So it’s finally happened. The gays have a dating show.
Not a makeover show. Not a trauma documentary. Not another sob-stained coming out arc framed by string lights and tearful piano music. An actual, honest-to-God dating show. And not just any dating show—a trashy, sun-drenched, kissing-at-hello reality dating show with barely clothed men, confessionals, and high-stakes emotional sabotage.
I Kissed A Boy has landed on Hulu, and it’s glorious. Not because it’s good. Because it’s equal.
For decades, heterosexuals have had full, unapologetic access to reality TV depravity. They’ve handed out roses like legal weapons. They’ve fake-married strangers for cash. They’ve ugly-cried in infinity pools over men named Chase. Meanwhile, gay men have been relegated to background commentary, decoratively fabulous, forever adjacent to the mess but never allowed to be the mess themselves.
But now? We finally get to be unwell on camera too.
Ten gay men. One villa in Italy. No apps, no bios, no warnings. Just blind dates that begin with a kiss before names are exchanged. It’s romantic in the way slipping in the shower and surviving is romantic—you didn’t plan it, it’s awkward as hell, and somehow you’re more alive for it.
The premise is simple and deranged: introduce two men by making them kiss immediately. Then let them live together, stew in sexual tension, passive aggression, and British accents until someone cries in a hot tub. It’s everything The Bachelor wishes it could be—horny, insecure, occasionally tender, and bursting at the seams with repressed trauma masquerading as confidence.
It is, in short, the most accurate depiction of gay dating ever filmed.
But what makes I Kissed A Boy revolutionary isn’t that it’s queer—it’s that it’s trashy. We’ve had queer prestige. We’ve had queer pain. We’ve had queer excellence. What we haven’t had is queer mediocrity in a speedo, chain-vaping behind a villa curtain while muttering, “I just thought we had more of a vibe.”
And that’s what we’ve been missing. Not dignity. Visibility.
Not respect. Humiliation.
Not acceptance. Equal opportunity disaster.
This is representation that doesn’t try to save us—it lets us be ridiculous. It allows gay men to be messy, jealous, performative, emotionally misaligned disasters in front of millions, just like straight people have for years.
Representation isn’t always empowerment. Sometimes, it’s watching Dan from Manchester melt down because Aaron from Leeds flirted for two seconds with someone new in the pool. Sometimes it’s a man crying into his cocktail while a disinterested producer asks, “How does that make you feel?” Sometimes it’s watching a kiss turn to regret in real time, and then watching both parties try to power through it with a group yoga session and three Aperol Spritzes.
That’s progress. That’s equality. That’s art.
We’ve earned this. We’ve earned the right to stare into the camera and say, “I just feel like he’s not seeing me for who I am,” while wearing glitter shorts and refusing to make eye contact at breakfast. We’ve earned the right to spiral in a confessional booth because someone we met three hours ago made out with someone else after dark. We’ve earned the right to be just as fragile, petty, and theatrically devastated as our straight counterparts.
Let the record show: this is what Stonewall was for.
Of course, the show is not without its critics. Some say it reinforces stereotypes. Others ask, “Is this really the best way to represent queer love?” But here’s the thing—representation isn’t supposed to be polite. It’s supposed to reflect who we are. And sometimes who we are is six men arguing about eye contact while a disco ball spins in the background and a host whispers, “Tonight, someone goes home alone.”
Because here’s the truth: queer liberation means the freedom to be boring, slutty, confusing, toxic, kind, horny, inconsistent, and deeply committed to bad decisions. It means not having to be noble just because we’re visible. It means saying, “I love you,” and immediately following it with, “But I think I’m more into Jamie.”
I Kissed A Boy isn’t trying to elevate queer culture. It’s trying to get you to binge ten episodes in a row while texting your friends, “I think I would’ve picked Callum too, but damn, that was cold.” And in a world where queer people are still under siege politically, culturally, and legislatively, there’s something radical about just being allowed to be messy.
Let the straights keep their Tinder weddings and manufactured trauma arcs. We’ve got something better now. We’ve got Gareth and Mikey slow-dancing to Years & Years under a string of lights while someone else screams into a pool float because “no one here is being real.”
Final Thought:
After all these years, it turns out the key to queer liberation wasn’t another heartfelt monologue or flawless campaign. It was watching two gay men kiss, panic, and then awkwardly sit together on a beanbag chair while pretending everything’s fine.