Memoirs of a Gigolo

by Margaret Buffano

  As for the post, I received letters and cards from her regularly, mostly invitations; but there were greeting cards every holiday expressing concern for my welfare. As well, there were one or two, short and sweet missing you letters.

  The thorniest part is I missed her, also. I wanted so much to see her, again. I fought the urge to call her or to write. Eventually, communications from her stopped, but my urges did not.

  During that time, I decided school was not for me and dropped out. This was to the second dismay of my parents. Though they did not agree with my choice of studies; they believed any education was better than none.

  I needed to walk a fine line when it came to my parents. I needed to give them the appearance my artwork was selling and I was making a respectable living – enough so they would not feel concerned and tempted to meddle in my life. Still, I also did not want to look too well-off, causing them to question my financial status, again tempting them to interfere.

  I was keeping myself occupied at the time with various legit art commissions, as well as spending time individually with two lovely ladies – Virginia Kingston and Margaret Ann Seating.

  Virginia, the wife of Edgar Kingston, the city’s leading entertainment lawyer – recording and concert contracts being his specialty. Not only did husband and wife lead separate lives, while living under the same roof, they lived two separate lifestyles. Edgar bought into the myth of Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll, and fancied himself part of that world.

  “Some sick second childhood….having sex with young girls more than half his age…it’s disgusting!” Virginia (fifty-seven) complained about Edgar (he being thirty-two, at the time) while we lie naked in bed.

  She and I met at a fund-raiser for homeless dogs…or cats…whatever, I can’t remember which. She sat at a table across the room from me, talking with her, mine, ours, and your good friend, Mrs. Kenyon.

  I smiled; the two smiled back. I nodded; they nodded. I suspect, Mrs. Kenyon told her all about me, and from the look in Virginia’s eyes, I could sense the arousal of her interest. Thanks again to Mrs. Kenyon! Never underestimate the power of advertising and the testimony of a satisfied customer.

  Mrs. Kenyon walked over with Mrs. Kingston in tow, she introduced us and the rest is history.

  I enjoyed my time with Virginia very much. She was a wonderful lover, outgoing and uninhibited – sometimes downright shameless.

  She was a dark haired beauty, with a body that reflected the hours she spent in her private gym with her private trainer and a low-cal diet of six small meals daily, prepared by her private chef.

  We saw each other nearly everyday; which I didn’t mind; as I said, she was enjoyable to be with – and she was anything but cheap. She showered me with gifts and money; more than the amount I would have asked for, had I been asked.

  Only draw back with Virginia was her possessiveness. Not jealously, mind you; I don’t think she held any real serious feelings for me, though she always acted as if she did. She needed to believe I was hers and she was mine, exclusively. I did all in my power to let her uphold the illusion.

  This is where Mrs. Seating comes in; an uplifting contrast to Mrs. Kingston’s green-eyed domineering. Margaret Ann Seating was refreshing in everyway; a down-home, good-time country girl. The wife of Kendall Seating, the Fruit Salad King from Canada…you know, Seating Fruit Salad. The fruit salad like mother used to make…only in a can…in heavy syrup…regular or tropical…and now in new, low-cal light syrup.

  Margaret Ann and Kendal Seating lived on the banks of Lake Queen, their very own personal and private lake, tucked in the arms of the Canadian Rockies. I remember reading an article about their home in Architectural Digest. It was one of the worlds biggest and most expensive log homes with a panoramic view of snowcapped mountains in every direction. There were sixty-eight rooms, all with fireplaces and an elk or moose head on every wall.

  Kendall was what’s commonly referred to as a Man’s Man; in other words, he liked fishing, hunting, sports, drinking, gambling, and carousing, better than anything in the world – including his wife.

  It’s rumored that thirty years ago, Margaret Ann was a cocktail waitress of rare beauty working in a Las Vegas casino. Kendall, twenty years her senior, became smitten with her the moment he saw her…all dolled up in her fishnet stockings, high heeled shoes, and cotton candy pink champagne hair.

