In the ever-evolving landscape of hip-hop, few artists have navigated public scrutiny quite like Drake. The Toronto-born superstar, known for his introspective lyrics and massive commercial success, has once again found himself at the center of controversy. Critics are accusing him of fetishizing queer relationships, particularly lesbian ones, while simultaneously occasionally pushing against the rigid gender norms that have long defined the genre.
At the heart of the latest wave of backlash is his 2021 track “Girls Want Girls” featuring Lil Baby, from the album Certified Lover Boy, where lines like “Say that you a lesbian, girl, me too” and invitations for a woman to “bring your girlfriend along with you” have been labeled as reducing same-sex female attraction to a male fantasy.
The criticism centers on a persistent pattern: Drake’s references to LGBTQ+ identities often appear framed through a heterosexual male gaze. In “Girls Want Girls,” the narrative positions lesbian relationships not as autonomous expressions of identity but as something that can be enhanced—or even converted—by male participation. Phrases such as “She like eating pussy, I’m like, ‘Me too'” have drawn ire for implying that queer women’s experiences are interchangeable with or supplementary to straight male desire.
Many in the LGBTQ+ community and allies argue this approach invalidates genuine lesbian identities, suggesting they are performative or temporary, awaiting the “right” man to intervene. This trope echoes longstanding stereotypes in media and porn culture that fetishize women-loving-women (WLW) dynamics primarily for male consumption.
Online reactions were swift and sharp when the song dropped. Social media platforms lit up with accusations of queerbaiting—a term describing when someone teases queer appeal without committing to it—and outright lesbophobia. Commentators pointed out how the track contributes to a broader cultural issue where queer women’s relationships are oversexualized and misrepresented. Rather than celebrating or authentically exploring same-sex attraction, the lyrics were seen as turning it into a punchline or a setup for a threesome fantasy.
One opinion piece described the song as feeling “like a joke at the expense of lesbians and the queer community,” highlighting how Drake’s self-identification as a “lesbian” in the context feels dismissive rather than inclusive.
Yet the conversation around Drake’s engagement with LGBTQ+ themes is not entirely one-sided. Some observers note that he has, at times, defied traditional hip-hop’s hyper-masculine blueprint. Hip-hop has historically been a space where rigid ideas of manhood—stoicism, aggression, and heteronormative dominance—reigned supreme. Drake, however, built his brand on vulnerability, emotional openness, and sensitivity. Tracks where he expresses heartbreak, insecurity, or affection in ways that stray from the genre’s macho posturing have earned him praise for broadening what masculinity can look like in rap.
His willingness to rap about feelings, fatherhood, and personal doubts has challenged the notion that emotional expression equates to weakness.
This duality creates a complex portrait. On one hand, Drake’s softer persona and occasional gender-bending references (like playful or ironic lines about sexuality) can read as progressive in a genre slow to evolve. On the other, when those references veer into fetish territory, they reinforce harmful dynamics rather than dismantle them. Critics argue that true allyship or boundary-pushing would involve amplifying queer voices—perhaps collaborating with LGBTQ+ artists or allowing their perspectives to lead—instead of centering his own gaze.
The backlash isn’t new for Drake. Similar debates have surfaced before, with some fans defending the lyrics as harmless humor or artistic exaggeration, while others see them as part of a pattern of objectification that extends beyond queer themes to women in general. In hip-hop’s competitive culture, where artists often provoke for attention, these moments can boost streams and headlines. But in an era of heightened awareness around representation, consent, and identity politics, such tactics risk alienating segments of the audience that once championed his emotional authenticity.
As the discourse continues, it raises larger questions about responsibility in music. Artists with Drake’s influence reach millions, shaping perceptions of identity and desire. When lyrics trivialize or sexualize marginalized experiences, they can perpetuate real-world harm, even if unintended. Supporters counter that art should provoke discomfort and that policing creativity stifles expression. Still, many in the LGBTQ+ community call for more thoughtful engagement—acknowledging queer stories without co-opting or commodifying them.
Drake has rarely issued direct apologies or clarifications for these moments, often letting the music speak (or the silence linger). Whether this latest round of criticism will prompt reflection or fade into the background of his ongoing dominance remains unclear. What is evident is that the intersection of hip-hop, masculinity, and LGBTQ+ representation remains fraught terrain. As one of the genre’s biggest stars, Drake’s words carry weight far beyond the booth—weight that critics say he has not always handled with the care the topics demand.
In the end, the tension in Drake’s catalog mirrors broader societal shifts: progress in visibility and acceptance alongside persistent blind spots in privilege and perspective. For fans and detractors alike, the debate underscores that even global icons aren’t immune to evolving standards of accountability. Whether Drake chooses to address these critiques head-on or move forward with his signature blend of melody and controversy, the conversation around his legacy—and how it intersects with queer lives—will likely persist.
