The Daddy Diaries: Hot Sex in the Golden Years
"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.
Instead, I eventually end up working the streets, where I run into Fernando, an old trick I once met in a gay dive. He's packed on a few pounds, but if I'm benefiting from the death of body fascism, I have to be a little more lenient about others' physiques. Besides, he looks totally hot. We make a date, which starts well enough when he engorges his mouth with my pork sword in the bathroom of my apartment. Top that, Lindsay Lohan! But at Hiro, Fernando keeps demanding free drinks and calling me "Daddy," which I hate because I want to pretend these relations are all fair and balanced, not about some younger person with self-esteem issues needing a father figure. His fantasy happens to kill my fantasy. But hey, sex is still sex. He brazenly yanks my pinga out in the club—by now, it gets applause—and after I demurely zip it back up, he boldly suggests we finish up at a nearby adult-video store. He whooshes me there and actually completes me through a glory hole. Now I'm even having anonymous sex with people I know! With a condom! Creative!
I've clearly turned radioactive, exuding a fuckability that might soon require a gay No-Pest Strip. In Hollywood, you're washed up at 27, but clearly, in the West Village, you're a sex symbol on a walker! Back at Pieces, a young guy sings lousy karaoke, but the fact that you can see his piece through his pants somehow makes him Pavarotti. I get super-aggressive and tell him: "Your choice of 'Electric Avenue' was inspired. But I'll need to hear it again when you're fully clothed so I can concentrate better." He lights up and moans: "I wish my boyfriend would say things like that!" As he leaves, the guy furtively slips me his number, and I feel like I'm starring in a very sexy movie for Showtime. But the next time I see him, he's nervously glued to the beau and won't even look at me. I'd throw some bar nuts at the little weenie tease, but I probably needed a humbling anyway.
To be continued next week . . .
One more thing: If you're as fed up with hearing about my sleazy sex life as my poor mother must be and you're craving a return to trashy gossip about OTHER people, then click on the blog! Enjoy: La Daily Musto!
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