Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Nine

by Livia Ellis

  I don’t fully understand what has happened, but I am certain it has just about everything to do with the overarching theme of parental abandonment and a need for atonement we are all so very familiar with.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  12:00pm

  The Footballer is scary dumb which is why when he tells me he has a secret flat his wife knows nothing about I’m somewhat taken aback. He doesn’t strike me as the sort of person with the mental dexterity to imagine then execute anything as devious as obtaining a secret flat and then keeping it from his wife.

  I am willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. I follow the directions he emailed me whilst ignoring all instructions to dodge down dark alley and take detours through residential neighborhoods.

  There is no doorman, which I find worrying. There is a smell of someone cooking curry and the sound of a crying baby. One of two things could be happening. I could either be in the wrong place or he did manage to find a secret flat no one would ever associate with him.

  I expect to meet him alone, but Elizabeth is there when I arrive. Elizabeth already stripped down to her skin splayed out on the couch is definitely a surprise. I was not expecting to see Elizabeth. Why is Elizabeth here? Elizabeth should not be here. Not after what happened with his wife. His wife has a bullet engraved with Elizabeth’s name.

  Relax. She’ll never know Elizabeth is around. It’s her colonic day.

  More than I ever needed to know.

  He hands me my envelope, which I slip into my messenger bag.

  I hate to be obvious, but am I intruding? Do they want me to leave?

  Elizabeth smiles at me. Yes. Leave.

  The Footballer smiles at me. No. Stay.

  I’ll stay simply because the Footballer is the one paying me whether I go or not. It’s his money and his time. He wants me to stay, I stay.

  I undress as he turns his attention to Elizabeth.

  The Footballer is in prime form. Truly prime form. It would be a good world if he actually did enjoy sex with men. I don’t think he hates it. If I did I wouldn’t continue to book appointments. But I’m just not his cup of tea. Elizabeth is his cup of tea.

  He falls on her naked form with a growl. She squeals with delight. Part of me believes she truly does have feelings for him.

  I’m there to temporarily enhance the experience. I’ll be gone in less than an hour. I imagine they’re only just beginning.

  I get on the couch with them. The interior of the flat is incongruous to the exterior of the place. It’s posh and well appointed. Someone spent time and a lot of the Footballer’s money to create a naughty little fuck pad. It has everything he could want. One of those sex chairs. What I can only assume is some sort of sexual position enhancement chaise. No one could actually sit in it with any degree of comfort, but just looking at it makes me imagine at least a dozen imaginative ways to fuck someone (male or female) until they are fully satiated.

  Doing my part in this wholly satisfying ménage à trois, I use a hand to stimulate both of them at the same time as they bump and grind their way to an ecstasy I’m only peripherally a part of. Not even my tantric breathing and thinking of cricket can stop me from physically reacting to the site of these two naked beautiful people fucking in front of me.

  More of my clothing comes off.

  We three move around until Elizabeth is between us. She no longer objects to my presence. Our sexual gymnastics equals a tangle of arms and legs jutting out from all angles. The upside of Elizabeth being present is that my participation is secondary. My hands and my mouth are put to more use than my cock.

  Elizabeth’s body is firm and rounded. I miss the freedom of having it at my disposal whenever convenient for the two of us. The problem, other than Olga, is that I know she’s been with the Rat Bastard. I can’t help but to imagine his slobbering, pulsating, beet red face laboring over her as I try to get into fucking her. It just doesn’t happen for me anymore.

  So, lucky for me, the Footballer is all the stimulation I need.

  I touch him. The muscles beneath his skin are hard and well worked. His thighs especially delight me. But what is most appealing about him, are the muscles of his stomach. They curve around his torso in such a way as to point to his cock like an arrow.

  Elizabeth knows the Footballer in her own way, but I know him better in my way. I put a condom on him and draw his dick into my mouth. She gives me an evil look that he can’t see. I smile around the curve of his shaft. Nothing is going to annoy her as much as someone else pleasuring the Footballer. Anyone doing something for him that she could do is a sign that he might not need her as much as she would like him to believe.

  I give it my all. The man who had never given a blowjob before he started working as a prostitute has become an expert.

  Tongue swirling, throat muscles sucking, lips pressing.

  Someone knocks on the door.

  My rhythm is thrown off.

  Elizabeth pushes me out of the way. With a kick of her leg that nearly knocks me in the jaw, she straddles him. I’m out. Bitch.

  There is another knock on the door.

  At first I assume it’s just another noise coming out of the noisy neighbors who seem to have little concept of how to share a small space with other people. But then it keeps happening.

  Do I look?

  Ignore it. The Footballer doesn’t want to be disturbed. It’s probably just kids.

  I ignore it.

  The knocking turns to pounding.

  The pounding on the door is an unwanted disturbance.

  The Footballer tells me to go and see who it is. Get rid of them.

  I stare at him for a moment then get up. The sweat on my back is cold when it is touched by the breeze coming in from the open window. Small hairs stand up on my arms and legs. Whoever is banging on the door better be bleeding from a gunshot wound or in labour. Otherwise I may pound them for interfering.

