Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Six

by Livia Ellis

  Avan doesn’t have the same aversion to touching the Banker that I do. But then again as I understand it Avan is willing to do things that I would never do.

  The door is locked and we get down to business.

  The Banker is simply ecstatic when he learns the three of us will be switching things around.

  In truth, I have the easiest role of all in this little farce. I just have to bend over and take it up the arse.

  I drop my trousers, as the banker sits in a chair. I bend over the conference table, my ass up in the air. I’m not facing the banker or Avan. If only I could check my messages or read the Times on my phone during all of this.

  Avan is behind me. He spreads my cheeks open wide exposing my ass to the Banker.

  The Banker is so very pleased. Very pleased indeed. This is all very stimulating for him.

  The lube on Avan’s fingers is cold as it makes contact. His fingers massage me until I loosen up despite the fact the Banker is watching.

  Avan carries on a conversation with the Banker as he fingers me. The dialog pretty much goes something like this:

  He is very perfect? No.

  Yes. Yes. Quite perfect.

  How much will he offer for this perfect specimen?

  Oh very much. Yes very much indeed.

  Then there is a bit of negotiation about my worth and finally a price is agreed upon and the Banker is covered with a condom by Avan and then penetrates me. During penetration, Avan strokes my cock. Then he does something different. Unexpected. He smacks the Banker’s ass. Hard.

  What the hell is it with everyone and wanting to be spanked lately?

  The Banker is practically screaming in delight as he fucks me.

  Das ist gut! Das ist gut! Ja, bitte! Ja, bitte. Ich war ein sehr böse junge.

  I swear I put my teeth through my lip trying not to laugh. I hope Avan doesn’t speak any German.

  The Banker finishes with a sort of tittering shrill cry.

  I get my trousers back on while Avan cleans up.

  That was very good! Very good! We are very good! He will see us in a week. He will be very certain to be a very bad boy!

  We are left alone in the conference room. We know the way out.

  We leave the offices and make it to the elevator before we bust up.

  What the fuck was that? Avan is crying he’s laughing so hard.

  I don’t know. All I know is that he kept on saying he was a very bad boy in German. Why the hell did he start spanking the Banker?

  Sometimes he just has this overwhelming urge to give that man a smack. He couldn’t help himself.

  Next time I get to spank him.

  Fair enough. It’s an experience worth having. Do I have time for coffee?

  I check my watch. I can if we hurry.

  We go to the coffee bar in the lobby.

  He’ll see if he can work the Mexico trip into his calendar.

  We set a date for the next evening with the Doctor. We agree that he is a gentleman.

  I realize that I’m going to be late for the Baron.

  I run off, but not before we agree to get together for something not work related very soon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Baron

  The Baron occupies the top floors of the building. This is only fitting as he owns the building.

  I get off on one floor. Check in with a receptionist. Then I’m taken to a second elevator.

  As the doors open, I find myself alone in a waiting room. I know I’m late.

  Part of me wants to just drop the Baron as a client.

  The other part of me reminds me that he pays well and I’m not in this to like my clients. The Banker – as much as I like to pick on him – doesn’t make me uneasy or even frighten me a little like the Baron.

  A door opens. The Baron waves me in to his private office. He’s on the telephone.

  He sits at his desk after unbuckling his trousers and setting his dick free.

  I’m to blow him as he’s on the phone.

  Fine. I can do this. It’s not the first time he’s been on the phone as I’ve sucked him off.

  I put the condom on him and get to work.

  He puts his hands on my head and presses me down.

  I try to pull away just a bit so I don’t gag.

  The hands clamp around my head and press me down.

  I breathe through my nose. I repress my gag reflex. He’s doing this on purpose to dominate me.

  He comes just before I’m about to asphyxiate.

  He lets me go and I fall back on my heels.

  I was late.

  He didn’t have to try to choke me.

  He takes his fingers and flicks them against my forehead. Don’t talk back to him.

  I wasn’t talking back.

  He’ll fucking tell me if I’m talking back or not. Get out.

  He needs to pay me.

  No. I was late. I don’t get paid.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket. I will make a call he doesn’t want me to make.

  What? He laughs at me. Go ahead. Call the Matchmaker.

  Actually I think I’ll call Boris. I have his number on speed dial.

  He pulls cash out of a drawer and tosses it on the desk. He expects me to be on time next time.

  I take my money and go.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Outing with mum – British Museum

  Mum arrives in the van that I hire to take her on outings as often as possible. I think we both find these outings a bit contrived, but we enjoy them just the same. We’re getting along. If it takes her dying for us to come to a place where we get along, then I guess that’s what it takes.

  The British Museum is her idea. She wants to see the Elgin Marbles.

  One of our great and shining moments as the pirates of the world. The shameless theft of the Elgin Marbles. Nothing makes me more proud to be British than the Elgin Marbles. Our history of plundering artifacts is our national shame (one of them at least). If I could return them to the Greeks myself, by god I would.

