by Samantha Cayto
George Bernard Shaw famously said that youth is wasted on the young. This witticism is certainly apt where I’m concerned when it comes to the appreciation of the male form. As a young woman, I sneered at overt masculinity, favoring a more androgynous look in my men. As a middle-aged woman I look back at my younger self and shake my head in dismay. How could I have squandered my opportunity to revel in the delight of six-pack abs and bulging biceps at the time of my life when I was at my own “hottest” level? It seems as if the older I get, the more enthralled I am with male bodies. This was most apparent the other day as I attended a multi-generational cook-out. The host of the party has a pool and young men frolicked in the water, showing off their bodies and their strength. Had I been their age, I would have undoubtedly sought out a pasty, willowy boy off reading in a corner somewhere. Now that I can appreciate the beauty of the more chiseled boys who play football and hockey, decorum forces me to turn away and pretend that I’m above (or beyond) all that tantalizing male flesh. Ah, well, such is the irony of life.
Happily, when I returned home, I had my own “boy” waiting for me. He’s a decade older than I am, but he still catches my eye whenever he strips down. He literally weighs as much as he did in college, which is to say, not very much. You’d be hard pressed to find an ounce of fat on him. His flesh may not be as firm as those boys in the pool, his muscles not quite as well defined, but his fitness is far more impressive than that of a younger man. It’s easy to be hot when you’re young. Much harder as we age. I actually appreciate his physique more now than when we first met. I was too young and dumb to understand how lucky I was to have him.
So, yes, George was absolutely right. I wish I had my current wisdom in my youth, or I’d be willing to have my youthful body now that I have my wisdom. I’m easy.