by Ellis, Livia
I don’t want to hear this. I really don’t. I can’t give Elon what he wants and we both know it.
Again, he tells me that I am incapable of pimping myself out. In his never to be questioned opinion, I am far too priggish to lower myself. In fact, the first time someone offers to blow me, I’m likely to slap them.
I am not priggish.
Prig.
Not.
Prig. Priggy, prig, prig.
Fuck off. I can so do it.
Prove it. Prove that I can do it. Sober and without a woman in the room. I’m staying at his place anyway. He’s happy to accommodate me fully. He’ll even pay me the going rate for a night with a top shelf escort. After I’ve given him the shagging of his life, then we can discuss whether or not I have the capacity to fuck for a living. Which I don’t.
My anger is rising. Not at Elon. Not really at least. I feel cornered and feral. I’m annoyed with him because he knows me so well. Priggish might be a bit exaggerated, but it’s not a wholly inaccurate adjective to describe me. I’m angry with so many things that I have no control over. But Elon is there and I am capable of hurting him with my words and actions.
I get up from my stool and walk. I stop long enough to take my jacket from the waitress. I leave without looking back. I can take care of myself. If I can make more than enough in less than a week to keep the bailiffs from banging down my door, then I’m going to do it.
3 The Doctor
I go to the doctor the next day as instructed. The fight with Elon had left me without a place to stay for the night. I had three choices; make up with Elon, go home to the country, or stay in a hostel. After one night in a hostel unlike any I had seen since I’d been backpacking through Asia, I either had to agree to go to Japan, or stop ignoring Elon’s calls.
The doctor, a slightly-more than middle aged Duke of York looking fellow, doesn’t often have a man in his office. He’d heard from the girls that The Matchmaker was looking for a new man to replace the last one. Very surprising. Harold, the man I’m ostensibly replacing, had been popular with The Matchmaker’s clients. He quite liked Harold. He and Harold had a standing appointment.
I’m naked on the exam table which is more like a chair with stirrups. I’m not unaware that this man is a gynecologist. My legs are up in the stirrups and spread wide. I’m the picture of health, he tells me as a well lubed, gloved finger probes my anus. I’ve never had a prostate exam before, but I can’t help but to wonder if this isn’t taking a bit long. I have this inbred inability to question people in some sort of presumptive authority, so I don’t say anything.
He pulls his finger out, snaps the glove off and reaches for the chart his nurse left before leaving. My blood is clean and I have no traces of drugs in my system. He offers me £100 to let him suck me off.
It’s my moment of truth. Elon had foretold I wouldn’t have the stones to go through with it. He was wrong. As casually and nonchalantly as I can, I shrug a shoulder and give him a nod. I do so have the stones to do the job.
I don’t have to ask him for the cash up front. He pulls out his wallet and passes over two crisp £50 notes. I know I will never be able to go to the doctor again without laughing. I fold the bills into the palm of my hand. I’m starting feel the pull of this lifestyle.
For the first time since I sexually matured at fifteen, thanks to a generous and giving chalet girl in Davos, I’m worried I won’t be able to perform on command. Fortunately, doctors truly do know more about sex. I lie back in the chair, look at the ceiling, with my legs up and spread wide open. The Doctor, on his little rolling stool, starts fondling me. He doesn’t go for my cock, but rather concentrates on my perineum. That silky sensitive bit of flesh between my anus and my cock has never been treated so well. Any concerns I had about getting hard were unnecessary.
The Doctor asks me if I want to know how big my erect penis is.
Why not? It’s not like it can’t get any more surreal for me. Kafka couldn’t have done my trip to The Doctor justice.
He pulls out a tape measure. I am more pleased to say I am packing nine inches of pure English manhood. I hate to demystify the legend of the twelve-inch cock, but the average man is about six-inches fully erect. At nine-inches I’m positively enormous. The Doctor is impressed. He’s seen a lot of cock in his time, but mine is one of the biggest. Not the biggest… that place belongs to a former escort of The Matchmaker, a Kenyan man who had an unbelievable eleven inches in his shorts.
