This post is a tribute to wonderful providers everywhere, and to mine in particular. It is also an observation about how providing can be a beautiful, moral thing.

(Not that anyone asked. But then, no one is stopping you from skipping this post.)

The lady in question prefers anonymity, yet “provider” and “ATF” feel too impersonal for the feeling I wish to convey. So let’s give her a name. “Annie.”

I am in my mid 50s. My wife died young, almost 20 years ago. I was lucky to escape a terrible remarriage after that. I have been in and out of relationships since. Nothing has worked out. Maybe I am too damned hard to please, or maybe I’m impossible to live with. Who knows.

Still, I still crave romance and affection.

God bless Annie.

She comes to my home. I am agog at the sight of her. She has taken the trouble to do her hair and makeup to perfection. She steps inside, where we embrace like lovers who have been apart for far too long. I tingle with anticipation as she unbuttons her overcoat, sometimes revealing a killer dress, sometimes devastatingly sexy lingerie, sometimes nothing at all. Whatever she has chosen, it never fails to knock me for a loop. Meaning it, I tell her she is beautiful.

We repair to the bedroom. As we kiss, touch, undress … and then more … she whispers “I love you.” She knows it heightens the fantasy for me. Afterward, we cuddle and chat like friends and lovers.

My head knows we’re not “real” partners. My feet remain on the ground. After we part, Annie returns to her life, I return to mine.

I think about how astonishing it is that this mid-50s non-hunk of a man gets to enjoy the warm affections of this incredibly sexy woman, who by all standards would otherwise be out of his league. I think about how, for those brief, magical moments we spend together, Annie fills me with the romance and affection I crave.

I shake my head to think there are those who would view our activity as “wrong.” Shame on them.