I hired a sex worker for my 70th birthday because I was terrified of crossing the border into the land of the elderly.
I wasn’t scared of dying; I accept that inevitability. In fact, I feel very fortunate to have done so many laps. No, I was afraid of not living and scared of fading away. I wasn’t willing to saunter into that ghostly world of the aging. I needed a rocket launch — something to reboot me awake.
The options came down to hiring an escort or jumping out of a plane. Although the thought of disrobing this aging, flabby body in front of a man in his 40s was frightening, it seemed the safer choice. Like so many other older folks, I had osteopenia, and hurtling through the air at a rapid speed with a man strapped to my back might be taking too much of a risk for my bones.
Seeking out an escort meant I was not only taking a risk physically and emotionally, but also financially. One of my passions in life was overseas travel, and the $1900 investment in a hotel room and three hours with an escort could have bought me a plane ticket. I knew how to organize a trip abroad, but I had no idea how to find an escort. When in doubt, google.
Swiping through endless photos of semi-naked men draped over beds — and young enough to be my grandson — was disheartening. I nearly changed my mind and googled parachuting. But after adjusting the filter to a higher price range, I found Mitch. Although there was the obligatory bare-chested photo, he had a reassuring video explaining his process and acknowledging how challenging it is for a woman to hire an escort for the first time. And he was in his 40s — closer to the age of a son than a grandson. That felt more palatable.