That is impressive.
And yes, The Doctor also propositioned him. As a rule he tends to be a loyal and repeat client of The Matchmaker. He hopes we’ll get along well in the future.
I like this man. He’s clinical and honest.
A rubber glove is snatched from the box and snapped on. He doesn’t put a condom on me. I’m clean and he likes the taste of cum. A large amount of lube is squeezed onto the tip of his gloved fingers. The gel is cold when it hits my rectum. He tells me to relax. Pressing down a little usually helps. Those slippery fingers massage circles around the pucker of my anus. I’m feeling this in my bones.
I can feel the precum leaking out of the tip of my still to be touched cock. My nipples could cut diamonds. A sigh comes out of my throat when a finger slides inside. I tip my head back and let my head roll to the side.
The Doctor tells me that the anus contains something like a billion nerve endings. Or at least that’s what it feels like. If he wanted to, he could probably make me ejaculate without touching my cock.
My heart starts beating with purpose. My breath is moving in and out of my lungs at a pace. His thumb massages my perineum and his finger finds my g-spot. I can feel his breath on my cock as his mouth dives for my balls. One then the other is rolled around his mouth. The exact right amount of pressure is applied, released, and then applied again. The Doctor is a master of the blow-job. His tongue and his lips suck my scrotum into his mouth along with my balls. He holds the entire package in his mouth as his tongue twirls. I think I am going to cum without him touching my cock.
He opens his mouth and lets my ball-sack slip away. It’s wet with his saliva. A teasing puff of breath is blown across the surface. A shiver goes up my spine then down again shooting up through my cock. His hand grasps the base of my cock and squeezes it just enough. At last his mouth comes down over the tip. His tongue is hard and pointed as it screws its way into my urethra. A few concentrated swipes of his tongue are all I get before he moves on. The head of my cock becomes his focal point.
His tongue swirls around the tip. The rough top slides around then the smooth bottom comes back. My cock becomes a dripping ice-cream bar that his mouth is trying to devour. His tongue is everywhere as his mouth comes down over me. Big wet licks up the shaft leave a thick coat of slippery saliva. I could cum, but I know I need to make this last. He’s paid for this. I’m going to give him his money’s worth.
He releases his fingers from around the base of my cock as the finger in my anus starts tapping my g-spot. My orgasm hits me like a cricket bat and there is nothing that is going to stop it. I cry out like I’m sure I’ve never done. My back arches and a stream of cum shoots out of my cock into The Doctors throat. The spasms that jerk my erection last for a worryingly long time. My heart is throbbing and my breath is coming in short gasps. The Doctor sucks deep and hard as he draws his mouth off of me. The finger is withdrawn from my anus. He offers me a box of tissues.
I take a handful and watch him as he pulls off the glove and walks over to his desk. There is this bit of mythology that men who hire people for sex, often like to talk. I never believed this could be possible. Who would pay a sex worker for a chat? Buts that’s the trick. They don’t want to think you’re a sex worker. They want to think you’re a casual lover. So there’s usually a chat.
We chat as I dress. We compare backgrounds.
We’re both Harrow men.
I don’t consider myself gay so much as open minded.
He’d been in a relationship once w
ith a man about thirty years ago. Had his heart broken. Made a choice never to go down that road again.
I get it. I didn’t love my fiancé, but I’ve been in love. I’m not particularly keen to go down that road again either.
The Doctor asks if I’d be interested in a standing appointment.
I would. Anytime.
He’ll contact The Matchmaker. She’s a lovely woman, but gets very angry if she feels one of her employees is doing a run around her. This was always Harold’s problem. Best not to make her think she’s being cut out of the loop.
Noted.
It is then he gives me the best advice I will ever receive. When I give a blow job, do it like a man. Don’t blow a man like I’m a woman blows a man. If a man wanted a woman to blow him, he’d be with a woman. He wants a man with a man’s touch and a man’s jaw muscles doing the work. Don’t be a pussy.
I ask him if he wants me to blow him.
