When the heterosexual script goes flexible: Public reactions to female heteroflexibility in the Buffy the Vampire Slayer comic books

Liberal twist on an old story: Heteroflexibilty in popular culture

In his work on the representation of gay men, Seidman (2005) documents the shift from the image of the ‘polluted homosexual’ to that of the ‘normal gay’, whereby gay characters have come to be represented as legitimate members of the community (as opposed to abnormal elements). This transition is often understood in simplistic terms, as progress from ‘negative’ to ‘positive’ representations. However, this interpretation ignores the fact that this transformation of the homosexual from a deviant pervert into one of the ‘good sexual citizens’ (Seidman, 2005: 40), just like queer visibility outside fictional representations, is caught up in neoliberal dynamics of commodification (Guidotto, 2006; Hennessy, 1994): what Manning calls the ‘ongoing gay gentrification of sexual identity’ (1996: 101). In other words, this ‘positive’ shift in representations has only been possible because gay characters have helped maintain normative expectations in other areas, such as gender, race, even sexual conventions, and especially class (Maskovsky, 2002; Taylor, 2011). ⁴ Gayness has become acceptable when it is compatible with the rules of neoliberal capitalism: when it can be sold (Fejes and Petrich, 1993; Velazquez-Vargas, 2010) and when gays and lesbians fit the narrow image of ideal middle-class consumers (Chasin, 2001; Fejes, 2003). As a result, modern representations of gays and lesbians are disproportionately white, middle-class, and gender normative (Walters, 2001); that is, unless gender non-normativity is a source of comedy (Battles and Hilton-Morrow, 2002). The fact that ‘positive’ images of non-heterosexuals are gender-normative is particularly paradoxical, since gender norms are a fundamental mechanism through which heteronormativity is enforced (Jackson, 2006). By reinforcing dominant ideals of what a ‘good citizen’ looks like, which includes failing to question the legitimacy of restrictive gender expectations, the project of presenting gays and lesbians as ‘just like everybody else’ is assimilationist in nature (Britzman, 1998; Clarke, 2000; Clarke and Kitzinger, 2004; Phelan, 2001; Richardson, 2004). ⁵ It also adheres to liberal ideals that do not acknowledge how power dynamics affect who is allowed to be a positive representation, and who is not. In short, the introduction of ‘positive’ gay characters has done little to destabilize the hegemonic institution of heterosexuality in popular culture. In fact, the focus on the integration of ‘positive’ sexual minorities has also obscured the fact that the media continues to endorse, and to actively favour, heterosexuality. Kim et al.’s (2007) recent study has demonstrated that the ‘heterosexual script’ is still pervasive on television by showing ‘the concrete ways male and female characters were either punished for deviating from or rewarded for complying with the heterosexual script’ (2007: 154). Even in a cultural world where ‘positive’ representations of sexual minorities have become acceptable, the heterosexual norm remains preferable.

Heteroflexibility is at the confluence of these contradictory trends, as it features same-sex desire in a positive manner, yet maintains the currency of the heterosexual script. The typical heteroflexible storyline features a female character that identifies as heterosexual but who, for the length of a kiss or a night, is willing to engage in same-sex intimacy. The popularity of this plot twist arose in the 2000’s, and has become a staple of popular TV shows, including Sex and the City, Ally McBeal, Friends, and The O.C., but it is also a common narrative device in movies (Jenkins, 2005; Zacharek, 2002). Additionally, heteroflexibility is a clearly gendered phenomenon, as it is almost exclusively the domain of women in popular culture (Jackson and Gilbertson, 2009: 207). This gender imbalance is partly explained by the fact that male characters are at higher risk of seeing their sexual orientation publicly questioned and policed through the use of what Kim et al. (2007) call ‘male-oriented homophobia’ (2007: 153). Whereas, as I argue later in this article, heteroflexibility makes women more heterosexually desirable, an association (even brief) with homosexuality has the potential of tarnishing a male character’s heterosexuality. ⁶ The threat to male heterosexuality is likely amplified by popular (as well as some scientific) understandings of male sexuality as fitting the homo/hetero binary more strictly than female sexuality (Baumeister, 2000; Rupp and Taylor, 2010; Shibley-Hyde and Durik, 2000).

