Author name: Roger Hyttinen

So, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about monsters—both the fictional ones that creep out of the shadows in our favorite books and films, and the more metaphorical kind we face in real life. And somewhere along the way, I realized how often queerness gets tangled up in those stories of claws, fangs, and things that go bump in the night.

It’s almost like monster stories were always a little bit queer, even when no one said the word out loud.

Monsters as Mirrors

When you grow up queer, it can sometimes feel like you are the monster in the story. You’re the one people whisper about, the one who doesn’t quite fit in, the one the villagers with pitchforks would chase out of town if they knew the truth. That kind of “othering” is baked into so many old monster tales—the vampire hiding in plain sight, the werewolf keeping secrets from their pack, the witch forced into exile for being too different.

And honestly? A lot of us recognize ourselves in those characters. We know what it’s like to live behind masks, to hide parts of ourselves for safety, and to wrestle with identities we’re told are “unnatural.”

Take the vampire, for example. Dracula was written with all kinds of coded fears about sexuality and deviance. He was the outsider who seduced “pure” Victorian society. To a queer reader today, that coded fear reads like familiarity—we’ve lived through being whispered about in hushed tones, as if queerness itself was a contagion.

Reclaiming the Monster

But here’s the fun twist: monsters aren’t just symbols of fear—they’re also symbols of power.

Think about Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles. Louis and Lestat are basically one of the most famous queer couples in gothic literature. They’re powerful, passionate, and unashamedly themselves (well, except Louis, who broods dramatically about everything, but hey, we’ve all had our Louis phase). Those books, devoured by queer readers for decades, turned the vampire from a symbol of corruption into a figure of freedom.

Or take Carmilla, the 19th-century vampire novella that was scandalously sapphic long before Twilight hit shelves. Here, queerness wasn’t subtext—it was text. The vampire wasn’t just a “threat to purity”; she was a love story.

Werewolves too. That push and pull between human and beast? It screams metaphor for suppressed identity. If you’ve ever had to hide who you are during the day but longed for release when no one was watching, you get it. It’s why so many queer creators have leaned into werewolves as metaphors for transformation, bodily autonomy, and finally letting yourself run wild.

And witches? Oh, witches are practically queer icons. Misunderstood, marginalized, and punished for their difference, but still gathering together to share knowledge, power, and a bit of rebellion. If “witch” wasn’t already a word, queer culture would have invented it.

Pop Culture Monsters and Queer Coding

Let’s play a quick game of spot-the-queer-coded monster:

• Buffy the Vampire Slayer gave us Willow, whose journey from nerdy sidekick to lesbian witch remains iconic. Notice how her magic grows stronger once she embraces who she really is? Not subtle, Joss. Not subtle at all.
• True Blood turned vampirism into a metaphor for coming out—complete with the slogan “God Hates Fangs.” Campy? Absolutely. But also very on the nose.
• The X-Men aren’t technically monsters, but their powers (and society’s fear of them) have always been a metaphor for being different. The “coming out” allegories write themselves. Magneto and Xavier are practically queer dads arguing about how to keep the kids safe.
• Guillermo in What We Do in the Shadows is the queer-coded human familiar surrounded by queer-coded vamps. That show takes every monster trope and makes it absurdly, joyfully queer.

It’s wild how often queerness slips through even when creators don’t intend it. And when queer writers do intend it? That’s when monster stories go from fun metaphors to blazing declarations.

Real Monsters vs. Imagined Ones

Of course, while it’s cathartic to embrace our inner creature of the night, the real monsters are often the ones walking around in daylight.

They’re the lawmakers who legislate against queer bodies. They’re the preachers who preach hate under the guise of “love.” They’re the neighbors who’d rather you disappear than thrive.

It’s a strange irony that people like us—accused of being monstrous for simply existing—are usually the ones living authentically and tenderly, while the so-called “normal” folks can act crueler than any demon in folklore.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been more frightened by the guy in a suit smiling while stripping away rights than by any movie vampire lurking in the shadows.

Chosen Family in the Haunted House

Another reason monster metaphors click so well with queer identity? Community.

Look at stories like Buffy again—the Scooby Gang is a found family of misfits, freaks, witches, and vampires. Or The Addams Family, who are basically the campiest queer-monster household in pop culture. (Tell me Gomez and Morticia don’t give off polyamory energy.)

Queer folks have long known that blood family isn’t always safe. We build our own families—chosen ones who get us, who celebrate the parts of ourselves others might fear. That’s why you’ll so often see monsters forming clans, packs, covens. The world outside might hate them, but inside their circle? It’s nothing but belonging.

Embracing the Beast Within

At the end of the day, queerness in a world full of monsters isn’t about being afraid of the dark. It’s about recognizing that the “dark” is where many of us find belonging.

We’ve turned what used to be symbols of shame into stories of survival and pride. Monsters aren’t our enemies—they’re our avatars.

So yeah, if being queer means I’m a little monstrous, then pass me the cape, the fangs, and maybe a thunderstorm or two for dramatic effect. Because honestly? I’d rather be a monster than live as someone else’s idea of “normal.”