Not interested. He’ll jerk off when I’m gone. He prefers to do things a certain way. He signs off on the papers I’m to return to The Matchmaker. Do I want a prescription for Viagra? Not that he thinks I’m going to need it, but just in case. I take the paper gladly. A few more tips follow. Most of them have to do with lube and condoms. Use both indiscriminately.
9
Memoirs of a Gigolo: Volume 1
4 The Interview
I’m returned to The Matchmaker in the back of her smoke gray and black Rolls Royce driven by a man that cannot possibly really be named Bruno. It’s just not possible. She scans the papers The Doctor handed over to Bruno. With a nod, she tosses them aside. Have I come to a decision?
I’m in.
Excellent! Welcome! We shake hands. Down to business. I have an enormous cock. Could be a problem.
How?
She looks up at me with a raised eyebrow. Do I want a nine-inch cock in my ass?
Good point. I wince a little at the thought. Three cheers for the less endowed man.
But… She raises a finger… for every key there is a lock for every pot there is a lid. In fact, when she gets the word out about what I’m carrying between my legs, it will generate business. There are probably more than a few women in her address book that would give me a tumble just to have a really big cock. In fact she’s quite certain she’ll have me booked solid in less than a day. I can see in her eyes as she looks at me the potential for me to get out and shake my money maker for her.
With a nod she tells me that tomorrow, I’d best be ready to meet a lovely lady of her acquaintance. A woman known to be unable to keep her mouth shut that will pay a premium for a good fuck. She’s turned my positive into a negative and back into a positive. This is the miracle that is The Matchmaker.
She continues to read the report. I’m clean. Did he want to blow me?
Yes.
Of course he did. How much?
£100
She holds out her hand. Pass over £25.
I stare at her. I’m confused.
She gets twenty-five percent. No negotiation. I should have told him £200. The Doctor knows perfectly well what she charges for an hour.
I pull out my wallet and hand her a fifty. She gives me change. I still have seventy-five which is more than I started the day with. Still a win.
She stands from her desk and beckons me to follow. We leave through a different door than the one I was brought in through. We enter her private residence. I don’t really have an eye or an appreciation for décor, but I know that she has excellent taste. Up two flights of stairs, she brings me to a bedroom. The walls are a pale yellow, the furniture is heavy dark wood, the curtains and duvet are pristine white linen.
On the bed is a woman. Kneeling on the back of her calves with a cellphone pressed to her ear. Black hair pulled high hangs like a horse’s tail down her bare back. Her skin is as white and clean as milk. Clearly not a fan of the spray tan. Good choice.
She looks at The Matchmaker and me as we enter the room. The Matchmaker takes a seat in a chair as she starts fiddling with her phone. She looks at me. Fuck the girl. Just like that. Fuck the girl. Pretend the girl is a client paying for a service. The Matchmaker wants to know how I perform. Yes, she will be watching. If I can’t perform on demand with her in the room, then I’m really no good to her. Do I not think I can manage?
I look at the girl. She looks back at me. Very pretty eyes. Thick black lashes ring Prussian blue irises. She’s not wearing any makeup. Just some lip gloss. She has no tattoos. Her tits are real. They have to be. No surgeon could create such pink tipped beauties in an operating room. This is the work of Mother Nature.
The Matchmaker is speaking loudly in Russian on her mobile phone. Distractingly so. This is the job isn’t it? It’s not about me fancying the girl on the bed and wanting to make love to her. It’s about me being able to fuck no matter what the circumstance.
I can do this.
I take my clothes off because no one else is volunteering too.
The girl is still on her phone. Russian seems to be the house language.
Olga? I ask as my shirt comes off.
She gives me a nod as she wraps up her call. This is the girl I’m going to Japan with. I appreciate that The Matchmaker has chosen her for the manual labor part of my interview.
I introduce myself. Bond. James Bond.
This makes her laugh.
Ollie, I tell her. She knows already. I’m the one going to Japan with her. Her English is good. The accent is a sort of odd mix of West End girl meets Russian princess. I like it. Exotic and familiar.
