A gay best friend is shown as the perfect accessory for any hip straight woman. “It’s just us girls,” they croon to each other, holding hands at the nail salon. Everywhere, the media gives us the gay-best-friend dynamic: straight women treating cis gay men like pets. The trope of the tame gay man is a favorite in straight culture. How could straight women feel that they have the authority to write gay romance? Because they’ve been told so by a culture that has long treated gay men as a neutered, fetishized object of curiosity. I may not be a gay man, but I know appropriation when I see it. The first time I noticed this, I flipped the book over in my hands, back and forth, looking at the ultra-gay cover art, and then the author’s photo on the back. Straight, white women who, in their “about the author” sections, talked about their husbands, children, cats, chickens, and love of artisanal cured meats. The vast majority of gay romances are written by women. I was surprised to find that some LGBTQ-focused stories were reflecting not me, but a straight person’s imagination of me. But I was surprised to find that some LGBTQ-focused stories were reflecting not me, but a straight person’s imagination of me. As a queer, trans reader, I looked forward to seeing myself in their pages. But outside the industry, these distinctions are elided, and most people think of all male-male romance novels as “gay.”) I was excited to see more indie presses focusing on LGBTQ stories and choosing romances that were complex, interesting, and dealt with issues like domestic violence or adoption.
(Technically what I’m talking about is called “male/male romance” “gay romance” is written by gay men for gay men, may not focus on a romantic relationship, and doesn’t guarantee a happily-ever-after. When I started working as a book reviewer in 2009, gay romance was exploding as a popular romance genre. In gay romance novels, it’s both, and straight women writers are responsible. So often, though, for queer people, the options are either super whitewashed or rooted in hurtful stereotypes. Seeing yourself, whether it’s on the screen or on the page, is a powerful experience. In the meantime, I'm going to clear my Netflix queue before my next GNI (gays' night in).Sign up for our newsletter to get submission announcements and stay on top of our best work. So if you have strong feelings about anything below, I'm all ears.
Full disclosure: As a gay man, I have absolutely zero authority over whether the female stimulation depicted is accurate-or fun.
Here, I've rounded up TV shows and films with the best sex scenes on Netflix featuring LGBTQ couples.
But there's something really erotic about watching a sexual relationship blossom after a romantic (often dramatic) series of events that don't begin with a boring porn opener like, "Hey, I'm Tyler-want to f*ck?" Don't get it twisted: Porn is great when I want to see straight-up nudity and pretend that I don't need buckets of lube to make anal sex pleasurable. It's gotten to that point where these days, sex scenes on Netflix can be more of a turn-on for me than actual porn. My hope is that these graphic, raw sex scenes will help those still exploring their identities to understand their sexualities are completely normal, no matter who they prefer. Thankfully, as cinematography has evolved, so has mainstream media's portrayal of intimacy across the spectrum of sexuality. (They were all PG-13-maybe the R-rated ones were a little more gratuitous, but I was too nervous to search for them on my family computer.) As a gay teenager still in the closet, these muted portrayals of queer sexuality only furthered the idea that my identity was something I needed to hide. When I was younger, most LGBTQ sex scenes I saw didn't show much beyond two people passionately making out, a little hand-over-the-crotch action, and tight shots of faces moaning.