A bilingual glossary. Not a dictionary, not a translation. Each entry is a translation that fails — and the failure matters.
These words do not exist simultaneously in two languages. They arrive along specific rivers: English queer concepts enter Chinese not directly from English, but often through Taiwanese translation, Taiwanese publishing, Taiwanese activist discourse. “Kù’ér” (酷儿, queer) was coined by Chi Ta-wei in Taiwan in 1994. “Xìng/bié” (性/别, sex/gender) was championed by Josephine Ho in Taiwan. The Ethical Slut circulates in mainland Chinese poly communities because the Traditional Chinese edition from Taiwan came first. This is not simply a time lag — not the same river, upstream and downstream — but two rivers with their own currents, tributaries, and checkpoints, and you are standing where they meet, compressed from both sides. Between what you read in English at the leading edge and what you can say in Chinese to your community, there is always a gap. This glossary is written from inside that compression.
Literal: same + aspiration. People who share a common purpose.
A revolutionary term — the standard form of address in Mao-era China. “Tóngzhì men hǎo” (“Hello, comrades”). In 1989, Hong Kong filmmaker Edward Lam repurposed it as a self-naming for queer communities. What this move did has no equivalent in English: it welded queer identity to a word already loaded with egalitarian passion and revolutionary solidarity. “Tóngzhì” carries “we are on the same side” — a meaning that gay, queer, and homosexual all lack. And for decades, the word continued to function simultaneously as a political address — so every utterance vibrated between state comradeship and queer belonging, sometimes both at once.
stone / 铁T (tiě T)
中文最接近的词:铁T。铁 = 铁/硬,T = tomboy。
Stone butch:在性接触中只给予、不接受被触碰的人。铁T指的是同一个位置——“铁”标记的是坚定、不可动摇。两个词都用硬度做隐喻,但它们长在完全不同的土壤里。Stone 来自美国工人阶级酒吧文化,经过 Leslie Feinberg 的 Stone Butch Blues 之后,它成了一个被文学和理论撑开的身份空间——石头不只是硬,还是创伤之后身体重新划定边界的方式,是关于主权的一句完整的话。铁T是中文拉拉社群里的位置标记,它活在日常交往和社群辨识里,不在文学和理论里。同一个身体经验,一边有一整个叙事传统接住它,另一边只有两个字——但这两个字在用的人中间,足够了。
The closest Chinese term: 铁T (tiě T). 铁 = iron/hard. T = tomboy.
A stone butch gives but does not receive touch during sex. 铁T names the same position — “iron” marking something unyielding. Both words reach for hardness as metaphor, but they grew in entirely different soil. Stone comes from American working-class bar culture; after Leslie Feinberg’s Stone Butch Blues, it became an identity space held open by literature and theory — stone as not just hardness but the body redrawing its borders after trauma, a complete statement about sovereignty. 铁T is a position marker inside Chinese lesbian communities, alive in everyday social navigation and mutual recognition, not in literature or theory. The same bodily experience: on one side, an entire narrative tradition to hold it; on the other, two characters — but for those who use them, two characters are enough.
药娘 (yào niáng)
字面:药 + 娘。吃药的姑娘。
指自行获取和使用激素的跨性别女性。在中国大陆,跨性别激素治疗的正规渠道极其有限——需要精神科诊断、家属签字、年满二十——大量跨性别女性通过地下渠道自行用药。“药娘”不是医学术语,不是运动话语,是一个从实践里长出来的自我命名。社群内部把激素叫”糖”,吃激素叫”吃糖”——部分是亲昵,部分是躲审查。英文里 DIY HRT 描述同一个行为,但它是一个动词短语,不是一个人。没有人说 “I am a DIY HRT.” 药娘是名词,是身份,是一个在制度缝隙里活着的人。
Literal: medicine + girl. The girl who takes medicine.
Trans women who obtain and self-administer hormones outside the medical system. In mainland China, official channels for transgender hormone therapy are nearly inaccessible — requiring a psychiatric diagnosis, family consent, minimum age of twenty — so many trans women source hormones through underground networks. “Yào niáng” is not a medical term, not an activist term. It grew directly from practice. Within the community, hormones are called “táng” (candy), and taking them is “chī táng” (eating candy) — part intimacy, part censorship evasion. In English, “DIY HRT” describes the same act, but it’s a verb phrase, not a person. Nobody says “I am a DIY HRT.” Yào niáng is a noun. It’s an identity. It’s a person living in the gaps of the system.
