Memoirs of a Gigolo

by Margaret Buffano

Why, you may ask? Because the moment a person walks through that small door and realizes where they are, they look up. The panoramic view of Michelangelo’s artwork on the ceiling takes hold of them and will not let them go. Their eyes widen, their hearts flutter and they hold their breaths. Beauty has captured them and refuses to release them.

  “Mind the stairs…watch your step,” the attendant chants; sometimes in vain. Many a wrenched ankle and neck broken has he seen on the stairs from the altar of the Sistine Chapel.

  That is how it is for me…only more so! A woman’s beauty is the highest form of art! It takes hold of me; it takes me captive and refuses to let me go. Every woman is a living, breathing, walking museum of fine art. Of course, I must be extraordinarily careful. I don’t have a little man to warn me before I fall.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Women discover me”

  I know exactly how it all will end; it’s clear as a cloudless summer sky of blue. I’ll be somewhere feeling safe and secure, perhaps an outdoor café or a restaurant patio; eating, drinking, and carrying on with some rich little sweetie-pie. Suddenly, a strange women will step out of nowhere with revenge in her heart and a gun in her hand.

  Before plowing three bullets into my gut, she’ll explain her motives – why I deserve to die – a tale of how I deceived her, used her and betrayed her – all of which I will not remember doing, still, no doubt have done.

  The sad part, once she shoots me and I double over in pain onto the floor, I’ll look up deep into her angry eyes and gnashing teeth, and I won’t even recognize her! After so many women, I won’t even remember her name. That’s how it will all end; I’m sure of it.

  ***

  During my formative years, my teen years, my life up to that point was one big lie. I hid my true sexuality from the world.

  Oh, I stood each day in the schoolyard with classmate buddies ogling our now blossoming female counterparts. I could swap lies, jokes and blue stories with the best of them. I did my share of flirting with girls at school; and in my later teens did more than my share of dating. However, it was not where my true passion did lie. The much older, more sophisticated, well-dressed woman, that’s what captured my imagination.

  I had long since lost my interest in my beloved Anna; now, in my late teens. She was no longer thrice my age…not even twice. It had all been puppy love. I realized she lacked the luster I now found myself drawn to. Which was just as well; she developed into a podgy little butch of a woman. The last I heard of her, she’d gone off to join a convent and become a nun, which also, I supposed, was just as well.

  On Saturday afternoons, I’d hike uptown over to Park Avenue and stand outside some of the more chic and exclusive clothing and jewelry stores. I’d swoon at the mere sight of each rich little sweetie-pie, watching them emerge from their chauffer-driven limos.

  They’d enter the stores only to surface an hour later with a line of salesclerks behind her carrying boxes – like the great white huntress and her native boys hauling her kills of the day.

  The chauffer held the car door for her. She’d enter and off they went – leaving me with pangs in my groin (reminiscent of those I first felt while seated in the tenth row center at Radio City Music Hall).

  I know right now you’re all feeling sorry for me at this point; ready to “Boo-Hoo-Hoo” for the handsome young peasant boy, and thinking “Never the twain shall meet?” Except the roads of life are many and have many turns; one was in my favor.

  ***

  If you combined both my parent’s yearly incomes, you would not think of them as well-off. And though we weren’t poor, our style of living was painfully modest – still the doors of the wealthy high-society of New York opened wide to our family.

  It was all because of my father. He was a Professor and an author of some small notoriety. He had written a series of books on the lives of some of the major French Poets, as well as translations of many of their poems. For these reasons, he found his and his wife’s name on many of the guest lists of countless numbers of the upper-class parties and charity balls about town.

  Though my father viewed such gatherings with much distain, my mother saw it an opportunity to rise above our lower social standing. She accepted, in her name and my father’s, nearly every invitation they received…it was a rarity for them to even decline a single one.

