Gaydar:
n—informal humorous
the putative ability to recognise that a person is homosexual intuitively or by means of very slight indications.
Slight indications? Shit, then I guess alarm bells should have sounded as soon as I saw his bedroom. A red feather boa framed the Cabaret poster on his wall, and there was a little pile of fashion books on his bedside table. We got up and straightened our hair together. It was as if he was screaming at me, “Juliet, I’m gay but I don’t want to tell you. JUST LOOK AROUND”.
I fell in crush with Lou on my first day at my new high school. The dean’s address was lost on me—all I could hear were Lou’s snarky witticisms and my own loud, pervy internal monologue.
We went to a pretty crappy school. Big, scary boys would light the rubbish bins on fire most lunchtimes, and girls would actually smoke in the bathrooms (a cliché act of rebellion that I had previously only seen in trashy teen films). In short, Cashmere High School was not the place to come out.
Luka was in the closet, and I quite happily climbed in with him. And bloody hell did we have fun in there. We missed six weeks worth of classes that year, mostly because we were at my house watching Sailor Moon. When we were in class, we were unbearable. We would roll around the floor in the back of the class, alternating baby talk with raunchy sex noises. We had matching t‑shirts, and more catch phrases than NCEA credits. The relationship ran its course, and a few months later I met a new boy, Henry.
I guess alarm bells should have sounded when I saw The Male Nude on top of a stack of books on his bedside table. Still my gaydar didn’t bleep. No, it stayed quite silent until the very day that Henry and Luka started dating. It’s always weird to see your ex-boyfriend with a new partner. It’s always lovely to see two friends fall in love. Seeing two of your ex-boyfriends falling in love is like someone fucking you slightly too hard—great, if a little painful.
Having good gaydar isn’t the ability to determine somebody’s sexual preference from a person’s tastes and actions. If we ruled out every Wellington boy who conforms to banal gay stereotypes, there wouldn’t be many fish left in the sea.
A person with good gaydar does, however, at least need to understand that not everyone they meet wants to have sex with them. This is where I run into problems. As a deeply narcissistic girl, every time I am approached by anyone of the opposite sex, I assume that they are as in love with me as I am myself.
Trouble is, they very rarely are. They’re talking to me because they want a cigarette. They’re talking to me because they want to know if they have a chance with my hot friend. They’re talking to me because they mistook me for someone they know and feel awkward just walking away. They’re talking to me because I’m right there when their ex-girlfriend walks in. And yet, time and time again, I end up flirting outrageously with a lost cause, whether it’s a boy who is in love with my ex-boyfriend, a boy who is in love with himself, or a boy who is just standing next to me to make himself look taller.
I remember a friend of mine exclaiming once, “I’ve never been dumped”, a proclamation that was not well received by us other mere mortals in the room. Being rejected or dumped is bad for the self-esteem, but it does keep my brobdingnagian ego in check. My mother told me once that I’m destined to be left at the altar. But hey, after a few more years of hitting on the wrong men, at least it won’t be much of a surprise.
I end up flirting outrageously with a lost cause, whether it’s a boy who is in love with my ex-boyfriend, a boy who is in love with himself, or a boy who is just standing next to me to make himself look taller.
Or, indeed, one boy doing all three things simultaneously.
Juliet Buckler is my favourite thing about Salient.