Gigolo

by Ben Foster

  I gazed around the table. Annabel looked like a virgin sacrifice in a white dress with bare arms, legs and shoulders. Vivienne was erotica incarnate. Maggs had an air of excess and debauchery with her red hair shining beneath the chandeliers. Others dining at the Meurice that night must have gone to bed with sore necks from trying to peek at our table.

  After wine at lunch, wine on the river and wine with dinner, I would have been happy to climb the stairs and call it a night. But that’s the thing with the rich club, they have an energy gene. They never know when to stop. The plan had been to go on to the popular Les Chandelles in the Palais-Royal Quarter, but James insisted that it had become ‘too popular with the plebs.’ He had discovered a new venue beside the Bastille.

  Everyone nodded in agreement. They hated repetition.

  ‘I’m just going to powder my nose,’ Annabel said, and the women laughed as they ran off to the loo.

  ‘I think I’ll do the same,’ J-J said, and glanced at me.

  ‘I’m all right,’ I told him.

  James sniffed the back of his hand as he looked at me across the table. ‘You don’t?’

  ‘Rarely.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Aren’t we obliged to try everything life has to offer?’

  ‘Not everything,’ I said, and he smiled. ‘Do you mind if I ask you something, those papers you were reading on the plane, are they, like, government secrets?’

  ‘You know you shouldn’t ask,’ he replied.

  ‘I’m sorry . . . ’

  ‘The secret is there are no secrets. Only confusion.’

  As the clock struck twelve, we climbed with the bodyguards into a stretch limo that slid like a black moth through the darkened streets to a place where men with restless eyes and near naked girls stood in a line behind the velvet ropes that led to a door guarded by two gorillas in monkey suits. We were expected. James slipped money into each of their hands as we were ushered in.

  He turned to me. ‘Always be liberal with doormen, cabbies and head waiters,’ he said, and smiled as he put his arm around my shoulder. He cast his eyes forward to J-J’s retreating back and lowered his voice. ‘He talks about wives and women, but he’s rather partial to tall dark handsome men. As am I.’

  ‘Not me,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, but I know that. I always know.’

  We were led along an arched tunnel to an alcove shaped like an egg with a curved seat around a low table. I sat on the end, Vivienne at my side. Her eyes were coke bright. She had been clean for a week but couldn’t resist temptation. She held my hand and seemed excited like a child at the circus. It was a circus.

  Below us was an improvised stage where a skinny girl stripped from an elaborate gown and underwear with lots of straps and bows. She had tassels of crystal beads clamped to her flat chest that she jiggled about, the beads catching the light. Finally, she removed her knickers to reveal a penis that I had not been expecting and drew some applause from the audience hidden in dark eggs like our own.

  We watched a woman with pendulous breasts beat a plump naked man with a pink feather boa. A girl balanced on her shoulders for a man to drink champagne from the cup of her open vagina. A man in a matelot shirt and naked from the waist down appeared on a unicycle carrying a large sign that read Sourire – smile. Three double-jointed girls in impish masks with red-painted skin presented oral sex in endless tortuous positions. Another girl appeared with a bowl of ping-pong balls that she inserted one at a time into her cleft before shooting them out into the darkness.

  Some of the girls, I thought, were probably employed by the club and performed whatever sex acts were expected of them. The rest were members of the public who got their kicks being part-time performers. It was compelling but tiresome, less erotic than monotonous.

  A waiter in a hood wearing nothing but a leather case around his genitals arrived with a dusty bottle that he cleaned then opened. He poured red wine from the bottle into a carafe and left us with six glasses. James removed his spectacles from a silver case, read the label, then placed the bottle back on the table. As J-J went to pour the wine from the carafe, James reached for his hand and stopped him.

  ‘It is a 1947 Saint-Emilion,’ he said. ‘The wine has waited for us. Now we should wait for the wine. Let it breathe.’

  ‘Hey, I like that.’ J-J glanced at Annabel. ‘We should try and get that in the script.’

