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.