While these gendered dynamics may give the impression that women are a step ahead of men on the path to sexual liberation, it is crucial to understand that these moments of female–female intimacy are acceptable because they are reversible (Hefferman, 2005; Warn, 2004): For heteroflexible women, same-sex intimacy is clearly temporary, and heteroflexible storylines typically end with the protagonist reaffirming her heterosexuality (Zybergold, 2005). In other words, heteroflexible women’s desire for women remains subjugated to their desire for men (Warn, 2003b), and these women are attractive to the heterosexual male gaze because, like acceptable lesbian representations, they embody ‘an idealized and excessive femininity’ (Beirne, 2008: 46) that allow them to remain desirable by conventional (heterosexual) standards (Jackson and Gilbertson, 2009). Heteroflexibility thus allows popular culture to capitalize on heterosexualized lesbian chic without triggering a ‘presumed distaste for lesbian sexuality’ (Garrity, 2001: 196; see also Torres, 1993), thus ensuring economic viability (Becker, 2006; Walters, 2001). Heteroflexibility never threatens women’s sexual availability in the ‘conventional heterosexual marketplace’ (Diamond, 2005: 105), and as such, it constitutes a safe display of non-heterosexuality. In fact, as Diamond (2005) underlines, female heteroflexibility promotes and maintains female heterosexuality by packaging it as freedom and sexual choice. ⁷ As a result, heteroflexibility actually serves to confirm the participants’ heterosexuality and to naturalize heterosexual desire. Diamond notes,

[These women] are portrayed as having rejected the possibility of lesbianism or bisexuality not because they are closed-minded and sexually repressed, but because it is simply not natural for them, which they know for a fact because they tried it. In a cultural context that prizes self-exploration and open-mindedness, this is a more appealing and legitimate way to establish one’s heterosexual credentials than to reject the idea of same-sex sexuality out of hand. (Diamond, 2005: 106, emphasis mine)

Heteroflexibility naturalizes the social and cultural dominance of heterosexuality by depicting sexuality as solely a matter of individual desire and behaviour. Sexual orientation, it assumes, is what an individual is naturally inclined to do; it just so happens that most people are naturally inclined to be heterosexual. Within this framework, same-sex intimacy can be nothing more than a form of casual fun, which allows women to explore their personal identity or preference ⁸ (Branner, 1994: 2; Wilkinson, 1996). By portraying sexual orientation as something that is shaped by individual desires rooted in biology rather than by historical and social determinants (Rubin, 1993: 276; see also Foucault, 1980; Kinsman, 2007; Weeks, 1981), this type of media narrative overlooks the institutional role that cultural representations play in producing, reproducing, and regulating the expression of sexuality. In this sense, heteroflexibility is one of the processes through which heteronormativity has adapted to a changing social context where the ‘outright condemnation of homosexuals [has] gradually become less socially acceptable’ (Diamond, 2005: 104). By appropriating rather than rejecting non-normative sexualities, heteroflexibility neutralizes their power of disruption and maintains heterosexual hegemony.

My goal is not to argue that these heteroflexible representations are problematic because they are not ‘authentic’ representations of lesbians. The notion of authenticity itself is steeped in questionable essentialist assumptions (Bendix, 1997; Dyson, 1994), and, as I have noted, representations of non-heterosexual characters are not immune to shoring up normative expectations. Rather I suggest that what may appear as a progressive trend of increasing non-heterosexual visibility is actually framed by strict heterosexual parameters, founded in problematic liberal assumptions about the nature of sexual desire. Unless we can identify how this trend plays into problematic institutional power dynamics, the potential of heteroflexible behaviour ‘to challenge rigid, dichotomous models of sexuality’ (Diamond, 2005: 107) is jeopardized. I will argue that this is precisely what is missing from readers’ interpretations of Buffy and Satsu’s story: a recognition of the way in which heteroflexibility greases already well-oiled heterosexist power dynamics.

