"The truth is rarely pure and never simple." - Sex Stories

"The truth is rarely pure and never simple."

... Windsor knot, turn down the stiff collar and position it dead centre. I open the watch box with a snap and take a few moments to pay silent homage to my little collection. I don't need to choose, there is only one option for this suit with these shoes. The Jaeger-LeCoultre dress watch slips over my hand and I click closed the deployment clasp on the mahogany alligator strap. I check the time. Twelve and a half minutes past the hour, I need to be making a move. Two silver cufflinks go quickly through the buttonholes in my double cuffs and hold the opposite ends together around my wrists. Now for the coat. Colloquially known as a jacket, but as they say on Savile Row, jackets are for potatoes. The interior hides the one splash of colour, a tasteful pale blue lining. In with my arms, over my broad, round shoulders and across my 44 inch chest. A light tug on the lapels and it's in place. The artfully tailored garment envelopes my body, hugging my torso in all the right places, while still allowing me to bend, move and flex with ease. A silk handkerchief is stuffed into the top pocket. White, to match the shirt. I turn my body left and right in the full length mirror, taking in the complete look. This suit doesn't just fit, it flatters my form and accentuates my manly physique. The angled pockets slim my waist and the cut even adds inches to my height. It exudes refinement and sophistication with its understated elegance. I look, I feel and I smell, phenomenal. I'm ready to leave. ...

... The weather is slightly cool, but not cold enough to necessitate an overcoat. I slip a few essentials into my pockets. Door keys, credit card, cigarette case. I descend the stairs, step out onto the chilly London street and pull the door to, behind me. A brisk breeze whips past. I feel it on my freshly shaven face and head, but not on my body. I will be warm enough tonight. I raise my arm and a shiny black taxi, with glowing orange beacon, pulls up beside me. "The Savoy Hotel," I say through the open window. The driver nods his assent and flicks off the light, as I open the door and climb into the rear. He checks his mirror for oncoming traffic and we're on our way. **** We pull up underneath the iconic steel and neon sign, topped with the statue of Count Peter the second. I pay the fare, step out of the car and greet the doorman as he tips his hat to me. I stride through the front hall and head directly to the American bar, where we have arranged to meet. It's a little too flashy for me, but fine for a few drinks before dinner. I scan the room for a the best available table and to catch a waiter's eye. I notice I have caught a few other eyes already, as always happens when I wear this suit. It gives me an extra air of confidence and authority. I hold my chin that little bit higher, I meet people's gaze a tiny bit quicker and my handshake is just fractionally firmer. A girl, at least a decade my junior, bites her lip when I give her a half smile and a polite nod. I find what ...