Yuri is a genre of Japanese media defined by its depiction of “intimate relationships between women.” More often than not, these “intimate relationships” include platonic pastimes like kissing, hugging, and homoerotic dates to the local aquarium–lesbian romances in all but name to many modern readers. Yet, the authors of classic yuri literature are hesitant to label their works as lesbian fiction, or have their characters identity as queer.
This strange ambiguity allows the genre to blur the line between what’s considered platonic or homoerotic. Stories can fall anywhere between lifelong friendships (“they were just really good friends”) to explicit affairs, all without disturbing the lesbian elephant in the room.
Case in point, nearly all yuri is devoid of common LGBTQ+ labels. These stories appear disinterested in exploring identity politics—the way Western queer narratives often rely on to convey LGBTQ+ themes—which finds yuri fans stuck between a rock and a hard place. Readers seek stories of intimate relationships between women, but often second guess whether promises of eternity are disguised marriage vows or if prolonged eye contact makes these girls gay. While some believe the genre exists in an alternate world where women can’t be lesbians, others fixate on the homoerotic implications of girls holding hands.
Although this debate has heated up online forums in recent years, it overlooks the most important part of what makes yuri special: The undeniable queerness in yuri relationships and narrative tropes—a pattern that rings true even when the stories themselves would never dare to call its characters lesbians.
On the contrary, there are plenty of titles that don’t feature traditional romantic relationships, which online spaces typically cast aside as “queerbait.”
On the contrary, there are plenty of titles that don’t feature traditional romantic relationships, which online spaces typically cast aside as “queerbait.” However, it would be a grave mistake to regard these relationships as aggressively heterosexual. Though these narratives may often appear to be standard slice of life stories not entirely unlike certain western genres, they really take place in a special “girls world,” where the everyday struggles of a schoolgirl are of primary importance and male desire doesn’t drive the world.
In the world of yuri, relationships between women take center stage, while men as a whole are largely absent from the genre. Even when they’re featured in early works—only to serve as antagonistic love rivals—the story conveys blatant disinterest in their actions. Moreover, conflict itself is simply secondary to the main focus: the connections between the female leads.
While stories may not always describe explicit sapphic romance, they urge readers to avoid assuming that heterosexuality is implied or even the default, as the relationships between women in this world are the most pivotal points of existence. Yuri authors Zaoh Taishi and Eiki Eiki assert this aspect when describing the ideas behind several of their published series in an interview in 2010.
“Our goal [in creating yuri manga] is to denounce a society in which men always take the initiative over women.”
Women in the world of yuri are unabashedly queer; a rebellion against the male-dominated and male-oriented standard. Even today, the idea of a self-contained “girls’ world” remains trailblazing and revolutionary, as seen in the mainstream’s reactions to “Barbieland”—a similarly female-oriented world—in Greta Gerwig’s Barbie (2023). Barbieland is run by women and celebrates the feminine, a concept that still remains alien to many audiences.
Yuri stories not only describe a world similarly free of patriarchal influence, but also exist somewhere far away from heteronormativity. In a narrative free of these constructs, any and every sort of relationship between women is understood as intimate and meaningful. This may be why countless sapphics have taken to yuri as the newest genre of lesbian fiction, even if the label itself is never uttered once.
Alongside yuri’s total focus on women and their bonds is a striking feminine aesthetic that sets the genre apart visually, further asserting its queer quality.
Long before the likes of titles such as Revolutionary Girl Utena (1997), the early 20th century saw the rise of Class S culture. As yuri’s parent genre, Class S media would lay the foundations for many of the archetypes and narrative traditions exemplified in yuri. Described as a social phenomenon and literary genre of intense “romantic friendships” between women, Class S stories introduced classic sapphic settings like all-female catholic schools and the “senpai-kōhai” (upperclassmen-underclassmen) relationship dynamic.
However, these relationships were often fleeting, as girls were portrayed to “mature out of them.” Class S culture was predominantly exclusive to schoolgirls, subsequently branding the genre as a phenomenon of adolescence. Tragedy was a common theme, whether it came in the form of forced separation, melancholic graduation—or even death. This bittersweet portrayal of Class S relationships served as a way for the genre to explore themes of adolescent love without explicitly delving into lesbianism.
The extraordinary thing about yuri, however, is that it goes beyond recycling tropes of tragedy—it instead reimagines these aesthetics as a part of its “girls world,” where the relationships between women embrace womanhood.
Despite its somber themes, Class S laid the cultural groundwork as a precursor to shōjo (girls’ comics) and modern yuri. Modern yuri stories still retain many Class S characteristics, often set in schools with the enduring senpai-kōhai dynamics. The extraordinary thing about yuri, however, is that it goes beyond recycling tropes of tragedy—it instead reimagines these aesthetics as a part of its “girls world,” where the relationships between women embrace womanhood.
Yuri’s narrative tropes and imagery celebrate feminine aesthetics by borrowing from symbols established in Class S. By describing the deep and intimate relationships between women, these narratives express their pride in femininity and the experience of girlhood. Though some girl characters may pursue deeper relationships with one another, they are not forced to compromise womanly characteristics for the sake of a sapphic bond—a lingering stereotype of early queer narratives.
Neither side of a female relationship are required to take on the dominant role of a man, or transform themselves into someone they are not. These women are allowed to be true to themselves when pursuing love with one another—a narrative element that is wonderfully gay.
Is Yuri Gay?
As yuri has evolved from its conception in the 1970s, more contemporary titles are choosing to take on themes of sexuality or explore questions of identity—marking the first consistent appearance of lesbian labels in the genre. However, it is deeply important to not overlook the roots of yuri, where its narrative-defining relationships between women made it obvious that the genre had always been queer from the start.
Yuri’s feminine aesthetics helped to define a generation of sapphic imagery, making it crucial that when discussing queer media, we finally allow the genre a proper seat at the table. But beyond yuri’s influence on sapphic culture, readers value the focus on intimate relationships between girls–something that’s still strangely absent from modern media–and the genre’s rejection of patriarchal and heteronormative constructs.
BERKELEY FICTION REVIEW 