shenzhen, one of the first special economic zones that were opened to
marketization and foreign investment during the 1980s, and to Hong Kong, an ex-British colony
which introduced many Western ideas into China. Guangzhou has, therefore, always been open
to new cultures. The Internet penetration rate of Guangdong, the province Guangzhou belongs to,
was 66% in 2012, which was ranked the third highest in the country(China Internet Network
Information Center, 2014). Therefore, the use of smartphones is popular in the region. Moreover,
many contemporary studies on sexuality and intimacy about China were carried out in Shanghai
(e.g. Farrer, 2002; Pei, 2013) or Beijing (e.g. Wallis, 2013), and researching in Guangzhou may
provide alternative insight into the changing form of intimate relationships in urban China.
10

The fieldwork involved in-depth interviews with 35 dating app users, two focus groups
with non-dating app users, and observations of dating app-related social events. I also employed
the walkthrough method (Light, Burgess, & Duguay, 2016).
4

This dissertation is entirely about heterosexual-identifying dating app users. As a gay-
identified male researcher who was born in Hong Kong and studying in the United States, I
acknowledge that my interpretation of the informants’ experiences can never be neutral
(Haraway, 1988). Apart from that, I wanted to point out three particular challenges regarding my
presentation as a researcher in this project.
First of all, recruiting female and male informants required different strategies. Approved
by IRB, I set up a “researcher’s profile” on both apps to look for participants. My researcher’s
profile was carefully crafted so that my academic identity and the purpose of the research was
immediately visible. I also strategically used good-looking photos to attract attention. On Momo,
I regularly posted “updates” so that users around me could see my recruitment messages and I
sent out the messages to people nearby. On Tantan, I liked every person’s profile appearing on
my app and sent out a recruitment message to every match (i.e. people also liked my researcher’s
profile).
Many women in Tantan liked my profile and I successfully recruited most women on
Tantan. Only one woman, however, from Momo who received my recruitment messages
responded to me positively. Recruiting male informants was not easy. Men who were matched
with me on Tantan were all gay-identified. Therefore, in the later stage of the recruitment, I

4
For details of the recruitment process, interviews’ informants, and analytical
procedures, refer to Chapters 2, 3, and 4.
11

stopped using Tantan and only relied on Momo. Several men agreed to be interviewed. The
difference between the two apps in the capacity of recruiting female and male informants by a
male researcher possibly suggests different networking norms operating on these apps.
Second, the relationship between female informants and male researchers must be
handled with care. During an in-depth interview, the researcher-informant dyad engages in an
intense (one-way) disclosure. What makes this issue even trickier is that my study was about the
use of dating apps and I recruited my female informants on these apps. Newton’s (1993)
discussion of the erotic equation in ethnography and the practice of having intimate contacts with
informants (e.g. McLelland, 2002) reminds me of the potential intimate connections that may be
formed between my informants and me. I was very careful in hinting to my female informants
that I was not romantically nor sexually interested in them through (1) foregrounding my
researcher’s identity during the initial online encounter (Cribb, 2004), (2) wearing a ring on my
right ring finger, and (3) coming out as gay whenever the conversation led to this.
Third, related to the issue of coming out is the researcher-informant power relation.
While researchers need to demonstrate authority, the research cannot be proceeded without the
cooperation of informants. Given being gay is not totally accepted by the majority of Chinese
(Zheng, 2015), I was not comfortable with disclosing my sexual orientation to my male
informants, being afraid that this would turn them away or hurt my authority. To them, I
highlighted myself as a male. Whenever male informants asked about my hookup history, I
shared with them without referring to the sex of my partners.
In short, from the recruitment stage to the interview stage, I realized I, as a researcher,
have been constantly reflecting upon my self-presentation and have strategically presented the
most appropriate image to my informant without telling explicit lies.
12

Overview of the Dissertation
The three studies included in this dissertation, together, address the gender dynamics on
dating apps and the nature of dating apps.
In Chapter 2, based on the technofeminist perspective (Wajcman, 2006), I examine how
dating apps disrupt yet reproduce existing gender dynamics in China. Female dating app users
offer multiple interpretations of why they use dating apps: as a laboratory to experience
sexuality, a springboard to romance and marriage, a third place between home and the
workplace, and a door to new worlds. They also face several challenges in using dating apps,
including resisting social stigma, assessing men’s purposes, and handling undesirable sexual
solicitations. In the light of women’s struggles in contemporary China, I argue that, while dating
apps might be a feminist tool, they conceal the structural gender inequality embedded in the
sexual double standard, marriage expectations, and state policies.
The experience of heterosexual male users has often been overlooked in the study of
dating apps. Chapter 3, therefore, examines the ways in which Chinese heterosexual men
perform and negotiate their masculinity on dating apps through their interpretations, self-
presentations, and interactions. These men are shown to frame their use of dating apps as work-
related, to present themselves as gentle, innocent, or wealthy, and to make use of various
strategies to maximize their chance of meeting women. I argue that their performances are better
understood relative to wen masculinity, an indigenous Chinese concept often associated with
literary and sexual pursuits, and the neoliberalization of such wen masculinity (Louie, 2002,
2015). I conclude that dating apps only reproduce the existing gender hierarchy if men cannot
see gender dynamics as a positive-sum game.
13

Chapter 4 moves away from the issue of gender dynamics. This chapter presents a
theoretical-driven, empirical-based analysis of dating apps. Following a phenomenological
tradition, I argue that the essence of dating apps is nothing technological, but is about users’
seeing each other as a relational potential, one that is waiting to be developed. The potential is
situated in the virtual space created by dating apps. I explore the production of such space, based
on Henri Lefebvre’s triadic theory of social space. I argue that the app’s actual usage, intended
uses, and users’ interpretations all defy a singular relational goal. App users despise other dating
technologies such as marriage websites or matching by parents for their mudixing, which I
translate as “purposefulness.” Users also despise other app users who have mudixing. The
ambiguous space produced by dating apps and resistance against mudixing is reflective of the
motifs of neoliberalism in China.
In the concluding chapter, I propose a framework for understanding digital objects and
three directions for future research.

14

Chapter 2: Liberating or Disciplining? A Technofeminist Analysis of the Use of
Dating Apps Among Women

Momo is now the most widely used location-aware dating app in China. Mo literally
means “strangeness,” suggesting that its purpose is to connect users with strangers. In November
2014, the number of active users per month reached 60.2 million. Its revenue in the first half of
2014 was US$13.9 million. It was also listed on the NASDAQ on December 11, 2014. Momo is
however just one of dozens of dating apps available in China. Smartphone users can download
others such as Tantan (meaning “explore explore”) or iAround (its Chinese name is Yujian,
meaning “meeting by chance”). Tantan can be seen as Tinder’s Chinese counterpart, given that
Tinder is not popular in China as it requires registering via Facebook, which is banned. OkCupid
is available, but it is less popular because of its English interface.
Despite their different interfaces and countries of origin, these dating apps are commonly
referred as “yuepao shenqi” in the Chinese media. Yue is “to arrange (a meeting)”; pao,
originally meaning “cannon,” here refers to “sexual intercourse”; shenqi generally stands for “a
powerful tool.” Thus, the term yuepao shenqi has hypermasculine overtones. When Momo was
first released in 2011, its advertising campaign never hid its sexual suggestiveness. It was only
after the Propaganda and Ideological Work Directorate of the Communist Party of China
condemned Momo in 2015 that the app began to “sanitize” its user-generated erotic and
pornographic content (Liu, 2016). However, the public impression of dating apps as yuepao
shenqi remains.
Given dating apps’ increasing popularity, many studies have been conducted to examine
the development trajectories of dating apps (e.g., Murray & Ankerson, 2016), the self-
15

presentation and impression management of users (e.g., Blackwell, Birnholtz, & Abbott, 2015;
Chan, 2016), and the uses of these apps (e.g., Timmermans & De Caluwéb, 2017). Most studies
in this area have been carried out exclusively in Western countries. To date, I can locate only two
studies of Chinese dating apps, Liu (2016) and De Seta and Zhang (2015). The former analyzes
how public sexuality on Momo is shaped by neoliberal ethos and state censorship. The latter
examines the role mobility plays in the identity construction, social interaction, and locational
practices of Momo users. Although dating and social interactions are gendered phenomena, very
few studies take a feminist approach in examining women’s experiences of using dating apps.
This study focuses on straight-identified women in China and the multiple dimensions of
their experiences using dating apps. I base my inquiry on technofeminism, which sees
technology as co-evolving with gender relations (Wajcman, 2006). As the first study taking up a
feminist approach to analyze dating app culture, this study attempts to give a voice to Chinese
women who use these apps.
Within technofeminisn, there is a debate about whether a technology can be feminist.
Layne (2010) suggests that the ultimate feminist concern is asserting women’s autonomy. As
such, technologies can be feminist if they are designed to make women’s lives easier or their
unintended consequences facilitate women’s lives. Furthermore, Johnson (2010) suggests that
feminist technology can take one of the following four forms: technology that improves the
condition of women, contributes to gender equality, favors women, or elicits more equitable
gender relations than those associated with prior technology. Therefore, whether a technology
can be feminist cannot be disconnected from women’s status in society. I will evaluate the extent
to which dating apps can disrupt and reproduce existing gender relations. In other words, I am
interested whether dating apps can be feminist tools.
16

In what follows, I elaborate the technofeminist framework and sketch the trajectory of
women’s status in modern China. This sketch is partial and only captures specific segments of
the trajectory; however, it should suffice to provide contextualization for readers who are less
familiar with modern China.
Gender and Technology
Many studies of dating apps have focused on the motives of users. To date, the most
comprehensive study of users’ motivations has been Timmermans and De Caluwéb (2017).
Focusing on Tinder, the research team identifies 13 motivations among users. Apart from using
the app (1) to look for casual sex, Tinder users use it (2) to look for romantic partners and (3) to
socialize. In addition, they use Tinder for intrinsic purposes, including (4) to satisfy their
curiosity, (5) to obtain self-validation from others, (6) to alleviate boredom, and (7) to practice
their social skills. Some motivations are situational: Tinder is used (8) to understand local culture
when traveling or (9) to take a break during work and study. The team also identifies social
motivations: (10) to keep up with social trends and (11) to follow friends’ suggestions. Finally,
some users use Tinder (12) to get over previous relationships and (13) to meet people with a
similar sexual orientation.
Timmermans and De Caluwéb’s study relies on uses and gratifications theory (Katz,
Blumler, & Gurevitch, 1973) developed in media studies, which suggests that audiences are not
passive consumers of media content but possess agency in actively selecting a medium to satisfy
their needs. Instead of assuming that everyone turns to a medium for the same reason, uses and
gratifications researchers examine what individuals do with the selected media. However, gender
analysis is neglected in this approach.
17

Based on the social construction of technology perspective, Kline and Pinch (1996)
integrate gender analysis in their study of automobile use in rural regions of the United States in
the early 20th century. Their analysis emphasizes the interpretive flexibility of male and female
users. To many farmers, automobiles were not a tool of transport but a source of power for
moving grinders, saws, or washing machines. The authors also pay attention to the gender
dynamics among various groups of users. They contend that “the gender identity of farm men …
enabled men to interpret the car flexibly and to socially construct it as a stationary power
source,” which further “reinforced technical competence as masculine” (p. 780).
Wajcman’s technofeminism foregrounds gender in the study of technology.
Wajcman (1991) recalls, in the history of technology, that technology only refers to what men
see as important. Closely related to science and warfare, technology was once a synonym for
masculinity. She points out that “treating technology as a culture has enabled us to see the way in
which technology is expressive of masculinity…” (p. 149). Inspired by the science and
technology studies perspective, Wajcman’s (2006) technofeminism opens up the possibility of
conceiving that gender and technology are mutually constitutive. That is, technology is “both a
source and a consequence of gender relations” (p. 15). She suggests to fully understand the
relationship of women with technology requires examining not only the position of women in the
technology sector but also their interactions with information and communication technologies in
daily life.
A growing literature on gender and communication technology has followed this
direction. For example, Lim and Soon (2010) explored how mothers in China and South Korea
performed motherhood—being “the prime and primary caregivers for their children” (p. 210)”—
at home with the use of information and communication technologies. Similarly, Frizzo-Barker
18

and Chow-White (2012) interviewed mothers to understand how they made sense of social
media and popular apps on their smartphones. While smartphone technologies allowed these
women to be “always on,” which permitted greater flexibility, efficiency, and connectivity
between their private identity as a mother and public identity as a worker, they also had to handle
the stresses that went with the “always on” lifestyle. Wallis (2013) has documented how mobile
phones are significant to young Chinese migrant women’s intimate lives, world views, and
negotiations with the working environment. Wallis’s oxymoronic phrase, “immobile mobility,”
points toward the contradictory fact that, while these young women can surpass physical and
social boundaries through their mobile devices, they still occupy a relatively low position on the
socioeconomic ladder. In a special issue of Feminist Media Studies, Hjorth and Lim (2012)
argued that various forms of mobility afforded by mobile media have reconfigured the
boundaries of public and private spaces, particularly for women.
In conclusion, although discourse about dating apps as yuepao shenqi is prevalent, a
technofeminist perspective suggests that, first, we cannot uncritically assume a unitary
motivation among female users; and, second, women may use dating apps to disrupt the
traditional social boundaries.
The Rise and Fall of Women’s Status in Urban China
Traditional Confucian culture considers women to be men’s property (Fei, 1939). In
1950, one year after the Communist Party of China founded modern China, the party banned
arranged marriage and allowed “no-fault” divorce upon the failure of mediation by the state
(Davis, 2014). In 1954, a relatively consistent policy regarding women’s voluntary use of
contraceptives was also formulated; contraceptives were available without a doctor’s prescription
(White, 1994). Furthermore, the parent-child relationship also underwent a radical
19

transformation. Instead of the father being the authority in the household, children occupied the
same position as their father unless the father was a cadre (Yan, 2009). This shift in policy
cultivated autonomy and self-development among young women. Suffice it to say, during this
period, women experienced an increase in social status that had been unheard of in pre-modern
China. Wang (2005) has called this series of efforts by the state to improve women’s status
“socialist state feminism.”
However, in absorbing women’s movement into its anti-capitalist agenda, the CPC
suppressed sexual differences during the Maoist era (Rofel, 2007; Yang, 2011). It was not until
the economic reform that women’s bodies were allowed to be sexualized. Images of fashionably
dressed and sexually appealing women began appearing on state-run media (Evans, 2008).
In recent years, women continue emerging as sexual subjects in China. Pei (2013) has
documented how, beginning in the early 2000s, several female writers have gained fame by
writing erotic literature. Her extensive interviews have also examined the diverse sexual
experiences of straight-identified mature women. Some of the women she interviewed believed
that their sexual capital gave them greater privilege than men.
Nevertheless, existing side-by-side with these progressive trends was the Communist
Party’s re-regulation of women’s lives. The one-child policy, implemented from 1979 to 2015,
created a severe national sex ratio imbalance. The government viewed this imbalance as the
cause of an increase in sex-related crimes, because many men at the age of marriage could not
find a wife (Li, 2014). Given that women enjoy more education and vocational opportunities
than before, and that men in China prefer a wife with less education and fewer accomplishments
than themselves, men have fewer choices. An increasing number of women with advanced
education and established careers have remained single. The term, “shengnü,” meaning “leftover
20

