Hi Jake,

My new boyfriend is amazing. We have great chemistry, he’s so fun to be around, my friends all love him, and he’s super sexy. I feel like I won the lottery! But there’s a catch...

He’s also very affectionate in public. When we’re walking down the street, he’ll reach for my hand, or he’ll put his arm around me while we’re standing in line for coffee. Sometimes he’ll even do little things like kiss me on the forehead while we wait at crosswalks.

Objectively, I know this is sweet. But it also makes me incredibly self-conscious. Sometimes I even feel weirdly repulsed by it.

I grew up in a conservative area where you learned very quickly not to draw attention to yourself if you were gay. Even now, years later and fully out, I still catch myself scanning restaurants to see who’s around us before I relax. Sometimes when he reaches for my hand, I instinctively pull away without even thinking about it, and then I immediately feel guilty afterwards.

The annoying part is that I don’t even fully understand my own reaction. I live in an accepting city now, and things are very different than when I was growing up, so why can’t I seem to let this go? Maybe PDA just feels too intimate to me in general. Or maybe I’m simply not as comfortable being visibly “couple-y” as he is.

Getting Out of Hand

Dear Getting Out of Hand,

First of all, you are far from alone in this. In fact, I recently saw a social media thread where a gay man asked other gay couples whether they hold hands in public, and the responses were all over the place. Some men said they do it without thinking twice. Others admitted they still avoid it entirely outside places like West Hollywood, Chelsea, or Provincetown because of past experiences.

So right away, I want to remove the idea that your reaction automatically means something is wrong with you, your relationship, or your level of “gay acceptance.”

What you’re describing may very well be connected to the environment you grew up in. When you spend years learning that visibility can lead to judgment, humiliation, or exclusion, your brain adapts. It learns to monitor, scan, and stay alert so you don’t draw attention to yourself. Those instincts don’t always disappear just because you move to a more accepting city.

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I also wouldn’t panic over your use of the word “repulsed.” Sometimes the brain pushes away what it unconsciously perceives as vulnerable or unsafe. So when you recoil from PDA, that doesn’t automatically mean you’re ashamed of your boyfriend. It may simply mean some old protective wiring is still getting activated.

At the same time, I also think it’s important not to over-pathologize this.

Not everyone enjoys a lot of PDA. Some people are simply more private or less physically demonstrative. That alone does not make you repressed, emotionally unavailable, or secretly full of shame.

The real question is whether your discomfort feels authentic to who you are now, or is driven by fear and old conditioning. And honestly, it may be a little bit of both.

That’s why I don’t think your job is to force yourself to suddenly become someone who loves constant PDA. But I also don’t think the answer is to keep pulling away without talking about it.

I think you should tell him the truth. Not “I’m disgusted by you,” but something more like: “I think some old instincts still get activated around PDA, and I’m trying to understand them.” The fact that you feel guilty afterward already tells me this isn’t coming from a lack of love or attraction.

From there, the two of you can figure out what actually feels authentic and comfortable for both of you. Maybe you discover that you genuinely prefer less PDA, and that’s okay. Or maybe you realize some of this softens over time as your nervous system learns that being visible no longer equals danger.

Either way, this doesn’t need to become a battle between “force yourself to change” and “never challenge yourself at all.” Healthy relationships often involve a little stretching in both directions.

At the end of the day, there’s something kind of beautiful about the fact that your boyfriend reaches for your hand so naturally. Some younger version of you probably would have found that unimaginable. Whether or not you become a full-time hand-holder, there may still be something healing in learning from him that closeness and safety no longer have to cancel each other out.

Ask Jake a Question

If there’s something on your mind, send it to jake@askjaketherapy.com

Your question may be part of a future Ask Jake, answered anonymously.

And if you’re looking for a queer therapist who actually understands what you’re dealing with, you can find one at LGBTQTherapySpace.com.

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Hi Jake,

I’m self-employed and recently took a job as a personal assistant to a woman who works in the entertainment industry. It’s been about four months and she and I have developed a good working relationship, although sometimes she can be a little much.

For the most part, she treats me with respect, and claims to be very liberal/open-minded and an LGBTQ+ ally. I think she believes this, but there have been a few times now where she’s made off-handed comments that I’m not sure how to take.

For instance, she likes to refer to herself as a “f*g hag” and doesn’t seem to know that the phrase went out of fashion a while ago. She’s also said that she “doesn’t get” the whole “they/them” pronouns thing and she’s made passé jokes about bisexuals not being “real.” But what bothers me most is when she calls me “princess”. She literally sometimes introduces me to other people as, “This is my assistant. He’s my little princess.”