  After years of hob-knobbing and elbow rubbing with all the right people within the right circles, the Defy family was a distinguished part of the upper-crust of the city. We were welcome in many of the homes of the town’s wealthy elite.

  Many the summers our family received invitations to vacation with some of my parent’s wealthy friends – other couples – at their summer homes upstate. Strangely, these other families always had a daughter my own age that was to be my playmate. I did my best to be gallant and not be rude, but mostly I ignored these young women like pestilence.

  Usually, my focal point on these holidays was the poor girl’s mother, the Mistress of the house, who found my puppy dog attention flattering and innocently cute. “Cute as a bug,” I remember one woman phrased it. This was to the dismay of my playmate and the darting eyes of displeasure from the Master of the house.

  My parents were oblivious to the atmosphere I created for our hosts. My father always too busy evaluating the richness of the surroundings and my mother more concerned with putting on airs and trying to make a good impression. Heaven forbid these people know us for what we in fact were – middle class.

  In reality, the upper-crust found us much the breath of fresh air...very artsy and unique…very much La Boheme.

  It was during my senior year of high school, I received acceptance to the local collage and would start in the fall. My prime directive was to study fine art. Against my parent’s wishes and advice, determined I was to be an artist – a painter in oils.

  To be honest, I did show talent, and if I had followed the study on a more commercial level, I might have made a success of it. Fine art clearly wasn’t my strength. Still, the image of the struggling artist with a tormented soul became valuable to my true life’s calling.

  I decided to leave home in the fall and move into the college dormitory. I realized such a move needed a fair amount of pocket money. So, I decided to search out employment, laboring throughout the rest of my senior year of high school. I had plans of becoming a waiter at one of the neighboring restaurants; but the prospect for a more profitable employment arose.

  This opportunity came to me through one of my mother’s dearest and wealthiest friends, a Mrs. Kenyon.

  Julia Kenyon was the wife of Doctor Albert Kenyon – one of the most prestigious plastic surgeons in the country. Many of the city’s more well-off women had been under Albert’s knife, at one time or another.

  Mrs. Kenyon’s first love was the ballet; she supported many of the local smaller and larger dance companies with as much of her time she could spare and as much money as her husband, Albert, would tolerate.

  Using all her influence, pulling a few strings here and there, and paying my initiation fee into the union, Mrs. Kenyon gained employment for yours truly as a stagehand second class.

  I was to report to the Crown Theater (home of many of the smaller ballet companies) where I received the position and title of Curtain Manager. Put simply, I was to open and close the stage curtain by cues given to me through a headset.

  It was a well-known fact anyone who knew Mrs. Kenyon (even her closest friends) could not decide or estimate her true age. Her short cropped, spiked hair was the color of baby carrots; clearly a pricey hair dye job. As well, her husband, Albert the plastic surgeon, got Julia down to his office every five years or so and gave her a complete overhaul.

  So tightly was the skin of her face pulled that if she winked her right eye all her facial features would pull to the right; and likewise to the left, when blinking the left eye.

  Her buttocks looked as if someone sawed a bowling ball down the middle, shoving both halves down into the ba
ck of her matador pants.

  Her breasts protruded so far out in front of her they entered a room seconds before she did. They had such firmness, rumor had it, that you could balance two martini glasses atop of them and never spill a drop or lose an olive.

  Her stomach, Albert stretched tight as a drumhead – like an Army cot waiting for a Drill Sergeant to bounce a quarter off it.

  She possessed a weird and wonderful brand of beauty (which I found myself magnetized to) having all the naturalness of a cigar store’s wooden Indian.

  I fully enjoyed my short-time employment at the Crown Theater. The work was easy, pay was good, and working in the wings gave me the best vantage point for viewing each ballet; what more could I ask for?

  Now and then, Mrs. Kenyon came backstage and checked on me, to see how I was coming along. My eyes searched hers for any hint she might have any hidden motives for her kindness; but, it was obvious she had done what she had done only as a favor for my mother. I was a bit disappointed, but fortune held other plans for me. There were other fish in the sea, and other cutie-pies in the city.

