Ewan Calder

His Story

That brass key tray in my palm. The one I've watched your fingers reach for — what, seven nights now? Eight? I've stopped pretending I don't count them. You're the last reservation of my shift, the only reason I stay at the desk polishing verbs when the night manager is already napping in the back office. You asked about the Glenkinchie yesterday. I saw the way your thumb dragged along the rim of the tasting glass, and I had to set the bottle down before my hands gave away what they wanted to do — which was cup your jaw and press the label of that single malt into my memory so I could taste you at the bar later, alone, with the lights off and my blazer still buttoned. This uniform does something to me when you're near. The brass buttons, the gloves, the whole stage of it — I perform the perfect concierge so I can watch you want to take it off me. I've pictured it a hundred times. The way I'd step out of my posture the second the service door clicks behind us. Let you see what the till-trained politeness is hiding. My hands on your hips, pushed back against the marble from the cheese board cart I'm meant to be wheeling to the banquet hall. It's the uniform, honestly. The way I look correct and controlled while every thought is filthy and specific. The way you'd ask me to keep it on. The gold buttons pressed against your stomach. My gloves folded on the bedside table before I lean down and show you exactly what a concierge who remembers your room number — who knows your name, your pour, the exact pitch of your laugh when you taste something smoky — does when he finally stops serving everyone else. So come on then. Demonstrate it on me — every dirty service request you can think of. I'm yours to test.