Help! I’m attachedattached toto a Swiss boy
I’m in Zurich airport waiting for my connecting flight back home to Manchester when I meet Bruno. I’m at the gate in the most lazy outfit known to man – navy joggers, an old Gap hoodie and sandals, when he approaches me to say I’m very beautiful. The careless outfit, hair and makeup-free face makes me sound so pick-me, but in truth, I couldn’t have felt more shit.
In two hours time I’d be back in cold and dreary England.
First world problems, I know.
I force a smile. “Thanks.”
He’s wearing a sky blue Ralph Lauren hoodie with the drawstrings knotted together, grey joggers and a smile he can’t seem to erase.
I appreciate the compliment but don’t let it flatter me because guys these days would compliment broccoli if it had a vagina.
He sits down next to me.
I force another smile.
He’s cute. Has honey blonde hair parted down the middle, blue eyes to match the hoodie… there has to be a catch. Most of the guys that approach me look like they’ve been run through the washing machine on a ninety degree spin. Greasy, uncombed hair. Bags under their eyes bigger than Bags for Life from Tesco.
But maybe that’s just British men…
“What’s your name?”
And so he tells me.
He has a delicate smile and asks me about my trip to Greece.
“It was good. Hot.” I pause, interrupted by a more pressing thought. “What are you going to the UK for? Please don’t tell me it’s to visit Manchester. Trust me, you’re best staying here in Zurich.”
“I hate to shit on your country, but I agree,” he says. “Work, unfortunately. My agency booked me in for a shoot on Tuesday.”
“A shoot?”
I should’ve known just by looking at him…
The man’s a fashion model.
I turn my body to face him as the conversation deepens.
“…Barbour, I’ve done a lot of shoots with them, that’s my main reason for being over in Britain. Here in Switzerland I work a lot with Avani. I’m one of the models on their online website.” He brings it up on his phone and passes the device over to me.
It feels like my eyebrows are touching my hairline.
He looks good. Angelic. He says he got scouted here in Zurich airport when he was fifteen. I can see why. He catches the attention of many. People double-look and whenever he’s speaking to people, their eyes tend to lighten slightly like someone’s shining a torch in their eye… except it’s not light, it’s Bruno’s ten-out-of-ten, carved-from-the-god’s face. He has this innocent, kind look. It makes him approachable.
“I don’t do this often,” he says. We’re walking back to our gate with coffee when he turns to me and says this. “But you caught my eye.”
I chuckle. “That sounds like something a seasoned seducer would say.”
“I know, I know.” We sit back down in our seats. “But trust me when I say I’ve never come across a face like yours before. I’ve been in the fashion modelling industry for ten years, been exposed to many beautiful faces. I know beauty when I see it.”
Heat warms my cheeks.
I never get flustered around a male.
And it’s probably all lies, a chat-up-line.
But it’s working.
Our flight gets called for boarding. We remain seated, wait for the queue to die down before scanning through our boarding passes. In the tunnel on route to the aircraft is when he stops me with his arm to pass me his phone.
“Let me get your number.”
I type in the digits and hand the phone back to him.
We text back and forth on the plane until it’s time to turn to flight mode.
I spend the duration of the time in the air thinking about how I actually quite like him. I’m not on my own there, all the people he probably walked past earlier are most likely on their flights right now daydreaming of a life with him.
But he came and approached me…
It’s a lovely stroke to the old ego.
But it’s probably routine for him to approach girls at an airport to kill time.
We touch down in rainy Manchester, disembark the flight. It’s when we’re in baggage claim that I see him again removing his RIMOWA case from the conveyor belt.
“I might need a tour guide, you know.”
“Oh really?” I flash him a smile. “You might be in luck. Not like there’s tons to do in Manchester. I can show you around the city though.”
We arrange a date.
Next Saturday.
Which rolls around incredibly slowly.
Of course.
We arrange to meet at 5PM and he rocks up in this ocean-blue, open collared linen shirt that brings out his eyes perfectly.
An avid wearer of blue.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
He calls me beautiful as we’re sitting ourselves down at this restaurant I’ve always wanted to go to at St Annes Square.
