Matthew and I started watching I Kissed A Boy the other night. That’s the sentence. That’s the scandal. The gays finally got their own dating show, and we were ready to indulge—rosé in hand, eyes narrowed, snacks half-forgotten.
The premise? Twelve single gay men are paired based on “compatibility,” shipped to a sun-drenched Italian villa, and introduced by kissing. No names. No talking. Just lips. First impression? Make it wet.
And I’ll be honest: I recoiled.
This is it? This is what the world sees when we finally get a dating show? A villa full of bronzed men tongue-wrestling strangers before unpacking their luggage? We’re really going full Dionysus on the first night? No slow burn, no courtship, just Love Island with tighter swimsuits and better brows?
I turned to Matthew, who was already halfway invested in whether the lad with the bleach-blond fade would self-sabotage by episode two, and whispered—half-joking, half-panicked:
“Why do we have to be portrayed as whores?”
And then I stopped.
Not because I was wrong. But because I was.
Respectability is a Costume We Sew for Straight People
The reflex was predictable. Deep in my bones, I wanted us to look good. Polished. Noble. Normal. It’s the old queer disease—respectability politics dressed up in pastel linen. We spent decades asking to be let in, and now that we’re here—front and center on BBC Three—we want to behave. No sudden movements. No glitter. No kissing strangers in a villa that looks suspiciously like a Pornhub studio set.
But let’s be real: Love Island is the same. The Bachelor has its share of speed-kissing and emotional exhibitionism. And yet when straight people do it, it’s romance. When we do it, it’s a cautionary tale.
Why?
Because the world doesn’t judge us by the content of our character—it judges us by the choreography of our desire.
The Monogamous Weirdo in the Room
Here’s the gag: I’m not even one of the slutty gays.
I’m the outlier. The monogamous one. The homebody. The one who wants one penis, one mortgage, one set of shared Tupperware, and a couch we die on holding hands in our fifties.
I don’t open my relationship. I don’t believe in “situationships.” I want commitment, chaos-free connection, and to never hear the words “emotional exclusivity but physical fluidity” again.
And yet… that’s just my queerness. That’s not the standard. That’s not the blueprint. And it certainly doesn’t make me morally superior to the boy in speedos slow-dancing with a stranger on episode one.
The truth is, the gay community doesn’t have a single template for love—and we shouldn’t.
Gay Chaos Is Not a Crisis
As I kept watching, something shifted.
It wasn’t that the show stopped being messy. It stayed messy—delightfully so. There were awkward kisses, mismatched pairings, uncomfortable silences, bad decisions. But there was also honesty. Vulnerability. Boys admitting they were scared, ashamed, or unsure. Boys being boys—flawed, tender, horny, and hopeful.
And suddenly, I wasn’t angry.
I was grateful.
Because this isn’t about kissing. It’s about autonomy. Visibility. The right to be complex in public. The right to not be sanitized.
Straight people don’t have to represent their entire community every time they make out on TV. Why should we?
Queerness Isn’t the Problem—Human Men Are
Let’s go further: part of the messiness isn’t even about being gay. It’s about being male.
Two men dating each other? Double the testosterone, double the ego, double the avoidance of conflict resolution until one of you explodes while folding laundry. Add in the cultural baggage, the trauma of secrecy, the absence of healthy emotional models, and the fact that half of us didn’t date until college—and you’ve got a recipe for chaotic attachment style with a side of tequila.
So no, it’s not that gay people are immoral. It’s that people are. And men? Men are the worst. We’re impulsive, scared of intimacy, and deeply committed to the art of self-sabotage. When you put two of us in one villa, shit’s going to happen.
On Polyamory, Throuples, FWB, and the Delicious Buffet of Gay Love
Let’s name it: the gay community is an ecosystem. You’ve got your monogamists, your polycules, your ethically non-monogamous open relationships, your “we only play together” couples, your throuples, your friends with benefits, your no-strings weekend flings, your grey-romantics, your sapphic trans masc situationships with chore wheels and shared dogs.
It’s a lot.
And it’s beautiful.
It’s also not for everyone.
We have every right to define our love lives however we want—as long as we’re not hurting anyone. That includes building relationships outside heteronormative frameworks, choosing sexual freedom over romantic entanglement, or prioritizing personal growth over permanence. It also includes saying “no thanks” to all that and settling down with a sweet, sarcastic boyfriend who lets you monologue about trauma over tacos.
I chose monogamy. You don’t have to. That’s the point. That’s the privilege.
What We Owe the Next Generation
What matters most isn’t the form of our relationships. It’s the honesty with which we live them.
When I was a kid, there were no gay dating shows. No queer characters kissing on screen. No language for what I felt or who I wanted. All I had were straight love stories and the hope that maybe—just maybe—there was someone else out there like me.
Now, young queer kids can turn on the TV and see messy, flawed, hopeful versions of themselves. They can see queer desire that’s not always perfect, but real. And maybe they’ll grow up with one less closet to crawl out of.
That’s what visibility gives us. Not perfection. Possibility.
Final Thought
If you’re still clutching your pearls about two gay men kissing on a reality show, ask yourself: is your discomfort about their morality—or your conditioning?
Because I Kissed A Boy isn’t an attack on tradition. It’s an invitation to freedom.
We’re not whores. We’re not saints. We’re human.
And some of us just happen to look damn good kissing strangers in a villa.