Mr. Unavailable #68: As the Day is Long

This is a Mr. Unavailable flashback circa late 1992 to early 1993, England.

Vital Stats: 5’9”, 19. Fellow student at Sussex. Aesthetic: He looked like he should have been in an indie shoegazer band. He was all cheekbones, lips and anemia. Demeanor: He acted like he should have been in an indie shoegazer band. He was all cool, aloof and depressive.

Background: Eager to escape American university life at an extremely pre-professional school, I spent my junior year abroad in England, on the campus of the University of Sussex just outside Brighton, the pot-smoking, light-class-load antithesis of pre-professional.

First Impression: I probably met #68 at one of the three pubs or the nightclub on campus. I grew fond of him during the various activities we’d find for ourselves: the post-pub smoke-outs in people’s dorm rooms, the unsuccessful mushroom searches in the cow fields, the occasional trips into London to visit the underground goth malls and buy Doc Martens...

What Happened: I was lovey dovey over him for months. I primarily hung out with a group of Brit boys in my time there and, having not hung out much with boys other than my brothers prior to visiting England, I saw signs of his potential interest in everything. He made me a mixed tape and I read into every single song. One night after the pub, he hung out with me in the kitchen and I impressed him with my drunken biscuit-making abilities. In spending post-pub hours with me, I preferred to think he was trying to send me a message: he liked me, too. Or so I hoped.

On the night of #69’s drunken confession that he liked me, I called #68 at about 1 a.m. and asked him if he could come over. He thought it was to discuss #69. He came over to my dorm room and sat down on my bed.

“Actually, I wanted to tell you that I have a crush on you,” I said.

“Oh,” he said as all the air got sucked out of the room. “I have a crush on someone else.”

He left and I went up to my American friend Kiersten’s room. I was distraught. I didn’t know how I was ever going to sleep—ever again. Kiersten told me to drink the Baileys that I’d gotten in Duty Free on our way back from France and skip class the next day. I did as I was told.

As one does at the tender age of 20, I’d put my whole heart into my crush on #68, investing many a feeling in it for months. His rejection was doubly devastating because it was right before Valentine’s Day. Getting out of town seemed like a good idea. I had some time left on my Eurrail Pass, so I took off for a weekend alone in Paris to mourn.

After a few months, I managed to recover, but was still fairly shy around him. Then one day I was in the kitchen with Kiersten. It was pancake day, so, like a good American in Europe, she was making pancakes. Our other American friend, Sean, came in.

“You’ll never guess who was at the les-bi-gay movie night in Brighton last night,” Sean said.

Sean, you see, was gay.

“Who?” we asked.

“[#68],” he said.

A huge grin spread across my face and I started jumping up and down in the middle of the kitchen, yelling, “It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me! Yay! He’s gay! He’s gay! It wasn’t me!”

Signs of Hope: I hadn’t known it, but, clearly, there were none.

Red Flags: I thought it was just his shoegazer mannerisms, but, now looking back, he was somewhat effeminate.

Turning Point: There were two: 1. When I confessed my crush. 2. When I found out he was gay.

Diagnosis: For him: Gay.
For me: I was the victim of my own underdeveloped gaydar. Immediately after this episode, my gaydar reached a level of accuracy that was way ahead of its time.