I think she thinks it’s a term of endearment, but I don’t think she would refer to me that way if I weren’t gay. I also don’t know how to address it with her since she’s my boss and it’s just me and her. There’s no HR department to go to. I would like to keep this job, but I also don’t want to constantly feel uncomfortable when she tries to be an “ally.”

The Princess Diaries

Dear The Princess Diaries,

Everyone deserves to feel like a princess… unless, of course it’s because you were bestowed an uninvited, patronizing, and homophobic pet name!

Cringe-worthy moments happen in the workplace, but careless insensitivity is another story, especially when coming from a supervisor. It’s never okay for someone to make you feel uncomfortable because of their own biases, whether they are consciously doing it or not.

It happens way too often where someone we know claims to be fully accepting of queer people, but their actions and words say otherwise. Your boss seems to want to perpetuate certain stereotypes about what it means to be gay, and invalidate the identities of the very people she says she’s in support of.

Does she have bad intentions? Probably not. She really may see herself as an ally, and think that by giving voice to stereotypes that she’s somehow bonding with you or being funny. What she doesn’t realize is that these comments may be coming from deeply ingrained homophobic messages that’s she’s absorbed, probably beyond her awareness.

If your boss were truly affirming, she would treat you like a whole person, and get to know you as a fully-formed individual, rather than treating you like her pet. Doing so can trigger old wounds and traumas, when we’ve worked hard to shed those limiting beliefs about ourselves. No wonder you feel uncomfortable!

So, how do you handle this, knowing she cuts the paychecks? It’s all about healthy communication.

Most people like your boss simply don’t know better and they need someone to educate them. If she wants a good working relationship with you, she will ideally be open to hearing how certain things she’s saying are making you feel.

Without being critical, or making it seem like she is in the wrong, you can simply discuss how certain comments feel when they land. You can politely explain how using words and phrases that stem from sexist or homophobic stereotypes can be painful, or don’t align with how you feel about yourself.

Just as she probably wouldn’t have appreciated being called “sweetheart” or “honey” by a male boss as she was rising in the corporate world, it’s not okay for her to do the same thing to you (at least without having a conversation about it first).

You might also want to suggest she keep some of her unpopular opinions about things like pronouns and bisexuality to herself, as they can be invalidating to those living in the experience.

Sure, as gay people we sometimes like to reclaim derogatory or sexist terms that have been bestowed upon us in the past, as a fun way to take back our power. But if we want to go all “guuuuuuurl” or “queen” in our vernacular, we need to be leading that charge ourselves, and dictate what feels right for us.

The workplace should always be a safe and supportive environment. If there’s no HR department to make sure of that, you’ll need to take matters into your own hands. After all, a princess deserves her happy ending.

Jake, Unfiltered:

This post, while it might appear funny or silly at first glance, actually taps into a tension that many gay people know all too well: When do we make waves, and when do we let things slide just to fit in, keep the peace, and maintain stability? At its core, it comes down to safety.

As queer people, many of us learned early on that standing out, disagreeing with someone, or speaking up for ourselves can draw unwanted attention. And when you’re trying to fit in and survive the day, that attention can feel dangerous. Even if you’re fully out and proud now, and no longer trying to stay hidden, there’s often still a deep psychological urge to avoid conflict. Because somewhere along the way, the nervous system learned that “not being liked” can feel synonymous with “not being safe.”

And that doesn’t just mean emotionally safe. It can mean socially safe, financially safe, sometimes even physically safe.

This exists on a very primal level. Being rejected, ostracized, or unsupported for who we are can feel almost annihilating to the nervous system. And when the person making you uncomfortable is also the person signing your paycheck, that fear becomes even more layered and visceral.

But of course, there’s another cost too.

If we ignore things that hurt us in order to preserve our safety, sometimes we slowly chip away at our self-esteem in the process. We start allowing ourselves to be spoken to, or spoken about, in ways that don’t actually feel okay to us. And over time, that creates its own kind of pain.

So the question becomes: When do we prioritize self-worth, and when do we let certain things slide in order to stay safe? A lot of queer people have wrestled with this in different ways for most of their lives. Maybe part of our journey is learning how to honor both.

What struck me in the feedback on this post was how many people responded with, “Just tell her to stop!” as if it were that simple.

What a lot of people failed to recognize (though a few commenters did), is that when your livelihood is tied to the situation, everything becomes more complicated. There’s a real power dynamic at play here. This isn’t just standing up to a friend at brunch. His boss has the power to fire him, demote him, make the environment uncomfortable, or subtly punish him in ways that are difficult to prove but easy to feel.

