The Objectification in MM Romance

As I venture into a new chapter in my career, the joys have been boundless. I’ve done my time in the traditional trenches and built a list of novels about historical women that I’m very proud of — real women, whom history has either defamed, misinterpreted, relegated to licentious, avaricious, corrupt, or insane. I’ve tripped over bomb-craters of misinformation and misleading facts, and spent months, if not years, excavating the flesh-and-blood person under her historical veneer.

Readers have approached me at conferences, during book club chats, via e-mail, and in other venues or means, to express surprise that I, a man, can so accurately reflect a woman’s point of view and make it look seamless. I’ve always found it very flattering to hear, and in truth, also surprising. It’s what fiction writers do: we shed our skins to inhabit others, and there should be no limits to our imagination. Perhaps what strikes these readers about me in particular is what one reader pointed out: I’m a male writer who respects my female characters. No matter her reputation or her foibles, her lethal errors, grandeur or nobility of heart, I strive to find her — the human being, without glossing over her imperfections. I don’t write heroines; I write fallible people. While I don’t think I succeed as well as I’d like — I’m my harshest critic — the responses from satisfied readers is always abalm, because to me, depicting a person who actually lived is a responsibility I take seriously. I don’t ever wish to be exploitative or careless, regardless of the reaction — and I’ve received both positive and negative reactions to my work, as every writer does.

Oddly, the most prevailing negative reaction I’ve gotten concerns my depiction of the character’s sexuality. That, too, always surprises me. We are by our very nature sexual beings. To disregard this in my characters would be craven; for most of my female characters, sexuality was integral, whether they wielded it for pleasure or ambition, or it was wielded against them. But it is the slippery slope, because historically and systemically, women have been objectified and condemned for being sexual. The whore or the madonna — rarely has history allowed women agency, license, or indeed, control over their bodies. We still don’t. And as with all repression and marginalization, those at the receiving end can imbue and internalize it. It provokes shame, the attempt to conceal the very thing they’re being accused of. So, I sought to redress and restore that agency in my characters because they certainly had it, however they could express it in their era.

Which brings me to this article. I’m writing I thought was gay romance now. My new books feature male protagonists in often supernatural environments, who fall in love. I’ve been writing these stories long before this stage in my life. Between my contractual books, to cleanse my palate and weather the oft-prolonged time between delivery of a manuscript and its publication, I wrote gay love stories. Once I began to hanker to bring them out into the world, I did what any historical fiction writer would: I researched the genre.

I discovered tropes (a word that somewhat confounded me, as it’s something I eschew in my historical novels, for obvious reasons); the iron-clad rule of the HEA or HFN, or it isn’t ‘romance’, though love can spring and fade, and that doesn’t mean the love wasn’t impactful. I discovered an avid readership who could be, to be blunt, demanding and critical of any deviation from the above. “Comfort read” was a term I often heard ascribed to these books, of which readers, much like I feel about pasta with pesto, require steady servings, and please, no parmesan or artichokes on the side. There’s even a subset called ‘mpreg,’ where men can gestate babies — a biological impossibility. The emphasis is on trope repetition, which again, I eschew in my traditional work, though it can be said, my trope in historical fiction is dead queens and ritzy dames in a first-person POV.

I began to understand the challenges of the genre, as the readership and authorship are predominantly cis gender female identified, with of course, exceptions. It didn’t dissuade me, After all, I’d ventured into similar challenging waters in historical fiction, a genre also predominantly attracting both the same authorship and readership, and I navigated it with courtesy, respect, and dedication to my craft. I’ve always acknowledged that as a gay cis white male, it’s both a privilege and honor to publish novels in women’s POVs. Regardless of my diligence what I portray is not and can never be my direct personal experience. Yet surely I, as an openly gay man with a track record of publication, would be welcomed in MM romance, even if, as in all ventures, I would have to prove my value. Some readers would enjoy my titles. Some wouldn’t, as happens in all fiction.

