Why Queer Stories Deserve More Than Straight Imagination
Being a Straight Ally Doesn’t Mean You Get to Cosplay as Gay (written by a very straight ally)
Something needs to be said about the literary world.
I’m a rainbow ally 🏳️🌈. Always have been. Even growing up in a deeply conservative Filipino household in the ‘90s (don’t ask… actually, you know what? Do ask – I was born in ‘92 and yes, I survived purity culture and “anak ng Diyos” guilt).
Even as a kid, I never understood why being gay was considered wrong. Especially when it was so normal to be surrounded by queer people in every city I lived in back in the Philippines. They were our neighbors, cousins, titas, dance instructors, TV personalities. Queerness wasn’t taboo, it was just life.
So, believe me when I say: I love the creative renaissance we’re seeing in queer representation. Books, movies, video games – the LGBTQIA+ presence in all the things I love is finally taking up space, and it’s long overdue. The storytelling is becoming richer, queerer, and more human.
But…
Here comes the but.
There’s one thing gnawing at my insides like a manananggal mistaking my liver for lechon leftovers:
The Rise of Queer Literature… Written by Straight People.
Let me cut to the chase: I fucking hate it.
Not queer lit – no, give me more queer lit. Drown me in queer lit. Baptize me in it.
What I hate are the straight writers churning it out like it’s their little side quest in “allyship.” Writing stories that don’t belong to them under the noble guise of “inclusion.”
Let me explain.
I grew up in a country whose history was nearly erased by colonizers. And while that’s a whole other blog post (or twelve), the experience taught me something vital: when people who don’t know your struggle try to tell your story, it’s not “representation.” It’s repackaged theft.
Let’s simplify it:
If you are not gay, I don’t think you should write about being gay.
If you “have a lot of gay friends,” then cool, write about your experience as a straight person with gay friends. That’s valid. That’s your truth.
But don’t you dare slap on a rainbow and start writing from a perspective you’ve never lived – especially when it’s drenched in tropes, trauma porn, or worse: erotic fan service.
Here’s what cracked this open for me:
I was catching up with a friend from the Philippines, my homeland I haven’t seen in over 12 years. We started chatting about the surge in reading culture. Specifically, BL.
“What’s BL?” I asked, thinking it was some trendy cosmetic procedure like BBL. (Look, I didn’t have a vibrant experience in Canada like most people have. Don’t judge.)
She laughed awkwardly. “It means Boys’ Love.” She admitted to reading and enjoying a lot of BL books. And even braced herself for judgment.
I blinked.
“…But that’s just called love, isn’t it?”
Fetishizing ‘Boys’ Love’
Now, don’t get me wrong. I love that queer narratives are being read and sought out more. But the more I dug into this genre, the more I found out a lot of these stories (surprise, surprise) are being written by straight women.
And suddenly, the vibe shifted.
Because these stories? They’re often not about love. Not really.
They’re about fantasy and fetish. An erotic spectacle for straight women who enjoy writing about sword fights.
They don’t read like ordinary, everyday love stories where the main characters just exist and love each other in peace. No. These stories are hyper-sexualized, exaggerated, and catered to the arousal of a straight audience.
Let me say this louder for the BL authors in the back: Queer people are not your genre.
They’re not a kink. They’re not here for your projection or plot devices.
They’re people. Like you and me.
And yet, here we are again. Watching marginalized stories get reduced to vibes and fantasies by the people who’ve never walked a single block in those shoes.
You know what this is? It’s the literary equivalent of saying, “I don’t care what you do in the bedroom, just don’t shove it down my throat.”
I’ve actually heard that line. From a conservative family friend. She’s in her 70s. I let it slide because I didn’t feel like dying on that hill again. But I still said this to her:
“Pride Month isn’t about what happens in the bedroom. It’s about reclaiming visibility. It’s about being seen, fully, in a world that still, too often, chooses to erase or punish queerness. They’re not flaunting anything. They just want to exist. To be recognized like the rest of us.”
That’s what people forget. Representation isn’t always about sex. Sometimes, it’s just about existing without apologizing for being.
And of course they have to be loud! Of course they’re “obnoxious” about it. There’s no other way to present yourself when you’ve been silenced for so long.
So when straight writers try to pen queer stories without understanding what queerness is – what it’s like to be in their shoes. To be mocked and teased, or to be generalized as something they’re absolutely not – it becomes a weird flavor of cultural appropriation.
It’s not allyship. It’s cosplay.
And to the straight women who write this stuff:
Babes. You know how offensive it feels when men write women poorly, right? (If I have to read one more scene where a woman’s “bossom rises and falls with every breath she takes” I will riot.)
This is the same thing. You can’t empathize your way into an identity. You can only honor it by passing the mic.
Also, I’m fucking disappointed in you. Get a life. Fight me. (Or both. I’m open.)
So what now?
I’m not saying straight writers should never include queer characters. I’m saying: know your lane. Stay in your POV. Tell the truth from where you’re standing.
And maybe, just maybe, let queer folks write their own damn stories. God knows they’ve waited long enough.
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