Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Six

by Livia Ellis

  I dodge traffic like a lunatic. Just before I bolt through the door, I stop and compose myself.

  I wait behind a couple. American. Tourists. Seniors. Fanny Packs (what a name!!!). I discretely take a picture of them and send it to mum.

  Her response comes as it’s my turn at the desk. I’m very naughty – which is why she loves me.

  I need a room.

  Single? Double?

  Single. Just for the night. (just for an hour max truly but I won’t say this – this is a nice place – not a by the hour place)

  I do the usual credit card, identification, sign the register blah blah blah.

  I get a key card and a ticket for my complimentary breakfast.

  I make it into the door of my room with a moment to spare. I get my messenger bag off of my shoulder and into a chair.

  My phone rings before I have a chance to make the call or even get my shoes off.

  Hola bebe – what am I wearing?

  Nothing. Nothing at all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Meeting with the Singh Family

  The Matchmaker sits in her usual striped arm chair until the moment the Singh family is ushered into the sitting room. They are predictably late as we all knew they would be.

  Tea is served.

  Part of me marvels at how sweetly duplicitous Parvati is. She looks angelic as she sits quietly staring at her hands folded primly in her lap. I think of her as my Kate – my shrew that could perhaps be tamed. Maybe we could be happy together. Maybe.

  The usual pleasantries are exchanged.

  I cut to the point before the Matchmaker tells them what I would like in the latest round of negotiations. Because that is what this meeting is supposed to be. Negotiations. My push for a wedding in June at the latest then followed by whatever kind of crazy ceremony she wants to plan has been a sticking point. I am in no position to blow this on a technicality. Booth Buxton reminded me of that.

  If they would like the wedding to take place in September, then I am willing to get married in September. If Miss Singh would like a September wedding then I am amenable.

  Mrs. Singh is very pleased. Very pleased indeed. Five months is not an eternity, but it’s enough.

  I only ask that the wedding take place in England. Wold Hall would be ideal, but a London venue is perfectly acceptable. Truthfully my mother is too unwell to travel to India and I want her to be present.

  Mrs. Singh agrees that this is a reasonable request to make. My mother should be present if at all possible.

  As for the financial arrangements, I think they have been more than generous. I would, if at all possible, separate from these talks, like to secure meaningful employment at one of Mr. Singh’s enterprises. To put it bluntly, I would like an income of my own. Something that I can think of with pride as my contribution to my family. Perhaps something in America. Or even India. Not permanently, but for a period of time. I am willing to work, to prove myself if they prefer, to take a place within the organization.

  This is all very good. Mr. Singh approves. He would certainly find a most suitable post for me in India. I will begin work after Parvati and I are married.

  (DAMN!)

  India sounds fantastic. In fact, with every passing moment I’m falling more and more in love with the idea of moving to India. I would miss England, but India seems infinitely more secure to me at that moment than home.

  September then?

  Yes! Mrs. Singh takes my hands in hers. September!

  We will make the announcement in June. Late June. Does this seem acceptable to me?

  Yes. Very acceptable. I would be happy to hold off on making the announcement until the end of June.

  Do I have a ring that is appropriate for someone as lovely as Parvati?

  I’m sorry to say that I do not. I truly wish I did. (Lies – all lies – Parvati would implode at the sight of Lady Charlotte’s diamond. But that’s not for her. If I ever get it back I already plan on giving it to someone else. Someone I fall in love with and want to marry after my marriage with Parvati inevitably implodes.)

  No matter. Something else will be arranged. Something appropriate for Parvati. Something that is as beautiful as she is.

  Nothing is as beautiful as Parvati. I am the luckiest man in the world.

  The Matchmaker rings for champagne.