Examining reactions to the Buffy comics storyline is a good way to explore how the audience responds to these types of narrative because this particular story follows a traditional heteroflexible pattern. Protagonist Buffy is, by series creator Joss Whedon’s own account (Gustines, 2008), little more than an open-minded heterosexual woman to whom intimacy with another woman ‘just happens’. When Sastu, a female soldier in the army that Buffy leads, declares her love to Buffy, Buffy initially shows little interest (#11). However, in the following issue, a full-page panel reveals Buffy lying in bed with Satsu. Buffy expresses little shame for having enjoyed sex with Satsu, but she is equally unabashed about not wanting a relationship: the affair ends two issues later, with the pair sleeping together a second and final time. Buffy and Satsu’s story is a textbook case of heteroflexibility; yet this storyline also repeatedly disrupts the normative power of heterosexuality, which opens up possibilities for alternative representations of heteroflexibility that do not rely on bolstering a heterosexual ideal (Frohard-Dourlent, 2010). These disruptions – which reflect heteroflexibility’s broader potential for subversion – can only be significant if they are recognized and taken up by readers, so that the potential for social transformation can be enacted. I thus turn to readers’ responses to this heteroflexible storyline to discuss the different themes that emerged as well as the two broad frameworks upon which readers drew to make sense of their reactions: that of heterosexual recovery and that of sex-blind ideology.

Disapproving reactions: ‘Heterosexual recovery’

Buffy has often been acclaimed in the media for its ‘positive’ representation of lesbianism, because of the inclusion in its main cast of a lesbian character, Willow, who has had long-term relationships (Warn, 2003a). This perception works to reinforce liberal principles that reject pathologized explanations of homosexuality, and to create an implicit understanding in Buffy fandom that blatant displays of homophobia are unacceptable. This is the context and space in which fans responded to the Buffy/Satsu story, and partially explains the lack of overt anti-gay slurs amongst reader responses. This is not to say that homophobia is absent amongst Buffy fans, but rather that fans who are unhappy or uncomfortable with Buffy sleeping with another woman cannot draw too overtly on a homophobic cultural repertoire when they seek to justify their reaction. As a result, even though some fans reacted with intense anger to this plot twist (‘I came really close to just throwing the comic in the shredder’ – Bob Caruso, #24; ‘I am no longer a fan of Buffy’ – Katie, #24), they had to find ways to express their sentiments in a manner that can appear legitimate in a liberal context.

The principal tool that readers who disliked the storyline used is ‘heterosexual recovery’, an expression which I model on Gresson’s (1995) explanation of white recovery as a phenomenon that followed the (perceived) shift in power due to civil rights gains by racial minorities in the 1960s’ and 1970s’. I use the notion of recovery to describe the response of the dominant group to the loss of certain entitled privileges and the anxiety that comes with that loss. ‘Heterosexual recovery’ is typified by a sense that gayness is now being excessively promoted (in schools, in the media) to the detriment of heterosexuality, beyond what liberal egalitarianism requires (Brickell, 2001: 213; see Bonilla-Silva, 2006, for a similar racialized mechanism). Part of the process of recovery by the dominant group is a ‘rhetorical reversal’ (Gresson, 1995: 163), in which the oppressor portrays itself as the party that is now being oppressed by the minority. This reversal is most obvious in the comments such as the following:

Turning Buffy gay was a horrible mistake. How could you? She was a role model for young girls! Now parents will forbid them to watch the show. You just confirmed cliché: there are no strong straight women; every one of them has some ‘gay’ within. (Anonymous, #24)

This reader perceives Buffy’s dabble into non-heterosexuality as a profound, systemic threat to heterosexuality, ⁹ but there is an inherent contradiction between the emphatic ‘no strong straight women’ in the comment, and the fact that the Buffy universe is still replete with women who identify as heterosexual. Not only that, but Buffy is one of the only heroines in a contemporary series to have had a significant same-sex sexual encounter; in mainstream television (particularly in the fantasy genre), ‘strong women’ ¹⁰ who identify as anything but heterosexual are virtually non-existent. Presenting Buffy’s dabble in lesbianism as a reversal of the power dynamics between heterosexuality and homosexuality is to ignore that the relation of heterosexuality to homosexuality is still one of domination and subordination (Brickell, 2001: 213), particularly in the realm of popular representations. Interestingly enough, the cliché to which this reader is alluding – that feminists are all lesbians – has indeed been harmful, as it has historically served to dismiss as well as demean feminist activists and feminist struggles for social justice. But it would lose its potency were it not for the stigma still attached to non-heterosexuality, which is embodied in this comment by the implication that gay characters are a ‘threat’ to (innocent) children, ¹¹ in line with a long history of stereotypes of gay men and lesbians as predators and recruiters of children (Brauckman, 2001). In this context, to identify the ‘horrible mistake’ as the depiction of same-sex sexuality, rather than the parents’ decision to censor non-heterosexual content, is to operate another form of rhetoric reversal. It demonstrates a disinclination to think about how straight people are implicated in a system of heterosexual dominance, which contrasts with this reader’s willingness to identify a pattern of oppression against straight women. Finally, the comment about Buffy being a role model implies that non-heterosexual women cannot be powerful role models for heterosexual girls and women. This is a typical expression of privilege, wherein subjugated groups are expected to identify with the dominant group, but the reverse is unthinkable at best, dangerous at worst.

