Television has made real strides in how it portrays gay relationships. Where gay characters were once relegated to subplots or stereotypes, many shows now allow them complexity, intimacy, and genuine sexual agency. Gay sex, in particular, is no longer automatically tragic, shameful, or implied off-screen. That progress matters. But for all this newfound visibility, there remains one oddly persistent fantasy: the idea that penetrative gay sex requires no preparation at all.
Across television and film, gay sex scenes often follow the same script. Two men come together in a moment of emotional or physical intensity. There is urgency, attraction, sometimes vulnerability—and then, almost immediately, sex happens. Smoothly. Effortlessly. As if the human body is always perfectly prepared for penetration, regardless of timing, context, or reality.
Anyone familiar with gay or indeed anyone par-taking in anal sex knows this is not how it usually works.
Preparation is a normal part of many people’s sexual lives, particularly when anal sex is involved. It can take time. It can require planning. It can even influence when and how sex happens. Yet TV narratives consistently erase this aspect, presenting a version of gay intimacy that is permanently spontaneous and frictionless.
Recent series like Heated Rivalry are far from alone in perpetuating this myth. I sat aghast (clutching my pearls) as Smootie making genius Kip – up early, busying himself in Hunter’s kitchen to make his famed Banana and Blueberry drink – only to be thanked by Hunter with a “can I fuck you” to which the answer is yes, presumably – Kip had the opportunity, before Hunter awoke to brush teeth, floss, morning poop and then douche, before digging into cupboards to find Blueberries, bananas and a nutribullet.
After work, in the middle of the night, during emotionally charged reunions—there is never a pause, a negotiation, or even a hint that logistics might play a role.
From prestige dramas to rom-coms, bottoms are routinely portrayed as being perpetually “ready,” no matter the circumstances. After work, in the middle of the night, during emotionally charged reunions—there is never a pause, a negotiation, or even a hint that logistics might play a role.
The problem isn’t that these shows feature sex. It’s that they strip sex of the realities that many people navigate, creating a polished fantasy that subtly reshapes expectations. For viewers who are young, inexperienced, or still figuring out their relationship to sex, these portrayals can suggest that readiness should be instant—and that anything else is awkward, inconvenient, or somehow undesirable.
There is also a quiet stigma embedded in this silence. By refusing to acknowledge preparation, television implies that it is too unglamorous or too bodily to belong in a romantic narrative. But bodies are part of sex. Planning is part of care. Communication is part of intimacy. None of these elements diminish desire; in fact, they often deepen trust and connection.
Importantly, realism doesn’t require graphic detail. No one is asking for explicit depictions or instructional moments. Small narrative choices would suffice: a delayed hookup, a brief exchange about timing, a moment that acknowledges sex sometimes requires coordination. Even subtle signals could normalise the idea that sex is something people plan with each other, not something that simply happens on cue.
Gay representation on television has matured enough to embrace complexity. It can handle conversations about consent, vulnerability, and emotional stakes. It should also be capable of acknowledging a simple truth: spontaneous desire is real, but sexual readiness isn’t always instantaneous. Recognising that wouldn’t make gay sex on screen less appealing—it would make it more honest.
