Boys' Love, Representation, and the Gaze: Unpacking the Rise of Queer Stories in Manga

BL Manga: Progress, Fetish, or Both?

 

I. Unpacking queerness, gender, and the gaze in Boys’ Love manga

You don’t have to go digging through obscure fan forums or anime conventions to find Boys’ Love manga anymore. These days, BL titles are getting official English translations, prominent shelf space, and enthusiastic readerships far beyond Japan. For many queer readers, especially those craving stories about same-gender relationships, this explosion of content can feel like progress—and in many ways, it is.

Boys’ Love (BL) manga, also known as yaoi, focuses on romantic and often sexual relationships between men. But what makes BL unique isn’t just its subject matter—it’s who’s behind it. Most BL is written and illustrated by women, for a largely female audience. It exists in its own genre space, separate from gay manga (bara), which is created by and for queer men.

This distinction matters, because while BL stories often center queer relationships, they don’t always reflect queer realities. The genre can offer deeply emotional and affirming moments—but it can also fall into harmful tropes, fetishize gay relationships, or erase the complexities of LGBTQ+ identity altogether.

So where does that leave us?

This post isn’t about dismissing the genre or gatekeeping who’s allowed to enjoy it. I’ve read BL. I’ve enjoyed BL. But I also think it’s worth examining the lens through which these stories are told—and who that lens serves. BL manga lives in a complicated space between visibility and fantasy, between progress and problematic framing.

If we care about queer representation in media, that tension deserves our attention.

Let’s talk about how we got here.

 

II. A Brief History of BL

Though depictions of same-gender love appear throughout Japanese history, contemporary Boys’ Love (BL) manga traces its roots to the 1970s, when male-male romance began to emerge as a distinct subgenre within shōjo manga (comics aimed at young girls). These early stories were often deeply emotional, set in fantasy or European boarding school-like settings, and centered on androgynous, beautiful boys known as bishōnen.

Several terms were used to describe the genre in its early form, including shōnen-ai (“boy love”), tanbi (“aesthetic”), and June (from the first magazine dedicated to this type of content). These works were not written for gay male readers, but for a female audience, largely by women authors who used these stories as a space to explore gender, intimacy, and emotion outside the constraints placed on female characters.

In the late 1970s and early 1980s, the term yaoi emerged out of dōjinshi (self-published fan works) culture. A portmanteau of yama nashi, ochi nashi, imi nashi (“no climax, no point, no meaning”), yaoi began as a tongue-in-cheek label for erotic fan comics that focused heavily on sex, often at the expense of plot or character development. These fanworks frequently reimagined characters from popular series in romantic or sexual relationships—something that still happens widely in BL fandom today.

As the genre grew, publishers began to consolidate these various strands under the umbrella term “Boys’ Love” in the 1990s, marking its full transition into a commercial genre with a dedicated industry, readership, and cultural presence. BL had moved beyond parody and pastiche into a full-fledged narrative form with its own tropes, aesthetics, and norms.

Some of those tropes are still widely used today: the seme-uke dynamic (with the seme as the dominant pursuer and the uke as the passive object of affection), a tendency to de-emphasize female characters, and a focus on homosocial bonds that often ignore real-world queerness or homophobia. Controversially, non-consensual encounters and problematic power dynamics also became common plot devices—something that continues to spark debate among readers and critics alike.

It’s also important to distinguish BL from gay manga (bara). While BL is typically created by women for women, gay manga is created by and for gay men, often with a more realistic tone, body diversity, and themes grounded in lived queer experience. The two genres may depict similar subjects, but they operate within very different cultural and creative frameworks.

By the 1990s and 2000s, BL had begun spreading internationally—first through fan translation and unlicensed circulation, and later through formal licensing and distribution. Today, it has a global fanbase, active academic interest, and a growing influence on how same-gender love stories are told and consumed across cultures.

Still, its origins—as a genre created by outsiders looking in—continue to shape how it portrays queerness, and how queer readers relate to it.

 

III. The Progress Side: Visibility, Emotional Bonds, and Escapism

For all the valid criticisms of the BL genre, it’s also true that these stories have offered something that mainstream media has rarely delivered—same-gender relationships at the center of the narrative, treated with intensity, care, and emotional weight.

