Let's be a 50-something gay male couple on a cozy Saturday night.

I'm Brian and I haven't changed to go out yet because I desperately need to finish up IDing a Russian troll on Datalounge and compiling all of the evidence I've gathered into a scathing post!

I’m the giant bottle of mineral oil. I will be used later on when they rub each other down as a prelude to eldergay sex. Which will last 15 minutes before they both get tired and decide to turn on The Golden Girls.

I’m Brian, pursing my lips in passive-aggressive silence as Randy orders a *third* glass of wine and makes flirty comments to the 20-year-old busboy.

We're David and David. We're making our own super-fun plans for a really chic dinner out with a straight couple we've known since college. They're boring but sometimes they pick up the check.

We're only doing this because OP didn't invite us to dinner with Randy and Brian, who we secretly hate anyway ever since that weekend in the Berkshires. We're not supposed to know about OP's dinner, so we're going to pretend it's not happening.

Watch us having so much more fun at our really chic dinner out.

I'm Randy - I recently purchased a cycle of HGH from my hot trainer but I can't start because Brian will bring up his father's early heart attack...again.

I'm Brian, I fucked one of the Davids in the 00s.

We're the pre-dinner cocktails and 2-3 bottles of wine that will be consumed by 2 middle-aged men over the space of several hours.

Care for a little nightcap? Oh, we finished that bottle?

Cause it's been a long week at work and we both need to de-stress a little.

I'm the handle of vodka purchased for the two of us for one weekend

That is an awesome R1, R1 -- you win Datalounge tonight!

Congratulations

I'm the listless, hostile DL posts from another room while the husbear watches THE CROWN (what, again?) on streaming.

I’m the patina-crusted cockrings slowly decaying in the upstairs closet.

I am Randy passive-aggressively pointing out that this time, I remembered the fucking cilantro!

I'm the FUPA Brian had developed since he stopped going to the gym.

I'm the hot busboy hoping that a little swivel hips will lead to a double tip.

I'm the hamper overflowing with 3+ weeks of laundry ("since we mostly wear the same size, we've each doubled our wardrobe!").

I am the silent but deadly elephant in the room. If one of them doesn't do the washing, neither of them has clean undies or nice socks to wear on Monday. But both will swear to the death that it's the others' turn.

This will only end in tears.

I'm their friend Mike from Palm Springs who they have plans with early Sunday morning.

I'm the loads of gray hair falling out onto their pillows and clogging up the shower drain.

I'm the secret Grindr account on David #1's phone and the secret Scruff account on David #2s.

It explains why they haven't had a PIña Colada Song moment yet.

I’m the couch where we eat our grilled salmon and broccoli while watching Keeping Up Appearances before husband #1 goes to bed at 8:30 while husband #2 trolls DL until 1AM. After a wild night out until 9 on Friday, we’re too exhausted to do anything.

I'm the giant packs of Rogaine they bought at Costco and planned to share but appear to have given up on after convincing themselves that "bald is HOT."

I'm Randy's secret stash of pot.

Brian knows about me and disapproves, but says nothing because Randy's still hotter and could be up to much worse in secret. What's a little pot?

BTW, neither of them understands the whole "vaping" thing, even after Brian bought a rather expensive vaporizer from a super hot 25 year old he met at the gym.

So rolling papers it is.

Whoops, Randy bought the vape. Brian hasn't found it yet.

I'm Randy's secret stash of pot, and I'm a little stoned.

I'm a 50 year old gay who hopes the millenial cocksucker who came up with this stupid, condescending post gets cut off by Medicaid and has to pay for his fucking Truvada and Harvoni if he wants to live past 30. I wish him third degree burns in a four alarm fire which, at the very least. drives him out of mommy's basement, and I hope his I-phone lands in the toilet while he's swiping past prospective dick to plow his kitchen sink ass. I hope the next round of steroids and meth that he does bursts every motherfucking blood vessel in his cauliflower brain. People died to give you the liberties you take for granted! And I know many who never made it to 50. I hope you'll be part of that collection. Have some respect, you fucking asswipe!

I'm R23 who meant to post as an example on the "How to be a humorless prick' thread.

R23 sounds fun. I started this thread based off the similar thread about lesbians.

I'm not a millennial and I don't know what Harvoni is

We’re the Streisand CDs in chronological order on the shelf along with every Sondheim show (and movie and TV adaptation of same). iPhones mean we get dragged out twice a year anymore if we are lucky.

I'm R23's unused prescription meds, and I think you sound like you need a hug. Or some hot tea.

