Me: a beginner's guide....

My name is ummm...kundalini kid, and I'm a 43 year-old gay male. I'd love to say I look younger, but no, I don't. Frequent shaving of the sparse and increasingly grey hair on my head, along with judicious use of Just for Men on my goatee, put what I hope is a fashionable spin on mid-life. As for the 40 extra pounds gracing my belly, well, I'm too weak-willed for conventional dieting, and too cheap for the knife, so bottom line, they're staying. But if my looks are not what they once were, my sex drive (not to mention my needs for intimacy and affection) has suffered no such decline.


Fortunately, I live in an age where its not necessary to meet face-to-face before commiting to a sexual tryst. Mere flesh inevitably fades, but a computer profile with its carefully finessed photo (thankyou photoshop!) is forever. Everyone knows that statistics lie, and nowhere is that more true than on homo-hookup sites like gay.com, manhunt, bear411. I sympathize with the 65 year-old who claims to be 24 (good luck man!) but here's a hint: stop using that sepia-toned image of yourself as a lad proudly posing by your horse and buggy. I mean, nobody's fooled. I've met the youthful dudes you intended to deceive, the ones who knocked on your door with innocent hearts and hopeful hormones only to turn away in disgust. They don't understand. Did you actually think they'd go through with it just because they were there and horny? They don't yet know from personal experience the innocuous way a little lie grows into a big one, one year at a time. So I'm careful not to be overly-optimistic with my online fibbing. Among chickenhawks there are subtle gradations of pathetic behavior, and I still have my standards. With the right skincare products, I figure I've got another good five years to be thirty-nine.


Not everyone lies about their age of course. Some big-dicked dudes (and corresponding phallic fakers) imagine that a few extra inches somehow compensate for their decrepitude. They don't. Ditto for the technique queens. You may have spent years on your knees in ballroom bathrooms during the big-band era. Maybe you really can give the best blow job ever. Nobody cares. When it comes to sex these are the only things that matter: age, height/weight ratio, muscles. Please make a note of it. The shallowness (ageism, looksism, nobody's-having-sex-with-me-ism) of the younger generation is much lamented among gay guys my age and up. It all seems very sad until you ask yourself this question: are we having sex with each other?


Of course none of this concerns me now. My secret? International travel. What if I told you that there's a place, probably just a short flight away, where guys will think you're sexy just because you can read these words? Where your command of the English language puts you in command in the bedroom as well? A literature professor's wetdream. A place where plain ole white skin gives you an exotic allure? (And if you're black or, heaven help us, asain, that goes double.) What if I added that these guys sport beautifully brown bodies made naturally buff by honest labor, come with intact penises, and tend to be tops? The place I'm talking about: Mexico. It's all true. I'm here, I'm queer, and I'm not coming back anytime soon.