women,” emerged in media discourse (Hong Fincher, 2014). In 2007, this colloquial term
became one of the 171 official new words highlighted in “The Chinese Language Life Project,”
published by the Ministry of Education and the National Language Committee (Zhang & Sun,
2014). The All-China Women’s Federation, a women’s rights organization associated with the
state, defined “leftover women” as single women aged 27 years old or above (Hong Fincher,
2014). Feldshuh’s (2017) analysis of three popular television shows in China reveals that media
put the blame on the women themselves. Hong Fincher (2014) contends that this label was
created by the state to coerce women into marriage.
In the light of this repressive rhetoric and constraining cultural expectations for women in
contemporary China, I ask: What does using dating apps mean to female users in China? What
are the challenges they face in using dating apps? And, more importantly, can a dating app be a
feminist tool?
Method
In Fall 2016, I interviewed 19 female dating app users in Guangzhou, China. The
interviews were semi-structured; I asked questions on key issues while allowing respondents to
share experiences that they found meaningful. My position as a male researcher, who was not
born nor educated in China may have helped me gain access to stories from these female
informants they might not otherwise have shared, while also making them reluctant to share
other stories. I am aware that every story is told, framed, and interpreted from a particular
position (Haraway, 1988). Therefore, the purpose of conducting interviews was to understand the
significance or non-significance of dating apps in the lives of my informants, rather than to seek
facts.
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I recruited my informants through multiple channels. First, I set up a “researcher’s
profile” on Momo and Tantan. I crafted the profile so that my academic identity and the purpose
of the research were foregrounded. On Momo, I regularly posted “updates” so that users around
me could see my recruitment message.
5
On Tantan, which works in the same way as Tinder, I
liked every woman’s profile that appeared on my app and sent out a recruitment message to
those who also liked my profile. I also attended a public lecture given by a professor from a local
university, who allowed me to recruit dating app users from her audience. Furthermore, several
informants invited their friends to participate in the study. All procedures were approved by the
IRB.
My informants’ ages ranged from 21 to 38; they had a variety of backgrounds (Table
2.1). Fourteen had used Momo; fourteen had used Tantan; two had used OkCupid; one had used
Tinder; and one had used iAround. The interviews were conducted in Putonghua or Cantonese.
For subjects who gave consent, I audio-taped the interviews. I used a two-cycle coding process
(Miles, Huberman, & Saldaña 2014). With NVivo 11, I created the first cycle coding for each
paragraph. I constantly compared new codes and existing codes, and occasionally recoded some
paragraphs. These codes were then grouped according to their themes in the second cycle coding.
I then re-coded the entire transcript using the second cycle codes. I translated the Chinese

5
Momo can be described as an all-in-one app, putting multiple functions together. Its
“update” function is similar to Facebook’s “status” but is only visible to people physically
nearby. It also provides a “people nearby” function where profiles are arranged according to the
distance between users as well as a “group” function that allows people who are physically
nearby to form group chats.
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Table 2.1. Female in-depth interview informants’ details.
Name Age Education Occupation Relationship status Monthly income
a

Rosy 21 High School Undergraduate Single Low
Chloe 23 Bachelor Graduate student Dating Low
Brady 23 Associate Interior designer Single Mid-range
Xiaolan 23 Bachelor Graduate student Single Low
Amanda 24 Bachelor Graduate student Single Low
Queenie 25 Bachelor Studio assistant Single Mid-range
Nikki 26 High school Sales Dating Mid-range
Jessica 27 Bachelor Civil servant Single High
Nancy 28 High school Internet merchant Single Mid-range
Xiaoshan 29 High school Masseuse Married High
Polly 29 Bachelor Translator Single Mid-range
Xiaojiao 30 Bachelor Consultant Single Unstable
Fanny 31 Bachelor Administrative assistant Single Mid-range
Katie 33 Master Civil servant Single Mid-range
Kangqi 34 Bachelor Writer Polyamorous relationships Unstable
Coco 34 Bachelor Business owner Married Mid-range
Jennifer 37 Bachelor Administrative assistant Divorced Mid-range
Yiping 38 Bachelor Doctor
b
Married High
Wenwei Not disclosed Bachelor Financial consultant Divorced Not disclosed
a
Low: CNY 5,000 (USD 725) or below; Mid-range: CNY 5,001–10,000 (USD 725–1450); High: CNY 10,001 (USD 1,450) or
above.
b
In China, a medical degree is considered a bachelor’s degree.
23

interview extracts into English. Chinese or English pseudonyms were created based on
informants’ preferences.
Significance in Using Dating Apps
A Laboratory of Sexual Experiences
Gudelunas (2008) argued that for many years in the United States, newspaper advice
columns provided knowledge about sexuality to the public when the topic was forbidden in the
formal education system. Some of my informants pointed out that the education system in China
similarly provides little room for its citizens to think about intimate relationships or sexuality.
Thus, dating apps offer an interactive environment where women can explore their sexuality and
think about the relationship between sex and love. For example, Kangqi, 34, who has been
looking for polyamorous relationships in recent years, recalled an experience from few years
ago:
[In my town,] there were some [Momo] users. … Anyway, I and one of the men
developed a casual sexual relationship, a purely sexual, mutually gratifying relationship.
Although I was living in a small town, I was relatively open-minded.
My informants’ stories show that their experiences with dating apps provided them with
an opportunity to reflect on their attitudes toward sex and relationships. Xiaojiao, 30, once met a
man on Tantan, who is in an open relationship with his girlfriend. She said, “In the past, I knew
nothing about sex. He was my teacher. I think that I learned from him how to separate sex [from
relationships].” Like Xiaojiao, Queenie, 25, met sex partners on Tantan. But when I asked her if
she could disentangle sex from emotion, she said,
No. My point is, I enjoy the process. But first, I have to think [the person] is okay, is
interesting. [A stranger] can bring me a sort of fantasy, like the feeling of smoking
24

weed. … But if you are talking about sex without love, it doesn’t work. I have to strike a
balance.
Thus, while Xiaojiao recognizes she can enjoy sex without committing to a person, Queenie
recognizes that what gratifies her is the liminal space between familiarity and strangeness.
Younger informants tend to use dating apps for fantasy. As a Tantan user, Brady, 23,
said, “If I feel bored, I will log onto the app to see if there are any good-looking people nearby,
check out their profiles, and ‘like’ their profiles if they are good-looking.” Amanda, 24, does not
believe these dating apps are places to look for true love. Eventually, she became a pure lurker—
just looking at pictures. Rosy, 21, the youngest woman I interviewed, agreed that the information
people post on dating apps is often fake. However, she enjoys looking at photos. She did not
bother wasting time in chatting with men: “I just press the ‘like’ button. That’s it.”
A Springboard to Romance and Marriage
Nine informants believed they can find true love on these apps. Katie, 33, uses OkCupid
to look for long-term relationships, even though she knows “there are some people only looking
for [hookups].” Dating apps provide Katie with a new set of potential boyfriends because her
social circle is limited in size: “in gatherings my friends will show up with some new friends, but
these people are usually married, so I cannot look for a partner on such occasions.” Speaking of
expanding one’s pool of potential boyfriends, Jessica’s strategy is to get to know as many
interesting people as possible on Momo and, ideally, develop a serious relationship with one of
them. She emphasized, “I have a clear goal; after all, I am at my current age.” She is just 27
years old but is worried about being single, reflecting the social pressure to get married that was
discussed earlier. She complained that whenever she called home, the first question her mother
asked was whether she had a boyfriend.
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Some platform features make these apps a superior way to seek a suitable partner.
Queenie enjoys reading the personal profiles created by men on Tantan, which allow her to
understand them more. She has also set up an age filter so that only people between 18 to 30 will
show up on her app. If she finds someone interesting, she prefers connecting and chatting with
them via WeChat. Nancy, 28, also appreciates the alert function on these apps, which protects
her from sexual harassment. “Because [the app] has a list of pre-selected keywords, for example,
yuepao, the system will remind you to report [harassment].”
A Third Place between Home and the Workplace
To some of my informants, dating apps are what Oldenburg and Brissett (1982) call
“third places,” which are places that “exist outside the home and beyond the ‘work lots’ of
modern economic production … where people gather primarily to enjoy each other’s company”
(p. 269). This consideration is particularly true for my non-local informants.
Xiaoshan, 29, moved to Guangzhou two years ago for work to support her husband and
son back home. She is not close with her colleagues at work. When she wants to vent, she turns
to MoMo, where only strangers can see her “updates”: “I cannot share how I feel on WeChat
because my family and friends will be worried if they see these messages.” Using Momo and
hanging out with people she met on the app are her sole social activities.
Xiaojiao, who also left her hometown, told me that “My social life is my life on Tantan.”
Similarly, when Jessica first started working for her company in another city, most of her
colleagues were married men—Momo was her primary channel for making friends.
While home is simply unavailable to my non-local informants, it may also not provide
the kind of sociability my local informants need. Because of the former one-child policy in
China, many of my informants have no siblings. Polly, 29, told me she needed someone to talk
26

with. Classmates may not be the best listeners because they are in a competitive environment.
But on Momo she befriended two men and one woman: “There is chemistry …. It feels like we
have known each other for years.”
Some users are torn between their workplace and their household. For Jennifer, a 37-
year-old single mother, her time is divided between her job and her nine-year-old son. On
weekdays, she is either at work or with her son. She devotes the weekends to her son, unless her
ex-husband takes their son out. “The social circles of modern people are tiny,” she lamented. She
does not feel comfortable revealing that she is a single mother to her colleagues. But on Momo,
she can present herself as a single mother. She has met two women who are also a mother from
the group chat supported by the app (see note 1). If she has spare time, she hangs out with them.
These examples illustrate how dating apps can be appropriated for non-sexual or non-romantic
purposes.
A Door to New Worlds
Like social media, dating apps gather people from all walks of life. My informants have
more opportunities to interact with people and try out alternative experiences. Wenwei, who is
divorced and declined to reveal her age, started using Tantan at the beginning of 2016. She said
that her life “couldn’t have been more lively since then.” Katie provided more details:
In the past, I did not go to bars. But after chatting with [people on OkCupid], I have
started going to bars with friends after work. I want to try new stuff, different things.
There are so many different types of people with different lifestyles, I want to see more.
At the time of the interview, Katie told me that she was considering studying overseas to
improve herself. An even more striking story is that of Xiaolan. Among all the 19 informants,
Xiaolan, 23, found dating apps to have the most profound impact on her personal life:
27

I once met a man from Slovakia. He said to me, “you don’t know anything.” I then read
the BBC news like crazy, to gain a wealth of information. I have never been so curious
about the world, never been so enthusiastic about knowledge.
These examples illustrate how these female dating app users accumulate social capital
from dating app use. According to Bourdieu and Wacquant (1992), social capital is the actual or
virtual resource that a person can accrue from social relationships. Putnam (2000) distinguishes
bridging social capital from bonding social capital: the former is formed by wide but relatively
shallow connections with people from different backgrounds who can provide diverse
information, while the latter is based on strong relationships that offer trust and emotional
support. Prior studies show that the use of social media contributes to both bonding and bridging
social capital (e.g., Chen, 2011; Zhang, Tang, & Leung, 2011). The narratives of my
informants—“my social life is on Tantan” and “trying out new stuff,” respectively—demonstrate
that dating apps are a source of bonding and bridging social capital, in addition to potential
sexual and romantic relationships.
Challenges in Using Dating Apps
Resisting Stigma Associated with Using Dating Apps
Birnholtz, Fitzpatrick, Handel, and Brubaker (2014) have found that “slut shaming” is
common in American gay dating app culture. What is different in China is that simply using a
dating app may jeopardize one’s reputation. Katie never mentioned to her friends that she was an
OkCupid user. “In China, people like judging others … If I use this app while others don’t, they
will question my intention. ‘Why do you use this app to meet people?’ They will think you are
weird.” The labelling of dating apps as yuepao shenqi also contributes to this stigma. Like Katie,
Jessica never said a word about using Momo to her friends. “I feel that if I mention Momo,
28

people will basically associate it with yuepao shenqi. I will feel embarrassed, even though my
major objective is to make friends.” Although she does not want to be judged by her colleagues,
when she told me that she came across a male colleague on Momo, she said it with a mix of
teasing and disdain. This reaction perhaps represents the internalized stigma associated with
using dating apps.
Some informants experienced first-hand negative judgements from others. One time,
Nikki, 26, went on a date. The young man noticed Momo on her phone and questioned why she
was using, in his words, “a thing like that.” Nikki told him that she downloaded the app simply
because her friends were using it. She also had to delete the app in front of her date to prove her
innocence. Another case is Xiaolan. Her Tantan profile says, “We can talk everything including
life, love or something other [sic].” She deleted sentences about her sexual openness, because
some men on the app had criticized her promiscuousness.
Although women are gaining sexual independence on a macro-societal level, as
illustrated by the sexualization of female bodies and the rise of several female erotic writers, the
scenarios above show that women’s exercise of sexuality is still under a micro-interpersonal
patriarchal control. Similar to the West, expressing and exercising sexual desires are still mainly
reserved for men (Louie, 2002).
Assessing Men’s Purposes
The lack of a singular purpose on dating apps allows users to pursue many different types
of relationships. Therefore, my informants need to identify the purpose of the male users they
encounter. To do this, they examine photos, written profiles, and chat with them.
Photos are the dominant aspect of a profile on dating apps. Wenwei ignores all profiles
that contain only scenic photos. To her, the men behind these profiles are unwilling to disclose
29

their identity and are not looking for serious relationships. Nancy recounted an experience with a
good-looking young man. One night, she found out that he had posted a half-naked photo. “Just
looking at the photo made his objective very clear. It was midnight. Obviously, he was looking
for girls.”
My informants also found men’s written profiles were good indicators of their objectives.
Katie believes long and well-crafted profiles mean that the men are not into causal relationships.
This is Polly’s analysis: “For men who use Momo for yuepao, they will not share their
information … If they are married and they share their authentic information there … their
family members might get involved.”
Very often, men’s purposes cannot be identified by their static profiles; their purposes are
best discovered through chat. Kangqi showed me her exchanges with a man whom she added on
WeChat. After asking if Kangqi was working, the man suggested going to her home and boasted
about his sexual potency. Sometimes, men are less explicit in their sexual intent. Brady
commented, “They give you a hint … They usually suggest meeting at 10 p.m. It is too late for
dinner or movies.” But reading between the lines requires experience and practice. When she
first got involved in the dating app scene, Rosy did not know if by “yue” the men she was talking
to meant they wanted to meet her for coffee or yuepao. She later learnt these coded languages
from Baidu, the Chinese counterpart of Wikipedia.
Handling Sexual Harassment
The third common challenge my informants face is handling sexual harassment. All
women reported being asked for hookups, regardless of which apps they were on. This
phenomenon reflects both the public impression that these apps are yuepao shenqi and the
increasing sexual openness of contemporary China. These sexual solicitations are extremely
30

