Is Raya the Gay LinkedIn?

Illustration by Stephanie Jones

If the many dating apps at the gay man’s disposal were Sex and the City characters, Tinder would be the Carrie (flirty, fun, occasionally meaningful), OkCupid would be the Charlotte (idealistic, LTR-oriented, tedious), Grindr would be the Samantha (duh), and the newest entrant, Raya, would be the Miranda — accomplished, self-possessed, mostly frigid.

In case you haven’t heard, Raya is the latest members-only dating app. It promotes itself as an exclusive platform for people in creative industries — in practice that generally means folks who work in entertainment, fashion, beauty, and media. Users apply by submitting their Instagram usernames and the names of three Raya users who can refer them, though how Raya ultimately decides who to let in is based on a secret algorithm. (Raya declined to comment for this story.) As you might expect, the people are beautiful, the job titles fabulous. What’s lacking is the sex.

“Raya is the Neiman Marcus catalogue of dating apps,” says Erik, a 29-year-old media professional. “Tinder and Grindr are SkyMall. One looks fancier, but they’re all still useless compared to the IRL experience.” What Raya has done, instead, with remarkable facility, is pull together people of particular professional communities. “Raya has a very loose definition of the word ‘creative,’” says Erik, “but I have seen every fashion publicist I’ve ever met on it.” As Rolodexes go, that’s a powerful contingent to have at your fingertips (assuming you match, of course). Thomas, a 20-something YouTuber based in L.A., agrees that Raya hasn’t necessarily led to relationships or even hookups. “The app definitely feels more networking-oriented,” he says, which makes sense, given the way its user base is screened.

Tapping through gay profiles on Raya, you feel like you’ve just walked into a gay power mixer, vodka soda in hand. You’ll spot the downtown fashion designer with a namesake label, the runner-up on one of TV’s biggest talent competitions, the flamboyant figure skater you rooted for at the Olympics. After enough time, you discover that the population is either a) very hot or b) very rich (browsing Instagram feeds helps affirm this: vacations in Aspen, trips to the Seychelles, pieds à terre in Paris.)

The problem, though, is that there just aren’t enough gay men to go around. Raya matches might lead to a dozen combination Calvin Klein/Nick Grubers (his much buffer, much younger boyfriend of five minutes), but no more than that. When you’re in the minority (which, even in New York, you are as a gay person) using an app that trades on exclusivity really limits your dating options.

“There are very few new guys who pop up each day after you’ve gone through the initial list,” says Thomas. “So I might match with a cute guy who’s actually based in Melbourne.” Because the pool is relatively small, Raya has to get creative about padding its population. After you go through every profile in your city, it opens up to guys around the world. Raya says it is set up this way because its members are citizens of the world, but even diamond members of the jet set probably aren’t looking for a long-distance relationship.

What caps Raya’s potential for romance, though, makes it a rather powerful networking tool. You might not make that cute boy in Melbourne your boyfriend, but who’s to say he can’t be a project collaborator?

Raya’s vibe, too, while not exactly stuffy, does feel more buttoned up and professional compared to its competitors. It’s funny — considering how much Raya values privacy, it feels more outward-facing than any other dating app, the mandatory link to Instagram an ambient reminder that everyone has a public face. It’s hard to imagine a “Bye Felipe”-esque exchange (in which rejected hetero men quickly turn into mouth-foaming misogynists) with someone on Raya, not because the guys are so classy, but because their off-app personas are so identifiable. “The tone of conversations feels more formal,” says Thomas. “I’ve never had a guy message me with anything sexually forward, like you might receive on another app.”

For gay men already fluent in the language of dating apps, then, Raya probably doesn’t serve real romantic utility. Instead, there’s social and professional cachet in being — and being seen — on the app. “Raya is like the club that everyone has been talking about,” Bernard, a 30-something director for a major fashion brand, tells me over the phone, “and then you go and you see it’s all the same f—ing people you’re always seeing and you’re like, ‘Oh, OK, great, now I can leave.’” That isn’t to say the endeavor is completely useless. “It’s showing your face at the party,” he says. “I mean, I have friends who have literally contacted the [app’s] administrators because they haven’t been accepted, but being accepted is literally its greatest appeal. It’s like Bungalow 8 when I was 18.” As if on cue, a male voice in the background asks Bernard, “What the f— are you talking about?”

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