Ryan Murphy’s “Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story” just premiered on Netflix and became the most watched show on the platform. Murphy and his series are deeply controversial. The past three seasons have focused on convicted killers Jeffrey Dahmer, Lyle and Erik Menendez, and Ed Gein, and have garnered considerable criticism for sensationalizing real-life trauma, exploiting victims for entertainment, and glorifying the perpetrators.

But his newest season centers on Lizzie Borden, the white, affluent Massachusetts woman still referenced today in nursery rhymes who was never convicted of killing her parents Andrew and Abby Borden. As with Murphy’s other seasons, the show plays fast-and-loose with real-life history, instead turning a real-life crime into a psychosexual spectacle. 

In real life, Lizzie was found not guilty by an all-male jury in the highly publicized 1892 trial, largely due to a lack of evidence including blood on her clothing and a murder weapon. Her initial statement contradicted her later testimony but her defense team argued that the morphine a doctor repeatedly gave her likely caused her confusion. But despite the fact that Lizzie was acquitted in court, she was ostracized by her community during her life and has been branded a murderer ever since.

Murphy’s highly fictionalized retelling of Lizzie’s story leans into this accusation not only that Lizzie murdered her father and stepmother with an axe but that she was successful in covering it up with the help of the maid Bridget Sullivan. Murphy not only concocts a sapphic relationship between Lizzie and Bridget, pinning the idea of killing Lizzie’s parents on the widely traveled woman who dyes her hair and is repeatedly called a lesbophobic slur by Lizzie’s stepmother, but also portrays Lizzie as an inspiration to Aileen Carol Wuornos, a woman who killed seven men who solicited sex and was also in a relationship with a woman. 

Further, Murphy’s retelling creates a false ending to Lizzie’s story. While in real life, Lizzie and her sister Emma buy a house called “Maplecroft” and live there for the rest of their lives, Murphy instead imagines Bridget returning sporadically for romantic rendezvous with Lizzie and eventually moving back in with her and marching together for women’s right to vote. In real life, Bridget left town immediately after providing testimony and lived in Montana until she died. 

Lesbophobia is at the heart of this retelling of Borden’s story. Despite the fact that Murphy depicts Lizzie and Bridget having sex and possibly getting married or at least promising themselves to one another wearing flower crowns, there is no evidence that Lizzie and Bridget had any romantic or sexual relationship. If they did have a relationship, it would likely have been hidden and any evidence destroyed, but records show that Lizzie herself refused to call Bridget by her real name, instead referring to her as “Maggie,” the name of their previous maid. It was only Lizzie’s stepmother Abby who called Bridget her real name. In Murphy’s retelling, it’s Lizzie’s stepmother Abby who refuses to learn or use Bridget’s actual name and treats her with disdain along with her stepdaughter.

Some people online argue that we are witnessing Lizzie’s story retold through Wuornos’s perspective, so adding in elements of child abuse and sapphic relationships would make sense, but there is no record that Wuornos ever visited Lizzie Borden’s home, or that she was inspired by Borden throughout her life. Instead, Murphy and his co-creator Ian Brennan use (or I would say exploit) Wuornos as a thematic device to make broad stereotypes about female rage across generations. In doing so, they conflate two real-life examples of violence to sapphic individuals.

Depicting a lesbian relationship in this way is not progress, nor is it fruitful representation today. As sapphic shows are increasingly cut and cancelled, Murphy’s inclusion just reinforces the lesbophobic and sexist stereotype that lesbians and queer women are “dangerous” to straight women and abet or incite violence against men and a family unit. At a time when anti-LGBTQ+ legislation and real-world violence and murder of LGBTQ+ people, especially queer and trans people of color, is exploding, stories that frame murder of a family unit as germinating from a sapphic relationship feed into far right narratives.

They further the myth popularized by far right leaders (including those in the highest echelons of government) that LGBTQ+ people are dangerous, a threat to heterosexual norms and family life, despite the data showing that children of same-sex parents have above average health and well-being according to research by the University of Melbourne.