  There’s a spyhole in the door.

  It’s his wife.

  I think I shriek like a little girl when I see her. I’ve never been so terrified of anything so small before in my life. The door vibrates when she pounds afresh.

  The Footballer and Elizabeth are not moving. Correction – they are moving. Their mouths are moving together and their bodies are slithering against each other.

  Stop that!

  Elizabeth gives me that devil look of hers.

  The wife is banging on the door! What does he want me to do?

  His wife is at the door?

  Yes!

  She’s the one pounding?

  Yes! Yes! A thousand times YES!

  Shit. If his wife catches him with Elizabeth she’ll divorce him.

  Elizabeth looks very pleased at this development.

  I am not so pleased. This sort of situation is bad for business. What do we do? Does he have a suggestion? Is there a back entrance?

  Go out the window.

  Is he serious? Does he seriously think we can go out the window? We’re on the fourth floor.

  That might not work.

  No. It might not work.

  We could hide in the closet.

  Is he serious?

  It’s that or the window.

  I’ll take the closet.

  He starts throwing clothing at us.

  I help by gathering up what he misses.

  Elizabeth looks defiant. She wants to get caught. She wants this. There is that look in her eyes. The one that tells me I consistently underestimate her.

  She bitches and moans. Maybe we all need to be a bit more honest.

  I grab her by the hand and pull her into the closet.

  This is my life. Hiding in a tiny closet from an angry woman.

  The Footballer locks us in. When the key clicks I realize he’s just stupid enough to leave us trapped in there. I have no doubt Elizabeth would gnaw my liver out of my body to survive if she needed to.

  The Footballer opens the door to the flat.

  The wife is l
ivid.

  I put my hand over Elizabeth’s mouth.

  I could die in a tiny closet with Elizabeth licking my palm trying to get me to move my hand off her mouth.

  My phone lights up. My mother is trying to call me. Fortunately I have it on silent. And I have my phone. Even if that chuckle head does forget us, I can make a call and get us out.

  We sort through our clothing. We’re all elbows and asses trying to get dressed.

  If it weren’t for the shouting there would be no mistaking the sound of the two of us bumping around.

  This is ridiculous. I’ve been a party to my fair share of domestic quarrels in my time, but these two bring the vitriol to a whole new level. I’m not entirely sure what a cunt knocker is, but I’m sure I don’t want to be called one.

  There is nothing to do but wait. Unfortunately my time is both precious and limited. I’m on a schedule.

  When the argument loops back on itself for the third time I send the Footballer a text. Completely innocuous, but still pointed. I hear his phone bleep. The fighting continues. These people need therapy.

  I check my phone. My mother calls me twice and sends one text. I am to stop ignoring her. We need to discuss her choices that she makes about her life. Since when am I the only one that can take responsibility for myself? Just so we’re clear, if my grandparents or even my father knew that I had agreed to impregnate that vicious slag ex of mine, they’d all flip over in their graves. If family and honor and all of that mean so much to me, then why am I giving away my sperm?

  I really really need to continue the fight with my mother. I text her back. I’m stuck at the moment. Will call her as soon as I can. This is not over. Not even a little.

  She texts me. No. It is not over. She will be doing the show. My father picked her and made her a countess. I am not going to start pounding her with the same kind of ridiculous elitist bullshit my grandparents hammered her with for years.

  I text her. Her name just so happens to be my name and I am the head of our family. I forbid her from doing something so asinine as participating in reality television.

  She texts me. Grow up you spoiled child. My ability to forbid or deny her anything exists only in my tiny little mind. I’m just like my grandmother. Not a compliment.

  The door bursts open. The Footballer’s wife, the whole anorexic fifty kilos of her, stares at me with those bug eyes of hers. Her breath smells like ketosis and her eyes are watery. She is not pretty up close. She looks like she needs a muffin or a piece of cake. Perhaps a pat of butter would do. It’s clear why the Footballer likes Elizabeth. She’s healthy and buxom. Not a skinny little runt.

  She starts to scream at Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth is defiant. Elizabeth tells her that her breath smells and maybe she should use a mint.

  This is not helping. Neither is standing in the tiny closet.

  I step between the Footballer’s Wife and Elizabeth.

  The Footballer’s Wife actually tries to physically move me. She really thinks she can move me. She just sort of taps hard on my arm. Repeatedly.

  I look at the Footballer. Does he want to do something about his wife?

  There’s a lot of meh wha huh coming out of him, but no real words. The Footballer is ineffectual.

  We’re leaving. I tell both the Footballer’s wife and Elizabeth.

  No we’re not. We’re staying right where we are. She’s going to deal with Elizabeth once and for all. Elizabeth cannot have her husband.

  What is she going to do? Is she going to lock us in the closet until we turn cannibal? What can she possibly do to force us to stay?

  She’s silent.

  Like I said. There is nothing she can do to force us to stay. This is not our fight.

  I take Elizabeth by the hand.

  She turns back before we leave the room.

  Call her about Antigua! Bye!

  I pull her out of the room. I get her into the elevator.

  Antigua?

