Apparently I’m the older gay man now
My husband, a friend, and I like watching terrible gay movies and series on Prime. During one episode, our friend said, “I’ve seen that guy’s Twitter before,” which is code for porn.
Naturally, we looked him up. As I say often, one man’s porn is another man’s instructional video.
The porn star kept being called “Daddy.” He’s thirty-eight. I’m twenty years older than him. That’s just rude.
I spent enough time trying to accept that I’m gay
I grew up believing being gay would destroy my life. I didn’t come out on my own terms until I was forty-seven, eleven years ago. My time being “out” in the ’80s was so unhealthy and dysfunctional that I’m not sure I can truly call being thrown out by my mother coming out.
Now, eleven years ago, coming out didn’t mean I had everything figured out. I was a clueless middle-aged man asking questions I should have been allowed to ask in my teens and twenties:
How do I date? Do I get to sleep around? What does gay sex actually involve? Will gay people accept me after my years in evangelical Christianity? What does a “normal” gay life look like for me?
Toxic religion stole those years, then handed me the bill.
Side-note: when I was young, I wanted to marry Bo and Luke Duke, then both men from CHiPs. Apparently, I was a poly kid in the making.
I did meet older gay men, but few were models of healthy adulthood. My Drag Mom was different. When I was homeless, she took me in. She offered compassion before I had a polished identity or a plan.
She showed me that survival could include tenderness.
After coming out, I worked so hard figuring out how to be gay that nobody mentioned there would be a sequel: figuring out how to be old and gay.
And then my body joined the conversation
Gray hair. Botox that didn’t last. Reading glasses I can never find. Random noises when I stand up. A metabolism moving at turtle speed.
I’m developing MeeMaw-level skin tags and can now discuss serums with a straight face. My body requires a committee meeting before any sudden movement.
I’m still vain. I have good hair, and I’m not going to pretend otherwise. I just need to know when my warranty expired.
Gay culture has some thoughts about aging
Gay culture celebrates individuality while holding spectacularly weird ideas about youth, bodies, attractiveness, and age.
We have Twinks, Bears, Muscles, Dad Bods, and “He looks great for his age,” which sounds less like a compliment than a museum label.
As I’ve gotten older, some men seem to look right through me. Others treat me with surprising respect. I’m not sure whether they respect my wisdom or assume I know where the good parking is.
I’ve also learned that someone’s lack of interest isn’t a referendum on my worth. Sometimes it’s just a door to a room where nobody wants to have sex with me.
I used to hate being called “Daddy.” Now I don’t mind it. In fact, I enjoy being called “Papi.” I may be aging, but apparently I’m still eligible for sound effects.
What bothers me more is the bigotry and privilege that still exist within gay culture. Coming out didn’t make us immune to the hierarchies we inherited.
Younger gay men get some things right that my generation didn’t. They seem more inclusive of people of color, nonbinary people, and our lesbian siblings. That gives me hope—and reminds me that being older doesn’t automatically make me wiser. Sometimes it just means I’ve had more time to notice what I got wrong.
Becoming the older gay man I didn’t have
If young Randy met me today, he’d be surprised that I have a husband, a home, ordinary routines, and opinions about which terrible gay movie to watch next.
He’d be even more surprised that I’m not dead, damned, alone, or waiting for God to punish me.
Coming out at forty-seven didn’t mean I had failed at being gay. It meant I had survived long enough to begin. There is no expiration date on authenticity, even if there apparently is one on collagen.
An older gay man could have told me that fear isn’t proof I’m making the wrong choice, shame isn’t morality, and I didn’t need to become a perfect gay man before I was allowed to belong.
Now I want to be that kind of older gay man for others. I can listen without making people prove they deserve help. I can remind them they aren’t late and that their identity isn’t a problem they must solve before they’re allowed to live.
I can also tell them that the man they think is impossibly old is only thirty-eight. There is a lot of life to live after thirty-eight.
The thing I never expected to be grateful for
I spent years being told that being gay needed fixing. An ordinary future as an openly gay man was difficult, if not impossible, to imagine.
And yet here I am.
The thing nobody told younger me about getting older and gay is that aging can feel like proof—not that my life is disappearing, but that I finally got to have one.
I came out late and still experienced discovery, sex, friendship, love, community, and a life with my husband. I no longer have to choose between authenticity and belonging.
I’m looking forward to more ordinary days, ridiculous movies, conversations about porn stars on Twitter, and chances to help people who are where I once was.
Getting older isn’t evidence that my life is disappearing. It’s evidence that I got to have one.
And if anyone wants to call me Daddy, they should probably speak up and help me find my reading glasses.
Leave a Reply