direct, involving phrases like “yue bu yue?” (meet or not meet?) or “yue ma?” (meet?). Even to
Kangqi, who uses apps to look for sex, some men “are way too single-minded, pushy about
hooking up with you.”
Consistent with the notion of interpretive flexibility (Kline and Pinch, 1996), while some
of my informants used these apps for sexual experimentation, others regarded dating apps as a
platform for romance, friendship, and exploring a new world; therefore, they developed various
tactics, from proactive to passive, to respond to undesirable solicitations. The first, a proactive
one, is pre-emptively indicating their revulsion against casual sex on their profiles. On her
profile, Polly wrote, “If you love me, she gets out; if you love her, you get out; asking for
hookups, get out.” Amanda’s statement is concise: “Not for hookups, just for chat.” Coco, 34,
wrote, “Don’t you dare proposition me.” All three of them reported fewer sexual requests after
putting these statements on their profiles.
However, this tactic is not always effective. For example, Jennifer also warns against
sexual requests on her profile but still experiences lots of sexual harassment. The second tactic, a
reactive one, is reporting harassers to the app. Commenting on Momo, Jennifer said, “the
administrators … will delete [harassers’] accounts immediately if they receive complaints.” The
administrators, according to Jennifer, reviewed the past ten message exchanges between her and
the suspected harasser. It just took a couple of minutes for them to remove the account. In her
workplace, however, she rarely reports sexual harassment: “It is inappropriate to report … unless
you are thinking about quitting.” Being a female dating app customer gives her more power than
being a female employee in the workplace.
The third tactic is blocking or ignoring harassers. While reporting harassers to
administrators will result in their accounts being permanently removed, blocking or ignoring
31

them will allow them to stay. I see this not as a passive tactic but an empathetic one, because
women who adopt this tactic tend to agree that hookups are “normal.” Fanny, 31, said, “It is a
separate issue that I don’t [hook up], but the existence of this practice is perfectly normal.” If any
of the men she meets on Tantan imply sexual intentions, she stops replying to them. Similarly,
Yiping, 38, ignores or blocks harassers because she believes any reply provides them with
positive reinforcement. She believes “these young people … were born in an environment where
[hookups] are as normal as drinking water.”
The final tactic is a passive one: to quit. Chloe, 23, was hoping that she could meet
friends on Momo, but deleted the app immediately after a man asked her for a hookup. Jennifer
and Kangqi also uninstalled their apps because there were too many, as Jennifer puts it, “people
like that.”
Dating Apps as Feminist Tools?
Regarding women’s power and rights, a crucial question from the technofeminist
perspective is, how do dating apps reproduce or disrupt existing gender dynamics? On the
surface, dating apps provided my informants with opportunities to disrupt the patriarchy. In the
following, I will highlight three of such disruptions. Nevertheless, I also want to emphasize that
each of these progressive developments masks an underlying structural gender inequality.
First, dating apps, such as Momo and Tantan, provide a medium for people such as
Xiaojiao and Queenie to explore sexual desires and assert sexual agency. These apps become an
arena where they can negotiate and participate in hookups, an activity that was and is still widely
perceived as exclusive to men. Kangqi is pursuing polyamorous relationships through dating
apps. The pursuit of multiple sexual relationships in China, as Pei (2013) argues, is a
manifestation of women’s reworking of the traditional sexual script that stresses sexual
32

exclusivity. Xiaolan is meeting non-Chinese men on and off dating apps. Her intimate contacts
with non-Chinese bodies and her move to Guangzhou from a village are reflective of her
cosmopolitan outlook (Farrer, 2013).
Nonetheless, even though dating apps may seem to be a potentially liberating space for
women to exercise sexual agency, female app users experience much condemnation for using
them. Recall Xiaolan, who had to rewrite her Tantan profile to hide her sexual intent after being
criticized by men on the very same app. In addition, using dating apps is a part of their life that
these women must keep private. Using dating apps, no matter for what purposes, invites harsh
judgments from others. To reword Rubin’s (1993) summary of sexual negativity, “dating apps
are presumed guilty until proven innocent.” For example, Nikki, who had Momo installed in her
phone, was pressured to uninstall it in front of her date. What is under male surveillance now is
not just women’s sexuality but their use of technology.
Second, younger women, such as Brady, told me that they enjoyed looking at pictures of
men on dating apps. The notion of “gaze,” a manifestation of power and pleasure, has been
discussed widely in psychoanalysis and film theory. Instead of the classic arrangement in which
male audiences look at female characters (Mulvey, 1975), these young women derive
gratification from looking at men’s pictures on their phones. By swiping or clicking, they are
also judging the appearances of these men in a privatized form of beauty pageant. Although they
are at the same time being looked at by men, dating apps break away from the traditional
unidirectional gaze of men at women.
However, this temporary visual gratification does not alter the derogatory discourse of
“leftover women.” Brady and Rosy are too young to face parental pressure to get married. Their
youth allows them to merely look at pictures of men without worrying being single. My other
33

informants, for example Jessica and Nancy, who are just three or four years older than Brady and
others, have already confronted pressure from their family and relatives. Jessica complained:
“People will ask [my parents], ‘Did your daughter get married yet? Does your daughter have
problems? How come she doesn’t have a boyfriend at her age?’” Earlier research shows how
single women have resisted this stigmatized label of “leftover women” (Gaetano, 2014). Some
have emphasized their career ambitions. Some believe in the equal division of household duties
between spouses. Some stressed that they have not been left behind but have chosen to be single.
These narratives, however, are predicated on the material and financial success of women. As of
2010, women living in cities made only 67.3% of what men earned (Yang, 2015). These
narratives, therefore, cannot be appropriated by all women.
Finally, in response to the state’s denunciation, Momo has undergone “sanitization.”
Now, Momo and other apps strive to build a harassment-free space where women can report
harassment to administrators. Violators are banished from the apps. This practice is appreciated
by Jennifer, who rarely reports sexual harassment at her workplace. Dating app companies, in
this account, act as a feminist ally to eradicate online sexual harassment.
While I applaud the dating apps for their harassment alert and report systems, the contrast
between this corporate initiative and the state’s reluctance to combat offline harassment suggests
the state is shifting the responsibility to protect women to companies. In 2016, a Guangzhou-
based, grassroots feminist group planned an anti-sexual harassment billboard campaign in the
subway system (Lin, 2017). This could have been China’s first subway advertisement of this
kind. However, after a year-long negotiation with the Guangzhou Administration for Industry
and Commerce, their campaign was declined. The state’s justifications of the refusal ranged from
the claim that the depiction of a human hand might cause public anxiety to the assertion that
34

grassroots organizations are not allowed to engage in public-service advertising. Chinese human
rights activist Jinyan Zeng (2015) summarizes numerous cases of violence against women in
which local governments did not intervene. While the state’s retreat from providing welfare to
shift such duties to private companies is a motif of capitalist neoliberalism, what this case
demonstrates is that in Chinese-style neoliberalism citizens’ security is outsourced to companies
by the state whenever the issue involved is deemed politically sensitive. When commercial
entities such as Momo discipline online sexual harassers, women feel their voices are heard; but
offline harassment of women remains untouched and unchallenged. This situation poses a
serious threat to women, who can quit the apps if they face online harassment, but cannot quit
their life if it happens in their home, workplace, or neighborhood.
This contradictory evidence complicates the question of whether a dating app is a
feminist technology. On the surface, dating apps seem to have led to more equitable gender
relations. Therefore, based on Johnson’s (2010) typology, these apps may be considered as
feminist. But if a technology can be used as a lens to examine the larger culture, as Wajcman
(1991) suggests, then it is apparent that dating apps are embedded in a larger socio-political
enviromnet where women are still subjected to surveillance and few protections. Treating dating
apps as a celebration of feminism may conceal structural gender inequalities that have far-
reaching ramifications. Artifacts have politics (Winner, 1980). At their best, dating apps can be
liberating tools through which women exercise sexual agency, assert power over men through a
feminine gaze, and are protected from endless sexual harassment; at their worst, however, such
apps hide the structural gender inequality embedded in the sexual double standard, marriage
expectations, and state policies. To advance women’s rights in contemporary China also requires
a fundamental change of the socio-political environment, not merely a technical solution.
35

Chapter 3: Performing Chinese Masculinities on Dating Apps:
Interpretations, Self-presentations, and Interactions

Momo, China’s first mobile dating app, was launched in 2011. Literally meaning
“stranger stranger,” Momo uses the built-in global positioning system receivers inside
smartphones to allow people to connect with each other in real time. As the early market
positioning of the app foregrounded casual sexual encounters for the heterosexual population, it
became known as yuepao shenqi, meaning a powerful tool for securing casual sex. However, its
emphasis shifted to social networking and entertainment after the app’s developers received a
warning from the Propaganda and Ideological Work Directorate of the Communist Party of
China in 2015 (Liu, 2016). According to its website, Momo had 85.2 million monthly active
users in the first quarter of 2017 (Momo, 2017). Of course, Momo is no longer alone in the
Chinese dating app market. Tantan, which means “explore explore,” had 6 million daily active
users in 2017 (Russell, 2017).
Many studies of dating app users focus on gay men (e.g., Blackwell, Birnholtz, & Abbott,
2015; Brubaker, Annany, & Crawford, 2015; Chan, 2017; Licoppe, Rivière, & Morel, 2016;
Miller, 2015a, 2015b; Yeo & Fung, 2017; for a rare exception, see Albury & Byron [2016] study
both gay men and lesbians). Studies of heterosexual dating apps or online dating users tend either
to address both heterosexual men and women (e.g., De Seta & Zhang, 2015; Hobbs, Owen, &
Gerber, 2017), ignoring the distinct opportunities and challenges faced by men and women in the
digital environment, or to solely examine female users (e.g., Rochadiat, Tong, & Novak, 2017).
Heterosexual male users are under-studied. This is not surprising because the rise of the dating
app culture is strongly related to gay male sexuality (with Grindr as the first location-based
36

dating app). Moreover, in our patriarchal society, dating apps may increase women’s sense of
agency in the courtship process (Rochadiat et al., 2017; see also Layne, Vostral, & Boyer [2010]
for discussions of feminist technology). However, it is crucial to examine the other side of this
phenomenon. What do dating apps mean to men?
Communication researchers have repeatedly pointed out that masculinities are under-
studied in relation to the Internet (Light, 2013; Maloney, Roberts, & Caruso, 2017). To fill this
gap, this study explores the ways in which Chinese men negotiate and perform masculinities on
Momo and Tantan, two of China’s most popular dating apps. My analysis is based on recent
scholarship on dating apps and masculinities—in particular, the manifestation of Chinese wen
masculinities in modern culture (Louie, 2002; 2015). This study is the first to take a detailed look
at the construction and performance of Chinese masculinities in dating app culture with attention
to three dimensions of dating app use: intentions, self-presentations, and interactions. Although
men may be perceived as beneficiaries in this digital environment, this study shows the
challenges they face in constructing and negotiating their masculinities on dating apps.
Use of Dating Apps
The use of dating apps can be analytically separated into three interrelated aspects:
interpretations, self-presentations, and interactions.
Motivations and Interpretations
Some of the earliest research on dating apps exclusively addresses the risky sexual
behaviors of men who have sex with men (Rice et al., 2012; Landovitz et al., 2013). This focus
on sexual behavior is based partly on the assumption that dating app users, particularly Grindr
users, use the technology primarily to seek sex. While these researchers acknowledge that Grindr
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is used in multiple ways, they are only limitedly interested in the relationship between platform
and use.
Van De Wiele and Tong (2014) and Timmermans and De Caluwé (2017) represent some
of the scholarship that explicitly articulate the diverse uses of dating apps. Their research is
based on uses and gratification theory, which posits that users actively select media to fulfill their
needs (Katz, Blumler, & Gurevitch, 1973). Using a robust validation procedure, Timmermans
and De Caluwé, identify 13 types of gratification derived from using Tinder, such as social
approval, romance, sexual experiences, improved social skills, preparedness for travel, and
distraction from work or study.
However, this clear-cut typology of uses may not reflect the lived experience of app
users. Chan (2017) reports that dating app users do not look for specific relationships but are
open to all relationships. His gay informants sometimes expressed ambiguous relational goals on
dating apps, enabling them to capture all kinds of potential relationships. Blackwell et al. (2015)
find that Grindr users who state that they are looking for friends or chat may sometimes look for
casual sex. According to Zytko et al. (2015), some heterosexual users hide their sexual motives
because hooking up online still carries a social stigma.
The notion of “interpretive flexibility” from the science and technology studies literature
illuminates users’ agency in the use of technological artifacts (Pinch & Bijker, 1987). Early
research shows how rural Americans in the early 1900s perceived and used cars differently
(Kline & Pinch, 1996). To male rural residents, cars were a source of power to operate other
machines. To female residents, cars were used to do shopping for the family. Gender identity
was thus played out in male and female users’ differing interpretations of the same technology.
Brubaker et al. (2016) argue that leaving Grindr is a social act as much as a technical act,
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because people find social meanings in the abandonment of the app. To date, however, no studies
on the uses of dating apps have stressed users’ interpretive flexibility.
Creating and Browsing Profiles
In contrast with encounters in physical venues, when strangers meet on dating sites or
apps, their initial impressions are built entirely on their profiles. It is also through profiles that a
sense of co-situation is formed: users create their own profiles and view others’ profiles on their
mobile devices, which creates a virtual space on top of a physical place (Blackwell et al., 2015).
Goffman’s (1959) theory of self-presentation provides a useful lens for analysis of self-
presentations on dating apps. The ways in which users craft their profiles indicate how they want
to be perceived by others. Profiles, therefore, externalize what was originally interior
(Mowlabocus, 2010). For example, Miller’s (2015a) content analysis of profiles on a gay dating
app reveals that many users describe themselves as physically fit or display photographs of
shirtless muscular torsos. These kinds of self-presentation suggest that hegemonic masculinity
(Connell, 1987; see below) is celebrated in the gay community. According to Fitzpatrick,
Birnholtz, and Brubaker (2015), a user who displays a photograph of his face on Grindr is more
likely to specify friendship and romance as relational goals, suggesting that face photographs—
as opposed to torso photographs—imply sincerity and authenticity in this online setting.
A profile created by a user is, hopefully, viewed by others. The social information
processing model (Walther, 1992) suggests that message senders in computer-mediated contexts
use all cues available to create a favorable image, and something similar is true of message
receivers too. Blackwell et al. (2015) report that Grindr users deduce others’ intentions by the
kinds of photograph they post on the app. Therefore, not only do profile creators use face
39

