'You're more than just a bicep!'

This piece was originally published in full on SameSame.com.au, on September 2nd 2015, available here.

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We are a community that, in so many ways, takes pride in our physically attractive members and our conventionally gorgeous gay boys. We do so at the exclusion of a lot of other elements.

And I have to ask – why?

Why does the gay community celebrate people simply for being attractive?

Why is it that, when I open certain gay websites, I’m confronted by articles titled with shit like “The ten most attractive dudes on Instagram”? Or, “Five straight footballers who look good without a shirt on”? Why is this considered newsworthy? Why are these stories taking over?

Marketing campaigns for gay nightclubs are awash with images of nearly naked attractive men, showcasing ripped physiques and chiselled jawlines. The target market for these soirees seems to be every homosexual with a self-esteem problem, as all of the photographs documenting these nights are of the most physically appealing individuals you can find. They’re of the most subjectively ‘gorgeous’ characters – and these are dubbed the ‘elite’ gays, and the ‘alpha’ homos.

I should point out that I am a photographer by trade, and have primarily worked in nightlife and events for the past five years. I know what the purpose of this type of marketing is, because as part of my various briefs, I have been asked to fulfil this style in the past. I have explicitly excluded unattractive patrons from my photographs, and have gone out of my way to document the most aesthetically appealing individuals at an event. Because a client wants their brand to reflect a certain image, and they want to market themselves with a specific style.

Which would be all good and well, if it didn’t seem like this kind of attractiveness-is-key advertising was seeping out from the homo nightclubs – and into our big gay media.

Articles putting hot dudes on pedestals are absolutely everywhere. Every day, there’s a new journalistic dive into What Straight Guy Has The Best Ass? Here’s That Z-List Celeb You MUST Follow (For His Abs!), and Guy Minding His Own Business Loses His Pants “AND WE ARE HOT FOR HIM!”

And sure. Some of us probably are hot for him.

But people are starting to take notice of this vapid excuse for marketing and journalism. People are starting to see it for the empty and vacuous thirst-fodder that it is, and growing steadily disheartened. I’ve started making a conscious effort to check the comments section every time another of these articles pops up, and it’s becoming awfully predictable. “Is this what you call journalistic integrity?” one might cry, or “Another article praising a hot dude for looking hot” sighs another.

This is now becoming a concerning facet of the community that threatens to erode the depth of our collective journey. Whether it’s as individuals with extraordinary stories, or as survivors battling through in spite of homophobic opposition, our story is being quietly tucked away behind a giant framed photograph of Nick Jonas’ abs.

I should also point out at this point that I have no issue at all with gay men expressing their sexuality, and I am the furthest thing from a sex-negative prude. If it were up to me, we would all be semi-naked in a nightclub, gyrating upon one another in our underwear, and making out on Mardi Gras floats. I respect and adore public expressions of gay sexuality, as so often it is used as a tool to shun the systemic oppression that has silenced us and rendered us invisible.

What I take issue with is that so much of this looks-oriented digital and print marketing does a disservice, not only to the individuals being adored for their looks, but to the community as a whole, and represents a shallow decline in the integrity of our community.

“Stop celebrating people simply for being attractive. Start celebrating them for their intellect and accomplishments; for being clever, for being unique, for being kind.”

There is one very good reason why we should be fighting this descent into superficiality:

Because we’re worth more.

Because our young people – the consumers of our media and the harbingers of our future – need to be shown that their value is greater than the width of their biceps. That their worth is not directly tied into the proportions of their face and body, but based on the strength of their characters, their kindness, their generosity, and the thoughts that they put out into the world.

We must communicate to them that we are not Neanderthals, where physical power and aesthetic visage is of the utmost importance. We represent so much more than mere mass and good looks, and we are capable of vast oceans more than commercialised thirst.

And if there are physical characteristics worth being appreciated for, it’s that which your parents and your families gave you. Every line, spot and curve that is yours and yours alone, which the tabloid media dictates are not worth having love for. All because you do not resemble the image of a beautiful man in a gay magazine.

