I didn’t realise how starved I was for touch until, one August night, I found myself dancing on the Seine with a young man in a tank top, whose bulging arms were wrapped tightly around me. This was the summer of 2021 and I’d fled to Paris from my New York City apartment after spending more than a year of pandemic lockdown alone, largely unseen and extremely untouched.

Now here I was, sweaty and writhing under a full Parisian moon, with a handsome man who couldn’t seem to get enough of touching me. Or I of him. I didn’t know it, but that evening was the beginning of what would become five weeks of non-stop enjoyment, pleasure and, at times, downright debauchery.

I’d left New York earlier that summer. Vaccines had rolled out and it seemed the virus that had sent us all inside for so many months was itself rolling back. As travel started up again, I decided this was my chance and booked a flight to Paris. I’d always possessed a strong sense of adventure and been very self-sufficient, and I decided that whatever risks this trip entailed paled against spending more time alone.

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Over the previous years, I’d travelled to Paris regularly. What began as a one-off trip to finish my first book – thanks to a friend’s available apartment – became a regular habit. Over half a decade, I’d developed a close friend group, which I’d now only seen via Skype for nearly two years. I missed them. I missed Paris. I missed movement. I missed life. When that same apartment opened up again, it felt like a sign.

I took a taxi to the airport with my overstuffed suitcase and no plans beyond boarding the plane. What I found waiting for me was a city devoid of tourists but full of people as desperate for connection as I was. And, it turned out, many of them wanted to, er, connect with me, too.

I confess, I was surprised. I was 45 years old when lockdown started and nearly 47 when it ended. In addition to reaching the age when, Nora Ephron advised us, we’d have to start hiding our necks, this is also the time of life that women are assured they’ll slide, inevitably, into invisibility. Bartenders will stop seeing you. Cab drivers will stop stopping for you. You will disappear from view. All a lie, as it turned out. But this isn’t really a story about men; it’s about friendship, agency and movement. I decided where I needed to go, and I went. And so, before I began uncovering my neck (and every other part of my body), I indulged myself, and my friendships. Sex is great, but how about a warm midnight bike ride through Paris when it seems the city has been laid out just for you? Or perhaps spending an afternoon at the empty Louvre, with entire floors left to you and the masterpieces. I sat at Parisian cafes in the sun, tipping back carafes of rosé while gooey cheese dripped off my baguette, all the while chatting with friends in a way that requires no explanation or defence. There’s an immeasurable security in knowing there are hands that will always be there to catch you.

I swam nude at sunrise and took pleasure in strolling around a city that’s been the home to so many single women who also enjoyed themselves with younger men (Edith Wharton, Simone de Beauvoir, Colette…). My walks would culminate in a chocolat chaud so rich and thick one wonders why sex is necessary at all. But of course, it is and was – and there was so much of it. Once I got over my surprise (during my Seine dance session) at how visible I still was, I went to work. I wanted more and realised I could get it – again and again. After spending months alone, I was high on being in a city prioritising pleasure, with friends I enjoyed and trusted. I felt compelled to let loose.

I downloaded a popular Parisian dating app named Fruitz and started swiping. What was I looking for? Enjoyment. Nothing more, but also everything. Soon, messages from men informing me they’d be happy to help me ‘enjoy’ myself began flooding in. I quickly got better at articulating my needs and asking for details on exactly how they would help me. We’re told the search for love is the respectable one. But, let me tell you, the pursuit of pleasure is downright radical. Women at all ages, but particularly after a certain age, are cultured to be grateful for what they get. Despite this conditioning, I quickly realised I could get it all.

Shortly after my night of dancing, I invited over a persistent young professional athlete who’d repeatedly told me he was eager to give me a massage. As I waited for him to arrive, I poured myself a glass of wine and leaned back into a newfound sense of power. I had asked for what I wanted and now it was coming. He was 27, charming and thrilled when our planned massage resulted in all my clothes being removed. ‘Magnifique,’ he said. ‘Mais, oui,’ I responded.


I realised he was right. What a racket that we don’t always think our bodies beautiful. He stayed the night.

Next, there was the slim French man who appeared to have stepped directly out of a 1990s Oasis video, whose only aim was to give me pleasure. Then the angry teacher, who left my behind slightly bruised and the rest of me very satiated. Merci messieurs.

Women who are untethered from the social constructs we’re told we should want – partnership, parenthood -- are often shamed for not having them. But as I slid deeper into that summer, into the realisation of how powerful I was, I was aware of how fortunate I was. Not just to be in Paris. Not just to be so well cared for. But that I had the ability to take advantage of what the world was happy to offer me, and enjoy it.

I’m Mostly Here To Enjoy Myself (Leap) by Glynnis MacNicol is
out in paperback 3 July