Discretion - and the Thrill It Creates

This article is part of a series. To read the first part, click on the following link: Who am I really?

There is a sentence I often hear, in various forms, at the beginning of an evening. Sometimes directly, sometimes wrapped in unnecessary precautions. It goes something like this: “You understand that this meeting must remain between us.” I always give the same answer - yes, of course, that’s the foundation. What I don’t say is that this sentence, spoken by a man who has much to lose, has an effect on me that he probably doesn’t suspect. Secrecy doesn’t weigh on me. It fascinates me. Over time, it has become part of the desire itself.

Discretion is the sine qua non condition of what I do. Without it, nothing works - not for my clients, not for me. It’s such a fundamental truth that I could simply mention it in passing and move on. But I don’t want to do that, because discretion is not just an operational rule in my life. It has become something more complex - an atmosphere, a language, sometimes a form of intimacy in its own right.

This article is not a practical guide on how not to get caught. It’s a reflection on what secrecy does to people - to them, to me, to what happens between us.

Who These Men Are

The vast majority of my clients have something to protect. That’s a reality of this world that I don’t judge - I accepted it from the beginning as part of the terrain, not as a moral problem to solve.

Married men probably represent half of those I see, perhaps more. Some are in marriages that function domestically but where desire has long since disappeared - that’s the most common version, and the least dramatic. Others are in more complicated situations, with wives going through illness, depression, long periods where physical intimacy is no longer possible for reasons that have nothing to do with the couple itself. A few, more rarely, are simply men who have never been monogamous by temperament and made peace with that long ago.

I don’t ask questions about the women who stay at home. That’s not my role. What I know is that these men have made a choice in coming to see me - a choice that belongs to them, along with the consequences. I am not the guardian of their marital conscience.

There are also public men - politicians, executives of well-known companies, figures from the French-speaking Swiss academic or media world. They carry an additional layer of complexity, because the risk is not only personal but professional and social. For them, discretion is not a preference. It’s a condition of survival.

How I Protect - The Concrete Rules

I’ll be practical for a moment, because this deserves to be stated clearly.

I don’t keep real names in my phone. Each contact has a first name I chose, often unrelated to the real one, sometimes just an initial and a number. My professional phone is separate from my personal one - two devices, two universes, no overlap. Messages are deleted regularly. Not paranoically - methodically, like housekeeping.

I don’t take photos in hotels. Ever. Not of myself, not of the spaces, not of anything that could situate an evening in a specific place and time. That rule has no exceptions.

I don’t speak about my clients to one another. Not even in anonymized form, not even to close friends who work in the same world. The stories remain where they happened. This blog is the only exception, and it is framed by precautions I take very seriously - no identifying details, no precise time frames, no locations that would allow information to be cross-referenced.

What I offer is total watertightness. What these men experience with me exists in no other space than theirs and mine. It’s a promise I have never broken.

The Appointment That Never Took Place

There’s a phrase I sometimes use with certain clients in our early conversations, when we’re establishing the framework. I tell them: "This appointment will not have taken place." Not as a formula - but as a way of naming something we build together.

What it means in concrete terms: no digital trace, no witnesses, no circulating narrative. The evening exists in the memory of two people and nowhere else. It took place in an absolute sense - I lived it, he did too - but it did not take place in the social and documentary sense of the term.

That notion intrigued me philosophically for a long time. Does an event that exists only in two private memories truly take place? And if one of those two memories were one day to fall permanently silent - would the evening have existed at all?

I stopped asking myself that question because it has no useful answer. What matters is that for those few hours, something real happened between two real people. The rest - the trace, the story, the proof - is irrelevant.

What Secrecy Does to the Atmosphere

Here’s what I’ve understood over time: secrecy does not neutralize desire. It concentrates it.

When two people know they are sharing something no one else knows, a form of intimacy settles very quickly that would otherwise take time to build. There’s no need for shared history, no need for trust accumulated over months - there’s just that shared thing, that invisible boundary drawn around the evening, placing the two people on the same side of a line the rest of the world will not cross.

It’s a form of instant complicity. And complicity, in my experience, is one of the most effective aphrodisiacs that exists.

I’ve had evenings with men I did not find particularly attractive at first glance who became intensely desirable within the hour - simply because the awareness of shared secrecy had created something palpable between us. Something that felt like connivance, almost like an alliance.