Gay people are just as impressionable as straights, and at the same mercy of junk food news and marketing. When a young boy sees an image of an attractive person being glorified based simply on how they look, what it tells them is: You’re not good enough. You will never be good enough, unless you look like this.

That can have an incredibly destructive effect on someone’s self-worth.

And that, to me, is not good enough.

We should strive to break the mould of making icons out of abs, and broadcasting these individuals as the ideal, the infinitely desirable, based purely on their looks.

Stop celebrating people simply for being attractive. Start celebrating them for their intellect and accomplishments; for being clever, for being unique, for being kind.

Because you are more than just a bicep, or a pretty face in a gay magazine.

'Getting caught forced me to come out'

This piece was originally published in full on SameSame.com.au, on July 21st 2015, available here.

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Coming out is hard to do. For gay men like me, it’s an exercise in owning who you are, enough to tell people about it – your friends and your family – in a society which actively instils a sense of shame and wrongness into our gay youth. Coming clean with your truth in a world that actively fights against people like you is no small feat.

I’ve been a young boy, confused and afraid, grappling with who I was. I have thought about suicide. I remember being twelve or thirteen years old, and every night staring up at my ceiling from my bed, praying to God or whatever sentient being watched over this world, that I would wake up and be normal. I remember telling that being – that omniscient presence – that if they would turn me straight; if I would wake up the following morning and not be gay, that I would devote myself to them.

I would have done anything to get rid of that loneliness, that self-hatred, and I swore I would never tell a soul. Because I was ashamed. Many gay men out there feel the same. We know they do, because we’ve been there, and we’ve lived so much of their pain. The anguish of living in the closet, before coming out to the world, is real and devastating.

For some gay men like myself, the coming out experience goes a little differently.

I was fifteen years old. I’d just started dating someone new – I would have been with any boy, so long as I had a chance to feel an intimacy I’d craved. He liked dressing fancy on thirty-five degree days in suits and ties. I had a sweeping side fringe that covered my eyes – my “security blanket” – and I was totally smitten by the fact that someone was paying attention to me.

On one particular scorching summer day – forty degrees on the scale, no less – he agreed to come over for a swim in our backyard pool. He arrived, and we splashed about in escape from the heat, while my parents were inside. Every now and again, he’d pull me behind the cover of a pool toy, and plant a kiss on my lips. It was new. It was nice. But we had to be careful.

At one point, we went inside to “watch a movie” – quotation marks necessary – and as soon as the lounge room door closed, we couldn’t keep our hands off of each other. It wasn’t safe, however, so I suggested we do the sensible, mature thing – and take our business to a nearby park.

Well, the park idea got scrapped once we felt the goddamn heat, so we settled for around the side of the house, under the cover of trees and shrubberies. At which point we got right down to business, right next to a pair of big black bins.

Little did we know, however, that the family freezer had exhausted its supply of Cornetto ice creams to help deal with the summer heat. We’d run dry, and the freezer needed a restock and clean up – but not before the family had disposed of the trash. This was where things went horribly wrong.

Dad wandered around the side of the house to put some Cornetto boxes in the bins – and walked in on his fifteen year old son sucking some dick.

Try getting a Hallmark card for that.

There was no explanation needed. It’s hard to deny the reality of your sexuality when your own father has caught you in the act of fellatio. He drove my “friend’ home – and a couple of hours later, the sit-down family conversation was terribly, disgustingly real. They were confused at first – obligatory “are you sure you’re not bisexual?” and all – but ultimately, they were fine with it. I’d already come out to my friends, and the rest of the family followed thereafter without my consent (as is the nature of gossiping Greeks).

I’m 22 now, and I am fantastically, unapologetically gay. I am fortunate enough to have a family who love and support me. I am out in the open – homophobia be damned – and life is fucking good.

I suppose I’m lucky that the opportunity to personally ‘come out’ was robbed from me – because with that shame lingering in the forefront of my mind, it might have been years until I came out of the closet.

The closet is a dark and lonely place – but the reality is, the fear of isolation and distress is too often misplaced. Coming out – living openly as who you truly are – is a liberating, beautiful experience. If you are lucky enough to have family who accept you, then that’s bloody fantastic. But if you are not… well, as RuPaul once said of gay people: “We get to choose our family.”

