Gendered Affordances of Digital Technology in Mitigating the Perceived Risk of Dating App Matches Perpetrating Sexual Assault or “Making Stories” of Assault

Abstract

Dating apps are a popular tool for finding sexual and romantic partners. Yet, these apps can pose risks that arise from gendered affordances of technology that users deploy to harass and victimize their matches, particularly matches who are women or sexual and gender minorities. Just as gendered affordances may facilitate risks, dating app users may also deploy technology in ways that mitigate risk. In this study, we examined risks that men and women perceive dating app matches to pose, as well as ways in which they use technology to mitigate these risks. Through an analysis of focus groups conducted with a sample of college student dating app users, we found the perceived risks that matches pose were markedly different for men and women, particularly among those seeking mixed-gender pairings. Women who matched with men were concerned about being sexually assaulted, whereas men who matched with women were concerned about being falsely accused of assault. Thus, women used gendered affordances to enhance their safety, and men used affordances to enhance their “believability.” We suggest our findings point to the positional and interactional nature of gendered affordances, encompassing ways in which gender inequality may be both maintained and subverted with digital technology.

Dating applications (apps) are becoming an increasingly popular tool for young people to find potential sexual and romantic partners. According to data from a 2020 Pew Research Center report, 30% of American adults have used a dating app, marking a substantial increase since 2013, when 11% had used a dating app (Anderson et al., 2020). Dating app usage is especially high among young adults, as this Pew report indicates half of Americans between the ages of 18 and 29 years have used a dating app. Unfortunately, with increased dating app usage comes risks that arise from the technological affordances that users exact from these apps.

Affordances of social media technologies, such as dating apps, are “the perceived actual or imagined properties of social media, emerging through the relation of technological, social, and contextual [properties], that enable and constrain specific uses of the platforms” (Ronzhyn et al., 2023, p. 3178). Importantly, this conceptualization of social media affordances moves away from a deterministic view that merely examines the properties/features of a particular technology and, instead, recognizes the active role that users play in shaping affordances through the ways they choose to interact with that technology. This means that different users may enact a wide range of affordances with any specific technology.

Unfortunately, reviews of the extant research indicate that dating app users interact with this technology in ways that afford opportunities to harass and victimize potential partners, both on the app and during in-person “meetups” (Filice et al., 2022; Gewirtz-Meydan et al., 2024). However, just as technological affordances may facilitate risks posed by dating app matches, dating app users may also deploy technology in ways that mitigate those risks. In this study, we examine the risks that men and women perceive their dating app matches to pose, as well as the ways in which they use technology to mitigate these risks. Through an analysis of focus groups that we conducted with a sample of college students who use dating apps, we demonstrate that men and women may use similar technological features to achieve contradictory goals. In the case of interactions with dating app matches, women use technological affordances to mitigate perceived risks of sexual assault, whereas men use affordances to mitigate perceived risks of false allegations of assault.

Technological Affordances and Gendered Risks of Dating App Usage

As originally conceptualized by Gibson (1977), “the affordances of the environment are what it offers animals, what it provides or furnishes, for good or ill” (p. 68). Decades after Gibson introduced this concept, scholars have applied it to understand individuals’ interactions with digital technologies, such as social media. In a recent review of the literature, Ronzhyn et al. (2023) propose that social media affordances may be defined as “the perceived actual or imagined properties of social media, emerging through the relation of technological, social, and contextual [properties], that enable and constrain specific uses of the platforms” (Ronzhyn et al., 2023, p. 3178). In other words, affordances are the ways in which users may utilize a technology to produce—or inhibit—concrete actions.

Reviews of the literature suggest that dating app users often interact with this technology in ways that afford opportunities to sexually harass and victimize their “matches,” particularly those matches who are either women or sexual/gender minority (SGM) users (Filice et al., 2022; Gewirtz-Meydan et al., 2024). Women and SGM dating app users often experience digitized forms of harassment such as receiving unwanted messages that reflect men’s presumed entitlement to sex from those who use dating apps, requests for nude photos, and receipt of unsolicited images such as “dick pics” (Berkowitz et al., 2021; Comunello et al., 2021; Dietzel, 2022; Gillett, 2023; Lee, 2019; Shaw, 2016; Thompson, 2018; Timmermans & Courtoise, 2018). Risks are not limited to digital exchanges, as risks also manifest during in-person interactions with matches. Research indicates that dating app users are at greater risk than non-users of experiencing sexual or physical violence perpetrated by an intimate partner; although it is important to note that the direction and causal nature of this relationship is unclear (Choi et al., 2018; Mayshak et al., 2020). Consequences of dating app–facilitated violence are marked and include physical injury; increased depression and anxiety symptoms; and decreased self-esteem, loneliness, and perceived control (Echevarria et al., 2023; Rowse et al., 2020; Snaychuk & O’Neill, 2020).

