"I had seen silver foxes before, of course, and even counted some of them as friends, but this guy was different: He was stunning -- lean, attractive, skin unblemished. With his stylish clothes, Ferragamo shoes, and palpable sense of ease, he was a paragon of desirability -- and his thick gray hair only upped the sexy quotient. I wanted to sleep with him, date him, have his kids. And it was all the more enchanting considering this was in Chelsea in New York City, where the average gay guy still sports cargo pants and a fake tan. This man -- and he was definitely a man -- made the other guys look like mere boys.
Sure enough, I started to see silver foxes like him everywhere, these smoking-hot guys with toned torsos, obvious confidence, and insouciant hair, who weren’t decades older than me but only a few years. Wherever I was -- on Seventh Avenue, in my Williamsburg neighborhood of Brooklyn, or on business trips -- they seemed to flaunt their silver hair and masculinity as if they hadn’t a care in the world. I was beguiled. Now I couldn’t wait to go gray. I wanted to be a silver fox -- and to date one"