If I had a dime for every time someone had told me these five words last year in Oxford, let’s just say I’d be doing pretty well. Dating in Oxford is, at best, pretty difficult juggling the excessive workload and the efforts we make to balance our personal and academic lives. I’ve never been one to prioritise relationships over friendships. When I love, I love hard, and I think that shines through to those closest to me.
But how is one supposed to feel when they hear: ‘I’m sorry–you’re handsome but not my type’? After a year in Oxford, I have one failed situationship from the other place, a few one-night stands, and nothing else to show for it. Was my mentality wrong in first year? Did I go about things the wrong way? In first year, I realised just how small we are as a community of queer people within the university. I don’t point this out as a detriment but rather simply a fact. It’s beautiful to see queer people fill out every Tuesgays venue, moving on to Plush as the night progresses. Still, we are in the minority. Then filter in being a queer person of colour, and the community instantly becomes even smaller.
As a brown gay man who doesn’t have a snatched waist, will probably mildly break out at some point over the term due to degree stress, and who has stretch marks that, instead of seeing them as a sign of a life well lived, I see as something that I want to cover up or hide. For the most part, I did feel othered. I am not a white twink. There, the elephant in the room: I cannot satisfy the status quo of the Oxford gay dating scene. I usually twiddle my thumbs when I go out with friends, straight or gay, who are comfortably getting with some stranger in the middle of the club. It happens at the worst of times: when I’m starting to sober up, and the FOMO starts to set in. ‘Why can’t I randomly make out with someone in a club?’ was a thought that played greatly on my mind last year. This isn’t to say that such should be your barometer for a night out. Still, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a thought that didn’t preoccupy my thoughts after carefully curating a cute club outfit and spending a good hour doing glam, only to come home at sunrise alone, drunk and trying not to linger on the looming hangover.
Has that led to poor romantic choices? Absolutely. Last year, I settled for the bare minimum. I recall sending my friends a screenshot of my notes app titled ‘standards’. In said note, the three bullet points read as follows:
Number 1: Is a man.
Number 2: Texts me twice a day if he can.
Number 3: Is nice (opens doors and sends flowers idk).
As someone who’s ever so slightly older and wiser from last Hilary, the ‘if he can’ is sending me. I may be both handsome and no one’s type yet, but this year I’m taking a page out of Charlotte York’s book. The park avenue princess once famously said to her mother-in-law, ‘I’m worth a million’, and I know that now to be true. So, if you’re a baby gay from an ethnic minority, or you don’t quite fit into the conventional standards of beauty know this: you’re not alone. I feel it, some of my Oxford friends feel it, and I know so many people at home feel it. But take this from someone who has lived: never settle for less than you deserve because you want to feel something. To answer the questions I posed earlier in this article, yes, I did have the wrong mentality last year. In my mind, the beautiful boys were out of reach because I don’t have a flat stomach, because I have imperfections, because I’m not a white twink. While I write this as a singleton who admittedly got emotional writing parts of this piece, I’ve learned we’re all entitled to that great, big, all-encompassing type of love. That is, the one that fills your stomach with butterflies and makes you smile at the smallest gesture because in 2025, we’re not settling for less or getting upset at hearing the words ‘handsome, but not my type.’ Our love is out there; it’s just taking a little while longer to reach us.