What does queer friendship look like when it isn’t loud or tragic, but quiet, ordinary, and true?
This story begins with a casual night out in Quezon City—just a few strangers, a quiz game, and a shared meal in a 24-hour diner. But what unfolds is something far more intimate: a conversation about love, fear, family, and the quiet ways gay men navigate closeness in a culture that rarely defines them.
If you’re curious what that looks and feels like, this Boys’ Love novel excerpt by Danton Remoto gives a tender, funny, and quietly powerful glimpse. There are no grand gestures here. Just tapsilog, teasing, confessions, and the kind of warmth that settles in when you finally let your guard down.
It’s a portrait of queer Filipino life—urban, thoughtful, a little guarded, but full of grace. And like all the best stories, it’s not about coming out. It’s about showing up.
Boys’ Love: A Novel by Danton Remoto
Published by Penguin Random House Southeast Asia
I once met a young writer who wanted to talk about Timothy Mo’s novel, The Redundancy of Courage.
We ended up at a gay-friendly bar in Quezon City. While there, we overheard two guys say, “It’s a bit boring here. Why don’t we have a quiz show?”
Edwin was tall and good-looking, dressed in a white long-sleeved shirt. He looked like a bored archangel. Smiling at me, he said, “The losers will bring the winners out for dinner.”
I smiled back. He was an Economics major in university, now “working part-time,” as he put it. I told him, “I’m really bad at Math.”
“We’re just par for the course,” he answered. “I read your articles in the weekly magazine, and your English is really good. That,” he added, “is my weak spot.”
The quiz began—questions about world capitals, Egyptian gods, integers, equations (“Dear Lord!” I gasped internally), chemical elements. Somehow, we won. Then came the harder part: syncing schedules for dinner.
We finally settled on a 24-hour restaurant along Timog Avenue. Over tapsilog and tea, I realized something: I’d only met these guys that night, but it felt like I’d known them for years.
All of them were straight-acting gay men. Their families didn’t know about their sexual orientation. Gian had a boyfriend of seven years. Edwin was single—and determined to stay that way.
“Why do you have to have a boyfriend? Isn’t friendship enough?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said. “But in the end, love really is just pure friendship.” I silently thanked my Philosophy classes for the line.
“I’ve had relationships before,” he said. “But I couldn’t do the things I used to enjoy. I felt tied down.”
“Well, you can always talk about things,” Gian offered.
“Sure,” Edwin said, spearing a piece of cauliflower. “But the same issues always float back up.”
“That’s just how it is,” I replied. “You get to know each other through daily things. Like—does he squeeze the toothpaste from the bottom or the middle? Does he leave dirty clothes lying around? Straight or gay, it’s the same.”
“You’re right,” Edwin said. “But it’s hard. My family doesn’t know I’m gay. One time, I was ready to tell them. But my friends said I shouldn’t.”
“They’re probably right. Coming out publicly—whether to family or strangers—is very Western. Here, in our country of subtlety and indirection, it’s not so simple.”
I thought of the gay book I wrote. “Until the day it was launched, I wasn’t even sure I should have written it. But it’s there.”
“I think my mother knows,” Gian said. “When I’m on the phone with my boyfriend, she just looks at me. She’s my mom. I know that look.”
“Of course, they know,” I said. “They raised us. They must’ve wondered why we never took up boxing or karate—and instead became volleybelles.”
They all smiled. A knowing, wistful smile. The kind you read in a Chekhov story.
“So,” I asked Edwin, “are you really determined to stay single?”
“Yes. I’ve been burnt before.”
“Oh, I love that word—burnt,” I said. “I once told my students about a cat that sat on a hot stove. Of course it jumped, and never sat on a stove again—hot or cold. But we’re not cats. We know, more or less, what will burn us.”
“I think it’s less,” someone said, and they all laughed.
“You know where my ex-boyfriend is going tonight?” Edwin asked suddenly.
The light in his eyes caught Gian’s attention.
“To watch a lounge act,” he answered himself. “That singer at the Mandarin. He likes how she sings sad songs. Even her eyes—large and limpid—have their own language.”
“How old are you, Edwin?” I asked. “You don’t look past 25.”
“Thirty-one. Turning 32 next month.”
“My age,” I teased. “Maybe it’s time to do what a friend once told me—sink roots. In a place, with a person. Anchor yourself.”
I paused. “I was like you. Swore I’d never fall again. I imagined myself growing bitter, teaching by day, doing cross-stitch at night, rocking in my chair like an old shrew.”
Laughter again. Gian’s eyes disappeared into his smooth face. Edwin, the once-bored archangel, smiled for real.
If a camera had captured us, I’d be the insomniac writer with rings under my eyes. But there we were—at ease, honest, alive.
A night out with the boys. I wondered if the other straight-acting gay men, demolishing bottles of beer at nearby tables, ever talked this way.
We promised to meet again at the next quiz show.
Then we stood, said our goodbyes—and like Batmen, vanished into the night.
Boys’ Love launches this Saturday at 3:00 PM at SM Book Nook, The Podium, Ortigas. Bring your older Danton Remoto titles for signing. All are welcome.
