By Keegan Hamilton
By Albert Samaha
By Village Voice staff
By Tessa Stuart
By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
"I'll never get any action in this bar. I'm 31!" a friend recently moaned as I spat out my Diet Dr. Pepper in disbelief. Please! I'm at least 32—all right, I'm between 45 and death—and I've been nabbing more action than Lindsay Lohan in a rehab bathroom. Yes, it helps that I'm one of those pesky TV talking heads that people recognize, even if they're not quite sure from what. ("Is you an actor?") And I have sort of finally grown into my looks, partly because I lost a few pounds from constant worrying that I'm getting too old. Even better, I've ended up on an anti-anxiety med that has me actually replying when people initiate a conversation. Suddenly, my walls are down—and so are my panties, honey!
I'll gladly tell you about it all in detail, not to brag—well, not only to brag—but also to inspire anyone who's always felt that the "pause" in "male menopause" has any real significance. My fluid-soaked diaries are as follows:
At the Hiro ballroom's gay night, a sprightly 23-year-old is acting all flirty and promising to show me his chest hair "when we're alone later." Bingo! Before you know it, we're speeding to my house, and though the chest hair—like everything else—turns out to be unremarkable, the point is: I scored a 23-year-old! And I don't even like 23-year-olds!
It's the beginning of a roll—or at least a soggy croissant. The new starry-eyed generation apparently thinks saggy flesh is totally hot, even without payment attached! A few nights later, a tousled-haired 21-year-old—you heard me—at the West Village bar Pieces is wasted and pawing my friend, who generously passes him on to me as if serving leftover hummus. Fine, I'll take sloppy seconds. The guy and I have a lively chat about Broadway, which clearly makes his Fosse hands even friskier; within moments, he's telling me he wants to go somewhere to "be sexual." I'm amazed—I'm old, remember?—but this time, I decide to inspect the goods before diving further into my midlife crisis. I saucily lift up the guy's shirt, and he strangely blurts: "There are things I can explain." Say what? I run in confused horror, thrilled to be wanted, but not that thrilled.
My piece inflates again when a handsome adult named Luis (I'm changing the names to protect the horny) accosts me on Christopher Street to gurgle that he's a big fan, blah, blah. That works for me, and we end up making out at the nearby skanky dive, the Monster. In the old days, I swatted away anyone who was attracted to me because of "who I am," but at this late date, I'm willing to concede that any reason people find me doable is fine. That gives me way more options, and besides, it's actually preferable to get action because of what you've accomplished than because you won some genetic lottery and/or had good surgery and styling. But I brilliantly notice that my admirer is more bombed than Iraq. There are things he can't explain. "I'm honored at the chance to have a sexual encounter with Michael Musto," he gurgles, hardly breathing. That's all I need for satisfaction. I lean Luis against the wall and go home to watch Golden Girls.
And I'm still attracting 'em like fruit flies, babe. At a dance club, Glenn, a wiry 32-year-old with 3-D abs, races into my arms, saying he absolutely adores me. Has someone spiked the energy drinks? Within five minutes, he's brazenly sampling my goods in a bathroom stall—whoa, nelly!—and on our first actual date a few nights later, he's practically planning a life together. See, Glenn's just broken up with his "old man" after seven years, so the job is wide open and he's anxious to fill it. But the more he wants me aboard, the less I'm serving my résumé. Tragically, he's even decided to rev things up a notch. The next week at the same place, my friends are rolling their eyes and telling me: "Mariah's looking for you." Huh? Does she want me for Glitter II? Nope, it turns out Glenn is in full drag as Ms. Carey, chirping: "I wanted you to see what I do for my art." It's not exactly a vision of love, though maybe now, at least, my mother would approve.
The broiling sun is burning out the memory of Glenn while making me even hotter to trot in the last-chance arena. The mood is sexy at the HX awards honoring go-go boys and drag queens, incongruously held at Lincoln Center's plaza. Adrenalized by the zany mix of high and low culture, I spot Cris—a tall, bedroom-eyed photographer—backstage and throw myself on him like a thrift-store poncho. I'm getting so forward. We kiss in front of the entire gay community and, soon enough, he even has my manhood out—at Lincoln Center! More people are looking at this than have ever seen Tosca! Just at this proud moment, my female friend from work waddles backstage to remind me we're supposed to go out to dinner. Turning a blinding shade of burnt sienna, I put my snake back in the cage and leave the cutie behind, as he poignantly wonders if I want "dessert" later. But the flirtation was so good, the actual sex act might seem superfluous.