Today, many LGBTQ+ people feel they have to be (or are forced to be) idealized versions of themselves in order to stave off anti-LGBTQ+ stigma, policing and violence. These “acceptable” behaviors and appearances are rooted not only in cisgender, heterosexual norms but also white supremacy, colonialism, xenophobia, and ableism. It is respectability politics that tell us how we can and should behave (including those perpetuating in the wider LGBTQ+ community) and push LGBTQ+ people to assimilate into a society governed by queerphobic normativity. 

I hope it’s clear that I’m not trying to argue that we cannot and should not have shows that depict queer women who kill, or at the very least queer women who are unethical or morally complex. We need these depictions because they ask difficult questions and they reference how some LGBTQ+ people can be and are unethical. In fact, several public LGBTQ+ figures are associated with employee abuse and exploitation, ableism, and fat phobia. 

But when Lizzie’s sapphic identity is invented to drive the story along, arguably to generate interest (especially straight men’s interest) in this spectacle of historical slop, it’s not a story that invites discourse and dimensionality, it’s one that collapses Lizzie, Wuornos, and queer women’s identities and relationships to plot devices. It objectifies and fetishizes queer women, arguably committing violence against not only Lizzie but also Wuornos.

And when there is so little representation of sapphic relationships on mainstream television or streaming platforms, it makes this the vast majority of representation that queer girls and women will see of themselves first, and that the straight public will see. Historians will know that Murphy’s depiction of Lizzie’s life is wrong, but many viewers will not and may not go digging for the truth.

Why not focus on the stories of bisexual, lesbian, and queer women who really existed, shared their identities (sometimes covertly, sometimes not), and had long-term partners? In fact, “Boston marriages” were common in this time period and referred to women living together when sexual and romantic relationships between women were illegal, partially because penal systems didn’t know how women could have sex with one another and didn’t want to put the idea in “impressionable” women’s minds. Why not focus on these stories instead of creating a fictionalized account? We have always existed; we do not need to invent relationships.

Murphy’s depiction of Lizzie Borden is deeply problematic. Lesbophobia is not the only issue at the heart of Murphy’s drama, but it merits a broader discussion about how mainstream media routinely hurt queer women and is part of perpetuating queerphobic violence, and what we all lose in the process. 

The Blade is excited to celebrate the 25th anniversary of our Best Of LGBTQ DC awards this year. We’re pulling out all the stops for our annual party with celebrity emcee Ashley Darby and acclaimed DJ Michael Navarro. The party is set for Oct. 22 at Longview Gallery with pop-up performances, cocktail and food tastings, open bar, and a Halloween costume contest with the theme, “Murder on the Dancefloor.”

But first, you have to vote. You nominated and now we have our finalists for the 2026 Best of LGBTQ DC Awards.

Vote for your favorites through Oct. 8.

We’ll honor the winners at the Best of LGBTQ DC Awards Party on Thursday, Oct. 22, and showcase them in our special issue released Friday, Oct. 23.

VOTE BELOW OR BY CLICKING HERE!

Uncloseted Media published this story on Sept. 29

By ERICA ROSE and THE LESBIAN BAR PROJECT | As a professional lesbian and Massachusetts native, I’ve recently been asked by a lot of folks what I think about the saga unfolding at Last Ditch. The now-viral story, first reported by the Boston Globe, centers on a Western Massachusetts lesbian bar that lifted its mask requirement for one night a week to help drum up business.

The decision ignited an intra-queer controversy that has been feasted on by media outlets across the political spectrum — from the New York Post to LGBTQ Nation — and is even reportedly being eyed for a Hollywood adaptation. Apparently nothing is more entertaining than a bunch of lesbians and queers fighting with each other over KN-95s.

What has been lost in all of the chatter and media coverage is the very real possibility that Last Ditch, which just opened in April 2025, will have to close its doors. The venue’s one remaining founder, Jackie Matellian, revealed in a community Zoom meeting that she’s working four jobs, is now solely responsible for the bar’s $50,000 business loan and is struggling to keep up with the bills. So as we laugh about the controversy’s similarity to a “Portlandia” skit and how one of the bar’s founders left to enroll in clown school, we forget that yet another lesbian bar is facing an existential crisis — and this time the call is coming from inside the house.

