by Donald West
As is often the case, the immediate aftermath of bereavement was busy with things to do, people to be notified, probate to be applied for, tax affairs settled, Pietro’s book collection to be cleared from Christie’s office, the London flat to be attended to and Christie’s arrangements for a memorial service negotiated. All this activity was a helpful distraction from a sense of terminal catastrophe. For over forty-five years we had been used to making all important decisions jointly, with Pietro taking in hand most domestic concerns, from cooking guest dinners to decorations and repairs. Now, at age seventy-six, I was faced with the prospect that henceforth every decision, every chore, and every financial issue must be coped with alone. Luckily, at this juncture, John was around to give unstinting moral and practical support.
Because he had virtually no life beyond his work, in spite of giving me occasional gifts, Pietro had accumulated much unspent salary. He left everything to me and nominated me the recipient of his pension from Christie’s. Even though civil partnerships had not yet been introduced, that firm was not limiting pension benefits to spouses. I was now free to conduct life in general and sex life in particular without his restraining influence. Any sense of impending liberation, however, such as I had, sixty-five years earlier felt at the death of a restrictive, over-anxious mother, was overridden by an overwhelming feeling of loss. Life since has given me experiences and a degree of contentment that was unforeseen, but almost every day I am reminded of the past with Pietro. Looking back, I wonder if we would have been happier had we never met. Work in Cambridge having come to an end, the prospect of maintaining a bachelor home in two places seemed impractical, so I opted to move into the London flat. This meant selling not only the cottage, but disposing of most of the contents, including the things in the storage shed that had accumulated from Pietro’s years of collecting antique oddments, few of which were of significant monetary value. Far more than was appropriate for the space available were squeezed into the London flat, leaving me surrounded by mementoes.
Moving to London proved more problematic than expected. Towards the end Pietro had discouraged visits and I had not realised how far he had neglected the place that he had once cared for with pride. Walls and ceiling were stained brown with cigarette smoke, and a collection of cans of moth killer bore witness to his ineffectual attempts to combat a heavy infestation of carpets and clothes. From the broken down sofa bed to curtains and clothes, everything had become shabby and unkempt, necessary repairs neglected, and untreated damp was creeping up the walls. Drastic renovation proved necessary. Electric wiring was condemned; plumbing was ancient and malfunctioning; illegal asbestos behind fitted cupboards had to be removed and the place subjected to protracted decontamination, all at horrifying expense. Fortunately, with the sale of our Cambridge home and Pietro’s pension, I was feeling well off at the time. In a surprisingly short span of time, being still vigorous and healthy for my age, whilst looking back with nostalgia to the past, both professional and private, I discovered a new lease of life, largely thanks to the internet.
A Light Interlude
For single gay men not living with a partner and not integrated into a gay circle of friends, retirement and separation from work colleagues can spell social isolation. That did not happen to me for long. One event was an introduction from my San Francisco friends to Paul, a gay American in early but youthful middle-age, intelligent and educated, proud of his exceptionally muscular physique and athletic ability. In addition he was a powerful wrestler and into S & M play. They guessed correctly that I would find him attractive. He had lost his job through some brushes with the law arising from his sexual activities and was temporarily unemployed, but hoping for reinstatement into the nursing profession. Being for the moment fancy free and still in the phase of feeling myself sufficiently affluent to be extravagant, I invited him over to Europe at my expense and we went together on a holiday to Russia, where he had friends prepared to show us around and provide some hospitality.
I had previously spent a few days in St Petersburg on a package tour that arranged everything for one, but travelling as independent tourists was not so easy. Obtaining visas in America and England respectively, and co-ordinating dates, proved a nightmare. On arrival there were repeated visits to officials, long waits and additional charges before a mistake on Paul’s visa was remedied and we were allowed to continue our stay. It seemed to me that Russians were not very welcoming of lone American and British tourists who did not speak Russian. We tried to book tickets at the main train station, but, even with train times and destinations written down in advance, we could make no progress until Uri, one of Paul’s wrestling contacts, who was a hospital consultant living in St Petersburg, came to our aid. We had hoped to visit someone in Estonia, but were told that if we did we would not be allowed back into Russia for our return flight home. Moving around was an interesting experience. We used the cheap local system of hailing unmarked cars cruising around for illegal custom. Although warned that this might be dangerous, I felt Paul’s gorilla-like appearance was sufficient protection. Travelling by train to Moscow in a sleeping compartment for four, shared with two bulky and amused matronly Russian ladies, was a bit embarrassing.
We were heading for a small town a hundred miles or so north of Moscow to stay with a young American lady sociologist, a friend of Paul’s, who was renting a flat there, while engaged on research into Russian consumer habits. Her flat was small and we had to sleep on the living room floor. I got up in the night and in the darkness tripped over a bag Paul had left on the floor. In the morning it was clear I had dislocated a finger. Our hostess insisted on a visit to the local hospital where we were received by a gruff mannered gentleman in a white coat who proceeded to grill her about who I was and what I was doing in Russia. Her charms seemed to pacify him and when he finally turned to look at me I realised he must be the doctor. He touched and stroked the finger while looking at it quizzically before unexpectedly giving it one mighty heave that did the trick. My hostess had said that to offer payment would be tantamount to bribery, but she had brought along a bottle that changed hands discreetly.
