Charles turns 29 tommorow.

I'm hoping he doesn't get too upset. Charles still finds aging terrifying. Since my next birthday will find me at forty-eight it isn't easy to sympathize with his sense of impending decreptitude.

A little less than three decades ago as a young guy with a taste for even younger guys I dreaded the idea of turning thirty. Too deeply enamored with pale and frail jailbait I feared my own erotic appeal would evaporate when I got that old.

There was a tremor, maybe more of a ripple when I turned twenty-five. Mostly because I couldn't disallow that I was an adult. I've never been able to match myself with the word. Even now with a mortgage, partner and responsibilities "Mr. Lee" feels more cutting than respectful.

Having learned long ago that most older people are childish extending me reflexive esteem just because I haven't gotten myself killed yet seems preposterous.

I forgot to worry about aging. The ineluctable biological failures are terrifying. I won't be surprised if June 8, 2004 doesn't bring a few chills down my spine.