Memoirs of a Gigolo

by Margaret Buffano

  ***

  I did return that night, and the next night, and the next, and the next!

  When she suggested I quit my job at the Crown Theater, so we could spend our nights together, I immediately gave notice.

  Monica must have been on more intimate terms with Mrs. Kenyon than I thought; she phoned the good doctor’s wife and asked her not to tell my parents about my quitting my job. I wondered what other details of our relationship she shared with Mrs. Kenyon – it made me a bit unnerved.

  It was a rare instance for me to spend a night at home. My parents never challenged me on this. I suppose, they felt it was my way of leaving the nest, which I inevitably was going to do in the fall, anyway.

  I spent as much time with Monica as I could. I would have even left school, if she asked me to, so I could spend more time with her; but Monica wouldn’t hear of such talk.

  Having my own key, I could come and go as I pleased. To tell the truth, other than my time spent at school, I was seldom anywhere else other than at her side.

  As for our rapport, I’m sure we must have had conversations sandwiched between the lovemaking, except for the life of me, now, years later, I can’t remember a single word either one of us might have said.

  We did go out of the apartment on a handful of rare occasions, as I recall – a walk in the park, a visit to an art museum, to take in a movie. Other than that, most of our time we spent eating meals on the bear rug in front of the fireplace, and making love. We made love on top of every article of furniture she owned that could support both our weight combined, and in every nook and cranny of the apartment large enough for two people. We rarely wore a stitch of clothing – most often naked.

  ***

  Autumn was quickly approaching; I slowly began making arrangements to move into the school dormitory. Three weeks before the move, fortune took another turn.

  I opened the door to Monica’s apartment, and found her standing in front of the door, not in her usual nightgown, but fully clothed.

  “I have a surprise for you,” she said, turning me around and pushing me out the door.

  We took a cab to an area not far from my school’s campus. She took me by the hand and led me up the stairs of an old warehouse.

  “Where are you taking me?” I asked.

  “You’ll see,” she giggled.

  After running four flights to the top floor, we stopped in front of the only door on the landing. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a key and handed it to me. I held it in my hand, speechless; looking at the key, then at her, and then back to the key.

  “Go ahead,” she said, still out of breath, “It’s yours!”

  I opened the door and walked in. It was an incredibly large one room loft. There were pieces of furniture scattered about – a new king-sized bed, a table, chairs, and kitchen paraphernalia. The far wall and a quarter of the ceiling was a large picture window running the full-length of the loft – perfect light for an artist.

  I turned to Monica, “I don’t understand?”

  “You didn’t think I was going to start spending nights with you in some filthy school dormitory, now did you? And we could never explain to your parents or the world if you moved in with me. This is a much better arrangement. What's more, you’re going to be a great artist someday, and great artists need an artist’s loft to work in.”

  It was true, it was the perfect place for an artist; though both she and I secretly knew I could never be great – but it was fun to pretend.

  “The rent…I could never pay for all this,” I said.

  “Too late…I’ve already paid a year’s rent in advance.”

  “What about my parents? How do I explain…?”

  “Just tell them…Mrs. Chandler…a wealthy widow…thinks you’re a great young and promising artist and has hired you to do a large mural on her living room wall. Which I might say is a not a bad idea; I do need to do something with that wall.”

  “Monica…I don’t know what to say?”

  “Don’t say anything, darling. Just take me in your arms, lay me down on that new bed, and make love to me till I can’t walk.”

  ***

  Over the next few months, I did try to make Monica’s wish come true. In my spare time, what little I had, I dedicated to creating a large mural on her living room wall. It was a montage of all the places around the world she once traveled. I finished it mid-October. I climbed down off the ladder, placed my brushes in a can of turpentine, and backed up to admire my work.

  “Not bad,” I thought, rushing off to find Monica.

  I found her in the exercise room. She was wearing the same maroon leotard she wore the night we met. She was jumping rope, and working up a sweat. I walked in, looked at the dumbbell, which I saw that first night with the same amount of weight on it; I pointed to it.

  “Who is he?” I asked.

  She stopped jumping; she let the rope fall to the floor.

  “Who is he?” I asked again, trying to control my inner feelings and remain calm.

  “No one you know.”

  “And, what is he to you?”

  She sighed heavily, slowly approaching me; there was a look of resolve on her face.

  “His name is Tom Evans; he’s a scientist, he works for the museum. He’s down in the Caribbean, right now…working with sharks, or whales, or some or another sea creature…I don’t remember. He was living with me before he left. He’ll be back in December. We are to marry.”

  It bowled me over when she told me this; I remained speechless for a moment. “Do you love him?” I finally asked.

  “Do I love him?” she said thoughtfully, “No, I don’t love him.”

  “Then, why?” I asked.

  “Why not…money is getting thin, lately…and he’s rich. Grow up, Alex! This is the real world…get used to it!”

  “And…tell me…what about me?” I growled.

  “Nothing has to change…we can still be together…just not so often.”

  “But I love you!” I insisted, trying to hold back the tears.

