Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Seven

by Livia Ellis

  We meander through the groups of men snorting and grunting like packs of wild beasts as they look but do not touch women they could never get were it not for the money they hand over.

  I know these girls. They aim higher, much higher, then the men that land in the Platinum Palace.

  These men are being sold an illusion.

  It is in the morning when the light of day wakes them from the stupor that they realize what pigs they were.

  It is then when they go to cash machines looking to replenish their wallets that they know what a night at the Platinum Palace has cost.

  We reach Elizabeth’s VIP room.

  A silent peaceful clearing in this forest filled with beasts.

  She flips over the sign.

  Occupied.

  The door closes. There are no locks.

  Somewhere on her person is fifty pounds. If I want it, I have to find it.

  Considering she’s wearing a skimpy strappy little thing that barely covers her tits and vagina this ought not to be too hard.

  But – I can’t use my hands.

  This is what I love about Elizabeth. She’s so slutty dirty naughty behind closed doors and yet so prim and delightful in public. Perhaps a bit princessy and a touch precious, but these are not necessarily negatives in my accounting. I have a history with girls that sniff at their food and pout until their demands are met.

  If only she had money I’d marry her in a second. She’d make the perfect countess. I could envision myself considering monogamy if I had a wife like Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth comes up to me after starting the music.

  Before my foray into the flip-side, lap dances weren’t really my thing. Strip clubs weren’t my thing. They just seemed so skeevy and dirty.

  Times are a changing! I like to think of all of this as character building.

  If nothing else my journey to the dark side has been character building in the extreme. In fact, I have so much character I could star in my own West End show. Elizabeth shaking and shimmying her arse in my face as I use my teeth to remove her already scandalously skimpy garment could be its own show stopping number.

  Her body brushes and slithers against mine.

  She’s extraordinarily nimble.

  And an excellent dancer.

  I’ve spent hours at the Platinum Palace. In know the difference between a good dancer and a great dancer.

  Elizabeth is one of the best.

  I can only imagine the amount of money her parents spent on ballet lessons.

  What she’s doing, grinding in all the right places, works.

  When I reach with my hands she makes me sit on them.

  She snogs my neck as her breasts exert just the right amount of pressure on my shirt.

  Her knee hits the money spot.

  Her tongue explores the gin lined cavern of my mouth.

  Even her hands pressing on my shoulders is somehow erotic.

  I would probably ejaculate in my trousers if she continued, but she pulls back.

  She leans back just enough so I can get a good look at her.

  Do I want the money, or not?

  Yes. Please. If that means I can get her out of that red sparkly strappy thing.

  No hands.

  With my teeth, tongue, nose and a large amount of determination, I get her out of that thing.

  Her body is as smooth and unblemished as a dolls. And just as hairless.

  There is a shimmer on her skin that I know comes from one of the lotions all of the girls use.

  But somehow in that room under that lighting which reason tells me is tailored to be as flattering as it could possibly be she still looks like an otherworldly being. A nymphe or even a goddess.

  My quest for the fifty pound note has brought me up short.

  There is only one other place I can go potholing.

  In my head the voice of Timothy Dalton quietly questions the respectability of a woman that puts a fifty pound note up her vagina (could be KGB) and then there’s another voice in my head that is louder and sounds curiously like Vinnie Jones tells me to oi matey go on or something along those lines.

  There is something narcotic about Elizabeth that turns me into the sort of swine I used to look down upon. She is thoroughly distracting. I fear she could unman me if she ever got it into her head to hold on and never let me go.

  I dive in.

  No hands. Mustn’t forget – no hands.

  I have more than five o’clock shadow so it’s this combination of the rough and the smooth that is so very mutually stimulating.

  Whether I am the only man in the world or not doesn’t matter. Elizabeth makes me feel as if I am.

  My tongue alone is everything that she has ever needed, wanted, or desired. I get why men would pay for this.

  I’m not saying that Olga doesn’t make a man feel like a star, but there is a vulnerability to Elizabeth that is intoxicating. She makes you believe that she’s been waiting for you and you alone to come and join her in this sanctuary surrounded by beasts and wolves. You and you alone are the only one that isn’t a pig.

  I forget the no hands rule when it becomes boorish.

  I grab two handfuls of that beautiful bottom of her and pull her sex to my mouth.

  That nimble flexibility of hers works to both our advantage.

  She presses her pubic bone forward, tilting just so.

  I use my tongue like a quickly swiping brush across her clit.

  I probe deeper.

  My tongue touches paper.

  I’ve found what I was looking for.

  I use my fingers to pull it out.

  Fifty pounds. I gingerly set it to the side. I’ll be certain to rinse it off before I pay for the taxi home.

  I keep using my fingers until she tells me to stop.

  She wants more than my fingers.

  I know where she keeps the condoms hidden in her VIP room and I grab for one.

  She gets my trousers opened and my cock out.

  I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the cushion of the couch.

  She sits on me, sliding down over my cock.

  My hands rest on her hips as she moves.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket.

