Sixty one, retired, and nobody alive knows this about me

I am sixty one and I have known since my twenties, and the only person I ever told was the woman I was married to for nine years, who did not want to discuss it, and I did not press her. She died six years ago. I am not writing that for sympathy. I am writing it because it explains why a man my age is here with nothing at all behind him.

Commuter belt, an hour out, retired from teaching physics at the start of last year. A garden that takes more of my week than it should, two grown children who visit, and a great deal of time.

What I would like is a woman who leads and who is not put off by a beginner in his sixties. I know what I am drawn to and I have essentially no idea how any of it is arranged in practice. I would far rather be told than guess. I spent thirty years watching people learn things badly, so I have no pride left about being taught.

I am not fragile and I am not lonely in the way that makes a person a burden. I have friends and a full week. What I have never had, once, is anybody who knows this about me.

Not looking for someone who finds my age remarkable and mentions it. Not looking for something conducted entirely in writing, because I have done forty years of keeping it in my head. Not looking to be told I have left it too late, which I know, and which is not an argument for leaving it later.