Seeking anonymous sexual encounters in public space — parks, restrooms, bathhouses, particular blocks. But cruising is not just “hooking up.” It carries its own spatial politics: which spaces queer bodies claim, how that claiming transforms the space itself, and why anonymity is not a choice for some but a condition of survival. When Samuel Delany wrote about Times Square’s porn theaters, he was not writing about sex — he was writing about how class-mixing public intimacy was destroyed by urban renewal. In Chinese, “yuē” (约, to arrange a meeting) is too clean. “Zhǎo” (找, to look for) is too purposeful. Cruising holds a state of urban drifting, bodily openness, waiting for encounter — and this state has no word in Chinese. China certainly has the same practices (parks, bathhouses), but they tend to be narrated from the outside — as risk or as spectacle — never from the interior, almost aesthetic perspective that cruising names.
Literal: pool together + get through the days. Join forces to make it through daily life.
Not partnership. Not civil union. Not domestic arrangement. No English term holds what “dā huǒ” carries — a way of being together that makes no declaration, claims no name, yet is entirely real. The word assumes: no institution recognizes you, no language blesses you, but here you are, living together. The most honest part is “guò rì zi” — getting through the days. Not a love story, not a rights discourse, just life itself: groceries, cooking, surviving difficulty side by side. Many same-sex couples in China use this phrase for their relationships — not because it lacks romance, but because it is the most truthful language available in the gaps between institutions — and maybe the most dignified. It refuses two narratives at once: it doesn’t pretend there was a wedding, and it doesn’t perform tragedy. Just: together, getting through.
性/别 (xìng/bié)
字面:性 / 别。中间有一条斜杠。
在中文学术和行动话语中,“性/别”是一种刻意的书写方式,用斜杠把”性”和”别”切开。因为中文里”性别”是一个词——sex 和 gender 没有分开的语言基础。英文可以说 sex and gender,中文说”性与性别”听起来像在说同一个东西两遍。“社会性别”作为 gender 的翻译被造出来了,但它把”性”留在了地基上——好像社会的性别是从生理的性长出来的。何春蕤和台湾学者用”性/别”做的事,是用一条斜杠让这个裂缝可见:这一个词里面有两个东西,但中文的语言结构不允许你把它们分开说。斜杠不是分隔号——它是伤口的标记。英文的 sex/gender 之间的斜杠是方便的,“性/别”里的斜杠是必要的。
Literal: sex / distinction. With a slash in between.
In Chinese academic and activist writing, “xìng/bié” is a deliberate orthographic intervention — the slash cuts open the single word “xìngbié” (性别), which means both sex and gender with no linguistic basis for separating them. English can say “sex and gender” as two distinct words. Chinese saying “xìng and xìngbié” sounds like saying the same thing twice. “Shèhuì xìngbié” (社会性别, “social sex-distinction”) was coined to translate “gender,” but it kept “xìng” (sex) as the foundation — as if social gender grows out of biological sex. What Josephine Ho and other Taiwanese scholars did with “xìng/bié” was make the fracture visible: there are two things inside this one word, but the structure of the Chinese language won’t let you say them apart. The slash is not a separator — it’s the mark of a wound. In English, the slash in “sex/gender” is convenient. In “xìng/bié,” it is necessary.
When English “queer” entered Chinese, it split into three words. The earliest attempt was “guàiyì lǐlùn” (怪异理论, “strange theory”) — a literal rendering of queer’s stigma history, but nobody wanted to claim “strange.” In 1994, Taiwanese scholar Chi Ta-wei coined “kù’ér” as a phonetic borrowing, and the pun on 酷 (cool) flipped the word: what had been an insult arrived in Chinese already sounding stylish. In 2000, Li Yinhe published Kù’ér Lǐlùn (Queer Theory), establishing “kù’ér” as the mainland standard. Meanwhile, Taiwanese scholar Chang Hsiao-hung coined “guàitāi” (怪胎, freak/monstrosity) — trying to preserve queer’s edge as a reclaimed slur. But “guàitāi” never caught on: communities did not want to carry stigma, even reclaimed stigma. Three translations competing for one English word, each capturing a different shard — “guàiyì” got the marginality, “kù’ér” got the attitude, “guàitāi” got the aggression. None got everything.
