Damson Idris Sparks Fury After Posting ‘PAWGS Need Love Too’ Shirt

After years of carefully pandering to Black female audiences, Damson Idris has finally taken the mask off. His decision to post a shirt on Instagram reading “PAWGS need love too”, with PAWGS explicitly standing for “Phat Ass White Girls”, wasn’t subtle, ironic, or accidental. It was declarative. And the timing matters.

This comes just as Idris has crossed into full mainstream validation: his first major box-office film, critical acclaim for his performance, and a Met Gala run that positioned him squarely within elite fashion and celebrity culture. These are the moments when allegiances shift. Once mass appeal is secured, the audience that helped build the image becomes expendable. Black women, long positioned as his most loyal supporters and primary romantic fanbase, are no longer necessary to sustain his desirability.

Imagine wealthy high profile white men creating an entire term & subculture celebrating fat black women.

Oh you can’t because interracial desire rests on antiblack racial hierarchy. https://t.co/Mwn9tKoZ6I

— Zion 🇸🇩 (@afroanalytic) January 8, 2026

Black women single handedly build these men’s careers only to end up “shocked” that they’re not into black women.
At some point y’all need to realize when you’re being used and move accordingly. https://t.co/M2luevZQ89

— 🎇✨African Doll✨🎇 (@AfricanDoll__) January 8, 2026

Centering White Romance Pushes Black Women Aside

His current career choices reinforce that shift. Idris is now starring in a Miles Davis biopic that centers not on Davis’s wife, children, friends, collaborators, or cultural milieu, but on his relationship with a white mistress. Once again, Black women are expected to show up, support, and applaud narratives that marginalize them, effectively turning them into spectators, or worse, willing cucks to their own erasure.

“For me, the project was deeper than portraying Miles Davis. I wanted to exist in a romance. I wanted to play a role where I could be in love. I related to Miles and Juliette’s story because I’m always on the road, meeting new people, falling for them, and then having to say goodbye,” Idris said, speaking about his upcoming project Miles and Juliette, which centers on Davis’s relationship with a white mistress.

This pattern is not unique to Damson Idris. Jonathan Majors built his leading-man credibility by courting Black female admiration, only to attempt to weaponize that same loyalty when his image collapsed amid abuse allegations involving his white girlfriend. When the strategy failed, he lost everything. Michael B. Jordan’s relationship with Black female audiences similarly faltered following a series of moments that signaled distance and dismissal: comments about preferring Latinas, a spoof music video featuring a white woman dancing suggestively, and a widely publicized “white-girl-only” boat trip. It ultimately took a three-year-long, highly visible relationship with Lori Harvey to repair that fracture.

When Black Love Becomes a Marketing Strategy

These examples point to a larger, uncomfortable truth: “Black love,” as it exists in celebrity culture, is often not a value system, it is a marketing strategy. It is deployed by Black male celebrities to build legitimacy, soften public perception, and cultivate a fiercely loyal audience willing to defend them at all costs. It emerged, in part, as a corrective to years of overt misogynoir, used to bring Black women “back into the fold” after prolonged periods of disrespect, exclusion, and public humiliation.

The strategy operates transactionally. Once men secure broader validation through white audiences, industry power, or global fame, they treat the performance of Black love as optional. They discard it the moment it clashes with personal desire or career growth. Worse, they selectively revive it to shield themselves from accountability when they harm women.

These men ask Black women to believe in Black love, invest emotionally in it, defend it publicly, and remain loyal without receiving the same commitment in return. They expect Black women to humanize them while repeatedly dehumanizing Black women, then dismiss criticism as bitterness, jealousy, or betrayal.

Black women must confront the reality that this is not love. It is branding. And believing in it has come at a steep cost. It is time to stop falling for it.

Final Thoughts

For many critics, this was never about who Damson Idris dates or desires. Plenty of people truly do not care if he prefers white women. What rankles is the years of pandering to Black women to build cultural capital, only to treat that same audience as disposable once mainstream validation arrives. That bait-and-switch is what feels insulting.

If rumors are true that studios are considering Idris as the next T’Challa, that concern intensifies. Chadwick Boseman did more than play Black Panther. He understood what Black representation meant, especially for Black Americans routinely confined to negative, limiting roles. Boseman carried that responsibility deliberately. He advocated for Black communities on and off screen. He treated the role as sacred. Most importantly, he never mocked the audience that elevated him, particularly in a Trump-era world where positive representation already faces constant attack.

That is why this moment matters. Iconic roles like Black Panther are not just career steps. They come with cultural weight, historical memory, and communal obligation. Black audiences are not asking for perfection. They are asking for seriousness, respect, and work. They want representation rooted in care, not irony, provocation, or trolling.