Everything Old is Not New Again

Naked, in front of the mirror, at home, I swear to myself, I don’t look 35.

I do all I can to maintain the illusion of youth. My trainer trains me thrice weekly, I diligently follow the regimes and perimeters set out by my nutritionist, my manicurist, my esthetician, and my yogi. But still, there is age, suddenly, creeping in where there was none before. I second-guess my contempt for the aged, older men who leer and gawk at the gym. Am I, Sam Jones, center of the universe, on a one way track to hairy, paunchy Looky-Loo Ville?

I’m panic stricken, suddenly, a couple weeks after Z is gone. It comes back to me in dreams, his soft white quarter centurial skin, then the little nibble of silky brown hair that peeks around the underarm cuff of his white T-shirts. I reach out to touch it and wake up, rock hard and utterly alone. I lie in bed, furiously getting rid of the apparition and wondering why I let him leave.

I got an e-mail (yes, you can write me) from a guy, we’ll call him OFILA (Over 50 In L.A.), a few weeks ago lamenting his meeting of a man 20 years his junior and feeling, for the first time in years, a real sense of connection (read: yearning). He recounted how they chatted and were even photographed together at a party. But that in the following weeks, all attempt at communication by OFILA was snubbed by his Month of May love interest. My first mental response was, “Hey, you’re old and out of touch, and he’s young and beautiful, get over it and watch some Matlock, Grandpa,” but then, it happened to me.

At the gym, I saw a young Spartan straight out of 300, nipples poking through his tight Lycra blend tank and I gave him the patented Sam Jones look: head tilt, nod, a slight mischievous grin; the same combo that had worked for me since puberty. But his eyes moved past me as if I wasn’t even there. My stomach sunk and I made haste to the locker room, embarrassed at his refusal. I splashed cold water on my face and flexed my arms in the mirror, reassured by my reflection that Andy Griffith wasn’t staring back.

I called Z as soon as I was outside, told him I missed him, told him to come over, told him I wanted him back. He came running, and within the hour we were having mad crazy ex-sex, but as soon as it was done, I knew why I did it. Z sensed my pulling away, as soon as we’d done the deed.

“So…are we…back on?” he asked. I hesitated and turned my head away and looked instead at the window-lined wall. “Fuck you Sam Jones,” he said in a calm angry tone, pulling on his shorts. “You know, you’re not all that, someday you’ll regret letting this one go!” The door slammed with an echo before I could even respond, leaving me not alone, but with the sweet song of Narcissus calling to me from my translucent reflection in the window and the gaping city beyond.

E-mail me your sex questions/conundrums/comments at: sextalksam@gmail.com.