I don't think turning thirty will be that big of a deal. After all, I'm not like my mother, who chased me down the street on her birthday with an empty plastic 7-Up bottle for shouting out the front door that she was thirty. I just don't think it's a big deal. I'm a little more round around the middle. So what? I've got a few more attractive wrinkles in my face. So what?

I do get irritated when some twenty-four or twenty-five-year-old calls me "sir" when he hands back my change or hands me my big bag of fast food. I mean, I don't even like it when a guy I'm bossing around on the end of my dick calls me that! That "old guard" sub/dom crap is for the birds. Now the whole daddy/boy thing -- that's different.

Twenty-seven. It just rolls off my tongue sounding so plain. When I turned 25, I was excited. Don't ask me why, I just was. When I was little, I always thought that it would be a big year for me and even fantasized about dying that year. Unfortunately for some, I didn't. I just keep on smiling.

I remember seeing a picture of my Dad in his old Navy whites. He had to be in his mid-twenties, and he has always been a proud-looking man, a hot-looking man. Those tight bell bottom jeans stretched over his thighs, shiny shoes, chest out, that constant and timeless wry smirk on his face. At the awkward age of 15, I prayed that I would grow up to be just like my pop. So handsome. So sexy. So far away.

Now those days are here for me and I look in the mirror and think, "Not bad." I can see the resemblance in the chin, the eyes, and sometimes even that crooked smile passed on to me by genetics or by practice. I look ahead to the next twenty-five years and still hope and pray for my dad's good looks, salt-and-pepper hair, and eventually -- even sideburns! He still looks hot to me. I still "do" him in my masturbatory fantasies every now and then.

I don't think I want to have the gut like my daddy does, but that doesn't bother me too much really. I tend to like guys with meat on their bones. I'm taking steps to get rid of my little pooch that I have. I got a punching bag for my birthday and I plan on taking kick boxing, after much debate. I got a book on it, and there is a lot of gear I will have to get in order to do it right, but it's all worth it.

After all, I'm a firm believer in being the guy you want to fuck. I'm not just talking outwardly either, but inside as well. Maybe that's what these years before three-zero are for -- introspection. Evaluating your self-worth, challenging your own preconceived notions and ideas, and pushing your limits. That's something I try not to take for granted everyday.

I got email this past weekend from an old boyfriend. At first, I was put off by his condescending, faggy tone that has always carried through conversations, interactions, and now written word. Three simple lines asking me how I was and what I was doing, making reference to our freshmen year at college and what I was like then compared to now. I could almost hear his voice, with just enough venom to set me on edge. I could read between the lines to understand his fascination and bewilderment that I might change in 10 years time. He ended the note with a simple request to call him if I was still in the Kansas City area and that he might like to hang out.

I laughed and deleted it. Some things never change..