For my 70th birthday, I hired a sex worker. I was dreading that milestone and feared I would slip into oblivion and fade away, and I wasn’t ready for that. This gift had to be something to jolt my body and mind awake. It turned out it was a gift that kept on giving in ways I could never have imagined.
My first gift idea was a parachute jump – falling out of a plane attached to another body felt terrifying but exhilarating. But then the idea of the escort popped into my mind. I have no idea where it came from, except I had seen the film Good Luck To You, Leo Grande a few years before, with Emma Thompson starring as a middle-aged woman in a stale marriage who hires an escort.
Both options involved body-to-body contact with a stranger. But as a woman with osteopenia, I chose the option that wouldn’t break bones and, hopefully, wouldn’t kill me.
I have a happy, single life, working as a psychologist in private practice, travelling widely, and I had just begun writing my memoir.
My relationship history is more of a smorgasbord than a degustation menu – most good, some less satisfying, with the longest ones lasting just over two years.
Commitment to intimate relationships had never been my strong suit; I always had one foot out of the door. By the time I left home at 19, I had decided I would never marry or have children. Like many eldest children, I had taken on the role of helping my mother with my siblings and had no fantasies about having babies.
I saw independence and commitment as binary opposites, a view I now understand as totally misguided. It took me years to realise that I could have chosen both; they were complementary. But then I felt I had to make a choice. Independence became my holy grail.
Until my early 40s, dating was like a game of musical chairs. I would dance around to the music and grab a chair when the music stopped, eager to start again. But at some point, I realised everyone had gone home and I was left sitting alone in a chair.
Psychologist Gail Rice feared turning 70 and wanted to do something exhilarating to celebrate. She decided to take a risk and reach out for a physical connection… by hiring a male escort
I started using dating apps in my 50s. However, by the time I was 65, I stopped, tired of meeting men more interested in their share prices, golf handicaps or mourning their partners than engaging in conversation with the woman across the table. I was happy on my own and never had a high libido, so I wasn’t missing the sex. But five years later, with no children, grandchildren, pets or a partner, something was missing.
As a psychologist, I know skin hunger is real and long-term loneliness is linked to depression, anxiety, and physical illnesses such as chronic pain. I needed to follow the voice of my wise psychologist self – I had to take a risk and reach out for a physical connection.
Googling male escorts was like going down a rabbit hole of bare-chested men in their 20s, often in their underwear, every muscle bulging as they draped themselves over beds, chairs or cars or took selfies in front of a mirror.
I was ready to reconsider parachuting, but instead, I changed the filter to focus on higher-priced options. That was where I found Mitch, in his mid-40s, dressed beautifully, with a warm, inviting smile, and only one of the obligatory bare-chested photos, as well as a video discussing what a significant step it is for most women to hire an escort.
We had a lengthy telephone conversation and he reassured me that he was happy to offer an erotic massage and an orgasm, the most straightforward items I could find on the menu. I was in. Two months before my birthday, I paid just over £1,200 upfront for a minimum of three hours. I had to do it right away or I would have been tempted to buy a plane ticket.
I forgot about it until I got Mitch’s reminder message. My stomach clenched, my mind raced, ‘What had I been thinking?’ I started imagining my sagging, spotty skin next to Mitch’s taut, muscled body, nearly 30 years younger – not a pretty thought. But I reasoned at least he was old enough to be my son, not my grandson. Somehow, that felt a little more palatable.
On the evening of my birthday, I rented a room in a hotel I had always wanted to visit but could never justify the expense.
I arrived two hours early and, after luxuriating in a deep bubble bath, I wrapped myself in the big, fluffy white robe, poured a glass of champagne, propped myself up on the crisp linen pillows and read my book. Bliss.
In the film, Ms Thompson’s character opens the door to the handsome stranger. But that’s the movie. In reality, I met Mitch in the lobby. He explained it was protocol for the safety of the clients. I guess it gave us a chance to renege if he looked like a serial killer.
Gail had initially considered a parachute jump, but after watching Good Luck, Leo Grande (starring Daryl McCormack and Emma Thompson, pictured) the idea of an escort came about
Mitch looked exactly like his photos, fitting in with the well-heeled crowd in the lobby. He leaned in, smelling of lemon, as he kissed me on the cheek. The journey up in the lift, talking about the news, wasn’t much of an aphrodisiac – I was eager to have more champagne.
I poured him a glass, and we sat in the oversized, velvet tub chairs overlooking the city. And I started interviewing him, my default when I’m nervous. He told me that most of his clients were women in their 30s who wanted ‘hot sex’ and women over 50 looking for the boyfriend experience, which he explained was kissing, cuddling and talking.