  We all rejoice. Me especially. I have five months to bide my time and hopefully not end up dead. This was never what I wanted. All I wanted was to find a wealthy wife I could learn to live with. I’ve done that. Time to start drawing more lines under more chapters in my life.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  MMME

  Any manicurist, hairdresser, masseuse, or prostitute will tell you the same thing; their bread and butter is the standing appointment. Before long after becoming employed by the Matchmaker, I have several of these. My personal favorite is with the Mild Mannered Marketing Executive. Or the MMME, as I like to think of him. He's slightly older than me, but not by much. Conservative. Shy. Sweet. Endearing. If I didn't need the money, I'd fuck him for free. I really do like him that much. He's kind. So few people are kind for the sake of being kind.

  He's slightly shorter than me, brown hair, blue eyes, half horn rimmed glasses with a penchant for V-neck sweaters. The third Thursday of every month at 6pm is the start time of our scheduled appointment. We meet at a hotel halfway between London and the small, yet immensely popular small town that is a mecca for tourists, where he both lives and works. The MMME is head of the tourism office for the town where he lives. The town is home to a university. A very famous university. Hence the tourists. He actually has a very important job for someone living in what is in essence a backwater.

  Although he is openly gay, he is alone. Whether this is a result of his introverted nature, his inability to connect on an emotional level with anyone he's met, or a personal preference, I don't really know the first time I meet him. Eventually, after time and a lot of post-coital chat, I learn that he's alone because he's shy. Simple as that. Part of me deeply and truly wishes I were a bonafide homosexual. If I were, I'd grab hold of him and never let him go. I really and truly do like him that much.

  So how does a shy man come to have a standing appointment for sex? For every fag there is usually a hag. The MMME's best friend is a woman. One that understands how lonely he is and how powerless she is to help him. So for his fortieth birthday, she gets him a present. The best present one friend can get for another. Guaranteed sex. One night of uninhibited, raunchy, consuming, selfish, sex. Basically me wrapped in a bow.

  I know all of this before I go to meet him the first time. His best friend, the Fag Hag, has sat me down over cappuccinos and biscotti and explained the situation to me. I like the Fag Hag. She's married with kids. She wears Crocs with socks and says cock indiscriminately. How fucking awesome is that? Every gay man needs a friend like the Fag Hag.

  So the plan is fairly straight forward. She's taking him for dinner at the hotel which will eventually become our meeting place. She already has rooms booked for the night. During dinner, she will get him sufficiently liquored up to be both randy and a goer, but not too drunk to perform. I join them during dessert. She drops me on him like a bag of wet cement. Before he has a chance to object, I have him in his room with his trousers off. I love this plan. I'm all in.

  The night of his birthday everything goes as plan. As dessert is served I join them. I've had a chance to look at the MMME from a distance during the evening. He's lovely. Well groomed. Well dress. Reasonably fit. Again, were I gay I would have snatched him up. Halfway through dessert and coffee, the Fag Hag gives me the signal. She takes off the scarf she has tied around her neck and gives it a shake before putting it back on. I sit at the table with them. She introduces me to the MMME.

  He's shocked. He laughs. He can't believe it. But yet he can. He knows the Fag Hag so well. It's so like her. He loves her. She's his best friend. He couldn't possibly no matter how sweet she was to think of
him and the fact he hadn't had sex in over a year.

  This is when I step in. The Fag Hag and I were well rehearsed and well prepared.

  I lean over and whisper in his ear. If nothing else, he could just let me blow him. He can come to my room, I can go to his, whatever he wants. His friend has gone to so much trouble for him. The least he could do would be to show a little appreciation for her effort. Besides, the blow job is sort of my thing. What does he say?

  He laughs. His cheeks are filled with roses. Fine. Okay. He'll agree to that. He can't believe how outrageous she is. Only she would think to do such a thing. He agrees, but only to go to my room. He wants the power to leave as he likes and to not have the burden of kicking me out. This was what I planned on. Shy girls and shy men are the same. Shy. They want to be able to walk away at their will. Not to have to push someone out. So we go to my room.

  The lights are already dimed, the condoms are already ready.

  When we are behind a closed and locked door, he's nervous and fumbling. He stammers a fair amount as he speaks. He's not really certain what to do under the circumstance. What is the normal procedure? Who does what? Should he take his suit jacket off or leave it on?

