The Economy of Longing

By Noel Galon de Leon

Back in college, I stumbled upon a poetry book that changed my life. I was a freshman at a Catholic university in Iloilo City, still fumbling through the labyrinth of my own sexuality, when I found a slim volume tucked away in a dusty corner of the campus library, a title that made me stop in my tracks: “Kung ang Tula ay Pwedeng Pambili ng Lalaki” (If Poems Could Buy Men), a poetry collection by John Iremil E. Teodoro, published by Igbaong Imprints in 2006.

Imagine that: me, a confused kid in a conservative school, discovering a book that dared to link poetry with desire, queerness, and the economy of longing. That quiet afternoon sparked something in me. I began writing my own poems and short stories, many of them exploring themes I hadn’t yet found the words for. And weirdly enough? That little rebellious act might’ve actually saved me.

One of my earliest short stories in Hiligaynon was directly inspired by Teodoro’s own work, Ang Sto. Niño na Walang Ulo (The Headless Santo Niño). I titled mine Si Diday, Si Tisoy, kag ang Birhen sang Candelaria, and it got published in the SanAg Literary Journal. That was the beginning of a streak: submitting poems and stories focused on gender and sexuality, slowly building a voice that refused to be silenced.

Looking back, I feel lucky. While many students were memorizing formulas and reciting Rizal, I was reading queer poetry that made me question norms and see my identity not as something shameful, but something worthy of art. Books like Teodoro’s didn’t just entertain, they opened doors and turned on the lights in rooms I didn’t know existed.

In the afterword of Kung ang Tula ay Pwedeng Pambili ng Lalaki, Teodoro shares how, after nearly a decade of writing poetry, he realized he wanted to write for his fellow agi, gay men and queer folks who, like him, had so few books that spoke to their lives. He reflected on how, in the time of Jose Rizal, Andres Bonifacio, or even Balagtas, queer poets couldn’t write openly about their identities. The landscape was barren. The silence, deafening.

So, like many others, he had to turn abroad. He read Oscar Wilde, Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud, Allen Ginsberg, Mark Doty, and Thom Gunn, poets who explored queerness, love, and pain without flinching. Their work helped him carve a space for Filipino queer poetry. Thankfully, I stumbled into that space one serendipitous afternoon.

Fast forward to this morning: I read a report from The Philippine Star. According to the Department of Health (DOH), 596 out of the 5,101 newly diagnosed HIV cases in the first quarter of 2025 were linked to transactional sex. That’s 12% of new cases. Of these, 249 people had paid for sex (248 male, one female), while 239 received payment (231 male, 8 female). An additional 108 people both paid for and received money for sex. Since the DOH began tracking this in 2012, 16,586 HIV cases have been linked to transactional sex. Over 54% of them were recorded between 2020 and 2025.

This brings me back to something Teodoro once said: there’s nothing inherently wrong with paying for love or for sex. Let’s be real, when we love, we all pay somehow. Sometimes with money. Sometimes with time, effort, sanity, or the last piece of cake we swore we were saving for later.

What makes it harmful isn’t the transaction itself. It’s how we treat each other in the process. Unsafe sex, deception, theft, coercion, these are what corrupt the act. The stigma shouldn’t be about queers paying for sex. As Teodoro pointed out, everyone does it: men, women, lesbians, straight people, bisexuals, and everyone in between.

For Teodoro, writing that poetry collection was an act of hope. He imagined that maybe, a hundred years after it was published, a young gay boy would find his book. Maybe this boy would be sitting on a bamboo sofa under a blooming bougainvillea bush, holding a worn-out copy, savoring each poem. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough. Enough to justify all the pain Teodoro endured as a gay writer in a world that often tells queer people to shut up.

Because no, poems can’t buy men. Not even the most beautiful ones. But what they can do is give us strength. They can open minds, offer comfort, and teach us to navigate the complicated terrain of love, sex, and identity with a bit more grace. And a lot more courage.

Queer literature isn’t just about queer lives. It’s about life, period. It teaches us to see, to feel, to understand why people regardless of gender sometimes enter into transactional sex. Not out of deviance, but often out of survival. Or loneliness. Or a deeply human need to connect.

It’s not too late. That’s what queer literature reminds us: there’s always tomorrow. Always a chance to make better choices for our health, our dignity, our joy. Whether through poetry or through real-life responsibility, we can shape a world where love, even if it can’t be bought, can at least be honored.

And if a poem brought me here, imagine where the next one might take you.

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Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and educator at University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in both the Division of Professional Education and U.P. High School in Iloilo. He serves as an Executive Council Member of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.