  She nods as she fixes her lipstick. They’re going to Antigua for a week in July.

  She has no shame.

  What is shame? Did his current wife have any shame when she nabbed him off the previous wife? Nope. Not a bit. Shame is for pussies that don’t want a rich husband. She wants a rich husband. She isn’t going to let a wife stand in her way. Have I seen Hello?

  Unfortunately I have.

  I really do photograph well. My former fiancée is a bit of a cow though.

  She’s actually very nice and very pretty in her own way.

  That’s not what she means. She’s a fucking cow because she is trying to get the Rat Bastard to stop seeing her. No father and daughter should be so close. What did Olga have to say about the pictures?

  I haven’t heard from her yet.

  Interesting. She’s probably plotting my murder.

  My thought exactly.

  Why was I kissing my former fiancée? It makes no sense. Olga is much prettier.

  Force of habit. How are things going with her and the Rat Bastard?

  Her eyes light up. Fantastic! He’s taking her to Barbados. Private jet. Very swanky. I am a star for helping her along. Every time I do something that pisses him off he spends money on her. If she keeps playing him just right, she might just walk into exactly what she’s looking for.

  Which is?

  Marriage darling! What else?! And don’t go pretending we’re any different. Just because I’ve nabbed my own pot of gold doesn’t mean I get to judge her.

  I wouldn’t dream of it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  1:00pm

  Elizabeth and I part ways when I am certain she is in a taxi heading in the opposite direction of the fight between the Footballer and his scary wife.

  I have time enough to deal with my mother. I call her. I get her voice mail. This lunacy needs to end. She needs to promise me she will not go on that show. Call me back.

  Four messages from Renata and a few more voice mails.

  I call Harry.

  Is it possible to get a restraining order against someone?

  Yes. Why and who? Does this have anything to do with Hello? Because he’s already had to deal with Margaret over that picture of me and my former fiancée. That sucker is out there in the world and there is no pulling it back in.

  Renata is a lunatic stalker.

  Do I really think a restraining order is going to stop her? It might just piss her off. Have I considered the obvious?

  Which is perhaps not so obvious?

  Have her committed.

  I think Roland is trying to organize something along those lines. I’m worried about my immediate future and her access to knives.

  Do I think she’s dangerous?

  He’s met Renata. What does he think?

  Leave it with him. He’ll have a think about it and come back to me with a solution.

  My phone rings just as I’m finished with Harry.

  Parvati.

  My blushing bride. What mountain can I climb to please you today?

  Fuck off. Am I getting back together with my ex and cancelling the wedding?

  No. We have a deal my sparking Indian diamond. Man of my word and all that. Anything else?

  That’s right she’s my fucking sparkling Indian diamond.

  Where is she?

  Paris. I bought her the most magnificent engagement ring. I am thoughtful.

  What happened to the ring I gave her?

  She wanted a bigger diamond. She’ll give that one back to me. Do I want anything?

  Surprise me. What is she doing in Paris?

  Honeymoon shopping.

  Has a decision been made?

  India. Tea plantation in the middle of fucking nowhere her father owns. Bring a lot of books. The internet connection can be dodgy. Quiet and we won’t have to make any public appearances. By the time we leave no one will care about us anymore.

  Smart.

  She’s not an idiot. If we do this right, we’re both going to get wha
t we want. If we’re smart about it we might actually get through it without coming to hate each other.

  I couldn’t agree more. Is there anything else she would like to tell me?

  Such as?

  It’s my birthday.

  What? Is she supposed to throw me a fucking party?

  Nope. In fact I’d prefer we never mention my birthday again.

  Whatever.

  The white van pulls up alongside me as I walk down the street.

  I’ll talk to her when she’s back from Paris.

  Do her a favor and try to stay out of the tabloids.

  I will.

  I consider running when I see Booth Buxton’s smiling face, his finger gesturing for me to come hither.

  I get in the back of the van. It’s that or run the risk of ruining another suit when they toss me in the back against my will.

  What can I do for a loathsome troll?

  More like what he can do for me.

  He can do nothing for me other than leave me alone.

  Sure about that? He shows me pictures of me chasing Allison a.k.a. the Saudi Princess through the fountain.

  Right. He knows who she is.

  Name, date of birth, current address. FYI – she is not a Saudi Princess.

  I find it unnerving he has me followed.

  He doesn’t have to have me followed. This is London. There are more cameras than people on the streets.

  What does he want?

  My lifelong friendship.

  Sure. We’re best friends. Name please.

  And for me to deliver a message.

  Would this have anything to do with Boris?

  Could do. I have an appointment with a client this afternoon. A very special client.

  No. I actually don’t. I only have appointments with my usual clients. Although I think they’re special I don’t think he would find any of them particularly interesting.

  Think again.

  I’m stumped. He’s going to have to give me more than vague inferences.

  A woman of my acquaintance. Older. Attractive. Accomplished.

  That describes all of my female clients. Why doesn’t he just tell me? Make things easier. Save us all a lot of time.

  The Matchmaker.

  Her? Okay. Interesting. What message could I possibly give her?