"We hold hands and people stare at us." How do gay people live in the Czech Republic? We reached out to LUI readers and their accounts are more honest than you might expect
On paper, the Czech Republic looks like a country that has already solved this issue. Rainbow flags fly in big cities in August, same-sex couples appear in advertisements, politicians occasionally talk about equality, and a large part of society likes to believe that nobody here has much say in anyone's life. But there is a space between the public image of a "fairly tolerant country" and what actually happens in families, workplaces, waiting rooms, streets and relationships that is less audible than the loud debates on the networks.
This is where we wanted to look. Therefore, the LUI editorial team reached out to its readers from different parts of the Czech Republic, of different ages and life experiences, and asked them what really bothers them in their everyday lives as gay men. It wasn't just about the big political issues that fit well into the headlines, but also about small, recurring situations that may seem banal in themselves, but which in the end create a very concrete feeling of insecurity, fatigue, caution or loneliness. Their statements make up a picture that is much less black and white than it might seem.
When equality is still not quite equality
As of January 2025, same-sex couples in the Czech Republic can enter into a civil partnership that gives them most of the rights associated with marriage, including joint property, joint names or survivorship rights. However, the difference remains in the name of the institution itself and also in the area of parenthood, as joint adoption of a child is no longer possible for a same-sex couple.
It is this detail, however, that does not appear to be a minor detail in the lives of many couples. Daniel K. (29) from Prague says that the most important thing is often lost in the debate. "People feel that it's actually already solved because something has changed and at first glance it looks almost the same. But the word almost in this case means a lot. When the state says it has a different name for you and a different family framework, it's still communicating something. And the person perceives that, even if they try to tell you they're exaggerating."
Tomáš B. (36), who lives with his partner in Brno, perceives the problem similarly, but more practically. "It's not that I need a big gesture or a solemn recognition. It's about the feeling that if you already share a life, a home, a commitment and a future with someone, there is no reason to say that it's something a little different. And when it comes to children, there's still a bright line there that reminds a person that we're not exactly the same all the time."
Coming out is not one sentence, but a long process
In the imaginations of people who don't know the experience themselves, coming out is often portrayed as one pivotal moment. A single conversation after which everything becomes clear, relationships regroup, and life goes on. However, most men interviewed describe coming out as more of a series of returns to the same topic, varying according to environment, age, relationships and the level of security they feel at the time.
Radim V. (27) from Hradec Králové says that he did not experience open drama at home, yet he does not remember the period after coming out as a relief. "My mom didn't kick me out, my dad didn't stop talking to me, so some would say it turned out well. It just doesn't mean it was easy. Rather, there was a strange silence in the house that made me feel that I was suddenly being thought of differently. Not as a son, but as a problem that needed to be absorbed somehow."
Adam N. (34), a manager from Prague, talks about another layer of the same experience. "People often think that once you're out, you're done. But then you start a new job, come in with new colleagues, meet a friend's parents, go on a teambuilding trip or sit at a holiday table with someone who hasn't seen you in a while, and it all comes back. You're always reconsidering whether to tell the truth directly or to somehow wrap it up so it doesn't get awkward."
Daniel K. (29) from Prague describes an even more raw feeling. "I don't even find it the hardest thing to say. The hardest thing is the tension before. The scanning of the other person to see if they can stand it, if they won't put you somewhere else, if they won't turn it against you. And after a while, you get tired, not of hiding anything, but of the eternal measuring of who you can let know the truth about you."
According to Petr L. (38) from Ústí nad Labem, the coming out often does not end even when the person has mastered it in relation to his surroundings. "Then comes the next phase, when you have to handle it in front of yourself. Stop watching your voice, your gestures, what you say. Stop feeling like you have to be the acceptable gay guy who doesn't provoke anyone too much. Sometimes that's a longer road than coming out."
Public space is not equally comfortable for everyone
On paper, a street is just a street. A streetcar is just a streetcar. A cafe is just a cafe. But in real life, even the most ordinary spaces can quickly turn into places where you start to think about how you look, what you can afford and how much you should be seen. Some interviewees do not experience overt aggression, others do, but almost all spoke of a form of constant caution that becomes almost automatic over time.
Jakub T. (31), who lives in Prague, says that even in a city that considers itself liberal, public proximity is still a particular test. "When I'm walking down the street with a friend and we're holding hands, sometimes it's completely normal and you don't even think about it. And then just a few blocks away, a different group of people, a different hour, a different atmosphere, and I immediately become aware. Someone looks longer than normal, someone chuckles, someone says something. It's not a big scene, but it sends a clear message: we see you."
