Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Nine

by Livia Ellis

  What did she want?

  Other than to go off on an insane rant that made absolutely no sense? She has no idea. She told Renata I’d call her back.

  She shouldn’t have done that. I have no intention of calling Renata. I’m done with her crazy.

  Whatever. She would have told Renata just about anything to get her off the phone. She recommends I change my number. Possibly consider carrying a concealed Beretta.

  I am not going to start carrying a concealed handgun.

  If I change my mind she knows a guy.

  I’m sure she does.

  Whatever. Renata is a lunatic. I need to watch my back. She can do the Psychiatrist with me.

  Did the Matchmaker call?

  No. I have a text.

  Is she checking my texts again?

  No. (She’s lying but I respect that trust is a battle hard won and I have done little to earn hers)

  I check my messages.

  Matchmaker - The birch trees have bloomed. She must cancel with the Psychiatrist.

  Me - Are we speaking in code.

  Matchmaker - Allergies. Her allergies. She’s useless. Find someone else or reschedule. Very very sorry. Will be spending the next few days sealed in a hyperbaric chamber.

  Me – I’ll sort something out. Do I still come around for our meeting?

  Matchmaker – Do. Have a good morning.

  Olga lurks around me. She could do the job with me.

  She did check my messages.

  She only glanced at the screen and saw the notification. Do I want her to do the job with me or not?

  No. The Psychiatrist specifically said she didn’t want her.

  That makes no sense. I should bring her along. If the Psychiatrist gets to meet her then she’ll change her mind.

  No. After the telephone incident it is distinctly for the best she go nowhere near the Psychiatrist.

  It was all just a misunderstanding.

  No. It was her going ballistic because I wasn’t where she thought I should be. We’ve discussed this. Extensively. We came to an understanding. I will not cheat. She will not get controlling and crazy.

  There is pouting. That bottom lip of hers juts out. I can’t help but to kiss it. She gets a smack on the bottom. I kiss her again. I need to get moving. I’ll see her later. Is she picking me up?

  She’ll be where she’s supposed to be. I just need to make certain I’m there.

  I will be. My day is perfectly planned. Everything will go perfectly. It is my birthday. It is the anniversary of my father’s death. Nothing bad will happen. Nothing unexpected will happen. I’m unstoppable.

  CHAPTER THREE

  7:00am

  I stop and speak with each of the girls I cross paths with in the house. I need someone to meet the Psychiatrist with me. I can’t cancel on her. She’s spooked enough about going gay for an hour as it is without my changing plans. I need someone reliable and not intimidating.

  There is something weird going on. Something very weird. I ask Mi Young if she would take the job with the Psychiatrist. She is my first choice after the Matchmaker. I ask Simone if she would take the job with the Psychiatrist. After trying Emer I am simply perplexed. I return to Simone.

  Why won’t any of the girls work with me?

  Have I asked Olga?

  No. I don’t want to take this job with Olga. Olga knows I don’t want to take this job with her. I already have two jobs with her today as it is. That’s enough working together. We have discussed this.

  I should ask Olga. Olga is the one I should really ask. Olga and I work well together.

  Yes. I know Olga and I work well together. But for this job I’d really like to work with someone else. Would she take the job with me?

  No.

  Any particular reason why? Have I developed an odor issue?

  No. But she’s going to have to pass.

  Is this because of Olga?

  I should probably talk to Olga.

  If she’s doing something to fuck with my work I’m going to be pissed.

  I should probably talk to Olga.

  Oh, I will talk to Olga.

  Emer goes her way and I go mine. I head into the kitchen. Uncle Harvey watches yet another cookery show on the wall mounted flat screen as he practices making royal icing rosettes on a square of cardboard.

  Why won’t any of the girls work with me?

  Probably because of that giant territory marking piss Olga took on me.

  Olga and I discussed this after the wedding. We came to an agreement.

  I’m adorable when I’m trusting. So like my father. He was boyishly naive at times too. I need to talk to Olga. She has made it clear that I am hands off.

  That’s really it isn’t it?

  Yes.

  Talitha clicks her way into the kitchen. Sunglasses on, giant bag over a shoulder. I've never worked with Talitha.

  Would she take a job with me? I’m kind of desperate.

  She pulls her agenda out of her bag.

  When?

  In the afternoon from four to five.

  What’s the job?

  A very nice American psychiatrist that wants to see what it’s like to get busy with a woman.

  First of all, please don’t refer to what we do as getting busy. A woman wanting to explore her sexuality deserves a bit more respect than that. Second, she’ll take the job. She just needs to be done by five.

  She’ll take the job?

  Yes. She’ll take the job. Why am I so surprised?

  I don’t know. We’ve just never really worked together before. She’s always turned me down before.

  She’s slowly changing her mind about me since I took on the Esthetician’s boyfriend. Working together shouldn’t be a problem. She slips her agenda into her large bag, makes tea in a travel mug, and then leaves without another word.

  I’m going to work with Talitha.

  Uncle Harvey has taken to wearing a waistcoat, crisp white shirt, necktie, and stripped trousers under his apron. His beard is tightly trimmed and his hair is neatly combed. I’m sure he’s off the drink.

