The 15-Year Itch

“I turn 25 next week, which means, of course, that I can’t go out in West Hollywood anymore.”

Shopping at Fred Segal recently, I overheard this, said all too loud, by a twinkie guy to his gal-pal co-worker. I stopped to listen as his friend asked why. “Because, like it or not, anybody at the Abbey over the age of 25 is just sad, and they know it,” he said, “and anyway, I need to start thinking about my retirement in Palm Springs when I turn 35.” She nodded, as if this made total sense. “Let’s fold jeans!” he segued excitedly as they scampered away.

I, as you know, am 35. And it seems this age has opened up a whole new world of self-doubt and (gasp) contemplation in good ol’ Sam Jones, devilishly handsome lothario of the L.A. gay scene. Truthfully, it was getting harder to hide this irritating newfound awareness of the world around me. Since coming out at 20, it’s always pretty much been a “me-fest,” and rarely, if ever, a “we-fest,” preferring the company of my own mirror over the rigors of a relationship. This new self-aware headspace had led me lately to go out nearly every night, cruising the bars, looking for someone to, pardon my plagiarism, “fuck the pain away” and make me feel beautiful again.

My iPhone chimed as I left Fred Segal and Joe’s picture appeared on the screen. Joe, my first love, and I, had made love so many times when we met 15 years ago, that I instantly got hard from the buzz of the ringtone.

“Hey you,” I said, my voice soft and accepting.

“SJ, what up my little man,” his voice growled, sexy and seductive, and now belonging to a 50-year-old man. “I’m in town today and have a nice long space this afternoon that has your name written all over it. Your place in a half hour?” I agreed and before long we were kissing, and undressing and popping buttons with excitement.

But then, inexplicably, I stopped and looked deep into his eyes, and saw me reflected: now and at 20, and then, I saw me, 15 years from now. “You were my age when we met,” I said quietly, feeling again like that awkward 20 year-old virgin again, wantonly begging for his sexual and worldly tutelage. He’d taught me, at that tender age, how to have sex, but not really get involved.

His eyes softened and he nuzzled my head with his salt and pepper bristle. “Yeah…I was.” Joe fell back on the leather couch, his underwear askew showing off his waning erection. “Goes fast don’t it?” Then he focused on me. “You doin’ okay kiddo? You seem ... different?” Different. I was different and it was written on my face. “I’m fine,” I lied, and grabbed his package, “let’s just fuck before it happens again.” “

What happens?” Joe said, aroused and a little confused. “Before I’m suddenly 50 and you get the senior discount at Denny’s.” I pressed my mouth against Joe’s to stifle the laughter or further conversation, deciding to be, if only for an afternoon, 20 and naïve, and ignorantly blissed.

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