There is a vintage bar in New York City that was known, if not notorious for having older gay men as its clientele. When I was young and active, you would never catch me there. About six months ago, finally accepting that now I too am old, I gave in.
Adding to that confession, I had walked in with the single goal of getting drunk. I wanted to be left alone even though secretly I still expected to receive some harmless attention. The first time I had walked in the bar was over forty years ago. I turned around and walked out. Now, though there were some gentlemen of an elevated age, it was not a locale I would letter as desperate. There were men of all ages inside. I was surprised and relieved. Along with extensive drink options, they serve my favorite kind of comfort food: burgers and fried foods, all reasonably priced.
Being older now, I find it unappealing to stay out late. Or maybe I truthfully mean I find it difficult to keep my eyes open after a certain hour. And though I had been a city night owl for years, I have become a Happy Hour patron. The booze is cheaper and the chance of getting a seat at the bar is practically a guarantee. I describe myself as being a drinker, rather than an alcoholic. I’m guessing those who attend AA meetings would say that I’m qualifying my behavior. From my side, after 3 cocktails (or two martinis), I’m so inebriated that I have to vacate the watering hole and head for home…or a pizzeria.
I have become a regular at that bar. There is a running joke between certain staff and me that when I arrive early, with the neighboring bar stools being empty, inevitably a woman sits on either side of me. My straight, single buddies would love to have that problem. Though I would have to warn them that the women are either lesbians, or they are straight and come to this gay bar so they won’t get hit on.
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A week ago, a younger man whom I’d never laid eyes on walked in and took a seat next to me. He started up a conversation. I may not look my age, but I was at least 25 years older. And I reiterate…he started up the conversation. He was a very handsome sun-kissed blond white man with evidence of a receding hair line, scruffy faced and wearing a nondescript button down shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Immediately, I could hear his intelligence. I was attracted to his looks but I was additionally seduced by his thoughtful speak. He was a southern born American, now living in Paris. We discussed men, music, politics (American, European, contemporary and historical). I sipped house vodka with cranberry through a straw, he drank beer from a tall glass.
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Years ago, a bartender told me that when combining vodka with juice, it is a waste to pay for the expensive hooch. I scoffed and said I was sure I could easily tell the difference. She poured three drinks in tumblers: one with their well brand, and two different high-end vodkas, mixing all three with orange juice. I took swigs of each and without pause, confidently pointed out which was which. I was incorrect on all three.
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As arrogant as this will sound, it is rare for me to find a man interesting and sexy enough to want to pursue anything beyond a one night stand. And as I have grown older, not having banked any money of substantial means, I am no catch. I still have a full head of dark brown hair and no weight issues to speak of, but I no longer would be comfortable having sex with the lights on. Even when I was younger and had hard, muscular pecs and a six pack, I was always tentative if taking off my shirt. I still look okay in clothes, but age has changed the shape of my upper body and where I once had well defined abs, I now live with the result of having eaten a good deal of mashed potatoes with butter. Of course, there are men who are looking for older partners. I hate — and always have — being called Daddy.
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My maternal grandmother used to refer to Grandpa as “Dad.” When I was about 9 years old, I asked her why she called him Dad rather than by his first name (Lou) or some title of affection, like darling or honey: a ritual my parents had adopted. Grandma said it was to remind her three daughters that he was their father. Not a completely true answer, but as a little boy, I believed her and didn’t pursue the interrogation.
I have never had a Daddy fetish or wished to be seen that way. I find it to be fairly common, both in the gay and straight world. Even when I’ve dated older men, the thought of seeing them as a father figure was not part of my reasoning. Like many children, I worshipped my father, even before I really got to know him well, but I had never found him attractive. That literal interpretation may not be why others have Daddy fantasies. In my case, once I dealt with my sexual feelings for men, I held no fetishes having to do with authority or some longed-for need to win approval. I may cry when watching a movie where a father says to his son, “I’m proud of you,” but that’s the extent of it.
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Back to the blond man and the bar. He and my sister had both gone to Cambridge University, though not at the same time. I found that to be early confirmation of his intelligence. Whether romantic or not, I like being surrounded by persons I consider to be smarter than myself. Within his vocation, he is quite well known in Europe, particularly in France and England. That is impressive, but had nothing to do with how I had begun feeling about him. If anything, I find fame to be a deterrent. In the past, I have gone out with men in the spotlight. It’s adrenaline infused fun in the beginning but I can’t stand the lack of privacy, let alone their apparent need for artificial attention: the odd marriage of arrogance and insecurity.
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Not that I was watching the clock, but the conversation with the man from Paris lasted for nearly four hours. We seemed to really “connect,” if you’ll excuse that term. I was certain he and I were building something between us.
The realist in me faces the fact that since he doesn’t live on this side of the Atlantic, there is no immediate probability of a commitment. I find that extreme to be both painfully romantic and less complicated. I hope that makes sense.
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We left the bar at the same time and then went our separate ways. Before hitting our respective sheets, he and I texted back and forth a few times. Nothing overt or wildly sexual was spelled out. But I couldn’t sleep thinking of him. I was hoping he had similar butterflies.
Two evenings later, I sent him a text, inviting him to join me for drinks if he was free and in the mood. He didn’t respond.
I wasn’t expecting a U-haul, but I was genuinely surprised that I received no response of any kind. Not even a curt message telling me he wasn’t free.
And that was the last of him.
The wide eyed part of me doesn’t want to believe that he ended all communication. Looking at it through a different lens, I am reminded of when someone strikes up a conversation with a stranger on a plane. Safely saying things you might not share with people who know you. In the case of how the Parisian American might have thought, he may just have been verbally volleying with someone he knew he was never going to see again.