And honestly, this is where a lot of obvious advice falls apart. It’s much easier to tell someone to “set boundaries” when you’re not the one risking your sense of safety, stability, and security by doing so.

Ask Jake a Question

If there’s something on your mind, send it to jake@askjaketherapy.com

Your question may be part of a future Ask Jake, answered anonymously.

And if you’re looking for a queer therapist who actually understands what you’re dealing with, you can find one at LGBTQTherapySpace.com.

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Hi Jake,

My husband and I started an online business together a few years ago as a side project. At first, it felt like a dream. He’s my best friend, so it was genuinely fun to work alongside him every day. Plus, neither of us had ever worked remotely before, so it felt surreal to be sitting by a pool in Puerto Vallarta with our laptops and cocktails while somehow still making money.

Over time, we became really proud of what we built. We don’t have kids or pets, so in a weird way, the business almost became our baby. Eventually, it became successful enough for both of us to quit our other jobs and do it full-time.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped being fun.

What used to feel exciting now feels like the source of all our stress. Our income, future, and sense of stability are all tied to it, so it feels like we can never fully stop thinking about work. And because we live together and work together, there’s no real escape from it. If there’s a problem, it follows us into almost every conversation we have, and I’ve even noticed we’re shorter with each other about things that have nothing to do with work.

Don’t get me wrong, I still love my husband and love what we’ve created. I just feel like we’ve lost a sense of romance and playfulness in our relationship because we’re always stressed about work.

Occupational Hazard

Dear Occupational Hazard,

First of all, I don’t think working together was necessarily a mistake. In fact, I think many queer couples secretly want exactly what you created: freedom, flexibility, shared goals, and the feeling of building something meaningful together. And honestly, the fact that you’ve built a successful business together says a lot about your compatibility and ability to function as a team.

What’s most likely happening, however, is that your relationship and your business have become so intertwined that it’s hard to separate one from the other. When work gets stressful, that stress follows you home because home is also work. And after a while, it all starts bleeding together.

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So maybe you’re technically arguing about the dishwasher, but it’s not really about the dishwasher. It’s about money, pressure, stability, and whether this whole life you built together is going to be okay. When your relationship and livelihood are tied this closely together, even small disagreements can suddenly feel much bigger than they actually are.

That said, the good news is that I don’t think you need to blow up the business. This is really about creating some separation between work and your relationship.

Healthy couples usually have at least some separateness in their lives: different frustrations, different coworkers, different experiences to bring home to each other. When you work and live together full-time, especially remotely, you can slowly stop having much outside the relationship to bring back into it because you’re living in the exact same world all day long.

If you want this setup to actually work, you’re going to need some boundaries around it. Maybe there are certain hours where work talk is off the table, or maybe you stop working in the same room all the time. You also still need lives outside the company. Friends, hobbies, separate interests, even just time apart once in awhile. Sometimes people actually get along better when they’re not together 24/7.

It might also help to divide things up more clearly. If both of you are weighing in on every tiny decision all day long, eventually it starts to feel less like teamwork and more like constant negotiation. Having your own areas of responsibility can take some pressure off both the business and the relationship.

But first and foremost, you need to treat your marriage as the primary focus, not the business. Businesses are replaceable. Your relationship isn’t. Ask each other how you can reconnect in ways that have nothing to do with work. Maybe it’s time to book a vacation and actually keep the out-of-office message on the whole trip.

Your letter still sounds loving. You’re not writing because you hate your husband or regret the life you built together. You’re writing because you miss feeling connected outside of work. That’s the first step toward finding your way back to each other…before your marriage turns into another full-time job.

Ask Jake a Question

If there’s something on your mind, send it to jake@askjaketherapy.com

Your question may be part of a future Ask Jake, answered anonymously.

And if you’re looking for a queer therapist who actually understands what you’re dealing with, you can find one at LGBTQTherapySpace.com.

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Hi Jake,

I’m a 75-year-old lesbian, and have never written to an advice column before.

But last week, I went to my Pride planning committee meeting and had a really awful experience with a younger gay guy who disagreed with me about something. He started snapping at me, rolling his eyes whenever I spoke, and calling me “out of touch” and “silly” in front of the entire room. I tried to keep my cool and defend my points, but he kept talking over me like nothing I had to say mattered. The whole thing felt incredibly dismissive and rude.