photographs to imply sincerity and authenticity, but profile viewers also interpret face pictures as
more genuine and honest and thus reflecting the profile creator’s desire for a serious relationship.
Online daters also expect inaccuracy in others’ profiles. According to Ellison, Hancock,
and Toma (2012), online dating users rarely expect others’ profiles to exactly represent their
physical appearance. Due to the time gap between an online encounter and a face-to-face
meeting, the limited cues available in the digital environment, and the commonness of
enhancement in profiles, misrepresentations within a reasonable magnitude are considered
acceptable. Ellison et al. (2012) call this socially acceptable inaccuracy in online dating profiles
“profile as promise.”
Managing Connections and Conversations
The third aspect of dating app use relates to interactions with the interface and with other
users. Online dating provides access to a large pool of date prospects. Finkel, Eastwick, Karney,
Reis, & Sprecher (2012) defines access as “users’ exposure to and opportunity to evaluate
potential romantic partners whom they are otherwise unlikely to encounter” (p. 6). On dating
apps, users have access to hundreds of profiles, leading to choice overload. D’Angelo and Toma
(2017) experimentally assess the effect of the number of choices on the level of satisfaction with
one’s selection. The participants in one group selected a date prospect from a pool of six, and
another group from a pool of 24. After 1 week, the participants in the large-choice condition
were less satisfied with their selection than those in the small-choice condition. To tackle choice
overload, dating app users use functions provided by the apps to reduce the number of potential
dates. Chan (2017) also finds that app users use filters to set age or height ranges or rely on
algorithms that calculate match percentages with other users. Chan argues that it is “ironic that
40

people use dating apps because apps provide them with many options, yet they must then screen
people out because there are too many options” (p. 12).
After users have narrowed down the number of potential dates or sex partners, they may
communicate with other users. Dating convention in the West gives more control to men, who
are expected to lead the courtship process (Bailey, 1988). However, recent studies (e.g.,
McWilliams & Barrett, 2014; Rochadiat et al., 2017) conducted in the West reveal that online
dating has changed the sexual script (Simon & Gagnon, 1986), giving women more opportunities
to initiate contact with potential partners. In their study of Grindr, Licoppe et al. (2016) also
discover a unique interaction script: devoid of personal background information unrelated to sex
and adopting a checklist mode to find appropriate sex partners as rapidly as possible.
From Hegemonic Masculinity to Chinese Masculinities
“Hegemonic masculinity” refers to idealized forms of masculine behavior and appearance
relative to the behavior and appearance of “women and subordinated masculinities” (Connell,
1987, p. 61). Connell emphasizes that at the time of her writing, the most significant feature of
hegemonic masculinity is heterosexuality, which is tightly connected to heterosexual marriage
and antithetical to homosexuality. Behavioral manifestations of hegemonic masculinity include
positive practices such as working hard and being a good father in addition to “toxic” conduct
such as physical violence against women and homophobia (Connell & Messerschmidt, 2005).
Several communication researchers examine masculinities in relation to the Internet and
new media. Building on the idea of “networked publics” proposed by Mimi Ito, Light (2013)
argues that digitally networked media have reconfigured the production and reproduction of
masculinities. The properties of networked media, such as reproducibility, replicability,
anonymity, persistence, and searchability, offer new potential for the construction of
41

masculinities. Following Light, Maloney et al. (2017) examine the performance of masculinity
by three prominent YouTube gaming video bloggers. Their line of inquiry is similar to that of
Herrmann (2007), who explore users’ reification of masculinity in an online financial discussion
forum.
The notion of hegemonic masculinity, however, has attracted criticism (e.g., Holter,
2003; Howson, 2006). Whilst a full review of these critiques is beyond the scope of this paper, I
would like to point out two relevant arguments. The first indicates that as the concept of
hegemonic masculinity excludes homosociality, its power to explain contemporary masculinity
is very limited. Based on ethnographic studies of athletes and college fraternity members,
Anderson (2009) observes a reduction in homophobia within the mainstream masculine
environment. His informants engaged in activities traditionally considered non-masculine (such
as homosexual encounters) without seeing these activities as threats to their masculine identities.
The coexistence of “two oppositional masculinities, each with equal influence … within one
culture” (p. 93) suggests that Connell’s early conceptualization of hegemonic masculinity as
essentially homophobic cannot fully capture contemporary masculinities. To account for this
recent cultural change, Anderson proposes the idea of inclusive masculinity, highlighting the
coexistence of masculine identities and feminine or gay behaviors. This notion is akin to that of
“metrosexuality” (Simpson, 1999), which describes a metropolitan lifestyle in which straight
men pay meticulous attention to their hair, skin, bodies, and fashion—activities traditionally
associated with femininity.
The second critique relevant here is that the notion of hegemonic masculinity originated
in the West, and most studies of masculinities have been conducted in Western settings. Indeed,
Connell recognizes this limitation of her conception of hegemonic masculinity and suggests
42

paying attention to the geography of masculinities (Connell & Messerschmidt, 2005). In other
words, hegemonic masculinities may manifest in different forms in different cultural settings.
Building on readings of ancient texts and contemporary popular culture, Louie (2002)
recommends using the wen-wu dyad to understand Chinese masculinities. Wen can be
understood as cultural attainment, while wu refers to physical prowess, as indicated below.
Wen is generally understood to refer to those genteel, refined qualities that were
associated with literary and artistic pursuits of the classical scholars … Wu is … a
concept which embodies the power of military strength but also the wisdom to know
when and when not to deploy it. (p. 14)
In many Chinese historical periods, wen was considered superior to wu. The mastery of
music and poetry, for example, was regarded in China as very masculine; less so in the West.
Sexual dominance over women, associated with the image of muscular men in the West, is a
property of wen masculinity, not wu masculinity (Louie, 2002). Therefore, it was considered
socially acceptable for a wenren, a man with wen qualities, to both seek out women and reject
them if they brought him inconvenience.
China’s economic reform from the 1980s has reshaped the wen ideal. Chinese
management theorists became eager to incorporate the teaching of Confucius into business
practices (Louie, 2002). As Louie (2015) notes, this theorization renders business something that
a wenren can legitimately pursue, which gradually reconstitutes wen as monetary power as well
as cultural attainment (Louie, 2015). In line with Louie, Hird (2016) investigates the interplay
between masculinity and class. His main informants, white-collar Chinese men living in Beijing,
framed and reinforced their gendered and classed privilege through the language of freedom,
choice, and equality. The pursuit of financial success as a performance of masculinity has also
43

been observed among secondary school children (Liu, 2017). The neoliberalization of wen
masculinity is similar to Connell and Wood’s (2005) idea of “transnational business
masculinity,” which not only captures the evolving nature of masculinity in an economically
globalized world but also stresses the destabilizing effect of globalization on masculinity.
Discussions of inclusive masculinity and Chinese masculinities suggest that hegemonic
masculinities can be manifested in different forms. Accordingly, I ask the following question.
How do Chinese male dating app users construct and negotiate their masculinities on dating apps
in three dimensions of dating app use, namely motivations, self-presentations, and interactions?
Method
In Fall 2016 and Summer 2017, I interviewed 16 heterosexual male Momo or Tantan
users in Guangzhou, China. Momo and Tantan were among the most popular dating apps in
China at the time of my research. I recruited my informants through multiple channels. I set up
“researcher profiles” on the two apps. I ensured that my academic identity and the purpose of the
research were highlighted in my profiles. On Momo, I posted recruitment messages as “updates,”
which were visible to all users physically near me. On Tantan, which operates in the same way
as Tinder, I “liked” every man’s profile shown on my app. I also attended a public lecture given
by a professor from a local university, who allowed me to recruit dating app users from her
audience. Several female informants from another study encouraged their male friends to
participate. All of these procedures were approved by the Institutional Review Board.
My informants were aged from 19 to 37. All identified as heterosexual. All had used
Momo before, and 14 had used Tantan. Their backgrounds are summarized in Table 3.1. The
interviews were semi-structured and conducted in Putonghua or Cantonese. I began by asking the
informants what impressions of the dating apps they had held before installing them, and then
44

Table 3.1. Male in-depth interview informants’ details.
Name Age Education Occupation Relationship status Monthly income
a

XiaoLong 20 Associate Exhibition worker Single Mid-range
Nathan 25 Postgraduate Marketing executive Single High
Dylan 29 Associate Electronics developer Single High
Anthony 28 High school Theme park manager Married High
Eric 31 High school Vehicle technician Married Mid-range
John 36 Postgraduate Lecturer Married Mid-range
Fung 36 Bachelor Business owner Divorced Mid-range
TaiBai 24 Bachelor Trade executive Dating Mid-range
XiaoLi 19 High school Student Single Low
JiaZhi 28 Bachelor Office executive Single Mid-range
Bob 37 Bachelor Property manager Divorced Mid-range
Fred 25 Associate Tourism officer Dating Mid-range
Roy 21 High school Watch-making apprentice Single Low
Clement 28 Bachelor Bank officer Dating Mid-range
Victor 30 Bachelor Civil engineer Dating Mid-range
Alan 32 Postgraduate Civil servant Dating High
a
Low: CNY5,000 (USD725) or below; mid-range: CNY5,001–10,000 (USD725–1450); high: CNY 10,001 (USD1,450) or above.

45

asked questions about their use of the apps. Although I had created a list of questions on key
issues, I also allowed the respondents to share experiences that they found meaningful.
Coming from Hong Kong and being educated in the United States helped me to gain trust
from my informants, as the topics of dating, sex, and hook-ups are deemed personal and
sometimes embarrassing to talk about in purely Chinese settings. The informants often framed
their responses as follows: “I don’t know how people behave in Hong Kong or the United States,
but in China it is different. I usually….” Statements of this kind suggested that the informants
felt more comfortable about sharing their stories with me because they were playing the role of
“experts.” When they asked me about dating app use in the United States, I in turn took up the
“expert” role. It was within this productive tension that my informants framed and relayed their
narratives.
To analyze the interview transcripts, I used a two-cycle coding process (Miles,
Huberman, & Saldaña, 2014). Using NVivo 11, I created first-cycle codes for each paragraph,
paying particular attention to references to and concerns expressed about masculinities. I then
grouped these first-cycle codes into second-cycle codes, based on their common themes. These
second-cycle codes corresponded to the three aspects of dating app use discussed earlier. I
translated the Chinese interview extracts into English. Pseudonyms are used throughout this
paper to protect the identities of my informants.
Findings
Discourse of Work
When asked how they used Momo or Tantan, 10 of my informants admitted that they
were looking for hook-ups or were at least open to the idea. Only eight expressed interest in
using the dating apps to look for girlfriends. These two uses have been identified in prior studies.
46

The novel finding here was users’ business-related motivation. Dylan, 29, came to Guangzhou at
the beginning of 2016 to launch a business. He wanted to meet business partners on Momo and
Tantan. Interestingly, he mainly connected with women. “I look at their profiles, see if they run
their own businesses or are in the process of starting up businesses. I add those who show a sense
of entrepreneurialism, talk to them, learn from them.” Dylan thereby framed his reaching out to
women on dating apps as business-related.
Another business-related use of dating apps reported by my informants involved sex
workers, but not in a conventional sense. Clement, 28, met several female sex workers on dating
apps, who occasionally acted as his “covers” during “corporate entertainment”—prostitution
arranged by corporations.
6
His narrative deserves an extended quotation.
You can only get to know girls in this profession through dating apps. You won’t be able
to find them among your friends. … If I need them, they are willing to show up. For
example, during my last project as a financial consultant, my clients arranged a nightclub
event. Sex services are usually paid for in advance by clients. If I have to pick a woman, I
prefer someone I am familiar with, instead of a random woman from the club … When
she [one of his female sex worker connections] was there, the client thought I had a
regular playmate so did not assign me a random woman. … In the hotel room, we just
rested.
It is unclear whether Clement began using dating apps specifically to look for sex
workers as “covers”; nevertheless, he tightly linked his use of dating apps to his obligations at

6
This kind of corporate entertainment has existed for decades in East Asia (Norma, 2011;
Zhou, 2006).
47

work. Both Dylan and Clement demonstrated the interpretive flexibility of dating apps (Pinch &
Bijker, 1987); their interpretations were directly related to work.
My informants also reported that dating apps are actively appropriated by women for
various commercial purposes. These businesswomen were categorized into three types. The first
type comprised salespeople: usually insurance or investment agents or personal trainers.
According to my informants, these women used dating apps as channels for advertising. Some
even stated their occupations openly in their profiles. The second type comprised sex workers.
They rarely wrote much in their profiles. Once connected with a male user, they sent explicit
pictures or invited him to add their WeChat accounts. As their accounts were often deleted by
app administrators, they had to access other channels for communication with potential clients as
rapidly as possible. The third group of businesswomen comprised bar promotors, commonly
known as jiutou (literally meaning “alcohol support). Notoriously, a jiutou pretends to be an
ordinary user socializing with men online and lures these men to consume luxurious food and
beverages in nightclubs or bars.
My informants found these female app users annoying, yet asserted their own skill or
experience in “seeing through” the women’s deception. Bob, 37, working in real estate security,
said that his occupation had helped him to deduce other people’s motives. “If she has opened her
account within the last month and initiates a conversation with you, then asks you to add her
WeChat, she is likely to be problematic—whether a jiutou or a trickster.” Fred, 25, said that a
jiutou is always extremely proactive in pushing for a face-to-face meeting and very particular
about the location. “If you suggest other places, she will lose interest in you immediately.” Dylan
even urged app administrators to impose stronger regulations enabling the removal of these
business accounts.
48

In short, in addition to linking dating apps with casual sex or romance, my informants
interpreted the apps as platforms related to work. However, when women used the apps for
commercial purposes deemed inappropriate, my informants positioned themselves as wise
enough to see through these tricks. A gendered double standard was present.
Self-Presentation as Gentle, Innocent, and Wealthy
Online daters are eager to present the best images of themselves possible (Ellison et al.,
2011). This was certainly true of the men I interviewed. They displayed photographs that they
believed would impress female dating app users. However, instead of the post-workout images
or images of muscular torsos common in the West (Hakim, 2016; Miller, 2015a), three
alternative types of profile photographs were common among my informants.
First, images of animals. The men I talked to believed that some women would find their
profiles more attractive due to a shared love of animals. For example, Eric, 31, expected women
to perceive his keeping pets as an indicator of his gentleness. Similarly, Clement, 28, displayed
an image of his cat as his main photograph, with his own photographs visible only after clicking
to access his profile. “It is strategic. Pets may help to attract women.” John, 36, never used his
own photographs on Tantan, instead displaying a cartoon drawing of several cats.
Closely related to these heartwarming photographs was another type of photograph that
my informants called maimengzhao. Maimeng literally means “selling sprouts”; in the dating app
context, it refers to “acting cute.” The people photographed positioned themselves to hint at their
innocence: for example, by doing a V-sign or touching their cheek with their hand. Such
photographs were usually brightened, with a smoothing effect applied to the skin. This resembles
the ritualization of subordination identified by Goffman (1976) in women’s pictures in
magazines. Here, however, such a ritualization was performed by men, particularly younger
49

men. In his profile photograph on Tantan, Nathan, 25, covered his mouth with his fingers. He
said that he was imitating the typical stance of Korean pop stars. The main photograph displayed
by Xiaolong, 20, was similar. When asked why he had chosen this particular photograph,
Xiaolong’s reply was straightforward: “I only post pictures that I think are especially good-
looking.” While this type of photograph may be deemed feminine within the framework of
Western masculinity, Xiaolong’s close to reflexive response can be understood in the context of
popular visual culture in modern China. Photographs of this kind appear both online and offline
in China (Figure 3.1 and Figure 3.2), shaping perceptions of good-looking men.

