Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Six

by Livia Ellis

  One step at a time.

  Of course.

  She slips off of me and the chaise. From inside of her nightstand she pulls a small vibrator. Just the right size for a beginner.

  She returns to me. Clearly she’s out of her depth.

  I get up and move her to the position we started out in. She’s bent over in front of me. I slip my cock back inside of her. There is enough lubricant already present so I don’t need more. Has she ever had anything up there?

  No.

  Taking it nice and slow then.

  Please. Nice and slowly.

  If she wants me to stop then just tell me.

  She nods.

  I start with my thumb pad just pressing. She flinches a little at the unfamiliar touch, but doesn’t swat my hand away.

  Slowly I work enough lube around the rim that she starts to relax. This is what I need her to do. Just relax and trust that I know how not to hurt her. Buts that’s really it isn’t it? Not just with the Psychiatrist, but with everyone. That learning to trust we won’t hurt them maliciously.

  My thumb is replaced by the vibrator. It goes in slowly. I turn it on so it’s shimmying slightly.

  I remind her to breathe more than once.

  It’s just so very unexpected. She had no idea.

  Nice huh?

  Yes. Yes very nice.

  I begin moving my body and the vibrator in rhythm. To borrow an Americanism from Marcus, this is not my first rodeo. With my free hand I touch her clit. Just a light touch. Not enough to overstimulate. Just enough to make her scream. I’m fairly certain the Psychiatrist hasn’t done enough screaming in ecstasy in her life and could do with some more.

  I toss the vibrator to the side when she’s pretty well collapsed in a heap of spent ecstasy over the chaise.

  Does she want me to fuck her up the ass? Just to see what it’s like?

  Yes.

  I use more lube. A lot more lube.

  Why do I like anal? Especially on women. This is one of these things I need to figure out about myself. My former fiancée, who reminds me a lot of the Psychiatrist never did this with me. But then again, I never asked. She might have been willing if I had nudged her delicately down that path as I’ve done with the Psychiatrist.

  Regardless, she’s perfectly snug and I have a genuinely satisfying orgasm.

  When I’m done and she’s gone limp, I go into the bathroom and clean up. In the bedroom she’s wearing a robe and sitting on her bed with her phone in her hand. The vibrator is gone.

  Well?

  She looks up at me from the phone. That was mind-blowing. She’s always wanted to do that but just never had the nerve to ask.

  What about the men she’s dated? To personal?

  No. That’s okay. Sometimes it’s difficult to be bold even with a man she’s in a relationship with. Asking for something different is just too much of a risk. Especially if there is an established way of doing things within the relationship. This is different. She can’t really blow my mind she suspects.

  She can’t. How would she like to try something that will really blow her mind?

  Maybe. Depends. What do I have in mind?

  Has she ever thought about being with more than one person at a time?

  Yes. She has thought about that. Again. It’s the sort of thing that’s hard to ask for, but when it’s offered that’s different.

  I could sort it out for her.

  She’d like that. The woman would have to be pretty but not too pretty.

  (OKAY!!! Totally not what I expected!!!)

  I can sort it out. I know just the right girl.

  She’s going to need to think about it. But probably yes. Maybe at a hotel.

  Leave it to me. Just let me know when she wants to give it a go.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Actress

  I arrive at the Knightsbridge home of the Actress precisely on time which means five minutes late. It annoys her when I am punctual. She finds it far too regimented for her taste.

  Her butler, a young Cuban man, answers the door.

  We talk for a moment as he takes my coat and pays me for the night.

  He lifts a phantom glass to his lips.

  Right. She’s been drinking. Could be bad. Could be good. For certain it will be interesting.

  I go directly up to her boudoir. Not bedroom. Boudoir. This is what she calls it. Her boudoir. I’ve never pretended it wouldn’t be a trial to age, but I think people that make their living based on their looks have a much harder go of it than the rest of us poor sacks. I’m not going to pretend I don’t know I’m a good-looking man. I am. Such is the way that genetic roll of dice came up when I was conceived (apparently in the back of dad’s car after a Culture Club concert – note to self: If I ever have children I will never tell them how and where they were conceived! Thank you mother for that one!)

  I may be handsome and in truth I probably couldn’t be doing the job I’m doing if I wasn’t, but it isn’t how I define myself. So when my looks fade and that inevitable moment arrives when I must accept the fact my hairline is receding (which it is and it is not my imagination) I will not be devastated. My life will go on.

  I cannot say the same for the Actress. She is in her sixties, a former Bond-girl, beautiful with a figure most women a third her age would envy, a string of ex-husbands, wealth, and charm. She has more stories than I can recollect. She knows everyone.

  The lighting in the boudoir is pink and theatrically flattering. Anyone could look good naked in the boudoir. As I walk in the door, she is there across the room to greet me. I have to admit I rather like the negligee. It has an old Hollywood glamor to it.

  Darling! I’ve startled her. Am I here already? She’s hardly had a moment to put freshen up.

  (OH – it’s going to be one of THOSE evenings!)