  Here we are. Me. Mum. Aunt Lucy. Pretending to look at pilfered Greek treasures when really we’re people watching and making bitchy observations. We’re considering turning this into a regular outing. Mum makes me take pictures with my smartphone of particularly interesting specimens. She’s considering starting a blog. Observations of a woman knocking on heaven’s door. I love this idea. I’m on board. We name our nebulous blog Evil Mummy and her Bitchy Boy. I’m having a marvelous time.

  As we sit observing, I notice someone just as she notices me. Dr. Gita Premji. Instead of pretending she doesn’t see me, she smiles and comes for our trio. With a man. An older man. Petite. Soberly dressed. He must be Gita’s father. He has to be. They have the same eyes.

  That’s Sanjay Premji. Mum grabs my arm. The one who wrote all those books.

  Gita arrives from across the hall and I rise to greet her. I introduce her as my friend.

  She nods and smiles. Friends works for her too. We could be friends. Lovers no. Friends yes.

  She knows my mother is unwell. I told her this in the hour I had to charm her. She is kind to my mother. She introduces her father.

  The famous Dr. Sanjay Premji. The one who wrote all those books.

  He takes my mother’s hand between two of her own as he gets down to her level.

  It is easy to see that in his heart and soul, he is a doctor that wanted to help as many people as possible and not a charlatan out to sell books.

  My mother tells him that his books have been a great comfort to her. She tells him about her illness. They discuss it in technical terms I’ve never wanted to understand. For me mum’s dying. That’s all I really want to know about the medical side of it. More information is not going to make me feel better. It might just scare the shit out of me.

  Would we like to have tea? Gita suggests we all go for tea.

  Mum and Aunt Lucy are in and so am I.

  Gita seems like she’d be an excell
ent friend. The sort that doesn’t judge a person’s worth based on external criteria. If she finds something of value in me then I’m certain I’m not worthless.

  We go to one of the court cafes and find seats. It’s not crowded.

  The conversation stops at mum’s illness, moves away from it, then circles back.

  I’m worried the Premjis are bored with this shop talk, but they seems genuinely interested. Possibly cardiologists are just like psychiatrists; when they’re not working all they can talk about is work.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. One of the Matchmaker’s secretaries. I don’t know her well. I wasn’t aware she knew of the side work the Matchmaker did. Every conversation I’ve had with her revolved my expense reports submitted as part of my legitimate job. The one I received pay lodged into my bank account on the first of every month. Am I interested in a job?

  Excuse me? I have a job. As she well knows I’m in the process of arranging a dinner party to introduce a group of young professional Indians living in London. (note to self – confirm reservations)

  Am I interested in a job? One of those jobs.

  Uhhhh... hold on. (I excuse myself from the table) What job? (the only person at the Matchmaker’s agency that has ever called me about a job was the Matchmaker) The Matchmaker didn’t say anything to me about a job.

  The Matchmaker is still out of town. She has a job for me if I want it. Out of towner. Last minute. Used to be a client of Howard.

  Harold?

  That’s right. Harold. The money is excellent. He’s Saudi. He’s a very good client of the Matchmaker. I should take the job.

  What are the details? I take down what I need to know. It all seems right. I’m uncomfortable about taking a job from someone other than the Matchmaker until I give it a second thought. I’ve taken jobs which came through each of the girls without speaking to the Matchmaker. I suppose this is no different. I tell her to send a messenger over to the house to pick up a suit for me. Have it dropped at the hotel under my name.

  Why do I need a suit?

  Okay… I need a suit because if the gentleman is Saudi he’s going to expect me to be dressed in a suit and tie when I arrive. Has she discussed the client with the Matchmaker?

  No. But she knows he’s a good client.

  Just send a messenger over to the house. Wright will have what I need waiting.

  When the call is ended I text Uncle Harvey. He knows exactly what I need. It’ll be waiting for the messenger.

  I check the time as I put away my phone and agenda. I return to the table.

  I’m sorry. I have a work problem. We need to get going. It’s truly been pleasant running into Gita. I’ve enjoyed meeting her father. Probably not as much as my mother has enjoyed meeting her father, but still.

  Gita and her father offer to take mum and Aunt Lucy home.

  My mother would prefer to stay with them.

  I don’t know what to think about this. I want to make certain mum gets home.

  They each promise me that all will be well. If I’m going to leave my mother with anyone, not one but two cardiologists are a good choice.

  Fair enough. I can’t argue with that kind of logic.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Bogus Saudi Prince

  The Saudi Prince

  I have time – enough time to get to the hotel and get a room. The Concierge is on duty. He hooks me up with a room. I don’t let him blow me, but I do let him watch me shower as he sits on the toilet and masturbates.

  We talk while I wait on my suit.

  Does he know anything about the client?

  Not a thing.

  Odd. I thought he knew everything about everyone staying in the hotel.

  I overestimate his omniscience.

  I thought he knew everything about everyone staying in the suites.

  That he does know. But no – he can’t tell me anything. He’ll have a look when he gets down to his desk.

  My suit arrives, I push the Concierge out the door, I get ready. Before I walk out the door, I turn up the heat and turn down the lighting. The room is mine for the night. I plan on using it. A bed all to myself.

  I travel through the hotel to the suite where the client is waiting.