I was honestly in shock for a day or two afterward, but the more I thought about it, the more it bothered me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he saw me as some old relic with gray hair and outdated ideas instead of an equal member of the committee…or honestly, even the community.

But the thing is, he has no idea that I spent half of the 1980s helping take care of dying gay men when much of the world ignored them. I sat beside hospital beds, brought groceries to friends in need, marched in the streets, went to funerals, and watched an entire generation disappear. Back then, a lot of us lesbians showed up because people needed help, and because that’s what being a queer community meant.

It was infuriating to feel dismissed by someone benefiting from freedoms people my age fought hard for.

Am I wrong for still feeling hurt by this? And should I have said something in the moment? I still love this community. I just wish that love felt a little more mutual sometimes.

Still Here, Still Queer

Hi Still Here, Still Queer,

First off, I want to thank you. The lesbians who showed up during the AIDS crisis carried this community through some incredibly dark years. While much of the world abandoned gay men in their time of need, many lesbians stepped in to care for people, fight for them, and refuse to look away. A lot of gay men have never forgotten that.

So, no, your feelings are completely valid. Hurt feelings exist to tell us something important about what matters to us, including when someone crosses a line or makes us feel invisible. This was more than just a “disagreement” for you. It touched something much deeper around feeling dismissed and undervalued when, honestly, you’ve earned respect.

Many young queer people inherited a world that feels far safer and more accepting than it did decades ago, without fully realizing how hard the people before them fought to make that possible. And to be fair, that’s not unique to queer culture. Every generation tends to normalize the sacrifices that came before them once things start feeling like “just the way things are.”

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But this wasn’t all that long ago. Many of the people who marched for equality and cared for the sick are still sitting right here among us…including you.

At the same time, real-life interactions are messy. We don’t fully know what was happening for this guy in that moment. Maybe he was reactive, stressed, or triggered by the disagreement itself. Not every tense interaction between younger and older queer people is automatically ageism. But even if he didn’t consciously mean it that way, the interaction still carried a level of dismissal and disrespect that understandably hurt.

As for how to handle something like this, I don’t think there’s one perfect answer. Part of me fantasizes about you calmly placing a queer history book on the table and saying, “Sweetheart, before you roll your eyes at me again, you may want to learn who helped fight for your right to be here.” A tiny part of me would enjoy that immensely. :)

But real life is trickier than our imaginary mic-drop moments. People rarely absorb anything when they feel publicly corrected or shamed. They usually just get defensive and double down.

This may be one of those situations where you let it go while still acknowledging why it hurt. What you’ve lived through makes you stronger than whatever some indignant young guy tries to project onto you. But I also think there can be power in speaking up calmly when someone crosses a line. Not to punish him, but simply to stand up for yourself. Sometimes all it takes is a quiet sentence like, “You may not know this, but gay women my age helped hold this community together during some very hard years. So I’d appreciate being spoken to with a little respect.”

And honestly, one day he’ll probably be your age too, frustrated at some future twink who thinks he invented being queer.

You are not a relic. You are part of the living history of this community. Even if some people fail to appreciate that, many of us absolutely do. And I’m glad you’re still here.

Ask Jake a Question

If there’s something on your mind, send it to jake@askjaketherapy.com

Your question may be part of a future Ask Jake, answered anonymously.

And if you’re looking for a queer therapist who actually understands what you’re dealing with, you can find one at LGBTQTherapySpace.com.

Hey Jake,

I turn 50 next month, and so I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting. For the most part, I’m happy with my life and proud of the choices I’ve made. Except for one thing. I’ve never been in a serious relationship. My longest one lasted about two years, and that was over a decade ago. I date and occasionally hook up (when I’m lucky), but I’ve never landed on “the one”, and I don’t know why. It’s certainly not for lack of trying. All my friends assume I’m happy being single since I never talk about my love life with them (mainly because I DON’T HAVE ONE!), but the truth is I never thought I’d be a 50-year-old bachelor, and I feel like I’ve missed out on something special. Everyone always says “50 is the new 40,” and I know there’s still time, but part of me regrets that I haven’t found anyone yet and that if/when I do, we will have missed out on so many great years together. Thoughts?

Fifty and Forsaken

Dear Fifty and Forsaken,

Milestones are often a time to reflect, so it makes sense that you’re taking stock of your life. A lot of people say turning the big “Five-O” is one of the harder birthdays to grapple with. Even though I believe there’s truth to the cliche that “age is just a number”, I understand that 50 may feel a little different. Some might feel their carefree days of youth are over, and they’re looking at what’s next, what’s truly important, and how they want to spend the last few decades of their life (and who they want to spend them with).