However, I also stumbled upon an unforeseen reality. When I began to network with other gay male writers in the genre, a troubling, recurring theme emerged: they didn’t always feel welcome. They felt marginalized, told to “stay in their lane” by some non-queer female authors. A picture of territorialism was described to me, where diverging camps and lines in the sands were drawn and vigorously defended. The cited reasons were varied; not one incident fit all. Indie publishing has the same keen targeting of available readership as traditional publishing, but it’s more wide-ranging, almost open territory, hence its appeal for me. Of course, I thought, there are eddies in the currents. To satisfy my curiosity, I joined a readers’ group dedicated to MM romance because I was also reading it. There, I discovered other unexpected conflicts.

Some writers are seamless; you can’t identify their gender nor should you. In fiction, the story must command. The characters take over, and as the reader, you trust the writer to sweep you along. Trust in reading is essential, as in most things in life. Mistrust of a writer will inevitably shatter the spell. Some MM romance writers did break the spell — for me. I sensed a thin veil, missing insights into how gay men relate and connect to each other sexually and emotionally. This is common in all fiction, regardless of its content, and often subjective to the reader; we like what we like. In our books and in our beds. It doesn’t mean those writers were untalented or wrong. They simply weren’t my pleasure. And I don’t believe in casting stones. I review books that I enjoy. There’s enough negativity in the world to set aside those I don’t without a public flogging. I believe there’s room for everything under the sun.

Before I proceed, I wish to emphasize this is only my experience. It is subjective. I’m one person. One writer. One reader. I’m not an expert nor will I ever claim to be. And readers are people like me; they bring their personal likes and dislikes, their own stuff, to the table. In my traditional career to challenge the reader is anathema. I was warned from the get-go when I sold my first books to a publisher: Do not engage with readers on any level other than in gratitude. It makes sense. Authors write. Readers read. Once a book is published, it’s a product. The consumer decides its merit for themselves. It’s their dollar, after all.

Nevertheless, the readers’ group I joined displayed another level of marginalization I was utterly unprepared for. I lurked at first, not to gauge whether or not I’d find my audience, but rather to get a sense of who the actual audience was, given that as a traditionally published author, I’ve been somewhat removed. I meet my readers at my book launches and at conferences, but I’m unavailable for extended discourse other than during these, though I always will engage one-on-one with any reader who approaches me at an event. In the MM readers group, which is again only one of many, I initially felt at ease —the membership was mostly women, mostly Caucasian. It reflected my historical fiction readership. Of nearly 27K members, there were, in fact, as far as I could tell, few men, and none that posted. The enthusiasm there was infectious. I was enthusiastic. I thought I’d found a like-minded tribe.

As time wore on, what began to strike me were the requests for specifics. In every case, the request was by a female-presenting reader and was sexually driven: “Looking for two well-hung tops who detest each other and fight over the bottom.” “Looking for a straight daddy who wears a jockstrap under his suit and wants to be dominated by a twink.” “Looking for a lumberjack who meets an errant salesman who likes lace panties.” Etcetera.

The desire for fetish and kink is totally fine with me. I have my own and sex-shaming has never been my thing. Providing it’s consensual and legal, enjoy. Abundanza. But the reality is for many LGBQT+ people in other countries, and in fact even in this one not too long ago, sex is illegal. We can’t marry each other. We’re imprisoned. Tormented. Even killed. For all our champagne zeal on Queer Eye and Drag Race, there’s a long, painful history of repression, oppression, and fear. We haven’t owned our agency or our bodies; we’ve been told how we can and cannot behave. We suffered the AIDS epidemic that ravaged our community. To this very day, our trans sisters and brothers, and the gender-queer, are subjected to contention over their very right to exist.