Married Men - What I Observe

I’m going to say something that might surprise: married men are often among the most attentive I receive.

Not all - there are exceptions in every direction. But often, a man who has lived within a marital framework for fifteen or twenty years has developed an awareness of the other person, a habit of coexistence and attentiveness, that translates differently in a hotel room than in a single man. He knows that women have preferences. He knows that presence must be managed. He has learned, sometimes painfully, that inattention has consequences.

What I also see in these men is a particular form of gratitude - not servile, not awkward, but real. They know that what they are doing carries significant personal risk. The fact that I know it too, and do nothing with that knowledge, creates a particular dynamic between us. A quiet mutual recognition that doesn’t need to be spoken to exist.

There is one client I’ve been seeing for three years - let’s call him Bernard, in his sixties, married for thirty years to a woman he speaks of with evident respect even in this context. He doesn’t come to me out of lack of love for her. He comes because something in their physical life faded long ago, gently, without drama or reproach on either side. He chose not to disturb a life balance built over decades. And he found another space, here, for what is missing elsewhere.

I don’t judge that calculation. I even understand it, in its logic both cold and human at once.

Discretion as Language

With some clients, discretion has become a way of communicating in itself. A way of signaling something to each other without saying it.

When a man arrives in a hotel suite without having used his real name at reception, when he pays in cash without me having to ask, when he turns off his phone before even sitting down - those gestures say something. They say he takes this seriously. That he has thought it through. That he respects me enough not to place me in a complicated situation through carelessness.

That kind of attention, I receive as a form of care. It doesn’t replace anything else - but it matters.

Conversely, a man who arrives leaving his phone lit on the nightstand, who mentions real names in conversation without thinking, who speaks too loudly in corridors - that man, whatever his other qualities, puts me in a state of diffuse discomfort that never fully disappears from the evening. Carelessness in matters of discretion says something about how someone thinks of others in general. And that, you can feel.

What It Costs Me - and What It Gives Me

Keeping secrets has a cost. I would be dishonest not to mention it.

It’s not a moral weight - I’ve said it, I don’t position myself as guardian of other people’s consciences. It’s something else. It’s the particular solitude of someone who knows things she cannot share with anyone. Intense evenings, unexpected confidences, rare moments of human truth - and all of it remaining in a closed space, circulating nowhere, feeding no conversation, no friendship, no shared narrative.

Sometimes, after a particularly dense evening, I would like to be able to tell someone - a friend, someone I trust absolutely - what I’ve lived. Not to boast, not to analyze. Just so that it exists in a slightly larger space than my own memory.

This blog is a partial answer to that need. A way of telling without betraying - of giving existence to experiences that would otherwise remain entirely private, while preserving what must be preserved.

What it gives me, on the other hand, is real and lasting. A form of self-confidence that few other things could have built. The certainty that I am someone people can rely on when it truly matters. And that awareness - of being reliable, of having a word that means something in situations where a word is all there is - is something I am deeply proud of.

The Thrill - The One I Hadn’t Named

There is an aspect of all this that I haven’t yet named directly, and I will name it now because it would be too significant an omission.

I like the secret. Not only professionally. There is something in carrying a parallel life, in walking through Geneva knowing what I know and being the only one who knows it - there is a form of quiet power in that which I wouldn’t trade for anything.

I walk down the street, I take the tram, I shop at the Pâquis market - and I am also someone who has spent the night with a man whose face sometimes appears on posters in that same street. That double existence is not a burden. It’s a richness. A way of inhabiting the world on multiple levels at once, of seeing layers most people never see.

Secrecy, in my life, is not what one hides out of shame. It’s what one keeps by choice - because some things have more value when they remain rare, when they belong to only two people, when they exist in that particular space the rest of the world will never cross.

Maybe that, in the end, is what I sell best. Not just a presence, not just a night. A space where things can exist without leaving traces.

In a world where everything is photographed, posted, narrated - that space has become rare enough to hold a value that money alone does not fully capture.

Sofia

Sofia, 27 — Based in Geneva, she fully embraces her life as a luxury escort and speaks about it openly.

Through her stories, she shares her beginnings, her experiences with an international clientele, the advantages of the job (luxury, freedom), but also the more complex realities. She writes in a simple, honest way about what truly happens behind the doors of Swiss hotels.

This text was originally written in French. It was then translated to be readable in your language.
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