My Adonis Days Are Over
As I approach 60, the peculiar business of growing older in a community that has always had a thing for the young.
By Jay Miller
I've come to a rather unsettling realization.
My Adonis days are over.
To be fair, I'm not entirely certain I ever had Adonis days. But there was a time when I could walk past a mirror without wondering who the hell that was looking back at me.
These days, the mirror and I have developed something of a complicated relationship. I still recognize the face. It's just that someone seems to have quietly rearranged the furniture.
And apparently, gravity has taken up permanent residence.
I'm approaching 60. An age that once seemed impossibly distant, reserved for grandparents, retirement communities, and people who complained about the thermostat.
Now I'm one of those people.
Well, except for the retirement part. And don't even get me started on the thermostat.
The Gay Fountain of Youth
Growing older is a universal experience. Growing older as a gay man comes with its own peculiar set of complications.
We belong to a community that has spent decades celebrating youth, beauty, bodies, and sex appeal. We have practically turned the male physique into an architectural movement.
Abs. Arms. Ass.
The holy trinity.
And somewhere along the way, many of us absorbed the idea that our value was connected to how closely we resembled the men in underwear advertisements.
Of course, not all gay men subscribe to this philosophy. But let's not pretend it hasn't shaped our culture.
We've created entire social hierarchies around body types, ages, and appearances. Twinks, jocks, bears, daddies, and enough other categories to make a grocery store inventory manager nervous.
At some point, you stop being the guy someone is checking out and become the guy they're asking for advice.
Or worse, calling sir.
Sir?
I didn't survive the closet, questionable fashion choices, and several decades of gay nightlife to be called sir by a 28-year-old bartender.
And yet, here we are.
The Cruel Mathematics of Aging
The trouble with aging is that it doesn't happen all at once.
It sneaks up on you.
One day, you're getting ready for a night out, checking your hair in the mirror, and deciding which shirt makes you look best.
The next, you're standing in the bathroom examining a mysterious spot on your forehead, wondering whether it's a freckle, a sunspot, or something that requires a dermatologist.
And the lighting!
When did bathroom lighting become so hostile?
I swear there was a time when I looked better naked. Now I look better with the lights off and a strategically placed throw pillow.
And nothing quite says sex appeal like climbing into bed wearing a sleep apnea mask that makes you look like Darth Vader on life support.
There was a time when getting ready for bed involved a little cologne, perhaps some mood lighting, and the possibility of romance.
Now there's a hose, a head strap, and a machine that sounds like I'm preparing for takeoff.
Nothing says “come hither” quite like “Luke, I am your father.”
Although, in the gay community, I suppose that last line could work in my favor.
And then there are the dating apps.
Nothing quite prepares you for the moment you realize you're older than the upper age limit in someone's search preferences.
You haven't been rejected. You haven't even been considered.
You've been filtered out by an algorithm.
That's a special kind of humiliation.
Of course, there's a certain irony in all this. When I was younger, I probably wasn't paying much attention to men approaching 60 either.
Karma, apparently, has excellent Wi-Fi.
The Things We Don't Talk About
But underneath the jokes, there's something worth talking about.
For gay men of my generation, youth wasn't always easy.
Many of us spent our teenage years hiding who we were. We learned to edit ourselves, monitor our mannerisms, and carefully navigate a world that didn't necessarily welcome us.
While our straight friends were discovering romance, some of us were discovering survival.
And when we finally found our way into the gay community, there was an intoxicating sense of freedom.
We could be seen.
We could be wanted.
We could belong.
For someone who spent years feeling invisible, being noticed could feel like a small miracle.
Perhaps that's why losing that attention can sting more than we care to admit.
Because sometimes, aging isn't just about losing our looks.
It's about confronting the possibility of becoming invisible again.
And for those of us who fought so hard to be seen in the first place, that's no small thing.
A Different Kind of Attractive
Here's what I'm beginning to understand.
At nearly 60, I don't have the body I had at 30.
I also don't have the insecurities I had at 30.
Well, not all of them.
I don't spend nearly as much time worrying about whether people like me. I've learned that being liked by everyone is not only impossible, it's exhausting.
I've learned that confidence doesn't require a six-pack. That kindness is considerably more attractive than a perfect jawline. And that someone who can make you laugh until you can't breathe is worth far more than someone who looks spectacular standing shirtless beside a swimming pool.
I've also learned that there is something wonderfully liberating about no longer auditioning for everyone else's approval.
I can say no.
I can walk away.
I can wear what I want, say what I think, and occasionally go to bed at 9:30 without feeling that I've missed the greatest party of my life.
Because, frankly, I've been to some of those parties.
They weren't all that great.
Maybe Adonis Was Overrated
I still care about how I look.
I probably always will.
I still want to feel attractive. I still want someone to look across a room and see something worth looking at.
There's nothing wrong with that.
But I'm beginning to understand that attractiveness isn't something we necessarily lose with age.
It changes.
At 25, I wanted people to notice me when I walked into a room.
At nearly 60, I'd rather they remember how I made them feel after I left.
That's a different kind of beauty.
One that doesn't require perfect lighting, an expensive moisturizer, or a gym membership I feel guilty about not using.
And perhaps the greatest surprise of growing older is realizing that life doesn't become less interesting as the years accumulate.
It becomes more layered.
There are more stories to tell. More people to appreciate. More things to laugh about. More reasons to stop wasting time on things that don't matter.
I may not be the youngest man in the room anymore.
But I know who I am.
I know what I believe.
I know what I'm willing to fight for, what I'm willing to forgive, and what I'm finally willing to let go.
And that, I've discovered, is a rather attractive place to be.
So yes, my Adonis days are over.
Assuming they ever existed.
But I'm not mourning the man I used to be.
I'm far too interested in the man I'm becoming.
And besides, if someone wants to call me daddy, I suppose there are worse things.
Just don't call me sir.
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