Fletcher Has a Boyfriend? The Discourse and Performance of Queer Identity
What the backlash reveals about bi erasure, LGBTQ+ visibility, and the fragility of queer representation.
In June 2025 singer Fletcher—long seen as a sapphic pop icon—shared that she’s now in a relationship with a man. The announcement, made alongside her single “Boy,” immediately stirred up a storm of conversation online. Many queer fans, especially sapphics, felt disappointed, confused, or even betrayed. Others came to Fletcher’s defense, naming the incident as yet another example of bisexual erasure and gatekeeping in queer spaces.
But this conversation isn’t just about one person’s dating life. It’s about how queer identity is policed, how visibility gets commodified, and what happens when queer people don’t perform their queerness the way we expect them to.
Queer Identity as Performance: Why It Feels Like She “Stopped Being Queer”
In queer theory—particularly in the work of Judith Butler—identity isn’t viewed as a fixed truth, but something that’s performed. That performance is how others recognize us.
“There is no gender identity behind the expressions of gender; identity is performatively constituted by the very ‘expressions’ that are said to be its results.”
—Judith Butler, Gender Trouble
This applies to queerness, too.
For years, Fletcher’s public persona—her lyrics, her aesthetic, her public relationships—signaled a legible sapphic identity. For fans who rarely see themselves in mainstream media, that mattered deeply.
When Fletcher’s visible queerness shifted, many interpreted it as a loss. But the reality is: just because someone’s performance of queerness changes doesn’t mean their identity disappears.
Visibility, Queer Legibility, and the Pressure to “Look Queer”
Visibility has long been a strategy of LGBTQ+ liberation: We’re here, we’re queer—get used to it.
But visibility is a double-edged sword. It requires people to present their identities in recognizable, often aesthetic ways: dating visibly queer partners, using certain language, dressing in particular styles.
Fletcher’s relationship with a man, along with her visual rebranding and removal of past WLW content, disrupted that legibility. For many fans, it felt like she had “left” queerness—even though she publicly reaffirmed her identity:
“I am so proud to be queer. That is not something that has ever wavered or changed.”
—Fletcher, Rolling Stone
The Emotional Complexity of “Boy”
In her new single “Boy,” Fletcher candidly explores the vulnerability of sharing her relationship with a man, particularly during Pride Month. She sings:
“I kissed a boy, and I know it’s not what you wanted to hear.”
“I’m scared to think of what you’ll think of me.”
These lyrics point directly to the fear many bi+, pan, and queer people carry: that their community will question their identity if it doesn’t conform to visible expectations. Rather than demanding understanding, Fletcher seems to be bracing for rejection, offering her vulnerability without certainty it will be held.
Fletcher’s Personal Evolution and Reflection
Beyond the relationship, Fletcher has been open about undergoing a deeper period of healing and change. After a Lyme disease diagnosis, she stepped back from the spotlight and spent time in nature, slowing down, and reconnecting with herself.
“I’m not the same person that I was 10 years ago, and I am happy about that.”
—Fletcher, them.us
This isn’t just about personal growth. It’s about the way queerness, too, can evolve over time. Her forthcoming album—Would You Still Love Me If You Really Knew Me—asks a question many queer and bi+ people know intimately. It’s not just about romantic love. It’s about community love, too.
The “Lying Bisexual” Trope Isn’t New—But It’s Harmful
There’s a damaging, deeply rooted stereotype of bisexual and pansexual people as deceptive, untrustworthy, or confused. Especially for bi+ women, the narrative often implies they’re just “visiting” queerness until a more socially acceptable (read: male) partner comes along.
So when Fletcher erased her sapphic imagery and shared a relationship with a man, some fans responded not just with grief—but with suspicion.
This isn’t a new pattern. It’s a recycled narrative born out of bi/pan stigma and scarcity of true representation. And it hurts the very people it claims to protect.
Why This Moment Feels So Charged
This moment is also unfolding against a backdrop of escalating political attacks on queer and trans people. In the U.S. and globally, lawmakers are actively trying to erase LGBTQ+ rights—banning gender-affirming care, censoring inclusive education, criminalizing drag, and restricting queer visibility in schools and media. Queer and trans people are rightfully angry, activated, and exhausted.
In that context, any perceived shift away from queerness—even from a single pop star—can feel disproportionately personal. When Fletcher publicly enters a relationship with a man, appears to scrub past WLW imagery, and releases “Boy” during Pride, it doesn’t just land as a rebrand—it lands as a betrayal. Some fans have even labeled her “JoJo 2.0,” invoking recent backlash toward JoJo Siwa for dating a man after building a sapphic public image.
Whether or not that’s fair, it reveals just how raw this cultural moment really is. When visibility feels like a lifeline, any deviation from it can hit like abandonment.
Why Fans Feel Betrayed: It’s About Representation, Not Just Relationships
Many queer people—especially women, femmes, and bi+ folks—grow up without mirrors. When they find public figures whose queerness reflects their own, they don’t just become fans; they feel seen.
So when someone like Fletcher removes the visuals and language that once made others feel represented, it can feel deeply personal.
“There will be people that feel disappointed and feel confused and have questions. Girl, I had questions and I was confused too.”
—Fletcher, Rolling Stone
When public figures build careers by tapping into marginalized identity, there’s a different kind of trust involved. Fans aren’t just buying music—they’re investing in a shared reflection. When that reflection shifts, the sense of loss isn’t about entitlement—it’s about survival in a world that offers few mirrors.
That disappointment is valid. But it’s also important to remember: identity evolves. And representation isn’t a contract.
Queer Commodification and the “Safe Queer” Narrative
Another layer to this discourse is the critique that queerness is becoming increasingly commodified—used as a brand until it’s no longer profitable.
Fletcher releasing her “Boy” single and merch during Pride Month—while scrubbing sapphic content—led some to wonder whether queerness was being used for visibility and then dropped for broader market appeal.
This isn’t about gatekeeping identity.
It’s about accountability in a system where LGBTQ+ stories are often sold back to us in pieces.
This Isn’t About One Person. It’s About Us.
Fletcher’s identity is hers. But the discourse surrounding her reflects something bigger: a community still grappling with what queerness looks like, who gets to claim it, and how we navigate hurt without replicating exclusion.
So here’s what this moment is teaching us:
Queerness is not static—it expands, shifts, and resists simplicity.
Bi+ people shouldn’t have to prove themselves over and over again.
We must make space for grief without turning it into cruelty.
We can critique systems without attacking individuals.
Let’s Make Space for Queer Complexity
You might feel distant from Fletcher’s choices.
You might not see yourself in her shift.
But you don’t have to understand her journey to honor her identity.
Queerness isn’t owed to you in a familiar shape.
This moment asks us not only to reflect, but to respond:
How do we hold space for queer evolution—in others and in ourselves?
How do we resist replicating exclusion under the guise of critique?
And how can we show up for each other in complexity—not just performance?
Because if our liberation doesn’t leave room for queerness that changes, softens, or evolves—it’s not really liberation at all.
If you’re bi+ and in a straight-presenting relationship, you’re not alone—and you don’t have to navigate it alone either. Follow @bi_invisibility and learn more about how to connect with us here.
