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Approaching my 70th birthday, I felt a creeping terror. I feared I might disappear into the land of the elderly, my voice silenced, my body discarded like an old coat. I wasn’t ready for mothballs or easing into a warm pond where I could float for whatever time I had remaining. I needed something more like a defibrillator, the kind that shocks a heart and body back to life. I needed to scare myself alive.
My initial thought was a parachute jump, but for a woman with osteopenia, the possibility of broken bones was deterring. One night over dinner, a colleague suggested I hire an escort. He had a client in her 50s who’d had some very successful encounters. In my work as a psychologist, I had suggested that escorts might be an option for male clients longing for sexual connection, 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, Leo Grande, and with that as inspiration, I was in. If there was anything that would push me outside my comfort zone, stripping naked in front of a man young enough to be my son would be it. More relevantly, there was little danger of broken bones.
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 put sentences together without emojis. They were far more clothed than their younger counterparts, and they seemed to be out in the world, traveling on ferries and sitting at cafés. No selfies in bathroom mirrors. Much better.
Mitch was the one who caught my eye. He was in his late 40s, his website was professional, and he was articulate and empathic in our phone call, explaining that he had lots of experience with “ladies my age.” He had an upfront fee of $1,650 for a minimum three hours—enough to make my heart stop. But I knew if I hesitated, I might close that door.
As we sat drinking a glass of Champagne in the hotel room I felt a twinge of discomfort when he mentioned that women over 50 often wanted a “boyfriend experience” (cuddling and kissing) and younger women wanted “hot sex.” Hadn’t he heard me? I reminded him that my request was clear: an orgasm and an erotic massage. He reassured me he was happy to deliver. But instead of a hot, spicy laksa, Mitch served me lukewarm broth.
I have had more erotic remedial massages. His technique was subtle, to say the least. Yes, there was oil, but very little of it. He did some light, very repetitive tapping on my tummy and arms, almost tentatively. When I realized his hands weren’t leaving those areas, I suggested we move on. I was confused—I had imagined an expert, someone fluent in the language of sensuality and sexuality. Instead, he put his head on my shoulder like a little boy who wanted his head stroked, and continued with more light tapping, only venturing to the top of my thighs. I was so bored and disconnected that at one point, I nodded off. I could have redirected him, 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 issuing an “It’s not you, it’s me.” He told me sometimes there just wasn’t a connection. A connection? This wasn’t a date. It was a service.
Sexually speaking, the experience was a wash. But for me, telling Mitch I was dissatisfied and asking him to leave early was a revolutionary act. For most of my life, I was 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 bed. But then my mean-girl voice rose up, denigrating and shaming me. Who was I kidding? I was a 70-year-old woman with droopy skin and a sagging belly, naked in bed with a young, six-pack-wielding stranger. I tossed and turned all night, but in the morning, another voice came through. This one was tough, strong, and told me to stand up for myself. What had happened hadn’t been my fault.
I gathered my courage and emailed Mitch to tell him how disappointing the session had been, then signed off by asking for a refund. A few minutes later, my phone beeped. It was Mitch telling me he had refunded the entire amount. He apologized and agreed it was unsatisfactory. I was grateful for his professionalism and care. He was willing to have a chat, but I declined, fearful that I would go overboard trying to make sure he was OK. 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 overwhelmingly supportive. People called me brave and inspiring, words I would never use for myself. Then there were the naysayers—the ones who denigrated me, blamed me, or called me names. But for this mob, the biggest transgression was not a “dirty old hag” hiring a younger man for sex—it was that she asked for a refund. Naming my dissatisfaction and asking for compensation was apparently where I crossed the line. “A bit rough asking for a refund,” one person wrote. “The poor guy had to put up with a lot.” Another reader called my refund request “audacious.” Countless others chimed in, voicing support for the unfortunate Mitch, who supposedly “did the work” then received no compensation.
I could feel these comments pulling me into a shame cycle. But a fire had started in my belly I couldn’t control. No more good girl. I had a right to voice my disappointment. And a right to ask for pleasure. In fact, the comments only made me want to ask for more.
One woman in her 60s who’d read one of my articles suggested I give it another shot with an escort named Chris. She had seen him six times. He guaranteed satisfaction on his website and only took payment at the end of the session if his client was happy with the service.
