Ironically, as LGBTQ+ rights have advanced in Western contexts, the very people who paved the way—those feminine gay men who were at the front lines of early Pride marches—have often found themselves marginalised within their own communities. The emergence of exclusionary attitudes, summarised in phrases like “no fats, no fems,” reveals how misogyny and internalised homophobia persist, erasing the vital contributions made by these trailblazers.
If you want to understand who holds power in any culture, look at who gets to be seen as desirable. Desire is never neutral—it is shaped by history, media, capitalism, colonialism, and trauma. And in gay male culture, it has often been weaponised to exclude, shame, and erase.
From the earliest days of Gay.com, I saw this pattern emerging. Online dating promised liberation: connection across distance, safety from street harassment, freedom to be seen. But very quickly, it also became a marketplace—and like all markets, it rewarded those who already fit the dominant ideal.
And that ideal was unmistakable: white, thin, muscular, cisgender, and conventionally masculine. Fat bodies? Mocked or ignored. Black and brown bodies? Fetishised or dismissed. Older bodies? Rendered invisible. Feminine bodies? Excluded outright.
Gay dating platforms became echo chambers of exclusion, full of coded—and not-so-coded—language: “No fats. No fems. No Asians.” “Just a preference.” “Clean only.” These aren’t harmless quirks. They are curated, cruel hierarchies—micro-manifestos of who is allowed to be seen and who must remain hidden.
In some corners of gay sexual culture, Black men have been reduced to a fetish—often referred to by the degrading acronym “BBC.” Their bodies are hypersexualised, desired, and consumed, yet they are rarely welcomed as full participants in the broader queer community. They are expected to perform, to satisfy, and then disappear. This is not connection; it is commodification. It reflects a deeper problem in how race, desire, and power intersect—where fantasies are indulged, but people are not seen. As Rinaldo Walcott argues in Black Like Who?, the Black queer subject is often present only as a site of fantasy or trauma, not as a full subject.²
This Pride Month, it’s essential to reflect deeply on our collective history and acknowledge who remains excluded from the victories we’ve achieved. The flamboyant, effeminate men who once were indispensable in our marches and advocacy must be remembered and celebrated. Their courage provided the visibility that made progress possible.
Let’s reclaim Pride as a celebration of difference, a recognition of our diverse histories, and a commitment never to leave behind those whose bold visibility helped win the rights we now cherish.
² Rinaldo Walcott, Black Like Who?: Writing Black Canada (Toronto: Insomniac Press, 1997).
