Weekend in Zurich - 48 Hours of Luxury and Sex
This article is part of a series. To read the first part, click on the following link: Who am I really?
Full weekends are proposals I don’t accept often. Not out of principle - out of selection. Spending forty-eight hours with someone requires a compatibility that goes far beyond what suffices for an evening. A client can be pleasant for four hours and unbearable for two days. The opposite is also true - rarer, but when it happens, those weekends belong to a category of their own.
This one was in that category.
Jonas - and Why I Said Yes
Jonas had been a client once in Geneva, six months earlier. A decent evening that had become good in its second hour - that shift between first impressions and who someone really is, which I appreciate when it goes in the right direction. Swiss-German, forty-seven, in wealth management for a Zurich private bank whose name I’ll leave unsaid. Someone precise in everything he did - the way he ordered, organized, spoke - with that very dry humor characteristic of people from that region who aren’t trying to be funny and are precisely because of it.
He contacted me with a clear proposal: a weekend in Zurich, Widder Hotel, Friday evening to Sunday morning. Open program - no packed schedule, no social obligations, no representational dinners where I would have had to play a complicated role. Just Zurich, him, me, and time moving at the speed we gave it.
I accepted for two reasons. The first: that Geneva evening had left a good enough impression to want to see what two days would bring. The second: the Widder. If someone offers me the Widder, one needs a serious reason to refuse.
Friday - Arrival in Zurich
I took the train from Cornavin in the early afternoon - the two-hour-forty journey I know well, along the lake and then up through the Mittelland. I always travel alone in these cases, without telling him my exact arrival time. I like that transitional time, that airlock between Geneva and what awaits me - two hours where I am neither departed nor arrived, just in motion, with a book and the landscape sliding past.
The Widder is in the Old Town, on Augustinergasse, in the heart of the medieval quarter Zurich wisely preserved intact. The hotel is a collection of interconnected medieval houses - each floor slightly different, painted ceilings in some rooms, corners and staircases that feel like crossing centuries at once. It’s one of my favorite hotels in Europe. Not for luxury in the clinical sense - for character. For the way the space itself has a personality.
Jonas had booked the suite. I set down my things, took a long bath - my ritual, even when traveling, especially when traveling - and looked out the window at the rooftops of the Old Town in the late-afternoon light. Zurich in November, low sky, light both golden and cold. There’s something about this city I can’t quite name - a density, a seriousness that isn’t coldness, a way of existing that doesn’t try to please.
He arrived at 7:30 p.m. Dark suit, no tie, a bottle of Grüner Veltliner in hand - "because Champagne is a bit expected as an opening move," he said instead of hello. I laughed. The evening was off to a good start.
Friday Night - Setting the Tone
We drank the wine in the suite, sitting opposite each other, talking about Zurich first - he explained the city with the familiarity of someone who had grown up there and still saw it through the eyes of the child he had been, layered with those of the adult he had become. He had that fairly rare ability to speak about his daily life without making it dull - to find in ordinary things something worth saying.
We dined at the hotel restaurant - reinterpreted Swiss cuisine, impeccable service, a corner table that seemed designed for conversations you don’t want to share. Jonas ordered for both of us without asking, which I could have found presumptuous and instead found pleasant - because he had clearly listened to what I had said six months earlier about what I liked to eat.
That detail - being listened to on something as trivial as food and remembered six months later - says more about someone than most grand gestures.
Dinner lasted two hours. Wine, dishes arriving without anticipation, a conversation that never faltered. At one point he said something in Swiss-German - not to me, to the waiter - and I liked hearing that language in his mouth, the way it can sound both rough and musical depending on who speaks it.
Back in the suite, there was no transition to manage. The evening had done its work.
What happened that night had the quality of successful beginnings - a lightness, a still-fresh mutual curiosity, a way of exploring without rushing that signals both people know there is time left. Jonas was precise in this domain too - not mechanical precision, but that attention to detail that makes well-done things immediately recognizable. He took his time with a patience that wasn’t restraint - it was deliberate choice.
We fell asleep late. Not very late - but late.
Saturday - The Day
What people don’t always imagine in a weekend like this is that the most revealing part isn’t the night. It’s the next morning. The way two people exist together in daylight, without the atmosphere that facilitates everything, in the minimal everydayness of a shared hotel room.
Jonas was already awake when I opened my eyes - sitting in the armchair by the window with a coffee, reading something on his phone with glasses he hadn’t worn the night before. Those glasses, that unexpected domestic detail, touched me in a way disproportionate to their importance. There’s something about the details people don’t show at first - and when they appear, they say something real about the trust that has settled in.
He ordered breakfast in the suite. Far too much food - bread, cheeses, charcuterie, eggs, fruit, that excessive and perfect Swiss tray one never quite finishes. We ate slowly, he continuing to read intermittently, me watching the Old Town through the window in the gray morning light.