R23 is so old he's still got GRID

I'm the 25 year old who just wrote "sorry no grandpas" to R23 on Grindr

You're the 25 year old who's probably couldn't get another 25 year old on Grindr.

An appendix to R26: we're the other laserdiscs and DVDs that were only donated to charity in 2017. (Doesn't anyone want AB FAB Season 4 on DVD?)

We're still shaking our heads over the tragic purge of all the loving curated videotapes (which didn't happen until 2012). Many, many miles of videotape. That went into the garbage.

Wait until these boys jump on the Marie Kondo bandwagon. It's gonna be a home media bloodbath.

Didn't all these old queens just go to Palm Springs?

R23

MARY! MARY! MARY! MARY! MARY! MARY! MARY! MARY! MARY! MARY! MARY! MARY!

I'm the ever-spreading laps that contain Billie Jo and Bobbie Jo, the rescue cats that are also in their autumn years (Betty Jo succumbed to feline leukemia last year and both partners had to take a day off work).

Tonight our owners are watching "Roma" on Netflix and not "seeing what all the fuss is about, frankly."

I'm the fake profile David uses on Grindr to catfish guys into sending him nudes he can use to jerk off to. I'm a 25 year old personal trainer and total top. Some creepy old guy keeps messaging me about how he hopes I ge cut off by Medicaid and have to pay for my Truvada and Harvoni if I wants to live past 30.

I'm why David is googling "Harvoni" on the Firefox app he keeps hidden on his phone for searches like this.

I'm the bottle of poppers we haven't used since we got back from Provincetown.

I'm the following conversation:

"Kevin texted while you had nodded off. He and Spencer are going to the Cove for brunch tomorrow and invited us."

" ... Do you want to go?"

"Not really. I was hoping to sleep in."

"Me either. Text them and tell them another time."

I'm the pair of $400 tickets to see Madonna at the Garden. This will be our sixth time seeing her! She's Madonna bitch!

We're the surviving cast of PETTICOAT JUNCTION (watch us in the AM on DECADES!) and we're touched that R34 named the rescue cats after us.

We know it was a toss up between us and the 3 original CHARLIE'S ANGELS.

Tonight I'm this conversation:

"Don't forget to set the stove clock an hour ahead."

"Oh, wonderful, just what we need: another hour off our beauty sleep."

I'm an enlarged prostate gland, and you'll need to "learn to live with" me.

I will put the need to pee into a whole other category for you both.

I'm the open floor plan renovation we'll be starting in the spring. We love HGTV and our relationship is strong enough to last until it's over.

I am the shared Bradley Cooper fantasy that made last night's verbal J/O session so hot.

These all sound like me and my husband.

I’m the Entenmann cheesecake purchased at Giant yesterday, now on the table, knowing that I am about to be raped and murdered by the gays. If cheesecake could pray, I would.

I am the geeky teenage niece bored senseless in the suburbs who finds your shared urban adult life impossibly glamorous and sophisticated and appealingly decadent.

You both work in offices and go out to restaurants--and the theatre--all the time!

I'll get over it by my early 20s.

20 something gay male couples spend Saturday nights that are just as fascinating.

After Stevie breaks his ass setting the table for the Domino's Pizza he brought home, Evan can't take his eyes off his phone. Their relationship actually outlasted the carton of milk in the fridge, but Evan's getting itchy. (crabs?) He's exhausted Pornhub and Redtube, and just has to bring a third dude in to make this relationship work. Shit, his favorite drug dealer went back to the Dominican Republic, and there's no good shit to make the night happen. Can't get hard without the coke and the meth. Stevie sparkles: "Hey, I know this dude from the gym. He really makes bank. He hosts orgies at this huge house. A lot of the hot guys from the gym." Evan illuminates like a Christmas tree. Stevie continues: " But fuck, he's in his 50s. We'll have to blow him." Evan smiles with a sliver of tongue. "Free blow." Stevie slowly nods: "He loves those Spanish dudes. He takes good are of them." Evan's eyes pore down at the Grindr app he's trying to hide. Alejandro with the 12 pack and the tatted sleeve has a page. He almost creamed his pants last time he saw him benching 350. Maybe he'll be there. Evan and Stevie exchange knowing, synchronized glances. It's the spiritual connection between the two. It's what makes for a healthy, functional relationship for the 2020s. Evan tilts his head to the side. "Text Grandpa." Stevie makes a B-line for his Android. Evan returns to his I-phone. He swipes from Grindr to Facebook.. Feeling the pre cum moistening the head of his hard-on, he types a post. "Spending a cozy Saturday night with the love of my life." With Steve_____. He makes sure to tag him. So all his friends can see how lucky they are and how wonderful life can be.