In 2020, my friend Elina Street and I created The Lesbian Bar Project, an Emmy-, Webby- and GLAAD Media Award-winning docuseries and initiative that tells the stories of lesbian queer bars around the world. We were moved to act because at the time there were only an estimated 16 lesbian bars in the United States, and the pandemic threatened to bring that number down even further.

There are now more sapphic bars than there were just before the pandemic — about 36 of them in total — but this is down from approximately 200 in 1980. Maybe that doesn’t mean much to you, but for the millions of sapphics living in the U.S., this number is calamitous.

As the world laughs at lesbians and sapphics, I want to take a second and tell you what I feel when I walk into one of these bars, which are all unique and irreplaceable in their own way: I feel seen.

Sometimes I think Cubbyhole in New York City’s West Village neighborhood knew I was gay before I did. When I walked in there for the first time, before I was even out, I was transfixed by the colorful array of tchotchkes hanging from the ceiling and how the women standing next to me were completely unafraid to express their desire for one another. I knew the minute I was ready to come out, I had a home. I also felt the joy of a new couple falling in love at Seattle’s Wildrose, the quiet confidence of a short king lining up her shot at the pool table at Ginger’s in Brooklyn and the kick of cayenne pepper in Julie Mabry’s crawfish at Houston’s Pearl Bar.

Lesbian bars don’t just serve lesbians; they serve queer folks across the spectrum, including bisexual, pansexual and trans people. As Elina and I traveled across the U.S. and Europe and to parts of Latin America to document the bar owners, staff and patrons that make up the ecosystems of these spaces, we also became uniquely acquainted with the factors that threaten their existence: gentrification, wage gaps, sexism, environmental disasters, gun violence, rising insurance premiums and political administrations working to annihilate queer people and their families.

Lesbian bar owners, like all leaders and entrepreneurs, are imperfect. There have been significant issues over the years at lesbian bars: employee harassment, racism, lack of accessibility, sexual assault and transphobia. All bar owners should be held accountable and should listen to their communities to evolve into safer and more equitable spaces. I also acknowledge my privilege: I am able-bodied, white, cis and from a family system that loves me for who I am. Not everyone has that.

Queer people, especially trans and bisexual people, are suffering from disproportionately high levels of depression, and our mental health system isn’t equipped to support them. Immunocompromised people and long COVID are real, and many of my friends are suffering to this day. The people with the least safety net are often the ones for whom a bar closing costs the most. And yet, as we’re seeing with Last Ditch, the queer community often lashes out at each other. It’s also the mainstream media taking the internal conflict and making a mockery out of it, distracting from the real possibility that this bar could close due to financial pressures. A bar that many people loved and needed is facing extinction. Perhaps it’s safer to dissent with one another than with the larger forces trying to eradicate us, but in doing so, we risk destroying the few spaces we have left.

Due to the constraints of purity politics — some in good faith, some not so much — lesbian bar owners, almost all of whom are queer women themselves, are forced to be everything for everyone, similarly to how women are forced to be everything for everyone. By asking these bars to uphold impossible standards — standards very few other third spaces are asked to consider — we all end up losing.

I want to move as a community toward dialogue, compassionate dissent and collaboration to make our spaces better with the goal of keeping them OPEN and thriving, rather than destroying them from the inside with expectations that are arguably unattainable.

While I have your attention — for this fleeting second of the news cycle — may I urge us to spearhead a way to keep these small businesses afloat without attacking our own community along the way? Bar owners are left with an impasse: They want to be community-centered, but they also have to make money to keep their doors open. Sometimes they might make business decisions that don’t work for everyone — and that’s partly because different patrons have different priorities and want different things — but these owners deserve the opportunity for productive dialogue. We have to work with them and with each other to keep our spaces open, to keep them growing.

Lesbian bars raised me into the queer woman I am today. One thing I think about as I reflect on the six years of work we’ve done to document these spaces is that shared, unspoken language I have with a stranger the moment we both walk into one of these bars: the nod, the ease, the not having to explain ourselves. I don’t want to lose that, and neither should you.