Figure 3.1. Results of a search for “maimeng zhaopian nansheng” (“acting cute”; “photograph”;
“men”) on Baidu, a major Chinese search engine (screenshot taken by the author on September
18, 2017).

50

Figure 3.2. A billboard advertisement in a Guangzhou metro station (photograph taken by the
author on July 31, 2017). The skin of the male celebrity appears to have been lightened and
smoothened using editing software.

Finally, the older men often showed off their wealth in their dating profiles, although the
showing off was subtle. Dylan, who described using dating apps to look for business partners,
decided to put up photographs showing himself in a business suit, at a boat party, and on the
balcony of a luxurious apartment. He said, “I want to let people see my life, my business. …
[Interviewer: “Is that balcony in your house?”] No, I do not own a house. That photograph was
taken on a hotel balcony.” Fung, 36, owned a café. Although he did not disclose this fact, he
displayed photographs of the place and wrote “drop by our café any time” in the text of his
profiles.
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Dylan’s strategic display of a hotel balcony was technically not deceptive, but presented
his aspiration (Ellison et al., 2011). In the dating app culture, appearance comes first. Therefore,
photograph enhancement is common. My informants recognized that they could not take the
photographs displayed by female dating app users at face value. In China, using software to
enhance one’s photograph is called p-tu, where p stands for photoshopping and tu means
photograph. According to Clement, “In China, many girls do p-tu. … Some girls even enhance
everyday selfies to the level of online celebrities. … I do not approve of this culture.” In general,
my informants believed that p-tu created a trust problem. In the words of Ellison et al. (2011), p-
tu was perceived to break the terms of the “profile as promise.” Xiaolong guessed that around
60% of female dating app users enhance their photos; Xiaoli, 19, thought that all women do so.
Eric was once shocked by how different from her profile photograph a woman looked when the
two met face to face. Therefore, he started asking women for unenhanced photographs before
meeting. “If they do not want to [provide unenhanced photographs], they must look very
different from their photos.”
Maximization of Opportunities
Moving to the third dimension of the use of dating apps, to manage connections and
conversations, I noticed several areas in which my informants sought to maximize their
opportunities to hold conversations, meet, or hook up with women.
The first was the initial contact strategy. Two initial contact strategies were commonly
used by my informants: mass targeting and geographical targeting. Mass targeting is like casting
a net to catch fish. On Tantan, which functions like Tinder, my informants swiped right on nearly
every woman they saw on the dating app and waited for a mutual match. Starting with such a
52

large number of right swipes guaranteed at least a handful of matches. A similar strategy was
used on Momo: my informants sent a “Hi” to almost every woman encountered on the app.
Geographical targeting involves the use of location as a filtering tool. When Roy, 21,
visited a bar with his male friends, he often checked out Momo to see if any girls in which he
was interested were nearby. “If I am there and she is also there, the chance [of her coming over
to my table] is pretty high.” He estimated his success rate at around 70%. This overlaying of the
virtual space constructed by dating apps over physical space is well documented by Blackwell et
al. (2015). Geographical proximity is also crucial to those soliciting hook-ups. Fred, an
experienced casual sex seeker, was very concerned about his distance between him and the
women he wanted to have sex with.
I log on to the app, set a center, and search outward. If a woman is more than 4
kilometers away, I won’t contact her, no matter how attractive she is. … Sometimes I
say, “We are so close, you should come over.” Women who believe in fate tend to agree
to visit.
The second area concerned the order of messaging. More than half of my informants
followed the cultural script mandating that men make first contact with women, similar to dating
convention in the West (Bailey, 1988). Some of the informants felt that being proactive gave
them an advantage. Eric believed that women prefer proactive men to passive men. Anthony, 28,
saw women as more reserved. “If you don’t contact her first to give her a good impression of
yourself, a conversation may never happen.”
The third and final area in which my informants sought to maximize their dating
opportunities was in the categorization of women. My informants assessed the probability of
developing a relationship with each woman, and based on this assessment focused their time and
53

energy on selected women. This allowed them to avoid choice overload. Victor, 30, put women
into four groups: soulmates, sex partners, work partners, and miscellaneous. On Momo, he
mainly encountered sex partners and “miscellaneous” women; those in the latter group had the
potential to become soulmates and were thus added to his WeChat. Fred used two measures to
categorize women he met on Momo. The first measure was attractiveness. After crossing out
women he considered too beautiful to approach, he assigned another set of labels. “The letter B
means that I have met them before. The letter F is given to those I have not yet met. The letter Z
basically denotes those whom I do not want to meet.” In his telephone contact list, he marked
down a category for each woman and decided accordingly how often to send her messages.
It should be noted here that assigning grades to women based on their attractiveness is
not unique to the Chinese dating app culture. In both China and many Western countries, huge
entertainment industries are dedicated to ranking women publicly (e.g., Banet-Weiser, 1999).
However, the ways in which my informants implemented their categorization systems were
significantly related to their use of communication technologies. Victor used WeChat to maintain
relationships with “soulmates,” while keeping his sex partners on Momo; Fred used his
telephone contact list for bookkeeping.
Hegemonic Masculinity with Chinese Characteristics
In this study, I consider dating apps not just as technical platforms enabling users to
exercise and pursue their social, romantic, and erotic desires, but also as sites at which issues of
gender persistently resurface. I introduce the notion of Chinese masculinities, which are also
hegemonic in nature, to analyze the ways in which Chinese male dating app users perform and
negotiate their masculinities on dating apps. I focus on three areas of dating app use, as follows.
First, in terms of their interpretive flexibility (Kline & Pinch, 1996), male dating app users are
54

shown to frame their use of dating apps in the language of work. Dylan, for example, used the
apps to look for female business partners, and Clement made friends with female sex workers
who could help him out during business entertainment. However, they both despised women
who used the dating apps to promote products or services. Second, instead of creating a hyper-
masculine image of themselves (Hakim, 2016; Miller, 2015a), my informants strategically posted
photographs that highlighted their gentleness, innocence, or wealth. Some of them intentionally
misrepresented themselves to create a more favorable image. Yet they also criticized women
who used editing software to enhance their photos. The hypocrisy here is stunning. Finally, in
terms of their management of connections and conversations, my informants used various
targeting strategies, followed the cultural script of “men first,” and categorized women to enable
the selective focusing of time and effort.
These observations demonstrate the limitations of the traditional conceptualization of
hegemonic masculinity, which stresses the distinction between masculinity and femininity, in
explaining Chinese masculinities in dating app settings. For example, Nathan’s maimengzhao
could never be considered masculine in the West, because in this genre of photos, men show
their childlike, innocent side and rarely demonstrate their physical strength. It is thus not surprise
that according to Western standards for masculinity, Asian male bodies are often regarded as
effeminate and inferior (Hoang, 2014), and sometimes even undersexed (Fung, 1999).
Anderson’s (2009) idea of inclusive masculinity accommodates the possibility that
masculinities can be manifested in multiple ways. In their reflective essay, Connell and
Messerschmidt (2005) suggest that the concept of hegemonic masculinity should be reformulated
by considering the geography of masculinities. They urge researchers to examine masculinities at
the local, regional, and global levels. The regional level is most relevant here, as it “provides a
55

cultural framework that may be materialized in daily practices and interactions” (p. 850). Louie’s
(2002) exploration of Chinese traditional culture and identification of a dual set of masculine
ideals, wen and wu, offers a fresh perspective on masculinities in the Chinese context. He
maintains that wen masculinity, which stresses gentleness and refinement, is often considered
superior to wu masculinity, which is associated with physical strength. Within this framework,
men who post animal photos, such as Clement and John, and those who display a maimengzhao,
like Xiaolong, are no less masculine than users who highlight their muscular or athletic bodies,
because all of these actions are designed to attract women’s attention. My informants constructed
an idealized feminine figure, identified attributes that they believed this idealized figure would
desire, and then strategically presented these attributes.
Louie (2015) also illustrates the neoliberal transformation of wen masculinity in recent
decades. My informants framed their use of dating apps in terms of work. An emphasis on
financial success was also observed in their construction of profiles. Eric hinted that he owned a
café, and Dylan strategically misrepresented a hotel as his own luxurious apartment. I am not
saying that my informants did not use these apps for sexual or romantic purposes (e.g., Dylan
mostly connected with female business owners), but I do wish to note the significance of work to
their framing of their dating app use. This interpretation or use of dating apps has rarely been
observed among dating app users elsewhere, and is not even covered by the comprehensive
typology of dating app uses developed by Timmermans and De Caluwé (2017). This novel
finding reflects China’s recent rise as an economic power and the neo-liberalization of Chinese
society. Although all of my informants were adults living in urban China, boys and men in rural
China are also inspired by the neoliberal work ethic. Liu’s interviews (2017) show that the
pursuit of material success as an indicator of masculinity is commonplace even among secondary
56

school boys. These boys see entrepreneurial figures as role models and continue to subscribe to
the gender role of “the male as the pillar” (p. 12). Nyíri (2006) points out that people in rural
villages are equally eager to embrace and pursue a “socialist spiritual and material civilization”
(p. 88).
I also show how my informants objectified women that they met on dating apps and
perceived them as sex tools. Fred’s grading of women by their beauty and sole pursuit of
women’s sexual bodies, which he saw as basically substitutable, are typical of the “seduction
community” in Britain or the “pickup community” in the United States (O’Neil, 2015). These
communities consist predominantly of men who wish to learn how to gain women’s trust and
thereby access them sexually. O’Neil’s ethnographic study reveals that the discourses of
enterprise and competition are integrated with the practice of seduction or picking up. Within
objectification theory (Fredrickson & Roberts, 1997), this is an exemplary case of the sexual
objectification of female bodies. To some degree, this “toxic” aspect of masculinity is implicitly
encouraged in Chinese cultural presentations of masculinities. I have mentioned that wenren are
often associated with sex and romance (Louie, 2002). According to traditional Confucian beliefs,
women are men’s property (Fei, 1939). Together with the design of dating apps, which packages
each individual as a profile, and the neo-liberalization of society, which has transformed wen
masculinity into the pursuit of wealth, the logic of consumption has invaded private realms.
Here, I show how women have become generic products to be catalogued by male dating app
users looking for quick casual sex.
Connell and Messerschmidt (2005) argue that women’s practices also contribute to the
construction of masculinities. Some of my informants mentioned that women use dating apps to
pursue their own interests and advance their social positions. For example, some women use
57

their appearance to promote products and enhance their photographs with editing software. The
resurfacing of gender dynamics on dating apps may thus be a positive sum game. However, my
male informants seemed to perceive such gender dynamics as zero-sum. As observed by Connell
and Wood (2005), my informants saw the empowerment of women as a threat and women’s gain
as their loss, and they thus condemned women who used dating apps for business or posted
“inaccurate” profile photographs. A dating app as an artifact will only reproduce the existing
gender hierarchy if both men and women fail to fundamentally change their views on gender
dynamics.
In conclusion, I show how Chinese heterosexual men perform and negotiate their
masculinity on dating apps through their interpretations, self-presentations, and interactions. I
argue that such performances and negotiations can be better analyzed through a regionally
contextualized conception of Chinese wen masculinities. I acknowledge that this study is based
solely on interviews with a limited number of male dating app users living in Guangzhou. Future
researchers are advised to explore the experiences of users from different regions. Nevertheless,
in line with recent studies (e.g., Maloney et al., 2017), this paper shows how an old gender issue
has resurfaced in a new media environment.

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Chapter 4: A Phenomenology of Dating Apps: Space, Purposefulness, and Neoliberalism

Intimacy is increasingly mediated by mobile apps. Grindr as the pioneer of location-
based networking for gay men has revolutionized the way in which strangers meet each other. By
utilizing the Global Positioning System (GPS) receiver that is built into smartphones, Grindr
helps its users locate other users—potential partners—who are physically nearby. This kind of
location-awareness networking model has also been expanded to heterosexual populations. In
English-speaking countries, Tinder stands out from its competitors such as Coffee Meets Bagel
with its iconic “swipe” platform design. In Chinese-speaking regions, Momo is the leader. It had
over 85 million monthly active users at the beginning of 2017 (Momo, 2017). Launched in 2011,
it was listed on the NASDAQ in 2014. A key competitor of Momo, or Tinder’s Chinese
counterparts, Tantan had 6 million daily active users in 2017; it recently raised $70 million for
business model development and overseas expansion (Russell, 2017). As such, mobile dating
apps in China constitute an emerging method of social networking.
Prior research has examined the behaviors of dating app users as well as the nature of
intimate relationships facilitated by these apps. For behaviors, dating app users tend to connect to
people who are in the immediate vicinity and to meet up with potential partners quickly
(Blackwell, Birnholtz, & Abbott, 2015; Licoppe, Rivière, & Morel, 2016), while users of
conventional dating websites such as Match.com tend to spend more time in online interaction
before meeting up face to face (Mascaro, Magee, & Goggins, 2012). While some studies focus
on the self-presentations of users on dating apps (Blackwell et al., 2015; Birnholtz, Fitzpatrick,
Handel, & Brubaker, 2014; Chan, 2016; Miller, 2015a), others explore the multiple uses of these
59

apps (Miller, 2015b; Sumter, Vandenbosch, & Lightenberg, 2017; Van De Wiele & Tong, 2014;
Timmermans & De Caluwéb, 2017).
On the other hand, researchers have come to refer to the intimate relationships mediated
by dating apps as “networked intimacy.” Hobbs, Owen, and Gerber (2017) refer to networked
intimacy as the “flirting, courtship and the ongoing search for love and fulfilment via dating apps
and smartphones” (p. 12). They found that the affordances of dating apps have not challenged
the ideals of romantic love or monogamy. Their informants use dating apps merely as a tool to
pursue their ideal relationships. Chan (2017) further explores networked intimacy, while
emphasizing its ambivalence, revealing that users’ relational goals on dating apps are not only
constantly changing and may not be reflected clearly from their profiles. De Seta and Zhang
(2015), one of the earliest studies looking at Chinese dating apps, pursue a similar line of
inquiry. They are interested in the identity construction, social interaction, and locational
practices of Momo users, and found that a lot of their informants used the app to past time by
engaging in aimei relationships (flirtatious, ambiguous relationships) with others. They found
that, however, this kind of aimei relationship is rarely extended to the offline world. They note
that the pleasure of engaging in aimei relationships is built upon the simultaneous possibility and
improbability of meeting face to face with strangers on the apps.
These studies, collectively representing the nascent field of dating app studies, examine
the interrelationships between the affordances of dating apps, behaviors of their users, and the
nature of the app-mediated intimacy. In this paper, I take a different approach to such
interrelationships and ask a more fundamental, ontological question: What is the nature of dating
apps? Or in Heideggerian terms, what is the essence of dating apps? On a discursive level, the
term “dating apps” is problematic. In China, apps such as Momo or Tinder are known as jiaoyou
60

chengshi (friend-making app) or yuehui chengshi (dating app). A notorious term the public use to
call these apps is yuepao shenqi (a powerful tool for hooking up). All of these terms are used
interchangeably to refer to apps like Momo. On an empirical level, app users exercise their
interpretive flexibility (Pinch and Bijker, 1987) and appropriate these apps for a variety of uses
(e.g., killing time, gaining recognition, or traveling; see Timmermans & De Caluwéb, 2017).
Therefore, the first contribution of this paper is to reflect upon the nature of this kind of
relationship-forging technology.
A potentially fruitful line of inquiry to the ontological question is to attend to the virtual
space that dating apps create.
7
Crooks (2013) notes that Grindr creates an ad hoc social space
that brings potential partners closer. Roth (2014), in his critical reading of Scruff, another
popular gay dating app, argues that this overlaying of the virtual space on top of the actual space
creates heterogeneous spaces where queerness can coexist with heterosexuality. Blackwell et al.
(2015) examine how this conflation of this ad hoc virtual space and the actual physical place in
Grindr affect people’s self-representation and impression formation of others. What is missing in
their discussion, and thus the second contribution of this paper, is how such virtual space is
produced. Engagement with Henri Lefebvre’s triadic notion of social space (1991) is deemed
productive in approaching this question. His theory comprehensively takes the material,
discursive, and symbolic dimensions of space into consideration.
The third contribution of this paper is my empirical account of how dating app users
compare dating apps with other dating technologies, including marriage websites and matching

