Gail Rice

Jul 12, 2024 | smh.com.au | Greg Callaghan |Helen Pitt |Gail Rice

They were negotiating the skinny, inner-city streets when Nev pulled over to accommodate an approaching car, blasted the horn and waved sarcastically at the oblivious, passing motorist. In the back seat, Emma and Tom exchanged a look. "No wave?" Tom said. "No f---in' wave," Nev confirmed. "It's what's wrong with the world, I reckon," Emma said, mimicking Nev's baritone. "If you ask me," Tom growled, "the social contract's breaking down." Nev eyed them in the rear-view mirror. "Mock all you like.

Jul 11, 2024 | smh.com.au | Gail Rice

I hired a male sex worker for my 70th birthday. I wanted my foot on the accelerator, the wind in my hair and the music blaring as I squealed around the bend into the next decade. Treating myself to a sex worker seemed like a fitting launch pad. My other option was a parachute jump. Breaking a limb or dying felt less frightening than displaying my ageing, naked body to a stranger, but I chose the sex worker because only one of these activities would ­satisfy my craving for touch.