  ‘That will upset the applecart.’

  She was sitting next to Vivienne, black and white, like yin and yang. Vivienne took Annabel’s hand and pinned J-J with one of her forceful stares.

  ‘Do you know who upset the applecart?’ she asked and he shrugged.

  ‘Search me, hon?’

  ‘It was Eve.’

  ‘Like in Adam and Eve?’

  ‘It wasn’t an apple she plucked in the Garden of Eden. Eve didn’t limit herself to one desire, she had an entire basket of desires. It wasn’t Adam that she wanted . . . ’

  ‘What did she want?’ asked J-J, and Vivienne’s eyes grew bigger as she stared back at him.

  ‘Everything,’ she replied.

  The girls giggled and touched cheeks. They squirmed in their seats as if they couldn’t sit still. They were coked up, happy to be with each other. The world about them was irrelevant and they disappeared together before James poured the wine.

  ‘They have missed a treat,’ he said, and Maggs shook her head.

  ‘They have other treats in mind,’ she told him.

  We touched glasses. I tasted the wine and it streamed through me like a magic potion. Before I saw the paintings of Van Gogh, I didn’t have a clue about art. I did not appreciate the subtlety of wine until that night below the cobblestone streets of Bastille when we drank Saint-Emilion bottled before I was born.

  ‘Well?’ asked James.

  ‘Shit, man, it’s something else,’ J-J replied, and James looked at me.

  ‘It’s too good to describe,’ I said.

  ‘It is the taste of lust,’ Maggs suggested, and James nodded in agreement.

  ‘With an added hint of taboo.’ He took another sip from his glass. ‘Two centuries before Christ, the Romans worshipped Bacchus and created wines that freed them from all modesty and restraint. They stripped naked and took part in wild orgies.’ He glanced at me again. ‘The masters sampled the serving girls while the manservants sampled their wives.’

  ‘You know something, there’s a movie in this.’

  ‘If you need a consultant, J-J, I would be happy to oblige.’ James raised his glass. ‘Drink up, life is too short for anything but the best.’

  At that moment, two naked girls appeared to offer relief massage. James took the hand of one of them. He spoke like a schoolteacher.

  ‘Why are they here? Why are we here? What was the purpose of the Bacchanal? Being dressed is civilized. Being naked is a challenge to civilisation. The purpose of the orgy is to break down traditional attitudes in order to open the mind and live life free of limitations and rules.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Maggs.

  ‘You always do, my dear.’

  We finished the bottle and left the table. Maggs and James went one way, I went the other with J-J. He stayed close by my side, whispering comments about the other clubbers, the film, his fucking lawyer who was killing him. He was one of the most famous people in the world and acted as if we were best mates. It made me feel special. People recognised him, but the etiquette was for patrons to leave celebrities in peace, and there were security men to deal with any who might forget.

  We passed below a row of three arches. Standing on plinths before each one was a naked girl in a blindfold, legs spread, arms stretched and chained to the wall. The girls were positioned at a height where you could lick their shaved clefts as you passed. That’s what we did, and I thought how pleased they would have been had they known J-J that night had appraised their juices.

  We paused at a chamber occupied by men i
n leather with instruments of punishment and pleasure. In another, we watched a scrum of skinny girls with perfect figures being pierced by men with grotesque bodies. It’s odd, but when you see them all thrown together they stop appearing gross and incongruous. It was humanity doing what was human. We observed couples and groups engaged in recreating every position in the Kama Sutra. Witnessing others getting off was tedious to me and I had a feeling it held little interest to J-J. He was there because he was there, doing what big stars are expected to do. They buy islands, adopt African babies and want to save the planet.

  We moved on to a high-ceilinged arena where girls in feathered costumes like birds of paradise flew through the air between trapezes. Occasionally, a girl dropped from the trapeze into the arms of one of the men gazing up from below and he would carry her off.

  J-J glanced back, then took my arm as he whispered. ‘I fucking hate those two guys, they’re killing me.’