Once we’ve ordered we share a bottle of red, him topping up each time I’m getting low. He lays his palms flat on the table and tells me about the shoots he’s been at, the drama- models hooking up with casting directors and causing a fuss about outfits the stylists dress them in. We laugh, sip wine and when the food arrives, talk between mouthfuls. He’s an interesting man with surprisingly a lot of depth- something you can’t often say about a good looking man. He enjoys learning about nutrition, reads a lot of Wim Hoff, and despite living in what could arguably be the most beautiful country in the world, his favourite place to be is in Rome because he has a fascination with the gladiators.
He also pays for the bill.
Does it subtly when you’ve gone to the loo.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So… what now?”
I expected him to kiss me goodnight but instead he finds my hand and starts swinging it around in the space between us. “A few more drinks?”
Thank god for the sushi because without the food, that wine would’ve gone straight to my head.
“Yeah, sure.”
Another bottle of wine is popped open on Oxford Road. We sit inside, our table looking out onto the road. Blurred, red lights zoom past, people in thick coats on the pavement charging by, desperate to get out of the cold.
We’re half a bottle of wine in at this place when the conversation takes a turn.
“…I’ve never tried handcuffs but always wanted to,” he says.
“You should. Very fun. I have some. Could tie you up if that’s what you’re into.”
The booze is speaking for me at this point. It’s like I’m separate to my body hearing a voice that’s exactly like mine only… the words are too bold to be coming from me.
Bruno takes a sip of wine, settles the glass back onto the table and rests his arms on it to stare intently into my eyes. The colour of his are his strong point. If he didn’t have this look of innocence about him, I’d label him cocky. He bites his bottom lip. They’re plump, tinted red from the wine, and part to say my name sensually. Then he goes: “are you a one night stand kinda girl?”
I’ve had my fair share but honestly after three ungratifying experiences, I called it a day. “Not really. But I bet you are.”
Prefers long term partners.
It’s got to be bullshit but maybe… it’s not.
“No, actually,” he says. “I know that might be hard for you to believe.”
“Modest.”
He sniffs a laugh. “Trust. When girls throw themselves at you, of course you give it a go, but female gratification only takes you so far. You feel shit. The next day it’s unfulfilling, fills you with this kind of emptiness. You can shake it temporarily by getting with another girl, disgusting I know, but it’s the truth. And what’s worse-” he sits back in his chair- “you don’t know if they’re just with you because of your looks.”
I narrow my eyes.
“My ex didn’t care about my feelings. I was an accessory on her arm. Something to brighten up her instagram. I’m telling you, being a model isn’t for the faint hearted.” He pauses. Leans forward to take another drink of wine. “Oh my god, that got deep. Saturday night and I’m traumatising you.”
And down from the pedestal he comes.
Which makes me feel better.
And him too, I think.
Can’t imagine it being very nice going about your day being viewed like a god. Sure, on the surface it looks appealing, it would explain why so many people these days enjoy the celebrity and influencer lifestyle, but after years in the spotlight it must get lonely.
When nobody sees you on their level, you become unattainable.
Removed from reality.
You’re a thing people want to prove they can get.
But what next, once you’ve attained it?
Bruno first striked me as a heartbreaker in the airport but after his tipsy little monologue it seems he is the heartbroken one.
We finish the rest of the wine, coat up and head back outside.
“Fancy coming to mine? I don’t live that far out.”
He smiles. “Yeah.”
I hang up our coats once we’re back inside.
He cups his hands around his mouth and blows hot air into them.
Dehydrated from all the wine, I make green tea and set the steaming mugs on the coffee table whilst he channel-surfs the TV. It’s nearing midnight so choices are limited but we settle for some random American Sitcom from the 80s neither one of us have heard of.
We’re sitting on opposite sides of the sofa, our legs tangled together in the middle.
Occasionally he’ll brush his foot up against mine.
Look at me.
And then I’ll look at him.
Smile.
Turn back to the TV because for some strange reason, the thought of sleeping with him brings butterflies of nerves into my stomach (?)