  “Love,” she laughed slightly, “You don’t love me…you love it, Alex, you love it! What did you think was going to happen? Did you think we were going to ride off into the sunset together?”

  I could feel anger flaring up inside me.

  “Do you have any idea how much money it takes to live the life I’ve become accustom to?” Do you have any idea how old I am? You want me now, but will you still want me in ten…no five more years? Don’t ruin it, Alex; we can still be together…just not so often.”

  “No…it’s all or nothing!” I declared.

  I stomped out of the room; I made my way to the front door; I took one last look at my mural.

  Her purse was on the table next to the front door; I picked it up.

  “Let’s just see how old she really is,” I said out loud to myself.

  I fumbled through her purse and took out her wallet. I opened it and rummaged through it till I found her drivers license. I read the date of birth. My mind rambled at high-speed trying to calculate her age.

  “Fifty-eight,” I said sadly and softly. She was so right, though I hated to admit it. I had not yet turned nineteen, and she was fifty-eight. In truth, there was no way.

  What frightened me at that moment was not just that I held a strong attraction for someone nearly forty years my senior, but what lay in the future for me. Would I still find myself attracted to women her age in ten years or would my attractions age with me. Would I crave an eighty year old woman, when I turned thirty? Where would it all end? When I turn fifty, would I find myself drawn to corpses?

  I went to return her wallet and noticed five one hundred dollar bills and two twenty dollar bills; I took the five hundred dollars and cramped them into my front pocket.

  “I hope you left me enough for tomorrow’s cab fare?” I heard Monica say from behind me. I threw the wallet down and ran out the door.

  ***

  A month later, in the middle of
November, I couldn’t take the loneliness any longer. I hadn’t seen Monica since the night we quarreled. I was missing her so much, so badly; I had all intents of crawling on my knees before her and begging her forgiveness. I ran to the Crestview Arms; I took the elevator to the top floor; I pushed my key into the lock; it didn’t open; it had been changed.

  “You mustn’t, Alex,” Monica’s voice seeped softly through the door, “Tom came back earlier than I expected.”

  “Who is it, sweetheart?” I heard a man’s voice call out from deep in the bowels of the apartment.

  “Nobody, love,” Monica called back loudly, “just the delivery boy!”

  Just the delivery boy, I thought. Could she do more to hurt me?

  “Here, Alex…I know it isn’t much, but it’s the best I can do. You need to go now!”

  I looked down, saw an envelope she slipped under the door to me; I picked it up and ran into the elevator.

  ***

  Back at my studio, I slammed the door behind me, and with tears in my eyes I opened the envelope. There inside was a folded note. I opened and read it.

  My Darling, Alex,

  Please forgive me. Please understand life is not always what we want, but if we are lucky, it can give us what we need. What we had was beautiful and I wish it could go on forever, but I’m sure you know it cannot. You are the best lover I have ever known and that will always be so. Do not be sad or angry. Here is a little something to soften the blow. As well, I am sending you a replacement; someone I trust and know can make you happy, almost as happy as I had the pleasure of making you.

  Monica

  I looked inside the envelope; there was a check for ten thousand dollars.

  I stood there, my back to my front door, motionless and silent. I thought about what Monica wrote to me. I’m sending you a replacement, what did that mean?

  Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. I turned and opened it. Standing alone, dressed in matador pants and a leotard top was…

  “Mrs. Kenyon?” I said, confused.

  She entered the flat, slamming the door behind her. She took hold of my belt and gently and slowly pulled me toward the bed.

  “Mrs. Kenyon…?” I was still in confusion.

  She pushed me gently onto the bed. She looked down at me like a lioness eyeing a young helpless lamb. She smiled before she pounced on me.

  “Call me…Julia.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Living inside the mouth of the Gift Horse”

  It took a long time for me to value the lesson I learned from the Monica incident, but it was a lesson well learned…it changed me. It was not that I no longer believed in love. However, being a realist, I arrived at the conclusion, perhaps it is not for everyone, and probably not for me. You may desperately want to be in love, you might even insist on it, but it doesn’t make it so. Not every hand dealt is a winning hand.

  Time I spent with Mrs. Kenyon, I felt, was also extraordinarily helpful. Not only was she a great lover who was always willing to show her appreciation – the money flowed like wine; in fact, the wine flowed like wine. She was a gossip spreading, chit-chattering, tattle-tale-telling loudmouth. After the six months I spent with Mrs. Kenyon, all of her high-society friends knew my phone number; and there was a small collection of well-heeled honey-pies who wanted to be my close friend and benefactor.

  Over the next two years, I received commissions to paint fifteen wall murals, and twenty-five portraits. None of these projects ever saw completion, yet my annual income was in the six figures. Art was just a front to filter money earned by my true calling; until a few months later, when my artwork in reality started to come in demand.

  How my popularity as a local artist came about was because of another woman who entered into my life – her name was Elsa Zamora. Does the name sound familiar to you…it should. You might remember her face on the cover of magazines for months, some thirty-five years ago, when she defected to this country.