  The bodyguards with their contractual obligations were behind us, enjoying the perks of their profession. I was glad it was J-J they were watching not me.

  We moved on. There were surprises around every corner. Pleasure was the drug of choice. We believed things could only get better and nothing mattered more than getting rich and getting off. James had talked about the Roman love of orgies. Two thousand years later, we had turned full circle and I had a feeling that night that our society would go the same way and collapse in ruins.

  We went down a flight of stairs and entered a round room with a domed roof. The light was golden. Classical music played. At the centre, there was a shallow, circular pool surrounded by a wide bench covered in what appeared to be white fur. In the pool, naked girls swam, kissed, made love. There were a few men sitting on the edge displaying their erections, their legs dangling in the water. Girls paused to give them a lick and swam on. There were alcoves for copulating couples you could watch from the gallery above where you sat at tables with drinks and snacks.

  Maggs and James were at one of the tables. Vivienne and Annabel sat on the edge of one of the niches. I wasn’t sure if they had seen us, but a moment after we appeared, Vivienne dropped her clothes and descended a ramp to the pool. Annabel came towards us.

  As we climbed the stairs to the gallery, J-J said to her that they should bring the film director to the club to open his mind.

  ‘Reptiles never change their minds,’ she replied.

  He looked back at me. ‘I fucking love you English, you always say weird stuff.’

  They continued the film talk as we joined Maggs and James. I watched Vivienne. She ignored the erections being proffered and swam back and forth in slow strokes like a beautiful fish. We ordered a bottle of wine and crêpes suzette. The wine was still sleeping in the carafe when J-J left the table and went back downstairs.

  The crêpes came. James poured the wine.

  ‘How are you enjoying Paris?’ Maggs asked.

  ‘It’s special.’

  ‘It is. We must do this more often.’

  Vivienne must have left the pool. I didn’t see her and expected her to join us at any moment. That moment didn’t come. We finished the food and wine. I led the way down from the gallery. As I turned the corner of the stairs, I saw Vivienne in the alcove immediately below where we had been sitting. She was in her favourite position, naked on all fours. J-J was ramming into her from behind, his frayed jeans about his ankles.

  25

  GLOBAL WORLD

  It was autumn. Leaves were falling from the trees. The Ladies were back from the Mediterranean for a new round of cocktail parties, receptions, art shows, auctions, black tie dinners, where I played the extra man, the walker.

  Vivienne had stayed in Paris with Annabel. Several weeks went by, then I received a text saying: Why haven’t you called me? I called immediately.

  ‘Vivienne.’

  ‘Ben.’

  ‘I got your text.’

  ‘Do you love me?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Now I’m sad,’ she said. ‘Do you know what love means?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I do.’

  ‘Nobody does, except the honey bees when they smell pollen.’ She laughed. ‘Love smells of moonlight and old photographs. Love is the sound of your name being called by your lover.’

  ‘Vivienne,’ I called.

  ‘Now I’m happy,’ she said. ‘I missed you. Are you at Southley?’

  ‘Yes, till five.’

  ‘That is so perfect. Come after.’

  When I arrived at the studio, the monk’s costume she had bought in Amsterdam was hanging on the open door with the word ‘Change’ on a slip of paper pinned to the cloth. A chair had been placed beside the door where I left my clothes. I stepped into the habit, pulled the hood over my head and tied the rope about my waist.

  There was no light except the dying day through the tall windows. She appeared at the far end of the studio, a holy sister in black, her face framed in white, as pretty as sin. When I approached, she darted between the marble sculptures. I chased her, flicking at her fleeing back with the rope belt. She wanted to be beaten. I was happy to oblige. Flogging Vivienne as a nun with a rope or beating her dressed as an angel with the flat of my hand ended the same way – between the sheets. Sex had become the most tedious aspect of my life, but I never tired of making love with Vivienne.

