Parting Glances: May babies, gay babies

I turn 70 May 12th. I don't feel it. I don't look it.
(I can pass for 62 — just in case there are any 32 year-olds out there who just might be interested, or myopic.) Of my allotted six score and ten, I have been out and about for 57 all-too-brief summers, and as many all-too-long winters.
My birthday coincides with those of Florence Nightingale, Katherine Hepburn, George Carlin, Burt Bacharach, and Yogi Bera — none of whom I've personally known but, then again, they didn't ask to be introduced.
The first two celebs pop up now and then on gay.coms, in spite of the AMA, Spencer Tracy, and the Daughters of the American Revolution. Carlin and Bacharach are straight, exceptions to the Taurean rule. The less said about Yogi Berra, the better. Football just isn't my sport. Or, is it lacrosse?
The Coffee Table Book of Astrology says that Taurus is "the sign of sexual deviancy." Nature and nurture aside, that's undoubtedly why I'm gay. At least that's what I told my draft board at age 18. Frankly, if I had it to do over again I'd choose to be born in May. Why spoil a good thing? Taurus, if nothing else, is a very butch sign. (Apologies to wishy-washy Libra.) Leo sucks.
As a Taurean I've learned to take the bull by the horns, among other things. And I've been known to commandeer quite a few gay-owned china shops. Bully for me. Bring on the matadors. O-lay!
Birthdays forty, fifty, and sixty didn't faze me. But 70 set me back a bit, until I got the bright idea of shaving my head instead of coloring what remaining hair I have on top and tinting my beard for the umpteenth time. (Henna rinse is definitely not an option.) A sassy belt buckle also helped. Liposuction comes next.
I take good care of myself. I walk the streets a lot. I exercise lustily (in-house dumbbells, fifty reps a piece, three times a week). I watch what I eat. I take vitamins, Omega-3 Oil, exotic herbs (no Viagra). I meditate. Om shanti! And, importantly, I avoid gay bars, where the stress and strain of being totally ignored on the dance floor and in the parking lot can tax one's mental and moral equilibrium to the hilt.
I can't remember the last time I was asked for ID. (Actually it was in Chicago three years ago — and, for some obscure reason, at a dyke bar.) Nobody wants you when you're old and gay (unless you've got beaucoup bucks — and a stable to keep them in.)
When I was younger I dreaded the day when my libido would eventually come to a screeching halt. Or, so I thought it would. Well, I've got news for future septuagenarians: the body may be outdated but there's still viable zoom-zoom in the chassy, if you shift gears going uphill, or going down. My U-turns are commendable.
If only I could be 23 again for 90 old-time-sake minutes of one memorable overnighter, say with a Colin Farrell lookalike. [Video taping optional.] Alas, how true it is: you can't go home again, let alone to a decent X-rated motel. Nonetheless, I can dream can't I?
But I've had a star-studded life so far. Revolving doors have opened for me. I've had my day in the tanning booth sun. If I've got one gripe it's this (thanks to George Bernard Shaw): It's a pity youth is wasted on the hung — sorry, young.
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