And to any young gay folk reading this, who might feel alone, confused and afraid, deleting your browser history with every few clicks, I’ve got this for you:

Don’t be afraid. Don’t torture your soul any more. Be brave.

We’re all waiting for you.

Just reverted a whole bunch of less-than-quality posts to 'Draft' status.

The world - and an apparent influx of new readers - don't need to see the lame shit I used to write in 2011.

'The True Gay Agenda Revealed'

This piece was originally published in full at YourFriendsHouse.com on July 7th, 2015, available here.

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It would seem that the first world has itself in a spin over the LGBT community. With Ireland’s homos winning the marriage vote, and the United States Supreme Court legalising it across the entire country, the proverbial rainbow is shining bright and true. Equal love for all and same-sex marriage acceptance are topics vibrating with mainstream intensity. We’ve done well, ladies, gentlemen, and all those in between.

Like with all signs of progression however, there have been groups rallying against the cause. Australia remains the last English-speaking Western country to legalise same-sex marriage. Ministers and members of our own community are actively holding us back, not just religious conservative groups.

Eric Abetz, the conservative Liberal cabinet minister, was the last person to make such a public opposition, making the ominous statement that same-sex marriage seeks to “undo the institution of marriage”, and that it’s “the latest fad” which would have “other consequences”.

“Other consequences”.

Bigoted men like Eric Abetz continue to pound away at us, time and time again, thrusting hard and fast from behind with the whipping force of their anti-gay opinion. As though us homos have something to hide. As though our goals are not ones for progression and equality, but for a unique and citrusy blend of chaos and control. Men like Abetz speak as though we have some sort of vile scheme up our sleeves. For so long, this has been the suspicion.

Well, friends: I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough of living in the dark, as these old and ridiculous men pick away at our cause like fleas, trying to scrape downward to the hidden messages beneath. I’ve had enough of inequality, and of the suspicion, the ridicule and the anti-gay sentiment.

It’s time I came clean, for all of us who have been sworn to silence. It’s time I spilled our communities’ darkest secrets, ones that were written by our elders many decades ago, scrawled on the walls of toilet cubicles far and wide. It’s time I revealed… the true gay agenda.

Eric Abetz, you claimed that same-sex marriage would create “other consequences” – that it would open the Pandora’s Box to unions like polyamory. And to that say I say- Abetz… you’re not thinking big enough.

The homosexual forces do not just wish to legalise same-sex marriage and pave the way for polyamory. Oh, no. We wish to desecrate all of your precious heterosexual unions. We will tear down the institution of marriage itself, hurl gasoline upon its decrepit frame, light a match – and cackle wildly as the cinders of your beloved rituals turn to fire and ash. At which point we will then fornicate in unison, as gays cannot sustain loving relationships with a single partner.

To the Christian lobby, I say: gays don’t want to simply destroy your Christian marriages. No, no. You’re doing that well enough without us as it is. No, what we desire is the destruction of your churches and the conversion of your good Christian children. Because, like the demons you write about in books, our flesh burns to a crisp at the mere sight of Church spires, so we must remove them from our new world.

At which point our lesbian women will transform into winged bat creatures – their true forms – and pluck your good Christian children from your crumpled church houses, carrying them off for their conversion, screaming into the night.

In the big gay war for humanity, the public toilet blocks, where all gay men once lived to spread disease, will become conversion camps for the children of tomorrow. They shall be trained in tolerance and loving acceptance – hush now, don’t cry, my dears – and schooled in the homosexual arts, like sodomy, witchcraft and interior design.

And, when marriage and the Church have both fallen – the fundamental basis of all functional societies – we shall install a new world order.

Homophobia will be eradicated. Advertisements of all kinds depicting heterosexual couples will be removed, replaced by adverts containing homosexual couples. Straight people will be used as furniture. Heterosexuals will be the butt of most stand-up comedy jokes, and straight comedians will elicit crickets from audiences worldwide.

Your governments will be destroyed in one foghorn cry of “YASS, QWEEN” – taken down with ease and fashionable finesse. World leaders will be replaced by LGBT icons, like Kathy Griffin, Laverne Cox and Margaret Cho. All national anthems and political nationalism will be wholly eradicated, and the world will unite under the euphoric trance anthem of ‘Believe’ by Cher.