  Elsa Zamora, a prima ballerina from the Soviet Union. The night of her final performance in New York City, she pleaded for asylum in our country. Eventually, she became an American citizen and danced professionally for the next twenty years throughout the free world. Once her dancing days were over, Elsa settled back in New York, and became one of the most sort-out teachers of the ballet and modern dance.

  Elsa and I met at a party in her honor, on her birthday, thrown by her good friend (and everyone else’s) Mrs. Kenyon, at one of the rehearsal studios off Broadway. Though it was her birthday, no one, thankfully, had the bad manners to mention or estimate how old she must have been, but everyone knew the numbers were up there. Even so, she was still the looker. Years of dancing left her with a strong and youthful appearance, despite her age – it was if, a mad scientist sowed the head of the grandmother onto the body of the granddaughter.

  Elsa and I hit it off from the moment of our introduction. I found myself intrigued by her accent, which she never lost, her quick wit, and love of life. Like everyone else at the party, she had heard of me. Not one to pussyfoot around, she came right out and invited herself to my studio, we even settled on a price – it was all incredibly refreshing.

  Over the next few months, we met at my studio no less than three times a week for afternoons. We never went to her place or went out together in public. She lived with an excessively jealous Russian who was old-school and would have killed us both. She told me she loved him (Ira was his name), but she also feared him, so our get-togethers were always hush-hush.

  She always paid me handsomely, which was why she wanting to do anything more for me came as a surprise.

  It was one afternoon, two of us lying naked on my bed, she was smoking a cigar (a strange habit, I thought, for a dancer). She got out of bed with the blanket wrapped around her. She walked about my studio eyeing my paintings.

  “You know…you’re really not that bad” she declared.

  “Oh…I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy yourself.”

  “I meant your artwork, silly,” she laughed, pointing at my paintings with the brunt of her cigar.

  “Thank you,” was all I could say.

  “No…not bad at all,” she turned to me, “You ever had a showing?”

  “No…never.”

  “Well…maybe it’s time you did…let me see what I can do.”

  As simple as that, a month later I had my first showing at one of the smaller showrooms in the city, but a showing, nonetheless – all paid for by Mother Russia. Mrs. Kenyon did the invitations – not many came, but it was a start.

  Funny about people, though, if you can package something just right, they will buy it. I sold rather a fair amount of paintings that day; I also contracted a few commissions for portraits, not to mention, three or four come-ons and a few propositions from some lovely women who knew of my reputation.

  For me, the highlight of the night was when I met her – Justine Hutchinson, the Diamond Heiress – the woman who would change my life more than any other. I recognized her from weekly pictures in the society pages. Whatever the charity, you could find Mrs. Hutchinson close by. As well, many thought of her as the local patron saint of the art world.

  She was uncommonly beautiful and unique in her look. But, shamefully, I must admit, at first, all I could see were dollar signs.

  I watched from a distance, how Justine unhurriedly promenaded through the showroom, eyeing my work with great concentration. When she finished, she moved toward me and introduced herself. How she knew who I was; I hadn’t the foggiest.

  “Mr. Defy, my name is Justine Hutchinson,” she said in a cold businesslike manner.

  “Yes, Mrs. Hutchinson, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” I smiled and turned on the charm, this did not faze or interest her, she continued in the same manner.

  “Mr. Defy, I believe you’re extraordinarily talented and the perfect artist for a project I have in mind.”

  “Oh…and what is that, Mrs. Hutchinson?”

  “A portrait,” she re
ached into her purse for pen and paper, “Would it be too inconvenient if we were to meet at my home and discuss it further? Here is my address…would three o’clock on Wednesday be good for you?”

  I smiled and nodded the affirmative.

  “Very good…then I’ll see you this Wednesday at three. It’s been nice meeting you, Mr. Defy.”

  “And you, Mrs. Hutchinson.” I smiled, still not receiving any response, equal or unequal to mine. I watched her leave the showroom, admiring the not so businesslike way she moved.

  Just then, one of the showroom’s personnel approached me.

  “Mr. Defy, there’s someone wanting to speak with you.”

  “Oh, really...who?” I spun around, spying about the room.

  “Not here, sir. She’s outside in the back alley.”

  “Did you say…she? A woman…you say?” My interest rose.

  “I suppose you could call it that?” was the response.

  Now, my interest peeked. I nudged through a metal doorway and walked outside into the alleyway.

  Waiting for me was an excessively large woman wearing a dark, double-breasted, pinstriped man’s suit – at least, I suspected it was a woman. She looked a bit like an old photo I once saw of Al Capone, only there were some soft feminine features in the face, which were undeniable.

  “Are you Mr. Defy?” she asked in a low, rough voice – a strong Russian accent was obvious, “Are you Alex Defy?”

  “Yes…I’m Alex Defy.”

  Without warning, her fist came up hard into my midsection; I doubled over in pain and fell to my knees.

  “My name is Ira…I’m a friend of Elsa…a very close friend. If I even suspect you’ve had any contact with her again…I swear I’ll kill you!”

  Ira walked off, leaving me groveling on the ground.

  Imagine that, I thought, slowly working my way back onto my feet, holding my stomach, Elsa Zamora…a dyke?!