Memoirs of a Gigolo

by Margaret Buffano

  Just remember, never show any signs of affection in public – save for maybe a peck on the cheek – and always keep the blinds closed!

  What I am about to say now may sound like I am drifting far away from the subject, but I am not. There is a word in the English language I sadly fear has become corrupted from its constant misuse – and that word is the word Make.

  Understand, you can make a cake – you toss all the ingredients into an oven and a few minutes later you have made a cake.

  You can make a birdhouse – you nail some pieces of wood together, slap some glue and paint over it, and you have made a birdhouse.

  But how can someone make something like…say…music? You can’t make music! You have to reach down deep into your soul. It’s not made; it’s created!

  You can’t make peace! You can only come together and work toward it!

  But the most horrible corruption of the word is to describe the sexual act as Making Love. You can’t make love! You either have it or you don’t! Try as you may, there is nothing we can do to make it!

  Love…if ever dishonor was shed on a word, if ever a word violated, it is Love. The word Love is the poster child of raped words.

  Oh, don’t get me wrong…I misuse, mistreat, abuse, and exploit the word as much, if not more than most people – probably more. In fact, I spout out the word whenever, wherever, and to whomever it’s most helpful to me at the time. It has as much meaning to me as a fairytale – a jam-packed magical myth with no substance.

  Let me tell you what real love means to a gigolo…death!

  To love a client is sheer stupidity and madness. To love someone who is not a client is supreme selfishness.

  No, let’s leave love out of the picture for now; which is an easy statement to say after the fact; especially in this hellhole.

  But enough of this wading in the shallow end of the pool; let’s dive into deeper waters. It was so long ago; but I remember it as if it was only yesterday.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “I discover women”

  After the First World War, my grandparents magically and mysteriously appeared at Ellis Island; their feet still purple from stomping grapes in the vineyards of France. They came as all others before them and after them, for a better life in the states. My grandfather secured himself a job loading and unloading freighter ships in the New York harbor; my grandmother worked as a dressmaker in a sweatshop in the city’s garment district.

  A year after their arrival, they found themselves blessed by the birth of my father. They swore to the betterment of his life; to make it easier and more fruitful than theirs.

  My grandparents on my mother’s side had a similar story only theirs ended in misfortune a year after the birth of my mother. I don’t know all the details, but they both died unexpectedly, and my mother was suddenly an orphan. Having no other family, without delay, the state transported her to an orphanage in a small town in upstate New York where a group of Franciscan Order nuns raised her and fifty other parentless children.

  My Grandparents were true to their word; my father did have a better life and flourished in America. With nearly a hint of a French accent, he landed scholarship after scholarship, from college to college. At the age of twenty-eight, he graduated a professor of English literature and found tenure at a New York City college.

  My mother’s path was similar only with not so much grandeur. She emerged from a college education as an English teacher. With her Catholic background and letters of recommendation from the nuns at the orphanage, she gained herself a position as a teacher at Saint Ursula, a parochial school on the lower west side.

  How the two – my mother and father – meet and married is a mystery to me. I have no notion about how it all occurred. I do know after they married they settled in a small flat in Greenwich Village, which was a location accessible to both their jobs.

  Two years into their marriage they had a baby boy…that is I…I mean me…Alex.

  Alexandre Defy…the name Alexandre to honor my father’s favorite author, Alexandre Dumas – you know “The Three Musketeers…The Man in the Iron Mask”, but shortened at an early age to Alex.

  From the ages of three through ten, I held a close association with my grandmother. Once a month, on a Friday afternoon, my mother escorted me to the sweatshop where my grandmother worked. I then went with my grandmother to spend the weekend with her and my grandfather.

  I was to learn later from my own observations, my grandparent’s marriage left much to be desired. They lived together, they slept together, but the love was not there.

  My grandfather spent his spare time in his garden. My grandmother spent her spare time in the kitchen where she, through experimentation and reading cookbooks by the dozens, excelled in cookery to a level rivaling some of the world’s finest gourmet chiefs.

  As well, in her loneliness, she found a need to branch out in her life; that is where I came in. She longed to visit museums, attend Broadway shows, and eat at the finer restaurants. Because of her state of affairs with her husband, there was no one to go with her on such outings; so she employed yours truly as her one and only escort.

  She took me to the circus, the ice follies, the planetarium, and to every top-name Broadway hit show at the time. Afterwards, we dined at the finest restaurants…Chinese…French …Italian….and so many more.

  It was during one particular Friday afternoon, after my mother dropped me off at my grandmother’s sweatshop for a weekend’s stay with my grandparents that a hint of my future vocation shone forth.

  I remember climbing the dark stairwell of the factory where she worked. At the sixth floor, with great effort I opened the large metal door and walked in. There were rows and rows of sewing machines under rows of long, overhead florescent light bulbs, and seated behind each machine was a tired, overworked immigrant woman.

  As I made my way to where my grandmother was working, the women’s faces looked up and beamed with sunshine smiles at me, the sunshine that never made it through the filthy dark windows lining the factory walls.

  For some reason, they all wanted me to call them Auntie.

