Much of what I’m about to say cuts against everything I was taught and mostly believe that the substance of a person is all that is important – so I expect to regret this column, but am compelled to write it nonetheless. Last week, as I slathered myself with anti-wrinkle cream, I examined my body expecting to find a tattooed expiration date announcing that I’d joined the club of older gay men who have small dinner parties, where they recount their glory days and complain about the current generation of their counterparts who fail to give them the respect they deserve. Yes, it’s possible that the graying temples, eye wrinkles and extra padding – which has extinguished my dream of ever having discernible abs – have also ushered in a new era of melodrama.Įven so, the virtual invisibility with which I can currently walk through a gay gym or neighborhood is a new experience, and it feels like a forced retirement. As a gay man who recently turned 60, I’m pretty sure my life is over.
