Theres things men dont talk about in the pub. Not the football scores or the cattle prices. The real stuff. The loneliness. The hunger. Old lads like meself who spend decades married and suddenly find ourselves alone.
My pub closes at eleven but the stories never stop. Been running OConnors in town for thirty years and Ive heard every whisper. But hearing aint the same as living. When Margaret left three years back everything changed. Suddenly Im not just listening to mens quiet desperation Im living it.
First time I called an escort service I was shaking like a first-time farmer at the cattle auction. Nerves everywhere. But Marie - thats not her real name of course - she was kind. Professional. Made an old publican feel human again. Not judged. Not invisible.
Small towns like Tralee have rules. Unspoken rules. You keep your business private. You dont ask questions. You certainly dont talk about what happens after midnight when respectable men want something more than another pint. But sometimes a man needs connection. Skin. Warmth.
Im not proud. Im not ashamed. Im just surviving like everyone else.