Heterosexual recovery is also expressed in the irritation that some readers expressed over the fact that Buffy had a lesbian fling, because there is already an established gay presence in the series in the character of Willow. A comment such as, ‘What, one gay character wasn’t enough?’ (Raki, #27), suggests that queer characters are acceptable in mainstream popular culture as long as they remain numerically and thematically marginal. Too great a presence is an indication that acceptance of sexual minorities has ‘gone too far’, they have gotten ‘too much’ power, which fractures (the myth of) egalitarianism (Brickell, 2001). Within this framework, the comparison with Willow – ‘that’s Willow’s thing, not Buffy’s’ (Robert, #24) – is particularly interesting because the treatment of Willow’s lesbianism on the show was apolitical, downplayed, and ultimately non-threatening (Beirne, 2004). Buffy’s desire for Satsu, by contrast, is impulsive, overt, unapologetic, and crosses the lines of sexual orientation, all of which are more menacing to a system of heterosexual hegemony. That readers would express tolerance for Willow but not Buffy, or not Willow and Buffy, is a product of the fear of heterosexuality losing ground to non-heterosexuality, both in substance and in numbers. In this climate of anxiety over the ‘loss’ of heterosexuality, it is not surprising that many of these comments apply a ‘one-drop rule’ to the story, wherein one lesbian encounter is enough to taint Buffy’s heterosexuality and ‘turn her gay’: ¹² ‘The fact that this comic could take [Buffy] and make her a lesbian really irritates me’ (Mary, #24). These repeated acts of naming Buffy gay (regardless of how she may choose to identify) both simplify the dynamics of the heteroflexible narrative and amplify the perceived threat to heterosexuality.

The comments just discussed skirt closest to the outright condemnation of homosexuality that is frowned upon in a liberal humanistic context. These readers often realize that their comments may be interpreted as homophobic, and seek to absolve themselves from this aspersion. This takes the form of a disclaimer with which they preface their comments, a semantic move which Bonilla-Silvia has shown is common in the context of the colour-blind racism (2002: 46). While some readers announce directly, ‘sorry if I sound antilesbian, but…’ (Scott Henry, #24), others are more subtle variants of the formula, ‘I certainly don’t care if a character is gay, but…’ (TonyG, #24). By anticipating the criticism of homophobia, this type of utterance works to legitimize the reader’s ensuing disapproval by acting as supposed proof that they are not prejudiced, and by framing their discontent as motivated by something other (understand: something more justifiable) than homophobia. This semantic move is made possible because the liberal conception of homophobia locates prejudice in the individual. Liberalism assumes that an individual can free him/herself from homophobia thereby ignoring the fact that subjects are always implicated in their heterosexist sociopolitical context. By making homophobia (or the lack thereof) a character trait rather than a form of prejudice that is contextually created through language (Speer, 2005), this framework enables people to deflect accusations of homophobia more easily: if I can prove that I am not a homophobic person, what I say cannot be homophobic. ¹³ With the focus shifted onto individuals to ‘prove’ they are not homophobic through the use of disclaimers, there is also little room left for an analysis of homophobia as the expression of heterosexual privilege rather than conscious aversion. In other words, these disclaimers obscure the fact that while these comments do not display homophobia in its strictest definition, they are heterosexist comments, shaped by heteronormative beliefs (heterosexual recovery is premised on the idea that heterosexuality should retain primacy of representation).

In this section, I have explored how readers expressed their dissatisfaction with Buffy and Satsu’s heteroflexible storyline in a context where liberal tolerance of homosexuality is expected. They did so by managing their comments in ways that reframed the storyline as a threat; these discursive strategies enable them not to acknowledge heterosexual privilege, and absolve them from thinking about how their comments might contribute to systemic homophobia and heterosexism. Under the guise of open-mindedness, these comments confirm heterosexuality’s dominance by illustrating who has the right to tolerate (and thus implicitly, to reject) and who is being tolerated. In the next section, I show that readers who were not dissatisfied with the storyline nevertheless still relied on very similar assumptions when they described their reactions towards the Buffy/Satsu narrative.