We won’t just legalise same-sex marriage in this bold new world. No, no. We shall legalise ALL forms of marriage. Man and woman! Man and man! Woman and THREE men! Man and kitchen condiment! No one will be safe.

And those who would rebel against this turn of civilisation would face cruel fates. For lesser crimes, such as refusing to provide services for a gay wedding, you would be forced to sit through two seasons of Golden Girls. We might even force you to marry a gay person, as was always our plan.

For those who commit more heinous crimes, such as using Joan Rivers’ name in vain, the punishment shall be fierce and debilitating. You will be forced to stand front-and-centre in a gay pride parade; dance, cheer, and chant songs like Macklemore’s ‘Same Love’ and other Godless hymns.

So, Minister Abetz, I don’t believe you’ve gone far enough. Polyamory is not the only evil hiding inside our trimmed and waxed Pandora’s Box. These are our plans, and our communities’ darkest secrets. If you bow to our demands, we may show mercy…

But if you refuse us, then you will face the effeminate wrath of one thousand angry homosexuals.

You cannot resist us, for we are many. You cannot fight us, for we have already won.

And we are coming, Abetz. We are coming.

'I'm a bad bottom'

This post was originally published in full on SameSame.com.au on the 26th of June 2015, available here.

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I should start off by saying this: I am a terrible bottom. Really. I’m awful.

At the best of times, it’s slightly uncomfortable. At the worst, though, it’s straight up painful. I’m often wondering if the guy I’m with has accidentally split me in half. Except… I seem to wind up bottoming a lot.

I’m told there’s a certain way they’ve got to do it, or a certain amount of preparation that needs to be taken, or a certain angle they’ve got to approach from. Or that there’s an ancient talisman, housed somewhere in the jungles of the Congo that, once acquired, and combined with the right cursed chants and essential oils, will make bottoming a pleasurable experience. None of these considerations have worked in my favour.

All self-effacing quips aside, the question I’ve really got to ask myself is: If it doesn’t feel awesome, why the hell do I keep doing it? Why would I torture myself like this? Why do I keep bottoming?

Firstly, it’s not all bad. There’s a psychological element to being ‘taken’ that can manifest in some truly intense feelings. That, and if you’ve ever ‘gotten used’ to the feeling after the onset, you can definitely agree that, while it might not be a religious experience like it is for some, it’s certainly not the worst feeling in the world.

The most prominent reason I keep trying is because, quite frankly, my perceived role in the bedroom seems to demand it. And more importantly: this role in the bedroom seems expected of me as a young, lean and somewhat effeminate homosexual.

So where do these stereotypes come from? Where are we pulling our ideas from about how we’re going to pull each other?

One theory is that our community has, in a number of ways, transposed heterosexual norms into our own homosexual culture, and, too, our own relationships. It’s something we’ve grown up with, and all of these hetero-normative ideas about masculinity and femininity, about power and vulnerability, have quietly crept their way into our subconscious minds, and have influenced how we view others and ourselves.

Masculinity is valued in men by straight society, symbolising power, confidence and sexual aggression, whereas femininity is oftentimes derided when shown by men, because it represents vulnerability, weakness and sexual submissiveness.

“What if I want to be a feminine top? Or a gruff, masculine bottom? Who on Earth decided that certain sex acts were specific to a certain stereotype?”

In short: Femininity and vulnerability are just not manly – and therefore, a lot of gay men feel opposed to it. It challenges their ideas about what a man is, and what a man should be, and what they should be as men. We’ve somehow ascribed these roles of masculine and feminine to sex acts alone – insertive and receptive, masculine and feminine, acting and acted upon. We’ve found ourselves viewing being the penetrative partner as being the more masculine of the pair, and to some, therefore the most desirable.

So it only makes sense that when I meet a man at a bar, who after a few cheeky drinks wants to hitch a cab back to his flat in Brunswick for a bit of a good time, that he might automatically assume my status as a bottom.

