Sex, Romance, and This Single Old Gay

I’m not really old, but I’m not middle-aged either. I’m 53 and how many 106- year-old men do you know? I’ve lived into the great gay abyss, but there’s no turning back now, so here goes.

I like sex. No. I love sex. And love, intimacy, orgasms, and romance, in the bedroom and out.

And I like it with men.

I have to state that because so many gay men have the Peter Pan/”I don’t want to grow up I’m a Toys-R-US kid” (feel free to sing that) thing going on. No judgments but I am an adult and I appreciate the maturity, reflectiveness, and self-confidence that only grown folk possess.

But you know, a few months back I was walking down a beautiful, tree-lined street in a stunning old neighborhood in Richmond, VA, my new home town. Peaceful and safe, I suddenly felt a strange and sinking feeling, you know the one.

I was being followed.

I’m a pretty tough little guy but gay and 5’4 doesn’t scream “I’ll fuck you up” (even though I will), so I generally remain vigilant, and this feeling of being followed, even stalked, wasn’t going away.

I turned, but as far as my eyes could see, nothing but the empty sidewalk behind me.

Hmmm.

Walking on, the feeling remained. Suddenly, a terrible foreboding began to grow. I turned, only slowly this time, not looking far behind me but just over my shoulder, my hand following the trajectory of my eyes. Reaching around, I discovered in a way that was ego-crushing, my 53-year-old middle had “developed” during the pandemic, saddling me with a couple of new friends.

Yes, I was being stalked by the most ridiculously named anatomical predator: Love handles. Give me a fucking break! Love has nothing to do with it.

And before you ask, yes, they were the kind that transform your sexy back “V” into a slouching “A”, which ironically was my favorite letter, but not anymore. And don’t even get me started on the difference between straight guy love handles and the mid-life, soul-sucking, I’ll-never-attract-a-hot-guy-again implication gay love handles bring with them like a Tiffany-wrapped time bomb.

So there I was with an extra 30 pounds on my 5’4″ frame that, hand to God, I hadn’t even noticed until that moment, faced with a choice: Let this break me or pick up my new Oompa-Loompa shaped body and carry it with grace, aplomb, and not a little bit of courage.

I don’t mind telling you, I broke.

“How could this have happened?” I thought, completely unable to admit the facts that I’m 53 years old and had spent the pandemic alone with very little to do but cook, drink, and Zoom.

And let me also say, like love handles, Zoom is hardly an apt name considering you don’t zoom anywhere. You sit and watch as you slowly expand. Boom or Doom is more like it.

Getting back to the “I broke” thing, it wasn’t like I was having a nervous breakdown, exactly. But I have been sort of, well, adorable for most of my life so I had no defense or coping mechanism in place. A fairly athletic little body that took care of itself because of tennis, swimming, lifting weights, and genetics, and a face that I’ve jokingly referred to as my “moneymaker” for longer than I care to admit kept me safe from this particular challenge. There have been many tragic events in my life, frankly far more than most, but when it came to guys and girls and sex, I did just fine.

But I’ve been single now for over 14 years. During the first nine years of that stretch, I was consciously committed to learning how to be Mr. Right rather than look for Mr. Right, find him, and have nothing to offer once I did. You can’t give away what you don’t have, so I did the work and then informed the universe that I was ready.

It never occurred to me that he might not show up!

And while the occasional “fun with stranger(s)” is a road I’ve traveled, it just isn’t a good look in your 50’s. It’s like wearing something from Abercrombie & Fitch. You can be forgiven for that kind of stupidity at 23 but at 53?

Gurrrl, no!

I began to experience the stages of grief, although denial wasn’t really an option because, ya know, there they were. Anger didn’t seem to be productive, so bargaining it was, with depression not far behind.

But the real issue came when I had to make a decision about acceptance.

You see, I’ve always been the gay, er, guy that made the impossible a reality. I was expected to die before the age of 25 and wasn’t supposed to get through college and grad school because of my health. The very idea that I would have the great fortune to have had four viable, somewhat successful careers was ludicrous, and I sure as hell wasn’t supposed to do it alone, without the support and encouragement of a family or partner.

When you fight back from 94 pounds and a few years later, 104 pounds, you aren’t supposed to look good doing it. I know that most of us are not as obsessed with their appearance as I am, but you have to understand that it was the ultimate “fuck you” to a disease that wanted, and very nearly got, everything that I was.

Looking good was my line in the sand. So when Gandalf the Grey bellowed, “You shall not pass!” it took all of my discipline not to yell, right there in the theater, “Sing it, Sister!”

And against all odds, that line held, and here I am. But I struggle with aging, and while I’d like to do it with grace, I still don’t know what acceptance looks like. I mean, is it embracing the “pandemic 30”, chalking it up to time, and letting go of shallow pursuits like great sex and being desired for the physical as well as the spiritual?

Or is it just another challenge to overcome?

Accepting and loving myself for who and what I am has been the greatest barrier to real, lasting happiness. So if I want love to come into my life, do I continue to tend to my outward appearance or will I find someone deep and spiritual to love me no matter the size of the package? (OK. OK. Settle down!)

I wrestled with these all-important questions. I really did.

But simultaneously, there was another battle being waged, an actual wrestling match, as I launched into flying contortions trying to fit into my clothes.

The seams of my T-shirts were strained to their limits trying to keep all of the new me in, I couldn’t zip let alone button my jeans, and when I looked in the mirror, my homosexuality was staring back at me, like in a horror movie. He wasn’t angry exactly. It was more a look of disappointment and a little bit of disgust.

Wrinkles, less energy, pain in my joints are one thing, but the sight of a Zegna suit lying in a crumpled mess on the floor next to my favorite pair of John Varvatos boots was unspeakable!

I couldn’t bear it. They had fought so valiantly and was I really going to betray them by double fisting that last eclair? Sure, it’s good practice but…

No! I glanced once more at the carnage on the bed, and the floor, and the dresser, and then into the mirror.

“No fucking way!” I declared.

And in that moment I realized that my choice was based on who I am, and who I would continue to be. No self-flagellation, no judgment designed to shame this “bow to the superficial”. When my body is cremated, it will be a thin body, and that’s that.

Gay sexuality is, of course, physical but as men, we are so visual, and I am not ready to say goodbye to being “a vision”. Even though I believe in love, deep, romantic, lifetime love, I still want to be seen as sexy and desirable whether or not that kind of love finds me.

“But what will you do about your sexual and romantic needs until then?” you’re shouting. “I read this article for some answers!”

I really hoped that writing this piece would provide answers to those questions but all I’ve come to is that the man I set out to be is enough, and giving up on him would be the real white flag of surrender.

If love, romance, and great sex find me again, that’s great. If not, there’s always pickle ball.

What’s that? No, I’m not speaking euphemistically. Cheeky!

No, the real challenge, and I suppose the privilege, is to love and accept the child of God within. Look at that. Not only did we find an answer but it’s all spiritual and shit.

And you know what?

In the end, this single old gay can’t think of one good reason not to look smokin’ hot as well.

Well, there it is. I suppose if God had wanted me to be deep…she wouldn’t have made me so shallow!

A new prime? Image Credit: AC Troi

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This post was previously published on Hello, Love.

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