Scene 55
WALL’S WORDS
TWISTED GILDED GHETTO
Growing old? Never! Just maturing
This FoMoHoMo is feeling Faux
) Spring has sprung and, as Tennyson wrote, “a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love”. Not that most young and not so young men have been thinking of much else throughout the rest of the year anyway.
) I’m a fauxmasexual, or is that a FoMosexual? I used to be a Po-Mo Ho-Mo, then hit a retro stride for a few years and became a Meta-HoMo, then lost my Mo-Jo and dropped the Mo. I never meta better Ho. Ho Hum… It’s been a long winter of discontent; all the sling backs and shady arrows have been buried. I don’t go anywhere gay or do anything Queer, the most extravagantly bent I’ve been is to sport my rather racy Tom of Finland face mask in the corner Co-Op, no clubs, bars, parties, saunas, Prides, fundraisers or community events. I’m not missing out, no JoMohomo me, as there’s nothing to miss out on, I’m no longer the FoMo, but feeling more FauxHomo every day.
BY ROGER WHEELER
When I was young, many years ago, there was a saying that “nobody loves a fairy when she’s 40”, but when you suddenly hit the big 4 O you realise that actually you are at your best. Maybe not the trimmest figure and no longer a smooth-cheeked 21-year-old hunk, but you know a lot more. You have acquired that undefinable thing called experience. Who wants to leap into bed with experience? Today’s young hunks should give it a try and prepare to be surprised, plus they will probably get a cooked breakfast. First, find your man, settle down, get married, suddenly you’re not really that gay after all, just an ordinary couple with exactly the same problems as everyone else only more stylish with better holidays.
“To finally become a mature adult, we have to learn from mistakes, remain open to change and accept and adjust to the realities of life” Being gay, we have always lived with an obsession with youth and good looks, this has always been the case, I’ve never understood why but I do it myself by admiring good-looking young men. Even after being married to one of the best-looking men I had ever met. He once caught me inadvertently looking at a particularly handsome specimen of manhood, he grinned and said so long as you’re only looking, which of course he knew. There are quite a number of gay men that prefer older men, I’m not complaining. It’s in the very nature of life that we will all grow old, so all those young hunks that studiously ignored my lustful glances 30 or so years ago are now so much older themselves. History is probably repeating itself, I wonder if they remember that they were once the object of desire and pointedly rejected the overt gaze. Of course you can’t avoid growing old, but growing up? That’s another matter entirely. From my, now, great age I have seen many quite elderly gay men, making what I can only say complete fools of themselves. Acting as though they are 25 again assuming that this will make them attractive to the young guys they’re looking at. To finally become a mature adult, we have to learn from mistakes, remain open to change and accept and adjust to the realities of life. That’s the hard part, recognising that we are just mortals and that young men will no longer swoon over us, if they ever did. Growing up is optional, we can ignore the fact that bits of us are deteriorating, our hair may be falling out and we no longer have waistlines. None of that actually matters, just concentrate on your best features, charm, personality or your ability to cook as men love to eat no matter what. It’s an old cliché that men are like wine, some turn to vinegar but the best improve with age, it’s up to you.
BY ERIC PAGE
The lack of being in a huge crowd of other Queers is getting to me, not having any Queered-up LGBTQ+ peer space to waddle in, like an opinionated hippo, diminishes me. I miss judging everyone all the time, throwing shade and wondering in a VERY LOUD VOICE why they continue to dye their hair at 55, or ever thought THOSE leggings would look good paired with trainers. Whispering and giggling about what THEY sent me on Grindr or shuddering to see who keeps trying to catch my eye. It’s no fun bitching to yourself, about yourself, believe me, I’ve tried it. I can throw so much shade at myself that I’m practically eclipsed, but it can’t match the electric competition of meeting a random shady queen at the bar, at 2am, and having a round of clap-back tennis. Miss Rona has made me into a nice person, a FauxHomo, I’m so glad to see anyone Queer, absolutely anyone, that I smize so hard over my mask my brows ache. Morrisons is my Legends, Asda my XXL, there were three Queers in the bread queue last weekend, and I felt like I was at Pride, although I’ve not had a single episode of inappropriate glitter appearing somewhere for more than 12 months. Rather sadly my aunt sent me a cheap glittery Xmas card which I rubbed around my Covid chubby cheeks just to add a touch of glam to my dark heteronormative days. I, and I’m sure you, get so much affirmative energy from being around other LGBTQ+ folk, marching as an ally with the fierce crowds at Trans Pride, holding a candle at World AIDS Day, waving flags for IDAHOBIT, and rubbing the bellies of the hotties at Bear Weekend, joining voices and singing with the Rainbow Choirs, laughing with the Pink Fringe throngs, playing bingo with a frayed drag queen slightly drunk on a Sunday, and sliding through the crowds like a greased glittered salmon at Pride. Not to mention the throbbing, thrilling urgency of each lipsmacking Hottie So&So who caught my eye that night. I miss you. All of you. I am the sum of these things, they all rub off on me, nurture me, gift and give me so much learning, experience and raw unembellished live affirming fun. My gilded patina is your sweat left on my body after dancing widely to the latest throbbing tracks. Shimmering into my being, adding infinite variety to my experience. Without them, without you, Dear Reader, in my life, I am diminished. I keep some gay oil back, like a wise virgin (ask Jesus) but I still want to run with the foolish virgins, hopeful, deluded, barefooted; well in heels actually, but that breaks the metaphorical flow… No Queer is an island entire of itself; everyone is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; but be exquisite and never explain.