  It was the evening of the company’s finale performance of Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite. Mrs. Kenyon was backstage with another wealthy fellow patron of the arts – a Mrs. Chandler.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Chandler,” I said, after Mrs. Kenyon introduced us. Electrical impulses sprinted up my arm, quickening my heartbeat, the moment we shook hands.

  A striking beauty was Mrs. Chandler. Her dark black hair haloed her long, high-cheeked face. Her stature was slender, long and fawn-like. She wore tight black leather pants highlighted by a thin silver buckled belt. A black velvet blazer covered her dark maroon leotard top; and the highest of high heeled shoes added to her height. Her fingers were long, willowy and well manicured; I noticed, while we shook hands.

  “Call me Monica,” she said, smiling a smile that told volumes.

  She took a business card out of the upper pocket of her blazer and handed it to me.

  “I’m having a small get-together at my place, tonight after the performance. I’d be delighted if you would attend.”

  I looked at the card; it had her name, phone number and address on it.

  “It would be my pleasure,” I said. The tone of my voice and smile on my face surely revealed my most inner thoughts and intentions. I was Tran lucid, but I couldn’t care less at that moment – I was in love!

  I was to find out later there was no longer a Mr. Chandler – a fat little stockbroker, twice her age, who worked himself to the edge of poor health. Pushed over the edge into oblivion after seized by a hearth attack, which rumor has it brought on by an all-nighter with two (count them, two) ladies of the evening in a fleabag hotel downtown. Monica had been widowed for nearly five years; her husband left her well provided for.

  She came from money herself, as well. Her family tree, just jam-packed with all sorts of goodies, featured a line of politicians stretching as far back as the Civil War.

  I’ve never been able to guess the correct age of a woman…any woman. It was clear Monica was much older than I, but to what extent I was unable to say. I suspect, being a close friend of Mrs. Kenyon, Monica, had been under the knife of dear sweet Albert, at least once or twice. This made my guesswork all the more inaccurate.

  Her home was a penthouse – the entire top floor of the thirty-six story Crestview Arms. It was an incredibly large dwelling made to look all the larger because of reflective black marble, which donned the walls and floor. Scattered about were artifacts from her travels all over the world – a golden Buddha here, an African mask there. There was a terrace, which encompassed the entire apartment with a breathtaking view of the city in every direction.

  On my arrival, what Monica proclaimed as only a small get-together would have been a major undertaking for most people. There were at least one hundred people (most of whom were with the ballet company), food and drink for all.

  As the evening wore on, performers from other shows began to arrive. Singers from broadways hits came and sang songs around the piano. A famous comedian who just finished taping an appearance on a late night talk show came and did a twenty minute routine, standing in front of the fireplace. And at midnight, a Flamenco troupe performed…their feet tap-tap-taping like machine guns on the reflective black marble, as Spanish guitars set the room afire.

  In vain, I tried various times to capture our gorgeous hostess’s attention; but she was playing the part of the social butterfly and fluttering about the room. Once or twice our eyes did meet. She stared intensely at me like a hungry lioness watching the movements of a young sheep wandering about alone in a field.

  While everyone was still being enthralled by the Flamenco demonstration, I went off in search of the facilities. I found myself walking down a long dark corridor at the end was the main bedroom; two other rooms flanked its doorway. In one room was exercise equipment. There was a dumbbell with far more weight on it than a woman of Monica’s physique could every hope to lift. Obviously, there must be a man in her life, I surmised. The other room was a rest room – I entered.

  As I was washing my hands, I heard the click of the door; I looked into the mirror to see Monica enter and close the door behind her.

  “Having a good time?” she asked.

  “Oh…yes…it’s a wonderful party, Mrs. Chandler,” I said, spinning around.

  “No…no…call me Monica…it’s Monica to all my friends, and we’re going to be such good friends.”