  I knock.

  A man in a thawb and white keffiyeh answers the door.

  I’m so taken aback I don’t know what to say. This is not normal. I don’t know what to do, so I introduce myself. I’m James. I work for the Matchmaker.

  He ushers me into the room and places me on the couch. He sits across from me. There is no one else in the room. There are no male servants. There are no butlers offering to fetch me a drink. There are no secretaries, no aides, no nobody.

  This is weird. I’ve had my fair share of middle-eastern clients since going to work for the Matchmaker. None of this is standard for a first meeting. Or any meeting. There at minimum should be servants and security.

  How much do I charge?

  Excuse me?

  How much do I charge?

  I’m not certain what he is looking for. He’ll need to be specific. Is he seeking a new wife for himself or perhaps one of his sons?

  He puts an envelope on the table and nudges it towards me. I can see the cash. Anal sex.

  I stare at the envelope like a cobra on the table. He’s mistaken.

  He crosses his legs.

  My blood rises to my neck. I can feel my ears tingle. For the first time since I began the job I feel genuine fear. Nothing is as it seems. Or, I look at this man, perhaps all is exactly as it seems.

  I’m not certain what he’s imagining, but I work for the Matchmaker. I screen clients for her business.

  He pushes the envelope towards me. One thousand pounds. Should we go into the bedroom?

  I’m… I rise from the couch. I move away from the envelope. It’s like a snake hidden in an urn.

  He is quite mistaken about what my purpose in coming to his room is.

  I needn’t be coy. He knows all about me. He has friends that have hired me.

  I can’t get to the door fast enough. I’m out of there like a shot. I run to my own room. I close the door and lock then bolt then chain it behind me.

  What the fuck was that?

  I stand with my back to the door. I breathe as my heart bumps in my chest.

  What the fuck was that?

  I tug off my tie and shrug my jacket down my arms.

  When my collar is unbuttoned I call Boris. Not the Matchmaker. I go to Boris. I get one of his boys. I can hear the sort of music one would expect in a standard Russian strip club.

  Who the fuck was that?

  What am I talking about?

  Who the fuck was the fake Saudi? That was no fucking Saudi.

  What am I talking about?

  I tell him in detail everything adding that I’m fucking on to him and his bullshit and that he’s going to have to try harder if he is trying to get shit to blackmail me with.

  I need to calm the fuck down. It wasn’t him.

  I don’t believe him.

  I don’t have to believe him. It wasn’t him. He already has enough on me to blackmail me if he really wanted to.

  This I believe.

  Keep a low profile. Give him two days to figure out what the fuck happened. If someone is messing with his business he’s going to find out about it.

  This I also believe.

  He’ll be in touch.

  Fine.

  I consider calling the concierge, but then don’t. I just don’t want to know. I’m also not going to stand between Boris and whatever he does to get to the bottom of these things.

  I order room service, turn on the television, and sit in the dark in my underwear. When my phone rings I’m running a chip through a glob of ketchup.

  Renata.

  I answer it.

  How did I know? The shoes? It can’t be the shoes. She paid a fortune for the shoes.

  Nope. The socks. No billionaire would wear cheap synthetic socks
. They wear silk or merino. Sometimes cotton but rarely.

  She can get to me. She’s proven that. I need to talk to Elon. He needs to give her what she wants.

  She really has no idea who she has pissed off.

  She knows me pretty well. I can just get over it. Get her cash.

  I’m not the one she pissed off. If I’m angry with anyone I’m angry with myself.

  Who? Elon? He’s as toothless as I am. She’s desperate. I should not underestimate her desperation.

  I don’t.

  Just to be clear, she needs me to talk some sense into Elon – by sense that means he needs to agree to her terms or she will mentally fuck up their kid and make my life hell.

  I hang up the phone. I’m done with Renata.

  I call Elon. I warn him.

  I call the concierge. I want proof I’m in the hotel. Does he want to come up? The client was a bust.

  His shift is nearly over. He’s off for the next two days.

  Can he get the room for two days? I could do with some hiding out from the world.

  He can do that.

  In exchange for what ends up being decent sex with someone my age who hates reality television, reads books, travels extensively, and appreciates fine dining, I have proof I was no where near whatever it is Boris is going to do in response to the fake Saudi.

  For two days and two nights I hide in that hotel room with the concierge. If he ever suspected I had an ulterior motive, he didn’t say. What I’m waiting for comes the third morning as the concierge prepares to return to work after what was in essence an incredible dirty weekend.

  The aftermath of Boris’s anger at having his business tampered with is in all four of the papers I’ve arranged to have brought with my breakfast. Unnamed woman was stabbed in a random attack. Extensive facial lacerations. Particularly vicious. Detective Constable Blah Blah Blah appeals to anyone that might know something.

  This is the world I live in. I’ve come to accept this. This is the dark side of it. Am I responsible for this woman getting stabbed? No. Her own stupidity and doubtless greed brought her to this end. She knew enough about the Matchmaker’s side business to cause trouble. She had to have known, even if she didn’t know she was messing with Russian mobsters, that it’s a dark business run by people that live in the shadows.