Before diving into the core of this article, I want to take a moment to explain why I am writing it. As someone deeply invested in queer readings, I find immense joy in uncovering the subtextual, ambiguous, or even blatant meanings that films, television shows, and songs can reveal when examined through a queer lens. Both in my personal interests and academic practice, I see these readings as a powerful way to engage with culture – challenging dominant narratives and opening up new, often unexpected ways of making sense of the world. This passion extends into my teaching, where I encourage students to question established interpretations and explore the fluidity of representation in media. One of the most thought-provoking moments in my classroom this year came during a lecture in the Queer Texts, Queer Politics module at the University of Duisburg-Essen. As part of our discussions, we engaged with Nikki Sullivan’s assertion that “there is no single correct way to queer popular culture” and that queering itself is a practice that can take many different forms.¹ This idea set the stage for a broader conversation about how queering functions not only as an interpretative strategy but also as a creative and political act.

To explore this, we examined a variety of case studies that spanned both historical and contemporary examples, moving from familiar queer readings of mainstream U.S. media to lesser-known but equally compelling interventions from fans and artists in Europe and other non-anglophone cultural spaces. This shift in focus highlighted how queer engagement with popular culture is not a fixed or monolithic process but an evolving, participatory practice – one in which audiences reclaim, rewrite, and reshape storytelling in ways that reflect their own experiences and desires. Students were energized by the liberatory potential of these readings, as they discovered the hidden depths of seemingly conventional texts and the ways in which queer interventions can function as a form of reimagination.

Yet these discussions also raised important questions: Why do queer readings of cultural texts so often rely on canonically straight characters? What kinds of pleasures do these interventions offer? What critical insights do they spark?² These are some of the topics I explore in this text, using Jalex Noel’s The Lord of The Cockrings (LotC): Or How Frodo and Sam Got Laid and Saved Middle Earth (2014) as a case study. Noel, an Athens-based queer graphic illustrator and comic artist, works across genres to address issues such as gender and sexual diversity, fatness, mental health, and HIV stigma. His art is deeply engaged with both political critique and playful subversion – qualities that are central to his reimagining of The Lord of the Rings (LotR). Firmly rooted in the tradition of slash fiction, LotC functions as both an irreverent parody and a radical intervention, queering Tolkien’s seemingly heteronormative universe in ways that expose and expand its subtextual possibilities. At the same time, Noel’s work offers a compelling reflection on the evolving role of queer readings – and the status of slash fiction itself – in contemporary media culture.

In Slashing the Fiction of Queer Theory, slash fiction is defined as “a productive strand of fan fiction in which same-sex television or film characters are subversively made into queer subjects”.³ Expanding on key tenets of queer theory, the authors argue that slash fiction has the potential to disrupt rigid heteronormative boundaries and dominant ideological structures. If fantasy is not merely a site of escapism and entertainment but also a space of politics – or at the very least, protopolitics⁴ – then slash fiction emerges as a genre that can resist normative frameworks, accommodating subversive and non-hegemonic narratives.

Indeed, scholarship has explored how the rise of slash fiction, coinciding with the boom of online connectivity, has facilitated the creation of global networks of affective and social relations centered around particular characters.⁵ The enduring debates over Xena: Warrior Princess and whether Xena and Gabrielle’s relationship was more than just subtext; the Harry Potter fandom’s countless reimaginings of Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter as star-crossed lovers; the iconic Kirk/Spock dynamic in Star Trek slash fiction – these all exemplify how fans have continually reworked mainstream texts to accommodate queer desire and critique the limitations of corporate media.⁶ These narratives, crafted from the bottom up rather than dictated from above, challenge the boundaries of canon and highlight the systematic erasure of queer subjectivities in mainstream media. At the same time, slash fiction can do more than just fill the gaps – in fact, it can destabilize the authority of the original text. By appropriating and transforming beloved characters, slash writers carve out a space of play and possibility where queer relationships flourish, often in defiance of norms imposed by the original creators.

Noel’s LotC sits firmly within this tradition, transforming J.R.R. Tolkien’s LotR’s text into an overtly queer space. Since its adaptation to the big screen, Peter Jackson’s trilogy has inspired a significant number of fans and aca-fans  —scholars who are also fans and blend academic analysis with fan perspectives—to engage in queer readings of the films. This interest stems from the trilogy’s investment in deep, intimate male friendships, often expressed in ways that invite homoerotic interpretations. One of the most widely discussed examples is the relationship between Frodo and Sam. Sam’s unwavering devotion and tender care for Frodo throughout their journey have been interpreted as signaling a depth of emotional attachment that extends beyond traditional notions of friendship. Similarly, the evolving relationship between Legolas and Gimli, which begins in hostility and transforms into mutual admiration and deep affection, further reinforces the film’s fluid approach to male intimacy. Indeed, their decision to journey together to the Undying Lands – a privilege usually reserved for Elves and their closest companions – emphasizes a bond that transcends conventional masculine relationships. Even Merry and Pippin’s enduring closeness, culminating in their decision to live together after their adventures, also underscores the theme of chosen companionship.

Beyond individual character dynamics, LotR largely sidelines heterosexual romance. Pairings such as Aragorn and Arwen or Faramir and Éowyn remain secondary to the central narrative, with little screen time devoted to their development. Instead, the story prioritizes male friendships, centering themes of loyalty, sacrifice, and emotional connection in ways that challenge rigid, heteronormative gender roles. In this sense, LotR provides fertile ground for queer interventions, as it opens up possibilities for understanding masculinity and relationships beyond the constraints of traditional heterosexual frameworks.

