I went in for the buzz. I stayed for the hush between two men in a small room. You know what? The show got under my skin.
I’m talking about Fellow Travelers, the Showtime limited series with Matt Bomer and Jonathan Bailey. It follows love and fear across the 1950s through the AIDS crisis. It’s glossy, sure. But the scenes between these men feel raw, and sometimes kind. For quick reference, the show's current critical pulse can be found on its Rotten Tomatoes page.
If you want an even longer riff on why the ache matters, I unpacked it scene-by-scene in this OutProud essay.
Quick Take
- The gay scenes are bold but tender.
- The chemistry is real, not just pretty.
- Some moments feel staged, but many hit hard.
Let me explain.
And yes, I’m picky; the way an arc lands or fizzles matters to me the same way a city can thrill or disappoint—something I learned firsthand while drafting this brutally honest roundup of gay travel spots I adored (and a few I didn't).
The First Spark (and the Elevator Look)
Early on, Hawkins Fuller (Bomer) clocks Tim Laughlin (Bailey) at a D.C. party. It’s crowded. Talk is fast. But the air shifts. There’s that elevator look—brief, risky, electric. My friend paused and said, “Oh. They’re gone.” We laughed, but we both felt it. That small, quiet spark? That’s the story’s engine.
That mix of nerves and promise reminds me of landing in a place that greets you with open arms; I felt it again while compiling these truly gay-friendly destinations.
Hotel Rooms, Shadows, And A Belt On The Floor
Yes, the bedroom scenes are adult. But they’re not empty. One scene in a hotel room stuck with me. The camera holds the after. Breath. A belt on the floor. The music is low. Tim’s face is caught between joy and guilt. Hawke looks sure, almost cool, but his hands tell another story. The show lets silence do the work. It feels honest.
Watching their guarded tenderness hit me the same way the desert night did on my first trip through Namibia—vast, quiet, impossible to hide from yourself, as I wrote in this heart-open travel log.
I won’t spell out the acts. The point is the rhythm: heat, then tenderness, then fear. That swing feels true, and it keeps coming back. If you ever find yourself passing through a smaller Southern city and want to spark a similarly private connection—say you’ve got one night in Greer—your best starting point is the local Backpage Greer classifieds where real-time ads and safety pointers can help you meet someone genuine without stumbling into sketchy territory.
Bars With Red Light And Blue Smoke
There’s a secret bar scene—red light, close bodies, the air tight with risk. A raid is rumored. You can feel shoulders tense. A guard glances at the door. Later, Marcus (Jelani Alladin) covers queer spaces with a reporter’s eye. His scenes show a wider world—Black queer love, music, chosen family. I wanted even more of that.
One small moment: two men dance cheek to cheek by the jukebox while the room talks over them. Nobody shouts. Nobody claps. They just hold on. That quiet care? That’s the heart of the show for me.
For a lighter take on sweat, music, and zero raids, my go-to has become Puerto Vallarta—same heartbeat, way less peril.
Faith, Shame, And The Morning After
Tim’s faith matters. You see it in the way he sits on the bed, hands clasped, eyes wet, like he’s waiting for a sign. Then Hawke cracks a half smile, like he’s got the map. They’re not the same man. Sometimes that hurts. Sometimes that helps.
There’s a scene with a newspaper on the kitchen table. Headlines scream. Two mugs grow cold. They don’t touch. It’s not a sex scene, but it is intimate. It shows how fear can sit between people, like a third chair.
Later Years: Care Looks Different
In the later timeline, illness moves in. Bodies change. The show handles it with grace. A hospital room view. A bath given with gentle hands. A candlelight vigil—the screen soft, the sound of breath and night. I had to pause and just sit. It doesn’t feel cheap. It feels earned.
Craft Notes (Nerd Corner, Sorry)
Need more than my word? The aggregated takes over on Metacritic lay out every rave and eye-roll in tidy columns.
- Lighting: soft gold in the 50s; cooler tones later. Shadows hide, then reveal.
- Costumes: ties and crisp suits as armor; later, denim and open collars. You can read the closet in a lapel.
- Music: old records, a hint of strings. Nothing loud. It sneaks up.
What Didn’t Work For Me
- Sometimes the heat looks a bit too styled. Pretty pain is still pain, but still.
- A couple raid scenes feel staged, like the camera is too clean.
- I wanted more of Marcus and Frankie’s world. It’s rich, then it slips away.
When gloss overtakes grit, it rings false—exactly the feeling I had while sorting through hype and reality on safari in Botswana, beauty everywhere but truth sometimes staged.
Content Notes (So You’re Ready)
- Adult intimacy and nudity.
- Slurs, raids, and fear from the state.
- Illness, grief, and death.
If you need someone in your corner after heavy scenes, OutProud has resources and community stories that can help. If heavy TV isn’t on your packing list and you just want someone else to sort the details of a safe, affirming getaway, here’s my field-tested list of queer travel companies that actually deliver.
Who This Is For
- If you liked It’s A Sin for the ache and the love, this fits.
- If you enjoy Mad Men style polish with real stakes, you’re set.
- If you want queer stories that show joy and cost, not just one or the other.
And if you’re craving a reminder that sun-drenched joy can coexist with real stakes, bookmark my Costa Rica diary for the first free weekend you get.
A Tiny Personal Thing
I watched the first two episodes on a rainy Sunday. My living room was dim, and the street outside hissed with tires on wet asphalt. I texted my brother after the vigil scene and just said, “Hey.” He sent back a heart. That’s the kind of show this is. It makes you reach out. Of course, sometimes the fastest balm after a wrenching episode is something uncomplicatedly sweet; a quick scroll through Just Sugar will lead you to a rainbow of nostalgic candies and gift boxes that can turn a TV-induced ache into a sugar-sparked smile.
That little ping of warmth felt a lot like the breeze on a bluff in Aruba—unexpected, salty, and just enough.
Verdict
The gay scenes in Fellow Travelers aren’t just hot. They’re layered—risk, longing, care. They show how love bends under pressure, and how it still finds a way to move. Not perfect, but close enough to feel.
4.5 out of 5. I’ll remember the hush more than the heat—and that’s saying something.