Invisible Men

On turning 45 and the doubts and lessons of Gay men my age.

I was told I’d never make it to my 40s. Sex-ed, bullies and movies said I’d die of AIDS or loneliness. There were no sitcoms about middle-aged Gay men. My script was written: I’d be cast as angsty, closeted teen then addicted, suicidal hustler then funny, fashionable sidekick, then creepy, flaming villain. Then I’d vanish.

How could I expect more? So many heroes died by 40. My addiction and suicide rates are higher than straight counterparts. My own community’s ageism suspends youth and virility by any needle, pipe, muscle-ripping regimen necessary. In our cultural eugenics, 40 was the other side of an action movie bridge, broken and perilous.

I am 45 today. My need for sexual validation has simmered a little bit. Chips on my shoulder are melting and Gay bashing scars look kinda cool. I earned rights and built tools unimaginable to my ancestors. What I sacrificed and valued means the future doesn’t start from scratch. I don’t have to buy or sell scripts about invisible men.

In our fatherless culture, my elders call me baby and my children call me Daddy. I am the last first generation.

Invisible Men appears in from POST & SENTENCES, poems and essays.