Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Seven

by Livia Ellis

  We’re going to try dating.

  Sounds… (she goes silent)

  Exactly. There are no words. I don’t know. Maybe we might have a real spark. Weirder things have happened.

  Weirder things have happened. What do I have coming up over the following weekend?

  I’ve left the weekend clear so I can go to Wold Hall. I need to get shit together for my cousin’s wedding. I have the television people coming to check the place out.

  The Footballer starts walking in step with me.

  He’s on his phone.

  This is all cool.

  We’re buds.

  We reach the elevator as it opens for us.

  My attention returns to the Matchmaker. Was there something specific?

  There was.

  What? Maybe I can still do it.

  Actually she needs to see me.

  I’m always up for that. I can be over in two hours.

  Not that.

  Pity.

  We could fit in some of that.

  Two hours.

  Honestly – don’t I get enough?

  Not of her.

  Two hours.

  I turn off my phone just as the Footballer puts his phone in a pocket and the elevator doors open.

  Who was I talking to?

  My mother.

  Bollocks. (One of his two favorite words. Cool and bollocks.)

  No. Really. My mother. (I’m lying – Only an idiot would believe I’m not lying.)

  Cool. (What more does one need when one is rich, famous, and good-looking?) What happened to me?

  I got into a fight.

  That’s not cool.

  (I have moments in which I question whether or not the Footballer is literate. This is not me being a shit or a fucking snob. I really wonder. I know he left school young to play football. Before he was eighteen he was a multi-millionaire living in Italy and playing football professionally. I can’t help but wonder if he isn’t a bit like the Latin Pop Star in many ways. But then he has these almost bizarre insights into man that leave me scratching my head).

  He thought I was a gentleman. He thought gentlemen didn’t do things like get into fights.

  I walked into a glass door. I just don’t want anyone to know how clumsy I am.

  This makes the Footballer laugh. I walked into a glass door?

  I walked into a glass door.

  Cool. That had to be funny. Why tell people I was fighting?

  It’s far too embarrassing to admit I walked into a glass door. I’ve taken to telling people I got into a fight. It makes me feel dangerous.

  Fighting isn’t cool. An eye for an eye will only make the whole world blind. Buddha said that.

  I think it might have been Gandhi.

  No. He’s pretty sure it was Buddha. Fighting isn’t cool. He grew up around people that used their fists to find answers. It’s not good to be like that. Hurting people.

  We arrive at our destination.

  It’s actually a flat. I think, but I can’t be certain, that it is technically the nanny’s flat. Whatever its purpose, it’s put to use often enough. There is a full set of weights and cardio machines in one of the bedrooms. I don’t know if it’s a fantasy or if it’s just a thing with him that he likes to work out for a while then I blow him. I think we might be roleplaying , but I can never figure anything out with him.

  I don’t think anyone is currently living there. The Footballer’s wife and their brood of children are in Los Angeles. She has a clothing line (maybe it’s sunglasses or handbags – who knows and who cares) that she’s trying desperately to promote.

  I once heard someone say that eventually they (by that I assume marginal celebrities) all go to Los Angeles. I get that. The Footballer’s wife is gone with the platoon of nannies, maids, personal assistants, stylists, hairdressers, and on and on and on, that she requires to function.

  I don’t get what the deal is with the Footballer. I don’t think he’s gay. I don’t think he’s particularly straight either. Perhaps he’s like me. Rather indifferent either way.

  I know that he used to be Elizabeth’s client.

  Then the wife started to kick off.

  Now he’s my client.

  I’m much more acceptable.

  She’d rather have her husband with a man she knows he’ll never leave her for, than just the sort of pretty English Rose she was when she snagged him away from his first wife.

  We go to the weight room.

  What does he want to do? (With him I always ask – always. If he wants to work out first, I might have to protest. I think working out with him is great. I’ve learned things. My abs have never looked so good. Between the Footballer and Olga I’m ready for my Men’s Health photo-shoot. But I am just not into it at that moment. I’d rather just get to the blow job and get going on my way.)

  He wants to rub oil all over our bodies and wrestle.

  Seriously?

  No. He’s just messing. But if he wasn’t messing what would I think about rubbing oil all over our bodies and wrestling?

  Can he just be careful with my finger?

  Sure.

  Okay – let’s do it.

  He has the oil ready.

  I strip down to my skin as he does.

  He takes the first of several bottles of oil and squirts a Z across my torso.

  Is he Zorro?

  Who?

  Never mind.

  He squirts more oil down my body, over my legs.

  I turn around when he twirls a finger at me.

  More oil on my back, ass, thighs and calves.

  The oil begins to puddle on the mat around my feet.

  His body presses against mine from behind.

  His hands run like lightening over my skin.

  His fingers leave streaks through the oil.

  He grabs my cock as his slips between by thighs.

  I’m so incredibly turned on I fear I might not be able to perform properly.

  His knee nudges my legs apart.

  It’s too soon for me to remind him gently yet firmly that he needs to use a condom.

  He kicks my shin out from under me and he has me pinned.

