Guest Article

By Gwen Moore

My Gaydar Broke:  Part I.

Since I moved here, I’ve noticed that my environment has changed certain things about me, without any effort on anyone’s part.  This is what I mean:  I am no longer a size 6.  I am now a 36.  Which means I’m quite obese.  Possibly even morbidly obese.  But in actuality, I haven’t changed at all.  I’m still the same me, just numerically fatter. 

My foot is no longer a nice size 5.  It, too, has increased and is now a size 35.  I must be a giantist with little shovels for feet. 

I won’t even get into my bra size, which is even more depressing (especially when they say it in French . . . four twenties and whatever).  I sound like Dolly Parton.  But I don’t look like her.  I’m still the same me. 

The only pleasant side effect is my weight, which has been almost halved since I moved here with no effort on my part.  But I’m still the same me. 

But what has changed is my gaydar.  It’s really off.  Actually, I think it’s broken.  Maybe it's gone metric.  Maybe it’s a 110 vs. 220 thing and I’ll have to wait until I go back home on vacation to see whether it’s broken or just needs some American recharging.  It used to be really good.  In Midtown Manhattan, I remember once we got a new colleague.  Obviously gay.  Another co-worker (another woman) one day got confused during our celeb gossip at lunch and blurted out “Are you gay?”  That was, like, so rude.  Of course he was!  Hello, he was the most color-matched, best-dressed guy around.  Plus he smelled like Gaultier 2 and had this great, distinctive walk and was super flirty with the girls in that empty-flirty/lispy-friendly sort of way.  He also carried an antique train conductor’s pocket watch instead of a Timex.  I remember feeling a sense of pride that yes, I knew he was gay.  Duh.  Shouldn’t everyone?  Must have been my sharpened gaydar. 

Then I moved here. 

The first week it was on overload.  Gaydar going off left and right.  I remember being horrified at the thought that oh no, I’ve just moved to the City of Love where there’s all this great hope and expectation that you will find the one.  That one Frenchman who will make love to you and you alone every night like no Anglo ever could and he’ll never take on a mistress because you are just that good, too.  So where is he?  Where are the straight ones?

Looking spiffy, comme d'hab.

The same thing may have happened to you and maybe after a few weeks, you turned your gaydar down or just threw it away.  After the realization that no, not all of the men around you are gay (that has to be statistically impossible), you go through what I call an adjustment period. 

During this adjustment period, you stop trying to intuitively determine if the person you are trying to get a date with is gay or straight.  You kind of take yourself off the market for a few weeks or months and become an objective observer.  The dating scene has now become anthropological. 

As part of your anthropological study, you find that most Parisian men have very nice, shiny, black patent leather footwear with pointy toes and small heels (or lifts).  Not just the gay ones.  Their shoes don’t squeak when they walk.  Their socks are nice, maybe even worth checking out.  Almost all Parisian men are slender in physique.  There are no beer guts.  Likewise, there aren’t a lot of muscles, either.  It’s as though they haven’t filled out yet.  Like we’re back in junior high school.  Their hips, not their shoulders, lead their bodies while walking.  Like the sidewalk is a catwalk and every week is fashion week.  

Parisian men wear nice, mid-thigh-length, three-season black coats that appear tailored.  The suits are also slim and tailored, with an extra button for the jacket and a tight seat in the pants.  The men accessorize themselves with scarves.  Yes, that’s right.  The urban Parisian male typically wears a scarf, be it a lightweight silk or cotton blend, possibly pastel scarf for springtime or a slightly heavier and darker, wool knit scarf for autumn and winter.  It could even have a print on it.  But even more than that is the way it has been tied around the neck—Frenchmen tie their scarves in the same way that Frenchwomen do.  Hold with left hand, wrap, wrap, wrap with right hand, tie and tuck (tucking optional).  It’s called a cache-nez and you would get your ass kicked for wearing one in most places west of prime meridian if you were a guy.

Hair is always nicely coiffed and sometimes even the eyebrows have been waxed or somehow groomed.  There is a general absence of facial hair.  It’s either a total face wax or a very close shave.  And of course the iPod, whose earphones can go under the scarf and into the coat so you can’t see the color of the iPod (although yesterday, I saw a man sporting a pink iPod Shuffle clipped onto the outside of the coat, so I know he’s gay.  Right?). 

Frenchmen also sometimes have what looks to be a purse (Seinfeld called it a “European Carryall”), which is worn by pulling the strap over his chest and letting the bag bounce on his hip.  He also has an umbrella.  The true mark of a man’s man—can he handle the rain without fear of melting? 

Last but not least is his voice.  This is mostly due to how our Germanic-speaking ears hear romance languages, but when a man speaks French, it comes out really effeminate.  They sound way more feminine and sultry than I do. 

I’m being upstaged in physique, dress and voice.  I knew that would happen with the Frenchwomen, but the men?  It wasn’t supposed to be like this! 

Come back next week for part II to read about Gwen's recent date with a French metrosexual.