Cruising in Limbo
Are you one of those guys faced with this no-win dilemma when you’re out for more than a cold beer?
You’re 35, 38, north of 40, maybe even 50 and beyond. You’re in decent shape, go to the gym at least more often than the average American male, have a clean bill of health, don’t take pills for anything, don’t smoke (because you’re cheap), don’t do drugs (because you’re cheap and smart), and don’t drink excessively. Or either by luck or good genes, and an occasional touch of Just for Men or an every-six-month botox shot, you look good, buddy, a good ten years younger than your momma would tell you.
Now, who wouldn’t be flattered when a guy old enough to be your son comes up to you and whispers to you in a deep guttural tone, “Man, you’re hot. I wanna be your bitch.” You certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed. (Most older guys who ONLY go for younger guys I think are setting themselves up for eventual failure, but, hey, that’s their business.) But your preference is a guy 35-55, your chronological or mythical (he or you are 55, but look 45) contemporary. And a kissing cousin in the looks/physique department.
Three out of 4 of the guys in your preferred age range have their stomach in New Orleans and their ass in the Panhandle, are triple chinned, chain smoke (a notorious fag habit) between double shots of vodka, still sniff coke or smoke grass like they were college freshmen, or do meth like candy and/or are a walking medical dictionary.
And … they don’t give a shit. They actually think THEY’RE hot. And like there’s a lid for every pot, there are guys out there who think they are, too.
Oh, these men will come onto you Big Time like the train wreck (see above) who came on to me once at the now gone 2206 leather bar in Tampa. I tried to be polite but every time I cruised on, he made it a point to come over and resume the conversation, telling me down to my shoe size that I was IT to him. Finally, he popped the question which he should have asked ten rounds around the bar earlier. “So what are you lookin’ for?”
“My clone,” I replied dryly. “If I had a twin brother, we’d never leave the bedroom.”
And I’m a sincere believer that the 50+ generation, in particular, lost a lot of hot guys who probably would have stayed that way if Big A hadn’t spoiled their plans.
So what about that fourth guy (you know, three minus four equals one), the guy who’s a 47 year old hottie? Well, nine out of ten times (stay with me, guys), he wants somebody who’s taller than you or shorter than you, furrier than you or smoother than you, butcher than you (whips, chains and ropes hanging off his belt loops) or girlier than you (eyeliner optional), heavier than you or skinnier than you, darker than you or blonder than you, or shit, younger than you … you get the drift.
So, where are we then?
Yep, cruising in limbo.