He stood by the door. Flesh filled jeans begging to be felt and imaginary hands inching slowly up his body. My intentions were obvious, gazing into his eyes, he turned away. Not interested, was the message loud and clear, heavy sigh… Yeah, I’d seen it before, once you get past a certain age, becoming sexually invisible to most young, handsome men. When I was in my 20s, no way would I find a 50 year old man attractive. Aging sucks. It’s what humbles us all. Beauty fades and forces you to question your self worth. Sex, seduction, and being the object of sexual attraction is thrilling, magical and perhaps one of the most meaningful experiences one will ever have, and to lose that feeling is difficult for the ego to accept. 

Sitting alone, as guys shuffle past, slowly sipping beer, trying to look amused, but wanting to flee to the comfort of a warm comfy apartment and sit naked, jerking to conversations between me and hot guys thousands of miles away. No, they aren’t real dates, but just a feeling of being wanted, in a fantasy world of the internet, makes it more appealing than being sexually invisible in a bar.

Fidgety, my hands betray my calm coolness that I hoped to portray. Looking desperate despite my best attempts at fooling people into thinking I was having fun.  Like a spider on a stool, hoping for someone to wink or smile in my direction. At this age, I don’t have the confidence to approach guys. When I was younger and in the closet, I had no problem making friends with straight guys, but now, being around that corner, I lament my sexual invisibility.

Me daydreaming, the Mighty Alfred arrives in drag AKA, The Ladybug. Normally, he wears a scraggly grey beard, and a bald head hidden beneath a beanie cap, like a strange little Hobbit. He wasn’t my type, but once, years ago, I agreed to go back to his apartment, very drunk and on the way, I noticed a yard gnome, they could have been twins. 

Standing next to me, occasionally glancing over, he whispers hello in a fake woman’s voice. He, the frumpy middle-aged woman in a polka dot dress. “It’s me Alfred!” he says, proudly believing he has fooled me. “I’m  the Ladybug,” he says, spinning around for me to view his costume. Just like grandma, I thought. 

“Wow! I didn’t recognize you without the beard, Alfred,” trying to be polite. Always hinting around hoping for a second chance, hovering over me, doe eyed stares, swishing his skirt with hope, but it ain’t gonna happen. Once you get that idea in your head about someone, it’s hard to shake. 

A few hot cubs, shirtless and thick, smiling, received hungry looks from every direction. I, drawn to them like a moth to a flame, but I could not stir their interest. They moved on to another room followed closely by a pack of drooling men wanting a part of them. 

Alfred faced me directly, allowing the alcohol to take the blame for his actions, feeling my arm muscles, then making a grab for my ass. I sighed, stepped back, and reached behind me pulling his hand away saying, “Okay okay, that’s enough.”  His endless small talk irked me. He now being the cockblocker. Guys might believe I was sexually interested in the Ladybug. I didn’t hate the Ladybug, but I sought the beauty of masculinity. Unfortunately, Alfred lacked any sort of masculinity dressed as a woman. Luckily, having finished my beer, I saw my chance and excused myself to pee, and escaped from the Mighty one.

In another part of the bar, waiting to be served a drink by the bartender. Taking notice that guys don’t look up and smile like they did a few years ago. No grabs or random foundling as I pass through a tight crowd. But now I see it happening to much younger guys. I wonder when it began. Behind the bar, a shirtless, bartender with a crew cut and goatee smiled at the two guys in front of me, a sexy, I want to fuck you, kind of wink. His smile won me over. As I stood facing him, he smiled kindly. 

“What will it be sir?” 

“Oh Jesus! He didn’t just call me sir! I sighed. “Bud Lite.”  

He spun around, fetching a beer, pretending to flirt in a fake sort of way, without looking me in the eyes. These guys are whores for tips, specialists in instilling hope in their customers that each and everyone of them might have a chance at taking them to bed. They know they’re attractive and use it to their benefit.

 “That’ll be four bucks, sir” He smiled, calling me sir again. I am officially invisible. He didn’t see me the way guys like him used to look at me. Sadly, I usually don’t find other guys my age very attractive either. Age tends to rob men of their masculinity. When I see myself that way, I imagine that other guys see me that way also. My hair, thinned to nothing on top, bothers me to where I always wear a ball cap. My sideburns are completely white along with my beard, yet I dye them to please myself. Now, the wrinkles and weird eyebrow and ear hair. I roll my eyes. 

Wandering about the bar, with another beer, I retreat to a corner table to be alone. I, spinning an empty glass by the tips of my fingers, left me feeling awkward and desperately bored. Nearly midnight, the bar cleared out, leaving only a small die hard crowd, the popular crowd rushed to the Cuff for dancing. Feeling no desire to dance, no desire to chase, no desire to make a fool of myself any longer, I left with my tail between my legs, back to the comfort of my lair. And that marked the end of my gay bar experiences.