At its best, BL gives male characters emotional depth and romantic agency. These stories often focus on homosocial bonds—friendships and rivalries that develop into something more—and celebrate emotional vulnerability and spiritual connection between men. Unlike traditional gendered romance narratives, BL often depicts partnerships that move beyond the male-female hierarchy, instead portraying a more equal emotional playing field.

As with most romance genres, the tension in BL often arises from emotional or psychological obstacles, rather than physical ones. The love stories tend to unfold in intimate, internal ways. And because BL has traditionally de-emphasized socio-cultural homophobia, it can feel like a kind of utopia—a world where queerness is accepted (or simply not questioned), and where the drama lies in relationships, not oppression. Scholars like Akiko Mizoguchi have even described this as a form of quiet activism, allowing both authors and readers to imagine a society where queerness is normalized, not marginalized.

Over time, especially since the mid-2000s, BL has begun to include more thoughtful depictions of coming out, identity, and community. Stories like Brilliant Blue explore gradual self-acceptance and integration into society, while longer-form works like Fake or Kizuna: Bonds of Love show same-gender couples forming domestic partnerships—living together, adopting children, even getting married in speculative or Omegaverse-style settings.

And while early BL often leaned into shame or secrecy as narrative fuel, more recent stories have shifted away from this trope. As editors noted in 2019, coming out is no longer a go-to source of drama. In fact, its inclusion in a plot is sometimes seen as outdated unless handled with nuance. These shifts reflect a growing awareness within the genre that readers—many of whom are now queer themselves—are looking for more than fantasy. They’re looking for connection.

Still, BL remains a space of escapism. Even when it gestures at realism, its primary aim is emotional satisfaction, not documentary-style storytelling. As such, homophobia is often sidelined or stylized, and political themes are kept at a distance. For some readers, that’s part of the appeal—especially for those who grew up with nothing but trauma narratives or total invisibility.

And while BL was not created for a queer male audience, many queer readers have found meaning in it anyway. They’ve reshaped the conversation around BL, calling in the genre’s flaws while also claiming its possibilities. It’s not unusual for a queer fan to say, “This wasn’t made for me, but I still saw myself in it.” That paradox is part of what makes BL so complex—and so worth examining.

 

IV. The Problematic Side: Flattened Queerness, Fetish Tropes, and What Gets Lost

For all its emotional power and potential for connection, the BL genre carries with it a legacy of complicated dynamics—especially when viewed through the lens of queer representation, gender politics, and consent. These are not merely side issues but structural patterns that shape how queerness is portrayed and consumed in these stories.

One of the most persistent issues is how BL often detaches queerness from identity. Characters may fall in love with other men, but they frequently insist “I’m not gay—just in love with you.” This framing may appear to sidestep rigid labels in favor of fluidity, but it also dilutes the idea of queerness as a real, lived experience. The men in BL often exist in a vacuum, untouched by LGBTQ+ community, politics, or broader identity. Even when stories touch on coming out or facing disapproval, these conflicts are usually presented in stylized or abstract ways. The result is a world where being gay is romantic but rarely real—where queerness is a plot device, not a personal truth.

This fantasy extends beyond sexuality to gender representation as well. Women, particularly in older works, are frequently absent, minimized, or painted in a negative light. Mothers especially are often depicted as emotionally distant or even antagonistic, suggesting a desire to replace maternal affection with the intense, all-consuming love between male characters. In many dōjinshi adaptations of existing media, female characters are outright removed or killed off, their presence seen as a disruption to the emotional fantasy. While more recent BL has made space for women—often in the role of supportive friends—there remains a lingering sense that female visibility is a threat to the genre’s escapism. This dynamic has long fueled critiques of internalized misogyny within BL's predominantly female fanbase, even as some scholars argue that the genre has evolved beyond its more exclusionary roots.

Perhaps the most controversial element of BL is its treatment of consent. Rape or coercion is often romanticized—not depicted as violence, but as overwhelming passion. The seme is unable to control his desire; the uke is so irresistible that resistance becomes part of the courtship. These scenes are rarely presented as acts of harm. Instead, they often function as emotional turning points that lead to love, trust, and eventual connection. While some stories have challenged or subverted this trope—showing rape as traumatic, or critiquing its normalization—the genre as a whole still leans heavily on this narrative device. And though many readers distinguish between fictional fantasy and real-world violence, the sheer prevalence of these tropes shapes how desire and boundaries are framed within BL spaces.

