A moment that changed me: I’d lost my libido – then I saw Richard Ashcroft on stage and it came bursting back | Sex

When the world entered lockdown in 2020, I’d just moved into a new flat where, at the age of 56, I found myself living alone for the first time in my life. I’d been separated for nearly a decade from the father of my two kids – one of whom had already flown the nest. The other was just starting at uni. So it was just me and my cat, Trinity, in what I now thought of as my “forever home” for one.

I’d embraced all those nice, selfish things about being single. I’d travelled alone, I ate when I wanted, went to bed when I felt like it, did housework only to please myself – and usually only in times of dire need. I reconnected with friends in a fresh way, as an individual. It felt empowering and less cluttered, after the years of motherhood and partnerdom. Mealtimes were at my own volition (well, and Trinity’s) and were a case of “Mmm, what shall I have?” rather than, “Oh God, what shall I do for tea?” I know people in decades-long relationships who would bite their own arm off for this level of autonomy.

But, after a couple of years of lockdowns and semi-lockdowns, I did get a bit lonely. I still didn’t want or need to “find a man”; it hardly seemed like an aspirational pursuit – and, crucially, I had no libido. I’d mostly raw-dogged menopause without the hormones, and although I knew that HRT was supposedly a raunch-reviver, I didn’t see the point in starting it just for that reason. I was stuck in an endless self-questioning loop: why try to get your libido back when you’ve got no partner? Why try to get a partner when you’ve got no libido?

Then, in August 2022, my friend Paul gave me a spare ticket to see Richard Ashcroft (former frontman of the Verve) at Crystal Palace Bowl in south London. What followed remains in my memory – drenched in a kind of iridescent golden light. It was a fine summer evening, and Paul did recently remind me that we shared a bottle of tequila on the way in – but I like to think that wasn’t the sole reason for my transformation that night.

I arrived at the concert feeling less than enthused. My previous experience with gigs at the Bowl had been limited to phoning to tell them that the noise was making my kitchen island veer from side to side (my flat is close by).

Also, I wasn’t a particular fan of the Verve, although their 1997 album Urban Hymns had, coincidentally, been the last CD I’d bought before having my first baby – after which I’d never had time to listen to music again. I knew that Ashcroft had released lots of solo stuff since then and assumed he might focus mainly on that part of his oeuvre. But to my joy, he did play all those songs from the 90s – from before the mother-version of me – and maybe that was part of it. I found myself surging to the front, joining in with the singing, gazing up at Richard as if he were … an idol. My photos from the gig are a blur of white light with a bucket hat and a pair of sunglasses somewhere in the middle of it. I left the concert feeling elated.

Over the next few weeks, I listened to every track, watched every video and interview. My daughter would ring from uni, at all hours, and ask, “What are you doing? Lying in bed watching Richard Ashcroft videos?” And I nearly always was. As part of this new hobby – obsession? – I started to feel happy. And sexy. I realised that in order to re-boot my sex life, I did have to jump-start my libido again, as it were – but not necessarily with medication. This was spiritual. From deep in my soul.

I had fallen in love with Richard Ashcroft.

The gig also made me remember what rockstar fandom, as a young girl, had been: a gateway drug to the opposite sex and sexual attraction in general. I remembered chasing Sting (as part of a mob of 14-year-old girls) as he rode with the other members of the Police in an open-top Jeep down Hammersmith Broadway in 1978. I remembered ogling his poster in my bedroom. I remembered thinking, “I can’t have Sting; I’d better go for someone more available” – and a week later snogging a boy at the Harrow Leisure Centre disco.

Aged 58, I felt as though I was somehow repeating a level on the multi-player game of life that I’d previously completed at 14: sexual and emotional infatuation with a rock star as a prelude and initiation to the real thing. I was going through a second puberty.

A spark was ignited. I loved Richard Ashcroft, yes, but I also began to sniff the pheromonal air around me with a different intent. I would find myself pacing about in the middle of the day feeling all fired up about the idea of actually having sex with someone again. After 10 years. Finally, the long-deferred dating apps beckoned. Also, Trinity the cat died. It was time.

My revived libido did not simply lead me to meet a new partner – although I did meet someone. More importantly, I experienced what it was like to fancy someone again and rediscovered what a driver that can be in all areas of life. I suddenly felt more creative in my career, more present in my social life. The thrill of renewed passion expands outwards. I learned that, as an older person, you discount desire at your peril. The story of it may ebb and flow – but it doesn’t have to end.

Mel Hudson’s show, Richard Ashcroft Revived My Libido, is at the
Edinburgh fringe from 5–30 August (excluding 18 August) at Gilded Balloon Teviot