  Thirty years later, Kendall’s interests in manly affairs had not dwindled or waned, but his interest in Margaret Ann had.

  I often asked her why she stayed with him, her replies were always similar.

  “Hell, it ain’t so bad; I’ve been with worst men than him. Besides, old bastard treats me good. I’ve got everything I’ve ever wanted and I do just about anything I like. I come and go, where and when I please. You know, it wouldn’t surprise me, when the old fart is dead and buried, I’ll finally realize I’ve always loved the old bastard!”

  Margaret Ann was a breath of clear fresh air.

  Once every month, like clockwork, the Seatings came down from their lakeside mountain home and flew their private jet into New York City. They’d book a suite at one of the better hotels, often the Plaza. Margaret Ann liked looking at and walking through Central Park. The Plaza has a great view of the park.

  They’d spend two or three days concerning themselves with business connected to the company…visits to the cannery in New Jersey…the advertising company on Sixth Avenue, and his lawyers on Seventh.

  After the ordeal, both Margaret Ann and Kendall considered the next three days a holiday to chase whatever each considered worthy of a holiday. Kendall would find a poker game, where men smoke cigars, drink bourbon, eat little, and sleep less.

  Expectedly, Margaret Ann would go shopping, visit museums, attended hit Broadway shows, and eat at the finest restaurants…and she did…with me.

  Margaret Ann heard about my service from a friend, who had a friend, who had a friend. Honestly, the details are now vague.

  Happily and thankfully, I could always and easily explain a missing three days each month to Virginia, the vise-grip queen…family, friends, and business…allowing Margaret Ann and I to hit the town.

  First, we shopped till we dropped, which I hated. Not that I dislike shopping, but Margaret Ann still thought like a cocktail waitress, only now more expensive. Then we stopped back at the hotel to drop off our booty, and make love. This was always a bit uncomfortable for me. There we were, naked, in her and Kendall’s hotel bed. She swore Kendall never came back until the poker game was at least forty-two hours old; she was always right, but it was always an itchy situation. I dared not take her to my studio because of Virginia. What a way to make a living!

  At night, we attended hit shows and ate at fine restaurants, then snuck back to the hotel room where we made love for three or four hours without any disturbance from Kendall.

  “You know, I’m the one in the wrong,” she told me once, when we were lying naked in the dark, “Kendall doesn’t care for any other women but me. I ought to be ashamed, but then I wouldn’t have met such a sweet young item as you.”

  All in all, between gifts and cash, I could make more in three days with Margaret Ann than with any other woman in a month, and with twice as much fun to boot.

  ***

  It was a Sunday evening, I remember distinctly; I was in my studio cleaning paintbrushes when I decided to check in with my answering service.

  “You have one message from someone who only left her first name…Virginia,” said the operator. She then related the message, “Get dressed, we are going dancing. Pick you up at nine.”

  Late dancing on a Sunday night with Virginia could only mean one place, Chesterfields.

  Called Chesterfields because it was the old Chesterfield Theater, once a small opera house built nearly one hundred years ago…then it changed to vaudeville…then burlesque…after that, a movie theater…and finally, this last reincarnation. Someone had good business sense to (rather than tear the old buil
ding down) rip out the seats for a dance floor. Then they put in a few bars, chairs and tables here and there, direct the old stage lights to the center of the room, and installed a music sound system loud enough to shake the rafters at Yankee Stadium.

  Chesterfields did a good business every night of the week, but it wasn’t a place for everybody. You see, Chesterfields was a Gay club. You know…wall to wall homosexual men dancing, drinking and carrying on with one another…with a few flecks of lesbians scattered about here and there for good measure.

  What I’m sure you don’t know, most Mr. and Mrs. Average America don’t know, is most larger Gay establishments also attract (though, only in small numbers) a non-homosexual clientele.