This harassment and abuse constitute what Schwartz and Neff (2019) call “gendered affordances” of technology, which they define as “social affordances that enable different users to take different actions based on the gendered social and cultural repertoires available to users and technology designers” (p. 2407). They propose that gendered affordances (1) suggest different actions to users of different genders, (2) pattern the variability in ways users utilize affordances, (3) draw on existing gendered cultural frameworks, and (4) strengthen gender inequalities. In their analysis, Schwartz and Neff demonstrate the ways in which male landlords use the low-risk anonymous setting of Craigslist to enter sex-for-rent arrangements with disadvantaged women (e.g., homeless women, former foster kids, and so on) who provide irrevocable consent to sexual acts in exchange for housing.

Since Schwartz and Neff (2019) initially proposed the concept of gendered affordances, an emerging body of research has begun to further illustrate ways in which affordances of digital media reinforce cultural gender inequalities (Díaz-Fernández & García-Mingo, 2022; Semenzin & Bainotti, 2020). For example, one analysis demonstrated that the messaging app Telegram facilitates men’s harassment behavior (i.e., sharing non-consensual intimate images of women) and, consequently, reinstates misogynistic cultural norms (Semenzin & Bainotti, 2020). The authors of this study argue that this app’s one-to-many broadcasting creates “a suitable environment for the diffusion of non-consensual images and for the creation of male homosocial bonds” (p. 2). In other words, the affordances of Telegram allow men to share non-consensual material with a large audience of male users who, in turn, form a sense of solidarity with one another by affirming the hegemonic masculine norm of female objectification.

The small body of research on gendered affordances of digital technology focuses on the ways in which users employ technological affordances to mobilize cultural gender inequalities against women and SGM people. Yet, in addition to perpetuating gender inequality, users may also deploy gendered affordances of digital technology to protect themselves against perceived inequalities. In fact, there is evidence that dating app users perceive matches to be risky and that they use affordances of digital technology to mitigate these risks.

Dating app users seem to be aware of the risks associated with using this technology. Users report fears of potential deception, risk of sexual and physical violence, and general safety concerns associated with encountering dangerous people (Bauermeister et al., 2010; Couch et al., 2012; Phan et al., 2021). A recent review of the literature noted that dating app users employ a range of strategies for mitigating such risks, including conducting digital “background checks” on matches, using text-based communication to establish expectations and boundaries, scheduling face-to-face meetups in familiar territory, informing friends/family of one’s location on a meetup, arranging for friends to call/text offering an excuse to leave a meetup, and carrying a means of defense (e.g., pepper spray) on a meetup (Filice et al., 2022). Many of these strategies reflect the utilization of technological affordances, such as by using search engines to conduct background checks and texting/geolocation to notify friends of one’s location.

Notably, extant research on such “safety work” highlights the ways in which groups who are at increased risk of violence and exploitation, namely women and SGM users, protect themselves from the risks that dating app matches pose (Albury & Byron, 2016; Gillett, 2023; Pruchniewska, 2020). Yet, the perceived risks that dating app matches pose to users are arguably gendered in nature, with users attributing different threats to men and women. This is especially the case in a digital era characterized by what Banet-Weiser and Higgins (2023) have called an “economy of believability” where women fear being sexually assaulted and men fear being falsely accused of sexual assault.

Gendered Risks in a Digital “Economy of Believability”

According to Banet-Weiser and Higgins (2023), the omnipresence of digital technologies during a “post truth” culture has fostered an “economy of believability” where “public bids for truth are made, evaluated, and authorized” (p. 4). In this economy of believability, digital media is the primary site where evidence and performances of believability are demonstrated and evaluated. Banet-Weiser and Higgins argue that increased reliance on technological affordances, such as text transcripts and audio-visual recordings, reinforces the idea that victim-survivor testimonies are not evidentiary on their own but require substantiation via technological testimony. Thus, technological affordances may ultimately threaten the believability of those harmed by sexual harassment and violence.

In an analysis of public statements made by powerful men accused of sexual violence, Banet-Weiser (2021) illustrates how the privileged cast themselves as victims of false allegations. In an economy of believability where credibility is evaluated via digital media, the accused feel compelled to publicly address accusations. As Banet-Weiser illustrates, these public addresses often cast women who make accusations as perpetrators who ruin men’s lives with false narratives. In a prime example of what Manne (2017) calls “himpathy,” Donald Trump responded to sexual assault accusations against Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh by lamenting, “It is a very scary time for young men in America, where you can be guilty of something you may not be guilty of” (Diamond, 2018). He continued:

It’s a very scary situation where you’re guilty until proven innocent. My whole life I’ve heard, you’re innocent until proven guilty, but now you’re guilty until proven innocent. That’s a very, very difficult standard. You could be somebody that was perfect your entire life and somebody could accuse you of something.

Powerful men such as Brett Kavanaugh, Bill O’Reilly, and Matt Lauer have all publicly declared their lives were ruined by false allegations despite the fact that none of these men faced any prison time and that one was subsequently appointed to the Supreme Court (Banet-Weiser, 2021).

