Sometimes what I miss most isn't sex. It's the quiet moments. The shared silence over morning coffee, a hand touching yours while watching some rubbish telly. My marriage ended three years ago and I'd forgotten how much humans need those small intimacies.
Last week with Clara, an escort from Lithuania with soft green eyes, we talked more than we touched. She asked about my work, listened carefully. Not like a therapist. More like someone genuinely curious. We shared two glasses of wine and she laughed at my terrible jokes about Galway's weather.
I know what people think about men like me. Sad divorcee paying for connection. But connection isn't simple. It's complicated and messy and sometimes you have to purchase a version of tenderness to remember what it feels like.
She stroked my hair at one point. Just a gentle touch. I almost started crying, which would've been mortifying. But for a moment, I felt... seen. Not as a transaction. As a person who needed something beyond physical release.
The world doesn't make space for lonely men in their fifties. We're supposed to be invisible. Clara made me visible, if only for an afternoon.