  Who are these people, and why are they there?

  To dance, of course! But, mostly couples (a man and a woman) with something to hide from the outside world. Chesterfields was a place where they could be themselves, and show their affection for each other without judgment…away from the eyes of family, friends, neighbors, co-workers, business associates and the like. Their reasons for being there were various…infidelity, interracial, office policies…you name it…and no one at the Chesterfield gave a hoot.

  What's more, your chances of meeting someone there you knew were slim to none. If you did, what were they doing there? What was their big secret they hid from the world? They ignored you as you them. Some things are better left to a blind eye and a deaf ear.

  Before Virginia and I could enter into the dance, there was a traditional ceremony we both needed to perform. First, all the joints must be well-oiled, then the wheels needed greasing, the mainspring tightened…in clear terms…Virginia loved to dance, but did not, and could not do so unless she was drunk. It took the better part of three tall Rum and Cokes to tear enough of her inhibitions away before she would so much as even try to step onto the dance floor.

  She liked to sit at the bar and position herself where she could view the dance floor as well as the parade of young, handsome, Gay men who marched to and fro in front of us.

  Whenever a good-looking gent passed by, one she felt an attraction for, she leaned over close to me and whisper into my ear, “What a waste”, or something comparable. I should have felt insulted and offended by her ogling, her roving eye…being her lover of choice. Except, if her husband didn’t feel put out about it, why then should I?

  Once Virginia’s pump was properly primed, we hit the dance floor. I was never much of a dancer, nor did I enjoy it much, but I chalked it up as part of the job and trudged on.

  After dancing and drinking, and drinking and dancing, for nearly an hour, I was hoping Virginia was becoming…bored…tired…overly drunk…whatever it took to get us into a cab and back home, which was all right by me.

  When suddenly, the mother of all surprises happened…dancing next to us was none other than Mrs. Kenyon. Her dance partner was a dark, handsome, exotic looking chap no more than two or three years older than me.

  After the initial shock wore off, and we stood there long enough with our jaws dropped and our mouths open, we broke out into laughter and hellos.

  The ladies decided it best we find a table for four, somewhere off alone where we could socialize and communicate like decent folk…as well as drink ourselves blindly through the night.

  I was overly excited to meet Mrs. Kenyon’s escort. Over the past few years, my life became consumed by my profession. I lost all contact with the real world, and had lost all friends my own age and gender. You can’t expect to live the life I lead nearly everyday and then spend Tuesday night bowling with the boys…it just doesn’t happen.

  As I saw it, here was someone like me who made his way through life in a similar fashion…a peer…a comrade in arms…a possible friend…a brother!

  His name was Chi and blessed by the gods with handsome good looks that foreshadowed and surpassed those of most ordinary mortal men. The poor Gay gents of the Chesterfield walked into walls and one another, unable to take their eyes off him. As he walked by, they spilled their drinks.

  We found a booth tucked away from much of the hoopla, sat down and ordered drinks all around. After the usual chitchat and another round of drinks, the ladies announce it was time to Visit the Little Girl’s Room, leaving Chi and I alone.

  Normally, I like to walk through life taking only small, slow, and careful steps. I’m not one to just jump into the water, unless I know how deep and what temperature it is. Yet, because of my excitement at meeting another of my kind and having a head full of martinis, I threw all caution to the wind and immediately and completely opened up to Chi.

  Chi also seemed keyed up at the prospect of striking up a friendship with someone from his own tribe. We exchanged phone numbers, addresses, and swore to get together, soon. We vowed to be buddies…chums…blood brothers, forever! Obviously, the liquor was speaking for us.

  Then something happened that should have sent up yellow flags of warning to me; but I was too drunk to see it. He granted me a glimpse at the tip of the iceberg; what I was to find out later as the true character that was Chi.

  One of the young Gay Gents of the Chesterfield, who had probably been admiring Chi from afar, worked up his courage and walked over to our table.