Such fears of having one’s life ruined by false allegations are not supported by criminal justice data. One meta-analysis found that only 5% of sexual assault allegations are found to be false (Ferguson & Malouff, 2016). Furthermore, in a pattern that Temkin and Krahe (2008) refer to as the “justice gap,” only about one-fourth of reported sexual assault cases result in an arrest, much less a conviction (Richards et al., 2019). This justice gap, which undermines the possibility of perpetrators being held accountable by the criminal justice system, is purportedly one of the main reasons that digital media emerged as an alternative venue for regulating sexual harm (Cossman, 2021). That is, when the criminal justice system does not hear victim-survivors’ stories, then victim-survivors express their voices on a digital platform outside of this system.

Yet, in an economy of believability, victim-survivors’ stories quickly become suspect, and alleged perpetrators become the purported victims of allegations. The shift toward digital media as a venue for regulating sexual harm has been met with backlash manifested through claims that powerful men can have their lives ruined by a “court of public opinion” or “trial by media” that “somehow rebalances the economy of believability in ways that allocate new advantages (justly or unjustly) to women and other marginalized subjects” (Banet-Weiser & Higgins, 2023, p. 122). As Srinivasan (2021) notes, “the anxiety about false rape accusations is purportedly about injustice (innocent people being harmed), but actually it is about gender, about innocent men being harmed by malignant women” (p. 5). She continues to explain that privileged men fear that digitally mediated rape allegations raise the possibility that they will no longer benefit from presumed believability in the criminal justice system and can “no longer be confident that when they ignore the shouts and silences of the women they demean, no consequences will follow” (p. 22). Banet-Weiser and Higgins argue that, as a result of technological affordances of social media that victim-survivors have used to tell their stories outside of the criminal justice system, “public attention has shifted . . . from the politics of sexual violence to the politics of public accusation” (p. 195) and, in an economy of believability, “only those accusations that are fully and indisputably ‘above doubt’ deserve public believability and the kinds of care and recognition it implies” (p. 196).

In this economy of believability, where accusations of sexual assault are publicly vetted, women are afraid of being sexually assaulted (and disbelieved) while men are afraid of being falsely accused of sexual assault (Cary et al., 2022). This dynamic may be especially apparent among dating app users, as they already express distrust of matches, whom they fear pose risks of violence and/or deception (Bauermeister et al., 2010; Couch et al., 2012; Phan et al., 2021). The gendered differences in perceived risks posed by dating app matches provide a case for examining the ways in which gendered affordances of digital technology may be applied differently by men and women to protect themselves against perceived manifestations of gender inequality. Thus, in this study, we compare the ways in which men and women employ gendered affordances to mitigate perceived risks posed by dating app matches. We specifically address the following research questions:

• Research Question 1 (RQ1): What gendered patterns exist among dating app users’ perceptions of risks posed by matches?

• Research Question 2 (RQ2): In what ways do men and women utilize gendered affordances of digital technology to mitigate perceived risks posed by dating app matches?

We expect this study to contribute to the larger body of research on gendered affordances of technology in two main ways. First, previous research applies the concept of gendered affordances to users’ deployment of technology to perpetuate pre-existing gender inequalities. Our study expands this concept to include users’ deployment of technology to protect themselves against manifestations of gender inequality. Second, while previous research examines the ways in which men deploy gendered affordances against women, our comparative study examines the different ways in which men and women use technology to protect themselves against perceived gendered threats.

Method

Data for this analysis come from a larger focus group study on the negotiation of sexual activity/consent between dating app matches. The study was conducted during the fall semester of 2022 with a sample of students at a large land-grant university in the southeastern United States. Although the larger study was designed to focus on sexual consent, our coding revealed gendered themes regarding the mitigation of perceived risk posed by dating app matches. Here, we focus on those specific findings.

Participant Recruitment

We recruited participants with flyers posted around campus and circulated via course webpages informing students of a “study on dating/hookup apps.” Students could express interest by scanning a QR code on the flyer, which took them to a consent form and eligibility screening survey administered via Qualtrics. Eligible participants must have indicated that they were current undergraduate or graduate students at the university where we conducted the study, and that they had experience using dating/hookup apps. The survey asked eligible participants to provide their demographic information (i.e., age, racial/ethnic identity, gender identity, and sexual identity), university email address, scheduling availability, and focus group preference (i.e., matched gender/sexuality, mixed gender/sexuality, or no preference). We provided participants with the choice of being placed in a matched or mixed gender/sexuality group for the purpose of maximizing comfort. The first author e-mailed eligible participants to schedule them in a focus group and provided a list of available dates/times along with the gender/sexuality composition of each group. When placing participants in focus groups, our priorities were to accommodate preferences as well as match scheduling availability.

