For my 70th Birthday I Hired an Escort

Gail Rice on finding her voice, and using it to ask for what she wants.

Jul 07, 2025

Richard Gere in a still from *American Gigolo*, 1980.

Read Part II

I hired an escort for my 70th birthday. I wanted a celebration to counter the dread I felt crossing the border from middle age to the land of the elderly. I needed something to shock me awake and inspire me to dance, not shuffle, into the next decade.

My birthday gift to myself came down to a choice between jumping out of an airplane and hiring a sex worker. Both promised a physically and emotionally exhilarating experience. In the end, it felt safer to get into bed naked with a stranger than to jump out of a plane attached to one. At least getting into bed, there was likely no danger I would break any limbs, something those of us with osteopenia need to consider.

I would never have imagined hiring an escort if it hadn't been for Emma Thompson in the movie Good Luck to You Leo Grande. Her character had fossilized in a marriage, and I was stuck on a roundabout with revolving partners, but we were both looking for an intimate connection with another human being—one in which our pleasure was paramount.

My birthday gift to myself came down to a choice between jumping out of an airplane and hiring a sex worker. Both promised a physically and emotionally exhilarating experience. In the end, it felt safer to get into bed naked with a stranger than to jump out of a plane attached to one. At least getting into bed, there was likely no danger I would break any limbs, something those of us with osteopenia need to consider.

I had been on dating apps in my 50s and 60s, but got off that treadmill a few years ago. I grew tired of listening to men as they complained about exes, yearned for deceased wives, listed medical complaints, moaned or gloated about retirement funds, or prattled on about their golf handicaps.

I was sick of holding the space for someone who gave nothing back. There was nothing sexy about a man fascinated with himself, winded after a short walk, clueless in the kitchen, or eager to split the bill over two coffees.

I was happy on my own. I love my work as a psychologist; I travel extensively and have good friends. But I started to miss touch, and the pleasure of skin-to-skin contact with someone. Facing 70 I was not willing to accept that I would never experience myself as a sensual, sexual being again, nor ever be seen that way in the eyes of another.

I had been on dating apps in my 50s and 60s, but got off that treadmill a few years ago. I grew tired of listening to men as they complained about exes, yearned for deceased wives, listed medical complaints, moaned or gloated about retirement funds, or prattled on about their golf handicaps.

Like Emma Thompson's character, once I started thinking about hiring an escort, I had to face the fact that many of my sexual encounters to date had been less than satisfactory. I was keen to see what I could discover about myself if I pushed the boundaries of pleasure a little.

When I Googled escorts online, I got lost in a maze of young, pumped men showing off their six-packs in various stages of undress, draped over beds and chairs, or frolicking in nature. I was tempted to go back to googling parachuting, but I persevered and limited the search to “high-end” escorts, hoping for a little less pec and more brain, which is how I found Mitch.

His profile was thoughtful and intelligent, his pictures warm and engaging, and he was dressed in most photos. He was in his late 40s, and although he was young enough to be my son, he was too old to be my grandson, which felt vaguely respectable.

Mitch suggested a phone call before our meeting. He was attentive and seemed genuinely interested in what I wanted from our session—not an easy task as he was opening the door to that sexual part of me that was gathering dust in some dark corner of my mind. And I realized no one had ever asked me to articulate my desires or needs.

I am grateful for his patience and skill in helping me decide what I wanted from his “menu.” In the end, I kept it simple: an orgasm and an erotic massage, and signed up for the minimum three-hour session at the staggering price of $1750.

I booked a hotel I had always wanted to stay at, indulged in a room with a view, and bought some new lingerie, hoping that would ease my terror about exposing my 70-year-old body in all its wrinkled and saggy glory. When I arrived, I ordered a bottle of champagne. I was ready.

I was happy on my own. I love my work as a psychologist; I travel extensively and have good friends. But I started to miss touch, and the pleasure of skin-to-skin contact with someone. Facing 70 I was not willing to accept that I would never experience myself as a sensual, sexual being again, nor ever be seen that way in the eyes of another.

In my fantasy, the candles would be lit, the champagne on ice, and I would open the door to a handsome man. But that vision reflected what one might find in the movies, not real life. Mitch told me I needed to meet him in the lobby, which I assumed was for safety purposes—a last chance to say no.

He looked like his pictures: relaxed and attractive. He kissed me on the cheek, and we got in the elevator. The ride seemed slower going up, and we filled the awkward silence with a discussion about the rain. All I could think of as the door finally opened was that first glass of champagne, hoping it would return me to my fantasy of what I wanted this to be.