Petr L. (38) from Ústí nad Labem says that the difference between Prague and the regions is still noticeable in this respect. "In the capital I've got used to some things and I feel like I can afford more. At home I don't. Not because everyone wants to attack me there, but because I feel much more under scrutiny. When you walk in as a couple, people pick you up. When you touch your partner, it immediately carries a different weight than if a heterosexual couple did it."
Radim V. (27) from Hradec Kralove calls this mechanism simply self-censorship. "The worst thing is that it settles in the body over time. You stop making certain gestures, you stop saying certain things out loud, you start talking more carefully about who you were with at the weekend. It's not a ban, nobody's officially imposing anything on you. But you'll adjust anyway to keep your cool. And then one day you realize how much energy it takes to be a little smaller all the time."
Adam N. (34) from Prague follows a similar experience. "A lot of people think that discrimination has to look like a swear word or an attack. But it often looks much more subtle. Like an atmosphere. Like thinking twice about hugging your partner on the platform. Like entering an unfamiliar bar and assessing in seconds whether it's a safe place. This is hard to explain to someone who's never had to do it."
At work, you learn what not to say
Work is a space where most people want to appear professional, calm and competent. And that's why the issue of personal identity tends to be sensitive. Not everyone wants to be perceived primarily through their orientation, but at the same time they don't want to create a false image of their life. Many interviewees described that they do not necessarily face open hatred in the work environment, but rather a soft climate that makes them cautious.
Adam N. (34), a manager from Prague, says that he started using the word "partner" at work only after years. "Before, I often said mate or simply rephrased the sentence so that nothing could be discerned from it. Nobody asked me to lie, but there were all kinds of jokes, remarks and macho banter running around that looked innocent. And you tell yourself it's not worth the discomfort to be honest. But then you suddenly catch yourself talking about yourself at work as a stranger."
Tomáš B. (36) from Brno describes it bluntly. "Almost everyone here would say they have nothing against gays. But then you hear jokes that are just supposed to be funny, remarks about someone looking gay, or that kind of guy talk where homosexuality is still a shortcut for something ridiculous. Then you don't know whether to keep quiet or speak up. And both options are tiring."
Jakub T. (31) from Prague also talks about fears that are harder to prove but still influence behaviour. "If you want to grow professionally, you don't want to be someone for management to be around when there is an extra topic. Of course, no one will tell you to your face that you are a problem. But a lot of people, I think, wonder if openness is going to complicate things, if it's going to relegate them to the role of someone who, while capable, is kind of different. And that's exactly what leads people to prefer to keep a part of themselves in a drawer."
But Daniel K. (29) from Prague also points to something more subtle. "It's also about the fact that heterosexual people can be ordinary at work. They can talk about their wife, husband, children, weekends, holidays, and they don't define anyone. When a gay person does the same thing, sometimes it still feels like they're already bringing up the subject. And the difference is much bigger than it seems."
Even within the community, one is not automatically safe
From the outside, the queer community is often seen as a space of relief. A place where one finally doesn't have to hide anything, and where one finds the acceptance one has lacked elsewhere. However, the experience of the interviewees shows that not everything is easy here either. With the feeling of liberation often come new norms, new pressures and new forms of judgement that can be surprisingly hard on the psyche.
Libor Z. (30) from Brno says that the biggest shock came when he thought that the worst was over. "I thought that if I accepted myself, I would finally breathe more freely somewhere. But then you enter a space where there is also a lot of evaluation, just in a different language. Body, age, style, sexuality, how masculine you appear, who you show up with. And if you don't fit a certain idea, you feel it very quickly."
The same respondent was referring mainly to the rejection of anything that is perceived as too feminine or not masculine enough. "Paradoxically, I was very hurt by phrases I heard from other gay men. Like they just want normal men, they can't stand effeminacy, this is too much. Then you get the impression that even in the community the freedom to be yourself is not complete, it's just that the rules change to sort out who is still cool and who is not."
Roman F. (43) from České Budějovice speaks even more broadly about toxic samples. "I think there is little acknowledgement of how rough some parts of the gay environment can be. A lot of people carry rejection, shame or feelings of inadequacy from growing up and then unfortunately they carry it on. In the irony, in the superficiality, in how quickly someone gets dumped when they don't live up to the hype. It's understandable, but it's no less hurtful."
Jakub T. (31) from Prague adds that the pressure to be attractive often hides behind supposed ease. "On the outside, it looks like everything is relaxed and free. But in reality, many people are constantly comparing themselves. Who is more fit, more sexy, more desirable, more trouble-free. And when you don't fit in, you're not only disappointed in others, but often in yourself."
There's a wider gap than it seems between Grindr and real closeness.