  “Give your Auntie Mary a big hug. Give your Auntie Teresa a big kiss.”

  I was an appealing little boy – a breath of sweet fresh air in that dank, desolate, work environment.

  It was on one occasion as I stood by my grandmother’s workstation waiting for her to finish a seam on the hem of the last dress of the day, her co-workers began taunting me.

  “Alex…sweet handsome boy…come give your Aunt Rescale a kiss,” she said, at the same time she secretly slipped a penny into my hand.

  I took the penny from her and kissed her cheek.

  “Come here, dear boy…give your Auntie Mara a kiss, too.”

  This time I found a nickel in my hand – I kissed her cheek.

  On and on, around and around I went collecting pennies, nickels, and dimes from all my grandmother’s coworkers in exchange for a hug and kiss on the cheek.

  “Give your Auntie Sophie a big fat wet one,” said Sophie Tussah, one of my grandmother’s oldest friends at the factory; a large woman to put it mildly, with arm-fat that waved like flags whenever she raised them.

  She slipped something to me that wasn’t a coin. I looked down and opened my hand. There resting in my palm, a dollar bill.

  Surely, I felt she deserved more than the others, more than a penny, a nickel or a dime bought. A movie star kiss is what such extravagance called for.

  I stuffed the bill into the back pocket of my trousers. I wrapped my arms around her neck far as they could reach. I pushed my lips forward, passed the heavy joules that were her cheeks. I pressed my lips to hers and moved them around in the manner of a true lover. Her breath smelled of onions, but I pressed on long and hard.

  Finally, I pulled away; the room was silent from shock. Then suddenly, laughter broke out.

  “Sophie…you’ll have to call Charley and tell him you’re leaving him…someone else is in your l
ife, now!” One of her coworkers said above the laughter.

  “Why did you do that?” my grandmother said, grabbing hold of my arm.

  “Because she gave me a dollar; I wanted to give her a dollar’s worth!”

  “Sophie…did you give this boy a dollar?” asked my grandmother, “Alex, give the money back to Sophie!”

  “No…no…don’t be silly,” laughed Sophie, “no one’s kissed me like that since I was sixteen!”

  The entire ensemble broke out into contagious laughter.

  I have done something good, I thought.

  That entire weekend my grandmother hardly spoke a word to me.

  ***

  Another strange incident occurred earlier in my life, when I was four years old. I remember I was four years old because I had not started kindergarten yet, which happened just after I turned five.

  You think a young boy surely must be innocent, but don’t you believe it. All men have the same streak of sexual selfishness running through them. In some, it is more prevalent than in others, but it runs continuously within every man from the womb to the tomb…from birth to earth.

  We, my grandmother and I, went to see a show at Radio City Music Hall. The memory of the movie shown is vague to me now; some love-comedy film staring Cary Grant and Marilyn Monroe racing around in a sports car…all horribly uneventful.

  After showing the film, was the usual live onstage extravaganza…staring the Radio City Hall Dancers! They were a far-stretching chorus line of beautiful female dancers, all accurately the same height and weight. Their black fishnet stockings covered their long legs kicking up in unison with near military precision. They made a lasting impression on my four-year-old mind.

  As I sat in my tenth row center seat at Radio City Music Hall watching the dancers in all their glory…those smooth dark legs kicking up to heaven…something marvelous happened! I became aware of an extraordinarily strange feeling stirring in my stomach and between my legs…I was having my first erection!

  Believe it or not, at the tender innocent age of four! My mind knew no idea what was happening. I only knew the dancers were attractive to me; but beyond that, there was not the slightest inkling of lustful want.

  It was as if my body held more knowledge of what ought to happen than my mind. It all seemed so strange, natural and wonderful.

  ***

  A year later, at five-years-old I started kindergarten at Saint Ursula’s where my mother worked. Thankfully, the decision early on was I’d never have my mother as my teacher…something about not wanting to show favoritism. I heartily agreed, but for other reasons you can imagine.

  My mother’s work schedule was contrary to mine; so she was not able to take me to school in the morning nor take me back home after lunch, my school day was much shorter than her workday. We needed an alternative plan; and that is when I met Anna.

  Anna, my first love, my first heartthrob; my first lustful thoughts were of Anna. Incredibly innocent thoughts compared to images that ransacked my mind in later years, but lustful, nonetheless.

  Yes, I said lustful thoughts…a five-year-old boy! You obviously don’t know anything about men…or perhaps you do…then, I apologize.

  Anna, an only child, lived with her parents in the brownstone directly across the street from ours. At the sweet age of sixteen, Anna was youthful virginal beauty personified.

  Her shoulder length hair draped her divine cranium in a sequence of waves, like a bright gold painted ocean. Her eyes were a stunning blush of green, like two radiant chips of fine jade. Underneath her eyes, two high placed protruding cheekbones. Farther below, an-ever pouting mouth with lips permanently pursed in a position reminiscent of someone prepared to deliver a kiss or to suck on a straw. Her still blossoming bosoms protruded before her; causing her school uniform blouse to stretch beyond its boundaries, and would have been the envy of many a full-grown woman. Her legs, like the rest of her skin…a consistent shade of dark olive…eternally tanned…covered from toe to kneecap with a pair of wholesome white knee-socks. The hem of her school uniform jumper raised high; when she walked it swayed to and fro, revealing her thighs in their total splendor. And sometimes, an ever-so-brief heavenly glimpse of her panties whenever she ran up flights of stairs.

