Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Six

by Livia Ellis

  Not there.

  Because I’m too good to have lunch with a homeless beggar?

  Because I don’t eat vegan.

  We go to a pub a few doors down. We find fireside seats. I shed my coat, scarf, and hat with a shrug. I could probably sit for hours with a book right where I am.

  After the coat and the Doctor Who scarf are removed I get a good look at Renata. She looks good. I’ll give her that. Pregnancy has put a few pounds on her. She doesn’t look as emaciated and sickly as she has in recent years. I wonder if the ratty t-shirt and peasant skirt are part of a look.

  I go to the bar and get myself a pint of Guinness and juice for Renata.

  What the fuck is this?

  Juice.

  She wanted cider. She told me cider.

  Then she can go to the bar and order it herself. I’m not going to bring a pregnant woman alcohol. In fact I sincerely hope she hasn’t been drinking. Has she been drinking?

  She has no money for booze.

  Small blessings.

  We are silent as we scan menus. I have no idea what I’m supposed to say to her. I really don’t. I’ve culled her out of my psyche. Maybe a few years too late, but at last it’s done. This is what I learn as I choose chicken pie.

  The woman with a baby at a table near ours is pleasant. When is our baby due?

  Renata smiles. April.

  Not our baby. I let the woman with a baby of her own know this. I will not let Renata draw me in even by omission.

  The woman is still pleasant. Her little baby is adorable. Here’s the truth. She’s white and that baby is Asian.

  A man joins her. He’s as white as she is. He takes the baby. That’s a family.

  I point this out to Renata. That’s a family. Doesn’t she want a family for her baby?

  She’s not giving her baby to strangers.

  I discretely nod to the family. That is a happy family. That baby is theirs even though they clearly didn’t make that baby. She could give that to her baby.

  She’s not giving her baby to strangers.

  What is her plan?

  She’s going to raise her baby.

  Fine. I’m not getting dragged in to this. What does she want from me?

  She’s lonely. She’s realized that Elon and I are her only friends.

  After that shit she pulled with Olga at Wold Hall we are no longer friends.

  Why can’t anyone take a little teasing anymore? She was just teasing.

  That saddest thing is I truly believe she thinks she was teasing.

  She was teasing.

  I know. Which is why I’m done. I’m going to order. Does she want anything or is she refusing to eat?

  With a sigh and some grumbling about meat equaling death, she requests lamb shanks.

  Topics covered during lunch:

  My career as a prostitute.

  The pictures of me and Olga frolicking in Brazil in the trashier tabloids.

  More on my career as a prostitute.

  Her baby.

  My clients.

  What she’s going to name the baby.

  Why kind of clients do I have?

  The flat Elon purchased which she lives in rent free.

  How I get my clients.

  What she is planning on doing once the baby comes.

  Where do I meet my clients? How much do they pay me? Do they ask me to do anything weird? How are they screened…?

  Stop. Why is she so curious about all of this?

  She’s curious. Curiosity is normal. Why won’t I just answer some of her questions? If I answered some of her questions she might not be so curious. I’m making it all seem like some dirty secret. She respects what I’m doing. She just wants to make some conversation. Talk about me for once rather than her. Isn’t this one of the things I always complained about?

  I’m done with the job. (this is a lie of course but her questions make me uncomfortable – they are too probing – they seem to prepared – I’m suspicious of her now in a way I have never been before – this woman sitting across from me is not my friend – I’m not certain she ever really was a friend – I don’t know if she’s capable of friendship)

  No I’m not.

  Yes I am. I’m done. I don’t do that anymore.

  But…

  I’m done with it. I work for the Matchmaker interviewing clients for her matchmaking business. That’s it. I organize mixers.

  Like speed dating?

  Sure. Like speed dating. But not really. Classier.

  She doesn’t believe me. She thinks I just don’t want her to know that I’m still getting paid to be a ‘ho.

  Sorry to disappoint her.

  Am I sure I’m not being paid to be a ‘ho?

  I think I’d know if I were. We have actually never gotten to the point. Why did she want to see me so desperately that she would stoop so low to call my mother?

  Like she said, she’s lonely.

  Okay. I’ll believe that. (I don’t, but I figure what the hell – I’m nearly done with her so I can pretend to believe her lies one last time)

  Can we have lunch more often?

  No. We’re never going to see each other again. I’m done with her. I mean that. She’s to leave my mother alone. My mother is sick. Dying. I won’t have it.

  Fine. Whatever. She’s sure I’ll change my mind.

  Probably not.

  I excuse myself and go to the men’s room. I need to get going. I’ve lingered longer than I should have. I’ve done my time.

  When I return she’s talking with the woman with the baby. They’re discussing smartphones.

  For a brief moment I feel hopeful. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the girl growing in her belly has changed Renata.

  The woman passes her phone over to Renata.

  Renata instructs the woman who is as baffled by technology as I was when Olga bought me my first smartphone. Now I wonder how I ever lived without it.

  Renata holds out the phone to the woman who punches in her security code.