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Hi Jake,

My husband told me a while back that he wanted to post some mild photos of himself on Bluesky—shirtless, a little flirty, nothing too extreme. He’s always had a bit of an exhibitionist streak, and I’m no prude, so I’ve mostly found it endearing. I trust him, so it just felt like a harmless outlet. If anything, I’m kind of proud I have a sexy husband.

That said, the last time I saw his profile, it was just a few suggestive gym progress pics. Now I’ve found out he’s been building a much more explicit presence than I realized, and it’s starting to blow up. He has a big following now, and people we actually know are beginning to recognize him. That’s how I even found out how far it had gone.

So now I’m caught off guard. What I thought I was agreeing to feels very different from where we are now. I mean, it’s not just suggestive anymore… it’s gone full-on sexual.

Part of me thinks I shouldn’t care. We’ve always been open, and I don’t want to come off controlling. But another part of me feels betrayed and hurt that this escalated without really including me.

How do I figure out what my boundaries actually are here, and how do I tell him I might not be okay with this anymore?

Didn’t See It Coming

Dear Didn’t See It Coming,

Posting thirst traps, racy photos, or even more explicit content online isn’t exactly unusual these days (just watch the new season of Euphoria). For a lot of people, it’s a way to express their sexuality, feel seen, and get a little validation along the way. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that, as long as someone is comfortable with who might see it and any potential impact down the line. Where it gets more complicated is when you’re in a relationship, because it’s no longer just about personal expression. It affects both of you, which means there has to be some shared understanding of what’s okay and what isn’t.

What stands out to me here isn’t just the content, but the shift. You agreed to one version of this, and it’s now something else. It doesn’t even sound like you care that much about the sexual content—it’s that everything escalated without you being told. In any relationship, open or not, the “rules” only work if you keep checking in as things change. Going from a few flirty gym pics to a much more explicit, widely seen presence is a real change, not something you just roll into without talking about.

But before you figure out what to say to him, you’ll want to get clear with yourself first. What exactly is bothering you? Is it the explicit nature of the content… or the fact that people you know are seeing it? Or maybe it’s the scale of it, or that you weren’t included as it grew. My guess is it’s some combination, but naming it helps you speak from a clear place so you’re not just reacting.

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In a lot of gay relationships, there’s more flexibility around sex and flirtiness. That openness can be freeing, but it can also make it harder to tell when something’s actually crossing a line for you. The fact that you’re writing in tells me something already feels off. That’s your signal. Being in a marriage doesn’t mean overriding that feeling to be “cool.” It means being able to say, honestly, “This isn’t sitting right with me,” and trusting that it’s worth bringing into the open.

So when you talk to him, this doesn’t need to come out as “you need to stop.” That’s where things get defensive. It’s more about bringing him into your experience: “Hey, I realized I’m not actually okay with where this has gone. I thought I was agreeing to one thing, and now it feels different. It’s not that I morally disagree, but I do need us to talk about what this looks like going forward.”

This way, you’re not putting judgment on him or shaming him for that part of his sexuality. You’re keeping it about your experience, which allows for real conversation. From there, you can figure out what your boundary actually is—whether that’s dialing things back, being more transparent, or agreeing on what stays private versus public. Heck, maybe you just want to be asked to participate from time to time. :)

The goal isn’t to control him; it’s to get back into alignment with each other.

Because right now, you’re not just reacting to the content. You’re reacting to feeling left out of something that affects both of you. And that’s a very different conversation.

Ask Jake a Question

If there’s something on your mind, send it to jake@askjaketherapy.com
Your question may be part of a future Ask Jake, answered anonymously.

And if you’re looking for a queer therapist who actually understands what you’re dealing with, you can find one at LGBTQTherapySpace.com.

Photo by Eddy Billard on Unsplash

Hi Jake,

I still can’t believe what just happened.

So, I dated a guy for a few weeks that I met on Hinge. I finally spent the night at his place, and we hooked up that night and again the next morning. I stayed most of the day and was getting ready to leave when he told me he’s HIV-positive.

I gave him a kiss and said I understood and that this changed nothing between us, but honestly, I was disappointed he was only telling me now. I sat in my car for a while trying to process it, and we even talked on the phone afterward. He said he was scared because he’s had people react violently before. He said status conversations don’t usually happen anyway, and that he’s undetectable, posing little to no risk.

But I still felt thrown. I’ve been in this situation before, and I promised myself I wouldn’t ignore that feeling again. So I reported him to Hinge: “Person did not disclose STD status before being sexual with me.”

