I had heard of the phrase Gaydar in the dating world and imagined myself looking like something from My Favourite Martian or Mars Attacks with a sharp looking set of antennae sporting wee knobs on the ends. After all, we do need to identify ourselves to one another and I took it for granted that would be the case.
Let's call this one Queen X.
So I ignored that was a struggling actor who's day job as a stockbroker was used as a decoy to throw people off. I found it attractive that he was small and soft-spoken and well-dressed. I accepted that he lived on the main floor of a gay-only building. You would think there would be red flags when we strolled the West End streets and gay men received him with open arms and kisses and strange looks directed at me. He didn't set off any warning bells when he enthusiastically insisted we go to the Pride parade on a date where he hung out with his gay friends.
I sat on the curb by myself celebrating freedom of choice while lesbians tossed condoms and treats in my lap then blew me kisses, commenting on how hot I looked in my red halter. I was flattered. When I agreed to attend a post parade party, a couple greeted me at the door and welcomed me with a cocktail and various introductions to a condo full of other couples: nothing out of the ordinary for a party, other than the painfully obvious fact that I was the only one there without a penis.
But I was a hip, free-spirited gal who had many gay friends. Gay men loved me. I could never figure out why they found me attractive, but I felt comfortable with my `girlfriends`. We cut each other`s hair, talked about the latest fashion trends and gossiped about the women of Hollywood. So you'd think I would know.
The weeks flew by. He spoke of his dreams and I shared mine. I envisioned monogrammed towels and couples vacations. He told me he loved me and I believed him. We had impromptu sex in public places.
It was near the end of the Pride party that I finally thought to myself, "Oh Fuck". As I was sipping my martini and making small talk ("oh really - you're adopting, that's great!") Queen X came traipsing out of the spare bedroom, arms locked with another man, both of them dressed in sheer pink negligees. All I could look at were his closely shaven balls, proudly on display to the entire party. It was the first time I noticed that he didn't have a single hair on his body. My ears got hot. I felt a chill run down my spine. Was my boyfriend... bisexual? Was I missing something?
I should have put the pieces together, but I didn't get it, really get it, until a few days later when Queen X casually appeared from the bedroom one morning wearing one of my little black dresses and asking if he could borrow my mascara.
"So how do I look?" he asked nonchalantly. He looked ridiculous, but I couldn't form the words to tell him that, so I nodded instead and kept brushing my teeth while I planned my escape. All I could think was "Oh my God, I have to go and call my daughter". My Gaydar had finally kicked in.
Sometimes the things that are the most obvious are also the most difficult to see. It's wonderful to give people the benefit of the doubt; however, it is equally important to be able to listen to your instincts about others. We've all been in relationships where we've looked back and said, "How could I not have known?"
Maybe they drank too much on the first date, told little white lies that you brushed off or lived in an all-gay building. The point is, putting too much trust in others too quickly often leaves us feeling embarrassed or taken advantage of. Use your lifelines when starting a new relationship - narrow it down, ask the audience or phone a friend. Sometimes the clearest perspective comes from someone who isn't involved in the relationship at all: just ask my daughter, who, after helping me make a list of Queen X's homoerotic tendencies, couldn't believe that I hadn't called her sooner.