We sat in two overstuffed chairs overlooking the old city clock, and I began my interviewing process—my default position when I am nervous. Even if Mitch had wanted to ask me a question, he would have had to be persistent. I was on a roll, asking about his escort business, travel, books, film, and anything else that would keep him talking—strange, considering that was the very approach I hated using on my dates.

He told me that women “my age” tended to want a “boyfriend” experience and younger women “hot sex.” A boyfriend experience, he told me, was one in which he acted more like a companion, hugging, kissing, and snuggling. I reminded him that none of those were on my list—and he reassured me he knew I simply wanted an orgasm and an erotic massage.

The clock's bells chimed 6pm, reminding me that an hour had passed, and we were still sitting across from each other, fully clothed, no part of us touching. The awareness that I had already burned through $550 woke me up. I needed to stop talking. I asked Mitch, “What do we do now? “ He suggested a cuddle and a kiss.

We stood, and he pulled me into his arms and started kissing me. It felt too close, too soon, too intimate. It reminded me of that feeling of being trapped as clumsy teenage boys slobbered on. I pulled back and suggested we try the erotic massage. I removed my clothes quickly. He hadn't even seen my expensive lacy underwear.

Neither erotic nor massage fits a description of what Mitch was doing: patting my arms and tummy with oil and performing some strange circular movements, touching me so lightly I could hardly feel anything. And then, before it started, it was over—no rolling over on my tummy, no soothing back rub. I have had remedial massages that were more sensual.

He told me that women “my age” tended to want a “boyfriend” experience and younger women “hot sex.” A boyfriend experience, he told me, was one in which he acted more like a companion, hugging, kissing, and snuggling. I reminded him that none of those were on my list—and he reassured me he knew I simply wanted an orgasm and an erotic massage.

I felt tense and disconnected. Mitch got into bed next to me, put his head on my shoulder, and continued to rub my tummy. He then nestled into my shoulder, making me feel as if I were expected to stroke his head. I was mute, unable to move my body or open my mouth.

His hands strayed a little to my legs, like a cursory visit. I felt myself dozing off, sadly, not from post-coital bliss, but either from boredom or as an unconscious strategy for escaping the excruciating situation. He kept talking and stroking my arms and tummy.

The clock outside told me there were 20 minutes left to our session, and we hadn’t had anything resembling sex yet. Finally, I managed to say, “This isn't working.” He responded, “I'm devastated; sometimes there isn't a connection.” What? Devastated? No connection? Wasn’t that his job? But I said nothing. I asked him to leave.

He did look devastated; I just hoped he wasn't going to cry. It was a relief to hear the door close. I poured a glass of champagne, propped myself up on the oversized starched cotton pillows, and took a big bite of the gooey chocolate cake the hotel had delivered for my birthday—the most sensual and pleasurable part of the whole evening.

I didn't sleep all night. Over and over, I mentally composed a letter to Mitch. I was happy with the measured letter I wrote to him the next morning, framing it from one professional to another. I suggested his service the night before would have been like me offering Jungian therapy to someone who had wanted Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. The service I requested wasn't delivered; I asked for a refund.

To my surprise, he emailed me back immediately, saying he had transferred the money into my account and asked if I wanted to discuss it. I am pleased that I didn't call him back; I was in danger of being the curious interviewer or the mommy patting him on the head. I respected him for offering me a full refund. He was a good man who, for some reason, had been unable to do his job properly.

I take responsibility for being part of the “problem.” My hour of interviewing perhaps confused him. But it had been his job to guide the session. Maybe not fitting into the hot sex or girlfriend category put him off his game—but no excuses for that one. He knew exactly what I had requested, and accepted the assignment.

While I was disappointed I didn't get the jump start I imagined, the session with Mitch gave me something more important: I found my voice—the voice that said, “That's not good enough; I deserve more.” I found the voice that can ask for what I want without shame, in this case, before and after the experience, although but not during.

I am so pleased I didn't try to rescue Mitch during or after the session, or make excuses for him. I realized this was a pattern; I was always more concerned about pleasing men and comforting them than daring to wonder what I wanted.

I allowed myself to ask for what I wanted, and when I didn't get it, I didn't walk away quietly, blaming and shaming myself. At 70, it is time to name what I want and ask for it without apology.

A few months later, I hired another escort. This time, I trusted my voice and my body. But that's another story.