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Feb. 6, 2002
by Myron Litwak
Far from the life 'In The Life' in the clone canyons of Chelsea, more than a million cranky queers of a certain age live alone and forgotten  in the hinterlands of New Jersey, Queens, outer Brooklyn, the Bronx, and Staten Island.  Ignored by the youth culture and despising each other, they reside in 'splendid isolation.' 

I am not, here, speaking of the well-to-do portly German accented gentlemen who live Midtown East, who own only suits, no casual cloths, who are always in the company of young protégés.  This is about the rest of us, who do our own laundry.  What is there to offer, in this limitless City,  for an old queer man living on a pension with his aging cat for company?  There are endless gay services and groups of literally every persuasion.  But, what of the old queer who is not poz, is not a woman of color, is not a transgendered youth, does not particularly need grief counseling nor psychotherapy, and does not identify with Canadian-American Left-Footed Fist Fuckers nor wants to join a gang of gay trekkies?

Well, yes, there is indeed something for everyone in Gotham.  There is, after all, SAGE.  Let us see what SAGE Queens, for example, had to offer once per week one month last year: hmm, Card Making!!!  I dunno, maybe addled older breeders are deeply content with this kind of shit.  I'd rather learn how to make obscene figures out of condom balloons.  Seriously, a queer man or woman who served in the Armed Forces of America, in silence, during Vietnam, or Korea, or World War II, and then worked for decades managing an office, all the while secretly screwing and loving, does not want to be treated like an imbecile.  Oh SAGE does, to be sure, have a lot going on with a limited budget.  There is even a social worker available to help those in desperate need.  I once attended a well publicized senior gay dating game event in the outer boroughs.  It was pathetic.  About seven people showed up;  I don't want to talk about it.  All kidding aside, there are discussion groups for men, discussion groups for women, barbeques, everything, everything except SEX that is.  Oh pleeeeze, I can just see the lawyers and social workers cringing in horror.

What about a nude senior sex party in a darkened room?  Heaven forbid?  I bet you it would be mobbed! (Well, so long as its held in the early evening and is disabled accessible.  What, stop laughing, I'm dead serious).  One can only sit around reminiscing and making small talk about hip operations for so long.  The problem is not sexual orientation nor gender identity, it is dissing senior sexuality, i.e. de-sexualization.   Look, we spent the 60s, or 50s, screwing our brains out.  We didn't need anyone's permission.  We didn't ask for anyone's permission.  And we are not ashamed of it.  Because, at the same time we dared to march in the streets for Gay Rights and Gay Pride when you could get killed for it, and get arrested just for being gay, let alone loose your job.  The gay freedom and gay pride, gay organizations, and gay life that exist today are there because we dared to do it.  No one gives a damn anymore, but that's another rant.

Our identity is not simply 'gay' as a gestalt.  It is same sex sexual.  Our whole reason for having gone through all that shit way back when, before gay rights, was because we wanted to have sex with each other and love each other.  We are still capable of loving and having sex, albeit a bit more slowly, and many of us still want to have sex and want someone to love.   The culture today is that the ideal sex partner and fantasy lover is a washboard tummied twenty two year old with tight smooth skin, straight acting, and with a big pecker.  Get over it!  Get real.  There are hot experienced sensual senior lovers of a certain age all around you who know how to lick your nipples ever so expertly.  Take a shower, iron your shirt, put on a clean pair of pants, and wink at someone at the next senior gay gathering; blow a kiss.  Love is still possible. Happy Valentine's day, screw your brains out; ok, I'm done with my rant.