Here’s to the Older Man

Here’s to the older man. The original. The nonconformist. The peacemaker. The round peg that makes square holes seem inferior. The one whose years have chiselled his features like a barrel-aged bourbon. The one who life has taught to see things realistically. He makes his own rules, and he has no need for status quo. You can quote him, disrespect him, admire or insult him. The only thing you can’t do is be unaffected by him because he’s found his authenticity. His character has been distilled by time. He challenges us to move forward, and while some may see him as nothing more than aged, I see experience because men who are old enough to lose their delusions are the ones who make me see life more accurately.

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Here’s to the older man, not purely because he’s lost his immaturity, but because I am capable of sheer shallowness. There is a part of me that wants to look, to objectify, to consume. A man without age lacks charisma. His presence doesn’t scream ‘confidence’—not the kind that comes from humility. He can hold my gaze without flinching even at times when others find me intimidating. Here’s to the man whose features have been sculpted by time, because I’m not all profundity. I want to be attracted to a face that is affected by a lifetime of smiles and sadness. I want a spatter of grey, a few crow’s feet. I want someone who is all man.

Here’s to the older man. The one who’s not intimidated by being alone. The suave one who wears real cufflinks and mechanical chronographs. He listens to vinyl and has left pretention behind years ago. I’m not an age player. I don’t have daddy fantasies, and I don’t need a new father to re-experience my childhood. What I want is masculinity and skill. I want sophistication. Most specifically, I want a man who moves in a certain way. An older man has lost his ostentation. His movements are unaffected and fluid because he doesn’t feel the need to assert his masculinity.

Here’s to you, older man. You’re in command. Your depth lets you objectify me with a level of skill that makes me dissolve. You, older man, spend Sundays preparing breakfast and reading the papers instead of at the gym. You remember a history that I love being challenged by. You don’t rebel for the sake of being different, but because you know better. You take me on journeys through rock and jazz that comes from days when music had real grit. You remember what merit is, what books were like when the world still knew how to read more than 500 words at a time. Here’s to you, older man because years might eventually steal your beauty, but they will always make you more.

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