A prince, a queen or in between?

Was he or wasn’t he? Usually my gaydar is spot-on. But with this guy, I was flummoxed.

I met him at a “Mamma Mia!” premiere party. Say no more, you say?

He’s a Shakespearean actor who trained at London’s Royal Academy. Well, natch, of course he’s ...

Not so fast, my gay friend Bryan said. “Sweetie, think of all the Shakespearean actors from across the Pond that many Americans thought were gay but were wholly red-blooded Casanovas. To wit, Richard Harris, Peter O’Toole, Albert Finney, Ralph Fiennes.”

Then I got an e-mail from my new acquaintance, “Hamlet.” He was in San Francisco visiting his mother. He mentioned crystal, the Screen Actors Guild and Armistead Maupin. But then he threw me with a typically vague straight-man line: “Would you like to have coffee sometime?”

He called once he got back to L.A. We decided to go for sushi instead. He had chiseled features and was perfectly, nonchalantly disheveled. Too perfectly. Just a hint of stubble and a button-down shirt casually thrown open over a T-shirt. He looked good. Too good.

At dinner he told me how much he loves opera, especially Wagner, and that he is a sometime model. Assuming he had no romantic interest in me, I was completely at my ease, though I did not slurp my miso soup.

I told him about a stalker and he told me about a woman who kept asking him out, even though she knew he was seeing someone. A girl or a guy? I stabbed a piece of sashimi with my chopstick in frustration.

When the check came, he paid, a straight-man-on-a-date move. Hmmm. He walked me back to the office, gave me a hug and said, “I’ll talk to you soon, Lovey.”

He called three days later and asked if I wanted to meet for drinks that night. I already had plans. He called two days later and asked if I’d like to meet for dinner again that weekend.

This was beginning to look like a straight pursuit -- or was it?

I should add at this point that I love gay men, and they love me. There is something so relaxing about going out with a handsome man without worrying that he is going to grope you. They like me because I am peevish and look good in an evening gown. And we share so many of the same interests -- like fashion, art, theater, shopping, dancing, men, men and men.

But generally, when I have struck up an acquaintance with a gay man, he has let me know about his orientation right away. Which made Hamlet a puzzle. Was he, like his namesake, undecided? Or was I, as my friend Eve suggested, in complete, asinine denial?

Time, and the next date, surely would tell.

But Date No. 2 mirrored the first, ending in a hug.

“I’m still confused,” I told Eve.

“Did he make a move?” she asked.

“No ... “ I admitted.

“He’s gay,” she said. “Why are we having this conversation?”

My friend Carolyn disagreed. “You know, more and more men are doubling back and playing it bisexual,” she said. “It’s the latest thing.”

Bi? Gay? Straight? Confused? It’s enough to turn a rational woman into a crazed Ophelia. Perhaps I shall forget about date No. 3 and just get me to a nunnery.

Or maybe I should try to hatch a scheme to catch the conscience of the queen(?).

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Samantha Bonar can be contacted at samantha.bonar@latimes.com.