Dirty old man
Things indeed get better with age, writes Barry Lowe.
Last week I celebrated another millstone… er, milestone. Another rung along that box you tick when filling in a questionnaire about your age, 65+, where the next box is Death. Not that Wally or I celebrate birthdays, Christmas, Halloween, anniversaries, walpurgisnacht, or any other of those occasions that begin with Happy. Happy Easter? Really? Hope you had a jolly crucifixion.
My aversion to birthdays has nothing to do with my advancing years. After all, I still have the body of a Hercules – Hercule Poirot, to be precise.
I think my dislike began as a primary schoolboy. My parents threw a party at which I got lousy presents and most of the neighborhood kids failed to show up because, that same afternoon, Stinker Rooney was unveiling his cock that had got caught in his mother’s home mincing machine. From what I heard afterwards, it had the excitement of my non-party beaten hands down.
In high school, I spent one birthday lunch hour bolted into one of the boys’ toilet cubicles while the bullies tossed crusts from their sandwiches over the partition. Fortunately, I had my peanut butter sammies with me and I could eat them amidst the bread shower, the farts and the urinal flush. That was one of my better anniversaries.
About the only person who ever remembered in my late high school/early work life birthdays was Doug, a businessman who’d picked me up outside a pinball parlour at The Entrance and took my anal virginity in the grass underneath a windmill overlooking the beach. He always remembered my birthday with a telegram. He also sent congratulations when I passed my leaving certificate. Unfortunately, he also had a stable of young men he was buggering the arse off while married with children.
My parents, and just about everyone else I classed as a friend, totally forgot my 21st. People made a big thing of that milestone back then because it was your official coming of age even though you could be sent off to die for your country three years younger. All I have from that day are memories and a copy of The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde that two sisters I worked with in children’s theatre gave me.
In my gay adult years, I remember one auspicious birthday. My then boyfriend had ditched me and I’d gone out to lose myself in mindless sex. It didn’t take long to be picked up – slim, blond-haired, faintly attractive twinks were at a premium back then – and the guy was kind, considerate, well hung, and a top. That last was the only essential ingredient I was looking for. He put up with my woebegone attitude and my tears, flipping me over and fucking the angst out of my body so that by the time I went home, I felt strangely euphoric. Thanks, mate.
In the beginning, I attempted, mostly successfully, to get as many fucks as my number of years although that petered out pretty quickly in my early thirties as anal discomfort and the incredible cost of condoms put an end to it. Plus as my looks faded it was more difficult to round up willing participants.
So the years rolled on, my boobs getting saggier, my dick getting droopier, my libido still as strong as ever but without the wherewithal to do anything about it.
Does 67 feel any different to 27? Not really. The fire in the belly has faded or that could be because the belly is so much bigger I’ve mistaken it for reflux. I’m more easily satisfied these days although I still rail against the Man. It’s just there are so many of them.
Oh, and I take dick whenever and wherever I find it these days. I’m not so fussy any more. I do so love being a dirty old man.