A total of 49 students participated in one of ten focus groups, each consisting of three to eight participants. We had scheduled ten group sessions when recruitment response began to diminish. Discussions during our regular team meetings indicated that we reached data saturation after conducting approximately five group sessions, at which point participants did not introduce many new themes. Thus, we conducted all focus groups that had already been scheduled, and then ceased data collection.

Five of the ten focus groups consisted exclusively of cisgender women, four were mixed-gender, and one consisted exclusively of cisgender men. One group consisted exclusively of straight participants; the remaining were mixed-sexuality. Participants ranged in age from 18 to 33 years, with 41 (83.67%) identifying as White (six White participants identified with more than one race/ethnicity). Thirty-six participants (73.47%) identified as cisgender women, and 13 (26.53%) identified as cisgender men. Twenty-eight participants (57.14%) identified as straight, and 21 (42.86%) identified as lesbian, gay, bisexual, queer, asexual, pansexual, and/or unsure. The racial demographics of our sample are consistent with those of the larger student population on the campus where we conducted our study, which is a predominantly White institution. In comparison to campus demographics, SGM students are over-represented in our sample. Yet, this is consistent with research indicating SGM people are more likely to use dating apps than their straight/cisgender counterparts (Kuperberg & Padgett, 2015, 2017; Paul, 2022).

Data Collection and Coding

We conducted focus group sessions via Zoom, and each lasted from 1 hr and 15 min to 2 hr. Each focus group was facilitated by the first author, a White cisgender woman who is a faculty member at the university. All groups were co-facilitated by one of five student co-authors, who were all White or African American cisgender women. The student authors were enrolled in a small applied research course under the supervision of the first author, and each student assisted with two of the ten sessions. No men or non-binary students were enrolled in the course; thus, groups were only facilitated and co-facilitated by women.

During each session, the facilitator and assisting student followed an interview guide that posed questions about participants’ “thoughts and experiences pertinent to [dating/hookup] apps.” We used a guide to ensure that a list of pre-determined topics was addressed in each group, but we adapted the order and phrasing of questions to accommodate each group’s flow of conversation. Each participant received a $25 Amazon gift card for attending a focus group session. All study methods were approved by Clemson University’s Institutional Review Board.

We recorded each focus group session with Zoom, transcribed them with Otter.ai software, and then checked transcripts for accuracy. In our data coding, we followed an inductive, grounded theory approach by utilizing methods outlined by Charmaz (2014). The coding process entailed (1) each author working independently to identify initial codes via line-by-line analysis of each transcript and, subsequently, (2) collaborating as a team by synthesizing the initial codes into focused codes that identify broader themes that the initial codes collectively revealed. Throughout our coding, we worked as a team to explore disagreements and reach consensus through discussion because inductive research emphasizes credibility, or whether findings are trustworthy, rather than reliability between coders (Corbin & Strauss, 2015).

Results

Participants reported using a number of dating apps including Tinder, Bumble, Hinge, Grindr, Plenty of Fish, HER, and so on. They briefly discussed different affordances of these apps, with Tinder being the “hookup app,” Hinge being the “relationship app,” and Bumble being woman-centered. Participants felt that Bumble and Hinge were safer alternatives to Tinder because these two apps provide more prompts for users to respond to and, thus, reveal more contextual information about matches. Thus, participants felt that they got a better idea of who they were corresponding with.

Women in our sample reported the fact that Bumble requires women to take the initiative to make the first move (i.e., message a match first) made them feel safer, as they avoided unsolicited and potentially obscene messages. They also felt that men who used Bumble were generally safer than men on Tinder. As Kristen explained, “it’s like a whole different group of guys you would see on Tinder than on Bumble,” elaborating about the casual nature of Tinder by explaining that “it’s like completely different people wanting different things than other dating apps, per se” (White, straight, cisgender woman).

Despite women’s increased comfort with Bumble, men and women in the sample both described Tinder as the “default” dating app, explaining that they use this app more frequently than others. Group conversations largely deferred to experiences with this app, with participants often treating “Tinder” as synonymous with “dating app.” In our discussion of results, we identify the specific dating app where a participant found a particular match, whenever possible. However, since participants often spoke of apps generically, this was not always feasible.

Participants expressed that there were considerable risks associated with interacting with dating app matches during face-to-face meetups. However, the perceived risks that matches pose were markedly different for men and women, particularly among those seeking mixed-gender pairings. In general, women who matched with men were concerned about being assaulted, whereas men who matched with women were concerned about being falsely accused of assault. Men and women exhibited different methods of mitigating these perceived risks in a manner that points to gendered affordances, with women aiming to enhance their safety and men aiming to enhance their believability.

