Read Part I
—
In his casual shirt and pants, Chris blended with the Sunday-lobby crowd in the elegant hotel. He looked fresh, as if he smelled of citrus and orange blossom. I took a breath and reassured myself knew the drill—I had hired an escort for my 70th birthday six months prior, hoping to ward off the existential terror of fading away. I knew how to do this.
Still, I needed reassurance and muttered, “You’ve got this, girl,” as I walked toward Chris. He looked exactly like his photos—mid-40s, a kind face, a mop of wayward curls. He reached toward me and gave me a gentle hug.
“It's nice to hear so many voices thinking about so many of the things I think about…” - , Oldster paid subscriber.
Those few moments in the elevator with a stranger I’d paid a lot of money to be with were excruciating—chattering about the weather, our eyes focused on the floor numbers lighting up one by one, a slow tease as if the elevator had no intention of ever reaching our floor, leaving us trapped in a time warp with only floods and fires to talk about. Finally, with the ding of the bell we arrived, then the awkward walk down the hall and the fumble with the card key. We were in. The scene was set—champagne on the table, the park view, the sun setting.
Six months earlier, on the eve of my 70th birthday, I had been sitting in a different hotel with another man. I had hired an escort, hoping that an adrenaline rush for body and mind might alleviate my existential angst about facing my 70s. Sadly, the happy ending I had imagined did not eventuate.
For a split second, I wanted to run. But I breathed back into my body and gestured to the overstuffed chair. Chris sat down. I poured us some champagne, and sat in the chair across from him, relieved to have the glass in my hand, the world behind me, with the distraction of watching the people strolling in the park across the street.
Six months earlier, on the eve of my 70th birthday, I had been sitting in a different hotel with another man. I had hired an escort, hoping that an adrenaline rush for body and mind might alleviate my existential angst about facing my 70s. Sadly, the happy ending I had imagined did not eventuate. Rather than a sensual, electrifying unfolding in crisp white sheets, my encounter with Mitch was more akin to a stilted teenage fumble in the back of a car.
Anticipating happy endings is often a trap, but sometimes, out of the pit of disappointment, something unexpected happens, and another, more complex ending finds its way into a new story. That is what happened to me.
Tossing and turning all night in the luxurious king-size bed, I felt foolish. What had I been thinking? In what wild universe does a 70-year-old woman get the orgasm and erotic massage she fantasised about from a stranger nearly 30 years younger? Only in the movies.
I was ashamed—ashamed that the body I lived in was no longer considered desirable. I was confused—confused that I had believed my own myth, that sensuality and sexuality didn’t have a use-by date. And I was disappointed. Disappointed that the man I had hired hadn’t been able to deliver what he promised. Above all, I was scared and frustrated that the battery jump I had hoped would propel me into the future hadn’t eventuated. Now what?
When the sun rose on that birthday morning, I was determined to get back on the horse. I reasoned I didn’t give up Tinder because of one bad date; this was no different. I was determined not to sink into shame or run away. I would hire another escort. It was months before I booked another hotel, put champagne on ice, checked my lipstick in the mirror, and headed to the lift to meet Chris. But it almost didn’t happen.
***
On the surface, choosing to hire an escort for my birthday didn’t make a lot of sense. I never had a high libido. And indeed, for the last few decades, given the choice of a trip to Morocco, Bhutan, or a new sexual partner, I chose the plane ticket every time.
Having a man in my life had never been a priority. Independence and commitment were binary choices in the world I built. At 17, I vowed never to marry and enjoyed a smorgasbord of relationships—mostly good, with a peppering of bad and indifferent, none lasting more than a few years. Some of the sex was great, most of it mediocre.
Now I understand that to be in a fulfilling sexual relationship, you need to show up, be present, let go of control, and open up to the vulnerable soft part of your mind and body—these were not my strong suits. I always had one foot out the door—in my distorted world view, commitment was a trap and vulnerability was a weakness.
I admired people in long-term relationships, as I did those brave souls who climb Kilimanjaro or circumnavigate the globe—their commitment and dedication are inspiring. But no, thanks.
In my mid-60s, I drifted away from dating apps, uninspired, uninterested, and bored with the sluggish fish left in the pond, happy and secure in my single life. Yet I began to miss touch and physical connection. Getting a dog might have been the answer, but that fell into the long-term relationship bucket. No thanks.
On the surface, choosing to hire an escort for my birthday didn’t make a lot of sense. I never had a high libido. And indeed, for the last few decades, given the choice of a trip to Morocco, Bhutan, or a new sexual partner, I chose the plane ticket every time. Having a man in my life had never been a priority.
As a psychologist, I know touch is not a luxury; it is a core psychological need, and there is evidence that skin hunger is linked to loneliness, depression, and even physical illnesses. So I reasoned hiring an escort would not only provide an adrenaline rush, but would also serve as part of my mental health care plan.
I understood, too, that I was looking for more than an orgasm; I knew I could sort that out on my own. I was seeking connection. I was longing to feel desirable. I was longing for the connection of touch from another.
