Gay Bloggies

So I'm supposed to introduce myself. Hi, my name is Dan, my blog is called How Was Your Day, Dan?, my favorite color is blue and I like long walks in the gentle rain and I started blogging to blah blah blabbity blah. No one cares. If you want to get to know me, check out my profile on Adam4Adam.com. That's where you can find the good stuff.

Instead, let's discuss why I date older men.

Last night I go out with this guy. He's, like, mid 40's, I think?...okay, maybe late 40's. He's tall, great-looking, the little laugh lines around his eyes betraying his age on his otherwise fantastic skin. Great body, flat abs and nice arms and all the things I try to obtain by going to the gym once a month. Lots of smiles, lots of interesting things to say.

And then there's his hair: silver, shiny, lovely. I kept imagining running my fingers through it, the soft gentle waves pushed back from his brow. I love it.

I've given this a lot of thought, this whole "older guy" thing. I prefer guys with a sense of maturity; with maturity comes a certain element of wisdom, making them more easy-going and easier to deal with. Their priorities are in order. They have something to talk about, simply because they've seen more and they're more aware of the world around them. And the sex is better--it's not this rush to an orgasm, they take their time.

But I think it is the hair...specifically, silver-white hair. I can track my obsession to when I was in third grade, and I discovered X-Men comics. All the coolest heroes and villains had that silvery-white hair. Magneto? Storm? They could kick your ass. And they'd do it while strapped into full-body spandex, with their big heads of white hair flying all over the place.

Even when I was a freshly-hatched gay in my young 20's, I chased after the guys who, at the time, were old enough to be my father. But it's not a daddy thing, I don't like to be bossed around or "taken care of," and I don't like for them to be TOO old. These days I'm finally catching up to my dating pool, which at least makes the whole situation more socially acceptable. Although it doesn't really matter; when you're a generation younger than your date, people automatically presume you're for rent.

I dated a "Mr. Big" kind of guy for about a year, a relationship during which we traveled together on lots of his business trips to Paris and Las Vegas and wherever, and I'd stand behind him in hotel lobbies and smile as he'd request a room with one bed. Then room service would arrive--we NEVER ate in the hotel restaurants, God forbid--and I'd get the looks from the servers, who just knew why I was there. But even though his company paid for our trips and our meals and all the glamourous lifestyle, I never took money from him. In a weird way, it was fun...this illusion of tawdriness, like I was this naughty jet-setting hooker sexing an older man to the edge of his life so I could steal all his money. Meanwhile, in reality we were just a boring couple, watching movies and reading in bed together. And he'd lay his head on my chest so I could run my fingers through his hair until he fell asleep.

My God, the day I met Anderson Cooper I literally had shaky knees. Cute, smart AND prematurely gray? Forget it. I was a mess. We were both working on an episode of that FX show Son Of The Beach, which for some reason had on a bunch of TV people playing guest roles on a particular episode. Anderson took a break from cradling orphans in the minefields of war-torn countries, and he came by to hang out on set that day. At the lunch truck--which they call "craft services," if you'd like to know the official lingo--I wormed my way into line behind him just to have an excuse to sit at his table.

Y'know, we were all working on the same project, everyone else was very friendly and talked to each other; I really wanted to introduce myself and engage him in a real conversation, I wasn't trying to get his autograph or something. But when I tried to strike up a chat, he wouldn't even look at me. It wasn't just me, he didn't speak to anyone at all. Turns out, Anderson Cooper is not the friendiest guy. Granted, it could have been because we were also sitting with Adam Carolla, who was babbling on endlessly with stories about smoking pot and bowel movements and the other idiotic garbage that fills his brain; listening to him was enough to kill the mood with anyone. I like to think my Anderson and his gray hair would like me very much if given the the chance. And if he was A LITTLE MORE PLEASANT next time.

So that's me. I like walking in the rain, Anderson Cooper ruined my life, and I think guys with gray hair are sexy. And when people judge me for it, I get a twisted sense of excitement.

Thanks for reading. Bye.

PS: My scene in Son Of The Beach? I was totally edited out. FX can suck it.