I was in. I booked another five-star hotel room, an indulgence, or maybe insurance, if it didn’t go well. I was much more anxious and hesitant this time. With Mitch it was a curious anxiety, the excitement of an unknown adventure. With Chris I knew the drill, the hotel, the meeting in the lobby, the bottle of Champagne, and the chat about the weather. This anxiety was coupled with dread. What if this turned out to be a disaster, too? What if I really was the “dried-up old prune” my trolls suggested I was? There was so much more at stake. I needed to trust Chris, let go, and let him be in charge. Not an easy gig for me.
Instead of anxiously pouring more Champagne, I stopped at the first glass, and I didn’t interview him. I told him I needed him to take the lead. And he did in a gentle way, checking in all the time. I found my voice, he listened, and my body listened, too. While two orgasms were an exciting jump-start, the real charge seemed to be coming from somewhere else, something about 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 it felt right—there was no longing for him to stay, no wanting him to go, just the exhilaration of being present. Like awakening from a long hibernation and feeling the sun touch my face, I fell into a deep sleep.
Chris had opened a door, but I still felt a longing for something more than orgasms or sex. It was a craving harder to name, something I imagined might feel like 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 Mitch had failed to do. My friend suggested I try tantra, which is how I found myself standing outside a house in the suburbs with a front yard more like the aftermath of an eclectic garage sale than the healing oasis it was advertised as. 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 imagined a serene space scented with sandalwood, polished floorboards, soft lighting and a small fountain quietly trickling in the background. Instead, I pushed through a gate hanging off its hinge into an overgrown yard featuring a dusty exercise bike, cracked plastic tubs, and a young woman on the porch sitting on a rusty chair. “Gail?” she asked. I nodded. She introduced herself as Susan, a trainee. Apparently, she’d be sitting in on my session. My psychologist brain rang its alarm bells. No one takes part in a session without the client’s consent.
Catherine was 15 minutes late and I was considering a retreat when the gate burst open and a dog bounded in followed by a woman, long hair flying, yelling, “Sorry, I couldn’t drag Kali away from her buddies.” The only detail matching my tantric fantasy was her ankle-length Indian cotton skirt. I followed Catherine into the chaos of her home; dishes stacked on the counter, bin overflowing, every wall and surface covered with Indian textiles and paintings of Ganesh and Buddha. Susan trailed behind.
No sandalwood. No jasmine. Just a faint but unmistakable scent.
Essence de chien.
Catherine gestured toward the sofa buried under piles of clothes and books. I nudged aside an ironing board; she tossed some clothes to the floor and sat down too close to me. Her eyes locked onto mine.
“Why are you here?” she asked. I told her the abbreviated version. As I spoke, the muscles in my neck released. Catherine’s voice was calm and steady, her eyes never straying from mine. She explained that tantra wasn’t about performance, but about letting sexual energy arise naturally. In the tantric tradition, an older woman leaves behind the maiden and the mother and becomes the crone. She no longer lives by societal roles and expectations, and she no longer needs to search outside herself for answers. She trusts her body and her intuition. She is powerful, autonomous, the wise woman, the teacher—a significant figure. Someone who’s seen.
I took off my clothes and put on a sarong. Catherine, now bare-breasted, met me in the hallway. A wave of discomfort rose up, but, as with Susan, I swallowed it down. I’d wanted to be shocked back to life. Here I was, doing exactly that. With that realization, the more curious, adventurous part of me began to surface, and the more rigid, controlling part relaxed. As unorthodox as she was, Catherine was doing exactly what I’d asked for. In a gentle way, she was taking control.
She led me to another room with a mattress on the floor, surrounded by cushions, candles, and Tibetan singing bowls. I noticed Susan, then forgot about her. I lay down, my ankles on a vibrating machine. My body began humming, head to toe. Catherine moved around the room, striking bowls, murmuring a chant. A little woo-woo for my taste, but by then my body didn’t care.
Catherine placed her hands on my stomach, pressing into different spots—nothing sensual, but my muscles were turning to melted butter. As she guided me through visual meditations, my body floated upward, one breath at a time. Her voice and touch receded, and I found myself sitting under a huge oak tree. On every branch was someone dear to me who had died: my friends, my parents, smiling, hands reaching down, calling me up. As I looked up at them, I could suddenly see myself for all I was: no longer an old coat but a grand oak, holding many stories, standing tall. A few months earlier, I’d been terrified of my own invisibility, and was desperate for others to see me. But under the tree, I saw myself. She had been there all along.
By the time I stepped back into the sunlight on the street, I felt lighter. I was still learning to ask for what I wanted, but I also felt changed. I was no longer the quiet, acquiescent girl who shrank under scrutiny. With the warm sun on my skin, I felt my new self coming into focus. Unafraid. Curious. The opposite of disappeared.