In our digital age, a gay man can just as easily find a casual sex partner as he can have take-out delivered to his doorstep, or buy a new shirt, or pre-order a cup of coffee on the way to work. And just as easily, he can meet up with as many men as often as he desires. Perhaps this is why, for better and worse, gay men have built a reputation for being the most sex-forward — or sex-obsessed, depending on your stance on the issue — of the queer community.

Certainly, the ease with which gay men are able to initiate sex with each other breeds its own set of problems. Many will rightfully lament a lack of sincerity, an unfulfilled longing for a genuine, emotional connection, or, more frankly, a disdain for being treated solely like a piece of meat. That said, others will attest to hook-up apps being a handy starting-point for some of the most meaningful relationships in their lives.

In fact, Jun Li’s Queerpanorama turns its lens on the very beauty of gay hook-up culture. The film follows an unnamed young man in Hong Kong, played by Jayden Cheung, as he moves from hook-up to hook-up. Every time he meets a new man, he adopts the history, details, and even name of the previous one. What ensues is a fascinating, at times philosophical, take on the inherent tension between truth and nudity in gay hook-up culture that ultimately asks: is a connection less honest if you lay bare your body, exposing it and giving it up for someone else’s pleasure, but fundamentally lie about who you are? And further: does it even matter?

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The film argues that it doesn’t — that two strangers can, in truth, find meaning in fleeting desire — but is deceptive, at least at first, in its assertion. Indeed, Li opts for black-and-white cinematography, the monochromatic visuals immediately suggesting a sort of binary — yes versus no, good versus bad — in answering this overarching question. What’s more, the camera remains static and often distanced from the protagonist and his lovers, which makes our inclusion in their intimacy almost an intrusion. As such, it’s not difficult to, at the start, feel awkward and clunky in our own selves (we are verifiably voyeurs) during these scenes.

But, in fact, that is how anonymous sex often plays out: the stumbling at the beginning as we, figuratively and literally, size each other up, and the wondering whether we chat for a bit or just jump into bed, both of which are stepping stones to what could be a rocking good time. As we settle in with the protagonist, the black-and-white cinematography morphs into something romantic, a nostalgia for old-school photographic beauty. Light foregrounds the actors’ bodies — and they’re all beautiful — while the shadows tease the eyes to explore further.

To great effect, Li not only casts non-professionals in the roles of the protagonist’s lovers, but also pulls from his own hook-up history, even asking some of them to play the dramatized versions of themselves. This adds another layer of intimacy, perhaps of the highest order, considering Li’s choice here has arguably immortalized his encounters with these men on film. In turn, the exchanges between the protagonist and these men, which may seem superficial, reveal a soulful undercurrent. They get to know each other’s stances on life, love, and sex, the troubles they’re facing at work or in their other relationships, and, most of all, what they truly desire beyond the physical.

In this regard, Cheung provides the perfect vessel for the protagonist’s internal and external exploration. He delivers a quiet performance that is alive with introspection, deftly weaving through his character’s listlessness — he’s clearly yearning for something — but never completely giving himself away. You’re drawn to him, and even though you’re privy to his lying to his lovers, you can, if you listen closely, hear whispers of truth beneath his facade.

And that’s the beauty of Queerpanorama: I had to actively search for its meaning. Just like the protagonist’s lovers, I entered the room with my own anticipations — likely even reservations — over what would happen. But once I let go and gave in to the moment — indeed, gave part of myself to the film in return — there was no doubt that I would walk away with a piece of someone else’s story. Sex can just be sex, yes, but, as the film attests, with a kiss, a touch, even a glance, you inevitably walk away from it with something else — something more.