拉子 (lāzi) / 拉拉 (lālā)
字面:拉 = 从英文 lesbian/les 的谐音。拉子 = les 的人,拉拉 = 更亲昵的叠词形式。
Literal: 拉 (lā) = phonetic borrowing from English “les” (as in lesbian). 拉子 = a “les” person. 拉拉 = a softer, reduplicated form.
“Lāzi” first appeared in Qiu Miaojin’s 1994 novel Notes of a Crocodile (鳄鱼手记) — a founding text of Taiwanese queer literature that used “lāzi” for lesbians, embedding the word in Chinese queer consciousness from its first breath. “Les” was clipped from English “lesbian” and transliterated into “lā,” but once it became “lāzi” or “lālā,” it stopped being lesbian. Lesbian in English carries a precise political genealogy — Lesbos, second-wave feminism, separatist debates, alliances and fractures with gay men. “Lālā” carries none of that. It is a light word, with the intimacy that Chinese reduplication always creates (māma, bàba, jiějie — the doubling is a diminutive, a caress). Inside the community it circulates almost like a pet name. Yet “lāzi” was born carrying literary weight and the shadow of Qiu Miaojin’s death — she took her own life in Paris in 1995, at twenty-six. This lightness is not a deficiency — it lets the word survive censorship, slip through family living rooms without raising alarm. No English term for women who love women has this casual, almost sweet texture.
The position system of Chinese lesbian communities. T = tomboy (the masculine-presenting partner), P = pretty (the feminine-presenting partner), H = half (neither entirely). It looks like butch/femme, but it isn’t — and it faces the same critique. T/P is increasingly challenged for mimicking heterosexual relationship dynamics, importing a masculine/feminine division back into same-sex relationships. H emerged as a response to that binary — not a fix, but a statement that the classification system is no longer sufficient. Yet T/P/H still circulates in everyday community life, especially as shorthand in social settings where quick mutual recognition matters. English butch/femme and Chinese T/P face the same question — are roles in queer relationships subversion or replication? — but in each language, the question carries different weight and takes different forms of debate.
跨儿 (kuà’ér)
字面:跨 + 儿。跨 = 跨越/横穿,儿 = 儿化音(北方方言的亲昵后缀)。
“跨性别”是 transgender 的正式翻译——跨越性别。但”跨儿”做了一件”跨性别”做不到的事:它用了儿化音。北方方言里”儿”加在词尾是一种缩小、亲近、日常化的操作——花儿、鸟儿、小孩儿。“跨儿”把一个医学-学术框架里的身份用一个音节拉回到了日常语言里,拉回到了”我们自己人”的温度里。英文里 trans 也是一种缩短,但 trans 的缩短是效率的,跨儿的缩短是亲昵的。广州跨性别中心和上海跨儿说推动了”跨儿”的使用,明确选择它而不是”跨性别”来做社群面向的沟通——因为”跨性别”是你在表格上填的,“跨儿”是你在朋友之间叫的。
Literal: across + er (a diminutive suffix from northern Chinese dialects).
“Kuà xìngbié” (跨性别) is the formal Chinese translation of “transgender” — literally “across sex-distinction.” But “kuà’ér” does something “kuà xìngbié” cannot: it uses the 儿 (ér) suffix. In northern Chinese dialects, adding “ér” to the end of a word is a diminutive — it makes things smaller, warmer, more everyday. Flowers become huā’ér, birds become niǎo’ér, children become xiǎohái’ér. “Kuà’ér” pulls an identity out of the medical-academic framework and into the temperature of “our own people.” In English, “trans” is also a shortening, but the shortening is about efficiency. In “kuà’ér,” the shortening is about intimacy. Trans Center Guangzhou and Trans Talks Shanghai promoted “kuà’ér” over “kuà xìngbié” for community-facing communication — because “kuà xìngbié” is what you write on a form, and “kuà’ér” is what you call each other among friends.
Literal: change + sex + person. A person who has changed sex.