  I'm a professional. I'm being paid to do a job and I do it. I get to the point. This isn't about him having to say or do the right thing to get me into bed. That's already been done. The Fag Hag handed over the cash hours earlier. I'm his for the night whether I find him charming or sexy or not. I'm also the boss. Not a problem. People are willing to pay top dollar to turn themselves over to another person. If they weren't then there would be no such thing as bondage.

  Like so many good things, our encounter together starts out with a kiss. His tongue is soft, smooth and tastes a bit like amaretto. Bliss. If only all of my male clients could be the MMME.

  After the first kiss, he's still unsure. What is he supposed to do?

  Nothing, I tell him. Do nothing, I repeat. Just let me do for him what he wants me to do. There is no pressure for him to perform. I feel like the lead singer in a boy band when I tell him to just let me make love to him. But it works. He relaxes and relinquishes any responsibility he might have felt in our preplanned encounter.

  With care and consideration, I plan each step of my seduction like a grand master chess player plots out every possibly move during a match. My actions end up being equal and opposite. I take off his shirt then I take off mine. I take off his trousers, then I take off mind. There is a lot of kissing between shedding each layer of clothing.

  With every step his kisses and his confidence become bolder. By the time I have him in a pair of blue and white stripped boxer shorts that he probably wouldn't have chosen if he knew a man was going to see him in his underwear, he's practically bold for the MMME. Bold equaling kissing me with a lot of tongue and touching both my arms and chest without continually asking me if every little stroke of his hands is okay.

  My fingers loop around the waist of his shorts as his tongue explores my mouth. I know this isn't going to end with just a blow. The condoms and the lube discretely tucked away in the nightstand will be put to good use before the night is up.

  Three things happen in one continuous movement. I push his underwear down to his ankles, as I go to my knees and he sits on the edge of the bed. He flops back on the bed as I pull his cock into my mouth. I'm good at what I do. I suck, lick, pull, squeeze, thrum, and hum for all I'm worth. If I were turning forty and felt a little depressed about it, I'd want someone to give me a fucking fantastic blow. So I pull out all the stops. I fuck the MMME with my mouth like I were doing it to myself. I once again take the Doctor's advice. I do it like a man. I engage my jaw muscles and I'm even a little rough. Based on personal experience, I know I'm not going to pull his dick off with the power of my jaw muscles. So I go for it.

  Just as he's about to come, he pushes me off of him. This surprises me more than a little for only a moment. I lean back slightly perplexed as he rolls over onto his stomach. His legs are somewhat spread and a beautifully curved ass is on display in front of me. If only every one of my male clients were so lovely. They're not. The MMME is special.

  Fuck me, he tells me. Just do it. But not too hard. It's been a while.

  I was already hard, but being told to do my duty makes the blood surge to my dick. I grab a condom and the lube. My underwear is discarded like a used tissue. It's going to be hard to be gentle with him, but I swear I'll do my best.

  There are few clients I want to fuck. Truly, desperately, and consumingly want to fuck. The very few that wouldn't have to pay me for the pleasure. The MMME is one of them.

  I fall on the bed next to him. My body is spent and my blood is flowing.

  Lie to me, he tells me. Tell me that was as good as I want to believe it was.

  I wouldn’t have to lie, I say. That was good. It's not like I can really fake it in the end. Ejaculating is ejaculating.

  Would I be willing to see him again?

  Yes. I would be willing to see him again. Most assuredly.

  We meet once every third Thursday. I plan my Thursday around this “date”.

  We are together this particular day for no particular reason other than it’s a Thursday and he’s in town.

  We meet for cocktails, then dinner, followed by the night at his home. He usually picks the place.

  We are a charming gay couple having dinner.

  I think he’s using me to make a dark haired man he knows professionally jealous.

  We meet for cocktails as we normally do. Then we get our table.