Favourable responses: ‘Sex-blind ideology’

While the theme of heterosexual recovery saturated disapproving reactions, the responses from readers that were satisfied with, or indifferent to, the Buffy/Satsu storyline were dominated by another type of narrative, which I call ‘sex-blind ideology’ in reference to the notion of colour-blind ideology developed by critical race theorists (Ladson-Billings, 1998; Tate, 1997). Colour-blind ideology ‘explains contemporary racial inequality as the outcome of nonracial dynamics’ (Bonilla-Silva, 2006: 2). One of its central frames is liberalism, which favours individual explanations over systemic ones. A similar mechanism is at work with sex-blind ideology, which does not recognize heterosexuality as a social institution that dominates non-heterosexuality but instead offers individual-based explanations that assume that heterosexuality and homosexuality have similar social realities. A foundational proposition of sex-blindness is that the sex of one’s partner does not matter, because the feeling (love) is the same. ¹⁴ The following comment by Jackie (#24) illustrates this reasoning: ‘I hope there will be a time when the only issue involved here is that she was with someone new, and not that the new person was a girl.’ This remark underlines a longing, encouraged by the heteroflexible narrative, for a type of ‘Utopia in which questions about sexual orientation and identity are fundamentally personal choices about love, desire, and fulfillment’ (Diamond, 2005: 107–108). In such a utopia, sex-blindness proposes, people choose the partners that they do as a result of nothing but their personal preference (though this preference is imagined as being shaped by an innate disposition). Interestingly, Jackie acknowledges in her comment that this is not currently the case and that it does matter that it was another woman that Buffy slept with. Unlike colour-blindness, which has almost entirely replaced ‘Jim Crow racism’ (Bonilla-Silva, 2006: 25) in public discourse, proponents of sex-blindness recognize that their ideology is not yet the rule, and that forms of homophobia still have social currency. Yet, after perceiving (and regretting) that certain responses did not adhere to sex-blindness, readers did not respond by situating problematic comments within the social context of heteronormativity. Instead these displays of prejudice were treated as isolated incidents and blamed on the ‘narrow-mindedness, the ignorance, the utter intolerance’ (Danny Hirschhorn, #27) of specific individuals. This explanation is typical of liberal ideology, which takes the individual as its sole unit of analysis, and posits that prejudice is the result of ignorance and a lack of education (Britzman, 1998; Luhmann, 1998; Yep, 1997). This creates a simplistic dichotomy between the educated (who are open-minded) and the uneducated (who are homophobic) that implicitly clears enlightened, ‘good’ people of the accusation of homophobia, not unlike the disclaimers used more openly by people who disapproved of the Buffy/Satsu storyline. This distinction fails to acknowledge that prejudice does not always operate at a conscious level (Wise, 2010) and that it is a systemic phenomenon reproduced by institutions and traditions as much as specific actions of individuals. More importantly, it falls short of critically examining the manner in which even comments that are supportive of the Buffy/Satsu story rest on problematic liberal assumptions about sexuality and desire in which ‘the relationship of heterosexuality to homosexuality is taken to have become a neutral relationship, rather than one of domination and subordination’ (Brickell, 2001: 213). Sex-blind ideology – and its idea that if only people would not care about the gender of Buffy’s sex partners, all would be well – is presented as the solution to the problem rather than an element that contributes to masking how sexuality is constituted through power relations.

