Finding Community in Fandom Culture: Rachel’s Story

It’s been a while since I last used Tumblr. Before it banned adult content in 2018, the microblogging platform was popular amongst a wide range of communities – most notably, fandoms. Fandoms are online fan bases that discuss, theorise, and create art surrounding their favourite films, TV shows, musicians, actors, and more. If you’re older, think Beatlemania; if you’re younger, you may have been in a fandom yourself (or, at least heard of them).  This is where gay erotica thrived. The adult content wasn’t what you’d find on mainstream porn sites; it was a mixture of digitally drawn fanart and novel-length fanfiction, the quality of which laughs in the face of generative AI. Looking back, I can see how it appeared unusual to outsiders. Whilst fandom was nothing new to the realm of pop culture, the passion of which we participated in conversations regarding our favourite fictional characters’ sexualities could be perceived as… invasive. For me, it was a way of exploring the lore behind my favourite fictional characters in more detail. It made me feel closer to them, as though they were almost real.

Where I struggled to connect with a lot of people in real life, it became a way for me to develop a rich inner world for me to escape into. 

Erotic fanart and fanfiction was common amongst queer Tumblr users; we used this as an outlet for exploring our own understanding of gender and sexuality through characters and actors we developed strong parasocial attachments to. Personally, I was heavily invested in the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson in the BBC series Sherlock. I would spend hours on the family computer scrolling my never-ending Tumblr dashboard, investigating the deep-rooted theory of The Johnlock Conspiracy: the idea that showrunners Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss intended for Sherlock and John to be in a gay relationship with one another from the beginning. I would watch endless fan edits of lingering glances between the two men and found myself firm in the belief that key romantic tropes were being used to foreshadow a potential queer happy ending for them. But to the disappointment of my teenage self, the third series of Sherlock introduced and married John to Mary Watson, the canonical wife of Dr Watson in Arthur Conan Doyle’s original short stories. 

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly why I was so invested in The Johnlock Conspiracy. I suppose, in some ways, it connected me with a queerness I felt unable to fully express in my real life. Being on Tumblr exposed me to a lot of education around LGBT+ identities that I’d never heard of before. When I found out about bisexuality, I realised that I didn’t have to ‘pick a side’ –– I could experience attraction to multiple genders without shame. Seeing queerness normalised in fan theories surrounding Sherlock and John’s sexuality and the possibility of it being canon (confirmed to have happened within the fiction) destigmatised it for me; I felt comfortable telling my close friends about my bisexuality whilst I was at school, who accepted me without question. A few of my school friends would later come out as queer or trans, too – this gave me community away from online spaces. 

Writing about this 10 years after my deep affinity for Tumblr fandoms has passed brings a range of emotions. Mostly nostalgia, with a tinge of embarrassment. I wasn’t a particularly sociable teenager – I maintained friendships within a small group of girls that shared the same enthusiasm for Sherlock (turns out shared interests, no matter how strange they may seem from the outside, are a great way to connect with others). Hopping on Tumblr, eating a whole stuffed crust pizza and drinking two litres of cola was the most exciting part of my week. After, I’d head up to bed and read erotic gay fan fiction on Archive of Our Own (often abbreviated to AO3).  

Nowadays, we question whether a woman fantasising about two men sexually can be considered fetishisation. As a teenager, it was just something I did  that felt safer and more appealing than viewing mainstream pornography. The characters would usually be placed in an “alternate universe” (abbreviated to AU in fandom circles), separating them from the ongoing storyline within the canonical text. This allowed fandoms to orchestrate their own fantasies from their attraction to these specific characters and the tension behind their relationship. 

It provided a space without sexual shame and queerphobia, which helped to form connection between other members of the fandom from across the world. 

There was danger to this. I was someone who would often view content by creators from afar, rather than directly engage and create it myself. There was heavy scrutiny from outsiders regarding fandoms, many of whom thought we were too fixated on these fictional worlds. This made me less likely to interact with people outside of this realm, evolving me into a very internal being. And I suppose that did make me feel disconnected to those who weren’t as invested in fandom as I was; I always felt that others saw me as off-putting. The content I viewed, too, was perhaps not the most appropriate for a teenage girl. But it was more so the perception of others that bothered me more than the actual experience of being in a fandom. I had my small group of friends that understood me and shared my interests, and that was enough. 

Fandom culture isn’t black and white, good or bad, sexy or disgusting. It just is.  For me, it was another way of building community, establishing sexual agency, and exploring queerness. A person can be as involved as they like with it, leading onto further conversations about consent, identity, and boundaries. Like many things on the internet, it has its dangers; should I have been reading erotica as a teenager? At the time, it felt like a safe way for me to connect to my sexuality. As far as I’m aware, it didn’t cause me any harm. The erotica I accessed always came with trigger warnings, which helped to decide whether it was suitable for my preferences or not. It felt less frightening than entering a porn site with endless pop-ups and graphic close-up images of penetration.  I would always suggest, though, thatpresent-day fandom-users talk about anything they come across that makes them uncomfortable with someone they trust. As I said, fanfiction can come with trigger warnings, and it’s with good reason. 

It’s a place to begin understanding sex and relationships, but not always the most trustworthy.  

With Tumblr no longer acting as a platform for adult content, I’m less clued-in on the current state of fandoms. But, during my time, fandom wasn’t all about the smut. It was also about the knowledge that came with it. With that knowledge came a fascination with human sexuality.  I wouldn’t have become involved with relationships and sex education if it weren’t for my time learning about it in fandoms. That is now an inherent part of who I am. I wouldn’t change it, regardless of how others may have judged me for it. It made me happy, and provided me with long-lasting friendships, as well as helping me to bond with other former fandom members as an adult. It was weird to those who weren’t apart of it but meant the world to those of us who were.