I have looked upon myself as an aging gay man no other would love in the sweet and sexual way which is still so important to me. How many times have I thought my life had come to an end whilst I still walked around on two feet. How many times has the last-mile cry when a prisoner is headed for his doom echoed in my brain: "Dead man walking!" Yessir, I honestly accepted that he was me, imprisoned in a lonely old age, destined to die with a paid escort at my side. 

For years, when I thought of "love," it was generally in a commercial sense, knowing that if I could afford them, there were male prostitutes and hustlers of various sorts who would make themselves available to me. I had gone through that phase. 

I remember being taken once in another country to what was called a "peg" house, i.e. a brothel staffed with presumably desirable young men instead of women, males having "pegs" for sex instead of "pockets" like females, as it was explained to me. I never quite bought the explanation, but I have never heard another. In "The Memoirs of Fanny Hill," a classic pornographic work I carried around in my underwear when I was fifteen to read in a toilet stall in the restroom between classes at school, I read a scene wherein Fanny is turning a trick in a shabby hotel when from the next room cries of passion are heard. Rushing to peek through the keyhole, she cries out in moral outrage: "Bloody hell, but it's two 
pansies, one bent over a chair standin' like his father before and takin' it like his mother behind!" Thus, the "peg" house definition held no water for me as the young men in residence there had both "pegs" before and "pockets" behind. 
   
In standard gay circles, it is a foregone conclusion than any younger man on the prowl for an older is on the make less for sex than for bucks. I used to think that myself, before being educated in the Syndrome of the Silver Fox, in the thick of which I find myself proudly and happily today. I hear it said all the time, and each time I hear it, I refute it, loud and clear. "T'ain't so," I say. "T'ain't so. Our Foxy Kits, our younger guys, come here to us, the olders, for love." 

Here's a touching letter from someone who has visited this site. When I read it, I shook my head in awe of such a person as this young man appears to be. Now, how is that I have lived more than three scores of years, and it took me this long and far into life to find out how baseless was my fear of never finding without cash payment the kind of love that I have dreamt  would find me?  

I present his unedited letter below: 

"I am glad there is a place on the web where men feel that way that you men feel. I am 25 y/o and living in the closet. It is a very hard life and I know that when the right person comes along, I will know it.  Most of the older men I run across on the net think that because I like older men, I am looking for a sugar daddy.  That is not true, most of the younger men who like older men like them for there kind touch, words, opens hearts, experience and love that they have to give.  Keep up the great work." 

I will, young man. I will.