On the train home to Brooklyn, I tried to recount the days events but everything was a bit hazy. I'd put myself in someone else's hands, literally. I've given a stranger, a woman, $270 for an erotic massage, in a last ditch attempt to find pleasure in my body. The same body that had given me so much displeasure in recent years. As I stood wedged between strangers on the subway, I smiled. When I walked in the door, my husband looked up from his computer with a perfunctory, "Hey, how was your day?" My usual response was, "Fine." But today I was on a different plane. We'd been together for 14 years. And for the first five of those, we couldn't keep our hands off each other. Our morning sex resulted in frequently showing up late for work. And our evenings and weekends were mostly spent between the sheets. My lingerie collection took up two dresser drawers. Our relationship began aboard the flight deck of the Intrepid Sea, Air and Space Museum on a sweltering July evening, at what had been touted as New York's largest singles event of the summer. Neither of us was there to meet the one. I worked for the company producing the event, and he worked for one of the beverage sponsors. One of his team members introduced me as the woman who saved their asses. Then the overzealous photographer asked us to move a little closer for a photo. My now husband casually tossed his arm around my shoulders and pulled me in. It felt like we'd been together forever. We shared a cab home and exchanged numbers. Within two months of dating, we were practically living together. Now, nearly a decade and a half later, something's changed: my body. The trifecta of childbirth, nearing the half century mark, and a metabolism rate that has slowed to a crawl has caused me to gain weight. Up until that point, I was a size two, despite never exercising and a diet a vending machine cuisine. First my clothes started to feel a bit snug. Then I began to struggle with zippers and buttons. I tried cleanses and meal plans, counting points and intermittent fasting. I hired personal trainers, nutritionists and Park Avenue weight loss specialists. At the end of the day, nothing worked. Because the cold hard truth was I didn't do the work. I was in an ugly state of limbo between what I wanted and what I was willing to do to actually get there. It all made my sex drive weaker than a dial up modem. My husband, on the other hand, maintained the sex drive of a frat boy. He'd routinely press up against me after turning off our bedroom lights. And I'd say I had a headache or cramps or some other excuse. One fed-up sigh later, he'd turn over, giving me his back. It wasn't that I didn't enjoy sex with him. When we actually had it, it was great. But somewhere along the line, I'd let the thoughts in my head take over. And it's hard to have an orgasm when you're too busy wondering if you're positioned in the least fat way possible. Even when masturbating, I couldn't control the strength of my self-degrading thoughts. So I gave up on that too. Some girlfriends swore by libido-boosting prescription meds. Another raved about the results from a vaginal injection known as the O shot. One friend joked if I were a man, I could engage the services of an escort. Or at the very least, find a massage parlor with someone willing to give me a happy ending. It's not that much of a stretch when you think about it. I'd already outsourced everything else: a TaskRabbit to install the allegedly DIY Peel and Stick wallpaper, a glam squad to give me a smoky-but-not-too-smoky eye for the annual private school Gala. A DoorDasher to turn a food craving into dinner. I googled erotic massage and happy ending massage for women, and found a New York magazine story about a guy, Dr. M., who gives women erotic massages from his apartment. The only hitch? Potential clients were required to submit a photo in advance. Maybe it's a safety thing, maybe it's a vanity thing. Either way, considering that my self image was already in the toilet, I ruled him out. That and something about outsourcing this to a guy felt like crossing a line into infidelity. I came across listings for tantric therapists offering sensual massages for women and couples. Their websites all look the same. A smattering of stock photo images showcasing flickering candles and statues draped in spiritual BS. The therapists were referred to as healers, priestesses and guides. As I read I learned that Yoni massage was named for the Sanskrit word for Lady Parts, and roughly translated to sacred space or cave. Seeing that my own sacred space felt like an abandoned storage unit, I continued scrolling. Every 20-something white female featured on the site appeared to have an identical bio. So I picked the one with the earliest availability and completed the new client intake form, which required my LinkedIn profile and a photo of my driver's license or passport