And if you’re reading this and thinking, “Okay, but if I were a monster, which one would I be?”—then you already get it. Monsters are queer metaphors not just because they’re feared, but because they’re free.

So, spill it—are you a vampire living for the eternal dramatic entrance? A witch stirring up rebellion with your coven? A werewolf itching for transformation night? Or maybe something stranger, something we haven’t even named yet?

Because in a world full of monsters, the queer ones aren’t hiding anymore. We’re writing our own stories. And honestly? They’re a lot more fun.

There was a time—not too long ago, really—when queer characters in movies, books, or TV shows lived in the shadows. They weren’t openly queer; instead, we got hints, winks, lingering glances that never landed anywhere concrete. Subtext was the name of the game. And if you caught it, you caught it. If not, well…you probably just assumed they were “very close friends.”

I grew up watching those stories, picking up on the breadcrumbs, and thinking, Okay, that’s as good as it’s going to get. It was like an open secret between queer audiences and creators: we see you, but we can’t say it. And honestly, it stung. It told us our stories weren’t worth naming out loud.

Queer Coding and the “Secret Language” of Subtext

Remember those “best friends” in old sitcoms who seemed to spend all their time together, shared an apartment that somehow had only one bed, and were inexplicably uninterested in dating anyone else? Yeah. That was us. The writers couldn’t say it, so they painted around the edges. Queer audiences became experts at decoding subtle gestures and veiled references. It was survival storytelling—representation wrapped in plausible deniability.

The problem, of course, was that subtext always left room for erasure. Straight audiences could watch and never once think “queer,” while queer audiences had to work overtime to see themselves reflected. It was exhausting.

The Shift: From “Maybe” to “Hell Yes”

Fast forward to now, and things look different. We’ve gone from “don’t ask, don’t tell” characters to protagonists who proudly walk into the frame, fully themselves. Think of Simon in Love, Simon (and later Victor in Love, Victor), Charlie in Heartstopper, or even Theo in V.E. Schwab’s The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue. These are characters who don’t just exist on the margins—they carry the story.

This shift didn’t happen overnight. It’s the result of decades of activism, queer creators pushing through the noise, and audiences demanding better. It’s also thanks to smaller presses, indie filmmakers, and streaming platforms willing to take risks where big studios once balked.

And here’s the thing: having queer protagonists at the center changes everything. It means we no longer have to squint at coded dialogue or hang our hopes on throwaway lines. We get characters who fall in love, make mistakes, save the world, or screw it up spectacularly—and their queerness is not hidden, but part of the joy.

Why This is Important

When I was a teenager, queer characters usually ended up dead, lonely, or punished by the narrative gods. The infamous “bury your gays” trope was everywhere, and happy endings were rare. So when I watch a show like Heartstopper, where queer kids get to blush, hold hands, and navigate first loves without being shamed, I can’t help but feel a little emotional. This is what we needed decades ago. This is what kids today get to have.

Representation isn’t just about seeing someone who looks or loves like you. It’s about expanding what’s possible. It whispers to young queer folks: “Your story matters. You can be the hero. You get a future.” That’s powerful.

But Let’s Not Pretend the Work Is Done

Of course, it’s not all sunshine and rainbows just yet. For every Our Flag Means Death or Red, White & Royal Blue, there are still industries and countries where queer stories are censored, banned, or scrubbed of identity. Even in supposedly progressive spaces, queer protagonists can still be treated as a “risk” or “niche.”

And let’s not forget that representation often skews toward certain kinds of queerness: cis, white, gay men. We need more trans protagonists, more queer characters of color, more disabled queer heroes, more asexual and aromantic representation. Basically, the rainbow still has some shades missing.

From Here On Out

Still, I celebrate how far we’ve come. When I curl up with a queer romance novel or binge-watch a series where two girls kiss in broad daylight without fear, I feel that seismic cultural shift. Subtext has its place—it was survival—but we’ve moved into an era where queer characters don’t just exist. They thrive. They lead. They inspire.

And that’s something worth shouting about.

So here’s to more queer protagonists, more open stories, and more futures where kids don’t have to squint for representation. They’ll see it, front and center, where it belongs.

Want to Read/Watch Some Fantastic Examples?

If you’re looking for stories where queer characters take the spotlight, here are a few favorites:

• 📚 Heartstopper by Alice Oseman – A tender, joyful series about queer teens navigating love, friendship, and identity.
• 📚 Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston – A rom-com about the First Son of the U.S. falling for a British prince. Pure delight.
• 📚 Cemetery Boys by Aiden Thomas – A groundbreaking YA novel featuring a trans Latinx protagonist who accidentally summons the wrong ghost.
• 📚 Felix Ever After by Kacen Callender – A heartfelt, affirming story about identity, self-discovery, and love.
• 🎬 Love, Simon (2018) – The teen rom-com that broke ground in mainstream film, later spawning the series Love, Victor.
• 🎬 Our Flag Means Death (2022–23) – A swashbuckling comedy where queer pirates (yes, pirates!) get their happily-ever-afters.
• 🎬 Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019) – A gorgeously shot historical romance between two women in 18th-century France.

🌈 What about you—do you remember the first openly queer protagonist you encountered in media? How did it change things for you?