So, while the zeal for our so-called bedroom roles — when in reality, many of us aren’t locked into any role, it depends on the moment and our partner — was fun at first, the impersonality of it, the objectification of a sexuality we’ve fought and sometimes died for, began to unsettle me. I compared it in my mind to if I were in a heteronormative romance readers’ group expressing my wish for recommendations of books featuring two big-breasted blondes cat-fighting over an endowed man or a submissive woman in a French maid’s outfit tied to a chair. What would be the reaction? These are, again, fetishes and fantasies, and very human. We’re sexual beings, primal at our core. We can’t subdue our desires. We must, however, be conscious of the fact that a French maid’s outfit signifies servitude. Bondage is control. Its place is limited to the bedroom between consenting adults. And romance is romance, while erotica is erotica. They can meet, naturally, and often do. Yet somehow, to my surprise and no doubt my naivete, the two had melded in MM: the straight daddy with the jock doesn’t necessarily need to respect the twink who dominates him; indeed, they should be at odds for as long as possible while the daddy begs on his knees and gets rejected. An HEA (or happily ever after) must occur for it to be a ‘romance,’ but hold off on the parmesan.

Rarely, if ever, did I see requests for story, for anything other than sexual fantasy. It made me uncomfortable. I suddenly understood in my gut what almost every women must see every day: my body, mature and experienced, reduced to a dick and a hole. Not a mind or a heart. Not a person. Just my genitals. And preferably, large, well-worked out, and willing. I’d been subjected to some of that in my youth by other men and unless it was my preferred interest on the given night, it’s frankly, degrading. I was judged by my body type. Not my personality.

It also wasn’t what I’m writing. It’s not what I like to read. And before I’m accused of pearl-clutching, I have zero issues with eroticism and indeed my books have it — within the confines of a plot, a story, and larger issues than my character’s penchant for jockstraps or lace undies. I like those, too, but I can’t hang an entire story on it.

So, what could I do? Well, I delayed published my gay books. I accepted another traditional contract and discussed my misgivings with my agent. She’s been supportive and always forthright. We’ve had many conversations over the direction I wished to pursue in my writing after 18 years and many things have been said. One statement from her stayed with me: “You’re too sophisticated for romance.” Now, this is the standard response to the romance genre as a whole. It’s often belittled, deemed the awkward step-cousin under the stairs and unsuitable for literate society, despite its immense popularity as a genre. Sophisticated writers don’t sully their pens with it, though the very term ‘romance’ derives from the tradition of translating into French stories originally written in Greek and Latin (the ancient languages) about the amorous adventures of chivalrous men, which is how romance eventually became linked to love stories.

As for readers, I never belittle them. I don’t believe they’re unintelligent, unsophisticated or unerudite. But the overall publishing model in both traditional and indie, like every other form of popular entertainment, aims at the lowest common denominator to generate revenue. To pick up a book and read it from start to finish, when we could be streaming or browsing social media, is almost an act of defiance these days. We’re being culturally desensitized to focus, trained to magpie our minds with limited characters and soundbites. To read a novel is a pact. An act of trust with the author. It is, to my mind, a form of romance. Instalove is a wonderful concept, but most true loves take effort, time, and dedication. That’s what reading is.

Eventually, I decided I’m writing gay stories, not romance, because much like my historical fiction, it’s my vision. My style. And most importantly, my voice as a gay man. I won’t shoe-horn in tropes that don’t fit into my story. The HFA or HFN is there because the story and the characters lead me to it. If my character wears a jockstrap under his suit and likes a younger man to sit on his face, he must have a reason for it. We always do. I won’t objectify my male characters anymore than I could my female ones.

Will my titles be well-received? Time will tell. Will I fall flat on my face? Been there. I pick myself up and keep going. But for my community, for those who came before me and never enjoyed the privileges we now take for granted, I want our realities, our history, reflected in my work. I want to make my gay ancestors proud, as I am today. If there are sexy undies along the way, well, that’s not a bad thing. But there always will be a story.

I wouldn’t be the writer I am without it.