7
Space and time are interdependent. See Yeo and Fung (2017) for a discussion of
temporal dynamics on dating apps.
61

by parents. The notion of mudixing, which I roughly translate as “purposefulness,” marks the
differing nature of space produced by these technologies. It is precisely the lack of mudixing of
dating apps that makes these apps so popular among their users. I argue that not only are the
relationships mediated by dating apps ambiguous (De Seta & Zhang, 2015), the virtual space
produced by dating apps is also ambiguous. The ambiguous space and the resistance against
mudixing are deeply connected with, what Rofel (2007) calls, the “desiring” subjects in
neoliberal China.
Research Setting
A short description of Momo and Tantan—two of the popular dating apps in China—will
be helpful to some readers. Momo is best described as an all-in-one app, putting multiple
functions—including “updates,” “people,” and “groups”—into a single application (Figure 4.1).
8

Under the “updates” interface, users can broadcast a text message or a photo, similar to the
“status” function in Facebook. These updates are visible not only to connections already made on
the app but also people who are physically nearby. The “people” function resembles the classic
Grindr interface. An array of photographs, each representing a stranger, is arranged in an
ascending order of distance. People who are physically nearby take up a more dominant location
on the interface. A more detailed profile including photographs and a written description is
available by clicking these photographs. Users can set an age filter and a gender filter; they can
also send messages to people nearby at any time without mutual consent. The “groups” function

8
The functions of Momo are expanding and its interface is changing. It also includes a function
similar to Tinder’s swiping, live broadcasting, and, recently, online games. The characterization
reported here is based on the version dating back to Fall 2016 when the research was conducted.
62

is akin to online chatrooms with the only difference being that the members of the groups are
physically nearby.

Figure 4.1. The interface of Momo: (left to right) “updates,” “people,” and “groups” (screenshot
taken by the author on October 15, 2016).

Tantan, compared to Momo, is much simpler (Figure 4.2). It is primarily modeled on the
design of Tinder, where users can swipe left to indicate “dislike” or swipe right to indicate
“like.” The profile consists of the user’s self-filled personalities and hobbies, as well as a
machine-generated count of how many times the two users have walked past each other. Users
can filter out others by sex, age, and distance. Like Tantan, two persons can communicate if and
only if both sides have “liked” each other.
63

Figure 4.2. The interface of Tantan, resembling Tinder’s iconic swiping interface (screenshot
taken by the author on October 15, 2016).

This paper is based on my fieldwork conducted in Fall 2016 and Summer 2017 in
Guangzhou, a city in southern China. Guangzhou is the third largest city in China in terms of
population. It is close to Shenzhen, one of the first special economic zones that were opened to
marketization and foreign investment during the 1980s, and to Hong Kong, an ex-British colony
which introduced many Western ideas into China. Guangzhou has, therefore, always been open
to new cultures. The Internet penetration rate of Guangdong, the province Guangzhou belongs to,
is also one of the highest in China (China Internet Network Information Center, 2014).
Therefore, the use of smartphones is popular in the region.
64

The fieldwork involved in-depth interviews with 35 dating app users, two focus groups
with non-dating app users, and observations of dating-related social events in the city. I made my
researcher’s identity clear wherever there was an interaction between me and my informants.
For the in-depth interviews, I recruited interviews’ informants by setting up a
“researcher’s profile” on Momo and Tantan. Some people responded to my profile; some
responded to my messages that I sent to them. Some were recruited from a public lecture given
by a local university’s professor. Several informants introduced their friends to me. I
successfully interviewed 19 women and 16 men, whose ages ranged from 19 to 38. At the time
of the interviews, 17 of them were single, seven were in dating relationships, one was in
polyamorous relationships, six were married, and four were divorced and single. Interviews were
semi-structured. I asked questions that were relevant to my research, including their perception
of dating apps, uses, and experiences; at the same time, I allowed my informants to express what
they regarded as significant.
Studying non-users also provides insight into the culture around the technology
(Oudshoorn & Pinch, 2003). I recruited non-dating app users from a local university. One group
consisted of eight women and another group consisted of five men. Nine of them were single at
the time of the focus group and four were in dating relationships. Their ages ranged from 18 to
24. The focus group discussion consisted of two main parts. The first part focused on their
perception of dating apps in general and the second part was about their views on relationships. I
use pseudonyms to refer to my informants in this paper.
I also employed the walkthrough method proposed by Light, Burgess, and Duguay (2016)
to critically examine the intended purpose of dating apps, particularly Momo. Based on existing
65

literature, I examined the marketing materials of the app. I also looked at the public statements
the company made and its governance of the app.
What is a Dating App?
I invited Coco (34, female, married) to walk through with me how she would normally
use Tantan. She unlocked her smartphone and clicked the red icon that represents the app. The
first image she saw on the screen was a photograph of a man taken of the side of his face. “I
really hate people who do not show their front view at all,” she complained and immediately
swiped left, indicating her “dislike.” She went on, swiping left or right almost reflexively as she
saw each new photograph. “In fact, I am very casual, because I do not have a strong mudixing,”
she explained.
While I will elaborate the notion of mudixing (which roughly means “purposefulness”) in
a later section, in this section I want to contemplate what Coco experiences. A dating app falls
under the category of an app, defined by the American Dialect Society as “a software program
for a computer or phone operating system” (American Dialect Society, 2011, para. 1). The
images Coco sees on Tantan are supported by the app’s architecture, which comprises a series of
syntax and logic of programming languages such as Python or Java. Coco reacts to the images,
which are configured by the programming languages, and swipes the screen with her finger. The
capacitance her finger introduced to the capacitive sensors physically embedded on the screen is
converted to electronic impulses, which are then processed by the phone’s processor (Wilson,
Chandler, Fenlon, & Johnson, 2007). After that, the phone exchanges information with the server
of Tantan through the 4G network and eventually shows Coco another photograph. The whole
process happens in a nanosecond.
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In a nutshell, a dating app is nothing more than combinations of bytes or electromagnetic
waves. In Aristotelian ontology, the essence lies in the form of the matter. This answer to the
nature of dating apps based on Aristotelian ontology, however, is not satisfactory. Hui (2016), in
On the Existence of Digital Objects, argues against this reductionist approach and opts for a
phenomenological approach to ontology. He explores the experience that a digital object brings
forth to our consciousness. To Hui, “objects are always objects of experience” (p. 11). Stiegler
(1998) proposes the idea of tertiary retention, which is the exteriorization of memory enabled by
writing systems, machines, and other technologies. Hui (2016) proposes a complementary notion
of “tertiary protention,” a kind of anticipation derived from engaging with digital objects. For
Husserl (1991), primary protention is the anticipation of what is coming in the next second; and
secondary protention is the anticipation based on past experiences. Tertiary protention is about,
for example, how we form an anticipation of a restaurant when Google suggests the closest
restaurant based on its search algorithm. In tertiary protention, the digital objects become a basis
for our anticipation and this is where these objects connect with us experientially.
In a similar vein, on a dating app, a profile can be seen as a record of the past,
9
or what
Mowlabocus (2010) calls “an externalizing of the interior” (p. 92). It is the tertiary retention in
Stiegler’s sense. At the same time, a dating app also entails tertiary protention. It is a digital

9
A profile is, however, not always a true reflection of the past. As Ellison, Hancock,
and Toma (2012) found, online dating users rarely expect a profile to exactly represent the
person. Some misrepresentations are considered to be socially acceptable. A profile sometimes
represents an inspired self, which is different from the current self.

67

object that generates anticipation. What can people anticipate when they engage with a dating
app? This question brings me to ponder what sort of anticipation dating apps are capable of
bringing forth to its users.
Heidegger, in his seminal essay “The Question Concerning Technology” (1977),
proclaims that “the essence of technology is by no means anything technological” (p. 311). He
inspects the experience that modern technology brings forth to people and concludes that
technology is “a mode of revealing” (p. 319), in which the nature is revealed as standing-reserve.
For example, a hydroelectric dam on the Rhine reveals the river as a source of energy. The river
at this moment ceases to be a natural object and becomes a resource waiting to be ordered,
managed, and exploited: “Everywhere everything is ordered to stand by, to be immediately on
hand, indeed to stand there just so that it may be on call for a further ordering” (p. 322). The
essence of technology, according to Heidegger, then is a human’s intention to frame the world as
resources.
Phenomenologically speaking, a dating app creates a virtual space where each profile is
revealed as a relational potential. This phenomenological approach to the ontological question is
more meaningful than seeing a dating app as a materialization of the invisible bytes and waves.
This potential may actualize into different relationships (such as friendships, romantic
relationships, marriage, casual sexual relationships, friends with benefits, and so on) depending
on its developmental trajectory. It may remain merely as an unactualized potential or may
gradually dissipate amid the enormous amount of alternative potential. The essence of dating
apps, therefore, has nothing to do with the apps themselves, but is about users’ seeing each other
as a relational potential, waiting to be developed. A colleague, a teacher, a family doctor, or a
stranger in the physical world is revealed as a relational potential in the virtual space constructed
68

by the dating app. As such, “dating apps” is arguably a misnomer because what is revealed on
the app is not any singular relational goal of dating or whatsoever but a multiplicity of potentials.
Ambiguity in the Virtual Space of Dating Apps
What I have tried to accomplish in the last section is to establish that the question of
dating apps’ ontology can only be answered phenomenologically. Their essence lies in what
users experience. As we know, social experience is tightly connected with space. Geographer Yi-
Fu Tuan (1977) argues that space is the container for social actions. Castells (2010) refers to
space as “the material support of time-sharing social practices” (p. 441). The experience in a
French countryside family-run restaurant is, and should be, different from the experience in one
of those global fast food chains. Therefore, to understand the experience that dating apps bring
forth to its users, it is paramount to interrogate the space that dating apps produce.
Communication technologies have been changing our sense of space. The telegraph and
telephone invented in the 19
th
century permitted communication between people who were in
different locations. Harvey (1989) calls this time-space compression, in which space is
compressed by the fast-moving signals transmitted through communication technologies.
10
In the
21
st
century, it is not just that the physical space is connected by virtual space, but that, as
Gordon and de Souza e Silva (2011) point out, “the spaces we interact with daily are filled with
data” (p. 1). Our physical space is now at the same time a virtual space. Mobile media, for
example, allow their users to be simultaneously present in a physical space (e.g. a party) and a

10
Harvey (1989) also argues that time is compressed by Fordist organization of
production.
69

virtual space (e.g. online game). The cyberspace, as Virilio (1995) points out, has shifted the way
we experience the world.
In discussing dating apps, some scholars refer to dating apps as a virtual space. Crooks
(2013) compares the space created by Grindr to gay villages. To him, Grindr, similar to gay
villages, brings potential partners closer and offers a platform for sharing information. Roth
(2014) argues that gay dating apps such as Scruff have created a virtual queer space which is
imposed on and through a physical heterosexual space. While these scholars assert that a virtual
space is produced by the dating app, they undertheorize the production process of such space. I
want to fill this gap by referring to Lefebvre’s tripartite production of space (1991), which
comprises spatial practices, representations of spaces, and representational spaces. Also riding on
the tradition of phenomenology, Lefebvre argues that space is socially produced. Addressing the
materiality of the space, the discourse around it, and people’s lived experiences with it, his
theory is highly influential in urban studies and human geography (see Castells, 1983; Harvey,
1989; Soja, 1996), and, especially, in the analysis of physical space. For example, Flock and
Breitung (2016) illustrate how the interactions between street vendors and city management
enforcement teams create a transient urban space in Guangzhou. In this section, I attempt to
expand Lefebvre’s analysis into the production of the virtual space of dating apps. To do so, I
map out the three dimensions of social space in relation to dating apps.
Spatial Practices
First, spatial practices refer to the “production and reproduction” of the space, where
patterns of social activities take place to ensure “continuity and some degree of cohesion”
(Lefebvre, 1991, p. 33). Looking at dating apps, spatial practices may refer to users’ activities,
which help continue this space as such. Creating a profile is a significant part of using a dating
70

app. A profile represents oneself in this virtual space, where hundreds of thousands of profiles
co-exist and compete for attention. That is why, on both Momo and Tantan, Eric (31, male,
married) decided to put not only photographs in which he was wearing a suit but also where he
was with his pet. He said, “because some women like animals, so I think [with my pet] I can
meet someone more easily.” Coco, whom I have introduced earlier, expressed a similar rationale
behind her display of photographs taken on a variety of occasions: “Because I want them to see
my different faces.” Sometimes, a profile can convey identities. As China is a huge country,
dating app users may want to emphasize their origin. Xialong (20, male, single), apart from his
selfies, put a photograph of a train station of where he is from, so that people from the North
know that he comes from that area.
Other activities that are essential to the continuation of the space include chatting with
others via the app. On Momo, one can chat one on one or chat in group chats. I joined a group
which is administrated by Jennifer (37, female, divorced). As a local Guangzhouese, she set up
the group for Cantonese speakers. Although the group chat’s name contains “movie” and
“tabletop games,” during my entire fieldwork group members did not meet face to face. All
interactions happened on the app. Conversations mainly evolved around daily life. There was
one occasion where a man flirted with a woman, with the man inviting the woman to his home
and the woman questioning his “size.” The conversation ended with both of them admitting they
were kidding.
Unlike what De Seta and Zhang (2015) found in their study where the interactions of
their informants (Momo users) often remain online, my informants did meet up with people they
met on Momo or Tantan for a coffee, a meal, or a hook-up. They discussed the time and place of
the meet-up on the apps. Sometimes, users from group chats also meet up. Polly (29, female,
71