The big town clock chimed six times. I was horrified to realise I had already spent more than £400 interviewing him. We hadn’t even touched except for that kiss on the cheek in the lobby. I needed to shut up.
‘So, what next, Mitch?’
‘What about a kiss?’ He stood up and pulled me up into him – too close, too soon, too intimate, reminding me of teenage boys slobbering over me in the back of a car. I stepped back. ‘Maybe the massage?’
His ‘erotic’ massage was more like someone rubbing the tummy of a dog and I am not sure even the dog would be thrilled. He lightly rubbed some oil in a circular motion on my abdomen and then did some strange tapping motions on my arms, with a cursory visit to the top of my thigh. It felt like he was basting a chicken but not doing that very well. Then it was over.
The dentist rubbing the numbing solution into my gums before the needle freezes my mouth felt more erotic. Mitch lay his head on my shoulder and continued with the strange circular motions on my tummy, which was becoming irritating. At some point, I drifted off.
‘It’s good to see you feeling relaxed.’ Relaxed? I was bored and disconnected, just trying to find a way out of this uncomfortable situation.
I asked Mitch to leave 20 minutes before the end of our session. When I told him it wasn’t working, he said he was ‘devastated, but perhaps there just hadn’t been a connection’.
A connection? We weren’t on a date. I was relieved when the door closed.
I settled back into a king-size bed, opened a bottle of mini champagne from the fridge and nestled in between the pressed sheets with the gooey, chocolate mousse cake which the hotel had given me for my birthday – the most sensuous part of the evening.
I tossed and turned all night; the chiming clock which earlier had felt magical now seemed like torture. In what world did I think a 70-year-old woman could feel sexual and sensual with a man 30 years her junior?
By the time the sun rose on my birthday, I had written an unemotional email to Mitch, from one professional to another. As a psychologist and an escort, our jobs provide a safe space to vulnerable clients, a place where they should feel seen and listened to.
My request had been explicit and he had confirmed that he could meet my needs. But nothing in our session indicated to me that he understood the path to erotic massage or an orgasm, and to blame it on ‘no connection’ seemed not only unprofessional, but it made it feel like it was my fault. I asked if he would consider a refund.
Writing that email, I realised that maybe that was the birthday present I was looking for: finding my voice, telling a man I wasn’t satisfied and asking him to acknowledge it – to see me.
A few minutes after I sent the request, he responded.
‘I am so sorry, I have refunded the money. Would you like to talk about it?’ I couldn’t face talking to him; I feared getting into my ‘mummy’ or therapist role. The refund came as a total surprise but it confirmed that Mitch was a true professional and he knew and took responsibility for the fact that the session had gone so badly. I am grateful to him for that and it made me determined to use the refund to hire another escort.
But it would be months before I put the champagne on ice, found my sexy lingerie at the back of the drawer, and hired a new hotel room. Chris came as a recommendation from someone who had read an article I had written in the Sydney Morning Herald about my first escort experience – a woman in her 60s who had hired him six times. A good recommendation.
I was more scared this time; there was more at stake. If this was a disaster, it would confirm that I was delusional, imagining that I had a right to think I could feel desirable and sexual with a man nearly half my age. While it was easier to stay in the warm pond of my life, I knew I needed to give it another go.
Gail says it felt like she had finally found her voice again after letting Mitch know she wasn’t satisfied – plucking up the courage to name her needs and having a man acknowledge them
Chris delivered the services I requested with kindness, enthusiasm and connection. This time, I didn’t interview; I asked him to lead and told him what I wanted. I trusted myself. I trusted Chris. And he was right there beside me, present, and my body got the jump it needed.
But more importantly, I recognised that while Chris was the facilitator, it was my body and my voice that were my superpowers.
Hiring an escort and writing about it was just the start. Never in my wildest dreams would I have believed that people in Sydney, New York, London and Dublin would want to hear my story.
I am not invisible. We are not invisible. Ageing is a gift. Our voices matter. The conversation I am now having is the most exciting part of this story.
I feel more seen and energised than I have been in years to be part of a conversation that celebrates women ageing and challenges stereotypes that keep us hidden and disconnected from our bodies and minds.
Some of the most significant limitations are those we hold within our own minds and hearts – stories that hold us back, undermine and shame us.
At any age, we can find our voice and ask for what we need. No more waiting to be asked, no more putting others first. I am still on the search for that erotic massage I fantasise about.
Whatever it is that calls to you, find the courage to name it, ask for it and, if you don’t get what you need the first time, ask again.
* Some names have been changed