Memoirs of a Gigolo

by Margaret Buffano

  Chi and I both put our foot down when it came to Harold having access to our homes. Harold wanted to hide in our closets and take pictures of the illicit acts going on in our beds with these marked women. We told him, he needed to come up with a different plan, one where it wasn’t necessary for him to be on-site.

  I had to hand it to Harold; he did come up with an inventive alternative. He designed two full-length mirrors – one for Chi’s apartment, one for mine – each supported by a large metal tube in the back. Inside the metal tube was a camera connected to a timer. Once the timer’s set by pressing a button, the camera took photos in one minute intervals. There were thirty-six shots on each roll of lowlight sensitive film. The metal tubing was thick enough to mask the sound of the camera-clicks. Oh…and I suppose it’s important to mention the mirrors were two-way. I had to hand it to Harold.

  Whenever Harold received an assignment, he contacted us, and all three of us met at a restaurant or a park – someplace public, yet inconspicuous – to discuss the terms and conditions.

  Normally, he had a dossier on the woman marked for seduction – her background, her likes, her dislikes, page after page of anything that helped us. Harold was always painstakingly thorough. Of course, there were dozens of photos of the woman from every possible angle, taken by the maestro himself.

  Whenever Harold got word of the marked woman planning to attend a function without her husband, Harold gained tickets for both Chi and I.

  We worked out a system; it wasn’t very scientific, but it worked. Our success rate was a little over seventy percent, nearly seventy-five! Understand, whenever Harold secured the talents of a professional lady of the night to seduce a male victim, the success rate was ninety percent. That is either the different ratio of male moral fiber to female, or perhaps, it’s the ratio difference of how much importance they place on sexuality.

  Whatever the case may be, let me put the percentages in perspective.

  “Gentlemen…at anytime in your life, when you came onto women, was your success rate at seventy-five percent? Be honest! No…I thought not.”

  Both Chi and I thought it best, and less intimidating, if we came alone to whatever function it was, acting as if we didn’t know each other. We did communicate through eye contact and hand signals we worked out earlier.

  The plan was simple; we first scouted the terrain, then when we encountered our mark, if she was drinking, we backed off and gave her time to get as many drinks in as she was going to have. When alcohol’s involved, half the battle is won.

  We took turns strutting before our prey. Funny as that may sound; it was the best place to start. The one who was not strutting watched for a reaction from the prey; and then scored him on her reaction – all done with hand signals. A zero meant she showed no interest, one or two: slightly interested, three to six: somewhat interested, six to eight: very interested, and nine or ten: go for it!

  At that point we switched; the one who strutted became the observer and the observer had their turn at strutting. Again, the same rules for scoring applied.

  In case of a tie, we repeated the procedure. When it was clear who held the highest score, they would be the one to continue forward with the hunt.

  This did not let the lower scoring opponent off the hook; they couldn’t just go home. They would be needed…for moral support…to keep other men away from her…and if she had come to the function with a girlfriend, to keep the girlfriend occupied.

  There are so many ways to start the game, as I like to call it. Again, if she’s drinking then it’s all the better. Most opening lines are corny, redundant, cliché, and phony sounding …that is true…but they do work; they have always worked and they will always work.

  “Don’t I know you from somewhere? Aren’t you…? Don’t you just hate these things? Can I buy you a drink? Would you care to dance?” Any line that gets the game started is a good line.

  You have to be quick on your feet; she’ll try to put up boundaries, and place obstacles in your path.

  “What’s a young, good-looking guy like you doing going after a woman of my age?”

  “You are the most interesting person in the room, and I think you’re beautiful.”

  At this point, she’ll let out a small laugh, followed by a big smile.

  “And that smile…I saw it from across the room, and I knew I just had to get to know you.” They always like that one.

  Then there is the maternal approach to objecting…objections she really doesn’t want to have, mind you…objections she wants you to remove…one by one.

  “Do you know how old I am? Why, I’m old enough to be your mother.”

