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My name is Gail Linch. I am like a flower of magnolia, which is revealed slowly, but imperiously, with the very aroma that is remembered. I am not one of those who are afraid of numbers in the passport. Age is not an expiration date, but an excerpt. Like an expensive wine or skin of a suitcase, rubbed with frequent travel. And I had a lot of them. I go in heels that could destroy if I wanted to. My legs are long, fit, with history. They wore me on Milan’s boutiques, fled from the rain in Prague, measured the beaches of Miami with their steps. They know the price of every step. My spectators do not come for cheap adrenaline, but for what they lack: for sophistication, for a hint that maturity can be more dangerous than youth. These are men who acome for what they cannot buy in ordinary life: for intellect, for the conversation, for the very look, which says: I know what you want, even before you understand it.

This turns me on:

My wardrobe is a collection. Black lace from Agent Provocateur, a silk robe brought from Florence, stockings that are more expensive than your dinner in a restaurant. I do not posing - I live in the frame. My hobbies? Psychology - because I like to disassemble people to pieces. Art is because I am the very work. Interior design - because my body is also space, and I equip it with the same taste.

This turns me off:

I am not competing with twenty years. I am a different category. They still learn to wear their body, and I have long merged with him in an ideal dance. And if you think that age deprives a woman of power, then you simply did not know people like me. Gail Lynch does not get old. She still becomes perfect. Without compromises.