Pull up a sturdy chair as this post is shakily uncouth. Though I’m not quite certain what defines ‘couth’ nowadays. So there’s that. What I’m saying is this: I grabbed a $7.99 bottle of chardonnay, un-chilled, from the market, and now sit here relishing the onset haze whilst swirling around a sole ice cube in my non-company, basic wine glass. It’s the one where most of the gilt greek key is worn off from my obsession with Chap Stick. The remaining stemware is INSTA perfect, bitch.
Ahem. I’ve reached the social strata stage of being able to sweep into an event, air kiss half the room, Cheshire cat smile the requisite photo-ops, and stealth exit during opening remarks. It’s a gift. A dear colleague is retiring soon hence a passed apps and spiked punch office reception in his prestigious firm’s executive suite board room. The one with the faux English paneling to suggest old-world fortitude of family money and fortunes. The event, in a word –was divoon, even by world banking standards. Tons of pants suits on the women, though, because even today we can’t allow women in finance to remotely suggest a vajay between their pinstriped legs. But there were a lot of important gilt brooches and strands of family pearls and so perhaps that aspect alone deemed the security guard at the entrance.
I’ve always dreamed to be insanely rich. But not for that tired-ass dream that most workaday cubicle people wish for; no, I am not about to use sudden wealth as some sort of show-y payback for being called “queer fairy” in high school. Though the thought of groundbreaking the “Burt Weston Home of Transgender Youth and Labia Licking Lesbians” in my hillbilly hometown does have a ring to it. No. No sir. I want wealth for only one reason: isolation. Barriers. Borders. Walls.
I would take famous recluse Howard Hughes’ isolation penthouse freakdom and times it by one hundred. I would only have meals prepared by a trusted, blind chef. I would only have my toenails trimmed by Joon Sighe, a raped refugee from South Vietnam. She would embrace my pain intuitively and understand why my clippings must be burned in the onyx-faced fireplace the length of a football field.
Because today, somewhat poor/financially challenged (read ‘credit card debt’) — I have built walls. Hammered up hurdles. And keep most folks at arm’s length. Which brings me to my latest fresh hell predicament:
I have a twink interested in me.
I’m old enough to be his grandfather but we’ve been —to put it bluntly, NOT seeing one another for nearly a year. What we do is this: we exchange the occasional, but well-timed text message.
“Hey YOU! Long time! How are YOU! Can we have a cocktail when ur schedule clears?”
But our schedules never really seem to clear or align or heat up to warp factor nine thousand. Because as noted herein… I have mastered the art of keeping folks at arm’s length. What you need to know is this:
He’s breathtakingly handsome. He’s a professional dancer. So that fact right there should give you a rather robust image of his near chiseled perfection of a Michaelangelo-esque physique. I met him at an event last October; we’ve been tripping around our respective INSTA accounts for a year now.
Any man would be hashtag “blessed” to even consider a dinner date with the 29-yr old Greek god. But I stall. And I make excuses. Because we all know how this will look in the gay community. Sugar daddy; I’m paying his bills. He’s only sucking me off for my money. He’s a gold digger; I’m a cradle robber, et al. And I can’t tell you how much I’ve wanked while metaphysically tonguing his hot boi hole.
I recently asked a 30-something acquaintance about ‘May/December’ relationships. His response? “Oh, sweetie, ‘May/December’ is so cute of you. Nobody says that anymore. It’s more like “I need an iPhone 11 and help with my college loans” as to why young men date/fuck with older guys…”
It all has me very much in a tizzy. What to do. What to DO! I’m afraid of moving the interest too far forward because I’ve already played out the eventual breakup, my sick headache, and my shattered heart’s razor edges. My heart is still fragile. Twelve years, post-breakup…and there’s been no one. Not one single date. And folks wonder why I gaze and ponder the leap from my apartment window to the ground below. Maybe you only get one good love story. And my book is archived.
But maybe it’s time, now, for another leap. A leap of faith. Why do I need to care what other’s may say or think or brunch smirk about? Maybe it’s time for some new math on an old equation. Maybe. But here’s the thing: I’m no longer the pretty one. And this possible relationship has so many bad red flags I could hold May Day in Beijing with Mao’s face tattooed on my ass for good citizenship.