But after my unsatisfying experience with Mitch, I had settled back into the warm pond of life with its predictable, satisfying rhythm, the thought of hiring a sex worker safely stored away in a dusty corner of my mind. It all seemed too hard. Then I got an email from a woman in her mid-60s who had read an article I had written about my date with Mitch, and she gave me the name of an escort she had seen six times. Something woke up in me. That day I called Chris, and that day I booked him. I knew I couldn’t ruminate about it, or I wouldn’t follow through.
***
On Chris’s website there were no pictures of him bare-chested, biceps bulging, leaning against a wall in his underwear. And he guaranteed satisfaction. No payment until after the session. I emailed him and he reassured me he could fulfill my request of an erotic massage and an orgasm.
I was more nervous this time. I felt more exposed. A second disappointment seemed more dangerous, proof that I was undesirable and pathetic. I needed to prepare.
I had a three-point game plan. I would not interview him; it wasn’t my job to make him comfortable. I would let go of control and allow him to do his job. And I would dare to be vulnerable, open, and unguarded. Trust myself. Trust Chris. Trust my voice.
After the first glass of champagne, I didn’t pour another. This time, I let him lead. And he did. This time, I would use my voice not to obfuscate but to ask for what I wanted. He suggested we start with the massage. Once again, my lace underwear felt redundant. No seduction, no slow lead-up. We each took off our clothes and placed them on our chairs. Not sexy, but it felt safe.
As his hands glided over my body, I sank into a mix of arousal and deep relaxation, as if my body were waking from a long hibernation. Nerves, muscles, and skin tingled as his hands and body moved over, under, and around me, like a warm wave.
As a psychologist, I know touch is not a luxury; it is a core psychological need, and there is evidence that skin hunger is linked to loneliness, depression, and even physical illnesses. So I reasoned hiring an escort would not only provide an adrenaline rush, but would also serve as part of my mental health care plan. I understood, too, that I was looking for more than an orgasm; I knew I could sort that out on my own. I was seeking connection.
He offered his erect penis, but I declined. Orgasm had little, if anything, to do with a penis for me and, after years of neglect, things had dried up there—intercourse would require more than a few hours. No problem.
I asked for what I wanted, and he was beside me, listening, watching, feeling, joining my body in a rhythmic dance. His focus stayed on me as he brought me to two orgasms.
Afterward, we lay entwined, talking and laughing about reading and writing. He was a writer; this was the job that paid his bills. When he told me our time was up, it felt as natural as coming ashore after a delightful swim. I didn’t want to cling to him or push him away. We hugged, and I tucked myself into the tangled sheets and slept like a baby.
***
Lying in bed the next morning, I remembered another time of sexual drought in my mid-30s. I had met someone the night before and was excited to find my diaphragm in its plastic case, tucked away behind sample lotions, half bottles of orange nail polish, and hotel soaps. But when I lifted the lid, a moth fluttered out, like a ghost—as if a part of myself I used to know had been startled awake.
That morning, watching the sunrise, I felt truly awake, not just in my body but also in my mind. It was as if another moth flew out of the cobwebs, washing away the dusty cloak wrapped around my body with tears of freedom and gratitude. I had been immersed in an erotic connection, not thinking, not controlling, not managing, experiencing sensations without having to worry about anything or anyone else. I showed up. I asked for what I wanted. I took the risk, opened my eyes, and danced with body and soul. Chris was the facilitator, but it was my mind, my body, and my voice that woke me up. I allowed myself to be seen. I chose to be present.
Afterward, we lay entwined, talking and laughing about reading and writing. He was a writer; this was the job that paid his bills. When he told me our time was up, it felt as natural as coming ashore after a delightful swim. I didn’t want to cling to him or push him away. We hugged, and I tucked myself into the tangled sheets and slept like a baby.
By seeking touch, I learned how to ask for what I want and need. I discovered I could let go of pleasing others and enter, for a magical moment, into a world where I’m connected in an intimate dance with another. I no longer need to make a choice between independence and connection; I can have both when I trust my voice. My battery is recharged. Escorts or erotic massages are the fireworks, but it’s my voice, the comfortable chair by the fire, which is my superpower. That is the happy ending.
Perhaps I’ll hire another escort for my birthday next year, but in the meantime I will continue the search for an erotic massage where I imagine my body like a Tibetan singing bowl responding to the mallet with a lingering, deep vibration and shimmering tone that fills the space in and around me.
Gail Rice is a psychologist in private practice, currently writing her memoir. Originally from Canada, she has lived in Australia for forty years. Her essays have appeared in Mamamia and the Sydney Morning Herald, and she has an upcoming interview on ABC’s “Ladies, We Need to Talk” podcast. An interview with her on the New York Times “Modern Love” podcast with Anna Martin is coming soon.
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
Thanks again Sari for publishing this second piece. Sometimes we think we are all alone with our challenges, disappointments and insecurities. As a therapist I am fortunate that the stories of my clients remind me we are all in this together. It is exciting to discover writing can be such a powerful connector. It has been such a privilege to write a few pieces in Oldster and get such supportive feedback from her readers. What a community!! Growing older is a privilege and a gift.. let’s embrace it.
Why wait until next year's birthday?!