Happy Birthday to Me

I cruised around Club Seattle, looking for a hot man. My towel pulled strategically low enough to show my toned abs, I walked the dark halls and peered into the rooms past the half-opened doors. Men stroked themselves off and focused on video screens playing Matt Sterling porn. Others looked out into the dark hallway and nodded, a sign for me to enter.

That particular summer night I about thirty years ago I found no one of interest to fuck. Most seemed too anxious, too hungry, too willing, without enough fight to make it interesting. I wanted to feel some resistance before I buried my cock deep in another man’s ass. During those first few years after coming out I felt that fucking should be the end result of a contest between men both vying for the top position. No contest, no prize.

I wandered around the hallways of the Club, letting my towel like drop like a matador whenever a man of interest caught my eye. That Saturday night I met the usual candidates, men who weren’t ready to concede defeat in the bars. In top ballet form, my taut physique and natural endowment attracted a number of potential fuck buddies. But their eager glances betrayed a willingness that I found almost feminine and I quickly shied away from them. I was looking for a man who wanted to spar a bit before surrendering himself to me.

After doing the usual laps around the corridors I settled on one of the divans outside of the wet area, crossed my legs enough to show my semi tumescent state, and leaned back to watch the parade of men. Within minutes an older gentleman resolutely walked by me. He paused, looked back at me, and then entered the showers. I followed. Choosing a perfect vantage point, I watched him soap himself up. He was muscular without being over exaggerated. An athletic body framed by a discreet covering of white fur to match his full head of hair. He was impeccably groomed and when he looked up, he flashed a smile of perfect teeth. He was stunning.

The gentleman entered the Jacuzzi area and continued on into the dark interior of the steam room. I followed. He took the passage to the right and I turned to the left, knowing that the two ways would quickly meet in the back. I dropped my towel by the steam room door and sauntered through a sea of men who lined the tile benches. I tried to avoid their approving looks as I made my way for my inevitable meeting.

“I’m in here,” said a voice coming from one of the stalls in the back. “Come on in.”

I knew it was voice of the white haired gentleman and, without hesitation, I entered the stall. In response I immediately felt two hands reach out for my shoulders and pull me to him. I turned my head so that I could rest my cheek on his firm, pectorals. I breathed out.

The gentleman slowly worked his hands down to the small of my back, to the rounded mounds of my dancer’s ass. “Yes,” was all he said with a deep, resonant tone. His hands continued lower until they rested on the crests of both ass cheeks. Then he paused. He spread them firmly, gently, and placed his right finger on the pucker of my hole.

I winced. “I usually don’t get fucked,” I offered. “I'm sorry.”

“That’s OK. I don’t want to fuck you. I just want to feel that magnificent ass. I know who you are, that you are a lead dancer with the ballet, and I just want to enjoy the moment. Relax.”

The confidence in his voice had an immediate effect. I surrendered myself totally to him. No longer intent on finding a sparring partner, I succumbed to the caresses of this beautiful man.

“Do you mind if I ask you your age?” I asked clumsily. “You are so handsome.”

I looked up to see him smile. “Thank you,” he said. “I am sixty.”

More than double my age! I felt his chest with both hands as if, like the apostle Thomas, I needed assurance. I felt his flat torso and reached my hands down to his hardening cock, under to his pendulant balls, and then to his quads.

As if anticipating my next question, the gentleman said, “I don’t do anything extreme. I work out regularly. I watch what I eat. And I enjoy a good sex life.” He smiled again before turning me around.

I leaned against him and felt his engorged member pressed firmly in the valley between my glutes. I held my breath and waited for him to try and force himself into my clenched hole. Bu the was true to his word. Instead, he wrapped his left hand around my chest until he found my nipple. He began tracing small circles around the tender, outer part, working his way to the erect tit. He then took it between his fingers and slowly worked it back and forth while his other hand searched for my throbbing cock.

“I’d love to make you cum,” he said. “It would be hot to know I made you shoot the next time I see you on the opera house stage.”

I nodded and leaned my head back against him and allowed him to take control. At that moment I vowed quietly to myself that someday I would be like this handsome gentleman. I made him the paradigm of how to grow old as a Gay man. His courtesy, his confidence, his honest demeanor played well with his sexual advances. I vowed to remember him whenever the idea of growing older threatened to defeat my joy of living day to day.

Today I am nearly sixty years old. I am married to a handsome man who also serves as my boy. After an exciting hour of play this afternoon, we collapse on the bed, his head resting on my chest. I hold him confidently in my arms and look at him resting comfortably. His two hands are poised on my pectorals and he smiles. He is the man that has always been the locus of my dreams since childhood. I am his husband and his SIR.

As the decades have passed I have kept my vow to myself. I have never forgotten my encounter with that wonderful, older gentleman in Club Seattle. Whenever I have felt reluctance in accepting the passing of time, I think of him. Although I never learned his name and never saw him again, he has been my role model. Like other older Gay men that I would meet later in the Leather Community that decade, he cared for his physical self. It was obvious from how he treated me that night that he showed similar care for his emotional health. I have often marveled how much more challenging it must have been for him during the eighties to have groomed such confidence. In a time of AIDs, of death, of negative messages regarding Gay sex, he had a charisma that drew me to him. At sixty, he was the most beautiful man in the club that night.

I love being an older, Gay man. Happy Birthday to me!