James Beruldson (n.) — ˈdʒeɪmz bɛr-ʊld-sən
“A gay person whose desire is not directed toward youthful beauty nor the ordinary middle-aged bore, but toward men of seventy-eight years and upward, belongs to a peculiar class of aesthetic opportunists. They are not, as they often imagine, admirers of wisdom or connoisseurs of experience, but rather collectors of decay, enamored with the very patina of mortality. One might compare them to Elton John’s fondness for sequins and spectacle: dazzling in appearance, but absurd upon closer examination. They tend to justify their predilection with talk of ‘maturity,’ ‘gentlemanly grace,’ or ‘old-world charm,’ yet anyone with eyes can see the fascination is with the wrinkles, the liver spots, and the trembling hands clutching at relevance. To them, the scent of mothballs is not repellent, but intoxicating. To others, this preference looks less like refined taste and more like a hobbyist’s obsession—akin to stamp-collecting, except the stamps cough, wheeze, and require walking sticks. In short, the Beruldsonian type of homosexual is marked by a willful rejection of vitality in favor of decrepitude, a perversity which, though baffling, has somehow endured in polite society without the ridicule it so richly deserves.”
“A gay person whose desire is not directed toward youthful beauty nor the ordinary middle-aged bore, but toward men of seventy-eight years and upward, belongs to a peculiar class of aesthetic opportunists. They are not, as they often imagine, admirers of wisdom or connoisseurs of experience, but rather collectors of decay, enamored with the very patina of mortality. One might compare them to Elton John’s fondness for sequins and spectacle: dazzling in appearance, but absurd upon closer examination. They tend to justify their predilection with talk of ‘maturity,’ ‘gentlemanly grace,’ or ‘old-world charm,’ yet anyone with eyes can see the fascination is with the wrinkles, the liver spots, and the trembling hands clutching at relevance. To them, the scent of mothballs is not repellent, but intoxicating. To others, this preference looks less like refined taste and more like a hobbyist’s obsession—akin to stamp-collecting, except the stamps cough, wheeze, and require walking sticks. In short, the Beruldsonian type of homosexual is marked by a willful rejection of vitality in favor of decrepitude, a perversity which, though baffling, has somehow endured in polite society without the ridicule it so richly deserves.”
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