  We showered. She was chatty, content. She had fallen in love with the southern coast of Turkey. It was like Greece before the tourists. The people weren’t money grubbers. The food was better. The wine was darling. She blow dried, then secured her hair with a black velvet band. I loved watching her. It was like a ballet the way she bent to slip into her panties, her arms coiling to snap into her bra. Every gesture was precise, calculated. I zipped her into a black gown. From a drawer, she took a pale blue leather case containing a diamond necklace and earrings. I hooked the necklace in place.

  ‘You look wonderful.’

  ‘It’s just a mask,’ she said.

  ‘No, it’s you.’

  ‘Is it?’

  I drove to Groucho’s. Annabel and J-J were at a table next to the bar. Their film was being edited in London and that night they were appearing together on a TV chat show. J-J poured champagne. He put his hand on mine as I reached for the glass. He spoke with a polished English accent.

  ‘Be patient. The drink has waited for you, now you must wait for the drink.’

  We laughed. We all had different memories from that night together in Paris.

  We had only been at Groucho’s for ten minutes when a messenger came for Vivienne. A car was waiting.

  ‘Life is just one thing after another,’ she said, addressing Annabel. ‘The American Embassy. I promised daddy.’

  Every man watched as she left the bar. The women, too. I didn’t know why she hadn’t told me she had another engagement. Then, why should she? I had no idea why in Paris she’d had sex with J-J for me and the whole world to see. Girls were fucking in every corner, under every spotlight. But why Vivienne? Why on all fours like a dog in the park? The scene had stuck in my head like a picture on the wall. I was envious, resentful, and had no right nor reason to be so. I told myself I didn’t care about her and was angry with myself because I did.

  I finished my drink and drove home. Kelly cooked linguine with scallops, brown butter and peas. I opened a bottle of Chablis Fourchaume. Life is too short to drink bad wine. Ollie had started at Willington and Kelly was eager to promote her ‘candid’ family photography.

  ‘I don’t want to be too forward and appear pushy, and I don’t want to hold back and let the chance go.’

  ‘Use your intuition. Wait till it feels right.’

  ‘What if it never feels right?’

  ‘When your desires are strong enough, you’ll know when it’s right.’

  She sipped her wine. I had lit candles. She smiled and, at that moment, it could have been Vivienne sitting across the table from me.

  I put the dishes in the dishwasher
and turned on the TV in time to watch J-J and Annabel talking up their film. J-J told the chat show host that he had picked up the phone the moment he finished reading the screenplay to call his agent. He told him not to look at any other projects. He had found the role he was born to play.

  Annabel dabbed at her eyes and nodded in agreement. The film was more than just a standard rom-com, it had heart, a message. It was a film for today. She said how lucky she had been to work with two of the ‘greatest talents’ in Hollywood, and how they had helped her in the challenging role of falling in love with them both. She was funny, witty, adorable, self-effacing. The normally caustic host wiped away a tear. The audience clapped.

  ‘We’ll have to see that one,’ Kelly said.

  ‘You know, I know both of them?’

  ‘Is there anyone you don’t know?’ she replied.

  I continued to provide my services to Caroline, Maggs and other Committee Ladies. I didn’t see Angela Hartley, except on the news. She had got into the habit of waving her finger at rival politicians to make her points. One of the newspapers had dubbed her Lady Finger in a headline, and the moniker had stuck. I had been afraid there was going to be some fallout after our spat, but I kept touching wood and my luck seemed to be holding.

  A week before Christmas, Rufus invited me to White’s, a gentlemen’s club in St James’s, where I saw Prince Charles having lunch with a man with a loud voice and lots of white hair. I was at a table with Rufus and two of his polo playing chums, Sebastian – Bash – and Carlos de la Cueva. They had all invested in property and couldn’t make up their minds whether it was a good time to buy or time to sell.

  ‘In a property deal, the seller always loses,’ said Carlos, and it seemed oddly prophetic.

  We ordered the dish of the day, Yorkshire grouse with parsnip and bread sauce. Bash complained that the meat was tough, to which Carlos de la Cueva said game birds only taste well when flavoured with the oil from your own gun.