single) organized a Halloween activity with around one hundred participants, all recruited from
Momo.
It is noted that there is a wide range of users’ activities, from meeting someone face to
face to only pressing a “like” in regard to others’ photos. Amanda (24, female, single) hopes to
chat with people on Tantan but she found that men only want sex. So, she ended up just looking
at photos and swiping. Brady (23, female, single) is more instrumental. She only logs onto
Tantan when she is bored and “to see if there are any good-looking people nearby, check out
their profiles, and ‘like’ their profiles if they are good-looking.” While Amanda hopes for a
response from others, Brady simply does not care if she receives any responses at all. In any
case, although these activities do not directly involve interacting with others, the “likes” Amanda
and Brady gave leave a digital trace that hints at their existence, thus reproducing the space.
Representations of Space
According to Lefebvre (1991), representations of space refer to what is conceived by
“scientists, planners, urbanist, technocratic subdividers and social engineers” (p. 38). They entail
the “order” of the space (p. 33). In dating apps, this space is manifested in official discourse of
the app and the app’s architecture. The walkthrough method (Light et al., 2016) is highly useful
in identifying the intended purpose of an app. This method is used “not to test whether users
respond to an interface in the ways its designers intended, but rather to illuminate the material
traces of those intensions, and thereby to critically examine the workings of an app as a
sociotechnical artifact” (p. 6).
The intended purpose, or the “order” of dating apps—take Momo as an example here—
can be derived from the vision of the app. Vision is often hinted at in the marketing materials or
public statements the company makes (Light et al., 2016). For Momo, its marketing direction has
72

shifted. As Liu (2016) points out, in one of its earliest advertisements in 2011, Momo hints at its
use for casual sex. In 2014, its co-founder Yan Tan was invited by Zhihu.com, an online portal,
to answer questions about people’s use of Momo. He wrote,
Overall, this is a social melting pot. Some look for boyfriends and girlfriends (no one
should doubt this), some look for a one-night stand, some treat it as a business platform to
sell stuff, some look for groups based on interests, some simply swipe the screen and
look for wonderful stuff. There is everything. (Tan, 2014)
However, in his interview with Fortune (“40 Under 40,” 2014), he called Momo a
“combination of Snapchat and Tinder” but he denied that the app is built for dating or hooking
up. Furthermore, in 2015, the Communist Party of China publicly condemned Momo for its lack
of regulation of the pornographic content existing on the platform and fined the company
RMB60,000 (around USD9,000). Momo then underwent a “sanitizing project,” which consisted
of 1) distancing itself from hook-ups through an advertising campaign, 2) removing chat groups
related to illegal sexual activities, 3) hiding the function “Searching for Other Users Nearby”
from the top menu, and 4) engaging in charitable causes such as helping parents find their
missing children (Liu, 2016). The public statements made by the company and the shifting foci
suggest that the app does not have a clearly defined intended purpose.
Another aspect of the app that reveals its vision is its governance, which “is reflected in
the app’s rules and guidelines, which place boundaries around the types of activity that users are
able to conduct, and even the types of users allowed on an app” (Light et al., 2016, p. 10).
Momo’s administrators take complaints against sexual harassment or illegal promotion seriously.
When she receives harassing messages, Jennifer usually reports the account to the administrator,
who will review the past ten message exchanges between her and the suspected harasser. It just
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takes a few minutes for the administrators to remove the account. Bob (37, male, divorced) also
appreciates Momo’s administrator, who will remove the accounts from sex workers or alcohol
promoters. This prompt action of Momo helps him distinguish “real” accounts from “fake” ones:
“You observe this account for a month, if it is not removed [by the administrator], then usually it
is from a real, new user.”
Last but not least, the features of Momo are complex. Momo allows users to connect with
an individual, participate in group chats, broadcast updates, play games, watch live streaming
video, and more. The multiple features, on the one hand, attract new users and help retain
existing ones; on the other hand, they also suggest that Momo’s intended purpose is never
singular. As Momo’s co-founder said, “there is everything” on Momo, and the representations of
space of Momo are consistently multiple. These representations provide resources for its users to
carry out a variety of uses.
Representational Spaces
The last dimension of Lefebvre’s triadic notion of space is representational spaces (or
spaces of representation). Unlike representations of space, which encompass the intentions of
designers, engineers, administrators, planners, and so on, as well as the architectures they
develop for potential users, Lefebvre’s concept of representational space refers to space that is
“directly lived through its associated images and symbols, and hence the space of ‘inhabitants’
and ‘users’” (Lefebvre, 1991, p. 39). In Lefebvre’s original conceptualization, this is a symbolic
dimension of the physical space where creativity, resistance, and disruption happen.
Representational spaces may reinforce or confront the representations of space. Harvey (1989)
regards this space as where alternative meanings or possibilities for spatial practices can be
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imagined. As such, the creative interpretation of dating apps by their users belongs to this
dimension.
The science and technology studies tradition stresses that users have agency in
interpreting the social meanings and uses of an artifact. Pinch and Bijker (1987) call this
“interpretive flexibility.” Kline and Pinch (1996) found that cars were perceived very differently
by men and women in early 20
th
-century rural America. Male rural residents considered cars as a
source of power to operate machinery while female residents used cars to go shopping. Brubaker
et al. (2016) found that Grindr users attached different meanings to the app, such as a time-
consuming application, opportunities for hooking up, or a set of expectations.
My in-depth interviews and focus groups revealed diverse interpretations of Momo and
Tanta.
11
First of all, nearly all my informants are aware of the connotation of these apps as
yuepao shenqi (a powerful tool for hooking up). Jiazhi (28, male, single) recalled a conversation
he had with his friend: “A friend of my friend told him that, on Tantan, it is easy and simple to
ask a girl out and go to a hotel. I thought this is novel so I wanted to give it a try.” My female
informants also see these apps as a tool for hooking up. For example, Queenie (25, female,
single) enjoys intimacy with strangers, who, she said, “can bring me a sort of fantasy, like the
feeling of smoking weed.”
Second, my informants also consider Momo and Tantan as a springboard to romance.
Jessica (27, female, single) plans to get to know as many people as possible on Momo and
develop a romantic relationship. Most of them see the potential in dating apps to meet romantic
partners but they are not certain about the potential. Roy (21, male, single) commented on

11
For details, see Chapter 2 and Chapter 3.
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Momo, “Honestly, it is just for meeting more girls. Hooking up or becoming a girlfriend—this is
another story. You can’t be sure about any of these.”
The third interpretation of Momo and Tantan is that these apps are for making friends.
This interpretation is more common among my female informants than male informants.
Xiaoshan (29, female, married) moved to Guangzhou two years ago to support her family back
home. Sometimes, she has frustrations about working in this foreign city and she turns to Momo:
“I cannot share how I feel on WeChat because my family and friends will be worried if they see
these messages.” Local residents also use dating apps to make friends. Polly, pointing out she has
no siblings because of the former one-child policy, desires to have someone whom she can share
her thoughts. From a group chat on Momo, she befriended two men and one woman, whom she
now cannot live without.
The fourth interpretation is treating these apps as a business platform. This came mostly
from my male informants. Dylan (29, male, single) said he uses Momo and Tantan to look for
business partners—mainly female. “I look at their profiles, see if they run their own businesses
or are in the process of starting up businesses.” He did succeed in meeting a woman, whom,
afterward, invested in red wine with him. Fung (36, male, divorced) used Tantan to promote his
café. On his profile, he wrote “drop by our café any time.” Other male informants said they often
run into women who promote their business such as insurance, investment, or gym memberships,
or prostitution.
Overall, the spatial practices (app’s usage), representations of space (intended use), and
representational spaces (users’ interpretation) consistently point toward the relational potential,
one that may, but not necessarily, evolve into multiple kinds of relationships. As such, the virtual
space created by dating apps is best described as an ambiguous space where no single relational
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goal is privileged. This ambiguity is more prominent once dating apps are compared to other
dating technologies, which I am turning to.
Differing Mudixing of Dating Technologies
If technology is about revealing potentials, then not only dating apps, but also marriage
websites and matching by parents should be seen as technologies—but ones that reveal a
different set of relational potentials. In this section, I report ways in which my informants
compared these other dating technologies with dating apps. Intertwining in their narratives is the
notion of mudixing. Literally meaning “purposefulness,” mudixing can be used to describe an
artifact or a person. Different from just mudi (“purpose”), mudixing carries a negative
connotation. I will show that my informants despise mudixing.
Marriage websites are growing strong in China. Wen (2015) analyzed the advertising and
business model of the three leading marriage websites—Jiayuan.com, Baihe.com, and
Zhenai.com. As fee-based services, they operate by matching users’ conditions and qualifications
provided by the users themselves. My informants, in general, hold a negative attitude toward
these websites. Amanda said, “These sites have nothing good. … They only match you based on
your material conditions.” Nathan (25, male, single) believed that all users on these websites
have marriage as their only goal. He said, “on Tantan and Momo, there are more different
possibilities. … There is no requirement that the next step is to get married.” Jessica agreed with
both Amanda and Nathan, “The mudixing of Jiyuan.com is so strong. … It even asks you where
you work, how much you make, and what you like.” The strong mudixing indeed discourages
people like Xiaojiao (30, female, single), who felt stressed and bearing too much responsibility
when talking to men she had met through these websites. With the fee-based structure and the
matching mechanism, it can be argued that the intended purpose of these marriage websites
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inclines toward marriage. My informants also hold a very narrow interpretation of these marriage
websites. In other words, the representational space (i.e., users’ interpretations about these
websites) in this case closely aligns with the representation of space (i.e., the intended purpose of
these websites).
Matching by parents, a practice that is referred to as xiangqi in Chinese, is the most
traditional way in which one meets their partners. Fei (1939) points out that, in traditional
Chinese socieities, marriage was determined by one’s parents to the degree that it was “improper
and shameful to talk about one’s own marriage” (p. 40). Even in today’s urban China, this
practice is still common among my informants’ parents. The same as marriage websites, parents
usually focus on the material conditions of the dates. Jessica does not like this kind of matching.
She said, “my family is very traditional. The foremost standard is on the material level. Men they
introduce to me are all rich. But if only money matters, I think this is greed.” She thought that the
exchanges between her and these dates were too superficial. Such superficiality is not confined
to matching organized by family. Katie (33, female, single) once attended a matching organized
by her friends. She complained that in the process, she and the date did not share any intrinsic
qualities such as personality or values. “The Chinese xiangqi only matches the superficial
conditions,” she commented.
What is more disturbing than the extreme focus on material aspects is the mudixing of
matching. Nikki (26, female, dating) pointed out that she would have rejected matching: “I do
not like the matching occasion. It is very embarrassing. There is a strong mudixing, as if we must
begin a relationship. I hate that.” Sometimes, parents do not tell their child that they have
arranged a match. Eric recalled one occasion on which he did not know that his parents had
arranged a lunch with a match and her parents until he went to the restaurant. “I pretended to
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know nothing. … I did not tell my parents on site that I did not like to meet 9the girl]. I wanted
to keep their faces. But once we got home I questioned why they did that to me without telling
me beforehand.” So, the dating space created by matching has a stronger internal governance.
Anthony (28, male, married) said this mudixing turns into a wall between the two people, making
it impossible for them to develop a relationship. Polly succinctly explained the difference
between xiangqi and using a dating app: in the former, “something is forced on me; there is
pressure”, whereas in the latter, “it is my own decision to get to know a person.”
In short, matching also marks out a space with a clearly defined relational goal—
marriage. Parents conceive a space for their child to meet with their future spouse (i.e.,
representations of space). Because of parents’ pressure, my informants cannot not pretend to be
interested and not engage in a conversation with the date (i.e., spatial practice). The occasion
(with parents from both sides present) limits how my informants perceive this space (i.e.,
representational space). Once again, the representations of space, the representational space, and
spatial practices converge to a singular goal. Using the words of my informants, this space is full
of mudixing.
I have been stressing what the virtual space of dating apps reveals is a relational potential
that may or may not be developed into particular kinds of relationships. There appears to be a
moment when such a development takes shape. My informants often feel uncomfortable if
people they meet on these apps show or reveal their intended relational goal too early. They use
the notion of mudixing to refer to these people. Coco described some men on Tantan as “having
mudixing.” She continued, “They are very direct to the point [asking for casual sex], not asking
anything else. I feel really disgusted by that.”
In Coco’s case, mudixing refers to sexual intention, whereas in other cases, mudixing
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refers to people using the platforms only for selling products. Fung expressed his concern over
adding women he met on Tantan to his Wechat. He explained, “She has mudixing and this
mudixing is to sell me crude oil, futures, or stocks.” Both Jennifer and Dylan have complained to
Momo’s administrators when they run into people with strong mudixing, be it about casual sex or
promotion. Having mudixing is policed by app users.
These discussions about marriage websites, matching by parents, and users having an
overly overt goal have shown that, at least to my informants, fixation on one particular relational
goal is not welcomed. This discontent with fixation can be seen as the flip side of the embrace of
ambiguity found in the virtual space of dating apps.
Dating Apps and the Neoliberal Subject in China
The popularity of Momo and Tantan is no doubt partly due to their novel way of
connecting people. But as scholars in science and technology studies argue, the success and
failure of an artifact have to be understood in the larger social context of society (Bijker, Hughes,
& Pinch, 1987). In this concluding section, I want to relate dating apps with the socio-cultural
environment of modern China, particularly in relation to romantic and sexual desire.
During the collective period of early modern China, the state suppressed gender
differences (Yang, 2011). In most of the CPC’s history, sex was negative: women did not use
cosmetic products and basically dressed like men (Ruan, 1991). Work units organized dance
parties or outings for people to meet their partners (Zhang & Sun, 2014). However, these
activities ceased to exist after the economic reform when many of these work units were
dissolved. Women were also permitted to display their femininity. Images of fashionable, well-
dressed, and sexy women began appearing on state media (Evans, 2008). The marriage law has
also been revised several times to reduce the state’s involvement (Davis, 2014). In short, since
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the economic reform, the state also has been retreating from citizens’ romantic relationships and
marriages.
Rofel (2007) traces this development as the formation of “desiring” subject. She refers to
people under Maoist socialism as deprived of “desire,” because Mao socialism suppressed the
expression of “natural” humanity. The neoliberal economic reform not only transformed the
economic system, but also gave people a sense of new possibilities, particularly the possibilities
to imagine and practice their various desires. A new “desiring” subject is forming in neoliberal,
post-Mao China. Farrer’s (2002) research about unmarried youth in Shanghai also connects the
“opening up” of sexual practices with the “opening up” of the economy.
I see a strong connection between the formation of a desiring subject under neoliberal
China and the ambiguous space created by dating apps. In a sense, they reinforce each other. My
analysis of the space as constructed by dating apps shows that, in Lefebvre’s term, the spatial
practices, the representations of space, and the representational space reflect the non-singular,
ambiguous nature of the space. No single relational goal is designated by the apps, nor solely
pursued by app users. This ambiguity becomes prominent when this space produced by dating
apps is compared to spaces produced by other dating technologies. These other technologies
have a clearly intended purpose from both the “designers” and the “users.” My informants used
the notion of mudixing to describe these technologies, which set marriage as the only relational
goal. They also used this term to refer to dating app users who reveal their sexual intent too early
or those who use the apps as sales platforms. What they discredited was not particular types of
purposes, but the practice of having a singular purpose. That is, my informants’ appreciation of
dating apps is built upon the fact that these apps turn people nearby into and only into a relational
potential.
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This ambiguity fuels the desire of users, Rofel’s neoliberal subject. In their classic work
Anti-Oedipus, Deleuze and Guattari (1983) criticize psychoanalysis for treating desire as a
“lack.” They see desire as productive, thus the term “desiring-machine.” Desiring-machines
connect, disconnect, and reconnect to other machines to generate possibilities and multiplicities.
According to them, desire produces the subject: “Desire does not lack anything; it does not lack
its object. It is, rather, the subject that is missing in desire” (p. 26, emphasis in original). In his
interpretation of Deleuze and Guattari’s work, Bogard (1998) further explains that “bodies only
become subjects through an expression of their sense that is simultaneously a distribution of
desire” (p. 53, emphasis in original). Flows of desire intersect to produce a subject.
Dating apps play a role in this process in such a way that the virtual space they create
allows a multiplicity of relational potentials to which these flows of desire can connect to. App
users’ use of dating apps is not to fulfill any particular kind of lack, but to connect with
potentials. As such, the desiring subject is formed by and through these flows of desires, which
partly reside in the body and partly in the virtual space. It is thus not surprising that mudixing—
having a singular goal—is resisted and disciplined, because the fixation on a singular goal goes
against the logic of the desiring-machine, which is boundless and always in search of something.
Put simply, the disdain for mudixing of marriage websites and matching by parents, as
well as the preference for dating apps, are reflective of the fading principle of a planned
economy where economic and social activities are designated, organized, and regulated around
certain purposes (Yan, 2003). They are an expression that indicates a shift toward embracing
desire, freedom, and individual choice, which are the motifs of neoliberalism.

