Lately, I’ve been feeling very old in this youthobsessed gay-world in which we live. This had me in a bit of a funk, actually. Until recently. I was at the gym on the cable machines minding my own business when a very handsome (young) man asked if he could work in with me. He was gorgeous in that Abercrombie cap on backwards, casual-coolwithout- trying sort of way (that I never mastered). Taken back by his youthful splendour, I mumbled a timorous, “Yes”, and let him work in. After his set of just the right mix of lifting weights and fluffing his feathers, he introduced himself.
We then exchanged the usual gay-gym babble – like what music we were listening to. On Kylie’s new album he actually had no opinion – gasp, horror – but he was way too cute for me to even care. I finished my sets, doing an extra three but who’s counting, and as I was about to move on he took me by complete surprise and asked for my number. (Insert shy giggle!)