Guest Article

By Gwen Moore

My Gaydar Broke:  Part II.

Last week I wrote about how moving to Paris broke my perfectly good gaydar.  I eventually had to set it aside, take myself off of the market, and engage in an extended period of objective observation of the Parisian male.  It was an anthropological, sociological and biological study, complete with laboratory animal testing (no animals were injured in the process). 

Participant-Observer 

Then came the day when my study took an unexpected turn from being one of pure observation to participation.  After all, I do live among this tribe.  So after several months of being surrounded by thin, lanky, fashionable Frenchmen, I started reciprocating some of their usual flirtiness, sending it in the specific direction of a cute guy I found named Olivier.  He works in my building a few floors up.  I first spotted him as we both arrived at work at the same time one morning, me walking from the Metro and him pulling up on his Vespa.  Vintage.  Red.  Oh.  Là.  Là. 

Before I go any further, I must explain that Olivier is not just a Frenchman.  He is a metrosexual, that fairly new breed of adult boy who is way too in touch with his feminine side.  Supposedly metrosexuals are heterosexual, but try as I might, I don’t completely buy this.  A metrosexual is an extreme version of a Frenchman and a French metrosexual is an extreme version of a metrosexual.  Double whammy. 

My role as participant in my little study lasted roughly a month, just long enough to get an inside glimpse at this world and draw some conclusions, at least as they relate to the French metrosexual.  I may still have further research to do on the subject. 

Dates with Olivier

The few dates that I had with Olivier were to stylish places, the kind where one goes for the sake of being cool in hopes of being seen.  For example, we went out for water at smooth, sleek Chez Colette.  I’m hip and cool, but I don’t think men are supposed to go to water bars.  Watering holes, sure.  Water bars?  The place sells water.  Over 100 different labels.  (Not including tap.)  I wouldn’t mind going with some girlfriends for some girl chat on some Saturday afternoon after some shopping.  Maybe. 

We once had dinner at Kong.  Even funkier than Chez Colette, I think, but totally outrageous.  Again, very girly and very cool.  It would be perfect for a Saturday lunch with the girls after shopping.  It even has a touch of Hello Kitty.

He got two prime tickets to see Romeo and Juliet (ballet version) at the Bastille.  Almost a dream come true to have a guy take me to the ballet.  Except that he cried during Act III and the epilogue.  Cried.  Again, I think I’d rather be with a girl.  

What was worse than any of the places he chose was his favorite topic of conversation—himself.  He was so incredibly self-absorbed that it was like dating a shallow, beauty-is-skin-deep, air-headed cheerleader.  Walking around, I would see him glance over to catch his reflection in boutique windows.  Making sure we’re still cute?  He was very into labels and talked ad nauseum about Seven jeans, the latest Guy Laroche line and his facial regime.  That and he complained about a lot of things.  Not much deep discussion about world events, global warming, politics, etc.  And he didn’t really care to hear about me.  He was self-centered, vain, and vacuous. 

Olivier once had me over to his apartment for dinner.  It was carb-free, fat-free, calorie-free, and completely organic.  Somehow it was also tasty.  His apartment was immaculate.  Did Felix Ungar live here?  He claims to have decorated it himself, which I shouldn’t doubt even though it clearly had a woman’s touch. 

Olivier’s Wardrobe

Olivier’s closet occupies the small second bedroom of his posh apartment.  He has installed the Stolmen system from Ikea.  The incessant organization, complete with dedicated shelves for ties, scarves, shoes and bags, coupled with recessed lighting make Olivier’s closet look like a store.  His own personal boutique.  I wonder if he has an alphabetized inventory somewhere.  Or a servant who helps him dress in the morning. 

His Stolmen is stocked with the latest fashions from Guy Laroche, Lanvin, and Paul Smith.  Let’s face it, hope as I might, he’s not really going to let me wear anything from his wardrobe, is he?  Besides, the only labels a straight guy should know are L.L. Bean, Patagonia, and Hanes (or Jockey). 

Olivier’s Bathroom 

In most relationships—friend or lover—there comes a time when some deep, dark secret is revealed and you see that person in a different light.  Perhaps this secret makes them seem like a stronger person.  Chances are, it just makes them seem crazy and you start frantically figuring out how to distance yourself from this person. 

This happened when I had to use the bathroom at Olivier’s apartment.  Worse than his closet (which I’m actually jealous of) is his bathroom.  When I turned the bathroom light on, I thought that he had a live-in girlfriend or a wife.  The bathroom was full of beauty products.  His beauty products.  I locked the door behind me and snooped.  My mother would be proud. 

How many beauty products does a man need?  Bar of soap.  Shaving cream.  Underarm deodorant.  Toothpaste.  Shampoo.  If he wants to get fancy, he can have soap on a rope.  My brother got one for Christmas once.  It was red.  Maybe there are some other, ancillary products such as athlete’s foot cream or shoeshine.  Things that are used occasionally and eventually expire. 

Olivier had every imaginable product for every imaginable body surface.  Mud masks, face cleansers, exfoliating cream, tuning lotion, vitamin scrubs, eye creams, hair gels, hairsprays, colognes.  Everything from Guerlain’s Success Future anti-wrinkling cream to Roc’s retinol anti-cellulite cream for thighs. 

What truly horrified me was the make-up section.  Olivier is neither a model nor an actor.  Does he really need the complete line of Jean Paul Gaultier’s make-up for men (or “complexion enhancers” as they’re called)?  He had concealer, powder, mascara, clear nail polish, lip balm and tanner.  This shelf also had an eyelash curler, eyebrow brush and tiny little scissors.   

Anthropological Conclusions

After finding Olivier’s supply of “products” in his bathroom, I felt that my period of study had come to an end.  This was all the information I needed.  I had seen enough.  I need not stick around long enough to confirm that he waxes his chest, back and legs. 

I had to break it off with Olivier, after giving it the old college try.  I just can’t be with a man who is prettier than I am.  I learned a lot about myself, though.  I learned what I don’t want in a man.  I don’t want to talk to him about the color wheel or feng shui.  I don’t want him to know that I’m making a fashion faux pas when I wear a brown shirt with my black pants.  I don’t want him to actually enjoy going to the ballet (I’d rather drag him kicking and screaming just once a year on Valentine’s in an effort to expose him to culture).  And above all, I really don’t want him to cry unless he’s bleeding profusely or just lost his dog.  His very large dog, by the way. 

I also learned that I’m not as high maintenance as I thought I was and that being with someone who is high maintenance can be exhausting. 

But above all, I learned that I still carry with me my childhood crush on Magnum, P.I. and that any guy I go out with must have broad shoulders, muscles, chest hair and some stubble.  Love handles are acceptable.  Bad hair and a moustache are acceptable, but not required.  And he can wear a stupid-looking grin and a baseball cap, even if it’s for the Detroit Tigers.