I don’t know what happened today, but they closed one of our main roads. I read today’s papers, but not the city sections with the local news. I know that major world powers send their representatives here to discuss the threat of nuclear-weapons proliferation, “on neutral ground.” And does this affect my life?

A lot. I can’t afford to be late. I should have used public transportation instead of taking this stupid car.

Every year, Europe spends approximately 74 million Swiss francs (more than 80 million U.S. dollars) on hiring private detectives who specialize in following, photographing, and providing evidence that a client’s spouse is cheating on them. While the rest of the continent is in crisis and companies are going bankrupt and laying off workers, the infidelity market has seen tremendous growth.

And it’s not only the detectives who profit. Developers have created smartphone apps like SOS Alibi. The way it works is simple: at a set time it sends your partner a sweet message as though you were still at your office. So while you’re between the sheets drinking glasses of champagne, a text pops up on the partner’s phone letting them know you’ll be late leaving work because of an unexpected meeting. Another app, Excuse Machine, offers a series of excuses in French, German, and Italian—and you can choose whichever is most convenient that day.

But besides detectives and programmers, hotels have really come out the winner. With the one in seven Swiss adults who are having an extramarital affair, according to official statistics, and considering the number of married people in the country, we’re talking about four hundred fifty thousand individuals looking for a discreet room where they can meet. To attract customers, the manager of one luxury hotel once said, “We have a system that enables credit-card charges to appear as lunch in our restaurant.” The establishment has become a favorite among those willing to cough up 600 Swiss francs for one afternoon. That is precisely where I’m headed.

After a stressful half an hour, I leave my car with the valet and run up to the room. Thanks to their e-mail service, I know exactly where to go without asking anything at the front desk.

From the café on the French border to where I am now, nothing more was needed—no explanations, no vows of love, not even another meeting—for us to be sure that this was what we really wanted. We were both afraid to think too much and back down, so the decision was made without questions or answers.

IT IS no longer autumn, it is spring. I am sixteen again, and he’s fifteen. I’ve mysteriously regained my soul’s virginity (since my body’s is lost forever). We kiss. My God, I’d forgotten what this is like, I think. I’ve just been living in search of what I wanted—what and how to do it, when to stop—and accepting the same from my husband. It was all wrong. We were no longer completely surrendering to each other.

Maybe he’ll stop now. We hardly ever went beyond kissing before. They were long and delicious, exchanged in a hidden corner of the school, although I wanted everyone to see and envy me.

He doesn’t stop. His tongue tastes bitter, like a mixture of cigarettes and vodka. I’m embarrassed and tense; I need to smoke a cigarette and have a vodka for us to be on equal footing, I think. I push him away gently, go to the minibar, and down a small bottle of gin in one gulp. The alcohol burns my throat. I ask for a cigarette.

He gives me one, but not before reminding me it’s a nonsmoking room. It feels so lovely to break the rules, even stupid ones like that! I take a drag and feel ill. I don’t know if it’s the gin or the smoking, but I go to the bathroom and toss the cigarette into the toilet, to be safe. He comes after me, grabs me from behind, and kisses the nape of my neck and my ears. His body is pressed against mine, and I feel his erection on my back.

Where are my morals? What will happen after I leave here and resume my normal life?

He pulls me back into the room. I turn around and kiss his mouth and tongue that taste like tobacco, saliva, and vodka. I bite his lips and he touches my breasts for the first time since high school. I take off my dress and throw it in the corner. For a split second, I feel a little ashamed of my body—I’m no longer the girl from that spring at school. We remain standing. The curtains are open and Lake Léman is the only barrier between us and the people in the buildings on the far shore.

I imagine someone sees us, and this arouses me even more than him kissing my breasts. I’m a slut, a whore hired by an executive to screw at a hotel, up for absolutely anything.

But this feeling doesn’t last long. Once again I am sixteen, when I masturbated several times a day to the thought of him. I pull his head to my chest and ask him to bite my nipple, hard, and I cry out a little from pain and pleasure.

He is still dressed, and I am completely naked. I push his head and ask him to go down on me. Instead, he throws me on the bed, takes off his clothes, and gets on top. His hands search for something on the nightstand. This makes us lose our balance and we fall to the ground. A sure sign of a beginner—but we are beginners and we aren’t ashamed of it.

He finds what he was looking for: a condom. He asks me to put it on with my mouth. I do, inexperienced and rather awkward. I don’t understand the need for it. I can’t believe that he thinks that I go around sleeping with everyone and might have something. But I respect his wish. I can still taste the unpleasant flavor of the lubricant covering the latex, but I’m determined to learn how to do it. I don’t let it come across that it’s the first time I’ve ever used one of those things.

When I finish, he flips me over and asks me to get on all fours. My God, it’s happening! And I’m happy.

But he starts to take me in the behind instead of my vagina. It frightens me. I ask what he’s doing, but he doesn’t answer, just takes something else from the nightstand and puts it on my anus. I believe it’s Vaseline, or something similar. Then he asks me to masturbate and, very slowly, he enters me.

I follow his instructions, again feeling like a teenager for whom sex is taboo. It hurts. Oh my God, it hurts a lot. I’m unable to masturbate—I just grab on to the sheets and bite my lips to keep from screaming in pain.

“Tell me it hurts. Say you’ve never done this. Scream,” he orders.

Once again I obey him. It’s almost the truth—I’ve done it four or five times and never liked it.

His movements increase with intensity. He moans with pleasure. Me, with pain. He grabs me by the hair like an animal, a mare, and his pace grows faster. He withdraws in a single motion, rips off the condom, turns me over, and comes on my face.

He tries to contain the moans, but they are stronger than his self-control. He slowly lowers himself on top of me. I’m frightened and also fascinated by it all. He goes to the bathroom, throws the condom in the trash, and returns.

Lying down beside me, he lights another cigarette and uses the vodka glass as an ashtray, resting it on my belly. We spend a long time staring at the ceiling, saying nothing. He caresses me. He is no longer the violent man from a few moments ago, but the young romantic who used to talk to me about galaxies and astrology in school.

“We can’t leave any smell.”

His words are a brutal return to reality. Apparently, it’s not his first time. That explains the condom and the particulars that make sure everything stays as it was before we entered the room. I silently insult him and hate him, but I disguise it with a smile and ask if he has any tips for eliminating odors.

He says to take a shower when I get home before hugging my husband. He also suggests that I throw away these panties, because the Vaseline will leave a mark.