How I rediscovered sex years after being raped

At 41, I was a drop-out, living on the beach in Fuengirola, on Spain’s Costa del Sol. I had arrived more than a year earlier with a broken heart and a nervous breakdown, my life in ruins.

I established myself as a pavement artist, and after a year, the foreign residents regarded me as not too insane. Alcoholised lady residents took to inviting me to their sprawling marble apartments for three-day drink-a-thons when hubby was away on business. Because I am gay I was judged a safe bet.

One such evening in early September, I was returning to my hostess’ apartment with the bottle of brandy I’d gone out to buy. I heard a single soft footfall. A strong shove sent me sideways where the low sea-wall caught me just below my knees.

When I crashed against the low parapet, my legs buckled, and I fell over the wall on to the beach, three metres below. The fall knocked the wind out of me.

I was dazed, but nothing was broken. My assailant vaulted the wall, landed lightly beside me, grabbed my ankles and dragged me effortlessly down the beach away from the murky street lights.

Adrenalin

Moonlight glinted on the blade between his teeth. The b****** was planning to murder me when he was done. Suddenly, adrenalin kicked in and the survival instinct exploded.

In one strong, swift move I rolled back on to my shoulders then crashed forward, dislodging him. Then trauma kicked in. I was a naked, middle-aged foreign man, a nameless drifter marooned on a bleak, dark beach I called home. I was a victim of male rape, one of the most under-reported crimes in Europe.

A few months later, I was back once again on my old stamping ground, the French Riviera. My life was back on some sort of track, but with one major difference – I was now a sexual and emotional cripple. The thought of sex with another person was terrifying, even abhorrent to me.

Swinging sixties: older people and sex in the internet age

But this January, over 28 years later, something changed. I couldn’t go to the grave without at least holding a man in my arms one more time, but how would that work?

I had been studying a leading gay male-escort site for months, and had finally decided to approach James. He was English, 27, very handsome and his reviews were excellent.

Soul repaired

In two beautiful hours, this kind, gentle, astonishing young man, James, repaired my soul. Before he left, he told me I really didn’t need to pay escorts because I’d be just fine in the real world.

He then gave me details of the biggest free gay hook-up app, Grindr.com. I was very apprehensive, but James knew that what I perceived as my stumbling block is my greatest asset – my age (69).

The idea there is a world of men who are exclusively attracted to the over 60s for sex, with no hints about needing taxi fares or tales of financial struggle that Daddy could ease.

The guys, from every ethnicity and walk of life, from 18 up, just fancy older men. Unbelievable! All I had to do was to open the door – and now I’m liberated. There is a return from rape.