I remember, some years ago, walking through Yorkville of a Saturday late morning. I espied, from some distance, the most enduring automotive silhouette, that of a 911 (in pristine butterscotch) outside the Suction Cup.
The driver was consistent with demography in that he was a man in his early mid-60s, though cast against type in that he was trim and nicely turned out.
By now I was passing the front staircase. Not quite a grand one, but making the best of it was a fair man in his 20s, with a great cut of hair that matched the car and what I remember as an expensively understated tan bomber jacket that was small increments removed from a Rickson collectible straight out of Pattern Recognition.
The older I get the more avuncular I get, but even as the young man and I looked at each other we silently transmitted shared knowledge of what was going on. And what was going on was not a May/December romance or a kept boy but an arrangement that could be rewarding for both. The young man gets to grow up a bit faster; the old man has a beautiful creature to call his own, on whom he bestows not just haircuts and apparel but wisdom, calm, and generations of accumulated knowledge.
But, like hounds with short lifespans, such boys must themselves grow up and leave the nest. When they leave, they leave their eldergays left bereft. These young men, God willing, later become eldergays themselves and carry on our societal role as transmitters of culture.