But it’s exciting.
The anticipation.
The foot brushing.
The heavy-lidded glances.
Him tracing the line of my achilles tendon.
All very innocent gestures…
But somehow it thickens the tension.
I crawl my way to his side of the sofa and lay on top of him. For a while I look into his eyes, him into mine. He stares deep like he’s trying to break through the surface, figure out if he can trust me or not, if I’m just another girl that’s here to sleep with a drop-dead-gorgeous model and wants no strings attached. That’s definitely not what he wants, I can see it in his eyes, the anxious hesitation in them.
Sensitive.
In touch with his feminine side.
Perhaps too much…
I’m about to reassess everything, perhaps he’s closeted gay…
But then I feel his erection thick and long in his trousers.
And he’s flipping me over to take control.
He kisses my lips a couple times before introducing his tongue.
Goddamn, the man knows how to kiss. It shouldn’t be surprising, Bruno’s body count is probably in the hundreds, but that’s not at the forefront of my mind right now.
It’s the budding desire between my legs that only he can do something about.
He plays with the hem of my shirt. “Can you take off this?”
“Only if you take off this.” I stroke the collar of his.
He sits up, reaches behind and pulls the top up over his head.
It’s like a Magic Mike performance.
He helps me with mine.
Undoes my bra one handed.
He throws it caressely into the room.
Runs his hands up and down my breasts.
The desire becoming more urgent, I crawl on top of him and kiss him again. The skin-on-skin contact sends shivers through my body and his chest, shizzled and moulded to perfection, presses up against mine to lock me in place as he flips me again to regain control.
I’m on my back, legs parted for him, when he snakes a hand under the waistband of my trousers to-
“Fuck!”
“That feel good?”
A nod is all I can manage.
“Good,” he whispers between breaths, adding a second finger up inside of me. They’re long, can get pretty far up, but it’s not quite cutting it, so I tug at his belt.
He undoes it, slides it out of the loops and tosses it away.
His jeans are the next to go.
After that, the Calvin Kleins.
He strokes his dick, head lolling back and a sigh leaving his mouth.
Definitely over one hundred girls he’s slept with when his dick looks like that.
He angles over me and guides his dick to my entrance.
It slips right in.
We moan in unison.
His brows come together in pleasure, eyes poking out of the sockets as more of him enters me.
He’s so big it hurts kinda.
But the pleasure overrides it.
I grab his hips and urge him to move.
We start slow, the thrusts deep, drawn out and controlled.
I shuffle my hips so they’re angled to the ceiling.
That way he can go deeper.
A choked moan escapes his lips when he feels the new depth.
The rhythm increases.
And then he finds a spot.
I claw his shoulders. “Right there.”
“That feels good?”
“Very.”
My response motivates him to go faster.
He hits jackpot each time.
Which has my brain fogging.
My limbs weakening.
It’s like I don’t even have them anymore.
It’s just his dick and that diamond spot inside of me.
“I’ve got you.” He holds my hand. “I’m not gonna stop until you come.”
He drives into me again and again, the spot inside of me being prodded and prodded and prodded until…
Ecstasy.
No drug could replicate this feeling.
I’m riding his dick but also the best orgasm of my life.
He keeps thrusting into me, again and again.
Then he’s quickly pulling out.
Finishing all over me.
We crash against one another, our bodies sheathed in sweat and his release.
Afterwards, we hop into the shower, lather our skin in soap and head to bed.
For a round two.
Half an hour later- our second shower of the night.
It’s 2AM when we fall asleep in one another’s arms, not a wise decision because it increases chances of you becoming attached and catching feelings, but when his body feels so good and warm and comforting, I can’t help myself.
Sunday we go get coffee and continue getting to know one another.
One week later we arrange to go hiking on the Saturday. We text every day because conversation is effortless, sharing memes and Instagram reels that aren’t actually funny, but somehow I’m laughing at my phone because it’s him pressing send and he’s funny without trying.
But the week after that?
He flies home.
Which leads me to now: sitting in bed typing this up on my laptop hoping that telling this story will somehow ease the stubborn pit in my stomach.