I’m approaching my 70th birthdayth birthday, I felt a creeping dread. I was afraid of disappearing into the land of the elderly, my voice silenced, my body discarded like an old coat. I wasn’t ready for mothballs or slipping into a warm pond where I could float for the time I had left. I needed something more like a defibrillator, the kind that would bring a heart and a body back to life. I needed to scare myself alive.
My initial idea was to skydive, but for a woman with osteopenia, the possibility of fractures was a deterrent. One evening, during dinner, a co-worker suggested I hire an escort. He had a client in her fifties who had had very successful encounters. In my work as a psychologist, I had suggested that escorts might be an option for sex-hungry male clients, but strangely it had never occurred to me to suggest it to a woman. A few years earlier, I had seen Emma Thompson in Good luck to you, Lion Grandeand with that as inspiration, I was in. If there was anything that would push me out of my comfort zone, getting naked in front of a man young enough to be my son, that would be great. More importantly, there was little risk of fractures.
I Googled “male escorts Sydney” (I live in Australia, where sex work is legal) and got to work.
Soon I was flipping through selfies of naked men in their 20s, which felt depressing and almost illegal. When I changed the price filter to be higher, I was relieved to find slightly older men who could compose sentences without emojis. They were much more dressed up than their younger counterparts and appeared to be out in the world, traveling on ferries and sitting in cafes. No selfies in bathroom mirrors. Much better.
It was Mitch who caught my eye. He was in his 40s, his website was professional, and he was articulate and empathetic during our phone call, explaining that he had a lot of experience with “women my age.” It had an upfront fee of $1,650 for a minimum of three hours, enough to make my heart stop. But I knew that if I hesitated, I could close that door.
As we sat drinking a glass of champagne in the hotel room, I felt a pang in my heart when he mentioned that women over 50 often wanted a “boyfriend experience” (hugs and kisses) and that younger women wanted “hot sex.” Had he not heard me? I reminded him that my request was clear: an orgasm and an erotic massage. He assured me he was happy to deliver. But instead of hot, spicy laksa, Mitch served me lukewarm broth.
I’ve had more erotic therapeutic massages. His technique was subtle to say the least. Yes, there was oil, but very little. He patted my stomach and arms lightly and very repetitively, almost shyly. When I realized his hands weren’t leaving those areas, I suggested we move on. I was confused: I had imagined an expert, someone mastering the language of sensuality and sexuality. Instead, he rested his head on my shoulder like a little boy who wanted his head petted, and continued with lighter pats, only venturing up to the tops of my thighs. I was so bored and disconnected that at one point I fell asleep. I could have redirected it, but I chose not to. I wanted to be led.
When I told him I was disappointed and asked him to leave early, he looked devastated and I had to stop myself from blurting out, “It’s not you, it’s me.” He told me that sometimes there just isn’t a connection. A connection? It wasn’t a date. It was a favor.
Sexually speaking, the experiment was a failure. But for me, telling Mitch I was dissatisfied and asking him to leave early was a revolutionary act. For most of my life, I have been a good girl, trained to please people and careful with my money. I stayed silent instead of asking for what I needed, at least when it came to sex. My younger self would never have cut the session short.
After Mitch left, I was relieved to be alone in the crisp sheets of the king-size bed. But then my mean girl voice rose up, belittling and shaming me. Who was I kidding? I was a 70-year-old woman with sagging skin and a flabby stomach, naked in bed with a young stranger brandishing a six-pack. I tossed and turned all night, but in the morning another voice was heard. This one was tough, strong and told me to defend myself. What happened wasn’t my fault.
I gathered my courage and emailed Mitch to tell him how disappointing the session had been, then signed off requesting a refund. A few minutes later, my phone beeped. It was Mitch telling me that he had repaid the entire amount. He apologized and acknowledged that it was unsatisfactory. I was grateful for his professionalism and care. He was ready to talk, but I refused, afraid of going too far trying to make sure he was okay. I didn’t need to do that.
