A gay guy, his boyfriend, and the mother

I brought my boyfriend to our New Year’s Eve dinner last year. At that time we had been out only once but I was so crazy — dangerously as your lola Beyonce would say — in love that I demanded that he be with me during the celebration. Now fast forward twelve months later. It’s Christmas and my boyfriend is cooking our Noche Buena. Of course my mother knows that I’m gay. How could she not know when I would gladly sit with her every time there was an international beauty pageant on TV? Helow, pati Binibining Pilipinas di naming pinapalagpas noh?

But my mother wasn’t supportive in the beginning. After college as I slowly made my way out of the closet I started dating every gay guy available. Whenever my dates would fetch me in the house, she would give them dagger looks and ask me where I am going. Though I always had a pretty good idea where my date and I would end up at the end of the evening, I would casually tell her: “Oh somewhere.” Then she would give me a curfew. My imaginary Cheri Gil eyebrow would shoot up in the air: Excuse me, a curfew? I was already all of 20 years old then, circumcised and with hormones as horny as a drugged porn star. Of course, I went home way past my curfew, mostly drunk and reeking of bodily fluids. I guess, she eventually accepted in her own simple way that I would never be the strapping heterosexual that would settle down with a homely wife and sire two kids (or a choir-loving, church-going healthy living gay guy for that matter). My gayness never really did become an issue but I think she was bothered by the fact that I was a bit promiscuous because one day I found a book on HIV among my stack.

So come Christmas Eve there we were: my brother, my boyfriend, my mother and I happily eating the food that my boyfriend prepared. There was no drama, no tension, no TV slapstick comedy or bitchy repartee. It wasn’t The Wedding Banquet or Queer as Folk. I think if one really wants to find drama there was already enough of it in the previous months (though we weren’t really drama queens, that I am very glad of) or perhaps one might find it in the next twelve months as we try to co-exist with each other for another year. But don’t pull out the hanky just yet. This isn’t your typical straight-to-video “art house” indie movie. We were no longer queer, in the strictest sense of the word. We were just another gay couple who happens to spend the Christmas with their parents in a cozy little apartment.


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