It’s because I’m feminine, and femininity represents sexual submissiveness, and even though we’ve discovered our anatomies and found ways in which bottoming can be pleasurable for everyone, we somehow view bottoming as something exclusive to “fems”.

Why shouldn’t bottoming be masculine? And why can’t topping be feminine? What if I want to be a feminine top? Or a gruff, masculine bottom? Who on Earth decided that certain sex acts were specific to a certain stereotype?

There are gay men out there in the world who know what they like, and will explicitly make clear what they want and how they want it, gender roles be damned. I salute those men.

But there are also men out there who feel uncomfortable about the very idea of bottoming, because they view it as feminine. And the last thing they want to be is anything other than the masculine gender they have worked so hard to embody, in spite of homophobia and bigotry that has seen them typecast as feminine by default – by virtue of simply being gay.

More self-identifying ‘masculine’ men should face the idea that something typecast as ‘feminine’ could be something they’re into.

The bottom line for me – the bottom-line with bottoming – is that it’s okay to enjoy bottoming, no matter how you might present yourself. It’s okay to be a bulking mass of muscle and want to take a dick in your ass, just like it’s okay to be an effeminate “fairy” and not want any dude coming near your nether regions with his eight-inch pole. And it’s okay to reverse those options, too.

Sex should be a fun, pleasurable and wholly uninhibited experience. We should strive to be pleased the way we want to be pleased – not in any way that restrictive societal mores might dictate. We should writhe and twist among one another and feel free from gender expectations, and we should aim to understand our own bodies and figure out what we like and dislike as individuals.

Know what you want, and ignore what a culture has planted covertly in your mind that youshould be.

'Wandering hands? I'm sick of being groped'

This post was originally published in full on SameSame.com.au on the 1st of June, 2015, available here.

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It’s late. Music blares from speakers all around, and the crowd shifts and writhes with the throb of the bass. I’m weaving my way between bodies and strange faces, in pursuit of the bar for a drink or another such thing. Perhaps I stop to dance, or greet a familiar face, but ultimately my aim is to break free and exit the throng.

And that’s when I feel it – a grip around my waist.

I look forward, and it’s an older man. He’s got his hands around me and is grinding up and down, and his face reads drunken lust. The crowd is too thick to escape him in a heartbeat, and before I know it, he’s got his hands under waistbands and in places they shouldn’t be. I get out of his grip, wave him off, and continue my journey.

And that’s about it, really.

That’s one of the first times I can remember being sexually assaulted by another man at a gay bar. When I told my friends about what happened, mere minutes later, they laughed. I think I might have laughed, too.

We’ve all been there, my friends and I. Every single one of us has a story to tell, about some guy at a bar or a club or one other such gay-friendly location getting a bit handsy. Or maybe he goes a bit too far and you end up with a situation on your hands. It happens, you deal with it, and the night seems to go on.

But why does it go on so easily?

Why have the collective responses from people I’ve known been so casual? Why has barely anyone approached these moments with the severity that our straight counterparts, in their own dance bars and dives, partake in so willingly?

I remember one time I reported an assault to a bartender at a certain gay haunt. The response from that man wasn’t, “Alright, we’ll deal with it” – It was a hearty, “So, are you going home with him?”

“He’s grinding up and down. Before I know it, he’s got his hands under waistbands and in places they shouldn’t be.”

It’s not the first time something like that has happened, either, when another man has violated my personal space. I’ve been felt up on dance floors, groped at bars, had men follow me into toilet cubicles thinking it’s a good time to have a go. None of these advances have been warranted, nor have I done anything to solicit them. They’ve been done with careless finesse, a reckless abandon.

As though because I’m a man, I must want it. I must want it all the time.

As gay men, men who have been oppressed and ostracised for years, we’ve established ways to hook up that our straight counterparts don’t share. It’s been part of our sexual liberation through decades of public inhibition.

We’ve mastered methods at giving signs and signals that exhibit our interest, wordless motions that reflect our search for sexual opportunity. We’ve learned to cruise, and in certain circumstances – at clubs, at bars, at washroom basins – we’ve found ways to indicate our interest to another that give way to sexual encounters.

