Once upon a time, at a party high in the hills—where the eagle joins the rock—a glittery “see captain” met a swarthy young lumberjack.
“Ten free minutes, huh?” said a voice just over my right shoulder; on the other side of Tinkerballs. (The dominatrix Tinkerbell attached to my costume)
“Only if you’re in my top five,” I replied, as the manly intruder drew a pack of cigarettes from his flannel shirt.
Seizing the opportunity to bum one, I waved my glittery cell-phone hook toward his pack. “That’s why they call me Captain Hook Up.” He smiled and held out the box.
After removing my phone/hook contraption (which was coiled around my leg and connected into my crotch), he lit my cigarette and we stood on the sidelines observing what had become a very rowdy Halloween party. In between emitting clouds of smoke into the evening sky, we exchanged personal trivia. Eventually we finished our smoke, and he invited me onto the frenetic dance floor.
As we swayed back and forth in unison, our bodies folding together, the warm breeze of the Santa Ana winds took us to that place—that quiet place where words cease to matter and people communicate effortlessly through touch.
All around our wordless bubble, frantic costumed bumblebees swarmed about a furry, half-naked cosmic mansect—his tail buzzing and illuminating with each sting on the ass; like he’d just tasted honey.
Then contact.
The cushiony pads of his mouth contradicted the taste of tobacco as our lips touched. Just above a patch of black facial hair were big chocolate saucers that gazed attentively into mine—occasionally disappearing under a fan of dark lashes; each blink circulating an extra air of innocence into his manly masquerade.
“I don’t usually do this, but I’m a little drunk,” he said, as he opened the buttons to his flannel shirt and brought his abdomen together with mine. The dense fur on his chest seemed to turn the tables of age as he pressed against my hairless pecs.
And then, he went there.
“So … how old are you?”
“How old do you think I am?” I toyed, knowing I was older.
“Oh no,I’m sorry. I-I-I didn’tmean ... you don’t have to tell me!”
“It’s fine. I was just playing with you. I’m 47.”
“Wow.I hope I look as good as you when I’m your age!” When I’m your age … when I’m your age … when I’m your age—the words echoed inside my head as if Tinkerballs were mock-shrieking into my ear.
“And how old are you?” I probed, pushing Tinkerballs aside and removing her whip.
“27.”
Classic, I thought. Wrong number.
“But I don’t pay much attention to age. It’s really about the person,” he announced, as he unfastened the safety pins to my vest.
I rubbed my cheek against his and ran my hand down the nape of his neck before returning to his receptive mouth. In small controlled breaths, we exchanged internal oxygen. The second time, his tender contact and innocent approach became sweet—but obvious—reminders of the 20 years between us. When we came up for air, dancing beside us, the triplicate glow of Marcia Marcia Marcian’s three exposed neon-nippled breasts seemed the perfect reminder of my internal feelings of social freakiness—like I was thinking with two heads. One was taking a very hard line. And it wasn’t Tinkerballs.
While he ogled MMM’s galactic glamour, I took the opportunity to mollify the situation. Retracting my glittery “hook,”I peeled myself from his exploring grip and began to pin myself back into place. Returning his attention, blinking innocently, he took me in—disappointment had dented his loveliness. His dejected eyes said it all. Like he’d been punished.
And not (I suspect) in the ways he had hoped for. Still, I had to cut him loose.
“I can’t do this. I’m too old for you,” I said, readjusting a very disheveled Tinkerballs. “I’m sorry.”
The rest was an uncomfortable blur as we parted ways to find our friends.
Later that night, as I drove home, thoughts of my lusty lumberjack kept coercing me to redial my rejection.
What’s wrong with me? I wondered. I’d reached gay nirvana: the isle of the Lust Boyz. Was I socially retarded to pass on time in the nursery? Maybe I should have lived for the moment—Mr. Right Now vs. Mr. Right. After all, I was Captain Hook Up!
Once I arrived home, as I shed the layers of my costume, things became more apparent. I told myself that Mr. Right Now was what I did 20 years earlier—when I was his age. But, because I am in fact 47— although (it seems) I “pass” for younger, according to the Lust Boy—mentally, I’m still middle-aged. And because of said status, I continued to reflect on my choice: a practical departure to Never-Never land vs. a fiery trip to the Isle of the Lust Boyz. With the Mr. Right vs. Mr. Right Now thing reeking of bullshit, I eventually landed at a very different and surprising place—if I’m going to be totally honest.
It was vanity that sent me flying from the nursery. Why? Because I never-never want to become “that”guy: the one who lusts and pursues the youth of my succeeding generation. OK, I’ll say it: I never want to be seen as a troll! (Which, to me, is different from being old.) I also realized, because of our difference in age, that I never-never spend any time with guys who are 20 years younger. And because of his age and the community’s general perception of “May/December” marriages, I possess zero etiquette when it comes to intergenerational interaction. And even though he was comfortable with the difference in age, as well as the one in pursuit, I was uneasy—all I could see was a trip to troll.
As a culture, it seems we gay men have defined ourselves by our sexual orientation. It’s the thing that we use: our point of reference, our ticket to connection with each other. It’s the thing that makes us exclusive from the straight world. But does our sexuality further divide us from each other? Does age or fetish or body type (all sexual preferences/categories) define our social communication— separating us even further from each other?
Maybe 27-year-old men want a broader range these days? Maybe “when I’m your age” is perceived differently now? Apparently it looks different. Or maybe it was just my costume? But since I “hung up” on the wrong number, I guess I’ll never know.
But this I know: When you are 27, a life ogling nubile youth is moot because they are your peers. Then, like an unexplained trip, you arrive at 47 and find yourself wondering how you grew up so fast. You hold fond memories of your formative years; flying on top of the world—everything seemed possible. But inevitably someone or something comes along and stamps your passport to reality, and you come to realize an important lesson: There is no such thing as 10 free minutes. But … these days I’ve begun to reconsider who’s in my top five.
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