Oscar Wilde knew what he was talking about when he wrote "THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY" over a century ago. He knew beauty and youth were the secret to any sort of success, especially socially. Still, I wonder what he would have thought, had he lived to see what the young spiritual heirs of Bosie Douglas were like some century and change later. Likely, he would have had some witty sobriquet coined for Britney
-philes, and Paris Hilton wannabe's. I couldn't even manage that. I've listened to the twenty-somethings and thirty year olds calmly discuss botox and face-lifts with all of the seriousness of root canal work. Is it me, or has the youth culture fanaticism surpassed itself into true madness? I mean, there I was, feeling all of seven hundred years old, standing in my favourite bar/nightclub on a Saturday night, wondering again for the umpteenth time "Why do I do this to myself?" I was old enough to be half this crowd's father, with nobody blinking twice. Granted, I'm only thirty-eight, but this lot doesn't look old enough to shave, much less drink. True, they're strict here about I.D's, I know that, as I know the staff. In point of fact, the staff is really the main reason I keep coming back. They're adorable and sweet. And the beer is cheap.
The crowd on the other hand, is very pretty and twee, but possessed of an attitude that only the very young and spoiled can possibly try and get away with. It's trying dealing with them, but I keep thinking to myself, they're young, and honestly, was I any different? Well, yes, I was. I wasn't as saavy as this crowd is. I wasn't aware of what a powerful combination youth and beauty is. At least I wasn't when I was young. When I was young, I was too aware of not being beautiful, and hadn't the slightest notion that youth was the more valuable commodity. Had I been smarter, Lord knows what damage I might have inflicted. As it was, I got used a few times, and wisened up. I still don't know that I'm any smarter. I mean, I was back again, wasn't I?
Nothing much had changed. I was still just standing there, sipping my pint of beer, and trying to not look too out of place, although I suppose when I try to just look casual, I more than anything else just look snooty. I could go and talk to people, but my God, they're all so young! What would I say anyway? What would our frame of reference be? What was I even looking for anyway, and what would I say if I found it?
Oh hell, truthfully, I suppose I was looking for HIM. Not Mr. Right necessarily, or even Mr. Right Now, but somebody whom I could click with, so that the entire evening wasn't a total waste of time and money. Anything to spare me from sitting alone in my apartment on a Saturday night. I was supposed to meet up with friends earlier someplace else, but overslept and missed them. I thought they might be here, but no luck. So there I was, rootless and as disconnected as I've ever been.
Still, I think to myself afterwards, I've come back home alone again, and even if I hadn't, would it have made a difference? I've gone down that route before, and Lord knows, they've never lasted anything beyond the time it took to learn their names. For some reason or other, they never took. Was it because they said yes in the first place, and I've never wanted anything or anyone I could have too easily? Am I that spoiled and difficult? Possibly. Ego lets go before a fall, if it ever happens, and it has, more times than I care to admit. But still, I manage to get right back up there on that haughty tower of mine, once again, like an old crow, looking down my nose at idiotic kids who could give a shit what I thought of them.
It's difficult sometimes, facing yourself in the mirror. You're not intimidating, or even daunting. You never were. You liked to think you are, or were, but the truth is, you're a painfully shy, insecure guy pushing forty, with the same fears about approaching people that you had at ten and twenty. Terrified of rejection, and yet, you're still at this game, because you don't know of any others to play, finally. You have friends, and they all play variants of this game too. Some are better, some worse. Some could write PhD theses on the subject of picking up men, others, just sit there dumbly unaware of what's passing them by. I've seen friends opt for loveless relationships simply because the idea of being alone is too awful to contemplate.
Its an odd dance we do, gay men, either online, or in bathhouses, or in bars, that is to say, the search is the same, even if the trappings are different. It makes one wonder what we think the final prize is, if indeed there is one to begin with. Perhaps it's the pursuit that is all, in the final analysis. Perhaps we're so acclimatized as a culture to wanting more that we've let it bleed into our mating rituals. We've become used to regarding men and sex as a sort of materialistic grab bag, you should pardon the pun. We basically shop for boyfriends. We window shop and we check them out as if they were on a sort of grocery list, and if they don't match up with what we imagine some ideal is, out the door they go. We're so consumed with the outer that we've completely forgotten to listen to the inner, and somewhere, it's here, and it's got to be starving from neglect.
No wonder the vast majority of us sleep alone.
I wonder what the solution is?
