With every passing year you find yourself having experiences that later seem to become milestones in your life. Your first pickup in a bar, your first $100 note in your pay cheque and even your first pair of hot shorts. These all add up to who you are.

It so happens I passed over a milestone just last Monday. As many know I work at Stonewall on Mondays and as usual it was quite busy with lots of very eligible bachelors, all looking for love.

Part of my job is to make everyone feel welcome and chat with as many people as I can. Blessed with the gift of the gab, this comes easy for me. Let’s face it, I can talk the leg off anyone who is silly enough to stand too close to me and not run away at the first chance.

I got chatting to a young man who was quite obviously much younger than I was and to my surprise was gay. (Most guys that come over with that twinkle in their eyes to drag queens are straight and confused.)

He seemed sweet, and as I chatted I didn’t really pick up on the signs that, yes, this young man was a lot younger that I was. He had heard of Gilligan’s Island but never seen it, didn’t know who Collette (Ring My Bell) was and, even worse, thought the Albury was a country town in Australia.

As the conversation went on, he finally suggested we meet up for a coffee and we could get to know each other in boy mode. Oh, what a boost to my ego, a younger man interested in getting to know me and he didn’t have a secret stash of a wife and two kids!

So I bit the bullet and asked, How old are you, darling? to which he replied, 18 years old. My god, I was old enough to be his father. After divulging my age, I asked if it was okay that I was many years older than he was. Oh yes, I much prefer older guys.

This is where my milestone kicks in. For the first time in my life I have been referred to as an older guy. And I know I am not that old, almost 32, still spring-ish chicken I am sure. But to be told you’re an older guy! The pearls were grabbed, let me tell you.

After telling my friends about this, they told me their thoughts on the whole ageing process. There are three stages: stage one is standard gay; stage two is leather gay; and stage three is paying for it.

With this advice under my belt, all I could think of was, if I’m on the cusp of leather gay now, it will be only a matter of time before I have to pay for it. And I don’t have enough money to be paying for it. I can’t afford to keep myself in the lifestyle I have become accustomed to!

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