I wrote about my session with Mitch and it became my first published essay in the Sydney Morning Herald. The response was extremely favorable. People have called me brave and inspiring, words I would never use for myself. Then there were the naysayers, those who denigrated me, blamed me or insulted me. But for this crowd, the biggest transgression wasn’t a “dirty old witch” hiring a younger man for sex — it was the fact that she was demanding a refund. Naming my dissatisfaction and asking for compensation was apparently where I crossed the line. “It’s a little difficult to ask for a refund,” one person wrote. “The poor guy had to put up with a lot.” Another reader called my refund request “bold.” Countless others chimed in, expressing support for the unfortunate Mitch, who allegedly “did the job” and then received no compensation.
I could feel these comments pulling me into a cycle of shame. But a fire had started in my stomach that I couldn’t control. There are no good girls anymore. I had the right to express my disappointment. And a right to ask for pleasure. In fact, the comments only made me want to ask for more.
A woman in her 60s who had read one of my articles suggested I give it another try with an escort named Chris. She had seen him six times. He guaranteed satisfaction on his website and only collected payment at the end of the session if his client was satisfied with the service.
I was in it. I booked another five-star hotel room, an indulgence, or maybe insurance, if things didn’t go well. I was much more anxious and hesitant this time. For Mitch, it was a curious anxiety, the excitement of an unknown adventure. With Chris, I knew the exercise, the hotel, the meeting in the lobby, the bottle of champagne and the discussion about the weather. This anxiety was coupled with fear. What if this, too, turns out to be a disaster? What if I really am the “dried up old prune” that my trolls suggest? There was so much more at stake. I needed to trust Chris, let go and let him lead. It’s not an easy job for me.
Instead of anxiously pouring champagne, I stopped at the first glass and didn’t interview him. I told him I needed him to take the lead. And he did it gently, recording himself the whole time. I found my voice, it listened and my body listened too. While two orgasms were an exciting start, the real charge seemed to come from somewhere else, something like being kissed and touched in a way that made me feel seen and desired, which turned out to be the sexiest part. When our time was up, we felt good: there was no longer any desire for him to stay, no desire for him to leave, just the exhilaration of being present. As if waking up from a long hibernation and feeling the sun touching my face, I fell into a deep sleep.
Chris had opened a door, but I still wanted something more than orgasms or sex. It was a craving that was harder to name, something I imagined I could feel as if I were lying in a sunny meadow, my body humming like a row of Tibetan singing bowls. In other words, I wanted an erotic massage – the kind of massage Mitch hadn’t been able to do. My friend suggested I try tantra, and that’s how I found myself standing in front of a suburban house whose front yard looked more like the aftermath of an eclectic yard sale than the healing oasis it was advertised to be. Catherine, the woman who lived there, offered “sensual awakenings”. I signed up for three sessions with her before I could change my mind.
I had envisioned a serene space scented with sandalwood, with polished wooden floors, soft lighting, and a small fountain flowing gently in the background. Instead, I walked through a gate hanging on its hinges and into an overgrown yard, where there was a dusty exercise bike, cracked plastic tubs, and a young woman on the porch sitting in a rusty chair. “Gail?” » she asked. I nodded. She introduced herself as Susan, an intern. Apparently she would attend my session. My psychologist brain sounded the alarm. No one participates in a session without the client’s consent.
Catherine was 15 minutes late and I was considering retreating when the gate flew open and a dog leapt out followed by a woman, long hair flying, shouting, “Sorry, I couldn’t get Kali away from her friends.” » The only detail matching my tantric fantasy was her ankle-length Indian cotton skirt. I followed Catherine into the chaos of her house; dishes stacked on the counter, trash overflowing, every wall and surface covered in Indian textiles and paintings of Ganesh and Buddha. Susan was lagging behind.
No sandalwood. No jasmine. Just a light but unmistakable scent.
Dog essence.
Gn Health
