Heated Rivalry Made Me Horny—Then It Made Me Sad
Situationships, long timelines, and why it hit closer than expected
If you’re a homosexual with a pulse and an HBO Max account, you’re probably watching Heated Rivalry, the hit new show about two closeted pro hockey players who develop a sexual relationship—and then lowkey catch feelings for each other.
It’s fucking hot.
Like Cinemax Skinemax hot.
(Which, apparently, is controversial. Jordan Firstman says gay men don’t fuck like that. To which I say: speak for yourself, king.)
I don’t want to age myself, but queer kids today have no idea how good they have it. I came up in the Spice Channel era—watching scrambled cable through squiggly lines, trying to bust a nut off what I hoped was a big, throbbing dick. My imagination was doing Olympic-level labor.
Now? Gay men are getting dicked down all over prestige television!
Also, a sincere shoutout to the show’s intimacy coordinator. The sex is actually believable. When I saw Bros a few years ago, I remember thinking, Are these men having vaginal sex with each other? Throw them legs to the moon!
Heated Rivalry doesn’t have that problem. And although neither of the main actors has disclosed their sexuality, as is their right, I don’t care what they are. They are selling it.
🚨🚨🚨 SPOILERS AHEAD 🚨🚨🚨
Beyond the premium-grade butt sex, there is a story here—and my biggest issue with it is the timeline. Between episode one and the end of episode four, the show casually jumps eight years.
Eight. Years.
Hollander, you mean to tell me it took you eight years to have an overnight with this man?
You mean to tell me you’re still getting out of bed apologizing like you’re an inconvenience?
You mean to tell me you’re letting him talk to you any kind of way without cussing his ass clean tf out?!
ABSOLUTELY THE FUCK NOT, says the 41-year-old version of me.
But then then came episode four. Both boys are in the club. With their respective girls beards. Dancing. Performing heterosexuality for sport.
And I’ll be honest—I shed a thug tear.
Because suddenly I wasn’t just watching TV anymore. I was 25 again. Crying in the club over my best friend (a straight boy) who I youthfully and foolishly let myself fall so in love with, while he danced on a girl he’d just met. Pretending not to see me.
And that story?
Yeah. Well, we’ll get into that next.