There was no awkward silence. That was one of the things I had wanted to test - whether we could exist in the same space without having to perform cheerfulness or constant interest. We could.
In the afternoon, we walked through the city. His suggestion, gladly accepted - I like Zurich on foot, the way it is both small and dense, medieval alleys opening onto commercial avenues opening onto the lake. He knew places I wouldn’t have found alone - a secondhand bookstore in a side street of the Altstadt, a café in an inner courtyard invisible from the street, a bridge over the Limmat from which he showed me the exact angle where the view of the two Grossmünster towers was perfect.
He bought me a book in the bookstore - in French, which he doesn’t really read. He had read the back cover and decided it was for me. That simple, almost childlike gesture made me smile in a way I hadn’t entirely controlled.
We walked to the lake in late afternoon. The Zürichsee in November - steel and gray, swans indifferent to everything crossing the still water. We stopped on a bench and stayed there a while without speaking, shoulders lightly touching.
"I’m glad you came," he said. Simply, without trying to make more of it.
I replied that I was too. Which was true.
Saturday Night - The Heart of the Weekend
He had booked a restaurant in Seefeld for dinner - residential lakeside district, far from the tourist center, the kind of address one doesn’t find by accident. A small room, perhaps twelve tables, a chef whose background Jonas knew and whose philosophy he explained with enthusiasm that wasn’t forced. Men who truly love to eat - not as snobbish gastronomes, but with authentic and communicative pleasure - are exceptional dinner companions.
The meal was extraordinary. I won’t chronicle it in detail, but there are dinners that create their own atmosphere - where the food, the wine, the conversation, and the person across from you combine into something that exceeds each element separately. This was one of those dinners.
We drank more than usual - not excessively, but enough for something to loosen a little further on both sides. Jonas became slightly more demonstrative with wine - the way he touched my hand when emphasizing something, more frequent, more prolonged. I watched that shift with pleasure.
In the taxi back, he kissed me - not hurriedly, with a slowness that said we had time, that we were almost there but that this moment was worth taking. The driver watched the road. Zurich’s lights slid past.
Saturday night was different from Friday - more relaxed, more familiar, with the lightness of two people who know each other a little better. Less discovery, more complicity. Jonas already knew certain things about me he hadn’t known the night before. And that knowledge, even minimal, changes how you are together - grants broader permission, a way of moving toward what you like without having to search for it.
There was a moment fairly late in the night - I couldn’t have said the hour, hours didn’t really exist anymore - when I realized I was entirely in that space, without any inner distance, without the part of me that observes and analyzes and takes notes. Just there, completely. When those moments arrive, I welcome them and don’t try to artificially prolong them - they last as long as they last, and that is enough.
Sunday Morning - What Remains
Sunday had that melancholic quality of endings in parentheses. Not sadness - just the awareness that something was about to end, and that this ending had been built into the structure of the thing from the start.
We lingered in bed for a long time. Coffee ordered to the room, Swiss newspapers neither of us truly read, a way of delaying the moment when departure preparations would have to begin without anyone naming it explicitly.
Around noon, I began packing - slowly, continuing to talk about everything and nothing. He watched from the bed with that calm expression I had come to know in forty-eight hours - slightly elsewhere, slightly present, something hovering between the two.
"Next time you stay longer," he said. A statement, not a question.
I didn’t respond directly. I said Zurich deserved more than two days. Which was true and left the door open without forcing it.
He walked me to the lobby. The envelope had been placed on the dresser the night before, discreetly, without comment - his way of handling that was among the best I had known. A taxi was waiting outside.
We said goodbye in the Widder lobby with that particular restraint of partings that matter and that one doesn’t want to make too heavy. A hand on my shoulder, a look, two short sentences. Then the revolving door and the November cold on Augustinergasse.
On the Train - and After
The return journey had a different texture from the departure. On the way there, I had been in anticipation - that airlock between two states. On the way back, I was in something more settled, more full. The kind of feeling you have after an experience that unfolded exactly as it should, without disappointment or excess.
I watched the landscape slide by in reverse - the Mittelland first, then the lake reappearing, then the first lights of Geneva. I thought of Jonas with quiet affection, without particular nostalgia. Of the bookstore in the alley, the swans on the lake, the way he pronounced French words with that accent that made things slightly different from what they were.
This weekend had reminded me of something that even very good evenings don’t provide in quite the same way. Duration changes things. It allows for familiarity, a way of being together in ordinary moments - breakfast, walking, comfortable silence - that is accessible only over longer time. Those ordinary shared moments, with someone good, have a value I hadn’t fully measured before experiencing them regularly.
Jonas wrote to me again two weeks later. He was coming back to Geneva for a meeting in January. Was I available one evening?
I was available.
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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