“Every day they ask me, ‘why do you wear that mask Lynks?’ / Well if I didn’t, every one of you would want to fuck me.” The confidence is understandable: Lynks’ witty and sexually frank studies of British gay culture, over muscular pop reminiscent of MIA and Peaches, have marked them among UK pop’s most exciting outliers.

A different explanation comes from the anonymous, mild-mannered civilian behind the Leigh Bowery-esque masked costumes. “Lynks is the anti-me – a person that allows me to get rid of all insecurities, and become a narcissistic pop star,” they say (they also use he and she pronouns). It followed a stint as a singer-songwriter when, “like every male producer born in the late 90s, I was desperately trying to be James Blake.” After a laptop was stolen containing all their old music, they pursued “a crazy, horror-drag character” disguised by homemade costumes, moving from Bristol to London. Now, with the mask off, “I get pushed out of the way at my own gigs.”

Lynks’ debut album Abomination explores how identity is celebrated or concealed, whether they are “on the DLR on my way to fuck a stranger” in (What Did You Expect From) Sex With a Stranger or saying, on Lucky, how fortunate they are to be born in a country where “my sexuality is not a death sentence”. Brash, club-ready, industrial-tinged pop dominates this album, which often feels entirely made out of hard plastic, but its softer moments suggest something beneath the bravado. Throughout, Lynks’ writing on sex – and there is a lot of sex in Abomination – queer pride and queer shame are constant companions.

“If you ask a straight person what they think of the word ‘abomination’, they’ll say ‘a really bad thing.’” Lynks explains. “If you say it to a gay person, they’ll say ‘it’s what gay people are in the Bible.’” This concerns Leviticus 18 – “you shall not lie with a male as with a woman” – read on Abomination as a mid-album interlude. “Even if you’re not brought up religious, you can’t help but internalise that,” Lynks says. “Side note: that passage says the same punishment should be given to people who mix different kinds of fabric in one garment, so if you’ve got a cotton-polyester blend shirt you’re fucked, too.”

Lynks wanted to reclaim “abomination” as “a badge of honour – to find the power in shame. Artists like Troye Sivan and Sam Smith are doing such a great job of showing we’re amazing, powerful and talented, but sometimes that doesn’t leave room to explore harder parts of being a queer person. I think you can do that while still being proud.”

The extreme sexual frankness also feels relatively rare in queer pop. I mention film director Andrew Haigh’s suggestion that, after Aids, the kind of gay pop star celebrated in the early 80s (Bronski Beat, Frankie Goes to Hollywood) “couldn’t be as gay any more”. Pop is perhaps still recovering. “It’s hard not to think about the alternative world where Aids never happened,” Lynks agrees. “There’s obsessions with youth and fears of ageing in the gay world. I think the reason is there isn’t a model for what it means to age as a gay man – you died, or lived in secrecy.” Lynks condenses this in Use It Or Lose It: “I still don’t know what it means to be a gay man over age 40 / Unless I’m Ian McKellen or Graham Norton.”

These reflections extend to the bluntness of app-age dating. “We’re a complicated group of people, who in general have gone through a fair amount of trauma, rejection and bullying. I think it means we’re very strong, and have the capacity to be quite brutal,” Lynks says. “Also, think about how straight people act in their teenage years when they’re figuring out their sexuality – they’re fucking crazy! Some gay men don’t come out until they’re 30. It means sometimes it’s like we’re at a sweet-16th but in our 20s and 30s.”

Lynks packs Abomination with funny one-liners – “I put the ass in blasphemy” – through a sarcastic drawl indebted to Courtney Barnett. “Humour’s how we package harder stuff,” they say. “The only people that can be super genuine without a single joke are psychopaths or Americans.” Writing early single Str8 Acting, which tackled internalised homophobia while describing straight clubs as “a lot like a pub, but with slightly less chairs,” Lynks realised “it doesn’t need to be either the clown or Adele. I can be clown-Adele.”

Abomination’s vulnerable moments, from Tennis Song’s pining for a straight tennis coach to New Boyfriend’s pleas to a toxic ex, loosen the mask on Lynks’ creator. They finally take over album-closer Flash in the Pan, voicing fears Lynks will amount to nothing. Things could already have ended when Lynks’ laptop, containing Abomination’s finished mixes, was stolen (again) forcing Lynks to lengthily rebuild it. “Some things don’t rhyme very well,” they admit – at one point they boldly pair cappuccino with trampoline. “But it’s honest. I’ve written about things I’ve not heard written about before.”

• Abomination will be released on 12 April on Heavenly