An older term than “kuà xìngbié” (跨性别, transgender). It entered public language in the 1980s-90s through media coverage of sex reassignment surgeries — the dancer Jin Xing being the most famous face. “Biànxìngrén” is an event word: it assumes a moment of “change,” a surgery, a before and an after. English “transsexual” has a similar structure, but transsexual has been largely displaced by transgender in English-language academia and community discourse — it became a word that marks a particular historical period. “Biànxìngrén” had a different fate in Chinese — it was never formally “replaced.” Instead, it coexists with “kuà xìngbié,” “kuà’ér,” and other terms across different institutional layers: hospitals may still use “yìxìngzhèng” (易性症, gender identity disorder), media may still use “biànxìngrén,” communities use “kuà’ér,” and administrative systems use “xìngbié chóngzhì” (性别重置, gender reassignment). The same person, at different windows, called by different names.
人妖 (rényāo)
字面:人 + 妖。人与妖之间。
这可能是这张表上最暴力的词,也是最复杂的。“妖”在中文里不只是怪物——它是一个关于越界的古老范畴,从《山海经》到《聊斋》,妖是跨越了人与非人边界的存在,令人恐惧也令人着迷。“人妖”把跨性别女性放进了这个范畴:不完全是人,不完全是妖,是之间的东西。这个词在中文世界里的使用谱系极其复杂——它是东南亚旅游业里的猎奇消费对象(“泰国人妖”),是日常语言里的侮辱,但也是某些跨性别女性对自己的自我指认,尤其是在社群话语进入之前。姜学豪在 Transtopia in the Sinophone Pacific 里分析了”人妖”在华语电影中的再现。英文里没有一个词同时是职业描述、古老的越界范畴、日常侮辱、和可能的自我命名。
Literal: person + demon/spirit. Between human and supernatural.
This may be the most violent word on this list, and the most complex. “Yāo” in Chinese is not simply “monster” — it is an ancient category of boundary-crossing, from the Classic of Mountains and Seas to Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio: yāo are beings that have crossed the boundary between human and non-human, inspiring both fear and fascination. “Rényāo” places trans women inside this category: not quite human, not quite spirit, something in between. The word’s usage across the Chinese-speaking world is extraordinarily layered — it is the exoticized spectacle of Southeast Asian tourism (“Thai rényāo”), a casual insult in everyday speech, and also, for some trans women, a self-identification, especially before community-generated terms like “kuà’ér” became available. Howard Chiang analyzes representations of “rényāo” in Sinophone cinema in Transtopia in the Sinophone Pacific. No English word is simultaneously a job description, an ancient category of boundary-crossing, a casual slur, and a possible self-naming.
Literal: mùtǒngfàn = wooden-barrel rice (a type of fast food). Fēitiānmāo = flying-sky cat.
Chinese internet homophones for MTF and FTM. English medical abbreviations entered Chinese cyberspace and were re-encoded by the community through sound-alike characters — M-T-F becomes “mùtǒngfàn” (wooden barrel rice), F-T-M becomes “fēitiānmāo” (flying cat). This is not translation — it is appropriation that grew its own texture. “Mùtǒngfàn” sounds like a street food stall, “fēitiānmāo” sounds like an anime character — this domestication and cartoonification is the community doing its own work: dismantling the medical frame, reassembling it in their own voice. At the same time, homophones are a censorship evasion strategy: when “kuà xìngbié” (transgender) might trigger content filters, “mùtǒngfàn” and “fēitiānmāo” slip through the keyword net. Every layer of these words is a translation: from English medical terminology to English abbreviation, from abbreviation to Chinese homophone, from homophone to community code. Each layer is a transformation, and by the time you reach “wooden barrel rice” and “flying cat,” the original male-to-female / female-to-male is completely unrecognizable — which is exactly the point.
An abbreviation of cross-dresser. But in Chinese-speaking communities, the boundary CDTS marks is different from what English “cross-dresser” marks. In English, there is a heavily debated line between cross-dresser and transgender — who belongs on which side, whether the line should exist at all. On the Chinese internet, the relationship between CDTS and kuà’ér is more blurred — more a continuum of practice than a division of identity: a person might identify as CDTS at one stage, as kuà’ér later, or reject both labels while doing similar things. TiA! names CDTS alongside kuà’ér in their mission statement, explicitly noting the “possible tensions between these labels and local gender-diverse practices” — meaning: any boundary you draw, someone is standing on the line.
Chinese communities use the English word “pass” directly. No one has coined a Chinese equivalent.