  The two continue to chat about babies and where to buy furniture as Renata taps at the phone.

  I’m ready to go as Renata hands back the phone. She quickly slips into her coat and gives me a nudge.

  The woman stops us with a polite yet somewhat confused excuse me please.

  What did Renata do to her phone? She can’t seem to unlock it.

  Oh. This is the problem with people. They’re far too trusting. She should never hand her phone over to a stranger.

  What? (this is both me and the woman)

  Handing her phone over to a stranger was just dumb. Consider this a good lesson learned.

  Huh? (this is again both me and the woman)

  She reset the phone, erased the contents, and reset the password.

  The woman and I are both silent.

  She may not thank her at that moment, but someday she’ll appreciate the lesson learned. Don’t trust anyone. What if she’d handed over her baby to her and she’d just walked off with her baby? Really dumb. Really really dumb.

  I can’t witness this. I’ve been this woman more than once. I’ve been the subject of one of Renata’s lessons. I walk to the door and don’t look back. I have no idea what happens to Renata. I just keep walking and put as much distance between us as I can. I’m building boundaries.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Tea with Dr. Gita Premji

  Not even Renata could ruin my day. I shake off the negative energy and move on. I don’t have to carry my troubles with me wherever I go. I am serene after my session with Mistress Jennifer and the feeling persists. I don’t know if I’ve ever handed control of my person over to another before in my life. Even so, I know I didn’t give myself the gift of fully turning over control to her. But in time I hope that will come. For certain if an hour with Mistress Jennifer gives me the power to dismiss Renata so readily, I will keep returning to her.

  It is with this feeling of pure wellbeing that I sit and wait in a coffee shop near th
e hospital where Dr. Gita Premji has her offices. She walks in wearing a rather boring black parka over her lab coat and scrubs. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail. Small strands of hair bust out in wily defiance. She’s short. Maybe she comes to my shoulder, but I doubt it. The smear of lipstick across her mouth looks like an afterthought. This is not a woman that spent hours making herself desirable. I like her instantly.

  She gets tea.

  We talk.

  One perfect hour of conversation.

  She is intelligent, witty, and charming without trying.

  In fact she’s not trying. This is probably why it is all so easy.

  I know when my hour is up, that I will probably never see her again.

  I’m not her type.

  I’m feckless.

  I’m irresponsible.

  I’m in the tabloids frolicking on Brazilian beaches with Russian beauties.

  I’m not the man for her.

  Not that she tells me this. She is far too polite to ever be so rude.

  When my time is up, she takes my hand and wishes me well.

  Then she’s gone.

  Neither of us offers a second date.

  Neither of us wants to put her into the position of having to reject me.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Israel Rubin

  I spend more of my day going from appointment to appointment than actually in the appointments. The upside of this is that I have a great deal of time to catch up on my reading and take care of the sort of minutia that rules every person without a personal secretary’s life. I haven an email from someone named Israel Rubin. He wants to arrange to rent Wold Hall. I have no idea about any of this. This is why granddad had Gresham. Gresham dealt with this sort of bullshit for Granddad. I send him a text.

  Does he know who Israel Ruben is? He’s emailing me about renting Wold Hall.

  He’s the assistant for one of the directors that use Wold Hall as a location. Why?

  He called me. Actually he keeps on calling me. Repeatedly. I have an email from him.

  Call him back. Could mean enough money to get the plumbing fixed.

  How much did Granddad usually ask for from these people?

  He’d have to check. It usually depended on how long they needed the place for, whether or not it was interior, exterior, or both… Can I give him ten minutes?

  Sure. I won’t contact Israel Rubin until I’ve heard from him. I’m traveling. If he doesn’t get me I’m out of range.

  Look for a text.

  Thanks.

  I walk into the Piccadilly Circus tube station a few minutes later and my phone rings.

  Israel Ruben.

  I take the call.

  He’s slightly surprised that he actually has me although he doesn’t say this.

  What can I do for him?

  He would like to rent out Wold Hall. Interior, exterior, the grounds.

  That shouldn’t be a problem. When?

  That’s the issue we need to talk about. It’s for two projects. Both television. One is a sure thing. The other is a pilot. If they pick it up then it could be long term. If they don’t then it’s a one off thing.

  (television – my heart soars – I receive a text from Gresham as I’m ready to start skipping around – when I read the numbers I could fly)

  Neither should be a problem. I know he used to deal with my grandfather regarding the financial details. Should I just assume that the daily rate will be what it was the last time the property was rented out?

  Yes.

  Excellent.

  Can we meet out at Wold Hall sometime soon? We need to talk about the house itself. He needs to know about the history. Get some interior pictures. Introduce me to the producers.

  Sure. What kind of television is this?

  Unscripted.

  What is that?

  Well… reality TV.

  Really? I laugh loudly. Okay. Sure. Why not? What kind of reality TV?

  Here’s the concept. They’re going to take fifty people and make them work as servants in a country manor house.

  Okay – interesting – why would people want to watch this? Is he going to make them do shots off of each others asses and then have night vision cameras watch them screw?