Women’s Use of Technological Affordances to Enhance Safety

Women in our sample commonly shared stories of dangerous scenarios that they encountered during meetups with male matches. Notably, women were more likely to share these stories in women-only focus groups than in mixed-gender focus groups. For example, in a woman-only focus group, Katie discussed a meetup with a Tinder match whose appearance did not align with the images/information in his dating app profile. This match insistently offered to pay Katie cash if she would allow him to go back to her home with her. As she explained, “He was offering to, like, pay me. He was like, ‘I’ll give you $200. Just let me come back to your apartment. Like, I’ll just—just let me come back to your apartment with you’” (White, bisexual, cisgender woman). Reflecting on this experience, Katie was concerned about this match’s malicious intentions. She continued, “He wasn’t saying, like, ‘Just come have sex with me.’ He was saying like, ‘Just come.’ He wanted to get me alone, just the two of us . . . He could have literally done anything.” Concerned that she could have been abducted, assaulted, or trafficked, Katie asked a bartender to drive her home. She said she now enacts a safety plan in which she always notifies her sister of her plans and location when she meets a match.

In a rare exception in which a woman shared a dangerous encounter in a mixed-gender focus group, Marisa described a Tinder match’s inability to accept “rejection,” which ended with her hiding in a bush to escape.

There was one night where, like, five minutes after I was hanging out with a guy, I just knew I was not, not into it, not wanting to be there. So, like, literally [in] five minutes. I was like, I was like, “Oh, yeah, just by the way, like, I have to go pick up my friends at 10:00, because we’re going out” and it was like 9:30. Um, and so like, I was like, sitting there talking to him for a while. And then it was like at 9:55 and I was like, “I really need to go.” And so legit, like, [he] would not let me leave. So, I literally had to run from this man, like, across the campus, and I hid in a bush, because he, like, would not let me leave. (White, straight, cisgender woman)

Conveying the details of another scenario in which a woman in our sample felt pressured to have sex with a match, Chole described a situation in which she was disinterested in a match from an unspecified dating app, but he refused to leave her home until she had sex with him. As she described in a woman-only focus group:

I made the decision of like, not into it. Like no. And I remember also, like, saying, like, “Hey, not happening,” like, and then he still came home with me. And, like, [he] just did not give me the option. And then . . . I got locked out of my house. We were, like, standing in the parking lot. And I said multiple times, like, “Hey, catch an Uber, like go home.” And he was just, he basically acted like he didn’t hear, process, like what I was saying. So sometimes they just ignore you. (White/Asian, bisexual, cisgender woman)

When the group facilitator asked Chole if she was ever able to get this match to leave, she replied, “I didn’t,” while shaking her head side to side. She continued,

I was like, I don’t have the energy to deal with this. . . . I did end up hooking up with him. So, I was like, I just don’t have the effort. And clearly homeboy [was] like not getting it.

Stacy blamed herself for feeling obligated to engage in sexual activity with a man from an unspecified app who drove her to a dark parking lot “in the middle of nowhere.” Speaking in a woman-only focus group, she relayed:

I feel like for me, it’s kind of been my fault . . . one time, like, I was gonna meet up with a guy and he like suggests that we drive around or something . . . but I was like, “Oh, maybe, like, optimistically, like, it’ll be fine.” And then of course you’re in his car, he goes to a parking lot. And then like, kind of starts things. And I just didn’t really stop it . . . I wasn’t very happy that it happened, like thinking back on it, but at the time, I was just kind of like, whatever. Like, I just won’t . . . talk to him again, like, just get it over with like, it’s fine. (White, straight, cisgender woman)

The women in our sample did not describe safety concerns when matching with other women. The only exception was Eliza, who mentioned being “love bombed” by a woman who “moved so quick, and, like, she was, like, showering me with gifts, you know—gave me all of her attention. And then, like, once we were actually in a relationship, like, backed off” (White, pansexual, cisgender woman). Aside from this instance of what Eliza called “manipulation,” none of the women in the sample mentioned scenarios where they felt unsafe or threatened by female matches. In fact, the women who matched with both men and women were clear to say that they had only felt uneasy with male matches.

To mitigate the safety risks faced on past meetups, women who matched with men reported that they now use technological affordances of digital devices to ensure their personal safety both before and during a meetup. As an example of the former, women in our focus groups noted that they specifically state their intentions and limits in their app profiles to ward off unwanted sexual attention, but they questioned whether matches actually read or respect these statements. In a woman-only focus group, Kristen discussed how the woman-centered app Bumble permitted her to express a disinterest in hookups. She relayed:

Okay, I know that at least on Bumble, you can put—one of the filters is, like, what you’re looking for. So, like, it’ll be like, “hookup,” “relationships.” . . . Do people really look at that? I don’t really know. Probably not. They probably don’t really pay that much attention to that. But, personally, for me, when I portray myself to other people, I’m a very traditional and conservative person. So, I feel like I make that pretty known pretty fast. And I even put that, like, in my bio, that I am, like, very traditional. Like, I’m not looking for a hookup. So then, if anyone in the slightest had even, like, tried to talk me out of it, it would be an immediate, like, remove. (White, straight, cisgender woman)

