The Bedroom Blog

Is It OK to Have Sex on a Business Trip?

Chloe boards the private jet with Mr. Brantley.

By Alessandra Torre

It's nice to be back in a private jet. My entire life, up until a few months ago, my parents had a plane, an eight-seater. Nothing of the Brantley's caliber, but it got me from Miami to New York, from New York to Cali, from anywhere to everywhere with a snap of my manicured fingers. Just another feather in my spoiled cap that I didn't appreciate until it was gone.

The breakdown of my former life began about a year ago, when dad's license was suspended and the full weight of the SEC came down on my family, with financial records seized, employees deposed, and all the while, reassurance poured up the phone lines to me at NYU.

Everything is fine, sweetie.

This is all a misunderstanding.

Did you get the new Vuitton luggage we sent?

Of course it's all OK! Can't talk, we're heading to Aspen for the weekend.

They didn't even tell me when the bottom dropped. That call came from my bank, when my credit cards were suddenly declined. Another call from NYU's tuition office. Another from my landlord. Everything, in the course of three weeks, gone. Weeks where my parents wouldn't answer my calls. Weeks where I was suddenly marooned, and Benta and Cammie were my lifelines.

Oh — speaking of Cammie, she updated me about Saturday night's attempt at anal. The story took a good 30 minutes, given her unfortunate propensity for detail. And, I'm disappointed to announce that I am now the only non-enthusiastic member of the Anal Club. I'd like to say I did the mature thing and murmured words of encouragement, but for the most part, I just slumped in my seat and picked at my nails.

But ever since then, I've been thinking. It's possible Vic didn't know what he was doing. Or maybe I wasn't as into it — muscle relaxers aside — because I didn't really trust him. Maybe I was doing it out of insecurity, instead of out of love or a spirit of adventure. Maybe I should rethink my lifetime ban on the activity. Maybe.

I'll file that away for later. At the moment, I have a job to do, and that entails getting on the Brantley's private plane where I can pretend, for the next few hours, that I'm back in my old life of luxury.

Of course, nothing has gone smoothly. I had told the models to arrive by 8:30 a.m., yet at 9:15, we were still missing four of the 10. Mr. Brantley had shot me a frustrated look as he had checked his watch for the umpteenth time before striding to one of the airport's private lounges. Suddenly I wanted the overanxious model agency rep from the audition to help me. She could fret beside me, power-calling these beauties, so I didn't have to be the bitch. I mean, I still had to share a hotel room with two of these girls, and I didn't want to start the trip with them hating my guts.

Finally, shortly before 10, I located everyone, got Mr. Brantley on board and spoke with the flight attendant. I checked the car and lounge, verified that nothing was left behind — oops, almost forgot Chanel — and climbed the jet's stairs, taking a deep breath before ducking with her into the plane.

All of the models were in the back, the glow of 10 phones illuminating the dim cabin like lighters at a '90s concert. Which left the front two seats, the ones that faced each other, built for Mr. and Mrs. Brantley and whatever cutesy conversation they might want to have during a three-hour flight, empty.

Mr. Brantley was already seated, his glance tilting up and catching me as I stood, terrified, in the aisle, looking desperately for another seat that didn't exist. I smiled at him, he checked his watch again, and I sank into the opposite seat, my knee bumping against his.

I had a sudden vision of my New Year's resolutions list, not even a month old. 

New Year Resolution#1: Do not sleep with anyone who will get you fired.

It's not really like I'm in any danger of sleeping with Clarke Brantley. The man hasn't exactly flirted, or pushed me against a wall and tried to kiss me. In fact, he's basically ignored me. But the man smolders with sexuality, and where there's smoke… And now there's a three-hour flight ahead of us, our seats so close we could touch.

I sighed and suddenly wished I were flying commercial.