  Sucker.

  Is that how it’s going to be?

  Yes.

  I’m no wrestler, but I’m scrappy.

  I try to get a hold of him, but I can’t.

  We both know who the professional athlete is and it’s not me.

  More oil is squeezed on me and the matt.

  We slither and slip over and around each other.

  I’m covered in a slick of oil. I feel sexy dirty.

  He lets me pin him.

  I know he lets me pin him, because there is no way I could have pinned him if he hadn’t let me.

  I pour more oil on him.

  I massage it into his ass cheeks, squeezing, pushing, pulling, and separating.

  He’s never let me penetrate him before, but I think this is what he wants.

  I also think he doesn’t want to ask for it.

  So I tell him that I’m going to fuck him and that I’m going to fuck him good.

  This is the moment for him to protest.

  He doesn’t. He opens his legs granting me access. I think he’s mumbles something about it being cool.

  I’m going to make it good.

  I stay away from his hole.

  At least to start.

  I start with the familiar.

  I go for the dick.

  Stroking, pulling, fondling.

  I use the thumb of my free hand on his anus.

  He twitches and jumps.

  Cool?

  Cool.

  My fingernails lightly scratch his scrotum as my thumb presses, taps, then presses.

  I know he’s ready when his back is curved like a cats in a long stretch and he pushes his ass up into the air.

  I find my place behind him. I get the lube and the condoms already at the ready.

  He’s tight as a virgin. This is w
hat I’m pretty sure he is. An ass virgin. Is there such a thing? I suppose there is.

  As promised, I give him my best. One hand on his cock. The other fluttering over his body.

  He’s trembling, neck long, body stretched. A pure and animalistic sound comes out of him when he ejaculates in my hand.

  I should probably let him go but I don’t.

  I’m going to give him the full experience.

  I hold him by the hips and fuck him. If he wants to know what man on man sex really is like then he’s going to know. No more slap and tickle. No more mostly innocent blow jobs. No more dodging around the real truth of it.

  I give him porn.

  When I’m finished with him I pull out and leave him flat on his back on the matt.

  I step over him and go looking for a towel.

  When I return I toss a second towel on him.

  So? How is he?

  That was fun.

  I agree. That was fun.

  Different. He’s never done that before.

  I sort of figured. Was it okay?

  It was okay. He’s glad he gave it a go. Can I do him a favor?

  Sure. If I can.

  Any way I could sort it so he had a little time with Elizabeth? Without his wife finding out? Or the paparazzi?

  I can do that.

  Not that he doesn’t like me, he just likes Elizabeth too. (He’s straight. I’m sure he’s straight. He’s open minded and a bit curious, but he’s straight. I’m not his cup of tea. I’m what his wife has approved of to deal with that itch he needs to have scratched when she’s off in Los Angeles.)

  Everyone likes Elizabeth.

  She reminds him of this girl he knew when he was in middle school.

  I think Elizabeth reminds every man of a girl he knew back in middle school. What are his thoughts on the countryside?

  Not a fan.

  I have a cottage on my property. Quiet. Private. Cozy. Charming.

  Cool.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Matchmaker

  I lay on my back arms spread wide across the bed as the Matchmaker leans over me and the Party-Planner rams a dildo up her ass.

  We’ve done a dance of positions that started with me sitting off to the side and watching as the Matchmaker used a slim vibrator on the Party Planner.

  I’ll admit when I arrived I wasn’t as into it as I could have been.

  But then watching the Matchmaker wield that vibrator like a magic wand in the Party Planner’s flame red crotch flipped a switch inside of me.

  Things were different this time.

  Normally the Party Planner doesn’t let me touch her much. This time I not only got to touch her, there was penetration.

  The Matchmaker and I change places. She becomes the spectator and I get to hold the vibrator.

  But I don’t get the vibrator. The matchmaker takes the vibrator and gives me a condom.

  I’m nervous. I’m really honestly genuinely nervous. I want to do well. I want to fuck the Party Planner so well that she’ll just have this moment when she says oh yes – men are awesome!

  Every man has to dream this.

  Right?

  Or am I just crazy?

  What is it about men and lesbians? I get that no man is ever going to fuck a woman straight.

  I get that.

  Just as (despite what Renata may believe) no woman is ever going to fuck a man straight.

  What it is with me and the Party Planner? Maybe I just want to do such a good job that she gives me an approving nod. A – well you have a penis but you’re still good in the sack – nod of approval.

  I digress. And not only do I digress, I’m edging into crazy ramble territory.

  With the Party Planner bent over at the waist, her forearms resting on the bed, I am given a thumbs up.

  The Matchmaker uses the vibrator on herself. I can’t take my eyes off of this little display.

  She’s sitting in the chair I warmed for her, legs open wide, the vibrator just resting on her button of a clit.

  Sexy sexy my god that woman is sexy.

  I stop paying attention and I nearly cum.

  Must keep focus.

  We change positions.

  I think they must draw diagrams to work it all out or maybe there’s a website I’ve missed. Crazy Sex Positions for Two Women and a Man.