A few hours later, he called me furious, screaming that I had gotten him banned from Hinge for life. That was on Valentine’s Day. Today, I found out I’m permanently banned too, so I’m assuming he reported me back.

I know he says he’s undetectable and that the risk is basically nonexistent. But that doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t get to make a fully informed choice. And part of me felt like if I didn’t report it, he’d just do this to someone else.

Who’s in the wrong here — him or me?

Blindsided on Valentine’s

Dear Blindsided on Valentine’s,

First, I want to acknowledge something important: you felt betrayed. It’s clear you experienced that moment as being left out of information you believe mattered. When we go on a date or even a hook up, most of us want to understand the landscape — who this person is, what we’re stepping into, and whether there’s anything relevant to our health or safety. Wanting that clarity makes sense. It’s not surprising that you needed a minute in your car, and that your brain went into overdrive.

But here’s the thing: you weren’t actually put at medical risk.

If someone is undetectable, they cannot transmit HIV through sex. That’s not spin. That’s decades of research summed up in U=U — Undetectable equals Untransmittable.

Even if you knew that on some level, it doesn’t mean your nervous system paused to consider the science. You may have heard “HIV” and felt “danger,” even if the actual risk was nonexistent. The fight-or-flight system isn’t rational. When we feel threatened, we look for a way to restore control. Reporting him may have been your way of doing that.

But if there was no transmission risk, what exactly were you protecting yourself from? This is where stigma quietly enters the room.

Even among gay men — and even in the year 2026 — HIV still carries a psychological charge. It represents something heavier than the science supports. The word alone can still activate fear shaped by cultural trauma. Even when we know we’re safe, it doesn’t always feel that way in our bodies.

That doesn’t make you malicious. It means you were responding to decades of messaging that taught all of us to be afraid. When you say you didn’t get to make a “fully informed choice,” I get that. Consent and transparency matter. And yes, hearing it earlier probably would’ve spared you that jolt.

But there’s also a reason some people living with HIV delay disclosure. You heard it from him: people have reacted violently. Disclosure can be dangerous. That doesn’t excuse imperfect timing, but it does explain the fear on his side.

You reported him because you felt he would “do this to someone else.” I want to gently challenge that. If he is undetectable, he is not endangering anyone. He may be navigating disclosure in a way you wouldn’t choose, but that isn’t the same as putting others at risk. And he did disclose to you. Even if the timing felt wrong, that matters.

I’m not denying your fear or anger. It’s scary to feel out of control or like you missed something. But this was an emotional reaction, not an ethical one. The leap from “I felt blindsided” to “He should be banned” is where stigma sneaks in. I’m also not sure apps should be banning people for HIV-related complaints without nuance. That reinforces the very stigma public health has worked for decades to undo.

Your letter asks who’s to blame. Maybe it’s more layered than that. Instead of assigning fault, we can try to understand what was activated in both of you — and move forward with a little more compassion than we had before.

Jake, Unfiltered:

This post generated a lot of feedback. And honestly, that’s not surprising. It hits a nerve.

What seemed to ignite things most was the intensity of the reaction. Reporting someone and getting them banned from an app, essentially shaming them for how they handled their status? That landed hard for many readers. But just as strongly, there were people who felt the opposite. That disclosure should have happened earlier, no question.

I heard from both sides in a big way. More emails came in about this letter than almost anything I’ve written in the past year.

Here’s one that stuck with me:

“Dear Jake, I appreciate how gentle and considerate you were of this person’s feelings and emotions. Well done. However, I am disappointed that nowhere in your response was the question of why this person didn’t ask his hookup’s status prior to having sex. After all, everyone has the responsibility to protect themselves.”

I actually really appreciate this point. It’s true. Protecting yourself is a two-way street. We don’t just rely on what’s disclosed. We also have to ask the questions we need answered or take other steps to protect ourselves.

And while I stand by what I said, this is one of those ‘also true’ moments.

Another reader put something into words that captures the nuance here in a really clear way:

“Dear Jake, While an undetectable viral load eliminates transmission risk, many individuals experience delayed disclosure not as medical danger but as emotional disorientation. For them, the issue is informed consent, trust, and the ability to enter intimacy with a sense of psychological safety.”

I love how this goes even deeper. While I did acknowledge the writer felt blindsided, this gets more directly at why. For some people, it’s not about risk. It’s about trust, timing, and feeling emotionally grounded in what just happened.

And I get why readers wanted to defend that.