  Elizabeth either doesn’t notice or has the professional courtesy to ignore it. She’s also working herself up to an orgasm so she probably doesn’t care.

  I maneuver my phone out of my pocket.

  Olga.

  I toss the phone to the side. She has this thing about sending me a text when she gets home to let me know she’s home. She knows I have a client. She won’t expect me to answer. She doesn’t know that Elon has cock blocked me and taken my client and that I’m at the club.

  Elizabeth comes with a rattle a shake and a lot pornographic moaning.

  My turn. I need this more than I realized. It’s been a long day and a hard one at that. If all had gone as planned at this moment I would be sound asleep in Roland’s Islington Georgian home in his large feather bed and down comforter covered bed. In the morning there would be waffles.

  But no. Here I am. In a VIP room in the Platinum Palace shuddering and groaning my way to a thoroughly satisfying orgasm.

  Elizabeth slips off of me.

  I wonder if I have the strength left in me to get up from the couch, through the club, and into a taxi.

  I’m crashing fast and I can feel it.

  Will she take me home?

  She’ll take me home. All of the big money clients are gone. She’s had a good night. Give her twenty minutes.

  Can I wait in the VIP room?

  Sure.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Four o’clock in the Morning

  The door opens.

  I’m instantly annoyed.

  One of Boris’ men tells Elizabeth to take a hike.

  The Boss wants to talk to me.

  Boris is here? (I don’t bother to tuck in my shirt. He’s lucky I zip my trousers for him.)

  Yes.

&
nbsp; So much for going home.

  Elizabeth skedaddles. I’m not a paying client after all. In fact she’s the one that gave me money. Not that I didn’t enjoy the process of discovering where it was hidden.

  I follow the man deeper and deeper into the heart of the club.

  For some reason I check my watch. As if time matters in this place.

  It’s four o’clock in the morning.

  There is something mythical about this time.

  It is not midnight that is the deepest and darkest hour of the night.

  It’s four o’clock in the morning.

  It is wet to dry, light to dark, good to bad.

  It is the antithesis to day.

  Four o’clock in the morning is when crimes are planned and a ringing phone can only be a harbinger of bad news.

  It is now of all times that I am brought before Boris.

  We pass through doors that require key card swipes to enter.

  We stop at another door guarded by more thugs.

  I’m thoroughly padded down. My phone is taken from me.

  Finally I am allowed to enter Boris’ office.

  The lighting is subdued, the furniture is black leather, and there is a fish tank along one wall. In the corner is a platform with a pole stuck through the center.

  A woman is dancing.

  Boris is watching.

  He glances at me then gestures to one of the chairs.

  We watch the woman together.

  Nice hair.

  Makeup okay.

  Her legs are short when compared to the length of her torso.

  She has stubble rash on her bikini line.

  She finishes with a swing.

  She steps down from the platform. Boris tells her to wait where she is.

  Boris turns away from her and to a file on his desk.

  What do I think?

  Her legs are too short and she’s not properly groomed. I don’t like that I can see her weave. She’s a decent dancer. Not the best I’ve seen. Certainly not the worst. (No – I don’t care that she can hear me)

  Boris nods as he reads her CV.

  Can she suck dick?

  The dancer is slightly taken aback.

  Can she suck dick?

  She just thought the job was dancing.

  Boris closes the folder with her CV and offers it to her.

  She can suck dick.

  He places the file back on his desk.

  He flicks a finger and points to the thug at the door.

  Him.

  Him?

  Him.

  Okay. Uh…. Where are they supposed to go?

  This is a job interview. Not a date.

  She doesn’t bolt. I’ll give her that.

  The dancer and the thug move to a chair next to the platform.

  Boris interrupts before she gets to work.

  Dance for him.

  Boris turns to me.

  What the fuck happened to me?

  I got into a fight.

  With a john? Don’t get into fights with the tricks. Call him if there’s a problem. He’ll have one of the boys deal with it if needs be.

  Not like that. I was defending a woman’s honor. I got a black eye and a dislocated finger for my trouble.

  Defending a woman’s honor is a gentlemanly thing to do. Did I get my reward?

  Yes. Her eternal friendship.

  Friendship, true friendship, is a gift. Never forget that.

  I won’t.

  What do I think of Avan?

  I like him. We’re as close to friends as is possible, given what we do.

  For a Jew he seems okay.

  Blatant anti-Semitism aside, yes, Avan is okay.

  He doesn’t like Jews.

  I have no interest in plunging into those vile depths with him.

  Do I know Judd Hirsch?

  Not personally, no.

  Did I ever see the show Taxi?

  I can’t say that I have.

  It was about all of these taxi drivers in New York. They would sit around and play cards or bullshit. There was this funny little horrible man. Reminds him of his sister’s husband. Very funny. Like a little gorilla. So one episode Judd Hirsch who plays a Jew taxi driver tells somebody that he’s the only taxi driver in the place. But this is why it’s funny. Because they’re all taxi drivers. This is how they make their money. But Judd Hirsch says he’s the only one that’s really a taxi driver because everyone else is something else. Something other than a taxi driver. Do I understand?