Since sex-blindness inserts itself within the dominant ideology of liberalism, it is not surprising that many responses from readers drew on this narrative, and justified their feelings towards the Buffy/Satsu twist by choosing aspects of the story that had nothing to do with the lesbian nature of the fling. For example, the Buffy and Satsu’ story often became intelligible through references to Buffy’s individual characteristics, such as her selfishness (Miche, #24) or her open-mindedness (Caroline Levén, #28). While these may be valid points, these responses frame sexuality in individualistic terms, and sometimes explicitly reject interpretations that would do otherwise. There was an element of pride, almost, to the fact that one could justify liking – or disliking – the story without touching on the topic of non-heterosexuality. KingofCretins exemplifies this attitude when, after listing reasons ¹⁵ why he is bothered by Buffy’s decision to sleep with Satsu, he adds, ‘And the punchline? ABSOLUTELY NONE of these things have anything to do with Buffy and Satsu both having va-jay-jays’ (Whedonesque, 2008e). The fact that he underlines that his explanation is unrelated to considerations about sexuality points to an awareness – and, in adherence to sex-blind ideology, subsequent disapproval – that other people may choose to view this storyline through the lens of sexuality. By condemning the idea that it matters that Buffy and Satsu are both women as either too conservative or too political, the discourse of sex-blindness does more than obscure the power dynamics that constitute different sexualities: it decreases the public space to even talk about heterosexuality as a social institution, much like colour-blindness works to silence critical race theorists (Bonilla-Silva and Ray, 2009). Ultimately, sex-blindness participates in denying that representations of sexuality in popular culture play a powerful part in producing and reproducing dominant cultural narratives of heteronormativity and desire.

Even when readers did not dismiss the sexuality aspect of the storyline, favourable comments usually perpetuated the ideology of sex-blindness by espousing the liberal model of sexuality as a personal and idiosyncratic ‘choice’ (Kathleen Saracen, #24). For example, David Halphen’s (#24) comment that Buffy sleeping with another woman ‘doesn’t mean she’s gay. It doesn’t mean that she’s not’ could have acted as a potent springboard into a discussion of ‘the social and political ends served by categorical models of sexuality’ (Diamond, 2005: 108). But the conclusion that follows, ‘it just means she’s human!’ quells that exciting possibility by operating a retreat to the familiar tropes of liberal humanism that maintain (heterosexual, white, middle-class) dominance by celebrating sameness in a way that undermines the potential for marginalized groups to recognize their oppression (Kitzinger, 1987: viii). Similarly, the idea that sexuality is fluid along a continuum (barboo, Whedonesque, 2008) has potential for disrupting the hetero–homo binary, but that potential is undermined by the accompanying implicit assumption that both ends of the continuum have similar social realities. When the role of sociopolitical context in shaping particular sexual narratives is disregarded entirely, the discussion becomes about some women’s individual choices and leaves little room to think about fluid sexuality as a gendered phenomenon that illustrates that the ‘promotion and maintenance of female heterosexuality is best accomplished when packaged – and sold – as freedom and sexual choice’ (Diamond, 2005: 109).

I started this section by drawing on Bonilla-Silva’s work on colour-blindness to help explain how liberal ideology permeates favourable responses to the Buffy/Satsu storyline. This parallel with race ideology in North America becomes particularly poignant at the intersection of race and sexuality, when we consider the character of Satsu, who is Japanese. Discussions of Satsu’s racial identity were, quite plainly, completely absent from reader responses. Both Satsu’s Japanese identity and Buffy’s whiteness in relation to their brief affair remain completely undiscussed by fans. Although it is beyond the scope of this article to explore the ways in which race plays into the heteroflexible story, this omission amongst reader responses is a good example of what happens when colour-blindness and sex-blindness meet. Most likely, it is not that readers felt uncomfortable bringing up the topic of race, but rather that they saw no reason to. In a universe that is as white as Buffy’s, the only reason why a character’s racial identity could be seen as inconsequential is an adherence to the colour-blind principle that racial considerations no longer matter. In the Buffy/Satsu story, colour-blind and sex-blind discourses work in tandem to erase from public discursive spaces questions of systemic privilege and oppression.

Conclusion

Buffy fandom is particularly interesting to analyse because this is a crowd that is, at least partially, well-versed in popular culture and its trends. Many readers were aware of the history of heteroflexibility (although they did not use the word) in popular culture, and this knowledge affected their perception of the story. However, this awareness tended to serve a simplistic binary analysis, wherein the storyline was either delegitimized because the writers were seen as having fallen for a cheap, overused trick (Tony G., #24) or, on the contrary, legitimized because readers felt that Whedon and his team of writers hadn’t followed the sensationalistic model (Leanne Ryans, #24). By failing to engage with the complexity of a narrative that reifies and challenges our understanding of heteroflexibility, both attitudes ultimately disempower the potential of sexual fluidity to act as a discursive disruption to our existing models of sexuality. In other words, while this awareness that female–female intimacy has been exploited in the service of controversy to boost ratings could have served to contextualize heteroflexibility within a system of power relations where heterosexuality is privileged over homosexuality, most readers instead relied on dominant discourses of heterosexual recovery and sex-blindness to make sense of the story. The fact that the series’ creator, Joss Whedon, and Dark Horse Comics editor Scott Allie, relied on similar discursive strategies when discussing the Buffy/Satsu storyline in the media ¹⁶ says less about the ‘truth’ of the plot twist and how it should be interpreted, and more about the pervasiveness of these discourses in Western societies.