At the same time, I still think the response went further than the situation called for. Both things can be true. The emotional reaction makes sense, and the action that followed can still be questioned.

That’s the tension in all of this. Not who’s right or wrong, but how quickly these moments can escalate when fear, history, and vulnerability all collide.

Ask Jake a Question

If there’s something on your mind, send it to jake@askjaketherapy.com
Your question may be part of a future Ask Jake, answered anonymously.

And if you’re looking for a queer therapist who actually understands what you’re dealing with, you can find one at LGBTQTherapySpace.com.

Photo by Kato Blackmore 🇺🇦 on Unsplash

Hi Jake,

All my friends think I’m a top, when I’m actually a bottom. And it’s not because that’s how I present, or that’s the type of energy I give off (although I do try to present as masc) — it’s because that’s what I tell them. So, yeah, I lie to everyone.

I actually haven’t even topped in a few years and am exclusively a bottom with hookups. I guess it just feels embarrassing to say that, or like they’re all going to picture me getting pounded or something, which feels weird.

I kinda feel like I’m taking it too far now, though. Like, we’ll be out, and all my friends will be like, “We need to find him a nice bottom for the night,” and I’m having to just laugh and keep up the façade.

I guess I’m curious if this is a common thing or not. Do other people do this? Is it a big deal?

The Bottom Who Cried Top

Dear The Bottom Who Cried Top,

I’m guessing that if you’re taking the time to write in, some part of this isn’t sitting well with you. Carrying around a version of yourself that doesn’t line up with who you actually are has a way of feeling heavy — a little uncomfortable, a little off.

Most queer people know that feeling well. Unless you grew up in one of those rare, fully affirming bubbles, you probably had to hide parts of yourself at some point — who you liked, what you wanted, the truth of how you moved through the world. In a way, it sounds like you’re still doing a piece of that now. You might be out as gay, but this is another layer you’re keeping tucked away.

First off, you’re not alone in internalizing “bottom shame.” A lot of gay men absorb it without even realizing it, because it’s built into the way we talk about roles. It’s that old idea that the person in the “receiving” role is somehow less powerful, less in control, or less respectable — which is really just repackaged misogyny. Straight culture taught us for decades that the “feminine” position is the weaker one, the passive one, the one used for the other’s pleasure. And even when we don’t buy into that consciously, the residue sticks.

Then you add in the way gay culture puts masculinity on a pedestal — the obsession with being dom, in control, masc4masc, the prevalence of daddy and jock culture. It creates this dichotomy where topping becomes the thing you brag about, and bottoming becomes the thing you either prove you’re “okay with” or hide. There’s this unspoken presumption that if you’re a bottom, you must be needier, weaker, more femme, or somehow less “in charge” of your sexuality. None of that is actually true (shout out to the power bottoms out there!), but it doesn’t stop the shame from creeping in.

And when all those messages mix with your own desire to be seen a certain way — masc, confident, whatever feels safest — it makes total sense that you’d hide the part that feels most vulnerable. Not because it’s shameful, but because it’s intimate. For a lot of gay men, wanting to be liked or accepted goes back to old survival habits: fitting in, avoiding attention, staying safe. Even now, those instincts flare up. So presenting yourself as “the top” ends up feeling protective, like you’re offering the version you think people will approve of, even if it’s not the truth.

The good news is you don’t have to fix this with some big announcement. You’re not required to gather your friends in a corner and “confess” anything. This is really about slowly coming back into alignment with who you actually are — and doing it in a way that feels safe.

Instead of a grand gesture, think small shifts. You stop hopping in with “I’m a top” every time roles come up. You don’t lean into the jokes quite as much. You give yourself permission to be a little quieter, a little less performative. And when it feels right, you let a bit of the truth slip in — something simple like, “I’m not as strict about that stuff,” or “I’m more flexible than you think.” That’s enough.

And try to do all of this without beating yourself up. You told the lie because you wanted to belong. That’s human. Letting the truth show up gradually can be human too. You’re not making a statement — you’re just letting go of a version of yourself that never really fit.

At the end of the day, there’s nothing “less than” about knowing what feels good for you and stepping into it. That’s the… bottom line.

Jake, Unfiltered:

I felt like this post deserved a second look. Not because it’s titillating (though that’s always fun), but because it taps into something almost every gay man deals with: shame. Most LGBTQ people grow up hiding some part of themselves, and coming out doesn’t magically end that. Even after our biggest secret is out, we still find ourselves curating who we are—deciding what to show and what to hold back so we can feel safe and accepted. It becomes a bit of a habit. And undoing that takes practice—slowly revealing more of who you are, little by little, in spaces that feel safe enough.

