I’ve given up, I’m going to pay for it. Not sex, although that was suggested to me a few years ago, when I was single and researching Male Escorts for a novel. I was shocked.
‘Weren’t you worried about your stretch-marks?’ I asked.
‘Bugger that, I was paying. And actually, he was quite intelligent. Polish. He’s coming back to look at my kitchen.’
And that is infinitely preferable, I reckon, to an affair with a married man, which is often sited as a solution to my ‘problem.’ Want to feel REALLY lonely? I’ll tell you how.
No, not sex you’ll be relieved to hear after my last blog that curdled some people’s morning cuppa. Not sex but touch. I’ve realised that what I miss most is touch. I cuddle my kids, my friends, my dog. I’m a tactile sort of woman – which has got me into trouble more than once. When I drink, I get ‘affectionate’, not weepy, not angry and guys can misconstrue that. Women friends think I’m after their husbands; single guys think, well you know. But I’m not and I don’t. I want the warmth of another human body in my arms for a moment, to inhale the good smell of a man. I miss an arm around my shoulders, a peck on the cheek, a hand offered to cross a busy road.
But until I have that again, and I’m confident I will, I’m going to throw money at myself and pay to be touched by a man or a woman. Massages, osteopathy, pilates, pedicures, hairdressing, ‘Yes, I’ll have the head-massage.’ I used to be scared of all of those treatments, scared of opening up my emotions and bursting into tears in the chair, on the floor or on the couch.
I’ll spend my children’s inheritance, or rather the insurance money I got after my heart attack, on myself, on my heart. Buck up my spirits and be kind to my body and then get back to dating-on-line; that bloke in the South of France with a parrot was fairly interesting…
Happy Valentine’s Day! X