In recent years, we’ve seen a rise in queer representation in pop culture, but that doesn’t mean everything has improved. There are still moments that leave many of us questioning whether real progress has been made, or whether some portrayals of wlw (women-loving-women) relationships are still designed more for shock value or male entertainment than authentic representation.
The most recent offender is Katy Perry and Doechii’s performance at the 2024 VMAs, which stirred up significant controversy. The two women, both of whom identify as queer in some capacity, simulated a wlw sex act on stage while singing about their relationship to…a man. While some praised the performance, others—including many in the LGBTQ+ community—found it unsettling. Actually, for many queer viewers, including myself, it not only felt deeply uncomfortable, but it also felt like a step backwards. It’s frustrating when something that should feel empowering—two women expressing their sexuality—turns into something that feels like it’s crafted for male consumption.
Katy Perry has been a lightning rod for this kind of criticism for years, ever since her 2008 hit I Kissed a Girl. Many queer women at the time felt that the song turned same-sex attraction into a casual, experimental experience for straight women, all wrapped up in lyrics that screamed “this is for male attention.”
So, what exactly is the issue here? If both Doechii and Katy are queer women, can they still be guilty of fetishising queer women? And why does it seem like these kinds of performances keep happening?
Content creator Maddy Flower, who identifies as a lesbian, shared her thoughts with me: “It was just icky… Two women simulating a wlw sex act while singing about belonging to a man—what message does that send? It reinforces this idea that lesbianism is just a kink for men, rather than a valid sexual identity.” And she’s right. For queer women, especially lesbians and bisexuals, it’s exhausting to see your identity boiled down to something that exists for someone else’s pleasure.
But then, does the fact that both Perry and Doechii identify as queer change how we should view this performance? This is where things become more complicated. Can two queer women performing wlw intimacy still be problematic, or does their queerness give them more room to explore this territory? Some might argue that queer people should be able to express their sexuality however they choose, and that any discomfort with this is rooted in old-fashioned ideas about what’s “appropriate” for public consumption. Another thing to consider is that we don’t know the intimate details of Katy and Doechii’s queer identity, if it turned out they were both pansexual and polyamorous wouldn’t the concerns over performance immediately be nullified? Or is there still room to critique?
I still am not sure that it does. As Maddy and many others point out, it’s the context that matters. Yes, the lyrics to the song Perry and Doechii performed centre around a man, making it hard to separate their portrayal of wlw intimacy from the idea that it exists for male enjoyment. But also you have to acknowledge that this is a huge public event and they are going to choreograph a routine that is going to get the most attention from both the public and press, and when you think about it like that, it does indeed start to feel icky.
Karlye Whitt, another creator who identifies as a lesbian, echoed Maddy’s sentiment. She described feeling “jarring” discomfort watching the performance, pointing out that Perry and Doechii’s actions send a message that wlw intimacy isn’t something to be respected, but something to be consumed. “Emulating queer sex between two women when the song is saying, ‘I’m his queen, I’m his freak,’ reduces wlw intimacy to a kink for men,” Karlye said. And this is where the harm really lies—it’s not just about the performance, but about how it fuels these damaging ideas about queer women in the real world.
Just because someone is part of the LGBTQ+ community doesn’t mean they’re immune to perpetuating harmful narratives. In fact, it can be even more hurtful when it comes from within. As Karlye pointed out, it’s particularly disheartening when queer women play into these tropes because it sends the message that this is okay—that wlw relationships exist for entertainment, rather than for us. And it’s not just straight people who see wlw relationships this way. Queer women have shared experiences where even other queer people treat their sexuality as something to explore or fetishise.
I’ve personally noticed this dynamic in dating, where bisexual women, in particular, are often assumed to be more sexually available or “open” to things like threesomes, even when that’s not what we’re looking for. It’s an exhausting stereotype that comes up again and again, and these kinds of performances only serve to normalise it further.
Beyond the VMAs, this isn’t an isolated issue. There are countless examples of wlw intimacy being used for shock value or titillation in pop culture. Rita Ora’s 2018 song Girls, which featured lines about kissing women while drunk, was called out for playing into the stereotype that bisexuality is something fun to experiment with. Even Sabrina Carpenter’s music video for Taste, where she kisses Jenna Ortega, had some fans wondering whether the moment was more about views and headlines than genuine representation.
And again, context plays a role. Some viewers defended Carpenter and Ortega, pointing out that in the video’s storyline, the kiss made sense. Others felt uncomfortable watching two straight women engaging in wlw imagery without any deeper exploration of queer identity. Are we too quick to assume these moments are just for show, or does the history of wlw fetishisation in media make it difficult to see them any other way?
It’s not that I think every on-screen kiss between women needs to come with a statement about sexuality. But when queer women’s relationships have been fetishised for so long, the context matters. Are these moments being used to explore genuine attraction or are they being thrown in for views and headlines? That’s the question we should be asking.
The real issue here is that this kind of portrayal—lesbianism as a performance for men—has real-world consequences. Maddy Flower reminded me of the 2019 incident in London where a lesbian couple was attacked on a bus after refusing to kiss for a group of teenage boys. These performances fuel the dangerous idea that wlw intimacy is something for men to consume or control, and when it spills over into real life, it leads to harassment, violence, and a general lack of respect for queer women’s relationships.
As a bisexual woman, I’ve experienced this kind of fetishisation firsthand. Being constantly reduced to someone who exists for male attention is draining. And it’s even more infuriating when it happens within queer spaces. Bisexual women, in particular, often find themselves sexualised in ways that lesbians aren’t, and performances like Perry and Doechii’s only make that worse. We don’t need more media suggesting that wlw relationships are a kink or a phase. What we need is respect.
So what can we do about it? First off, it’s important to hold people accountable—yes, even if they’re queer. Being part of the LGBTQ+ community doesn’t give anyone a free pass to perpetuate harmful stereotypes. And it’s not “biphobic” to criticise someone’s actions when those actions are harmful to the community as a whole. As Maddy put it, “If Perry and Doechii’s lyrics weren’t all about them centring and performing for men, the criticism would be less valid.”
We also need to be critical of the media we consume. When straight women like Sabrina Carpenter or even queer women like Katy Perry play into these tropes, we need to ask why. Who is this performance for? And who is it harming? Supporting authentic queer voices and creators who treat wlw relationships with the respect they deserve is one way to start shifting the narrative.
Pop culture has a huge impact on how we see ourselves and how others see us. It’s time to stop letting these damaging portrayals slide under the radar. Whether you’re queer or an ally, we need to challenge these stereotypes wherever they appear, and make space for authentic, respectful representations of wlw relationships.
The fetishisation of queer women isn’t going to disappear overnight, but calling it out, even when it’s uncomfortable, is the first step in dismantling it.
For now, the conversation continues. It’s up to both the creators and the audience to think critically about how queer women are being portrayed in media, and whether that representation is moving us forward or holding us back. Maybe the next step is simply continuing to ask these questions and not settling for easy answers.