Relationships were among the most common themes that kept coming up in the responses. Not because gay men desire something fundamentally different than others, but because the path to closeness is often complicated by a combination of past experiences, mistrust, rapid digital contact, and uncertainty about what a stable queer relationship might actually look like.
Jakub T. (31) from Prague says that dating apps leave him feeling conflicted. "If you want a quick contact, they work great. But when you're looking for real closeness, they often leave an even bigger void. Not because they are bad in themselves, but because they teach you to look at others very quickly, superficially and interchangeably. And then that way of thinking carries over into reality."
Roman F. (43) from České Budějovice, who has had several long relationships, also sees the problem in the lack of common role models. "Heterosexual people grow up surrounded by the idea of what partner life looks like. They see it at home, in films, in soap operas, in their surroundings. For a long time, we didn't have those role models or they were invisible. And that has consequences. A lot of gay men enter relationships with no idea of what everyday intimacy, commitment, boredom, crisis, reconciliation or growing old together looks like."
Tomáš B. (36) from Brno then mentions the topic of open relationships, around which he believes there is a strange mixture of expectations and uncertainty. "I have nothing against open relationships if both people really want them. What bothers me is the pressure that anyone who wants monogamy is old-fashioned, naive or immature. As if even here one has to perform a certain way and prove that one is modern enough and above things. It's just that sometimes the greatest courage is simply admitting what you really need."
Petr L. (38) from Ústí nad Labem also describes a very quiet dimension of loneliness. "The older you get, the more it sometimes scares you how easy it is to have a phone full of contacts and no one really close to you. You can be surrounded by people and still feel like you're not fully in someone's life. And I think this is a much bigger issue with a lot of gay men than how they appear on the outside."
Sex can be free and burdened at the same time
Sex is talked about more openly in gay circles than in many other parts of society, and that can be a big advantage. But at the same time, this openness sometimes masks another pressure that is less talked about: the pressure to perform, to be experienced, to be confident, and to appear to have it all figured out. But he doesn't.
Daniel K. (29) from Prague describes how at one point he felt he had to catch up quickly. "I had the impression that others already knew what they wanted, what they did, what they looked like, what excited them, how to communicate boundaries. And I just pretended to know it too. The more sex around me was presented as something obvious and easy, the more insecure I felt because it didn't feel easy to me."
Radim V. (27) from Hradec Králové also points out the contradiction between the ideal of safe sex and real life. "There is a lot of information nowadays and that's good. But man is not a machine that acts perfectly rationally at every moment. Loneliness, the desire for contact, alcohol, shame, the need to please someone or the feeling that you don't want to spoil the atmosphere enter into the decision-making process. And that's what I don't think is talked about enough."
Roman F. (43) from České Budějovice adds that sex often involves much more than just the physical. "Sometimes I have the feeling that a gay man is supposed to be both sexually experienced and completely unencumbered psychologically. He is supposed to enjoy himself, but nothing must hurt him, nothing must scare him and he must not carry anything from his past. But that's not the case at all. A lot of people carry body insecurity, fear of rejection, old shame, or simply the feeling that they have something to prove into intimacy."
According to Libor Z. (30) from Brno, this creates a strange paradox. "On the outside it may look like we are free as a community in sex. But freedom without security and without the possibility of being vulnerable is sometimes just a different kind of pressure."
It's not one problem, but a whole way of experiencing the world
When all of these accounts are stacked side by side, it becomes clear that gay life in the Czech Republic cannot be retold by one conflict or one political issue. For some, the biggest burden is what remains unaddressed in the legal arena. For another, the fatigue of coming out, the caution in public, the silence at work, the pain of rejection within the community, or the loneliness that often masks itself outwardly with lightness and humour. In reality, however, all these layers are intertwined.
There is joy, tenderness, love, and the ordinariness that most people crave, regardless of orientation. But there is also a constant switch between safety and caution, between openness and self-protection, between the desire to be seen and the need to be quiet. And perhaps that is why the words of the readers addressed are so powerful. They are not describing one big, exceptional problem, but everyday life, which is less obvious at first glance, and which shows all the more accurately what can be hidden behind the phrase "it's all right now".
The future does not emerge from their answers as either hopelessness or simple optimism. Rather, it is a quiet question of whether there will come a time when holding hands will not be a small test of one's surroundings, when one will not have to reconsider how much truth one can afford in each new environment, and when relationships will not have to be constantly explained to oneself, to others, or to the system. Perhaps this is where the whole theme is strongest - it is not just about rights, names or public disputes, but about the possibility of living an ordinary life without unnecessary admixture of tension. And that is still surprisingly far away for many people.