  Professor Humbert, worshipper of young nymphs (from the pen of Vladimir Nabokov), would have shoved his Beloved Lo (light of his life, fire of his loins) out of the station wagon! While still in motion! This and more he’d commit for a single moment with My Anna.

  So young and beautiful was she…if that’s the way you like them…on the young side. But not me…you see…for me she was the older woman…at the time, more than thrice my age. Now you start to peek into my psyche. I feel naked.

  I’m sure, during her comings and goings, my darling Anna was never aware of the small young boy – donned with an official Davy Crockett coonskin cap – who was looking out his window and watching her every move.

  When my mother told me she hired Anna as my escort to and from school each day, I thought my heart would burst.

  I waited with great expectation in the vestibule of our brownstone home every morning for Anna to collect me and take me to school. As we walked the six or seven blocks, I fantasized we were boyfriend and girlfriend. I thrilled at her touch, when she held my hand while we crossed streets. I could hardly contain myself waiting for lunchtime to come, when my school day was over and Anna and I returned home by the same route.

  When she dropped me off, I remained in our vestibule, cupping my hands over my nose and sniffing her scent on my hands. I did this until the fragrance faded – the strong bouquet of cheap, flowery girly soap, and bubble gum. I still find the combination moving.

  And joy of joys…there were times my mother hired Anna into service as my sitter, on nights my parents went out.

  We sat for hours munching on snacks and sodas while watching mindless television shows…glorious! I sat close to her on the divan; sometimes resting my head against her – seemingly, she never minded.

  Later in the evening, I pretended to fall asleep so I could rest all the closer to her. I let my body jolt suddenly as if I were dreaming, purposely brushing against her breast with the side of my face or back of my hand.

  As the night progressed, I, in fact, would fall asleep. I’d wake in the morning in my bed. I could only let my imagination run riot about who placed me there…was it Anna?

  It was during Christmas vacation of that first school year, I was gift shopping with my mother. She suggested I get a gift for Anna; to show my appreciation – my mother paid for it, of course.

  I peered through the glass counter in the young women’s department at Macy’s. There were inexpensive, sweet-smelling perfumes, handkerchiefs, small purses, combs, brushes and the like.

  Among all the rubbish, I found the perfect gift for my Anna. It was a long, flat rectangular box made of see-through plastic; inside, seven silk panties all in a row folded like seven little Chinese spring rolls. Each one of the seven panties was a different color with a day of the week embroidered on the front of it.

  Anna graciously accepted my gift and rewarded me with a kiss on the cheek – my left cheek.

  Day after day, the thought that under her clothing she may have been wearing one of my gifts tantalized me. In fact, it became an obsession with me; I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Every morning when we walked to school, I wondered if she wore a pair of my Chinese spring roll – silk panties! Did she wear them in correct chronological order…Tuesday on Tuesday…Wednesday on Wednesday…and so on? Or did she wear them randomly…in an uncaring, free-form fashion…Friday on Thursday…Sunday on Monday? The thought haunted me so severely; I devised a way of finding out. I taunted her everyday about it, by making a game of it.

  “I bet I can guess what color panties you have on today…blue…Tuesday is blue,” I said.

  Each day I’d account the correct color for the day. Her responses were always elusive.

  “What makes you think
I’d ever wear your silly panties?” she responded, “Anyway, it’s none of your business. Besides, smarty-pants, what makes you think I’m even wearing any underwear?”

  The notion made my head spin and my knees weak.

  ***

  I remember it well…it was on a Friday afternoon, Anna and I were on our way back home from school. I taunted her in my usual fashion. When we arrived at my family’s home, she followed me up the stairs and into the vestibule. We stood in that small space, alone, staring at each other. Without warning, she took hold of the hem of her school jumper; she lifted her skirt and...

  Oh my, I see I’ve upset you? No…don’t act like I haven’t. You were just about to stop reading and chalk it all up as just another cheeky story told by some pervert.

  You don’t understand; it’s not like that at all; it’s not what you think! The beauty of a woman…it’s like a great work of art or a symphony! How can I make you realize for me it’s not just some carnal appetite?

  Perhaps, this little tidbit will help you understand what it’s like for me.

  The next time you’re in Rome and you feel like playing the tourist; go take one of the tours through the Vatican. Best make it one of the shorter tours; a person can only take in so much affluence in one day. Whatever…it doesn’t matter…all tours end at one location…the Sistine Chapel.

  After walking down a steep and slender flight of stairs, you enter the chapel through a small door behind the altar. A few steps from this door, a marble staircase plunges into the heart of the chapel. Standing at the top of the staircase is a man whose soul job is to warn people of the oncoming stairs.

  “Mind the stairs…watch your step…mind the stairs,” he recites over and over.