Our hostess told us that although modest by American standards, her Russian neighbours, used to severe overcrowding, were aghast at a single girl having a flat all to herself. She showed us a typical local super-market where old-fashioned systems prevailed and shopping took a long time. Purchases from the meat or vegetable sections, for instance, had to be paid for at distant tills and receipts brought back to the separate counters for collection of the goods. We were taken to a dacha in the country, not a grand establishment, but a small cottage with a kitchen garden, where Paul spent time digging while I was introduced to an old lady who spoke English. She had once enjoyed affluence, but changes brought about by revolution had reduced her to penury. She was bitter about present day politicians, and dated her troubles back to the passing of her hero, Lenin.
On returning to St Petersburg Paul arranged an erotic wrestling session in a hotel room with his friend Uri, but the furniture got in the way and Uri was hurt. We did not seek out any gay places, but visited the usual tourist sites, palaces, museums. At the famous church of the Spilt Blood we observed separate entrances for Russians and foreigners, the latter costing several times the former. In the main shopping street of St Petersburg, where ostentatious wealth is on display, Paul asked the price of a tie, finding it about twenty times what he was expecting. The luxury shops and the gloriously restored palaces and beautifully preserved buildings in central St Petersburg were in marked contrast to the sometimes drab, even impoverished appearance, of some suburbs. I came away realising that a stay in a country like Russia, however brief and superficial, makes a more vivid impression than any amount of reading.
These stray memories of a short but eventful holiday may seem of no great consequence, but I include them because I think they illustrate a point. Gay men have some advantage in belonging to a minority that makes for mutual understanding with others similar
ly placed. Introductions to prospective friends in other countries become easy. When homosexuality had to be hidden, it was difficult for gays to locate each other. Now clubs and the internet have swept away old barriers, including distance, and enable world-wide search for a companion, a sex buddy, a soul mate or a lover surprisingly easy. It was never expected by Paul or me that we would be embarking on a continuing partnership. He returned to America on schedule and although our lives have diverged he still telephones occasionally.
Gay Life and Old Age
The old are commonly thought to be ‘past it’, and certainly most people would not think of someone in their eighties as attractive sexually. Yet many old people continue to have sexual needs, even if the impulses are less insistent than in their youth. Fortunately, loss of erectile potency, which does not necessarily equate with loss of libido, can often be ameliorated with Viagra. Gay men, accustomed to a lifetime of multiple contacts, are seriously frustrated when sexual encounters become difficult to find. In most gay venues – bars, discos and to lesser extent saunas – old men are out of place. Gay prostitution services remain available, and some of the advertisements specify readiness to cater to all ages. Even before Pietro’s death, I had already made some use of such facilities, usually visiting those offering S & M services. This was in part a special preference, but also because older men seem somehow more readily accepted among S & M enthusiasts. However, as already mentioned, these visits had resulted in a blackmail threat and precipitated resignation from Streetwise Youth. Less expensive than commercial sex are London’s gay clubs for men with specialised sexual interests, such as “S & M Gays” and several spanking clubs, one revealingly named “Boys and Sirs”. I took to visiting these venues, obtaining on-the-spot satisfaction, but acquired no on-going friendships from the encounters there.
Modern internet dating systems now provide previously unheard-of opportunities, not least for isolated or bereaved gay people. Discovering this made a real difference to me in old age. Web sites for gay males, like Gaydar, have thousands of subscribers from all over the world advertising their preferences, social and sexual, and what sort of person they are looking for. The information is usually accompanied by seductive pictures, and for those with web cams and video chat facilities communication is fully interactive. Some sites, such as Caffmos and Silver Daddies, set out to cater for the elderly and their admirers. Doubtless some of the younger subscribers are hoping for a sugar daddy, but it appears that gerontophilia, preferential sexual attraction to the elderly, is commoner than I ever thought possible. I have come to know a few who have had this orientation all their lives. It can be as compulsive as the yearning of paedophiles for children. Its origin has been little researched by sexologists. Some of the advertisers are gay men who have been in a long-term partnership with an older partner who has died and they are looking for a replacement. My own temporary flirtation with the internet, following Pietro’s death, secured a dozen or more encounters, including two men in this situation, now good friends, and a third, also a gerontophile, who is now my civil partner. This must surely be a streak of luck.
The internet is not without its dangers. Being totally inexperienced, I failed to use an address and a pseudonym that would conceal my identity. Living alone in the London flat, I was surprised by a knock on the door one evening to be confronted by a stranger who announced that she was from a tabloid newspaper. She had with her a copy of an e-mail containing my name and sexual preferences. She had already checked my academic attachments and publications. She explained that many of her readers would be shocked to learn of a Cambridge professor’s unusual pursuits, and asked if this was being done for research. I said of course I had done a lot of sex research, but I did not want to discuss it. She said she might need to publish something about it and left me her card to contact her in case I had anything further to say. I was very worried. Although having no relatives to be affected, I feared that scandalous publicity would embarrass former colleagues at the Institute of Criminology. For several weeks I bought and waded through the paper, but nothing relevant appeared. There were rumours around at the time about the behaviour of royalty, which may have fulfilled the paper’s need for salacious gossip.