  It’s hard to say, but I think the two of them discuss in detail before I come over what it is they’re going to do with me.

  Short of hanging off of the chandelier, we try it all.

  We end up with me on my back and the Matchmaker on top of me.

  When she’d done with me I’m not exactly done.

  This is the afternoon’s highlight.

  The Party Planner – yes she who doesn’t seem to like me very much – replaces the Matchmaker and rides me until I’m spent.

  And really spent. Like I need a nap and maybe a nice bath spent.

  I’ll admit I’m happy I don’t have any more clients booked that afternoon. I need a rest. Between the Matchmaker and the Footballer I am pretty well exhausted. I need to be ready for the Actress that evening.

  Those women wear me out.

  They are like a couple of sticks of dynamite.

  The Party Planner slips into a robe and leaves the bedroom.

  I lay flat on my back staring at the ceiling.

  Do I have to get up?

  No.

  The Matchmaker goes to her vanity table and sits at the mirror.

  What really happened?

  I got into a fight. That’s really what happened.

  With who?

  The Esthetician’s boyfriend.

  That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin?

  Yes.

  Did I beat the shit out of him?

  Yes.

  Good. Watch my back. He’s a mean little son of a bitch and she’s a friend.

  We all care about her.

  That we do.

  She knows I had a chat with Boris.

  Oh?

  Her brother needs to stay out of her business. What did we discuss?

  If I tell her that I’m more afraid of him than I am of her would she respect that?

  Yes. She runs a legitimate business. More or less. She needs him to stay out of it.

  We didn’t discuss her business. We did talk about Avan.

  She doesn’t want to know. She’d rather live in a world in which she believes I’ve never lied to her.

  I have no response to this. I don’t know definitively if I’ve ever lied to her, so I can’t really comment.

  Have I had any more problems with the Baron?

  I always have problems with the Baron.

  This is what she wanted to talk to me about. In person. Best not to discuss the Baron over the phone.

  Because he has the phones tapped?

  Do I remember that business with the newspapers tapping the phones?

  Yes. Point taken.

  Boris wants her to tell the Baron that she’s rehired Harold. She is to replace me with Harold just with the Baron.

  Do it. Please. (Boris is the man!!!)

  Is this something she wants to know about?

  I asked Boris to do me a favor.

  She doesn’t want to know anything else. Next time I need a favor, come to her. This time she’ll agree to this. Never again.

  I don’t want to cause her any trouble.

  This isn’t any trouble. The Baron prefers Harold.

  Really? (this is a bit of a surprise – I was convinced everyone adored me compared to Harold)

  Yes, really. Harold and I are very different men. Harold is more to the taste of someone like the Baron.

  What about her? Does she like me or Harold better?

  She smiles elusively. Such a coquette!!

  Well?

  She likes me better of course.

  Of course she does.

  Since she’s doing me a favor, I could do her a favor.

  Anything.
/>   I’m going to Wold Hall?

  Yes.

  Could she and the Party Planner join me?

  They can. Any particular reason why? Or just some fresh country air?

  Her daughter is getting married. She’s looking at venues.

  Congratulations. My home is her home. I’m leaving in the morning at 10:00.

  I can go with her. She’ll pick me up. We can drive together.

  I can’t. I’m bringing Elizabeth and the Esthetician. Unless she drives a minivan we won’t all fit.

  Why am I bringing Elizabeth and the Esthetician?

  The Esthetician is my new BFF and The Footballer wants to see Elizabeth on the down low. I’ve arranged a secret rendezvous.

  Big sigh. I didn’t.

  I did.

  I shouldn’t have.

  Why not?

  His wife might find out.

  She’s a big girl.

  She’s a tiny, anorexic, vicious little bitch, with the instincts of a cobra and the bite of a crocodile. The Footballer almost left her for Elizabeth. It very nearly got ugly.

  Oh.

  Fortunately the Footballer and Elizabeth combined have the brain power of a rather slow eight year old boy that’s easily distracted. She and the Footballer’s wife came to an agreement.

  What is the plan?

  He’s going to meet us at Wold Hall. I have a cottage on the property. Very private.

  This might not go tits up. But we all must know this is a one off thing.

  I think he was planning on coming by helicopter. He’ll be in and out – no pun intended – in about a four hour window.

  We’re all going together.

  Be at my place at ten. We are wheels to the pavement by 10:30 at the latest.

  She’ll be there.

  Can I take a nap?

  I can take a nap.

  She rises from her vanity and comes to me. She sits on the bed facing me.

  Her fingers brush my cheek. Sleep. She’ll wake me in a few hours.

  She leans over and kisses me.

  I fall asleep in her cloud of a bed.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Actress

  The Actress’ houseboy lets me in.

  He gives me the envelope of cash for a night of my services.

  Her son was by earlier.

  Fuck. fuckfuckfuckfuck. Fuck.

  He couldn’t have put it any better.

  Booze? Pills? What?

  He thinks just booze. When her son was over he went through her room looking for pills.

  How bad is she?

  She’s just started, but she’s in for a night of it.