I hired a male sex worker for my 70th birthday. It didn’t go as planned

I hired a male sex worker for my 70th birthday. I wanted my foot on the accelerator, the wind in my hair and the music blaring as I squealed around the bend into the next decade. Treating myself to a sex worker seemed like a fitting launch pad.

My other option was a parachute jump. Breaking a limb or dying felt less frightening than displaying my ageing, naked body to a stranger, but I chose the sex worker because only one of these activities would ­satisfy my craving for touch. Being harnessed to a man in a helmet and goggles would not fulfil that need.

Until my mid-40s, dating was like playing musical chairs. I was excited to find a partner when the music stopped and ready to move on when the music started again – a perfect game for a stubbornly independent woman fearful of commitment.

Then the music stopped. The game was over. I had won. I was left sitting in the last chair, but everyone else had gone home – with their partners.

In my 50s, I ventured into the new world of dating apps. When I was in my 60s, my dates were in their 70s and 80s. This was a different game, which required a new set of rules. The criteria for a second date became: can he walk around the block? Did he ask me anything about myself? Can he discuss topics other than his ­ex-wife, new cardiologist or golf handicap?

I have a good life with meaningful work, travel and loving friends but, without a partner, pets or children, I crave touch. As a psychologist, I know that skin hunger is an actual condition that can cause physiological and psychological distress.

Hiring a male sex worker seemed like the perfect birthday gift. His business is touch. He offers a service. I pay for it. A straightforward transaction? Well, yes and no. While there were logistical challenges, such as how to find a reputable sex worker, it was the voices inside my head that posed the biggest obstacle: “You’re a feminist; you don’t need a man for pleasure”; “It’s pathetic, almost a moral failing, to pay a stranger for touch”; “Why make yourself so vulnerable? You’ll just feel ashamed and even more lonely.”

I silenced the voices and tried to tune into my feelings of excitement and intrigue instead. Seventy can be exhilarating and expansive, not limiting and depressing.

I Googled “male escort”. The screen filled with pictures of young men with biceps, six-packs and even more eye-popping displays of masculinity. Why would they want to get under the covers with a woman as old as their grandmother? I considered Googling “tandem jumps” but had recently seen the movie, Good Luck To You, Leo Grande, where Emma Thompson, with her bucket-list of unmet desires, seeks out a male escort and discovers her sexuality. I decided to regroup.

I trawled through profiles, stopping at a picture of a well-dressed man sitting on a jetty with fashionable, dark-rimmed glasses and curly hair. In his video, he was warm, reassuring and intelligent. At 39, he could be my son. And while that was a little unpalatable, hiring someone who could be my grandson just felt wrong.

I sent Mitch an email: “I want an orgasm for my 70th.” Revealing my age was critical since I assumed providing sexual services to elderly women is likely a niche market.

“Happy to deliver. Anything else?”

“I’ve never had an erotic massage.”

“On the menu,” he responded.

He organised a phone call so we could “get to know each other”. We discovered we had much in common: a love of travel, a history in marketing and an interest in writing. And we both work with vulnerable people who trust us.

I signed up for the minimum three hours and ­transferred $1650. The only item I’d spent that much on was a plane ticket, but this was as easy as ordering Uber Eats. I booked a luxurious hotel room for the eve of my birthday, one month away. Another $350.

Today’s the day. I’m relaxed and excited, not ­nervous. I trust Mitch and testimonials from his clients are positive; many are even repeat customers.

I arrive at my hotel room with a bottle of champagne. Wow! What a view! The enormous metal hands of the historic clock tower are so close I could touch them. It’s 3pm. Mitch is due at six. I run a bath, the scent of ­lavender filling the room. I pop open the champagne and pour myself a glass. Fortunately, the full-length mirrors are steamy so I don’t have an up-close view of my body as I slide into the bubbles.