This is discouraging for two reasons. First, the fact that few readers seemed to pick up on the heterosexism that peppered comments suggests that homophobia tends to be identified only as overt physical and verbal attacks against non-heterosexual individuals, which renders further invisible heteronormativity and the way that it functions through heterosexist assumptions about the naturalness of Buffy being ‘100 % heterosexual. Fans know that’ (Sara, #24). Combined with the willingness to sanction moments of heterosexual recovery, this refusal to see heterosexism illustrates a lack of understanding of the power structures that regulate the expression of sexuality and gender in society. There is something ironic in the number of comments regretting the (negative) attention given to the sexuality aspect of the storyline, yet failing to make the link between this observation and the social reality of heteronormativity, which gets activated any time that a threat materializes. The amount of attention that the publication of issue #12 generated, as well as the inevitable displays of homophobia and heterosexism that came with it, should act as proof that Buffy and Satsu’s story cannot, and should not, be dismissed as something that ‘just happens’. Instead, it worked to reinforce sex-blind beliefs.

Second, that the story itself offers multiple points of entry into a more complicated approach to heteroflexibility and sexuality highlights the readers’ ensuing incapacity (or unwillingness) to engage with this complexity. This underlines another aspect of the ‘limited success of the mainstream gay rights movement’ (Pascoe, 2005: 342), which has naturalized sexual orientation by rooting homosexuality (and bisexuality) in biological explanations and emphasizing its similarities to heterosexuality. When gayness is comprehensible and acceptable in popular culture, it has become so only either in essentialist terms or in individualistic terms, both of which leave little to no room for queerness and its ambiguities, let alone its potential for social change.

The subtle homophobia and heterosexism that permeated some reader responses are relatively easy to unpack; liberal assumptions about sexuality, however, tend to be more pervasive and understated, and as such they are often more difficult to locate and challenge. Yet the insistence on reading sexuality as a personal matter, one that isn’t connected to greater patterns of oppression, might be the most harmful effect in the long term. Our incapacity to recognize how our assumptions are embedded in heterosexist beliefs grants little optimism regarding the potential for products of popular culture to challenge deep-seated assumptions. Just like Buffy helped produce ‘the normal gay’ with Willow (Beirne, 2004), the series will most likely help strengthen the narrative of sexual fluidity in its liberal, rather than radical, form.

Despite these setbacks, two evolutions in western discourse remain encouraging: the increasing legitimacy of the concept of sexual fluidity, as well as the understanding that behaviour does not determine identity. Both have potential for social change as they can help establish foundations for a new understanding of sexuality and desire. However, their capacity to move us forward is dependent on two elements: one, we must work to expose the gendered nature of the discourse on sexual fluidity. Despite what Essig’s (2000) original article on heteroflexibility implies, the notion that sexuality is fluid has much more currency in discussions of female sexuality than of male sexuality in mainstream culture (Ambrose, 2009), and academic research has also tended to bolster the idea that the female sexuality is more flexible than male sexuality (Diamond, 2008; Kinnish et al., and 2005; Nichols, 2004; Peplau and Garnets, 2002). ¹⁷ This assumption that female sexuality is inherently more fluid than male sexuality risks naturalizing gendered differences instead of critically analysing how they are constructed through particular representations and discursive strategies. This gendered distinction is not a coincidence; on the contrary, it is one more piece of the puzzle to understanding how sexuality and gender work together within heteronormativity as organizing institutions in a culture in which masculinity (and to a lesser degree, femininity) still relies heavily on heterosexuality and sexism to make sense of itself. We must also acknowledge that the relationship of heterosexuality to homosexuality is still one of domination and subordination, so that sexual fluidity may become a tool to deconstruct and disrupt this relationship, rather than to deny its existence and thus reify heterosexuality’s supremacy.