Women in our sample also described using digital technology to run background checks on matches. Using multiple social media platforms as a source of data triangulation, Jessica explained in a mixed-gender focus group that, although Tinder ostensibly verifies identities to prevent catfishing, “it doesn’t guarantee anything.” Thus, she always verifies the identity of a match before agreeing to a meetup:

I’m always very concerned and make sure I’ve been talking to them on, like, Snapchat to, like, verify that they’re real first, because it’s, like, harder to, like, catfish, like, when you’re taking, like, actual photos of yourself in real time. (White, bisexual, cisgender woman)

When interacting with matches that cleared these checks, women continued to use digital technology to mitigate risk during an in-person meetup. For example, Stacy explained how she uses social media to enable her friends to track her location:

Like just telling someone who you’re going with or like, on Snapchat, for example, or other social medias probably like, you can share your location with people. And it’ll update every time you like, go on the app or whatever. And so like, I have that with my roommate and a couple other of my friends. So, it’s like, technically, you’re safe in terms of like, they know where you are. (White, straight, cisgender woman)

Other women in the sample described taking pictures to document the identity of their matches. In a woman-only focus group, Luna stated, “I would send my friends, like, their name. And then if they had an Instagram, I would send them a screenshot of their Instagram” (Latinx, straight, cisgender woman). Speaking in the same focus group, Grace relayed,

I’ve even one time sent my friend the guy’s license plate number . . . Yeah, God forbid. But if I get taken somewhere, this is like the type of car that I’m in and the license plate number and his name (White, bisexual, cisgender woman).

Some women used digital technology to keep male friends “on call” to provide a quick exit from a dangerous meetup. In a mixed-gender focus group, Lucas shared that his women friends sometimes use him as an escape from a questionable situation with a match. As he described:

I’ve had a lot of friends call me in specific situations, like such. Because they trust me to like, try to get them out and be like, because I’m tall. And I guess that’s intimidating to some people. So, they call me up and they’re like, “Hey, this guy’s being weird. Can you come pick me up?” and then I walk my lanky ass over there. And I’m just like, “Hey, we have a project meeting” or whatever. And then I’ll make up some excuse for them and drag them away from the situation. (White/Latinx, straight, cisgender man)

Although Lucas explained that his women friends deploy digital technology to request his assistance in risky situations, neither he nor any other men in our sample expressed concerns that they were personally at risk of sexual assault. In fact, concerns for personal safety were notably absent among the men in our focus groups. The only exception was Hunter, who described a fear of being robbed rather than being sexually assaulted. As he explained:

As a guy, I don’t bring any valuables. Like if I’m going over to someone’s house, like, I won’t wear any of my jewelry, I won’t bring my wallet inside. The only thing I’ll bring is like my phone, essentially. Because I’ve like heard stories, one of my friends got jumped by a girl who was just like, pretending to be like, “Oh, I want to hook up.” And then she had like three guys over there. And they jumped in and took his stuff. (White/Latinx, straight, cisgender man)

Commenting on the difference between his concerns of being robbed and the concerns the women in his focus group expressed about being assaulted, Hunter elaborated, “It’s just less common for men to be assaulted. We don’t grow up—as men—we don’t grow up having to think about how to avoid that for ourselves.” Bryan immediately agreed:

Yeah, I could just second that and say that I, you know, in my personal experience, don’t have any concerns about being physically assaulted. But yeah, a lot of my friends who are women have, you know, the phone on and have had like someone in the other room or, or off somewhere so that they can call them in if need be. (White, straight, cisgender man)

Men’s Use of Technological Affordances to Enhance Believability

Instead of protecting themselves from being assaulted, the men in our sample felt they needed to protect themselves from their matches “making stories” of sexual assault that allegedly occurred during in-person meetups. Whereas women were more likely to express their fears of sexual assault in women-only focus groups, men discussed their fears of false allegations in both men-only and mixed-gender settings.

Participants in the one focus group that consisted solely of men discussed this concern at considerable length. This topic was first breeched by Josh. When elaborating on the importance of obtaining sexual consent from (women) matches, he digressed, “Accusations are a horrible thing. Like, there’s nothing worse than false accusations . . . like, false accusations are, like, a real thing that we have to worry about” (White/Asian, straight, cisgender man). Tyler, a member of Josh’s focus group, interjected to explain that he had “almost been falsely accused three times” (Pacific Islander/Alaska Native, straight, cisgender man). When the group facilitator asked Tyler to elaborate, he described one experience in which he heard via word of mouth that a former partner had talked to her therapist about her previous sexual experiences with him. He explained, “Her and I had a history; she didn’t like it” and that she “completely left out like 80% of the details.” Although this allegation seemed limited to a confidential disclosure to a therapist, and Tyler noted that this allegation “was never brought into the legal world,” this experience left him extremely fearful of false allegations.

