Twenty six years married to a man who would have been horrified

I spent twenty six years married to a man who would have been horrified, and I was so good at not being this that I nearly convinced myself. Fifty two, divorced two years, and I have led precisely nobody across my entire adult life.

The Bronx, I manage a pharmacy, two grown sons, and for the first time since my twenties a great many free evenings.

So I am a beginner in a strange way. I know exactly what I want, in enormous detail, having thought about very little else for a quarter of a century. What I have never done is any of it with a person actually in the room, and I am aware that the gap between those two things is the entire subject.

What I want is a relationship where I make the decisions, and a man with patience for somebody who will be nervous for about six months and then, I suspect, not nervous at all. I would rather be with a man who has done this before than be a beginner standing next to another beginner.

I am also not interested in being anybody's fantasy of an older woman, and I can spot within two messages when that is what is happening. Not looking to be told by a man what my own preferences are. Not looking for anything at speed. Not looking for somebody who assumes a woman starting at fifty two must be desperate, because I have waited twenty six years and I can comfortably wait another one.