When I started watching My Stubborn, I thought I was in for that charming, tender Thai BL romance we all swoon over. Boy, was I in for a surprise! It feels like the creators decided to crank up the heat way beyond what the story needed—almost as if they sat around a table and said, “Forget subtlety, let’s just pile on the kisses, the steamy scenes, and those sculpted bodies. That’s what sells!” And, honestly? That approach completely hijacked the storytelling.
The series drags its feet over 12 episodes, each nearly an hour long, but the plot barely shifts gears—it just circles back on itself like a dog chasing its tail. I can’t help but wonder, why do Thai filmmakers insist on stretching episodes so thin? It seems like an excuse to splash the screen with nonstop, unapologetic sex scenes between Sorn and Jun. Seriously, I’ve yet to find an episode where there wasn’t some kiss stolen or passion exploding right in front of us. At first, it felt like gluttonous overkill, like the story was gasping for breath beneath all that physical intensity.
The story kicks off with a eyebrow-raising moment: Sorn, caught in a rather public act of self-pleasure, is watched by a younger boy, Jun. What unfolds feels oddly casual given the circumstances—they convince themselves it’s “not gay,” even as Sorn eagerly offers to teach Jun a thing or two about kissing. Fast forward a few years, and they’re coworkers, with Jun now an intern under Sorn, who suddenly turns from mentor to full-on flirt monster, constantly snatching kisses and making every scene sizzle with sex. Jun’s confusion is almost tangible—who wouldn’t feel bewildered by this whirlwind of affection and physicality? Yet, slowly, feelings start to creep in. But just when you think love might blossom, Sorn shatters that hope by declaring he can’t fall for someone “so young,” which honestly felt like a plot hole so wide you could drive through it.
Meanwhile, the show throws in other office couples, like Tai and his colleague, stirring a tepid subplot that flickers and dies rather than igniting any real fire. Their chemistry is so flat that I found myself yearning for the briefest spark of genuine connection. And then there’s the lesbian couple—utterly shoehorned in, forcing extra drama that doesn’t add much except to cloud the plot with confusion.
What really rubbed me the wrong way was Sorn’s contradictory personality. He’s emotionally unavailable enough to hurt Jun over and over again but somehow can’t stop dropping into bed with him. His mood swings and casual hookups with Penny paint him as less of a devoted lover and more of a man chasing his own desires without regard for the emotional wreckage left behind. Jun, on the other hand, is young and vulnerable, and though he slowly surrenders to Sorn’s advances, that constant look of fear every time Sorn gets close started to grate on my nerves. It’s like watching a dance where one partner is eager, and the other is just terrified to even breathe.
Both actors do what they can with their roles, flaunting the charm and charisma needed to sell the steamy scenes, but it felt like they were trapped in a script that cared more about surface heat than emotional depth. I found myself craving meaningful moments between characters rather than endless sexcapades.
For those who just want a spicy, no-holds-barred BL series, this might hit the spot. But if you’re looking for a storyline that actually bites and sticks with you, beware—you’ll find very little here besides hot breath on necks and star-crossed kisses. It’s a wild ride of lust masquerading as love, one that left me wondering: why chase the flame if all you get is smoke?
