Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Nine

by Livia Ellis

  His minions have captured him and brought him before us for judgment. What punishment fits his many crimes?

  The Baboon writhes and screams.

  Olga flicks a wrist. One hundred lashes with the Featheranator.

  Everyone gasps. Not the Featheranator!

  Yes! The Featheranator!

  I willingly concede Avan is a better Grand Vizier simply because no one can wear that cape and the accompanying loincloth quite like Avan can. He has those sultry Mizrahi eyes and quite honestly abs that make me growl with envy. This is what being a kosher vegan gets you. Perfect abs. It also makes him an impossible pain in the ass to eat with, but still – those perfect abs are almost worth it.

  There is cape swirling and cackling.

  The Baboon falls to his knees. Not the Featheranator! Anything but the Featheranator!

  Bring out the Featheranator!

  The group starts chanting Featheranator, Featheranator, Featheranator.

  Four of the girls in the stringy outfits wearing the giant strap on dildos wheel out a meter wide feather wheel with a crank handle and a bench. It’s really an ingenious piece of pornography.

  The girls put the Baboon onto the paddle bench. They tie him up and gag him.

  One of the girls turns the crank and makes the feather wheel spin. Each feather smacks the Baboon on the bottom. I can’t believe I’m getting paid to sit in my gold jodhpurs and witness this. At least Olga had the presence of mind to sneak her phone in up the dolman sleeve of her gown.

  I look over at what she’s looking at.

  Why is she looking at stripper fairy wedding dresses?

  She shushes me and stashes her phone.

  Just so we are clear, if we ever get married, she is not going to wear a stripper fairy wedding dress.

  She shushes me again.

  I’m serious. No fairy stripper dress. No bustier. No corset. No boob.

  Bad luck to see the dress.

  Worse luck if she shows up wearing a stripper fairy wedding dress if we get married.

  When, not if.

  Not that we are even talking about getting married.

  But aren’t we?

  No.

  Just because she hasn’t ripped my cock off with her clawed hands doesn’t mean I’m off the hook for that Hello bullshit. A new day has dawned. One in which she will get her way because we both know I want to make her happy. Don’t I want to make her happy?

  Yes. But…

  No buts. She smiles at me and touches my cheek. I am just so adorable when I think she won’t get her way.

  Her finger touches my lips before I can respond. She looks to the Baboon being whipped by the Featheranator. The action in the center of the floor is coming to a climax. No pun intended.

  I watch Avan as he circles the Baboon. Something new is happening. Not unusual for the scenario to take on a twist or two. It keeps things fresh.

  Avan moves in close to the Baboon. He starts whipping his dick against the man’s face. One cheek than the other. This is definitely new. Two of the women in the stringy costumes with the giant strap on dildos start poking him.

  The Baboon writhes and screams. Avan and the women become aggressive.

  I’m pretty open minded. I really am. But even I have my limits. I hesitate to judge, but what Avan and the women are doing to the Baboon seems a step too far. That noted, who am I to censure what another person finds pleasurable? But then again, who am I not to believe there are lines that should not be crossed? It’s a slippery slope when we start trying to determine what is appropriate and not appropriate. There are no absolutes. I suppose in the end we all need to reserve the right to determine for ourselves where are thresholds rest.

  I don’t enjoy watching Avan slap the Baboon despite how much the Baboon seems to want him to do it. I can’t imagine being smacked with giant dildos is fun or pleasurable. Maybe I’m a lover and not a fighter. Maybe I just don’t like what I see. Either way, I think I’m done with this. Peeing on the Baboon was one thing. Raising the bar and stretching the boundaries to beatings is something else. I wonder what drives this need of his. Is it just wanting attention? Could it be so simple?

  The Baboon ejaculates onto the tile.

  Everyone applauds.

  The girls in the stringy costumes with the giant dildos untie him. He departs through a side door.

  We are finished.

  I dress and wait in the sitting room. When we are all assembled the Butler passes out our envelopes. Two hours pay for thirty minutes of sitting on my arse and pretty much doing nothing. There are moments when I wonder if people would actually believe this part of my work exists. That a large portion of my paid time does not involve me getting naked seems inconceivable. But yet, here I am with my pay in hand. I’ve made more in thirty minutes than most people make in a month. Nice work if you can get it.

  I check my watch. There is more than an hour before my next appointment. I’m starving. I look at Olga. Lunch? We can talk about the magazine thing.

  No. No lunch. No talk. At least not yet. We’ll talk later like she said. When she’s calmed down a bit.

  The really scary thing is, is that she seems pretty calm to me.

  Yes. I should be very fucking scared. She’s done fucking around. I’m going to give her what she wants and we both know it. She kisses me on the cheek. Be a star and meet her at the hotel for our next appointment. She needs to talk to the Baboon in private.

  About?

  She needs a dress. She kisses me on the cheek. Be a good boy and toddle off.

  I don’t want to be a good boy that toddles off. I want to know what she’s up to.

  Why am I so suspicious? She needs a dress. Trust is a two way street. Since when do I care about her wardrobe?

  I don’t care about her wardrobe. I care that she thinks she’s going to do something to disrupt plans which are already in motion and will not be stopped.

