I never intended to get this old. Don’t get me wrong—I certainly didn’t intend to die. I just assumed there would be an alternative to becoming a senior citizen. Not sure what that was supposed to be—cryogenics? Suspended animation? An indefinite telephone hold waiting for the pharmacist? Certainly the designation of “old queen” was nothing I could imagine; I look terrible in hats!
However, like black mold and fascism, certain unpleasant things can creep up on you when you’re not looking. Suddenly, I find myself in my seventies. (Well, I guess “suddenly” is inaccurate. I’m now seventy-two—it’s not like senectitude sneaked up on me with a Jason mask and a machete.) I guess there must be benefits, but a cheaper movie ticket or the knowledge that at least I’m aging better than Donald Trump is hardly a good basis for a robust dotage.
Recently I came across some videos of a group calling themselves—unironically—“Old Gays.” (Friends were quick to inform me that these videos had been around for six or seven years, so perhaps they are now rebranded as “Ancient Gays.”) One of these videos is from a Drag Race episode, in which these three men of about my age sit in bathrobes while wide-eyed gay fetuses ask them questions about sex and belonging, like Margaret Mead’s interviewing the patrons of the only remaining piano bar in Samoa. These young drag queens then talked about how much they loved the old gays, referring to them as “cute” and “sweet.” I was outraged! “Cute” and “sweet” are appropriate to certain things—a teacup poodle or a Hostess Cupcake—but they are also likely to lead to unfortunate consequences, like shit on a carpet or cavities. As an old gay man, I want to be worshipped and feared, much like God almighty or Anna Wintour. If your ball lands in my yard, you know you’re not getting it back! These young queens went on condescendingly to advocate that young, obviously more relevant gays must “make space” for the doddering old gay elders. Make space!? Make way! This cranky old barge is coming through, whether you like it or not!
In American culture, some indignities of senior status seem inevitable. Once you’ve reached AARP age, viewing yourself on television can be disheartening. Back in the day, we had The Golden Girls to make us feel that “old age” was sassy and sophisticated. (It’s painful to think that, when the series started, Bea Arthur was nine years younger than I am!) Now that Betty White’s gone, we seem to be virtually invisible. Although individuals sixty-five to seventy-four have the highest per capita net worth in the country, somehow we’re the target market only for adult diapers and reverse mortgages. I want someone to assume that I can be convinced to spend irresponsibly! Sell me fast motorcycles, Red Bull, vodka, and Taco Bell—anything designed to make my doctor question my will to live.
Of course, the words I most hate to hear at this point in my life—short of “Lyndale Avenue is going to have an exciting new look”—is “for your age.” You look good—for your age. You’re an amazing athlete—for your age. The moldering cadaver that is your ancient body smells relatively fresh—for your age. Gone are the days of compliments without qualifiers. Unbelievable as it may seem, there was a time when “hot” occasionally referred to something about me other than the casserole I’m bringing to the potluck. (I realize that just my use of the nouns “casserole” and “potluck” position me one step closer to the yawning abyss.)
I’m sure someone is about to bring up the undeniable appeal of the “daddy.” (According to my AI search, there are those within the lesbian community who also refer to themselves as “daddies,” which seems both rebellious and delicious. “Mommy” brings up images of diapers and bonnets appropriate to an entirely different demographic.) Now, that’s all well and good, until you start looking at the statistics. To most gay men, “daddy” starts at forty. Anything past sixty-five moves into the grandpa or possibly even Gandalf category. I suppose there could be a certain appeal to being fetishized, but it puts one into the same playing field as rubber, leather, and a Joan Crawford ankle strap. I’m sure there will come a time when I’ll be happy to hear “My Heart Belongs to Daddy,” but it will likely be the expiring gasp of my organ donor.
Without a doubt, I will come to embrace the inevitability of my “Golden Age” status, assuming the gold is more that of an Oscar statuette and less that of a Trumpian knickknack. After all, LGBTQ+ boomers grew up at a time when personal honesty automatically sequestered you into a marginalized group. I just want the marginalization to have the revolutionary defiance that piercing your ear or marching down the street holding the hand of your lover felt like in 1976. LGBTQ+ elders must demand our right to be recalcitrant, crotchety leaders of the community. We must unite under a banner that combines both lavender and grey—a smoky shade of light purple about the color of my varicose veins.