Mark, a gay member of the men-only focus group, mentioned false accusations are not common in his community but extrapolated about the possible extent of non-legal repercussions of a woman making a false complaint against a man by stating,

Even if it’s like, not reported . . . it can divide friend groups. . . . I would say, not that I’ve had any experience with that or seen that firsthand, but that’s just something that I know could happen (White, gay, cisgender man).

Men in mixed-gender groups also raised concerns of false allegations, sometimes in a way that was directed at women in the group. In one such exchange, Juliana mentioned that she has never had a match explicitly ask for sexual consent, and she has frequently found herself in situations in which a match will try to “guilt trip” her into having sex with them. She continued by describing the experience of a friend:

I can think of a friend that actually had an experience like this where she told the guy no. And the guy was like—this was just like a casual hookup too—and he was like, “Oh, well, you let, like, blah blah blah hook up with you all the time, and he didn’t care about you, I care about you.” And he guilt tripped my friend. And then. And then they ended up having sex. And that was something that like, she completely regretted, so—and stuff like that happens, like, all the time. So, I mean, yeah. Now thinking about that, that kind of sucks that like people don’t ask for like explicit consent, because I think that’s, like, super important. (White, straight, cisgender woman)

Juliana described an event where her friend said “no” to sex but “ended up having sex” and ultimately regretted the encounter. It is not clear whether Juliana’s friend ever consented to this sexual activity or confronted her partner after the encounter. Yet, Martin, one of the men in Juliana’s focus group, seemed to interpret the situation as involving consent followed by regret and a false accusation. In a bit of an awkward exchange, Martin presented Juliana with the following scenario:

There have also been times where it’s like, you might have like, regret, and be like, “Oh, man, like, I wish I didn’t do that” or like, “Man, we didn’t really hit it off that well, but at the same time, at the actual moment, where like, consent will be offered and confirmed, I was okay.” So, understanding that distinction between an encounter that you didn’t really enjoy, but still consented to versus one that you just never really kind of gave the go ahead. Like, I don’t want to retroactively be like, “Oh, they did that against my will” if that wasn’t the case. (White, straight, cisgender man)

Here, Martin expressed a generalized fear that women who come to regret a consensual sexual encounter are inclined to make false allegations of sexual assault. Hunter, a participant in a different mixed-gender group, similarly pondered about false allegations. Explaining his decision to avoid alcohol and drugs during meetups, he commented:

People completely change with any form of intoxication, whether it’s marijuana, alcohol, shrooms, anything. And it’s just very dangerous. A lot of common sense goes out the window. . . . So, I’ve just always kept it like, like, never, I never like smoke with someone or drink with someone if I plan on hooking up with them as well. It’s just too dangerous for both sides, because stories can get twisted either way, you know, and like, even as a guy, even if like nothing happened, and they say, “Oh well, we had like, something to drink, or we smoked something.” If they decide to, like, make a story out of it. That’s all the evidence that someone would need to like, falsely accuse someone, you know, so it’s just easier to keep intoxication completely out of the picture.

In this case, Hunter postulated that, even in the absence of sexual activity (i.e., “nothing happened”), a match could “make a story out of it,” and that is “all the evidence” she would need to make an accusation of assault. Hunter’s statement reflects a high level of concern over the perceived believability of women who make accusations of assault.

To mitigate perceived risk of false allegations, some of the men in our sample described using technology to obtain a form of evidence that we call “collateral consent,” or insurance against false allegations of sexual assault. In these cases, participants described using technological affordances to document consent as a static and irrevocable agreement. As Josh succinctly explained, “As much as consent, like, is important to make women feel comfortable, it’s also like, it’s kind of a protection thing too” (White/Asian, straight, cisgender man). In more elaborate terms, Tyler, the man whose former partner disclosed a negative sexual experience to her therapist, conceptualized consent as:

Security but also maybe proof, like, evidence. . . . And then, like, even if you can get in writing or text messages, or something like that, that’s even better. That the person is consenting to whatever is going to happen. (Pacific Islander/Alaska Native, straight, cisgender man).

Emphasizing the high stakes of obtaining collateral consent, based on the assumed believability of women, Tyler explained that “it could actually go to legal terms, and I can watch my life get flushed down the toilet.”

Conclusion

Dating app users often deploy technological affordances in ways that facilitate the harassment and assault of their matches, particularly women and SGM matches (Filice et al., 2022; Gewirtz-Meydan et al., 2024). Yet, past research indicates that dating app users are aware of the risks that dating app matches can pose, and that women and SGM users deploy technology to mitigate these risks (Bauermeister et al., 2010; Couch et al., 2012; Filice et al., 2022; Phan et al., 2021). In a contemporary economy of believability, digital media have undermined the believability of victim-survivors, who are expected to produce technological proof of their accounts of assault in the form of photos, videos, screenshots, text transcripts, and so on (Banet-Weiser & Higgins, 2023). At the same time, the use of digital media as a realm for publicly regulating sexual harm has inspired men to feel that they are at risk of being falsely accused of sexual assault.