Like a baby swaddled in fluffy white towels, I lie on the king-size bed, watching the sun drop behind the buildings. Then, I rub a citrus-scented lotion over my body before squeezing into the sexy bra and pants I bought when I was online dating. I’ve added a few kilos, but they still fit. I put on a black dress, paint my lips and dab my wrists with fragrance. I order a cheese plate, which comes with a chocolate-mousse birthday cake. I leave the cake; I don’t want to overeat.

Mitch arrives as the clock chimes six. I pour him a glass of champagne. We sit in the overstuffed chairs.

I go straight into interview mode, asking Mitch about himself and his business. It’s what I do when I’m ­anxious, to deflect attention. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this: the purpose of this birthday gift is to focus on me and my needs.

I need him to take charge. After all, that’s his job.

Mitch tells me his clients fall into two groups: women in their 30s tired of internet dating who want “hot sex”, and women in their 50s stuck in “stale marriages” who want to have a “boyfriend experience”.

This is a con­fident man who can charge a premium price. It’s an ­opportune moment for him to ask me what I want. But he doesn’t, so I continue. While the talk is all about sex, there’s nothing sexy about it. The clock chimes seven; that hour cost me $550. I’m irritated with myself and with Mitch: I need him to take charge. After all, that’s his job.

“So what happens now?” I ask.

“Maybe a cuddle and a kiss?”

It seems like a clumsy transition, but he’s the expert. We stand and kiss. It feels stiff and too intimate – like being on a teenage date with all its tentativeness and confusion but without the hormones.

He then suggests we take off our clothes – which we do, placing them neatly on the chairs.

What continues in bed is a ­horizontal version of the hugging and kissing we did standing up. I suggest the erotic massage in the hope that it’ll liven things up. He seems relieved, as if he has been waiting for me to determine the next step.

He pats oil over my arms and hands and starts doing some strange stroking and rubbing movements on my stomach, which I find repetitive and irritating. I ask him to stop. I’ve had remedial massages that were more sensual.

He’s cuddling me, his head on my shoulder as if he wants me to stroke his head. I don’t. I nod off, then jerk myself awake.

“You’re relaxed,” he says. I want to tell him I didn’t pay $1650 to take a nap.

“I don’t think this is working,” I say.

“I’m devastated.” He looks as if he’s going to cry. “I’m so sorry.“

What the hell? Does he want me to comfort him? Well, that’s not happening.

“Sometimes there just isn’t a connection,” he says.

A connection? But this isn’t a date.

“Would you like me to go?”

“Yes.”

He kisses my cheek and leaves. It’s 8.45pm. No orgasm. No erotic massage. But there is chocolate cake.

I pour another glass of champagne and return to bed. I prop up the oversized pillows; the starched fresh sheets feel crisp against my skin. I take a bite of the gooey cake. Maybe not orgasmic, but the most pleasure I’ve felt all evening.

I spend the night awake. What on earth happened? How could it be that a sex worker doesn’t appear to have even the most basic skills? Why couldn’t he deliver what I asked for? Perhaps my interviewing put him off his game. I remind myself that I hired him to do a job. I don’t go down the rabbit-hole of shaming and blaming myself, thinking that I’m too old or too unattractive – the old “it’s all my fault” story.

My encounter with Mitch wasn’t the birthday gift I’d imagined it would be, but perhaps it was the gift I needed.

The next day, I email Mitch in the spirit of a fellow professional. While he’s a charming, kind person – qualities that are essential in both his profession and mine – it’s insufficient. We both facilitate processes that respond to the needs of our clients. He failed to do that for me and didn’t deliver the services he promised. I ask for a refund. Within minutes, he transfers the full amount and offers to call me. I decline. I fear I’m at risk of taking on the role of a therapist if we decide to start a conversation.

My encounter with Mitch wasn’t the birthday gift I’d imagined it would be, but perhaps it was the gift I needed. I can ask for what I want without shame. If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t mean something is wrong with who I am or what I did. A good trial run. My foot is back on the accelerator.

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