JM Shorts: Accepting The Shelf - 1. Accepting The Shelf

So I'm standing in front of my full-length mirror in my bedroom. It's one of those ones you can tilt back and forward. I'm pitching it right now, trying my best to get the most attractive version of myself the reflection.

I'm going out tonight with the boys. Grand Beck, the place is called. It's a seedy gay club that's required a refurb since God was a boy, but it's a place where I can usually pick up some 'chicken' and chuck him out the following morning.

On my bed in the one-bedroom flat I rent are the 20 different outfits. I have considered wearing each one, but not committed yet. In among that lot is my torso and arm sculptor top. It's a tight polyester t-shirt with muscle-like padding in certain places. You wear it under whatever top you've chosen, and it turns you into a ripped gym goer.

Whenever I go out club wise, that top goes on!

So yeah, the mirror? The deadly mirror that I spend ages in front of each Saturday night? I'm 43, so the weekend effort I go through to look half decent is starting to get heavy. If I had the money, I'd fix some things on myself. But alas, I don't, so I rely on bottles of potions and elixirs from Amazon.

Recently, I got my hair cut. Keeping my hair dyed in Just For Men every couple of weeks to return to my pre-grey colour, dark brown, is depressing at my age. On the other hand, the Turkish barber has nicely done my skin fade. I already look a few years younger, and I'll take that.

Currently, I'm heading to the bathroom to get my bottle of 'perfect skin'. Using a tiny amount of liquid, stroke outwards under your eyes. Give it a few minutes, and it tightens up the skin, taking away some of that natural bagginess you get at 43. Next goes on the Linked. This stuff creates an illusion of better skin by using the trick of light to blend in some of the uneven parts of my face, such as skin tone, dimples and tiny freckles.

After that, it's time to get back to the bedroom to put on my sculptor t-shirt and then...hmm, what should I wear? The black A&F top will be my choice. I'm gonna wear a gold chain underneath so it shows on the back of my neck. To go with that, I think tight jeans are in order. As soon as those are on, I'll do my hair.

In front of the mirror again, I'm checking myself out. I look good. Just the hair now.

Back to the bathroom.

I finger out some paste from the orange-smelling pot and rough up the top part of my hair. I'm going for messy. That also takes a year or two off me. At least, I think it does.

Last of all is shoes. I'm thinking sneakers. Perhaps black Nike Shox. They're trendy and they make me feel more youthful. I've pulled them out of the wardrobe and slid them on. Yeah, that was the right choice. I like how I look in those. Very boyish, with attitude.

Almost done! Back to the mirror. Hmmm, Perhaps a bit of mild foundation work on my forehead, or shall I leave it. Jesus, now I feel fat. No, I look fat. I turn to the side in the mirror. I look worse from the side. You can make out the slight belly I have. I must remember to keep face on if I find anyone I like. That's gonna be hard work.

"You're doing it again, aren't you?" Said my twin, laying on my bed. He's got his ankles crossed as usual, wearing his black Adidas tracksuit set. He's identical to me... at least he was. I won't tell you how he died because it was very unpleasant. But he always turns up in places when I get a little self obsessed or the gay aging topic comes up. That's his favourite, that topic! "You're doing it again and each Saturday I tell you you're starting to look like mutton dressed as a lamb.

I wanted to ignore him, but... "Yep, George, every weekend, you know the drill."

George tutted and folded his arms.

"Why don't you just be you!"

I looked at him through the mirror. "It's easy for you to say, you're 23, slim and look fantastic. What happened to me, huh? You wanna swap bodies?"

"But you still look fine. So you got to stop all this vanity."

"George, it's not vanity; it's... It's just needed, okay. I can't go out without doing this stuff; I'd look awful."

"Let others be the judge of that. It's not your decision on how others perceive your physical appearance."

"I know you're trying to help, but you died 20 years ago. You stopped getting older and turning into this," I said, holding my arms out in front of my mirror."

"Those lads, you fuck with the lights off. Do you really think that's satisfying when you could just be yourself and sleep with someone who wants to have sex with the real you? And you can keep the lights on."

"Don't you have somewhere better to be?" I asked, rolling my eyes.

"Okay, so you've aged a bit. But you're wiser, more intelligent and bigger-hearted. Don't you think those are worth more than a sculptor t-shirt and some eye bag tighter?"

There is no doubt George is right; I knew it deep down; I didn't want to admit it. I get envious when I watch these youngsters out with their buddies. All of them are evenly tanned with blemish-free skin, with rich and shiny hair. The skin on their faces is tight and undamaged by the elements. I am envious. I don't know why I bother going out anymore.

I see it every Saturday night - people hooking up. You can watch the interaction from start to finish. It's quick. It starts with just glances as they decide they are attracted to each other, and then bang, they are standing together kissing. What twenty-something wants to kiss a 43-year-old anymore. Only the drunk ones left at the end of the night. So intoxicated at times that their dick only manages a slight semi at best, and even that deflates when they fall asleep in my bed. Trying to chuck a drunk lightweight out at 2 am is a challenge, I'll tell you, but I still do it. I can't bear sleeping with someone I don't know unless it's after having sex with them.

Maybe I won't go out.

"Go out. Call Paul, scrub all that stuff off you and go to the Lamb and Dog."

"Jesus, George, how boring is that? Okay, so Paul is not boring, but just drinking pints in a pub with a straight guy on a Saturday night? Really?"

"You're always yourself with Paul, so what's the issue."

I turned around from the mirror and looked directly at George. He always had that same look of sarcasm on his face whenever he was with me getting ready.

"Paul is ten years older than me; I don't have to bother. It's not as if Paul is checking me out."

"Is that why you do this? Isn't it worth your while at your age trying to find someone who actually likes you when you wear yourself as you?"

"I don't want to go out now, thanks!"

George rolled his eyes at me. "Bit defeatist, don't you think?"

"That's because you always remind me that I am old."

"Well, to me, you are old, but you're better than me. And you're better than the you, you were at my age."

"I thought twins were supposed to be kind to their other half."

"It's not me who should be telling you all this. It's you yourself. Stop trying to live in the past. There will always be people younger than you. And as the years go by, they will keep getting younger and younger, and you will end up looking like some hideous throwback to the early 2000s. if you continue with all this refurbishing of yourself each weekend. If you carry on, you won't be going home with some of these people; you'll just be laughed at behind your back."

"Right, that's it. I'm not going out!"

My twin always made me feel like this every weekend. It was the same conversation and the same outcome. I did always end up going out, but his words, although the same each week, just cut deeper and deeper. I was jealous of him, really. I was jealous of his physique, good looks, low hairline and bright eyes. I sometimes wondered who had the worst deal? Him not having to try and roll back his age, being dead? Or me, fighting each weekend to look minus my years old, with each year getting harder.

One day I will accept the real me; I'll have to. But I'm not the only one who does this, I know that for a fact. So many gay men dread getting older. It's commonly known that when you're 30, you're 'on the shelf'. And you know from that shelf, you have to watch the stunningly handsome youngsters pick up who they choose, with no effort. But what does it all amount to? Are they happier than me? Do they have the same insecurities about themselves?

I wish I could do it all over again. I miss those times of youth. Being able to throw on a top and a pair of old jeans and just roll in somewhere. Jumping in that taxi to the pubs and clubs where your fellow gay people would congregate was what I looked forward to. Drinking the night away until the game of copping off would begin. Those days are gone now. I'm old in gay years.

I'm old.

Perhaps I should stay in.

Or perhaps I should just be myself and stop pretending!