  Clearly I am an aficionado of the genre.

  Only when there is a gun to my head. My girlfriend makes me watch reality TV.

  Here is the concept. What it was like to be living as a servant in a great manor house before WWI.

  Hell. It was hell. I love my home – don’t get me wrong – but castles are not the most hospitable places now in the twenty-first century – a hundred years ago it had to be pure misery to be staff. He needs to talk to Gresham.

  The butler?

  Yes. His family has worked for the Adair’s for over two-hundred years. He can tell him anything he wants to know.

  Can he talk to Gresham?

  Yes. Within reason. I’ll call Gresham. There will have to be boundaries. (boundaries – I’m getting good at boundaries)

  Of course.

  Just out of curiosity who would willingly subject themselves to this sort of torture for… how many days?

  Twelve weeks.

  Insanity. Pure insanity. Who would agree to this?

  He has over ten-thousand applicants.

  Unbelievable. If he does this right, they will be in hell.

  He’s counting on it.

  What is the other project?

  Period drama. Could be big. Maybe. This is his project. He has a lot of hope for it.

  So do I.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Psychiatrist

  The Psychiatrist have taken to meeting at her home more often than not. I prefer this. Going to her office in the hospital always feels so conspicuous. Besides – she has this curved chaise in her bedroom that makes for the most phenomenal fucking imaginable. She calls it a yoga chair. Bullshit – that thing is designed for fucking.

  She lets me in and pays me so quickly that it’s almost as if it hasn’t happened. We venture into the apartment chatting on the way to the bedroom.

  She appreciates my coming to her home. She’s being stalked and can’t go in to work until the police catch up with the guy.

  Stalked?

  Yes. Nightmare.

  Does this happen a lot?

  Often enough. The police are on it. This is the downside of dealing with psychotic patients.

  Do they know where she lives?

  No. Not at all. She’s very safe at home. There’s a reason she pays for an apartment with a doorman on duty round the clock.

  Good. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.

  That’s sweet. She actually does believe I care.

  I do care.

  I shouldn’t care. We’ve discussed this.

  We have.

  Have I started to see a therapist?

  Yes. Just that morning. Boundaries. Letting go of my need to control.

  Excellent!!! This is very good. She’s very pleased to hear that I’m seeing someone. How is everything going? Did I do what she suggested and start keeping a dream journal?

  I did. I also did something she advised me not to do.

  What?

  I had lunch with Renata. I should have listened to her.

  God – how did that go?

  I tell her about the woman with the smartphone.

  That’s evil. She knows evil anti-social behavior and that’s evil anti-social behavior. I really need to try to convince Elon to take the child. He may not be an ideal parent, but Renata is clearly someone that is soulless. No person could survive in that sort of toxic environment.

  Maybe she needs therapy.

  Again, we’ve discussed this. Some people cannot be fixed. Coming to the realization that Renata cannot be fixed is part of my own process of being free of her.

  She walks first into her bedroom. The curtains are already drawn. The only light comes through the fabric. We don’t use the bed except
for that one time I spent the night. Her bed is probably what Mistress Jennifer would call sacred space. Fair enough. I can respect that. Besides she has the yoga chair. I love that thing. I may just have to get one.

  Have I had any other clients since that morning? (she wants to know if I’m covered in dried sex sweat)

  No – she’s my first. (I’m not instructed to shower – we have established that I am acceptably hygienic)

  She slips into the bathroom.

  I have not forgotten my first instruction from the Psychiatrist – arrive prepared.

  The thought of the yoga chair and the almost perfect way two people can come together using it is all I need.

  I undress and I’m ready to go. I get the condom on and lube it up.

  She emerges from the bathroom in one of her slips. She has a lovely full figure, but I could tell her this until I ran out of breath and she still wouldn’t believe me. So I make no comment on the slip and I respect her boundaries. What a perfect word. Boundaries. It’s my new mantra.

  What does she want to do? The options are endless. Since we began using the chair we’ve moved away from her on top of me.

  She’s been thinking about this.

  Good! Just what I like to hear.

  She gets on the chair, leaning her body over the larger curve in the S shape. I see what she wants immediately. I get behind her, feet flat on the floor, I slip right inside of her. We come together perfectly. I must be tapping her belly button from the inside I’m so deep.

  We stay like this for a while. Then she wants to move. We sit facing each other in the dip of the curve. My feet on the ground propels me as I thrust. Something is slightly different this time. Her fingers are in my hair and on my neck. This is new. As a rule she doesn’t really touch me. This is far more intimate than we’ve ever been before. I roll with it. I don’t mind being touched. If I did I would be in the wrong profession.

  She pulls back slightly. What are limits of what I’m willing to do?

  Honestly they’re pretty broad. Why? What would she like to do?

  Would I be willing to put a vibrator up her ass while penetrating her?

  Sure. Not to diminish the fact she’s venturing into new terrain, but that’s pretty standard.

  She knows. It’s just nothing she’s done before.

  Get it. Let’s do it. Before she knows it she’s probably going to want more than a vibrator up there.