For years I had fooled myself into thinking I was an attractive gay man. It took a vintage mirror to reveal my truth.
By: Conrad on the East Coast
It seems like just yesterday that I was making fun of trolls. Are you familiar with this term -a troll? Well if you aren’t, let me tell you – it’s an unflattering bit of lingo used to describe homos who have lost their looks and are considered old.
In my case, I realized I had turned into a quasi-ancient troll (and a fat one at that) after installing a vintage mirror on my bedroom wall. For just $30.00, it was a real find at my local thrift store..
But looking back, I wish I had never brought that thing into my home. You see mirrors often tell stories. Let me tell you mine.
It was a bright Sunday morning in late November. I was in my living room, relaxing on a chair and drinking coffee. As I a scanned the headlines of my local paper, a shard of sunlight beamed through a nearby window, illuminating the front side of my right hand.
“So many brown spots!” I thought to myself. “And why is my skin so scaly?”
Alarmed, I put the cup down on a table and flexed my fingers out as far as they would go. Not only did I see liver spots, the skin itself looked thin and translucent. And with each extension, I could see the outline of pointed bone. “God – my hands look old!” I said out loud.
I wondered: How did this happen?
I think a lot of us have a mental image of what we think we look like to others. Part of this is a function of wishful thinking and part of it is good old fashioned denial. In my mind, I had envisioned myself as a mid-forties DILF, even though I was approaching my late 50’s.
Immediately, I got up and made my way to the vintage mirror.
As I began to slowly undress, I gazed at the reflection staring back. The jeans came off first and then with complete mindfulness, I removed my cotton sweater. All that remained were my gray boxers, which allowed me to examine my pale, stick-like legs.
I’d say for a good two minutes, I studied my physique intensely. Turning my torso from left to right, I could see significant love handles pouring over the waistband. It was hideous.
I looked around some more.
The bunny hair on my lower back was whitish blue and there were raised moles everywhere. “Gross!” said a voice in my head.
I closed my eyes tight and lowered my head, letting my mind travel back in time to 25-years earlier.
I opened my eyes again and looked in the mirror, this time through the lens of youthfulness when I was in my 30’s. Things were so much easier then. I had amazing skin, a full head of hair and an athletic body.
At that time, hooking up for casual encounters was never a problem. In fact, it was easier to find a guy to trick with than it was catching the common cold. There wasn’t Grindr, but there were the bars and the baths. Believe it or not, there were times I had to push men away.
Where had all those years gone?
I closed my eyes again and focused my attention on the here and now. Once again, I gazed into the mirror.
My chest was saggy, with nipples that looked like a cow’s well used utters. Over the years, mine had been twisted and pulled so many times that it would now take surgery to make them appear normal. And the black fur so many men had found attractive had gone silver.
Bravely, I slid the briefs off and kicked them to the side.
My manhood was intact but painfully unattractive. How could it be with all that shriveling going on? And my pubes were in as sorry a shape as my chest hair – distinctively gray.
I turned around to examine my ass, my neck craning to take it all in.
It was pitiful. Each melon was almost completely deflated, taking on the appearance of a rotten cantaloupe. Worse, there were stretch marks lining both cheeks, telling the tale of a once muscular canyon.
As I stood there, I tried to remember the last time a man hit on me – and not one I had to pay cash as part of role play.
Had it been that long – almost a decade?
It was then I realized the only action my ass got was the warm enema I used as part of a monthly colon cleanse.
I began to study my face. I had developed Nixon-like jowls and the beginnings of a turkey neck, complimented by a fast receding hairline.
When I smiled, deep wrinkles accentuated massive crowfeet around my eyes. The only reason my cheeks were not sunken in was because of the extra pounds I had put on.
And I’m not even going to tell you about the dark, moon cresent bags that hung under my blue eyes.
The entire experience was all too much. I embarrassingly got dressed again, refusing to look at my reflection.
“That f*%@… mirror!” I said out loud.
For a brief second, I thought I was dreaming. But deep inside, I knew I wasn’t. It was really me.
I’ve accepted the fact that I’m an unattractive gay troll – which is nearly at the bottom of the heap in gaydom. And I’ve taken comfort in knowing that at least I’m tall. You see, the only thing worse than being a troll is being a short, fat troll. You know?
And for what it’s worth, you need to know this will one day happen to you. Oh, you can try to put it off with Botox, fillers, clean living and exercise. But trust me, that will only work for a little while.
I should know. I tried pushing back father time for years. Until just recently, I had fooled myself into thinking I had been successful. It took that vintage mirror to reveal my truth.
Speaking of truth …
When’s the last time you stood in front of a full length mirror and looked. I mean really looked?