Being read as the gender you want to be read as, without being identified as trans. In English, this word carries far more weight than “looking like” — passing is about safety. In environments where violence can erupt the moment someone is “clocked,” passing is survival technology. But it is also a deeply uncomfortable word: it implies there is a “real” and a “disguise,” implies that trans visibility is always, in some sense, a failure to maintain cover. Chinese-speaking trans communities borrowed “pass” from English without translating it — not “guòguān” (过关, getting through a checkpoint), not “yǐnbì” (隐蔽, concealment), not “bèi dàngchéng shùnxìngbié” (被当成顺性别, being taken for cisgender). Just: pass. This non-translation is itself worth noting: perhaps no single Chinese word can hold both layers — the survival necessity and the ontological trap. Or perhaps the concept grew in transnational community exchange and circulates without needing to land in Chinese. Passing is not a result. It is a process that never finishes — and Chinese communities chose to let that process stay in English.
In queer slang, trade refers to men who have sex with men but do not identify as gay — typically working-class, typically masculine-presenting. The core tension of the word is the gap between sexual behavior and sexual identity. In English queer culture, trade is a composite of class, desire, danger, and disavowal — desire for trade is itself a cultural narrative about cross-class sexual attraction. Chinese contexts have similar practices (married men, “straight guys,” gray zones of transactional sex), but no single word braids sexual behavior, class position, identity disavowal, and queer desire the way trade does. Chinese community categories like “zhínán” (直男, straight man), “1” (top), “0” (bottom) organize sexual roles and gender presentation — not the narrative of class and disavowal that trade carries.
dyke
没有中文对应。
Dyke 曾经是骂人的——专门骂看起来阳刚的女同性恋。然后它被回收了。这个回收不是隐喻:1970年代的 Dykes on Bikes 在旧金山骄傲游行的最前面开摩托车,把侮辱变成了骄傲游行的开场。这个从污名到骄傲的翻转轨迹,在中文里没有对应。“拉拉”从一开始就是中性到亲昵的,它没有被回收的历史——因为它不需要被回收。“T”标记的是社群位置,不是一个被夺回来的武器。Dyke 的力量恰恰在于它曾经是伤害,而说出它的人选择把伤害变成盔甲。这种炼金术——把骂你的词变成你最响亮的自我命名——在中文酷儿话语里没有同一个词来承载。
No Chinese equivalent.
Dyke was an insult — aimed specifically at masculine-presenting lesbians. Then it was reclaimed. This reclamation is not a metaphor: in the 1970s, Dykes on Bikes rode motorcycles at the front of the San Francisco Pride Parade, turning an insult into the opening act. This trajectory from stigma to pride has no equivalent in Chinese. “Lālā” was neutral to affectionate from the beginning — it has no history of reclamation because it never needed one. “T” marks a community position, not a weapon seized back. Dyke’s power lies precisely in the fact that it was once used to wound, and the people it wounded chose to turn it into armor. This alchemy — transforming the word that hurts you into your loudest self-naming — has no single word to carry it in Chinese queer discourse.
多元成家 (duōyuán chéngjiā)
字面:多元 + 成家。以多种方式成立家庭。
这是一个台湾的运动口号和法律倡议术语——2013年台湾”多元成家”草案试图同时推动婚姻平权、伴侣制度和家属制度三条路径。但”多元成家”做的事情比任何一条法律路径都更大:它在语言层面宣称”家”不是只有一种形状。“成家”在中文里是一个极其厚重的词——成家立业,成家 = 成为一个完整的人。把”多元”放在”成家”前面,不是在修改一个法律制度,是在改写一个文化假设。英文里 marriage equality 只处理婚姻,diverse family formation 太技术了。“多元成家”四个字同时是法律诉求、文化批评和存在论宣言:家可以是别的样子,而”别的样子”也是成家。
Literal: diverse + forming a family. Establishing family in multiple forms.
A Taiwanese movement slogan and legal advocacy term — the 2013 “Diverse Family Formation” bill attempted to advance marriage equality, civil partnerships, and chosen-family legislation simultaneously. But “duōyuán chéngjiā” does something larger than any single legal pathway: at the level of language, it declares that “family” does not have only one shape. “Chéngjiā” (成家, forming a family) is an extraordinarily heavy phrase in Chinese — “chéngjiā lìyè” (成家立业, start a family and establish a career) is the canonical life script; “chéngjiā” = becoming a complete person. Placing “duōyuán” (diverse) before “chéngjiā” is not modifying a legal institution — it is rewriting a cultural assumption. In English, “marriage equality” addresses only marriage. “Diverse family formation” is too technical. “Duōyuán chéngjiā” — four characters — is simultaneously a legal demand, a cultural critique, and an existential declaration: family can look different, and “different” still counts as family.
