Catching Up With Age

They say age is just a number. 

"Who said it. WHO would say such a thing? I want names, Adam Lee, I want names!" Stanley demanded as the debate about growing old started to get a little more dramatic. 

Carl, as usual, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 

To the credit of our dense friend, he can always sense potential trouble brewing though his IQ and EQ levels restrict him from dealing with them head on.

"This wine tastes amazing!" Carl said nervously, guzzling down three-quarters of his Malbec. 

"It tastes wonderfully aged," he said with a series of nods, looking to us for approval.

Stanley rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, sighed, and continued: "I don't know which idiot said age is just a number - but he's an idiot."

Carl stopped nodding and subconsciously shifted in his seat again. 

"But that idiot obviously doesn't know what's contextual numbers," said Stanley, Word Inventor. 

"What's that?" Carl asked earnestly, easing naturally into our Thursday night dinner conversation at 8 Cafe, a gay-owned restaurant known not just for its good food but also the boss' good looks. 

"That means - oh, hi Bill, I will eat you up someday," Stanley interrupted himself as he eyed the busy boss' buttocks that just whizzed by our table.

With Stanley, one always needs to be patient.

"Does waiting on tables give you such firm, tight buttocks?" Stanley asked the world at large, stressing the word tight with a clench of his teeth. 

Carl looked up from his soup and tried to make sense of his friend.

"Anyway," Stanley continued, snapping back from his parallel universe. "Contextual numbering means that the numbers must mean something to you."

Carl tilted his head and gave Stanley's words some thought, then focused on making his soup disappear instead. 

"Anyway, the number cannot be a standalone figure if it means nothing to you," Stanley explained.

"Say, Carl. What does the number 70 mean to you? Good or bad?"

Carl frowned and thought very hard, then focused on breathing instead.

"My point exactly. You wouldn't know," Stanley cut in. 

"Stan, stop being mean to Carl."

Carl looked at me and beamed merrily. 

"Carl. If 70 were your weight. Good or bad?"

"Good!" answered the muscular Carl immediately, whose ideal weight was 72.25kg. 

"If 70 was your age, good or bad?"

"Bad!" Carl said with momentum. 

Stanley and I clapped with relief. 

Carl clapped alongside with glee. 

"How's the soup?" Bill the Boyish asked the table of three. 

"Very yummy," Stanley replied, giving the word yummy unnecessary emphasis. 

"What is it that you do to your soups, Bill. They taste like puppy love." 

"Thank you, thank you," said Bill with a nervous laugh before he suddenly turned away and became very obsessed with the cutlery placements of the empty table behind him. 

"See? Bill is a great exemplification of contextual numbers - he's nearly 50 but it doesn't mean anything because he doesn't look it!" Stanley said to anyone at our dining table who bothered to listen.

A few courses later (deep fried mushroom and calamari [to share]; tomato soup for Stanley and I and mushroom soup for Carl), Stanley finally got to his point. 

"I recently slept with a young guy."

Carl and I immediately leaned forward.

"Spill," I said urgently.

"Spilled. Messily. Twice," Stanley replied with equal urgency in his voice.

Carl cautiously put his soup spoon down.

"I mean, I've never slept with someone so young before but once you do that... You never look back. Ok, it doesn't rhyme," said Stanley in faux disappointment as he began slicing his medium rare steak. 

"How old was he?" Carl asked with concern. 

"He's of legal age. Calm down, mother," Stanley replied. 

"What damage have you done to our young," I said.

He's not that young. Calm down, Mother Teresa," Stanley said, then looked toward the ceiling and mouthed the word sorry. 

Turns out, the boy was 21. This December.

There was an collective audible gasp at our table when Stanley made that revelation.

That's like you in JC1 having sex with a newborn at KK Hospital, I pointed out.

Thank you Sherlock, but according to Stanley, my argument was flawed and my point, immaterial.

"It's not about how large that gap is," Stanley paused and giggled to himself at the double entendre, and said "But he's an adult now. And I'm an adult. And we're both adults doing very adult things."

By dessert, Stanley was ready to make his closing argument.

That his encounter had shed new light on age.

Just last week, Stanley was 30 years old on Grindr.

That night, he's 38 and proud. 

Up till that night, Stanley had always thought that the younger one markets oneself, the better.

Anybody above the age of 30 has no market value. Anybody above 40 will have limited shelf life. Anybody above 50 must learn how to top and be ready for a life as sugar daddy, he would say.

That night though, Stanley trashed his old theory and adopted a brand new one.
 That old people - or any type of gay people for the matter - have their own market value.

"God invented Grindr for a purpose - so that everyone can find someone in that lovely app," he went on.

"And, applying my latest invention of contextual number concept to my life, 38 would mean maturity, finance, stability, and most importantly, wisdom and intellect," Stanley said, trying to avoid eye contact with Carl.

So from today, I will be out and proud of my age because the truth is, I know that regardless of how old I am, people will appreciate me for whom I am - even on Grindr, he concluded by the time coffee was served.

"I can even bed guys who were just born when I was in JC1.

"And tonight's revelation, my dear boys, is what I call coming of age."