My first professional night - telling everything
This article is part of a series. To read the first part, click on the following link: Who am I really?
Three weeks after the night at the Richemond, I had posted my listing. Short, understated, a single photo - my face at three-quarters, bare shoulders, nothing vulgar. My phone rang within 48 hours. Several messages. I read them all, replied to three, and kept one.
I saved him as Marc in my phone - a name I chose myself because he hadn't told me his straight away, which I found cautious and therefore reassuring. Early fifties, an executive at a multinational near the CICG, French-speaking. We exchanged a few clean, direct messages, with no ambiguity about what this was. He suggested a hotel in the city centre. I agreed to a weekday evening, a Tuesday.
Before - The Two Hours Leading Up to It
I remember that afternoon clearly. I wasn't panicked - I was in a strange state, somewhere between focused and quietly excited. I took a long bath, tending to every detail of my body with an attention I didn't usually give myself. Waxed, moisturised, perfumed at the neck and wrists. I chose burgundy lingerie - fine lace, nothing aggressive - because I had read somewhere that burgundy on a brunette is a given.
The dress was black, simple, knee-length. Heels I had worn only twice before. Looking at myself in the mirror before leaving, I thought: you look like a woman who knows where she's going. That was exactly the effect I was after.
In the taxi, I watched Geneva drift past the window - the lake to my left, the lights along the quay. I thought of my mother in Turin who believed I was coming home late from a work dinner. Then I stopped thinking about my mother.
The Room
The hotel was decent without being exceptional - a well-kept three-star on Rue de Lausanne, room on the fourth floor. Marc was already there, sitting in the armchair by the window. He stood up when I came in. Early fifties, indeed. Salt-and-pepper hair, suit without a tie, glasses he removed when he saw me as if by reflex. He told me I was prettier than in the photo. It was clumsy and sincere at the same time, and it put me at ease more than any other opening line could have.
He had ordered a bottle of white wine. We talked for twenty minutes - about the city, his work, nothing of importance. I watched his hands, the way he looked at me. No pressure. No rush. That, too, was reassuring.
It was I who stood up first.
What I Did - and What I Felt
I moved toward him slowly and set my glass on the nightstand. He understood. He rose in turn and looked at me in a way that was no longer polite at all. That look - the moment when politeness disappears and only desire remains - is something I love deeply. Even before he touched me, I was already in a different state.
He placed his hands on my hips. Gently at first, then with more certainty when he felt I wasn't pulling back. I undid the buttons at my back myself - slowly, without turning around, watching him. His breathing changed. That moment - a slow undressing beneath a gaze that can no longer look away - I understood that night that this was something I was capable of drawing out for as long as I chose. That I had that control.
The dress fell. He looked at the burgundy lingerie with an expression I won't forget. No comment - just a silence that was worth every compliment.
What followed, I won't describe minute by minute. But I will say this: Marc was not an extraordinary lover. He was attentive, clean, respectful, and experienced enough not to rush. What was extraordinary was what I felt - that sharp awareness of being exactly in the right place, of doing exactly what I had chosen to do, and of taking a pleasure in it that wasn't performed.
At one point, he said my name - Sofia - in a voice I hadn't yet heard from him. And I realised that this name, that evening, was completely my own.
Afterwards
We lay there for a while without speaking. No awkwardness. A kind of mutual, satisfied calm. He asked if I wanted him to order something. I said no, that I had to get back. It was true - and besides, I had no desire to linger. Not out of coldness. Simply because I needed to go home and let that evening exist on its own, without diluting it in post-coital small talk.
The envelope was on the dresser. He said nothing - neither did I. I picked it up while putting on my coat, naturally, as though I had done it a hundred times. In the lift, alone, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. The same woman as before. But something had changed in her eyes. Something more settled. More certain.
Outside it was cold, the lake was black, and Geneva smelled of winter and cleanliness. I walked to the tram stop smiling slightly, for no particular reason. Or rather yes - for a very precise reason. I had just understood that I was good at this. Truly good. And that the life I had glimpsed three weeks earlier was within reach.
Marc wrote to me again two days later. I saw him four times in total. He was regular, discreet, generous. The ideal client to start with - I'll come back to that in a future article.
That first professional night was not the most intense, nor the most memorable of my career. But it was the most important. Because it confirmed what I already knew: this choice was the right one.
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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