She’s really very beautiful. I can see why a man would fork over a load of cash for a few days with her. If I had the money, I probably would do the same. She’s truly lovely. I’m grateful The Doctor blew me. Otherwise, I might be a bit too eager.
She kneels up and reaches for my hand. I cannot stress how truly beautiful she was. The oval face was made up of full lips, porcelain skin, and large eyes. Her breasts were large, pink tipped, and natural. She was slim, but not skinny. Best of all, she had hips and an ass. A real woman’s figure. Even better, her sex was covered with a thick and luxurious pelt of black hair. I understand that fashion usually dictates these things, but every once in a while it is a pleasure to dive into a full muff.
I take her hand and join her on the bed. She pulls me to her and kisses me.
Another myth refuted; call girls don’t kiss. They do. They do and they are very, very good kissers.
Her hand slides behind my neck and her mouth comes to mine. I put a hand on a smooth, bare hip as our mouths touch. Tongues tangle as our lips come together. She kisses me. Pulls away. Kisses me again. Then pulls back. She’s the perfect tease. My cock agrees.
The Matchmaker reminds us that she’s the client and I’m the one being paid to perform a service.
Olga was trying to help me. Awfully sweet of her. The simple truth is, not every client is going to be an Olga. In fact, none of them will be. They will be expecting me to do the work. Not for me to be passive as they draw me to them and kiss me.
I think for a moment. What would I do if Olga were a shy girl that I really wanted to fuck? I know what I’d do. Then I do it. I take her hand away from my neck. Can she be shy? She gives me a wink then puts a coy smile on her face. Her hands and arms cover her body. This makes The Matchmaker happy. Olga is told to make me work for it.
I kiss her just as she kissed me. Toying and teasing. I draw her out with my hands and my mouth. I’m careful to avoid touching her breasts or her pussy. If she’s shy she needs to get used to my hands on her body before I start moving in. I kiss her neck, her ears, her eyelids, and her nose while I hold her head in my hands. She kisses me back. Either she’s enjoying my attention, or she’s acting. I’d prefer to think I’m doing well.
We are still on our knees when I take her in my arms and lay her on the bed. I’m not unaware of the fact The Matchmaker is in the room. It’s just becoming less and less important. The contrast of Olga’s black hair again
st the snowy white linen is worth commenting on. I feel it is necessary to remark on how truly beautiful she was. This cannot be overly emphasized.
I lean over her as I kiss her, my head propped on my hand. My flat of my free hand runs over her stomach, making brief passes over her breasts. Her breasts get more of my attention as I kiss her lightly on the mouth. She’s moving like a woman that wants to be touched. Her legs are moving and her thighs are opening slightly. I move my hand down her body, but stop just below her navel. I ask her if she wants me to touch her.
There’s a mixture of surprise and amusement in those brilliant blue eyes. I suspect it is rare for the men she’s in bed with to ask her if they can touch her. Her permission is given for me to continue. My fingers run like a comb through that marvelous bush. When my hand arrives at the juncture of her thighs, they willingly open for me. That secret spot is warm and slippery wet. I truly hope I’ve done this and that she really isn’t that good at what she does.
I have to say that I’m enjoying the pubic hair purely for the novelty of it. The way the damp curls feel under my palm as I stroke her is like mink. I tell her this. Her hand reaches up, takes me by the back of the head, and pulls my mouth to hers. Between us, I can feel her other hand reaching for my cock. A firm hand starts stroking me. Olga leans up on an elbow, her thighs spreading just a touch more to allow me better access to her lips. She says something in Russian to The Matchmaker.
The Matchmaker responds, rises from her chair, and disappears. Fantastic. I nudge Olga back on to the pillow with my mouth on her. I slide a finger between her wet lips and begin stroking.
The Matchmaker tosses a strip of extra-large condoms at my head. She’s really enjoying reminding me she’s in the room. The two women exchange a few words that make each of them laugh. They could speak in English so I would understand. They just don’t want to. Or they don’t think to. I’m the one in the middle of the job interview.