  She’ll meet me at the hotel.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  5:00pm

  Not eating with Olga means I can eat what I want. I’ve become obsessed with this Singapore noodle stand that sits at practically the epicenter of my work places. They make this chicken that spiced with curry, coconut, chili, and finished with cashews that I can’t get enough of. I am a creature of habit. Much to my detriment. It makes me easy to track down.

  A car pulls alongside me as I walk with my carton of Singapore chicken over jasmine rice. Not just any car. A long black limousine that takes up half a block and requires the driver to have a special permit to operate stops.

  Only by writing the words This Obnoxious Limousine Contains a Russian Gangster on the side of the car would make it more obvious who was looking for me.

  I get in the back without waiting for an invitation or to be tossed inside by a goon.

  Boris.

  Oliver.

  Harold hands me pictures. Harold is different. He’s not so pretty anymore. There’s an edge to him that works. I hand him my container of Singapore chicken. Do not eat that.

  I look at the pictures. Me getting into the back of the white government van. I study the picture for a moment. Something is bothering me. I hand Boris the picture. I take my chicken back from Harold.

  Did he like my hair better when it was slightly shorter? I might go back to that. At first I thought it was just a bit too boy band, but now I think it makes me look indefinable.

  Boris looks at the picture then nods. He liked it better short. What did they want from me?

  They wanted me to deliver a message.

  To whom?

  The Matchmaker.

  What was the message?

  Yes.

  That’s it?

  Yes. Just yes. A whole bucket of yes.

  Do they know we talk?

  I would assume that would be another yes. They know everything about me. I think the safest thing to assume is that I’m some sort of patsy that is being used to play two ends against one very clever middle. If I were
him I would not fuck with that middle. That middle has long arms and a longer memory that hasn’t forgotten the Cold War. Either that or they’re a bunch of morons. Another very credible possibility.

  Are they blackmailing me?

  No. I’m beyond blackmail. I have no skeletons left in my closet. I have no shame left to lose. I have no one that I can hurt more than I’ve already hurt.

  Must be liberating.

  It is. I’ve become the woman that leaves her home in her bathrobe to go to the corner market to buy bread at eleven in the morning. I don’t give a rat’s ass what anyone thinks about me in my bathrobe. Everyone has seen me in my bathrobe. They’ve all had a good stare. The world has continued turning and I get to buy bread in my bathrobe.

  He thinks I’m lying. What about Olga? What about my mother?

  What about them?

  Wouldn’t it break my mother’s heart to know I’m not really in public relations or whatever lie it is I told her?

  She knows the truth.

  I told my mother how I make my money?

  Yes. I told her. He is making a grave miscalculation if he thinks I’m above hurting my mother for sport. We don’t have the best relationship. Things are going okay at the moment, but we’re fighting against a twenty-eight year tide of near constant disappointment on her part. Sticking it to her on occasion just feels like a victory.

  Snakes make better sons.

  That’s just being mean. Getting to the point, I’m not playing this game anymore. I have nothing to gain and a lot to lose. I’m not going to end up with a bullet in my head because someone thinks I can be trusted. I can’t be trusted. I’ll tell anyone anything they want to know as long as I think it’ll save my own skin. I have no loyalty to anyone but myself. There is no one I won’t betray for my own security. Are he and anyone else that might be listening understanding me without any question? I, Oliver Adair, am not to be trusted. I’m a self-serving stooge that is only loyal to myself. Clear?

  My skills are wasted working on my back.

  I agree with him. If I’ve learned nothing else from my time working on my back, as he so eloquently put it, it is that I am better than I knew I was. I am capable. A lesson that can never be learned too late. All of my life I was told I needed someone else to make decisions for me because I couldn’t manage on my own. Not only can I make decisions, I can make the hard ones without a whole lot of dithering. Is he interested in my most recent decision?

  Sure.

  I’m done. I’m out. I’m finished with him and his sister and the whole dark underworld of Russian organized crime.

  He laughs at me then laughs some more.

  Care to share?

  I’m done with shit if I’m not done with Olga. Do I want to know something that he would never tell anyone else? Just between us. Man to man.

  Sure.

  Vladimir makes him look like a putz. Like a petty enforcer. He might control London, but Vladimir controls Russia. Vladimir is not going to let me treat his daughter like a second helping. Olga’s made her point. She’s made her father look a fool and he’s paid the price. Too many people laugh at him to his face. Vladimir is not going to let her be second to some other woman.

  Olga is a big girl. She makes her own choices.

  Yes. She does. She’s also Vladimir’s daughter. Don’t forget that.

  I won’t.

  Who is taking over for me when I get married to that Indian girl?

  I don’t know. Hopefully Avan. Most of my clients know Avan. They all trust Avan. They like him. He’s the logical choice.

  He’s not going to turn all of my clients over to Avan. That would cut too much into his bottom line.

  Ah yes – because Avan doesn’t have to pay for his pimp service since he’s independent.

  Exactly. He’s been trying to get Avan to work exclusively for him for years. Avan only works for himself.

  Make him an offer he can’t refuse. Offer him a bigger piece of the action and he might be willing to reconsider. I solved his mystery for him, by the way.