  She fell deep into my arms and we kissed long and hard. My mind was spinning. My ears filled with the sounds of our heavy breathing, distant Spanish guitars, and (loudest of all) my heartbeat. My hands trembled; I explored her body, moving across her soft leotard top and her smooth black leather pants. I quaked at her touch, her hands traveling over me.

  She pulled away from me just long enough to take hold of five or six bath towels from off a shelf and place them onto the cold tile floor. We undressed each other at lightning speed, toppling down onto the floor. Our naked bodies pressed snugly together. I was so nervous, so unskilled, and so awkward; but she gently guided me on.

  The world went away, in that brief moment we made love. There were no Spanish guitars, no breathing, and no heartbeats; just she and I – and bliss.

  When we finished, she stood up and took down a woman’s robe off a hook on back of the door. She handed it to me.

  “Here put this on, wait for me in the bedroom.” She began to dress. I waited for her to finish and we both walked out into the corridor. Thank goodness we were alone. I felt ill at ease standing there with my clothes in hand, wearing such an excessively feminine bathrobe.

  “Close the door and wait in bed,” she whispered, “Give me a few minutes to send these folks packing. For them the party’s over; but for us, it’s just beginning.”

  I smiled a knowing smile at her, and she smiled back.

  “I’ll be right back, darling,” she said. Then she kissed me, turned and made her way down the hall. I went into the bedroom, closed the door behind me and got into bed.

  I lie there alone with great anticipation for nearly an hour. I could hear distant voices and slamming of the front door of the apartment.

  Finally, I heard the door thump one last time…no longer did I hear voices…a click of a stereo knob and music, sweet and soft, filled the air.

  The bedroom door opened. Only city lights and the moon’s glow filtered in; I could barely make out her silhouette next to the bed. My heart began its heavy walloping once more – like a jungle drum in my ears.

  “Darling…I’m back,” she announced softly, falling tenderly down on top of me.

  ***

  It was noon next day when I woke up. Monica was fast asleep next to me. I got out of bed and dressed as quietly as I could.

  “Where are you going?” she whimpered, her eyes mostly closed, “Stay…I’ll make breakfast.”

  I smiled down at her. “Too late; it’s already lunchtime.”

/>   “Then; I’ll make lunch,” she cooed.

  “No…really…I need to go. I still live with my parents, you know?”

  “That’ll have to change,” she said, opening one eye.

  “It will…when I start school in the fall. But, I have to go, now.”

  “When?” She asked softly.

  “When…What?” I questioned.

  “When will you be back?” She closed her eyes, again.

  “…tonight?”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise!”

  “Then kiss me,” she said, opening her arms to me. I reached over and kissed her. She pressed her lips next to my ear and whispered, “I left your key on the table near the front door; let yourself in tonight. I’ll be right here, waiting. Don’t be to long, my darling.”

  We kissed again, she buried herself in the pillows, and I left. There was a key on the table near the front door; I put it in my pocket.

  I whistled as I rode the elevator down to the main floor lobby. I whistled all the way home. It was a sunny day and there were flags waving everywhere, in front of nearly every house. Perhaps, it was June Fourteenth and it was Flag Day, or maybe the world was just happy for me and decided to celebrate my good fortune.

  ***

  I’d like to make a proclamation at this point. I don’t know what it’s like for women; but as for men, after the night they lose their innocents they should be put to death. It is the highlight of their life; everything after it will be second-rate and will only come up short. It would be better he die in her arms.

  No…wait…that sounds a bit too harsh. Better he takes a vow of chastity and never again has sexual relations! No…I don’t think…well, at least, he shouldn’t be in such a hurry to try to repeat the magic of such a moment. If he waited and abstained for a while, perhaps his anticipation would build again and he would be able to recapture the essence of that first night. What young man has the ability to perform such a feat? How could you even ask or expect it of him?