Dutch magazine ‘Libelle’
stream down The original Dutch article ‘Eva (55) bezocht een gigolo’, was published in the magazine Libelle, You can read the article in Dutch here. The English translation is provided below.
Eva hired a gigolo
“One afternoon I drove to a hotel…”
Eva (55) hasn’t been touched by her husband in 18 years. Longing for intimacy, she made the bold decision to hire a gigolo. “The feeling of his fingers on my skin – I had missed that so much.”
“Happy. That’s how I should feel. Content, complete. But I don’t. It’s Saturday morning and I feel terrible. I’m still in bed, not wanting to move. Tears stream down as my whole body aches. At 55, it feels like my best years have passed me by. My husband asks what’s wrong. ‘Leave me alone,’ I say through tears. ‘Don’t come near me.’ He walks out of the bedroom, and moments later I hear the front door close. He’s taking the dog for a walk.”
Loveless marriage
“Yesterday, I spent three beautiful hours in a hotel room with a gigolo.” I’d been thinking about it for months. I even warned my husband: “If you won’t touch me, I’ll go to a gigolo.”
We’ve been together for over 37 years, but for the last 18, he hasn’t even hugged me. He can’t, or he won’t, and he refuses to talk about it. We live in a loveless relationship, and I’ve been starved for affection. I long for warmth, for physical closeness, for someone to simply hold me.
In recent years, my health has only gotten worse. Rheumatism, osteoarthritis, constant pain. I can’t work anymore. I’m alive, but I don’t feel alive. I want to feel something again. I even brought it up with my GP: that I was thinking of seeing a gigolo. “It might do you good,” he said.
Body to body
I spent hours online searching for someone who truly appealed to me. A male escort from an agency easily charges €450 – far beyond what I can afford. And among the men offering their services independently, most are hopelessly unprofessional.
But after some digging, I finally found the website of a kind, affordable gigolo; 42 years old, with glowing reviews from women. Gentle, understanding, respectful, professional. I emailed him to explain my situation, making it clear this wasn’t just a fling for me. He replied with warmth and empathy.
Once I’d made up my mind, I wanted to set a date right away. I needed it to happen. I needed to feel another body against mine. He took care of booking the hotel.
In his arms
I’m lying on the bed, crying out like a wounded animal. All my sorrow is pouring out of me. I never imagined I’d be this overwhelmed, and I try to piece the hours back together.
Yesterday morning, I walked the dog, then soaked in a long, warm bath. I stood in front of the mirror in my new lingerie and thought, Girl….that body, those love handles, that butt… In the afternoon, I drove to the hotel – nervous, unsure, but incredibly excited. I knocked on the door. When he opened it, I asked, “Is it too late to run away?” He opened his arms, and I fell into them. I held on tightly.
“You’re exactly where you need to be,” he said. His calm voice immediately put me at ease. Within five minutes, I was undressed, and we had sex. It had to happen. The hours flew by.
Afterward, I lay in his arms while he gently stroked mine. I loved the feeling of his fingers on my skin, it was tender, sweet, comforting. When it was over, I paid him €300, plus the hotel costs – money I’d quietly set aside from the household budget, saving here and there with coupons.
He asked if I’d like to see him again.
Yes. Absolutely.
Six weeks from now.
Lonesome
Stop it, I tell myself. I’m not usually someone who cries easily, but I can’t stop. The tears just keep coming, and they get worse when a message from my gigolo pops up on my phone: “Enjoy yesterday.”
I finally drag myself out of bed in the afternoon and slowly get dressed. My whole body aches. I feel low, empty. So this is what I’ve been missing all these years, I think. It’s almost too painful to bear. I decide to call my therapist, I need someone to talk to. I tell her about my experience with the gigolo, and how overwhelmed I feel now. “Oh girl,” she says, “you’ve been lonesome for so many years.”
My husband comes home from walking the dog. I don’t say a word, and he doesn’t ask. He leaves me alone, he’s long since stopped caring how I feel.
No, I don’t hate him. But I don’t feel guilty either. This whole experience has made one thing very clear: it’s time to start reshaping my life. I’ve been lonely for far too long.
In the evenings, sitting on the sofa, I think about the gigolo. I even catch myself daydreaming about winning the lottery, how I’d book a hotel room with him every week. Just the thought gives me a little spark of energy.