I am in the presence of confident and decent and attractive young men. They run nightclubs for hundreds of people. They drink. They dance. They do it all with consummate ease. They probably don't know their limits but they are comfortable and, for a second, or a minute, or a few hours, they don't care. Or, at least, nothing seems to matter to them because they are happy. They know all the songs and the words and the tunes. They can touch each other or anyone else, in more ways than one. The world is more than their oyster and the paint they carry is every shade of red. And they make me want to cry because they remind me of absolutely every single thing I miss about every single thing.
I must be getting old.