to verify it was really me. Within an hour, I received an email for a woman named Shanti, confirming my appointment for the next day, and clarifying that the donation for the hour long massage would be $270 in cash. Her only instructions for the next day were to go to 59th Street and Eighth Avenue and text her once I arrived for the exact building and apartment number. I was afraid this might be a scam, but I went about the rest of my day, which now included getting a Brazilian wax. I intended to tell my husband about my plans, but everything happened so fast. And now I wasn't quite sure how to broach the subject. Then, as I stepped out of the shower that night, my husband barged into the bathroom and spotted my newly waxed and barely their landing strip and raised an eyebrow. The jig was up. As I towelled off, and he stood flossing, I confessed. I told him I'd been making up excuses to avoid sex because of my weight, and that this session was something I needed to do for myself. I also promised to text him my whereabouts the next day. He tried to mask his surprise that I'd gone to these lengths, but he didn't try to change my mind. Having been married to me for more than a decade, he knew better. The next morning I put on the nicest pair of underwear I owned and headed to meet Shanti. As instructed, I arrived at the designated corner and texted her. She responded less than a minute later. I texted my husband the exact location, and once he replied with a thumbs up, I took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer outside a nondescript three story walk up. The apartment was on the ground floor and the door was ajar. Shanti, a brunette with the body of a ballerina, peeked out and greeted me in a hushed tone. She was barefoot and wearing a paper thin sundress. Leading me inside a dimly lit room that smelled of sage, with Enya playing softly, she invited me to sit down alongside her on a nearby Warren loveseat. She wasted no time looking directly into my eyes and asking, "What brings you here today, Jenny?" My eyes welled up with tears. "Well, I've gained a lot of weight, and I no longer feel comfortable having sex because I'm self-conscious. But I still want to... Um..." I fiddled with my wedding band. "Feel good?" I nodded. "Well, you're in the right place," she said, and took my hand, explaining that the purpose of the Yoni massage was to help people feel more comfortable by exploring their relationship with their bodies, and releasing any tension. She led me to a brightly lit bathroom filled with a variety of bath products, turned on the shower, instructed me to rinse off and left. It wasn't until I stepped out that I realized there were no towels, leaving me no choice but to call out to her. When the door open, Shanti was holding open an oversized white towel. In an effort to hide my body, I beelined into her arms. She took my hand and guided me into a small room with massage table. Incense burned on a shelf next to an empty ceramic tray, which she informed me was for my donation. When she excused herself, I placed the cash onto the tray and slid onto the table covering my body with the towel. She returned with a smile and removed the towel, motioning for me to sit up. Then she climbed onto the table, so we were facing each other. She took my hand and guided it to my heart, and told me to take several deep breaths. We sat staring into each other's eyes, breathing in sync. When she stood up, she lifted a decanter from the floor, and I watched as she slowly poured its oil into her palm, and rubbed her hands together, gesturing for me to lie down. I closed my eyes. She started kneading my shoulders, working her way down the front of my body. I emitted a tiny gasp. I was torn between wanting to remain present and watch her every move, and the natural impulse to close my eyes. Her fingers moved down past my belly, and she gently spread my legs apart, stroking my inner thigh and making her way up to my pubic area. Maybe it was her delicate manner, or perhaps it was because I'd never been touched by a woman. But every scintilla of my body felt alive, as if an electric pulse was pumping through my veins. At some point, I thought I heard someone moaning nearby. It was me. The sounds were coming from somewhere deep inside me. When I climaxed, my entire body shuddered, and though my eyes were shut, I swore I saw a vibrant display of colors beneath my lids. It was the most powerful and freeing feeling in the world. I uttered, "I want to stay here forever," before catching myself and nearly dying of embarrassment. She grinned and continued caressing me as my body trembled. Soon I came again. Every part of me was tingling, and it was beautiful. At that moment, I loved every inch of myself. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I was grateful for the body I inhabited, because it allowed me to feel such pleasure.