  He grunts as he removes a pan from the oven. He is distressed. Someone left a pair of shoes under the China blue settee. He thought they had learned their lesson the last time he donated their clothing to Oxfam. Clearly not.

  A tray is placed in front of me. The lid on the plate is removed with a flourish. Frittata, fresh fruit, juice, black coffee, a vase of tiny violets, and a card.

  Happy Birthday Ollie.

  I open my card. The ten pound note nearly does the thing I’m avoiding. I almost start crying. Every year I get a ten pound note from Uncle Harvey. Rich or poor he never changes.

  Thank you.

  You’re very welcome. Are we discussing the other thing today is the anniversary of?

  We are not. I’m trying very hard to keep everything together. Talking about it isn’t going to help.

  Very good. What is on the agenda?

  I’m working with Talitha.

  Interesting.

  I’ve never worked with Talitha. We’ve worked the same parties, but we’ve never worked together alone.

  Can he ask me a question? I must be totally honest.

  Sure. Of course.

  Are his meringues as beautiful as Nigella’s? I’m shown a recipe printed off the internet.

  I compare the two.

  They’re works of art. Can I eat one?

  Cretan. No. They’re for his cookery class.

  I didn’t know he was taking a cooking class. I thought he already knew how to cook.

  He does know how to cook. He’s raising the bar. Hence, the cookery class.

  Is this all about the TV show?

  Yes. He’s preparing for the role of a lifetime. He will become Wright.

  When does filming begin?

  Don’t they keep me apprised?

  Probably. I just don’t bother to read the emails.

  Filming begins in the morning. Him, the Actress,
my mother…

  My mother?

  Yes. She’s going to be on the selection panel. They’re going to interview the candidates for suitability. The Actress will be sophisticated and demanding, he will be exacting and particular, mum will be kind yet aloof. They were thinking about bringing in a WAG or a celebutant, but he convinced mum to give it a go. The producers couldn’t have been more delighted.

  My mother?

  Yes. She’s the Dowager Countess. It works. Rounds out the panel nicely.

  My mother is going to be on reality TV?

  Yes. They’ve offered her a bag of money for a guest spot. She couldn’t turn it down.

  Yes. She could have turned it down.

  It’s not really my decision, now is it?

  I need to speak to my mother.

  No. I don’t need to speak to my mother about this. I need to respect her decision and just let it go.

  They’ve kept this from me. They have. Today, of all days, they pick to tell me about it. Clever. If my mother thinks I’m not going to say anything to her because of what today is, she is desperately wrong.

  Don’t be such a stick. Try a macaroon. They’re for his cookery class.

  I’ll give him credit. The macaroons do distract me from my mother appearing on reality TV.

  When does he have time to take a cookery class?

  It’s mostly online. They meet once a week with their preparations for a tasting session. He’s becoming a master chef. Next he’s going to get cracking on putting tiny flowers on sugar cubes.

  That’s a thing?

  Yes. That’s a thing.

  I’m just messing with him. I remember my grandmother and the little sugar cubes with the roses.

  He needs a proper tea set. He’ll be borrowing one from Wold Hall.

  Any particular reason? Not that I mind.

  Presentation is everything. He must do well on his final examination. He’s neck and neck with that loathsome Mrs. Pitcher from Tewkesbury. Her and her plum tartlets.

  Death to Mrs. Pitcher from Tewkesbury.

  Precisely. Hence the need to borrow the silver.

  I need to get moving. I have a client.

  I step out of the house and directly into a massive pile of dog shit. This will not ruin my day. It will not. I will do as the Parisians do. I shall consider it good luck.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  8:00am

  I enjoy the early morning clients. It sets up the day just so. I’m up early. I’m out early. I get a jump on the day.

  The Actress waits for me in her boudoir. It’s a boudoir. There is no other word for it. I love that it’s like the set of a black and white movie. I appreciate her wardrobe choice. Pretty much any other woman in the world would look like she’s trying too hard in the silk negligee with matching peignoir. But no. Not the actress. She’s perfect and she knows it.

  I am suave. I am debonair. I seduce her with my eyes, then my mouth, then my hands.

  Why is the Actress one of my favourites? She expects me to be all man. All man. Every moment we are together I get to be the man. There is no moment when she seizes control of the seduction. I get to be in charge start to finish. It’s refreshing really.

  It’s not that I don’t respect women and I don’t believe fully in equality, there are just moments when my inner Casanova wants to have a turn at being the boss. The Actress lets me be the boss.

  I am, in this purely feminine space, allowed to embrace my masculinity.

  Her body is soft in all the right places and still firm where it needs to be. There is nothing energetic or particularly acrobatic about the sex. It’s just sex. Good sex. I’m attentive and aware of who I am with and what she wants. My mind is not wandering off to what the rest of the day will hold for me. I am in the place I occupy with her and that is really all that is needed.

  This is one of the things I have learned about sex since I became a professional. The trick to blowing a person’s mind is highly individual. Sometimes the only thing that needs to be done is to acknowledge that person exists and to allow them to fall into a moment.

