Duets, But Make It Gay: Where Are the Same-Sex Love Songs in OPM?

Our airwaves are saturated with love songs—the breathy confessions, the aching goodbyes, the crescendos of longing.

But listen closer. There’s a pattern here, a script so worn it’s practically etched into the chords: Boy meets girl. Girl breaks boy’s heart. Boy writes tear-jerking music. Rinse. Repeat. 

Where are the songs where she traces the curve of her jawline? Where he whispers his name like a prayer? Where is the queer romance in OPM—not as subtext, not as a metaphor, but as the main freaking event?

The Duet Drought

Flip through the canon of classic OPM duets and you’ll find a heteronormative daydream: "Bakit Ngayon Ka Lang," "Paano Ba Ang Magmahal," “Please Be Careful With My Heart,” "Ikaw at Ako.” These songs aren’t just love stories; they’re templates, practically engineered to soundtrack the ideal boy-meets-girl fantasy.

And despite making kilig-worthy songs, we can’t brush over the fact that they’re also a polished, formulaic cage that insists love only sounds one way. A one-part man, one-part woman harmonizing into the happily-ever-after we’ve been spoon-fed for decades. Even OPM royalties like Gary Valenciano, Ogie Alcasid, and Regine Velasquez, who shaped the genre, have rarely veered away from this recipe.

Screenshots from Adie & Janine Berdin – “Mahika” Official Music Video (© OC Records)

Fast forward to today, and not much has changed. We hear the same recycled duets like "Mahika” by Adie and Janine Berdin, "Kung ‘Di Rin Lang Ikaw” by December Avenue and Moira Dela Torre, "Tingin” by Cup of Joe and Janine, and "Paalam” by Ben&Ben and Moira Dela Torre. These boy-girl duets echo the past, wiring listeners to interpret the narratives as straight couples by default.

Reimagining our Loved Songs

Still, the bones of OPM love songs were made for queerness. The heartbreak, the yearning, the "sana ako na lang ulit," the quiet devastation of loving someone who doesn’t—or can’t—love you back? That’s queer canon. All it takes is the courage to name our desire.

Screenshots from Janella Salvador – “Hey You” Official Music Video (© ABS-CBN Star Music)

Imagine:

• “Binibini,” but it’s for a boy he fell for, unsure if it’s love or closeness, a confession suspended in quiet confusion.

• “Sining,” but the so-called miracle is a museum, a love letter between two girls, painted in full color and shown to the world.

• “Dalangin,” but it’s two boys, side by side, asking the heavens for a love they don’t have to hide.

This isn’t erasing the original. It's an expansion. It’s allowing love to speak in more than one voice. Or even go further: write new ones that don’t just borrow the language of queerness but live in it. 

Screenshot from bp valenzuela ft. August Wahh & No Rome – “bbgirl” Official Music Video (© Party Beart Records)

And it’s not because queer artists don’t exist. From bp valenzuela’s “bbgirl” to Ja Quintana’s “Bahaghari,” indie acts have long been sketching blueprints of queer love. The underground has always been queerer, braver. It’s the mainstream that remains stubbornly coy, as if same-sex intimacy on a love song would scare away the charts.

The Fear of the Niche

Record labels often retreat behind the excuse of marketability. “The audience isn’t ready,” they say. But that’s not true. 

Globally, queer love doesn’t break the market. It breaks open its possibilities. "Born This Way” by Lady Gaga made self-love and self-acceptance a mainstream phenomenon, while "Pink Pony Club” by Chappell Roan turned queer escapism into an anthem of freedom, and “LUNCH” by Billie Eilish let queer desires speak boldly and unapologetically.  These songs just prove that queerness sells, not because it panders, but because it resonates.

Screenshot from Chappell Roan – “Pink Pony Club” Live From The 67th Grammy Award (© The Recording Academy under UMG Recordings, Inc)

So the real hesitation in OPM isn’t commercial—it’s cultural. As pointed out in Ian Urrutia’s deep-dive essay on LGBTQ+ narratives in Filipino music, queerness in mainstream OPM has long been framed either as comic relief, deception, or tragedy. From Parokya Ni Edgar’s “This Guy Is In Love With You Pare” to Abra’s “Gayuma,” queer-coded songs often reinforce ridicule or othering. They’re not love songs but are set-ups for punchlines.

And even the good attempts can be flawed. “Sirena" by Gloc-9 and Ebe Dancel is often cited as a breakthrough for its depiction of a gay man’s struggle. But critics like Christian Tablazon note how it still treads in stereotypes, centering suffering more than agency, tragedy more than triumph. 

Screenshot from GLOC-9 ft. Ebe Dancel – “Sirena” Official Music Video (© Universal Records Philippines)

The danger? It’s not just in bad taste. It’s real. These songs normalize discrimination and make violence palatable. When trans women are portrayed in lyrics as tricksters or fake, the culture absorbs that—and it emanates in stories like Jennifer Laude’s, Hermie Monterde’s, or Gretchen Diez’s. These aren’t metaphors. Their lives.

The Way Forward

Yes, some artists are already kicking the door open. “Kasing Kasing” by Juan Karlos and Kyle Echarri stand out as rare same-sex duets that let male voices harmonize into vulnerability and intimacy. Meanwhile, Denise Julia’s “Sugar n’ Spice” and Janella Salvador’s “Hey You!” go a step further by showcasing explicit wlw narratives in their music videos, where sapphic desire isn’t just implied, but seen, named, and celebrated.

But these moments remain too few. The industry continues to treat queerness like an experiment, where flashes of visibility are tucked between straight-centric standards. But we’re still waiting for queer love to take center stage, not just as a twist, but as the story itself.

Screenshot from juan karlos ft. Kyle Echarri – “Kasing Kasing” Official Live Performance (© Island Records Philippines)

So what’s next?

• Labels: Stop treating queer love like a liability. The real risk is irrelevance.

• Artists: Collaborate with LGBTQ+ voices. Don’t just write about them. Write with them.

• Listeners: Demand better. Stream the queer stories. Call it out when the industry plays safe.

We don’t just need visibility. We need authenticity. We need more firsthand queer and trans expressions in our music. Not as tokens. Not as one-offs. But as the norm.

OPM has always been a mirror of Filipino emotion—our longing, our joy, our heartbreak. But for queer Filipinos, that mirror has been cracked. Sometimes it reflects as villains. Sometimes as jokes. Sometimes as cautionary tales. But rarely as lovers.

So to the next hitmaker: Turn the mic toward the queer kids in the crowd. They’ve been singing along this whole time—just listen.