  My dear (I cross the floor in several swift steps) she is perfection itself.

  I am an old flatterer. She’s a fright and she knows it.

  (I take her hand and kiss the knuckles) Had I known she was waiting for me looking so ravishing I would have been more prompt.

  Nonsense. I’m just on time. She barely had a moment to pull herself together. She had the most dreadful Dreadful DREADFUL lunch with this odious little director that simply must have her for his next project.

  (I’m guessing this means she met with a director and didn’t get the part she was fishing for – as far as I can figure based on what the internet can tell me is that she hasn’t worked for some time)

  Would I care for a cocktail?

  I toss my messenger bag to the side then pull her in my arms. The only thing my mouth yearns for are her lips on mine. (Yes – I actually said something like this – Uncle Harvey helped me practice some lines – I’m not proud) No cocktail will quench the desire burning inside of me. I must have her.

  So I pick her up (Yes – I really sweep her into my arms) put her on the bed, rip off my shirt (careful not to rip it – I go through more shirts with this woman!), throw off my trousers, and, without mussing her hair or touching her makeup, make love to her.

  I get the negligee off of her and spend a fair amount of time waxing poetically on the pure perfection of her body. She is a good looking woman. This isn’t such a hard thing to do. But the need to constantly make certain at every moment during the process that I am utterly enamored with her is fucking exhausting.

  I can see why she went through so many husbands. This sort of demanding neediness day in and day out would be unbearable. Suffocating even.

  Part of me wonders if Olga might end up like the Actress.

  The other part of me knows that when that time comes, our lives will have gone in wholly different directions and I will probably never know.

  I will admit the Actress is one of the clients I routinely use a bit of help with. Not because I don’t find her attractive, but because so much of my concentration and focus goes to not messing her hair and her make-up that I can hardly spare a thought
to getting into the proper frame of mind. One day, I’m just going to mess up that hair of hers and give her a great big mouthful of a kiss.

  Deep inside of her there must be a very passionate woman. I have to believe this.

  So I do my part. And my part takes some doing. She is pretty drunk. Not so drunk that I shouldn’t do what I’m doing. But drunk enough that it takes a lot of doing to get the job done.

  Finally my tongue does the trick. This always works on every woman that I have ever encountered. This one is no exception.

  When it’s over I’m just happy. This is not how sex should be. But this is how it is with her. And I’m being paid to act like I can’t get enough of her. Of all of my clients she is the one that I am least like myself with.

  I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling.

  She gets up and goes to her dressing table and the vodka.

  I pull myself off the bed and go to the bathroom.

  When I emerge she’s studying her face in the perfectly lit mirror.

  I help myself to the vodka. I’m not going anywhere. I’m there for the night. If she’s going to get plastered, then so am I.

  I think this is really why I’m here. She doesn’t want to drink alone.

  The first time I met her, I very professionally refused to drink. This made her unhappy. When I finally joined her, she loosened up.

  I’m not entirely certain the sex is wholly necessary except for appearances sake.

  Paying me to come and drink with her is far less dignified than paying me to come and give her a right good rodgering.

  So we drink together. Hand up – every once in a while I really need to get drunk. And honestly – I don’t like drinking alone either.

  It’s near midnight when she finally passes out.

  I put her to bed. I leave a note on the pillow.

  My darling you were sleeping so peacefully I didn’t have the heart to wake you. Again, you’ve made this foolish boy’s heart beat with desire. I will think of you until I next see you. Promise me that when I return, we can have that dinner we spoke of. That I have to keep our beautiful friendship hidden saddens me. Until then - James

  I get dressed, put enough cold water on my face to wake me up, call for a taxi, and ponder my place in this vast universe. I’m pretty drunk. I get contemplative.

  What am I doing in this place with this woman who has just self-medicated with vodka until the world went dark?

  The cold hard truth comes at me out of the haze. I’m here for the money. But more than that. It’s like with each of these people I feel some need to make a human connection with them in order to validate the work I’m doing. With the Actress I drink away my woes. I am the enabler she probably needs the least in her life. What she needs is a friend. A real friend. One that is not involved in the faux glamor of show-biz and one she doesn’t have to pay. A friend that will adore her simply for being so fabulous. One that will worship her relentlessly.

  London is cold as I step out into the night. The stars battle to be seen against the glare of light pollution. It’s a good night. I pull my phone out of my pocket. I punch a couple of buttons.

  The Doctor answers his phone.

  I know he’s usually up late. I hope I’m not bothering him.

  Not at all. Is everything fine?

  It is. I’m leaving for Los Angeles in the morning. I won’t have a chance to talk to him otherwise. I was hoping he might be interested in meeting a friend of mine.

  Well to be totally honest that might make him a bit uncomfortable. He is rather selective and he enjoys the friendship we are building. Besides, he’s content to wait until I return to London.

  Not that kind of friend. A lady friend. An actress actually. I tell him who.

  He would be delighted to meet her! What a coup! In fact, what he’ll do is plan an evening. A little soiree. At his place. Just his most intimate of friends.

