I pulled at my neckline nervously. It wasn’t that my tie was too tight, or that I was getting hot (although it was quite warm in the room). It was just that I wasn’t comfortable, at all.

I have no problems with getting dressed up. I think I look fine in a suit, as well as I look in jeans, t-shirt, and a zip hoodie. Or my standard work attire, khakis and tucked in dress shirt (very rarely do I have to get all tie-and-suit-ed up at work, but it does happen on occasion). I didn’t tick nervously when Swiss Miss invited me to this formal dinner party. I only began to twitch uncontrollably, and fret fussy once we got there.

She wore a red dress, slim, long, elegant, which clung to her body like a glove. Her breasts held tight by the form fitting strapless upper piece, a red sequined dragon curling around her waist and back. Her red painted toenails peeked out behind a strappy red pair of stilettos, with her red painted fingernails were the points of her fingers clutching her red purse. Blonde hair pulled up in an elaborate bun over her head. I understood why she told me to wear a red tie and handkerchief.

The attendees at the party mostly were from her bank – I shook the hands of her boss, the CTO, the CIO, some directors, and many clients. She did the leading; I was brought along, her purse in one hand, me in the other. And together we cut a path through the large room, shaking hands, making introductions, idle conversation.

Yes, the markets have seen better days. No, I didn’t have a feeling one way or another when the turnaround was going to occur. We might see more rate cuts. Oh, our financials are strong, we’ve got foreign investors, we’ve been busy with our funding. No, I’ve never been on a yacht. Or played eighteen at Torrey Pines. Yes there are plenty of courses up in Westchester. Oh, you met Tiger Woods and Phil Mickelson? Fantastic. I have an interest in cars. No, really, you have a ‘67 Stingray – and an AC Cobra? Wow. That’s wonderful, yes, thank you, a pleasure.

I wasn’t having fun. And I’ve been told I am horrible at hiding my emotions, so you can imagine my face contorting slowly, my brow furrowing and my eyes narrowing with each passing word.

And then, we met him.

Smug. Confident, maybe overly so. He came alone, she told me, striding through the room unencumbered with someone on his arm, brazenly shaking hands and slicing into the fabric of already-sewn conversations. His English was perfect, eerily so. But you could tell he wasn’t American, he held himself differently. Another Swiss? Yes, I was right.

“Etienne,” Swiss Miss said, allowing her accent to escape, thick and deliberate. They hugged, his hand slipping well below the small of her back as his face brushed the side of hers. Words were quickly exchanged, in German. Then, she introduced me. His hand stuck out immediately, and I caught a glance of his watch – large, shiny, expensive. I shook his hand; he tried to squeeze the life out of mine.

“Believe it or not,” his German inflection disappearing, “she has spoken of you quite a lot.”

No, I didn’t believe him.
“And the last time that we were in Geneva,” stressing the “we” a little too much, “she told me all about you. It’s a pleasure to finally meet.”

I could tell that he chose his words carefully. He stunk of arrogance. But I was tired. Out of place, distracted, worn thin already by the forced conversation, the stuffy room, the chatter of the other guests. I wouldn’t win a fight right now, of any kind.

“Yeah, nice to meet you too,” I found myself saying quickly.

It was a sting of jealousy, but really, my mind needed an escape. At one time that night, I found myself, phone in hand, standing on the balcony, the heat of the room fading at my back. Numbers dialed, and staring at me on the screen, I didn’t press “call;” instead just stood there, wishing the phone would ring. It didn’t. And later she told me that even if I did call, it would have reached voicemail. And so it’s sad, but maybe I deserved it.

* * * * * *

“So tell me about Etienne,” I asked her, the empty mug in my hand, “because he said he knows a lot about me.”

She looked at me, eyes narrowing.

“You’re… jealous of him?” she asked, almost sneering at me.

“Maybe I am,” I answered, eyes dropping back to the one droplet of coffee rolling around the bottom of the mug. It swayed uneasily with the motion of my hands, the drop sliding around and around, leaving behind a brownish residue. I spoke again.

“I was really uncomfortable,” I admitted. My thoughts returned to the dinner party, my memory placing me as a floating observer, watching my face grow stern as I kept feeling myself being off-balance. Watching my eyes squint, my lips curling in a reined-in snarl. And even deeper, into my mind that night, I began to piece together just why I was having such a bad time. And maybe it was my poor mood that night, my fatigue, or just my wired imagination – but whatever it was, I couldn’t bring my mind to think about pulling down the top of Swiss Miss’ dress, letting her breasts pop free from the red dress, and pushing the bottom of her dress up until the fabric was bunched up around her waist, ripping the red thong off her hips, and fucking her before we reached the couch in the living room of her apartment. Instead, I thought about him. And his smug face as he fucked her as the curls of blond hair began to escape from her bun, sweat beading on her forehead, red fingernails digging into flesh that was not mine.

Her response was cold. It stung a little, but not of anger. It didn’t bite viciously at me, it didn’t soar through the sky like an arrow fired in hate and emotion. It didn’t burn and sear like venom or vitriol. It hurt because it was true.

“You really shouldn’t be jealous of other men I fuck,” her face still, emotionless. I was staring at the Alps, snow-covered, icy crags piercing cloudless blue skies. “It’s not like I’m jealous of who you fuck.”

I shouldn’t have drank so much coffee so fast.

“No,” I answered. “You’re not.” I felt myself sinking, and I didn’t know why.

I couldn’t hold it anymore. I quickly excused myself, and made my way to the mens’ room, the faint and humid odor of urine and air freshener hitting my senses as I unzipped began to pee at the urinal. And while I could relax, for a minute, in the excruciatingly good feeling of release, it didn’t change the fact that I had a weighty conversation to return to. To respond to. To somehow wrestle with feelings that I should or should not be having for casual, relationship-less, lust-full, meaning-less, passion-full sex.

It’s then that I heard the door open. And the sound of heels on the tiled floor. And the sudden whiff of perfume. And the presence behind me. And her hand reaching around my body, fingers grasping the base of my cock. And the sound of her breathing echoing off the dull walls, becoming a part of the humid air.

I had just finished. And my cock grew hard quickly under her fingers gentle squeezing. I tried to turn my head, my eyes leading, when I felt her other hand grab the back of my scalp and stop me. I retreated back to facing forward as her hand starting moving slowly up and down the shaft of my cock.

The heat from her body seared into my back as she pressed herself into me, both hands on me, one stroking my cock and the other snaking between my legs and underneath me, cupping and massaging my balls, kneading them against her palm. I placed both my hands on the tiled wall in front of me, clammy and cold, holding myself up.

Her thumb moved quickly and swabbed the head of my cock, precum smeared on the tip, sliding down to her hand to help it move up and down. The strokes became shorter, quicker. Her grip tightened near the head, her thumb returning to swipe off some more precum and squeezing it in her fingers and palm. She gripped my balls so that it hurt. She pulled them down so that it hurt. She twisted them slowly so that it hurt. Faster strokes. Tighter grip. I sucked in air, short staccato breaths.

I came hard into the urinal, cum splashing against the white porcelain repeatedly. My cock twitching and spurting, balls aching and throbbing. Her hand continued to pump until I had shot myself dry. The tangy scent of cum mixing in with the sting of the urine hit my nose and I wanted to leave, to escape, to at least turn around and face her. Her hand reached back up, and held my head facing forward, giving it one last push before releasing me, and my cock.

“You should never be jealous,” she said softly, turning and walking out of the bathroom, not bothering to wait, or to look back.