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 con.