Ironically, though I write, often, about deadness, I rarely write about mortality, about age.
For a bit more than fifty years, I have lived. I’m fortunate. As a straight man, this puts me pretty squarely in the prime of my attractiveness. I have five or seven years of peak hotness ahead of me, and five or seven behind me.
Were I gay, I would be a “daddy,” the kind of man a certain kind of man in his late teens or early twenties finds irresistible. (The truth is, my sexuality doesn’t stop that cadre of boys from craving.)
I’m not gay, though, and while the young women in their twenties who long for a “daddy” find me quite compelling, it’s, honestly, not till thirty or thirty-five that my cock truly thrills to a woman. I like those younger things fine: surely, they are easy on my eyes.
But I’m not a sex machine. I don’t fuck whoever is before me. Rather, I’m a connoisseur. For a woman, truly, to waken my cock, she has to give me two things: a certain style of compliance (which need not be absolute, except in terms of communication), and beauty. I’m not just a connoisseur, though; though I’m not a sex machine, I am a gourmand. I delight in what I’m fed.
My experience has been, fairly consistently, that as lovely as the young women in their twenties may be, as taut as their flesh may be, as perky as their breasts may be, they lack a certain… devotion… when it comes to communication. Not devotion to me. Devotion to communication itself.
Nothing makes my cock harder than a woman who can make me know that I am in her mind. Nothing makes it limp more quickly than a woman who forgets me, who neglects me.
I believe, truly, that while I ask an enormous amount, I can be satisfied with very little.
Communicate with me. Respond to me. Engage with me, with my voracious, insatiable appetite. Feed me.
I think you’ll find the results delightful. I know I will.
I’m getting older, it’s true. I saw a picture the other day of me, with hair. I began balding at fifteen. I finished by the time I was twenty-five. The picture was taken when I was fifteen. My hair is thick, full, short – and receding dramatically.
Most people I know, except my enormous group of school friends, never knew me with hair. They don’t know that I’m a guy with curly long hair, hanging down to my waist. They think I’m a shaven headed guy. Kojak. Yul Brynner. (They’re wrong.)
That’s not what I see when I look in the mirror. I still see my bushy Jewfro, my tight, dark curls, pulled back into a ponytail. Or cropped close to my head.
Time marches on.
I have to attend to the hair in my ears, in my nose, on my shoulders. It’s not grotesque, yet, but it threatens. My belly isn’t as cut as it was six or seven years ago. Then? I was, genuinely, ripped. I am, now, a zaddy, a possessor of an unmitigated dad-bod.
My own dad, who just turned eighty, shows what lies ahead, if I’m lucky. He’s the best looking eighty-year-old I know. Hot, in his way, even. And also? His parts are failing. He’s gotten some new ones recently. New parts that won’t last nearly as long as the originals they replaced.
Mortality is hard to reckon with.
My mom died at forty-five.
I find it nearly incomprehensible that I’m older than she ever was, that my mother never was older than I am now. That’s a weird bit of cognitive dissonance for me. I’m older than my mom. Not than she was. Than she is, in the eternal moment in which she’s frozen, the night before she died, as we chatted on her bed.
I’m getting older. One day, I’ll die.