  Which mystery.

  The Avan mystery. He’s a writer.

  Avan is a writer?

  Yes. He’s a writer. That’s why the job suits him.

  What kind of writer is he?

  No idea. Fiction I think based on recently acquired information. I could probably ask him, but that would mean I might get suckered into having to read one of his manuscripts. It would be just my luck Avan writes some kind of stream of consciousness lyrical bullshit that’s harder to wade through than a snake infested swamp.

  Avan’s a writer. That does make sense. How did I find out?

  He told me. Amazing what one can find out when one asks the right question.

  Talk to Avan. Approach him. See if a deal can be brokered.

  What do I get for this?

  Twenty large.

  I was actually joking. I thought we were doing the whole gangster talk thing.

  Do I not want the twenty large?

  I’ll take it. I’ll talk to Avan.

  No deal. No money.

  I really wish there was part of me that wanted to be an underworld gangster just for the lingo alone.

  If I change my mind, I know where to find him.

  I’m going to pass, but I do appreciate the offer. Any chance he can drop me closer to where I need to be instead of driving me farther and farther away from my original destination?

  No.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  6:00pm

  Why do I bother to plan anything? Why? I need my day to rally and I need it to happen immediately. Boris drops me miles from where I need to be and it takes nothing short of a miracle to get me back on track. I have one client left before I meet with my Former Fiancée and can officially call quitting time. One more chance to get my day right before I end it.

  My last client of the day is my first. I’ve been booked for forty-eight hours. The Latin Pop Star is in London for the premier of a movie in which he has slightly better than a supporting role.

  For the second time in the day I work with Olga.

  I remember her detached professionalism during that first job.

  What happened to that Olga?

  She’s still there. I see that coolly masked and controlled person as we walk together.

  Is she burned out?

  What?

  Is she burned out? If it weren’t for me would she be getting out of the job anyway?

  Yes. She’s had enough. I didn’t know this?

  I suppose I did.

  It’s time for her to move on and into her new life with me. She’s done with the bullshit.

  It’s still going to be a while before we get married.

  No. That’s part of the bullshit she’s done with. That picture of me with my former fiancée was an epiphany. We’re getting married. She’s done listening to my bullshit. If I don’t want to work for her father I don’t have to work for her father. He will just give us money to live on.

  No.

  She’s not listening to it. If I don’t like it then too damn bad. That picture hurt her. She’s done playing along waiting for me to come to the right conclusion.

  Security stops us. They know us now. We’re given a quick pass.

  Olga hasn’t changed. Not a bit. She’s still as cold and professional as she’s always been. She’s just let me see beyond the exterior and into her world.

  We’re allowed into the suite of rooms.

  There he is. The Latin Pop Star.

  I am so pleased to see him. So very pleased to see him. It’s comforting to be around him. He’s petulant and capricious at times, but he’s kind, generous, and loving in equal measure.

  But to get to him, I have to see the Manager.

  The Manager has not changed. He’s still short. He still adores Olga.

  They leave together.

  I find my way into the bedroom. Makeup and Wardrobe are there with him. He’s naked except for a towel.

  Ev
eryone is delighted to see me. I haven’t seen him in weeks. Practically a month. I’ve missed him.

  Makeup and Wardrobe disappear. I lock the door behind them.

  I look better. Not as damaged. The bruises were sexy. But me looking healthy and fit is sexier.

  I feel better. I plan on living my life in such a way as to never invite another trouncing.

  Will I spend the night with him?

  I will. I have to leave for a couple of hours, but I can be back by ten.

  He won’t be back before midnight. Maybe even later.

  I’ll wait up for him.

  Good.

  He kisses me. Rough. Deep. Tongue, teeth, and lips work against me. He’s not the same man I met just a few months back. He takes the lead and doesn’t wait for me to guide him.

  I pull the towel off of him with a snap.

  I step back for a good look as I strip with professional efficiency.

  He gives me a turn. He’s definitely not the same man. But then again, neither am I.

  We fall on the bed.

  He’s rough as he pushes me on to my back. My stomach flutters with anticipation. It’s been too long since I’ve been on the receiving end of a bit of rough. This feeling running through me as his hands squeeze and pummel me makes me wonder if I’ll ever be able to be monogamous. I don’t know if I can give this up to be with just one woman.

  Here is the truth, plain and simple. No woman has the capacity to do to me what the Latin Pop Star is doing with his hands to my cock. No woman has hands that large or that strong. If a woman does have hands that large or that strong, then I’m not certain I’d be particularly attracted to her. Again, no judgment, but going on my historical preferences, only a man could squeeze, rattle, and shake my dick quite the way the Latin Pop Star is doing it.

  A thought occurs to me as I lay back against the nest of pillows, my cock in the hot wet mouth of one of the world’s most desirable men. I don’t want to give this up. I never did. I didn’t want to marry my former fiancée. If I had wanted to marry her, I would have made it happen. In my heart of hearts I knew I’d be giving up the freedom to have my cock serviced by a beautiful man if I married her. It would still happen, but there would be a nudge of accompanying guilt along with the action.