  “Mother…? I already have one of those. I was thinking more in the lines of a lover…or…If I had a mother who looked like you, I’d still be on a psychiatrist coach working out my Oedipus complex.” That one’s always good for a giggle.

  “You realize…I’m a married woman?” This is the last line of defense…shatter this one and the rest of the night is a cakewalk.

  “Look into my eyes,” you tell her, looking seriously into her eyes, “Now ask me if I care. Do you see any sign that I do? Now look deeper. What do you see…that’s wanting…wanting for you…hunger for you. Go ahead, ask me to leave…I will…if that’s what you truly want. But it will leave a hole of regret in both of us that will haunt us all our lives…what if?” They like the idea you’ve given them a choice…it’s their choice…at least that’s what they’d like to believe. Okay…okay…I agree…it sounds like nothing more than romance novel dribble…even worse are the opening lines. But they work, they have always worked and they will always work! Why? Because they want them to!

  After that, it’s all downhill. You take a cab to your place. The first thing you do is to pour her a drink. Got to keep the alcohol level up; don’t want her to start thinking clearly. Then dim the lights, put the music on soft and low, press the button on the camera-timer behind the two-way mirror, and let the games begin!

  In the morning, she’ll feel awkward. She’ll have a slight hangover, and just a twinge of regret. Her hair’s messed, her makeup smeared, and the light of the morning sun shows her true age, unlike the way moonlight cloaks it.

  I like to give them their dignity. I usually pretend to be asleep. They usually dress quickly, and leave a note on the table, “Had the time of my life…here is my number…call me…I think you’re wonderful….blah…blah…blah.” Then they gently and softly kiss me on my cheek; I smile dreamily…they like that a lot.

  If they have any street sense, if they’ve been around, any worldliness, they’ll leave a few hundred dollars on the table next to the note. If they don’t, no need to worry; we’ll get to that part of the game soon enough.

  ***

  Many years ago, just after the dawn of man, the gods of Olympus were lounging around, looking down at the human race, and probably having themselves a good laugh at our expense. But one god in particular, Prometheus the Titian, seeing us in our frailty became filled with compassion.

  Zeus made sure mankind had no access to fire. Perhaps, he thought we might hurt ourselves, or burn the place down, but for whatever reason, Zeus would not allow man to have fire.

  Prometheus looked down at us, huddled in our caves, freezing to death in the bitter chill of winter, and this moved him to tears. He secretly stole some of Zeus’ fire, igniting a fennel plant, and brought the gift of fire down to earth and gave it to man. He taught us how to use it, how to cook and keep warm. Mankind was on its way to becoming civilized, which is not what the folk back up at Olympus wanted. They liked us just the way we were. After all, what’s more entertaining…a scientist…a mathematician…a philosopher…or a monkey in a funny hat? You guessed it…the monkey!

  It enraged Zeus when he discovered what happened; and when he found out who had done it, he demanded retribution. He bound Prometheus and put him atop Caucasus, a high mountainous peak. As punishment, every day a giant eagle pounces down on the helpless Prometheus,
splitting him open and tearing out his liver – an excruciatingly painful experience, to say the least. Now, here’s the Boo-Hoo-Hoo part. Prometheus, being immortal and unable to be killed, only tortured…unlike mortals…each night his liver grows back. The following day, and each day after that, the procedure is repeated. This should stand as a shining reminder to all you Goody-Goodies out there, there is such a thing as being too good. Far as I know, Prometheus is still there atop Caucasus, having his liver ripped out of him – maybe for all eternity.

  ***

  In the middle of Manhattan is Rockefeller Center (a conglomerate of business buildings, restaurants and shops); and in the heart of Rockefeller Center (during winter months only) is a huge ice rink. In front of and above this ice rink, looking down in godly fashion is an impressively large golden statue of Prometheus – in all his naked Greek glory. There’s a flaming fennel in his right hand, and he’s in flight to earth to give mankind the gift of fire…fire that will cook his meals and heat his nights.