  “Would you care to dance?” he asked, smiling directly at Chi.

  “Dance…you want to dance with me?” Chi asked, putting down his glass, his facial expression became one of total seriousness.

  “Yes…would you care to dance?” repeated the still smiling young gent.

  “How bad?” Chi slurred his words.

  “Excuse me?” asked the gent.

  “How badly do you want to dance with me? How much will you pay me to dance with you?”

  The smile left the young gent’s face and replaced by a look of confusion, “You’ve got to be joking? I won’t pay you to dance with me!”

  “Then you obviously don’t want to be with me as much as you thought you did! Do you, now?”

  “Go to hell!” said the gent.

  “You first, faggot!” Chi said, tossing a full glass of Drambuie into the young man’s face. Chi burst into laughter so hard he slipped out of his chair and under the table. Not wanting to cause a scene, the Gay Gent of the Chesterfield went off to some dark corner to lick his wounds.

  The rest of the night was an alcohol blur. Visions of being tossed into the back of a cab, and making love to Virginia (or at least, someone much like Virginia) popped into my mind the following morning. I found myself naked, alone, and had seemingly past the balance of the night on my studio floor.

  ***

  Over the next few months, Chi and I got together at least once a week, usually over lunch. I got to know plenty about him during that time; and he me.

  His full name was Chi Jackson. His mother was from Thailand. Her name was Woo-ye, and at the tender age of eighteen, Woo-ye met, fell in love, and married a young American sailor stationed in her country.

  His name was Milton Jackson (his mother was white, his father black) from Newark, New Jersey. When his stretch in the Navy finished, he returned to the states with his bride and settled back in Newark.

  A year later, the couple gave birth to a baby boy. The unique mixing of Thai, Black and White gave way to a new breed that was Chi.

  Story of his early family life in Newark he related to me in an especially sketchy manner. He seemed uneasy talking about it. I learned that when he turned sixteen years old he left home. Whether he ran away, or was kicked out, or was asked to leave was never clear to me.

  At the age of sixteen, Chi was homeless and living on the streets of New York City; but not for long. He was handsome then as a teenager as he was as a young man. He quickly started making money in the Chicken Trade – greasy, drooling, old male perverts who paid lavish amounts of money to slobber over a young thing such as Chi. It wasn’t the prettiest way to make a living, but it kept food in his belly, clothes on his back, and a roof over his head. Luckily, he avoided using drugs – a path most of the
Children of the Streets go down.

  When he turned eighteen, a much older uptown spinster took him in as a live-in lover. Her name he never told me, but assured me she was outstandingly notable.

  After that it was one rich older woman after another. He eventually worked his way up to being one of the most sort after and well paid Callboys in the city.

  As well as women, he also hunted older Gay men, when the money was right. Not that Chi was a homosexual. In fact, looking back now, I would say he was a nonsexual. He was uncomfortable with all of it; though he tried his best never to show it. He just liked the money and definitely the feeling of control sex gave him over others. In addition, it was how he made his living – the only one he ever knew.

  Such lives…with such ordeals…do only one of two things to a person. It either brings out the best or the worst in them. In Chi, it was the latter.

  He was hard, cold, skeptical, pessimistic, cynical, suspicious, distrustful and contemptuous. Sarcasm and mockery were his only form of humor. He only felt safe when he held the upper hand, and he only felt good when he was making someone else feel bad.

  As you can imagine, I began questioning my friendship with Chi; and to that question I soon got an answer.

  ***

  It was the night of some or another music awards held at Lincoln Center. I was aptly granted a reprieve from Virginia, she expected to escort Edgar, her entertainment lawyer husband, to the festivities – good for business, you know. It would be another three weeks till I expected the Seatings back in town, so there was no Margaret Ann to play with. It was a Saturday night, I could have made a phone call or two and made myself some extra pocket money – somewhere, someone’s husband would be out of town.