I'm the dessert of poached pears and chantilly cream.

I'm the delusional 20-something busboy, who thinks all polite men over 50 find him utterly irresistible, and is sure questions like "What's today's special?" are always exactly the same as, "How about a threesome?"

Meh. Who woulda thought the lesbian thread would have been funnier? This one is just bitter.

My boyfriend and I are in our thirties and we related to almost every one of these posts.

I'm Randy's new IG account. Gotta show off all of my gains at the gym. Nothing is sexier than a middle-aged man on social media! #zaddy

We're Cosette and Eponine, the French Bulldogs purchased from a breeder upstate. We could have gone to a shelter but we really wanted purebreds.

I’m the broken dreams they each ponder as they hope for sleep w their backs to each other in a queen sized shoulda bought a king bed from pottery barn.

I'm the rape fantasy to 'spice things up'. The night will end in tears.

I'm the separate bedrooms. I'm the secret to our success.

I'm the empty house of the 50something couple who spend their waking hours traveling to or from someplace, and fill their Facebook and Instagram pages with:

Photos on the plane

Photos from various restaurants, theme parks and attractions

Posed photos in every spot.

They are never home and could remove their oven/stove since they never use it.

The photos fill the empty void in their lives and give them something to hold on to when they are playing with strangers in their "open" relationship, because gawd forbid they actually spend more than 30 minutes alone with each other.

I’m ms sissyboodles judging everyone of you queens from the bookcase

I’m the digital copy of “Get Out” on AppleTV. I’m joining “Shape of Water” in the should-watch-eventually genre.

I'm the game of "What Other BBC / ITV Show Has This British Actor Been On Before" they like to play together.

I'm an ironic viewing of Gogglebox.

OP, who is the original couple having dinner with Randy and Brian?

I’m the Endora moves Brian makes whenever he’s sitting on the toilet.

We’re the reason each spouse gets his own bathroom.

No, Brian, each turd does not require a hand flip. Don’t call me in here for that.

We decided to just walk down the street to the little restaurant that’s our go-to, there’s no tables available so we happily sit at the bar so we can talk to the cute bartender. We order a great bottle of Brunello and steaks and asparagus- no starches please - and talk with the owner who stops by to say hi. It’s a comfortable, relaxing night - the cute bartender asks if we’re going out after dinner and we laugh and so no. We stop at the market on the way home to get some stuff for breakfast tomorrow just in case we don’t go for brunch. After we get home we watch a movie and then go to sleep happily.

No Brian, I do NOT care to see "the world's greatest turd".

I'm happy that the psyllium husks and metamucil finally worked, I really am. But you can admire your works of art by yourself.

Ugh, scat trolls.

I'm not staying in for a cozy Saturday, as I'll be premiering in my local theater company's production of the Mikado!

I’m Ina Garten. My re-runs and I are headlining tonight’s entertainment!

We are Glenn and Eduardo, the couple having dinner with Randy and Brian.

We refer to ourselves as Glennuardo.

We are Mami and Papi, Glennuardo's Chihuahuas that are here for a playdate with Cosette and Eponine while our daddies drink and gossip.

I'm the Cirque du Soleil tickets freshly printed on a 9800 Series Samsung Color Laser printer.

I'm the credit card debt that is financing their entire existence, even though both have jobs.

I’m the neglected artisanal weed box. There are odds and ends of bowls, pokers, rolling papers, and brittle roaches in here.

We're Jeffrey and Bruce, we just had dinner with the Davids. We can't believe that Glennuardo brings their dogs to Brian and Randys' house. We would never think of bringing our puggles Coco and Zhuzhu anywhere!

I am the undying love between Randy and Brian, warts and all. I provide comfort on cold lonely nights and gratitude when the pets cuddle in closer for a snuggle.

I'm the warts Randy got on Fire Island summer of 99.

R72 I'm the credit card debt you'll be accruing when the drug dealing competition gets too be too much in your slum neighborhood. Now go choke on some cock, you 20 something bitch!

I'm the 25 year old with the six pack who's crying that I don't have a 12 pack and only 200 followers on Instagram, not 10,000. I'm that ripped hung 21 year old hot class B private who needs Lamictal and Depakote just to be able to carry a $12hr job. I'm the same 21 year old that can get a free college education wherever I want! All I need to is pass. That's the problem. I'm the 28 year old health nut vegan and makes sure he has his watercress and broccoli crowns with some coke. I'm the 29 year old with the clarity to realize that everyone of us is going to wake up one day sooner than expected and find we're over 50. If we're lucky.