Noel’s comic functions as both a parody and a radical remaking of the LotR universe, blending elements of wish fulfillment, erotic fantasy, and irreverent critique. Consisting of eight pages, each measuring 10×7 cm, the comic reconstructs the trilogy by focusing on moments never explicitly shown in the films, instead reimagining them through an intensely erotic and hypersexualized lens. The cover immediately signals the comic’s homoerotic intent, depicting Frodo and Sam locked in a passionate kiss with Mount Doom looming in the background (Fig. 1). The following pages escalate this eroticization, beginning with Sam on all fours performing fellatio on Frodo, which then leads to penetrative intercourse. The comic continues in this vein, incorporating multiple characters from the films – including Galadriel, Legolas, Gimli, Gandalf, and even the orcs – each engaged in highly sexualized scenarios. The closing page delivers a final provocation, stating that “Middle Earth was saved… with gay sex.”

Unapologetically foregrounding the raw physicality of bodies, Noel’s artwork is saturated with explicit imagery: exposed buttocks, vaginas, and penises take center stage, while sexual accessories, revealing underwear and bodily fluids are prominently displayed – at times engulfing entire pages. Rejecting any impulse toward subtlety or restraint, the visual narrative refuses to sanitize queer desire, instead embracing graphic portrayals of erotic encounters, including self-pleasure, rimming, penetrative intercourse, and foot-based masturbation. Rather than merely suggesting queerness through subtext or coded interactions, LotC adopts an unfiltered, confrontational eroticism that challenges conventional boundaries of representation in both mainstream and queer media. By pushing these limits, the comic not only resists the historical desexualization of queer narratives but also affirms the legitimacy of diverse sexual expressions within slash fiction. In December 2024, during an interview in Athens conducted as part of a broader discussion on the local dynamics of queer media in Greece, Jalex reflected on both the comic’s rationale and its reception:

In my eyes, Sam and Frodo were definitely lovers. So, starting from their romance, I envisioned a universe that is sex-positive – one where gay sex isn’t associated with stigma, disease, or death, but instead is fun, pleasurable, and even a way to release tension and, well, save Middle Earth (laughs). When the comic was first distributed at comic festivals in 2014, many people embraced the idea and found it entertaining. Of course, there was also a significant number of people who reacted with homophobic comments, dismissing it as “too provocative for no reason”. If a comic like this were created today – and many are – it would likely no longer shock audiences, and rightfully so.

Jalex’s response underscores the importance of historical context when evaluating cultural texts of the past. While we now live in an era of heightened polarization and struggles over representation and free speech, it is also fair to say that feminist and queer politics have gained significant visibility, shaping both audience expectations and market demand for content that engages with these themes. A decade ago, however, the landscape – particularly in Greece’s book and publishing industry – was far less receptive.⁷ This broader reluctance, or even fear, regarding so-called “threatening” content resulted in the limited circulation of queer-themed material. In cases where such content was available, artists like Noel often turned to alternative, unofficial distribution networks, circumventing traditional publishing structures and forgoing ISBN registration to disseminate their work independently.

One of the most interesting shifts in recent years has been the move away from the “necessity” of queering canonically straight characters. With an increasing number of explicitly queer characters in international mainstream media, the role of slash fiction is evolving. While it remains a valuable space for representation and critique, it is no longer the sole avenue for exploring queer desire. Moreover, there is a growing recognition that intimacy and connection do not always have to be sexual to be queer. This connects to broader discussions within queer studies about whether queerness must always be sexually transgressive. For instance, scholars such as Lisa Duggan, in her critique of new homonormativity, suggest that an overemphasis on sexual liberation can sometimes obscure structural inequalities and broader political struggles.⁸ Similarly, Mel Stanfill, building on Duggan’s work, questions the presumed transgressive nature of slash fiction.⁹ Stanfill critically examines how gender, sexuality, and other intersecting factors circulate within fan and artist-driven works, highlighting the risk of inadvertently establishing new normative frameworks that define what is considered non-normative.

Looking back, Noel acknowledges that the lack of queer representation – and the media industry’s persistent queerbaiting and erasure – pushed him toward fan-driven sexualization practices at a time when openly queer, sexually active, and joyful characters were rare. Since the publication of LotC, his work has remained deeply engaged with queer themes while expanding in new directions, incorporating more intersectional perspectives – a vision he wishes to see reflected in the work of other artists. He is particularly interested in how creators navigate gender fluidity – how femininities shape male characters, and vice versa – fostering an exchange of perspectives that transcends traditional binaries and captures the everyday experiences of LGBTQI+ individuals.

As we reach the final page of the comic, Noel laughs at the sheer absurdity and excess of LotC, and I laugh with him. The humor, the exaggeration, the audacity – it is all part of what can make slash fiction so compelling. Much like my students, who burst into laughter or whispered to one another when I shared the comic’s opening page, I realize our reactions act as a cultural thermometer, measuring what shocks, unsettles, and delights us. These queer interventions, with their irreverence and playfulness, push us to reconsider what we expect from slash fiction and how we envision queerness in media. Yet beyond critique, they are also about joy – the thrill of testing the limits of normativity, the pleasure of reimagining the fictional worlds we love, and the delight in defying what is deemed acceptable.

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to the artist – and my dear friend – Jalex Noel for granting permission and the rights to feature part of his work in this article.