I live in New York City and I’ve gone through horrible ups and downs figuring out how to establish a social life.
Once you’re in a solitude rut, it can be difficult to break out of it. There’s a lot of solitude out there, especially as we get older, and I’ve received heartfelt emails from gay men who’ve lost their loved ones, who live in an area where Grindr is the closest thing they have to gay connection, or who truly believe they’re incapable of making new friends. All the Botox and fat freezes and collagen implants in the world aren’t going to change things if you can’t find satisfaction on the inside, and that’s where the actual work needs to be done. I’m almost thrilled today that I wasn’t considered drop-dead beautiful when I was in my 20s and 30s because I know so many men who hit the half-century mark and decide that, without those “perfect” looks anymore, their lives are meaningless. And, putting aside vanity for a moment, is it really important that a stranger, a rude one at that, acknowledges you? Move on and pump responsibly. But here’s the deal: The dude probably also does that to guys his own age who aren’t up to his “standards” (ask a few young men about invisibility), and he’s got major insecurity issues. It’s probably harder if you used to be greeted with endless smiles, and phone numbers. It’s easy to get bummed at the gym when a beautiful, young guy ignores your smile or brushes off your hello, cocky and dismissive like you’re an appetizer he just threw back.
I can’t pretend to understand each predicament, but I can at least respond to notes I’ve received, and offer suggestions on how to make it after all–although anyone who doesn’t get that reference can just stop reading now. While that can feel like existential drama, the important thing to remember is that we’re still here, we’re still queer, and we need to figure out how to get used to it. If there’s one near-consensus among the 40-plus generation it’s that we weren’t prepared or prepped for this time in our history. Sometimes I’m even scolded for saying that at 53 I love my life, still sexual, still hitting the gym, the idea being that I too need to realize that it’s time to slip into the wallpaper. He’s writing to tell me he’s feeling invisible, and either wanting advice or shaming me for not lifting his spirits with my words. As the author of Queerty’s “Daddy Issues” column, about once a week I get an email from a stranger, usually an older gay man.