Men look their most beautiful by the end of Summer, specially those that are naturally active: their bodies tight from increased exercise in the warm months, their skins tanned gold. I catch myself watching these beautiful men — in the bus, on the streets, in the Tube — wondering what it must be like to embrace them, feel their muscles pressing me, their lips kissing me.
I can see myself as an old man still finding young guys beautiful, admiring them from afar and knowing that I’m too old for them — that I’m meant to be a witness to them and nothing more. Those thoughts then make me wonder if I should pay more attention to enjoying the present, getting fitter, cruising, having as much sex as possible. Even though I have a boyfriend, am I missing out? Will I regret not having spent my youth with these men?
This morning, I sat in the Tube beside a muscular blonde guy. He pressed his arm and leg against me — innocently I think — driving me to distraction. The train lurched and he’d rub himself against me. While he listened to his pink iPod (dance music and Savage Garden) I ran the gauntlet of images and fantasies involving the both of us. When he stood up, a few stops before me, he pulled up his jeans and I could see what a wonderful ass he had. He disappeared without looking at me.