What is it about dream sex? I never seem to consummate the act, yet the deliciousness lingers upon waking, coloring the day’s absurdities with keen frustration; I wanna go back and see it, feel it more. It’s the longing, the teasing, the flirting on the edges of twilight sex, the nakedness in my vision’s periphery, the unbelievably pleasing pressure of his body against mine. How come I never thought of that position? How come I can’t say or do those things upon waking (alone)? How come when I talk to him I sublimate, smile like a friend, hang up the phone?
Seemingly unrelated, it’s striking me that suddenly everyone’s younger than me. The boys on underwear boxes, the boys on circuit posters, other bloggers, new friends, co-workers, actors, athletes, authors, boys at the gym. I woke from this dream screaming, HOW THE FUCK DID I GET OLD?
I’m turning thirty-one in about two and a half weeks. The funny thing is, I don’t mind. At least, I didn’t think I did. I don’t drool over the Young Ones. As one half of the Studly Couple said, “I prefer men with a few rough edges, a bit worn, like old boots.” (Good thing he’s in a couple; we’d be wrassling over the same hotties.) I remember my mom and her partner telling me that their forties were absolutely the best decade. You don’t give a shit anymore, they said (well, they wouldn’t say “shit”). I pay attention to my elders, believe it or not. I listen when they say follow your heart, life is short, love matters more than work. I listen so I can get a head’s start on the rest of you boys. Pay attention, or you’ll never catch up.
If it’s true (and I wonder) that all gay men are particularly sensitive about getting older, if they truly worship at the alter of the Boy, then I don’t find these men terribly attractive. Oh, you only think twenty-year olds are hot? I gotta go, life’s calling. I tend to think that cliché is a self-perpetuating neurosis, encouraged by gay media. If everyone shaves their chest, maybe I should, too. If everyone watches Queer as Folk, maybe I should, too. If everyone hates getting old, maybe I should, too. Remember stupid kids saying they’d rather die than turn into that old troll at the bar? Well, not everyone thinks you’re the shit, stupid kid. I’d hazard to guess that those of us aging gracefully (say what you will) don’t do so in a bar.
Now I’m smiling, because if you’re forty, you’re laughing at me. You’re just a baby, you say. Call me in a few years, when fewer boys watch you walk by. I guess it’s easy, aging gracefully, when you’re young like me.