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Chapter 5: Conclusion

In this concluding chapter, I summarize the results from the three studies I have
presented. Then, I discuss how this dissertation has illustrated a comprehensive framework to
analyze digital objects such as an app. I end this dissertation by recommending areas for future
research.
Dating Apps, Gender Politics, and Neoliberal China
Based on five-month fieldwork in urban China, this dissertation overall examines the
gender dynamics and nature of dating apps in contemporary China. As Latour (1990) famously
points out, “technology is society made durable” (p. 103). Chapters 2 and 3 together examine
how gender dynamics—an important aspect of society—manifest on dating apps—a technology.
Both chapters adopt a constructivist perspective in assessing the interrelationship between
technology and social relations.
Specifically, Chapter 2 is based on Wajcman’s (2006) notion of technofeminism, which
contends that technology and gender are mutually constitutive. This chapter illustrates the
interpretive flexibility (Kline & Pinch, 1996) of female dating app users on the technology. My
informants not only saw dating apps as a laboratory of sexual experiences, but also a springboard
to romance and marriage, a third place between home and the workplace, and a door to new
worlds. This chapter has also elaborated the challenges that female dating app users face in using
dating apps. They have to resist the stigma associated with using dating apps. This stigma also
applies to men, but to women, the surveillance is harsher. Second, they have to learn to assess
men’s purposes on the apps. Through looking at the photographs, reading the written bios, and
chatting with men, they come to understand what these men want. Finally, they have to handle
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sexual harassments. I have identified four strategies, from stating their revulsion against casual
sex on their profiles, complaining to the app’s administrators, and blocking or ignoring harassers,
to quitting the apps.
Based on these findings, I have critically assessed the extent to which dating apps provide
an opportunity to liberate women from the existing patriarchy. Contradictory evidence was
found. On the surface, dating apps allow women to exercise their sexual desire, adopt a gaze
position to look at men, and protect themselves from sexual harassment online. However, once I
examined the larger socio-political environment in which dating apps are embedded, I found that
women are still subjected to surveillance and few protections. Women are constantly monitored
for their use of dating apps, suffer from the discourse “leftover women,” and do not receive
protection against sexual violence in the real world. Dating apps, therefore, hide the structural
gender inequality embedded in the sexual double standard, marriage expectations, and state
policies.
Chapter 3 looks at the other side of the phenomenon. I recognize that studies of dating
apps rarely single out heterosexual men as a focus of inquiry. I join recent efforts of
communication scholars (e.g., Light, 2013; Maloney, Roberts, & Caruso, 2017) to explore the
construction of masculinity in the new media environment. In this chapter, I examine how
Chinese heterosexual men perform and negotiate their masculinity on dating apps through three
aspects of the use of dating apps: their interpretations of the technology, their self-presentations
on the apps, and their interactions with the apps and women they meet.
In terms of their interpretation, my male informants framed their use of apps in the
language of work. This demonstrates another kind of interpretive flexibility (Kline & Pinch,
1996) that my female informants did not articulate. Second, instead of creating a hyper-
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masculine image of themselves (Hakim, 2016; Miller, 2015), my informants presented
themselves as gentle, innocent, and rich. Finally, they employed different targeting strategies to
maximize the opportunities to connect with women. They followed the cultural script of “men
first” and believed this would enhance their chance of connecting with women. Because of the
access to a large pool of women, they also categorized women by grades, in order to selectively
focus their time and effort.
In this chapter, I have shown that that hegemonic masculinity (Connell, 1987) as an
analytical lens to analyze the performance of masculinity by Chinese male dating app users is not
as useful as the indigenous concept of wen masculinity proposed by Louie (2002). Wen
masculinity encompasses both cultural attainment and business tact, that are not often considered
as masculine expressions in the West.
These two chapters, together, argue that dating apps help perpetuate gender hierarchy in
contemporary urban China. The futility in relying on dating apps to challenge patriarchy suggests
that, to advance gender equality requires a fundamental change in the socio-political
environment and people’s perception of gender.
In Chapter 4, I have taken a turn to look at the ontology of dating apps. I was interested in
the reasons behind the increasing popularity of dating apps in urban China and, therefore, set out
to examine the essence of dating apps. I have shown that reducing dating apps to bytes or
electromagnetic waves is not useful in comprehending the nature of dating apps; instead, a
phenomenological approach that stresses human’s experience with objects is insightful.
Following Heidegger (1977), I argue that the essence of dating apps is nothing technological, but
is about users’ seeing each other as a relational potential, one that is waiting to be developed. I
have further engaged with Lefebvre’s theory of the production of space (1991) to analyze the
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virtual space produced by dating apps. Using Momo as an illustrative case, I have taken
Lefebvre’s representations of space as the app’s intended purposes, representational spaces as
users’ interpretations of the app, and spatial practices as users’ activities on the app. These three
dimensions of space all point toward offering, not a singular relational goal, but a multiplicity of
potentials.
The celebration of the multiplicity of potential is clear when my informants compared
dating apps with other dating technologies, such as marriage websites and matching by parents.
To them, the spaces produced by the latter two are full of mudixing, a term meaning
“purposefulness” in a negative sense. Instead of opening up potentials, marriage websites and
matching by parents only point toward marriage. My informants also expressed dislike for dating
app users who hold very particular goals such as looking for casual sex or selling products. My
informants also refer to these users as having mudixing.
I argue that the ambiguous space produced by dating apps and the disdain for mudixing
indicate a rejection of fixation on any particular relational goal. They partially reflect the fading
principle of a planned economy in which desires are highly regulated (Rofel, 2007). They are
also an expression that embraces desire, freedom, and individual choice. In this sense, it is not
too surprising that dating apps are so popular in neoliberal China.
Together, this dissertation looks at the social through the technological. By examining the
lived experiences of female and male dating app users, it demonstrates the limited impact of
dating apps in challenging the existing gender inequality in urban China. What is new about
dating apps, nevertheless, is its transformative experience of relationship-forging, one that opens
up relational potentials for their users and is reflective of the neoliberal logic.
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Toward an Analytical Framework of Digital Objects
Contemporary life is heavily mediated by apps. Van Dijck and Poell (2015) call our
society a “platform society,” in which cultures, economies, and politics are built around global
social media platforms. Gardner and Davis (2013) refer to the current generation as the “app
generation.” Therefore, it is paramount for communication and media studies scholars to develop
an analytical framework for apps. Dating apps are one of the thousands of kinds of apps
available. Throughout this dissertation, I have been following a constructivist approach to
analyze technology. What I have also accomplished, along the way, is to map out a
comprehensive framework for analyzing digital objects.
In Chapter 1, I have given an overview of Pinch and Bijker’s (1987) social construction
of technology. I have illustrated, by considering the economic, technological, socio-cultural, and
political environments, how Chinese dating apps come to be as they are. The issue of gender is
interweaved into these environments. In this light, Chapter 2 and Chapter 3 can be considered as
an in-depth look into how gender manifests on dating apps.
Chapter 4 turns the focus from looking outward to the environments of the dating apps—
the extra-level of the apps—to looking inward to the apps themselves. Based on Lefebvre’s
tripartite production of space (1991), I analytically separate the actual uses, intended uses, and
users’ interpretation. The contestation relationship between users’ interpretation and designers’
intention have been well captured by cultural studies concepts, such as encoding and decoding
(Stuart, 1980). Lefebvre’s theory adds a behavioral-material dimension to this symbolic-
discursive contestation.
Apart from looking at the inter-level of spatial dimensions, Chapter 4 has also theorized
the intra-level of dating apps. By “intra-level,” I mean the ontological question of essence. This
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is the phenomenological approach I have elaborated. These extra, inter, and intra levels of
analysis of dating apps are summarized below (Figure 5.1).

Figure 5.1. A tri-level analytical framework for digital objects
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This framework provides guidance to scholars to analyze digital objects such as apps and
social media, that are commonplace nowadays. Let me take Strong, an exercise gym log, as an
example (Strong, 2017). Strong allows users to keep track of their workout progress and provides
sample workout routines. It has a built-in timer and alarm functions, monitoring the resting time
between each set of exercises users do. In short, this is a combination of a paper notebook, a
timer, and a workout manual.
On the extra level, we can examine the workout culture that the app taps into (i.e., socio-
cultural), the notebook or other technologies in competition with it (i.e., technological), the
business model of the app (i.e., economic), and potential legal regulations that may interface the
development and marketability of the app (i.e., political). It should be noted that the technology
and its environments are theoretically mutually constitutive (as represented by the double arrows
in the figure); however, in order to focus on the digital object, unidirectional influences from the
environments to the object are considered here. Moving to the inter level, we can examine the
intended use of the app by the walkthrough method (Light, Burgess, & Duguay, 2016) or
interviewing the app’s designers. The users’ interpretation is best acquired through interviewing
users. The actual use of the app can be observed during an extended interview or at the gym
where the app is used. The intra level requires an understanding of what experiences the app
brings to its users. This insight can be gained through interviews. It is also useful to compare the
app with other related technologies, such as a conventional notebook or a personal trainer—all of
these seem to point toward pushing one’s capacities (Sloterdijk, 2013).
Looking Forward
This dissertation is about heterosexual dating app users in urban China. Further studies
can at least take three different routes. First of all, sexual minorities in China have been receiving
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more attention and support in recent years (Engebretsen, Schroeder, & Bao, 2015). However,
nonconformity against the heteronormativity still carries a social stigma. Many scholars have
examined the experiences of gay men and lesbians in China (e.g. Kong, 2011; Yip, 2013). The
opportunities or challenges dating apps may bring to them deserve a closer investigation.
Moreover, there also appears to be a gendered political intervention behind the operations of
popular dating apps for sexual minorities in China. While Blue’d, the most popular dating app
for Chinese gay men living in China and overseas, continues expanding, Rela, an app for
lesbians, was shut down in March 2017, allegedly due to its support to a grassroots LGBT
movement (“Chinese Lesbian Dating App,” 2017).
The second line of inquiry is to address the rural-urban divide. Ethnographic studies by
Wang (2016) and McDonald (2016) have demonstrated that social media use differs in urban and
rural China. Wang (2016) focuses on the lives of rural-to-urban immigrant workers, who have
nothing to depend on but social media for social and emotional support. This rural-urban division
is, therefore, a class division. What kind of insights can be drawn from comparing rural dating
app users with their urban counterparts? Among the gay communities in China, the notion of
suzhi (“quality”) is used as an identity marker that differentiates a respectable gay man from a
“money boy,” who is stereotypically thought to come from rural China (Kong, 2011). Some self-
identified money boys, interviewed by Kong (2011), buy into the idea of “quality” and strive to
be a good urban gay citizen. An intersectional analysis will examine how sexuality and class
create people of different positionality and how dating apps carry different social meanings to
these people.
Finally, very few studies have looked into the production aspect of dating apps (e.g.,
Murray & Ankerson, 2016). While the walkthrough method (Light et al., 2016) I employed in
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Chapter 4 can provide insights into the intended use of an artifact, ethnography research in dating
app companies—observation of the daily operations, development workshops, business
meetings—can reveal how social norms and gender expectations are built into a platform’s design and
development. For example, in studying the development of shavers, Van Oost (2003) found that
designers, who are mostly men, often adopted an I-methodology and the products were also tested in a
male-dominant setting. In these ways, gender expectations came into the picture: male users
were considered as technically competent and female users were imagined to be technophobic.
The different expectations are inscribed onto the shavers’ designs. In terms of dating apps, the
questions of how the gender and sexuality, or even class, identifications of a designer play a role
in the development process are worth exploring.

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Asset Metadata

Creator Chan, Lik Sam (author)

Core Title Progressive technology, stagnant politics: how dating apps perpetuate gender hierarchy and transform relationships in urban China

School Annenberg School for Communication

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program Communication

Publication Date 03/28/2020

Defense Date 12/04/2017

Publisher University of Southern California (original), University of Southern California. Libraries (digital)

Tag China,dating apps,femininity,feminism,gender,gender politics,intimacy,masculinity,OAI-PMH Harvest,sexuality

Language English

Contributor Electronically uploaded by the author (provenance)

Advisor Gross, Larry (committee chair), Dunbar-Hester, Christina (committee member), Hong, Yu (committee member)

Creator Email liksamch@usc.edu,xam.chan@gmail.com

Permanent Link (DOI) https://doi.org/10.25549/usctheses-c40-489028

Unique identifier UC11266554

Identifier etd-ChanLikSam-6130.pdf (filename),usctheses-c40-489028 (legacy record id)

Legacy Identifier etd-ChanLikSam-6130.pdf

Dmrecord 489028

Document Type Dissertation

Rights Chan, Lik Sam

Type texts

Source University of Southern California (contributing entity), University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses (collection)

Access Conditions The author retains rights to his/her dissertation, thesis or other graduate work according to U.S. copyright law. Electronic access is being provided by the USC Libraries in agreement with the a...

Repository Name University of Southern California Digital Library

Repository Location USC Digital Library, University of Southern California, University Park Campus MC 2810, 3434 South Grand Avenue, 2nd Floor, Los Angeles, California 90089-2810, USA