  That would be perfect. She’s perhaps a bit down.

  Well just leave it to him!

  I shall.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  February

  Call former fiancée and arrange to pick up tiara

  Drop off drycleaning.

  Buy swimming trunks

  Double check what I need for Mexico

  Speak to Avan about Mexico and the Doctor

  Pick up shirts.

  10:00am – 10:30am The Italian

  10:45am – 11:15am The Banker

  11:45am – 12:15pm The Baron

  1:00pm – 2:30pm The Psychiatrist

  3:00pm – 5:00pm Outing with mum – British Museum

  8:00pm – TBD New Client Interview

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Italian

  This is the day I spend on my knees. When I took the job I quickly realized most of my clients would be men. Not a problem. What I didn’t realize was that the vast majority of them would want the same thing – oral. I get it. Sorry ladies – men are much better at giving another man a really good blow. Much better than a woman ever could be. There’s something about the jaw muscles and quite frankly being in possession of a dick myself that gives me an edge.

  The Italian is my first client on these mornings. He was introduced to me through Mr. White. He does shoes. Shoes are his thing. We’ve been to Milan together more than once and New York. He’s perhaps in his sixties and openly gay. Why pay me? Convenience.

  I walk into the work room where the receptionist who knows me well has brought me.

  The Italian looks up from the workbench where he is closely inspecting a pair of men’s shoes.

  Nice.

  Hmmm. Do I like them?

  I do. I didn’t know he did men’s shoes.

  He doesn’t. He’s considering branching out. Small leather goods for men. These are a prototype.

  I’d buy them.

  Come.

  I follow him as we walk to his office. We discuss men’s shoes. How to get men to buy more shoes. Men are not like women. Women buy shoes because they love them. Men buy shoes because they need them.

  Not always true.

  No – that is true.

  He walks me into his office. He closes the door behind us and locks it.

  I slip my messenger bag off and drop it into the chair.

  Why do I use a messenger bag?

  Mostly because I carry a lot of stuff around with me and a briefcase just doesn’t really suit my line of work.

  Curious.

  He sits in his desk chair, I pull the condom out of my pocket, I wonder if I should mention that he hasn’t paid me, and then decide to just let it go for the moment.

  He’s a smallish man which makes my job infinitely easier. Small men are easier to manipulate with the tongue.

  The Italian is always very straight forward in his office. It is when we are at his home in Milan that I have to drop my trousers and work.

  I’m done and out of the office within a half-hour of the hour I have booked. Perfect. I even have a new wallet from the samples and my cash.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Former Fiancée

  The call I’ve avoided making for months needs to be made. I find as I try to put the number into the phone, I don’t recall it as instinctively as I once did. I have to think about it. Then it comes to me in a mnemonic shuffle of my finger across the number pad.

  I get the secretary.

  I’m put on hold.

  My former fiancée picks up after a minute.

  She’s not the kind to make people sweat it out on the phone waiting to talk to her. She just has the secretary tell them to buzz off.

  What do I want?

  I need to get the tiara back from her.

  Oh. That. Fine. What suits me?

  We shuffle back and forth with schedules. Valentine’s Day – of course – is the next day that works for her.

  Valentine’s Day might be bad for me.

  It must be Valentine’s Day.

  I can meet her first thing in the mo
rning.

  No. No that won’t do at all. Early afternoon. A very specific time is chosen.

  Is she really scheduled that tightly?

  No. But she’s got a window then and that’s when my coming around works best for her. Otherwise she’d have to do some juggling.

  Fine. I’ll be there.

  She’ll be waiting for me. With the tiara.

  The phone call ends. Then I remember to ask her for the engagement ring. I consider calling her back, but I figure it’s in the apartment. I can just ask for it at the time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Banker

  The Banker is every bit as odious now as he was when I first met him at the Vicomte’s Halloween party in Paris. But he’s much easier to stomach without the Vicomte. In fact – separate the two and neither is quite so bad. It’s when they are together that they’re particularly vile.

  The Banker really is a banker. He works for a small, prestigious Swiss bank that caters to the supremely wealthy. It turns out he’s Austrian.

  What do I do for the banker? Nothing. I refuse to touch that man. I have standards. I meet Avan in the hallway outside the doors to the very discrete offices of this very exclusive bank.

  Do I have time for coffee after?

  Maybe. Let’s see how long it takes. If nothing else I need to ask him about a trip I have coming up and schedule another evening with the Doctor.

  Why do I think he just likes to watch?

  Why does anyone want anything?

  Good point.

  We head through the doors. The receptionist knows us. I don’t know who she thinks we are, but she never asks for identification and refers to us the gentlemen from Bucharest when speaking to the Banker on the telephone.

  We are put into the same conference room we always use.

  Avan’s ass hurts. Would I mind being on the bottom?

  No. It’s fine. Just keep an eye on him. I just have one more client that’s usually oral.

  Good. Thanks. He’ll watch him.

  Not a problem.

  The door opens and the Banker enters. He pays us immediately. We both count our cash.