These nuanced tactics are, as best put by an older gay friend of mine, predatory. They’re nonverbal, erotic and sometimes aggressive. They’re noticeably masculine. When a man cruises another man at a gay bar, it’s hard not to wonder if he’s checking him out, or wanting to punch him in the face.

And these are all fine. These skills were necessary at a time when being busted in bed with another man could see you ousted from your community, when men went to meet other men in the dark of a nearby public park, or bathroom, or “men-only” sauna. Because you couldn’t just roll up to a café with a man for a coffee date without your sexuality being brought into question.

They continue to be necessary now, because although being caught having it off with a man at home might elicit nothing more than a giggle from a straight friend, we’ve still got a long way to go. I have no problem with gays who want to cruise. God knows I’ve done it too.

Yet when I’m out at a club, one of our safe havens, and a man tries to feel me up, I’m somehow expected to just deal with it. I’ve internalised this idea that because gay men are sexual creatures – because men are sexual creatures – that it’s to be expected I would want to have a go. No matter who it is, how they look, or whether or not I’m even interested. We’re just fucking machines looking to get off, before disappearing into the night, and I’m part of the hunt as much as they are.

It’s almost as though these advances don’t classify as sexual assault. Not in this little world we’ve created for ourselves, where men have sex with men and grind on each other at the gay bar.

Once, when I was a bit younger, I was out on the town in one of Melbourne’s gay districts, in a street known for its gay cruising. I was separated from my friends and had had way too much to drink, so I nicked off down a secluded alleyway to throw up. Because I’m a sophisticated lady of the night.

When I turned around after ejecting my insides, I was shocked to discover a much older man standing beside me, leaning against the wall near where I spewed – touching himself. He had sized me up on the street, and followed me into the dark, thinking I was looking for fun. When I got up, he lurched forward, and I had to push my way out of there.

I’ve had too many experiences like this. Too many times where I’ve been the young effeminate boy to the older aggressive male, and been expected to just deal with it.

It’s part of masculinity – part of our societal conditioning. To be aggressive, to be rough, to be powerful. To exert our dominance in a sexual way. These are difficult traits to unlearn, as we start acquiring them from birth. And even as gay men – men typecast as effeminate divas with penchants for fashion and hollering Katy Perry from our “girly” convertibles – they still find ways to permeate our culture.

So what I’m saying is: I’ve had enough.

I’ve had enough of being felt up. I’ve had enough of being groped. I’ve had enough of your arms around me, and your persistence despite me saying no. I’ve had enough.

More than that, I’ve had enough of people telling me – otherwise wonderful, intelligent, extraordinary people, whether directly or implied – that I should just deal with it.

I shouldn’t have to just deal with being groped at bars. I shouldn’t have to just deal with people following me into toilet cubicles. I shouldn’t have to just deal with people whacking off while I vomit from overdrinking.

This is our culture. It’s a culture of rainbows, love, acceptance and diversity. It’s one we’ve created through years of isolation and inhibition. It’s one that has allowed us to meet sexual partners, to grow and to prosper, through all of the persecution we have faced. We should be very proud of it.

But when I’m out at a gay bar, and I’m walking through the dance floor, and some fool sticks his hand down my pants: I shouldn’t have to just deal with it. I shouldn’t have to just deal with being sexually assaulted.

And neither should you.

'What I Learned Dating Older Men.'

This piece was originally published in full on Your Friends House. Reposted here to my personal blog.

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I’d like to preface this by saying that I am a recently unemployed early-twenty-something living la vida loca in the big city. This means that not only do I not know how to adult, but I also don’t really know how to date. My idea of a hot date is a cheap Chinese dinner, a seedy bar, and a lot of “I think I really like you, but I also kind of want to throw up from the seven-dollar bottle of wine I drank before we got here”.

That being said, I’ve definitely tried. I’ve dated around the block. I’ve had my fair share of good times, bad times, and times I’ve had to fast-forward into one-night-stands because I’m pretty sure I never want to see them again. However, in all of my relationship exploits (and sexploits), none have quite matched up to the curiosity of dating an older man.