  For the Actress the thing that gets her the most intoxicated by the experience is to be with her and only her without a separate agenda. That and to absolutely adore her. Which is not hard.

  I try not to break any land speed records with her, but I know well enough that when she’s done I better not belabor reaching a climax. Which I don’t. I actually don’t climax. I pretend to. I make a good show of it. But I don’t. I’m a professional. I also know that I will have to ejaculate several times during the course of the day so I don’t overplay my hand too early. Sex with Olga earlier in the day from a purely professional point of view was a mistake. The last thing I need is to exhaust myself before I hit my stride. Yes – men can and do fake orgasms. With a condom and a bit of discretion it’s not difficult.

  How, you may wonder, do I do this? Read about tantric sex. Seriously. It’s changed my life.

  The Actress politely yet firmly knocks me off of her when I’m finished. I lay back in the cloud of satin pillows that line her bed as she goes to her closet. When she emerges in a Chanel suit I’m suitably impressed by her beauty and glamour.

  She sits at her dressing table and primps in the mirror.

  Something is different about the Actress. She seems truly vibrant. Not just pretending to be vibrant. I think she’s cut back on the booze.

  Or maybe I’ve just rodgered her so well she’s glowing from the explosive orgasm I gifted her.

  You look good.

  She smiles at me in the mirror.

  I like to watch her groom herself.

  She’s like a beautiful cat. I’d never call her a cougar, but that’s what she is. With me as her boyfriend, she’d be the Queen of the Cougars.

  One of the lives I imagine myself living is as the much younger lover to the Actress. Publicly. Openly. Purposefully. I’d be the envy of every man over fifty in most of the world.

  Why am I smiling?

  I’m happy. My life seems to be going along swimmingly.

  Good. She likes me happy. Am I coming to Wold Hall for the start of filming?

  No. Never. Not in a million years.

  Why not?

  How can I maintain the mystique of being an insufferable snob if I don’t act like one?

  I am an insufferable snob. No one is that good an actor.

  Am I really an insufferable snob?

  Sometimes. Unfortunately she finds it charming. Otherwise she’d try to break me of it.

  Would she like to be my girlfriend? We’d be the most amazing couple.

  We would be. Women would envy her and men would marvel at her fully matured sensuality. She could write books about how to be a truly desirable at any age.

  I’d buy a copy.

  She’d give me one. I should go to Wold Hall for filming. Show my face. It would be good for the production. Good for everyone involved. Give it legitimacy.

  Does she know anything about my mother? I heard a rumor that can’t possibly be true.

  She knows many things about my mother. Did I know she and my mother were becoming fast friends?

  No. I did not know that.

  They are. Very good friends.

  I find that disturbing.

  Why? I’m not the first son of one of her friends she’s taken to bed.

  Here I was feeling all unique and special.

  I am unique and special. Thankfully she’s done dating the sons of her friends. Otherwise I’d really be in trouble. What do I want to know about my mother?

  Does she know anything about my mother appearing on the show?

  Yes. It was her idea for Israel Rubin to approach my mother about being on the choosing panel.

  I don’t want my mother to be on the show.

  My mother is a grown woman. She can make her own choices. One of those choices was to take the substantial amount of money to appear on the show.

  How substantial?

  Substantial. My
mother is camera ready beautiful, and a dowager countess. They’re all the rage right now. Don’t be a little shit about this. It’s a hard world for a beautiful woman.

  Bullshit.

  It is. It’s hard to be beautiful. No one has any pity no matter how shitty life gets because being beautiful should be compensation enough for any hardship.

  Seriously?

  Yes. It really is hard to be beautiful. Especially when age starts to creep up and you find your bread and butter are a bit stale.

  I don’t want her to do it. If it’s about the money, I’m solvent again.

  Why am I still taking clients if I’m solvent?

  Because I made a commitment to the Matchmaker and quite frankly I like to work. It’s satisfying.

  Is it not the same for my mother? Would she not find work satisfying?

  The last time my mother worked was at Boots nearly thirty years ago. She made a life choice years ago to be wholly dependent on the good will of others. I was born into insouciance and not given a choice until I had no other choice.

  She’s going to make an observation and I’m going to pay attention. When a woman reaches a certain age, she needs to know she can depend on herself simply because there are no guarantees anyone else will. My mother is a widow with a medical condition. The knowledge that she has a small nest egg to keep her solvent would probably be a tremendous comfort. Do I understand?

  I need to have a conversation with my mother about this. I’m working too hard to keep my world together and to live it with a modicum of dignity for her to start participating in reality TV.

  Dignity indeed. Did I even hear a word of what she said? This is not about me it is about my mother. Television is what is made of it. Even unscripted television. Dignity indeed. Do I know I just insulted her?

  That’s not what I mean. She’s an actress. TV is what she does. My mother is a dowager countess. And my mother.

  I am a little shit.

  My grandmother would go catatonic.

  Yes. She thinks this may be one of my mother’s motivations. Stop being a little shit. Be a good boy and zip her.

  I get up from the bed and zip her.