Introduction

Late one night about seven years ago, when I should have been tucked safely away in bed, I was instead doing something that more and more of us are doing all the time these days: playing around on the computer. Chatting on America Online was still a relatively new fascination for me then, and it’s quaint to recall now how it seemed so magical, this ability to zip around the country at the speed of light with my ass firmly planted in a chair, a drink in hand, safe in the company of mysterious people I’d likely never meet.

This particular night wasn’t about “hooking up” with anyone – not that there’s anything wrong with it – I was just hanging out, shooting the shit, and checking out the member profiles of various people as they popped into the “m4m” chatrooms on AOL. A little small talk here, some “pic trading” there, a few instant messages exchanged, all the while shuttling from DC to Denver, Dallas to Detroit, with a few layovers in Seattle, LA, Boston, or Tampa along the way. I was enjoying myself immensely in the easy wielding of this new technology, never sensing I was about to get the rude awakening which would lead, with a few detours, to this very book you’re reading now.

The young man in question appeared suddenly before my eyes…or rather, his screen name did. I can’t recall what it actually was, but I’m sure it was something like “HotSoccerJock” or “LifeGuard21,” one of those names that for many gay men (myself included) evoke all sorts of powerful and lusty mental images: a cluttered dorm room with athletic gear and clothing strewn about, posters on the walls, and a good looking young man in his loose Abercrombie & Fitch boxers, posed casually in the desk chair or atop the messy bed. A quick profile scan only supported those images, and it was enough to convince me that a hearty little hello seemed to be in order. I dashed off a greeting, and after a short pause came the reply: “How old?” Not really thinking twice, I typed in “36,” to which my mysterious young stranger answered, after a longer pause, “Too old. Bye.” A single ensuing message from me, something along the lines of “What the hell?” went unanswered.

All I could mutter was a quiet “Wow.” Apparently this young fellow wasn’t remotely interested in where I lived, what I did for a living, or whether I was successful in life; he cared not a whit whether I created art or healed the sick, if I did drugs, smoked, or beat up my boyfriend when I was pissed off. (Or if I had a boyfriend, for that matter.)

He didn’t even ask any of the most venerable of online questions, inquiries like “top or bottom?” or “so what are you packing?” Just “how old?” as if my age was something that defined me and categorized me in toto. And now, having exceeded his self-designated threshold -- whatever that was -- I wasn’t fit for even a simple chat across the vastness of cyberspace.

As far as I can recall, it was the first time, the very first time, that my age was ever held against me. And I was dumbstruck.

Ok, surely some of you are saying “But that was online, and who the hell cares about what happens there? It’s not like it’s real. Get over it.” (Like that time I caught a friend of mine shaving 10 years off his age in his online profile, and he offered the same reasoning in defense.) Truthfully, anyone would be a moron if he let some random, anonymous online encounter shake his whole worldview; after all, for all I know my “HotScccerJock” was actually some 69-year old retiree in Tallahassee, perpetrating a fraud to collect some choice words and images for his own private pleasures. And I’m fully aware that all sorts of normally good-hearted people cruise the ‘Net looking for a particular sort of “chat partner,” and ignore or dismiss anyone who doesn’t meet their “needs” at any given time.

Trust me, I know all that. Just like I know that if any of us took personally all the apparent slights and outright abuse that we’ve endured online we’d end up making some therapist very, very rich. I’m just saying that, like many of life’s little epiphanies that arrive amidst the most trivial of pursuits, my late-night encounter opened my eyes to something I cannot say I’d ever given much thought to: the idea that there are people out there who use age as a primary qualifier for companionship, contact, or even conversation. And that for some people, however old they themselves might be, someone in their mid-30’s was already too-far-gone to have anything to do with at any particular moment. It was a lot like spotting the first gray hair, or spying the first extra line around the eyes, only more so because someone else was pointing it out to me. It’s that singular, unsettling instant when the clock becomes, not a timepiece, but a time bomb. You’re suddenly moved to wonder how long it will be before -- BOOM! — it’s all over.