This tendency to heighten emotional stakes through suffering has roots in the genre’s early days. Tragic endings—especially involving death, suicide, or societal rejection—were once common in June and early BL stories. Though happy endings are more typical now, tragedy still finds its place. When it appears, it’s usually framed as the result of an unfeeling, homophobic world—one that threatens the couple’s love rather than the relationship itself. These stories can be cathartic, especially for readers processing their own pain or trauma. But they also raise questions about whose suffering is being romanticized and what it means to continually frame queer love as fragile, forbidden, or doomed.

In all of this, BL offers something both powerful and problematic: a fantasy of queer intimacy unbound by real-world limitations—but also one that sometimes flattens or distorts the very identities it seeks to explore. For readers who see themselves reflected in these stories, the result can be both affirming and alienating—a mirror that shines, but also warps.

 

V. Can We Hold Space for Both? Love, Critique, and the Future of BL

BL occupies a paradoxical space. It is both a genre of emotional resonance and queer possibility, and a site where harmful tropes—often born from ignorance or fantasy—can take root. This duality doesn’t mean we must reject the genre altogether. Rather, it invites us to hold space for both celebration and critique, to read with awareness, and to love the stories that shaped us while still asking for more.

Part of that future is already being written. In recent years, we’ve seen the rise of BL-adjacent and BL-aware works that center queer authors and more authentic depictions of queer relationships. Manga like Our Dining Table or I Hear the Sunspot focus on tenderness, communication, and healing without relying on coercive tropes. Other stories challenge the seme/uke binary, sidestep homophobia as a token obstacle, or allow characters to articulate their identities beyond “just this one guy.”

Internationally, queer creators are also reimagining the BL framework. Artists and writers outside of Japan—many of whom are queer themselves—are remixing the genre with new lenses, using its aesthetics and emotional rhythms while shifting the power dynamics and assumptions underneath. Indie comics, webtoons, and self-published zines have become playgrounds for experimentation, where queerness is not filtered through a cishet gaze but embraced as lived truth.

This evolution doesn’t erase BL’s complicated past. But it suggests that genres can grow, especially when fans and creators engage critically. Loving something deeply often means asking it to do better. When we acknowledge what BL gave us—emotional resonance, intimacy, escape—and what it left out—realistic queer identity, bodily autonomy, female presence—we can begin to build bridges instead of choosing sides.

Queer people deserve stories that are both beautiful and real. That doesn’t mean BL must be discarded. It means we can—and should—push it toward something richer, something truer. Not because it’s broken beyond repair, but because we love it enough to imagine something better.

 

VI. A Personal Note on BL Stories That Stayed With Me

As we’ve explored throughout this post, the Boys’ Love genre is both a product of its time and a mirror for its audience — a space where queerness is simultaneously centered and obscured, celebrated and misunderstood. For me, that complexity isn't just academic — it’s personal.

My own journey with BL began years ago, though I didn’t have the language or context to fully understand what I was engaging with at the time. One of the first visual representations I encountered was the anime Mirage of Blaze, a supernatural historical drama where the past lives of male warriors intertwine with present-day spiritual conflict and unresolved emotion. While the story left an impression, I vividly recall how uncomfortable the one intimate scene made me, especially with the issue of consent. That discomfort lingered in the back of my mind, even as I continued exploring the genre.

The first BL manga I remember reading was Legal Drug by CLAMP. Set in a mysterious drugstore that deals in otherworldly cases, it follows two young men whose growing bond simmers beneath the surface of each chapter. The romance felt more implied than openly acknowledged — subtle, quiet, and perhaps because of that, it stayed with me. It didn’t need to shout its queerness to be powerful.

As time passed and the genre evolved, so did I — and I’ve found myself drawn to titles that reflect gentler, more human portrayals of queer love. Books like I Hear the Sunspot, Our Dining Table, and I Think Our Son is Gay feel like small acts of kindness in comic form. They don’t rely on shock or sensationalism. They’re tender. They’re affirming. And My Brother’s Husband especially stands out — not just as a beautiful story of connection and family, but as a reminder of what BL and queer manga can become when given the space to grow.

These stories didn’t just entertain me — they shaped my understanding of queer representation and helped me reflect on what I wanted to see more of. BL has never been a perfect genre, but within its pages, I’ve found moments of clarity, comfort, and care. And that, in itself, is worth honoring even as we ask it to do better.

What are your thoughts on the evolution of BL?
Have you read any stories that challenged or resonated with you? Share your thoughts in the comments — I’d love to hear from you.