Father Time is a relentless thief in the night and he doesn't take blow jobs in exchange for favors!

I'm Harold's dingleberry!

I'm wondering if R78 and R47 have ever actually met gay men in their 20s, but whatevs.

It's all good fun.

I'm the angry middle aged men on this thread who are triggered because they see themselves here and don't like it so they lash out at imaginary millennials. I never fail to mention medication that no one has ever heard of because my sad life revolves around a pharmacy.

R80 seriously! And whoever says that the lesbians are humorless need to meet these dusty old bottoms.

I'm the bottle of Just For Men underneath the bathroom sink for touch ups as needed

I’m Trevor, the interior designer friend of David and David. I’m trying to get them to change the living room decor and accept that Patrick Nagel prints are no longer considered chic.

We're the Davids and we WISH Trevor would find a nice guy to settle down with. Every pot needs a lid!

I'm Facebook. David #1 has it, but David #2 does not and frequently complains David #1 is on it "all the time" and says "social media is ruining our world. What a waste of time."

Nevertheless, David #2 gets 80 percent of his social news from David #1's reading of their friends' Facebook posts.

I'm the tickets to Palm Springs for Easter weekend. We've got matching bonnets for the contest at Hunters!

I'm the photo album. There is more than one photo in me with the guys wearing New Romantic clothes and Flock of Seagulls haircuts.

I'm the drawers and cabinets that will be slammed because Randy promised to help me around the house and he fell asleep on the couch again!

I'm this thread and I'm not going to be ignored Danalounge...

I’m the athleisurewear ever-ready and eager to be worn. Actually, I’m jammy pants and a 3/4 tee in magic fabric that adds $150 to the price.

I'm David's "readers."

"Sweetheart, have you seen my 'readers'?"

I’m the episode of Murder, She Wrote Brad is falling asleep to while John snores on his face with halitosis brought on by periodontitis.

I'm the fart Randy tears in the middle of the night.

Plants wilt, houseguests' eyes water and rumor has it that one of the mice under the sink DIED.

I'm the twenty bottles of half-empty designer cologne on the dresser from Brian's "fragrant phase".

I'm the codpieces and jewel toned tights stuffed in the back of the closet from their Renaissance Faire phase.

I'm the weekend marathon of "The Nanny" on one of the oldster mesothelioma channels.

I'm their fave guilty pleasure show ever. And they are recording all 145 episodes, most of which will go unwatched until they're deleted for a "Live From the Met/Great Performances" broadcast or two.

I’m the tasteful hardcover coffee table book of nude men

I'm Michael, wondering if tonight is the night to broach a CPAP machine for Stephen, who is sensitive about no longer being a size 34.

I haven't gotten a good night's sleep in six months.

I'm the (varied and expensive) assortment of 34-inch waist pants and belts that Michael secretly brought to thrift stores to donate, a few at a time.

As Stephen's girth expanded, he kept buying newer, larger clothes but never getting rid of the smaller ones that didn't fit. Because he might, you know, drop the weight soon. Starting tomorrow, even.

Michael, sadly, knows better.

[quote]As Stephen's girth expanded, he kept buying newer, larger clothes but never getting rid of the smaller ones that didn't fit. Because he might, you know, drop the weight soon. Starting tomorrow, even.

Sigh. I have a "Stephen" drawer of beautiful pants ...

I'm the gut that came back after one of us stopped Jenny Craig.

I'm going to go back to it -- and the next time I'm keeping it off!

Inspired by R97, I am the complete series DVD box set from Shout! Factory given as a birthday present, making it unnecessary to keep edited, commercial-ridden reruns on the DVR.

We are both in tears over Luke Perry: "But he's our age!"

We grew into this hairline; he was born to it.

We are Glennuardo and we’re irritating all our paired-off friends by devising couple names for them. “Say ‘Briandy’ one more time...”

I'm the early birthday gift.

R107 this hat would go perfect with that

I'm the clogged toilet resulting from the enemas both secretly did, hoping to be the bottom this time.

I'm the bitter over 50 single queen , wishing both ex lovers were dead.

R97 -“ mesothelioma channels” is brilliant. Well said - lol.

I'm the Instant Pot and I'm so much fun I have saved this relationship.

30-something couple looking for fun

One of us is back here on DL whilst hubby finishes watching OCEANS EIGHT on cable.

Sigh.

