The Words

Return to Life

When I first allowed myself to consider dating again or at least seeking the pleasure of a woman's body, I struggled with feeling disloyal to my wife, even though she had been dead for over a decade. But I was a very healthy, seventy-year-old man, with the appearance and hormones of a thirty-year-old, and I wanted to enjoy sex again. My body most assuredly did. That fact had announced itself loudly every morning for quite some time and many nights when I'd attempt to roll over and discover something in the way. Something that demanded my immediate attention if there was any hope of me returning to sleep. I knew that I wanted more than sex but also knew I wasn't nearly ready for more and that I might never be. But I most emphatically did not want to end up doing something stupid with the groundkeeper's daughter. That seemed inevitable whenever I visited the estate and timed my walk to see her beneath the waterfall.

Consequently, I had two 'one-night-stands' shortly after I visited with the CEO of what had been my wife's company. One was a hook-up with a woman I met at a bar; the other was an evening spent with an escort. Ironically, at least in my mind, considering my upbringing, my conscience struggled far less with my evening with the prostitute - an escort, as I constantly reminded myself, feeling more comfortable with the distinction.

She was an attractive fifty-year-old woman, or so she claimed. She appeared closer to forty. Who made a very nice life for herself, accompanying wealthy, mostly older, gentlemen on weekend trips, week-long vacations, dinners out, or just a few private hours. Some years earlier, after much thought, she'd made the self-aware, un-coerced choice to share her body and time with men, such as myself, in exchange for money - which was her right since it was her body, I argued with my reservations. I worked very hard with that rationalization to silence the residual commentary of my mother.

I was appalled when my CEO friend first suggested giving a professional a try, partly because he had been my wife's boss, then employee. But primarily because of my association of prostitution with human trafficking and women standing on street corners, waiting for strangers to drive past to inspect the wares on display before circling back to barter with one who'd caught their attention. While their pimps lurked in the shadows to ensure they didn't attempt to escape. Or short them. And who'd interrogate them any time a vehicle drove away without them having climbed inside and returned to hand over the cash they'd earned.

But my friend assured me that would not be the case with the women he suggested. From what he'd observed, these women were not coerced into the life against their will. And he was sure that none would be plying their trade on street corners. On the contrary, he guaranteed that most were doing quite well for themselves in their 'chosen' profession.

I immediately dismissed my friend's suggestion or told myself I had, but it obviously continued percolating in some dark corner of my mind and recurringly bubbling to the surface. I had no idea how I'd even go about locating and contacting these women. But by simply expressing my interest, Virtuality provided me with my choice of thousands, which I immediately filtered through some subconscious process to a few dozen. And the instant I expressed interest in any of them, very attentive female avatars presented themselves in my consciousness through the Magick of Virtuality. Present enough, I could have easily reached out and touched their very tempting virtual flesh. Instead, I hurriedly apologized. No worries, they told me, it happened all the time. If I change my mind...

Then, one lonely evening - one of so many, with so many to come - I sat in my penthouse with a glass of Scotch - one of several, and the bottle not yet empty - looking out over the city, the beauty of which continued to be lost in the depths of my emptiness. An emptiness I felt a sudden urgent need to fill. I'd given in and had virtual sex in exchange for money several times. I could rationalize that these women I'd conjured, consciously or not, weren't real - even after being assured that there was another living human being, a woman with a heartbeat that I could hear and blood pulsing through her veins that I could feel, somewhere else in the world, who would sense my flesh entering hers. Still, I could all too easily convince myself that the slippery, wet warmth I felt tighten around me was only real in my imagination. But, at that lonely, empty moment, no matter how real these virtual encounters felt, I had the overwhelming need to physically touch and hold a real, flesh and blood woman in the real world and have her touch and hold me in return.