  Now, I find it upsettingly ironic and somewhat shameless and callous to have Prometheus put in such a position. The poor-bastard-god who put it all on the line and lost everything so humanity could enjoy the comforts of warmth, forced to watch human beings engage in recreation and sloshing around on top of a giant block of ice.

  The ice rink at Rockefeller Center has a twofold, two-class congregation gliding over it. In the center portion are the elite, a select few of semi-pro skaters and show-offs. They perform over and over their best moves for the well-wishers on the sidelines who ooh and ah, as if watching fireworks at the fairgrounds.

  The outer perimeter of the rink is for the common folk with only the ability to skate erect on ice. They go round and round in a circle, dressed in their thick winter woolies, huffing and puffing as they sashay to and fro, their hot breaths steaming in front of them.

  Chi and I watched the frostbitten procession of skaters from the comfort of our table positioned in front of the restaurant’s large picture window overlooking the ice rink, to the left of Prometheus.

  “Would you two gentlemen care to order, now?” asked the waiter, standing over us.

  “Not yet,” I said, “We’re waiting for another guest.”

  Chi examined the menu. “Will you look at the prices this place has! You need to take out a loan just to have a hot chocolate!”

  “Don’t sweat it; Harold is here! Lunch is on me!” announced Harold. He approached our table and sat down. He handed his menu to the waiter, “I’ll have a cup of black coffee, please.”

  “If he’s paying for it, I’ll have a martini and the prime rib,” said Chi, with a spiteful look on his face; he handed the menu to the waiter.

  “I’ll have the salad and a club soda,” I said, handing back the menu.

  Chi leaned across the table and whispered his disapproval of me. “Faggot,” he said, smiling.

  When the waiter left, Harold placed a folder down on the table.

  “Okay…gentlemen…I call this business meeting to order.”

  “Before we start,” said Chi, “there is one matter of grievance we need to address.”

  “A grievance…?” beamed Harold, “I’m all ears, my dear stud.”

  Chi giggled slightly, he dismissed Harold’s lighthearted remark and trudged on.

  “Yes, a grievance…you see…the workers union, that is Alex and I, has a need that management, that is you, must understand.”

  Chi waited a moment for Harold to respond; when he didn’t, he continued.

  “You see, it’s all been very nice, seducing women and getting paid for it. Paid quickly and in large sums, I might add; no complaints there. But, it’s the timing that’s the problem.

  “You see, we seduce these women, you deliver the pictures to the husbands within a few days, and we make money. What you don’t understand is these women are in the palm of our hands and they have money also, money we’re not given enough time to tap into. Once we start our song and dance, Alex with his starving artist routine, and I with my ‘I never had a family or a break’ song. There is money to be made, and that’s not counting the gifts.”

  “So, what are you saying?” inquired Harold, softly.

  “I’m saying, if we’re given enough time…before you turn over the photos…we can juice these women for all their worth.”

  “How much time do you need?” asked Harold, an interested look on his face.

  “Six months?”

  “Six months…too long,” laughed Harold, “I can’t keep the husband at bay for six months!”

  “Okay, make it three months.”

  “Three months? I don’t know; that’s still a longtime. Make it two months.”

  “Okay, two months, if you can hold off on giving the photos to the husband for two months, we can make some decent cash!”

  “And what’s in it for me?” asked Harold.

  “What do you mean?” asked Chi, “You make money when you give the husband the photos.”

  “Yes, but now you’re asking me to wait a month or two; why should I?”

  “Okay…we’ll give you a piece of the action,” responded Chi.

  “A piece of the action…a piece of what? A ring, a watch, and trinkets you hock for one fifth of their value, some cash slipped under the table…how is it I’m supposed to know how much is made and what my cut is of that?”

  “What do you want?” Chi asked.

  “Ten percent more,” said Harold, “Then you can take as long as you like.”

  Chi looked at me for a response. I shrugged as if to say, “Why not.”