附录:相关研究 / Appendix: Related Scholarship
这张词表不是凭空长出来的。以下研究构成了它的学术土壤。
This glossary did not grow in a vacuum. The following scholarship forms its intellectual ground.
翻译政治与酷儿术语 / Translation Politics and Queer Terminology
包宏伟 Hongwei Bao (University of Nottingham) - Queer Comrades: Gay Identity and Tongzhi Activism in Postsocialist China (NIAS Press, 2018). “同志”一词从革命称谓到酷儿自我命名的挪用史。 - “‘A cool kid’: Queer theory travels to China,” Translation and Interpreting Studies (2020/2021). 追踪”酷儿”如何进入中文:从”怪异理论”到”酷儿理论”的翻译竞争。 - (with Yahia Ma, eds.) Sino Queer Translation: Sexualities across Languages, Cultures, and Media (Bloomsbury, forthcoming). 跨语言酷儿翻译策略,最直接相关的学术项目。 - (with Yahia Ma, eds.) Queer Literature in the Sinosphere (Bloomsbury, 2024).
姜学豪 Howard Chiang (UC Davis) - After Eunuchs: Science, Medicine, and the Transformation of Sex in Modern China (Columbia UP, 2018). “性”这个字如何从不分性别的”人性”变成 Western “sex” 的对应物。 - Transtopia in the Sinophone Pacific (Columbia UP, 2021). 提出”transtopia”概念,分析”人妖”在华语电影中的再现。 - (with Alvin K. Wong, eds.) Keywords in Queer Sinophone Studies (Routledge, 2021). Raymond Williams 式关键词集,结构上最接近本词表的学术前驱。 - “Castration Fever: On Trans, China, and Psychoanalysis,” Journal of the History of the Behavioral Sciences 57.3 (2021). - “Trans Without Borders: Resisting the Telos of Transgender Knowledge,” Journal of the History of Sexuality 32.1 (2023).
Petrus Liu (Boston University) - Queer Marxism in Two Chinas (Duke UP, 2015). 核心论点:中文写作应被读成中文的酷儿理论,不是西方理论的数据。 - The Specter of Materialism: Queer Theory and Marxism in the Age of the Beijing Consensus (Duke UP, 2023).
纪大伟 Chi Ta-wei - A Queer Invention in Taiwan: A History of Tongzhi Literature (2017). 1994年首先将 queer 译为”酷儿”,以 Derrida 的 différance 描述同志与酷儿之间的关系。
李银河 Li Yinhe - 《酷儿理论》(Kù’ér Lǐlùn, 2000). 奠定”酷儿”为大陆标准译法的出版物。
Fran Martin (University of Melbourne) - Situating Sexualities: Queer Representation in Taiwanese Fiction, Film and Public Culture (HKU Press, 2003). 翻译了邱妙津作品。
跨儿研究与社群术语 / Trans Studies and Community Terminology
潘泽昊 Zehao Pan (University of Toronto) - “On Toxicity and Care in a Chinese Transfem Community” (2024). 药娘社群研究,包括社群内部语言系统(激素=“糖”,吃激素=“吃糖”)。
Jiayu Cui - “Anime, Apps, and Hormones: Transgender Adolescents Navigating Identity in Contemporary China,” Youth & Society (2026). 药娘青少年的数字空间与身份建构。
Chris Jingchao Ma & Heng Simone Wang - “Cyber Trans Panic: Chinese Trans-Antagonistic Feminism and the Transnational Circulation of Transmisogyny on Social Media,” Bulletin of Applied Transgender Studies 4(1-3), 2025. “社会性别”的翻译如何为反跨话语提供弹药。
Guoxi Chai et al. - “Negotiating Queer Identity and Cultural Meaning Through Translation in China,” Frontiers in Psychology (2026). 23位中国译者处理酷儿内容的四种立场;关键发现:许多酷儿概念缺乏标准化中文术语。