  He insists I try to chicken. He’ll have the Basque cassoulet. We can split.

  Fine by me. How is work?

  Brutal.

  Is that punishing bitch still punishing?

  He’s ready for her skin to turn green and for her to dress her secretary up as a flying monkey.

  I laugh.

  I’m nearly knocked off my chair as Elon appears from a bend in the space time continuum at our table.

  More than practically pushing me to the ground, the mere sight of him scares the shit out of me.

  Where the hell did he come from? He nearly gave me a heart attack.

  He was here. He was there. He is everywhere. He is Elon.

  He offers his hand to the MMME. He is Elon.

  The MMME takes his hand with a sort of wry grin that speaks of the sort of tolerance I find admirable in him.

  He is also very drunk.

  Yes. He is very drunk.

  He is also a father.

  He was celebrating with a hundred of his new friends the birth of his bastard. Peanut Shoshanna Banana Bran Muffin.

  What?

  Peanut Shoshanna Banana Bran Muffin. That’s the name of his daughter.

  No it is not. Not even Renata would stoop so low.

  Ana. He agreed to give Renata a million pounds to call the girl Ana.

  Did he really agree to give Renata a million pounds to call the girl Ana?

  Yes. But he didn’t sign anything so it’s his word against hers.

  He falls off the chair we are sharing and lands on the ground.

  I stand and pull him up with me.

  I look to the MMME. Would he please excuse us? I need to put my friend into a cab.

  No. He’s not going into a cab. He wants to sit.

  Elon sits in my chair.

  He smiles at the MMME.

  So are we on a date? (I find the use of air quotes wholly unnecessary and a little insulting)

  I could kill him with my butter knife. I could.

  Here’s the thing Elon doesn’t understand. If he’s being totally honest, he’d fuck the MMME for free. Would the MMME like him to fuck him for free? He’d even buy him dinner first. For the MMME he might even stay the night and not purposefully give him the wrong number.

  The MMME laughs. He’s confused. Doesn’t Elon have a daughter? Peanut?

  Ana. Yes. And what a mistake she was! If he had his way she would have been aborted months ag
o. Now she’s this living thing with tiny little fingers that he’s responsible for. Because someone has to be responsible. That cunthammer of a mother of hers is just a waste of resources.

  Okay! We are going to the men’s room for a moment, I’m going to put Elon in a cab, then I will be back and we will just move on with our evening.

  The MMME offers to help me. This is the sort of person he is. Infinitely decent.

  I refuse to let him help me drag Elon away from the table. Elon is my problem. Not this kind and lovely man’s problem.

  In the bathroom I very nearly slam Elon’s head against a wall. But even drunk he could probably take me.

  My friend is foxy! This he tells me as he sort of pees into a urinal.

  He needs to stay away from him. He needs to go home and sleep it off.

  No. He’s going to celebrate the entry of a new life into the world just waiting to be destroyed. She’s really perfect. It’s heartbreaking that something so perfect could be handed over to Renata for destruction.

  Then do something about it.

  No. He’s into me. My friend.

  He’s not into me.

  He is. He’s hot. Why the hell does someone like him need to pay for sex? Why? He meant it when he said he’d fuck him for free.

  I need Elon to understand something. He is a nice man. A very nice man.

  He’s a nice man.

  No. Not a nice man. A bad man. Bad, bad, bad, bad man. Besides. What about Marcus?

  Who?

  Marcus. Boyfriend? Lives in Russia? Really into horses and himself?

  They have an open relationship.

  Another reason to stay away from the MMME.

  Not going to do that.

  I am trying to work. If nothing else please be respectful of that.

  Work. Ridiculous. He’d fuck the MMME for free. Actually explain to him why someone as good looking as the MMME needs to pay to get fucked?

  He’s shy.

  Really? Shy and good looking?

  Please stay away from him. He’s a good client.

  No body odor issues and has yet to take a piss on me?

  One – no one has ever taken a piss on me. Two – all of my clients maintain an acceptable level of hygiene.