  “Okay…ten percent,” Chi said, sounding upset.

  “Good…now that’s settled?” said Harold, “Now, if we can continue with our meeting?”

  Harold laid a folder down on the table. The waiter came with our drink order. All went silent until he left.

  “I would like to report profits this quarter have been high, and they look like they are planning to go higher. I said when we first formed this alliance, you two boys have distinct abilities…one is to seduce, which we have used to the fullest…the other is to murder…which we are about to embark on.”

  “What do you mean, ‘we’?” asked Chi, giving Harold a look of contempt.

  “I don’t understand,” I added, “if we’re doing so well, why take a chance on murder?”

  “Because the profit is so much higher,” replied Harold. “Now, here is our first murder victim.” He opened the folder. “It seems you two boys are on your way to Canada.”

  “No…no…I won’t be a part of it,” I objected.

  “Why, Alex, you haven’t even heard what I’m proposing,” said Harold.

  “I don’t have to, I’ve heard the name Canada and I know what it means, and I want nothing to do with it!”

  “What’s your problem, Alex?” asked Chi.

  “Canada,” I replied, “That can only mean one client…the Seatings…I won’t be a part of murdering Margaret Ann!”

  “And you won’t have to,” confirmed Harold. “It seems after I sold her the negatives of you and her on that cruise she swore she wasn’t going to contact you any more, and she hasn’t.

  “I told the husband there was nothing for him to worry about, but he wasn’t fully convinced. He still had her followed. With you…Alex…no longer available, she found solace in the arms of another, and that’s who the husband wants killed. Not the wife, he loves her too much, but the lover, he wants him dead.”

  “So who’s the lucky guy?” asked Chi.

  “The Seatings live on a large spread in Canada. Mr. Seating has different areas looked after like any other national park….by Forest Rangers. If you must have it, Mrs. Seating, Margaret Ann, has been secretly sneaking off to the cabin of a Mr. Doug Anderson, in charge of the northeast section of Mr. Seating’s property.”

  “And he’s the mark?” asked Chi.

  “Yes…with one stipulation,” said Harold, “You must kill him in front of Margaret Ann. The hu
sband does not want her hurt, but he does want her to see her lover killed. That is foremost.”

  “I won’t have any part of it,” I said, “Margaret Ann was not only a customer of mine, but I care for her. I want nothing to do with it.”

  “Whatever…I couldn’t care less,” said Harold, sipping at his coffee. “I only know if you want to be paid, and handsomely I might add, then Mr. Anderson needs to die. I don’t care if both of you do it. I don’t care if one of you does it. I couldn’t care if your grandmother does it; I only know it needs doing within the next two weeks.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Macintosh, consider it good as done,” Chi confirmed.

  “I have no disbelief of that,” said Harold, taking another sip of his black coffee. “Meeting’s adjourned,” he said. He stood up and walked off, leaving the folder behind.

  The waiter came and placed my salad before me and Chi’s steak down in front of him.

  “Son of a bitch ran off without paying the bill,” grunted Chi.

  As we were eating our lunch, I spoke softly to Chi.

  “Chi, I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “Do what?” he asked, stuffing pieces of steak into his mouth.

  “I’m not a killer, Chi.”

  “Yeah…but we’re partners,” said Chi.

  “Partners…who says so…when did this happen?”

  Chi placed his hand over his heart.

  “Here’s where it’s said so.”

  “I care for the woman; you can understand that, can’t you?” I pleaded.

  “Let me put it to you this way,” said Chi, “If you don’t go with me on this trip, even if it’s just for moral support…I’ll kill the woman, too.”

  “What, are you crazy? The husband only wants the lover killed, not the wife.”

  “So, I won’t kill her! I’ll carve my name deep into her face, I’ll rip off her ears and eat them…I honestly don’t care! If you don’t come with me, there’ll be hell to pay!”

  I understood fully what he said and complied to his terms. There was nothing else I could do. I agreed to go with him to Canada.