By older, I don’t mean “Billy’s finally got his license so he can go buy some vodkas for the girls” – I mean older. I mean aged. I mean well-versed in things like how to tell the difference between Hendrick’s and Gordon’s gin, and somehow proficient in budgeting and cleanliness. Things you and I young folk wouldn’t understand.

I mean old enough to be your dad. Or maybe even a little bit older than that.

As it turns out, if there’s one thing I do understand – chalk it up to an analytical mind – it’s the experience of dating an older man. I think my wealth of knowledge comes from the fact that I am a skinny gay boy, and that means older men are somehow drawn to me like flies to feces – or, as the slightly gross hint-hint-incest gay community expression often goes; like dads to sons. Yuck.

After reviewing some of these points with some straight female friends, we’ve agreed collectively that they all stand strong and true. In no way am I trying to suggest that younger guys are worse than older guys. These are just the experiences of one dangerously thin homosexual man, one oft mistaken for a sixteen-year-old girl.

So without further ado, here are some of the things I’ve learned dating older men.

They’re incredibly careful with you.

To them, you are practically a newborn. You are a proverbial clean slate, a starry-eyed youth preparing to take on the world, one cheap pot of beer at a time. If you text them while intoxicated after three or four pints, they will assume you’ve been smoking meth with criminals. They will plead with you to catch a cab to their house, where they will feed you water and bread, until you feel inclined to fellate them as a thank-you. Older men like to think you’re incapable of doing anything by yourself. Which is perfectly fine by me, so long as you keep booking those Ubers’ on your card and footing the bill at breakfast.

They’re constantly surprised that you might have a brain.

Maybe I don’t look like the sharpest tool in the shed, but I find it amazing just how many times I’ve had older men say to me, “Wow, you’re so mature for someone your age!” – Those words, in that exact order. It’s like they think that just because I’m in my early twenties, by default I spend my days doing nangs in a sharehouse, and giggling mindlessly over episodes of The Big Bang Theory while my mate packs a cone. Is Generation Y really doomed to have to prove themselves to old blokes time and time again? If you can hold a sentence together without so much as drooling down the side of your cheek, or looking like you’ve short-circuited, you’ve basically won their heart.

They want to recapture their youth vicariously through you.

Older men seem to have a crippling desire to return to their youth. Let’s face it – ageing happens, and when you hit a certain age, you start losing tautness and tone in places you were sure would never feel the effects of gravity. If it’s not the way they gaze lovingly upon me, as though I were the Taylor Swift to their succubi-Madonna – it’s the sheer number of beauty and anti-age products I’ve seen lining their bathroom cabinets and the tops of their shower stalls at any given time. When age starts to weary thee, the reality is, you want to know you’ve still ‘got it’ – and what better a way to achieve that than by doing a young person who is totally down? After all, you’re only as old as how you feel or who you’re feeling.

They’re collectively better in bed.

There, I said it. It’s the point you’ve all been waiting for. Young people might have more stamina and willingness to go at it than older people do, but older men just straight up know what they’re doing. And what’s better, they actually want to please you, and will not stop until you’re done. They want to know what you like, and they want to take it slow. They’re tactile, sensuous, appreciative and cautious at the best of times. Once you’ve been with a man who was probably married at some point in his long life, younger guys seem like selfish, mindless thrusting machines when it’s all said and done. Older men are just better in bed. And why wouldn’t they be? They’ve had years of practice.

Ultimately: I’m a kidult. A child masquerading as an adult. I am confused, askew and oftentimes dwindling in the wind, waiting for my next pot of Melbourne Bitter on tap to help me fail to understand the complexities of my existence. And sometimes, it’s nice to know that there’s someone out there who has at least figured half of it out. Who has trekked through life into a state of reasonable understanding, and has their own well-reasoned answers to my million tragic questions.

Maybe that’s the appeal of The Older Man – that they’ve perhaps got their shit together. Just as they might vicariously re-enjoy their youth through me; I might vicariously attempt to feel some sense of success through them.

If you’re curious about the ways and wiles of the mature older gentleman, or you’re up to feeling a tad objectified, or maybe you just want to know a bit more about how to save up super: Date an older man. Because even though they might not be exactly where it’s at – they’re where we’re all headed.