It's strange how loneliness creeps up on you. After Margaret passed, I thought the silence would swallow me whole. Our little house in Roath felt like a museum of memories. Every chair, every bookshelf whispered her name.
I started seeing escorts not for wild adventures, but for simple human connection. Rosa, a lovely woman from Brazil who works in Cardiff, understands this better than most. When we meet, it's not just about physical intimacy. We talk. Sometimes about nothing much. Sometimes about everything.
Last week, she listened while I spoke about Margaret. How we met teaching in the same secondary school. How she loved her garden and could name every rose bush. Rosa didn't judge. She just held my hand and let me remember.
People think these encounters are purely transactional. They're wrong. For men my age, it's about being seen. Being touched. Not just sexually, but humanly. Grief makes you invisible. These moments make me feel present again.
I know some might find this odd. Perhaps even shameful. But I've stopped apologizing for finding warmth where I can.