Past research on the mitigation of risk posed by dating app matches has focused on the types of safety work that women and SGM users perform (Albury & Byron, 2016; Gillett, 2023; Pruchniewska, 2020). In our study, we examined risks that both men and women perceive their dating app matches pose, as well as the ways in which they use technology to mitigate these perceived risks. Our analysis indicates that men and women perceive their matches to pose divergent risks. Simply stated, women are fearful of being sexually assaulted, and men are fearful of being falsely accused of assault.

Women shared stories of dangerous encounters with past dating app matches and described the ways they deployed digital technology to mitigate risk of encountering such situations again. They used basic features of digital technology (e.g., text, photos, geolocation) to inform friends and family of their plans/whereabouts, or seek an escape from a risky situation, in an attempt to mitigate risk of sexual assault during an in-person meetup. Men, on the other hand, expressed fear of being falsely accused of sexual assault by dating app matches and used digital technology to capture technological evidence of sexual consent in an effort to mitigate risk of being falsely accused of assault.

The women in our sample never mentioned publicly sharing their stories of risks that they encountered with dating app matches. However, consistent with past research (Banet-Weiser, 2021), the men in our sample expressed fear that their lives would be ruined by their matches “making stories” of sexual assault. Relatedly, and consistent with the logic of Banet-Weiser and Higgins (2023), men in our sample expressed fear that the economy of believability has shifted in ways that favor women who make false accusations. Given the divergent fears that men and women in our sample expressed, it is not necessarily surprising that they used digital technology to mitigate perceived risks in contradictory ways.

This constitutes what Schwartz and Neff (2019) call “gendered affordances” of technology. However, we believe our study expands this concept in an important way. As originally conceptualized by Schwartz and Neff, gendered affordances of technology (1) suggest different actions to users of different genders, (2) pattern the variability in ways users utilize affordances, (3) draw on existing gendered cultural frameworks, and (4) strengthen gender inequalities. Participants in our study reported using technology in a way that matched the first three of these four characteristics. Yet, it may be argued that the men in our sample used gendered affordances in a way that reinforced gender inequalities, whereas the women used them to protect themselves against the manifestation of gender inequalities.

In their use of digital technology to prevent women from “making stories” of sexual assault, the men in our sample reified the myth that women commonly lie about sexual assault and upheld the belief that “only those accusations that are fully and indisputably ‘above doubt’ deserve public believability and the kinds of care and recognition it implies” (Banet-Weiser & Higgins, 2023, p. 196). As Banet-Weiser and Higgins argue, this essentially undercuts sexual assault victim-survivors’ believability. It is especially problematic considering that false accusations of sexual assault are exceptionally rare (Ferguson & Malouff, 2016), and there is a vast “justice gap” between the number of sexual assaults that occur and those that result in arrest or conviction (Temkin & Krahe, 2008).

Alternatively, the women in our sample used affordances of digital technology to protect themselves from sexual assault, a manifestation of gender inequality that exists in the broader culture. According to data from the CDC’s National Intimate Partner and Sexual Violence Survey, approximately 20% of American women experience some form of sexual assault throughout their adult lives (Leemis et al., 2022). In addition, women and SGM dating app users are at pronounced risk of being harassed and victimized by matches (Filice et al., 2022; Gewirtz-Meydan et al., 2024). These risks were made tangible by the stories of danger that the women in our sample encountered with dating app matches. Being sensitized to danger from their past experiences with dating app matches, the women in our sample utilized digital technology to protect themselves from men’s violence.

Thus, findings from our study point to the complexity of gendered affordances of technology. Past research has focused on men’s use of gendered affordances to exploit women (Díaz-Fernández & García-Mingo, 2022; Schwartz & Neff, 2019; Semenzin & Bainotti, 2020). Our study indicates that gendered affordances may be used to both perpetrate and prevent tangible manifestations of gender inequality. Albeit in a digital economy of believability, where women fear assault and men fear false accusations of assault, both are likely to see their actions as protecting themselves from victimization.

Although our study of dating app users provides a very circumscribed example of the ways users may deploy gendered affordances to both strengthen and mitigate gender inequalities, we believe it breaks ground by applying positionality to our understanding of gendered affordances of technology. Specifically, those in power may use technology in ways that maintain and strengthen gender inequalities, whereas those who are less powerful may use technology to protect themselves from those who wish to uphold inequalities. In our study, men and women used the same technological affordances to achieve goals that directly competed with one another. In this way, the use of gendered affordances is both positional and interactional.

It is important to note that findings from our study are limited in a couple of important ways. First, our study is limited by its use of a small sample with a greater proportion of women than men to investigate a circumscribed topic. Second, all focus groups were conducted by women, and it is possible that using men as facilitators could have produced different responses from participants, especially in the group that solely consisted of men. Despite these limitations, we believe our findings highlight the complexity of gendered affordances, expanding the concept to encompass ways in which gender inequality is both maintained and subverted with technology.