But what I didn’t fully say the first time is that it’s also about image. Within gay male culture, being a “top” can carry a certain social currency. So this becomes less about hiding and more about managing how you’re perceived. At a certain point, it can start to feel like a performance—holding onto a version of yourself that you think will play best. And when you’re moving through the world that way, you’re not just protecting yourself. You’re also reinforcing the very hierarchy that made you feel like you had to hide in the first place.

Even within our own community, there’s still judgment around things that should be neutral, like sexual roles. A lot of that traces back to the same old misogyny we think we’ve outgrown. The idea that being in a more “passive” or receiving role makes someone less than. It’s not true, but it lingers.

So if there’s a takeaway here, it’s not that you need to make some big declaration. It’s just to notice where you might still be editing yourself to fit a version that feels more acceptable. Because, over time, that gap between who you are and who you present to the world starts to wear on you.

Ask Jake a Question

If there’s something on your mind, send it to jake@askjaketherapy.com
Your question may be part of a future Ask Jake, answered anonymously.

And if you’re looking for a queer therapist who actually understands what you’re dealing with, you can find one at LGBTQTherapySpace.com.

Growing up gay has been both one of the most liberating and challenging experiences I can imagine. On one hand, I’ve been able to carve out a life outside of heteronormative expectations and live more freely, gaining a deeper appreciation for authenticity, self-acceptance, and being fully seen. On the other hand, the reality of growing up in a world that judges or marginalizes us leaves a mark that can linger for a lifetime.

It’s actually why I became a therapist, working almost exclusively with the LGBTQ community, and even started a platform for online therapy that’s authentically for and by the community. I was drawn to the profession because, in helping others, I was also reinforcing things I needed to learn myself.

Over time, both in my work and in my own life, I started hearing a whole lot of questions. People wanted to know how to handle the ins and outs of being a gay person in our world. From the logistical to the existential to the outright outrageous (and occasionally, yes, a little unhinged), there was a real need for guidance.

So, back in June 2017, I started a little advice column on Queerty called Ask Jake. I asked you to write in, and I’d share my thoughts. And something about it just… clicked. Here we are, almost 10 years later, and the column is more popular than ever.

And I think I know why.

No matter how different someone’s story was on the surface, the underlying themes were often the same. Shame. Fear of rejection. Questions about worth. The tension between wanting connection and protecting yourself from getting hurt. It didn’t matter if someone was talking about a hookup, a long-term relationship, family, or sex—there was usually something deeper underneath it.

The specifics would change, but the core felt… universal. One person might be asking about a boyfriend who won’t commit, another about a kink they feel embarrassed about, another about something that happened at work—but at the heart of it, they were all asking some version of the same thing:

Am I okay? Am I too much? Not enough? Is there something wrong with me?

And the answer, almost always, is no. But it’s rarely that simple to actually feel that.

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That’s really what Ask Jake became about for me. Not just giving advice, but translating what’s underneath the question. Taking something that feels isolating or shameful and putting it into words in a way that helps people feel less alone—and more understood.

This Substack is an extension of that.

Here, you’ll get the columns early. But more importantly, you’ll get everything that doesn’t make it into the final edit, including the unfiltered take I didn’t always include the first time around. I’ll share additional context, emails I received about classic posts, or how I see certain issues differently now. Sometimes that means going deeper, sometimes it means being a little more direct, and sometimes it just means being more honest about the messiness of it all.

You’ll also be able to ask me questions directly—either privately or in the comments—and I’ll do my best to respond with original posts you won’t find on Queerty. Part of what makes this work meaningful to me is the sense that it’s not just me talking at you, but something more like a conversation.

There are a few ways to be part of this. Free subscribers get the weekly Ask Jake column and one deep dive a month — the same voice, the same honesty, no paywall. If you want more, paid subscribers get a second monthly deep dive with a full, unedited version — the things I cut, the thoughts I softened, the parts that didn’t make it past the editor. Think of it as Ask Jake: Unfiltered

And if you’re a founding member, you get all of that plus something I’ve never offered before: a private response to your own question, written thoughtfully just for you. Not a form letter. Not a canned answer. Yours. You can send a question anytime, at any level, to jake@askjakeadvice.com. I read everything.

One thing I’ve learned—from therapy, from writing, and honestly just from being a gay man trying to figure things out—is that most of us are walking around with versions of the same questions. We just don’t always say them out loud.

This is a space where you can.