I'm Kevin. I was a chubby bottom and school-teacher for 20 years. 4 years ago I inherited 7 million. I quit my job and Sal keeps his cushy civil servant post. I hired a trainer and got in shape. I had treatments in a Swiss clinic to remove stubborn fat in my belly, my love handles and my groin. I got my 7.5 dick back and I've been carefully pumping it for 2 years. Its quite large and pendulous now even soft, and I'm a top with my fuck buddies. Sal has noticed all this and said nothing, doesn't even crack jokes.

I'm their can of Crisco!

I'm the LIttle House on the Prairie rerun about to start.

Actual Saturday night of genuine 50-something married gay couple:

1800ish: I'm the newly finished first retirement project, putting 1 1/2" trim around the living room baseboard which the previous owner laid directly on top of carpet, leaving a 1/2" gap when current owners ripped out the carpet and annoyed them every time they looked at it.

1815-1845: I'm the good order and discipline, the neatly stowed compressor, nail gun and air hoses, but also the 15 minutes unsuccessfully looking for an adaptor coupling. I'm also the shower.

1900-2000: I'm the local Pizza deliver guy. We're the hungry dog and cats, starving, STARVING TO DEATH while our cruel masters open a bottle of wine and admire their handiwork in living room. We're a couple of nail holes they missed filling with wood putty but are not in the mood to mix up another batch.

2000-2100: I'm the dog again, on a walk up the road, and I'm one of cats eating something in the grass that turns out to be a garter snake. My master curses eloquently when he sees--I'm already on probiotics and antibiotics for a stomach ailment probably contracted from such alfresco delicacies as snakes and roadkill-catch me if you can, Master (lol)!

2100: I'm the shocking revelation your husband made on the walk--he had never seen The Deer Hunter (Postpone resumption of Game of Thrones marathon to order The Deer Hunter on Netfix).

2200: We're Mike, Nick, Axel, John and Stan are on the titular deer hunt. I'm the cat again, scratching at the window, meowing loudly to be let in. It takes both of them15 minutes wrapping me in a towel and holding me down to give me my antibiotics. There will be blood.

2220-2240: I'm the first aid kit in the kitchen where you'll wash and bandage the cat bite on your thumb.

2245-2330: We're the guys reunited in Vietnam after the village firefight, only to be captured by the VC. I'm your mother-in-law calling from Utah at a critical point in the action. I was widowed 6 months ago, having a hard time coping, feeling lonesome. I have 7 kids and numerous grandchildren, but they have busy lives and families of their own. Thank God I can always count on that one son....

2330-0030: I'm the sink full of dishes and load of laundry you get done while your husband is on the phone. I'm the living room couch where he swears he's eager to finish the movie but will be asleep in ten minutes.

0100: Steve and Mike here--escaping through the jungle. Christ, is that an elk? Nope, it's your snoring husband. Or maybe it's the dog by the heat register. We're the cats--it's bedtime for you, but Showtime for us. We'll be stalking Ieach other through the house for the next 3 hours. Neither of us weighs over 12 pounds but somehow we manage to sound like a herd od cattle. I'm Empire of the Seas, a BBC documentary about the history of the Royal Navy that our Master is now watching on his phone.

I’m the half of the couple who is tired for not having had sex in years, so tells my other half — who is watching reruns of ice skating events on YouTube, that I ran out of antacid pills, and my heartburn is off the chart, so need to go to a pharmacy. Instead, I use this as an excuse to go to the park to suck and get sucked. When I return home, empty handed, I tell my partner that I had to go to four different stores, including one in the neighboring town, and wouldn’t you know it, all were out of stock.

R118 R119 I'd like to know your ages. Bad creativity. Lousy writing. Unfunny and an awful lot of free time on your hands.

Seriously. R118 needs to put the poppers down.

This is the kind of thread I live for!

I'm the surprisingly lively conversation about the sublime qualities of the movie "Where Angels Go, Trouble Follows" which can break out at any hour of the day or night!

I'm the Maskulo wrestling singlet Brian has sulkily hidden at the back of the closet after Randy laughed and said it made him look like Aunt Ida in Female Trouble.

I’m the pair of imaginary characters (Feuding sisters Delta and Dixie) that we lapse into when alone

I'm the single mom neighbor who moved inn two doors away a few months ago, and is hoping to get beyond Brian's friendly "Hi" when I see him in the street.

I fantasize that Brian and Randy will take my teenage daughters shopping and do other fun gay uncle things with them, but because I'm a bit of a social failure, I'm taking this real slow.

I'm planning to ask them advice on my houseplants in a few weeks, and will gauge the situation after that interaction.