The man I met on the internet, who moved in five years after Pietro’s death and became my civil partner, is over thirty years my junior. He appears active and fit, but has a chronic medical disorder that makes life expectancy uncertain and precludes a normal work career. Strangers might assume he has sacrificed a normal life to the acquisition of a sugar daddy. Some years after our union, when I telephoned to apply for some concession on repairs to the flat, the woman who was asking questions about ages of the occupants jumped to this conclusion and asked if the flat sharer was my toy boy. Living together in a one bedroom apartment within a building containing eight other units might have caused problems. I had acquired with the flat a very religious, Spanish Catholic cleaning lady who was in gossiping relations with neighbours in the building. Luckily, before my partner moved in, her husband decided to retire with her to Spain, so I was enabled to replace her with a male cleaner recruited through an advert in a gay magazine. He admits to living with a male partner, but maintains an attitude of extreme social distance!
Living in London, I needed to register with a local GP. My Cambridge GP had told me there would be no difficulty as the address was in a prestigious area with many doctors. In fact, it is something of a ghetto for the rich, where flats are outrageously expensive, and where the expectation of life is higher than almost anywhere else in the country. Many of the local doctors deal only with private paying patients. I discovered that the nearby National Health Service practices contained hardly any doctor whose name suggested his native tongue was English. Unexpectedly, an acquaintance who had once lived in the area said he had been a patient of a local doctor with a basically private practice who accepted a number of (presumably ‘suitable’) NHS patients. Accordingly, I paid for a private appointment with him, receiving a courteous reception. After inquiring about my background and medical connections he offered a place on his NHS list with the understanding that I could seek a private consultation if I had some particular need. Although disliking the idea of seeking special favours, I accepted his offer and have received prompt and efficient treatment thereafter. At his elegant waiting room, the fellow patients appear in keeping with the surroundings, the wait is never very long, and the reading matter consists of the Telegraph and a selection of magazines featuring gracious living and country houses.
A year or two later, with some misgivings I sought a private consultation with this doctor to explain that I was a homosexual and now had a living-in partner. He congratulated me and said that it was an advantage at my age to be living with someone. After being reassured that my partner was not a social problem or a substance abuser, he said he liked having members of the family included on his list and, despite being warned of my partner’s chronic medical condition, agreed to take him on.
I hope my partner will survive me, so it would be unfair to discuss him. Suffice to record that he has some independent means and that his gerontophilic libido is in fact more than I can easily satisfy. Like Pietro used to do, he proclaims belief in strict monogamy and has been jealous of my occasional visits to S & M venues and my friendship with another gerontophile. It seems ironic that mistakes of the past should be in danger of repetition. Fortunately, with ever-increasing age, sexual impulses are no longer pressing and their absence is missed more for the friendly contacts they yielded than for the orgasms they produced.
Gay bars, clubs, cruising grounds and saunas are mostly geared to younger, but in London there are gay social groups, some of them based around specialised interests, such as music or country walks, where older people are welcomed. Age Concern is an important provider. I had not thought of looking for a gay group until one of my internet friends, who was a frequent visitor to London, asked if I knew of any. I made inquiries and we eventually joined one. The leader
was a power freak who invited one of the members to devise a programme of activities. On presenting some proposals he was promptly expelled for interference. Several of us broke away and formed another group, which soon expanded into a collection of middle aged and older men, predominantly educated and middle-class, able to attract interesting speakers to their homes and organise visits to theatres and places of interest. For a time I was elected chairman of this group, but I found socialising with more affluent middle-class gays, sophisticated in theatre, arts and literature, somewhat intimidating. The talks and discussions, however, were interesting, and hearing about the lives of some members I was confronted by a phenomenon that I had hitherto thought uncommon.
I was struck by some men’s ability to switch successfully from heterosexual to homosexual living. I had always felt it was reprehensible for a gay man to marry and keep up a preference of ‘normality’ while actively continuing with, or secretly fantasising about, gay encounters. However, I now met up with some bisexual men who had apparently sustained a heterosexual marriage and fatherhood happily and responsibly, switching easily to a gay life-style when their partner died. Some were maintaining affectionate ties with their families, either by concealing their current way of life or by securing acceptance of the situation from their siblings and adult offspring. This experience is worth mentioning, not because it amounts to a scientific observation, but because it points to the danger of projecting one’s own species of sexuality onto everyone else. Intellectually, I have always had an interest in the biological determinants of sexual orientation, which I still believe to be crucial. My own self-perception, shared with many gay men, is of an exclusive, unalterable and involuntary direction of desire, but this is not a universal pattern. Degrees of bisexuality and even unexpected reversals of orientation can occur. How far personal choice or adventitious circumstances are responsible is an open question. Tolerance of individual differences is needed, not least among gays.