  I think so.

  Avan is the only one of us that fucks for a living. The rest of us are something else. He’s the only taxi driver at the table of taxi drivers. Do I understand?

  Yes.

  He turns the monitor on his desk to me. I am shown a real-time image of my fellow gigolos sitting at the table drinking and talking.

  Avan is a prostitute.

  Sasha is an actor.

  Gregory is a student.

  David is a model.

  Brian is dancer.

  I am a dilettante.

  Thanks.

  How else would I describe myself?

  Dilettante works. What about Harold?

  Harold is a bottom feeder. He likes Harold. He needs more Harold’s. Harold isn’t afraid to get dirty. Tell Harold to go and dig a hole for a body and he only asks how deep. This is the sort of loyalty that he likes. Harold will make himself useful long after he can’t fuck for money.

  Does he know I have a lot of the shit that Harold left behind?

  Yes. It doesn’t matter. Harold works for him now. Why won’t Avan work for him?

  I would guess because he doesn’t need to. Why work for a pimp when you don’t need to? Avan has more clients than he can service in London alone. The fact that he travels a circuit to get to them all speaks volumes. Avan is at the top of the game. Why take on a partner if he needn’t?

  Point made. He would very much like Avan to come work for him.

  Again – why would Avan do this? He can’t fuck more than he does.

  He can do other things.

  Such as?

  Never mind. Who is Booth Buxton?

  Ah – that. I was wondering when that was going to come full circle.

  Who is he?

  He’s an MI5 agent that’s trying to get me to turn informant.

  Good. I don’t lie to him.

  No. I don’t lie to him. I like being alive too much.

  What have I said to this Booth Buxton?

  I’ve told him no. I won’t do it. This is the reason I’ve finally reached an accord with the Singh family. I figure if I get the hell out of town for a couple of years I won’t be of any use to Booth Buxton.

  Smart. In line with what he was thinking. He would probably do the same if he were me.

  I’m so very pleased we are on the same page.

  The next time Booth Buxton approaches me, which he will, I am to tell him yes.

  No.

  Yes. I am to tell him yes.

  I don’t want to be rude. But I also don’t want to be dead. Or incarcerated.

  I won’t be. The worst that will happen to me is that I’ll look like an idiot. Or useless. Or even better a useless idiot. I should like this. I’ve been trying to convince people that I’m a useless idiot for years.

  What lofty heights I aspire to.

  Don’t go to Buxton. Wait for him to come to me. When he does come to me, resist.

  Oh I will!

  Resist and then make some fairly unreasonable demands.

  I can be truly unreasonable when I set my cap to it.

  Buxton will make me an offer I can’t refuse.

  Are we using gangster lingo? Because if we are I’m in. Perhaps I can offer to play him a tune on my violin?

  Boris just stares at me. This silence between the two of us creates an uncomfortable moment when I’m reminded of the dancer blowing the thug over to the side.

  I turn slightly to observe.

  Sh
e seems to be doing an admirable job.

  I turn back to Boris.

  Anyhow… Unreasonable demands, offer I can’t refuse.

  Yes.

  Okay. In exchange for doing this, I want a shitload of money. By a shitload I mean minimum a million pounds in small unmarked bills wrapped in pink ribbon in a Louis Vuitton shoe case. I also want him to send someone to fuck up my former fiancé’s father. Maybe make him eat some of that food he serves in his fast food restaurants. Then I would like the Baron to be utterly humiliated in public.

  Anything else?

  Yeah – I need a vacation. Something private and vulgarly expensive. I’m thinking yacht.

  When he meets my unreasonable demands, I’m in.

  Okay.

  What okay?

  Okay. It’s worth it to him to meet my demands. When Booth Buxton contacts me, give the man what he wants.

  Fine. What am I supposed to do?

  Do what he wants. Answer his questions to the best of my ability. Don’t hold anything back. In fact, feel free to speculate as much as I like.

  This is really unbelievable. Do I need to pass messages to him or something?

  No. He’s always watching. His yacht is currently in the Mediterranean. It’s at my disposal for two weeks. Anything else?

  Can I have a copy of Elizabeth and me fucking? I have no doubt that was caught on camera.

  It was. Any particular reason why? Or do I just like to watch myself fucking?

  Does he know how athletes like to watch footage of their games to see how they can improve their performance?

  Yes.

  Same. One more thing.

  What?

  Give the dancer a job. Not as a dancer. She’s not good enough. But she could serve drinks.

  He had the same thought. I can go.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Morning After

  I wake slightly disoriented. Not unusual. I’m often unsure of where I am when I wake. It takes less than a moment to realize I’m sleeping in my bedroom. Olga is curled next to me. My finger is hurting like a mother fucker. The previous night comes back to me.

  Roland.

  The Esthetician.

  That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin.

  Boris.

  Fuck.

  I left Roland at the mercy of Elon. Not any Elon. A drunken Elon.

  I left the Esthetician at the hotel.

  It is probably very likely That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin is looking for me with an eye on settling the score.