Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Five

by Livia Ellis

  Tell. Someone. To. Get. A. Car. For. Her. Understand?

  Incorrigible brat. I grab her and pull her back over my knee as I sit on the bed. I flip up the hem of that short robe of hers and expose her bare bottom. Just to be clear, I would not have given her a paddling if she hadn’t given my first smack on the bottom such a delighted oh. Clearly princess is into being disciplined.

  I’m not going to say that I believe the situation was wholly unsalvageable. I just knew that we needed to be on the same page before there would be any chance at going forward.

  My hand makes contact with her round bottom. There is a resounding smack and an equally sharp ahhh.

  I move to push her off of me, but she stops me.

  She’s fairly certain she’s been very bad.

  I have no doubt.

  Of all of the sexual situations I’ve been in, this is actually a first for me. Unbelievable I know. But I’ve never been into spanking. Probably because I’ve never been with a woman (or man) that truly needed a spanking. Parvati desperately needed a spanking.

  So I gave her one. And I think I liked it almost as much as she did. I gave her a smack, then a rub, then a smack.

  She moves a little and I think we’re done. Honestly she a brat, but I don’t want to hurt her.

  Instead of getting off of me, she opens her thighs.

  An action plan develops. One that will leave her wanting more Ollie-Love – the greatest love of all! Hah, what am I on about? Honestly…

  So what do I do? I start using my fingers on her. Just a little. Personally I don’t think that boyfriend of hers is TCB because she’s really up for this. And if she likes this and he’s not doing it then maybe we might be able to find new ground to start on.

  Her clit is easy to find. I tap it with the tip of my finger while my other hand pinches her bottom. She likes this.

  I pay attention to what’s happening. When the orgasm starts to build in her I pull back. I start spanking again. Then I go back to fingering. She screams when I touch her anus.

  No one touches her there.

  Does she want me to not touch her there?

  Uhhh… maybe?

  How about she just tells me no if it bothers her? Can we agree to that?

  Yes.

  Yes what?

  (she hesitates for a moment) Yes please?

  Very good. (I could seriously get into this – what a revelation that is)

  I slip a finger up to the first joint into her. Then I give her another whack. She’s rubbing her bare mound against the fabric of my trousers. With a small adjustment I can touch her clit without removing my finger.

  When she is just about to orgasm, I stop like a true evil bastard. I nearly laugh a sort of bwahahaha laugh just for effect.

  I set madam on her feet then stand.

  But…

  Yes darling?

  But we’re not done.

  I’m done. She can sort herself out when I’ve gone.

  But… (The look of something sort of like confusion mingled with wanton frustration on her face makes me smile) Don’t I understand? She’s not finished.

  I understand perfectly. In fact, lovely as she is, I just don’t think it’s going to work out between us. I can tolerate a lot, but I’m not going to be a servant in my own marriage. We have to start out with some sort of mutual respect or we won’t even make it out of the gate. Clearly her developing manners doesn’t seem to be in the offing, so best we draw a line under the proposal without any hesitation.

  Excuse her?

  I check my watch. Fuck. I have to go. I’ll let the Matchmaker know I don’t think we’re a match. I can’t marry a woman that finds saying please to go against her natural grain. Also, let’s be honest, she’s a bit of a selfish lover. I like there to be a bit more give and take in the sack. Not that she was bad, but I can see where the whole me me me thing might get boorish after a while. Oh – and I’m not going to marry anyone with a boyfriend. I check my watch again. I really have to go.

  I shoulder my messenger bag and head out the door. I don’t know if I’m ever going to see Parvati Singh again, but I do know that I will not marry a woman that treats me like a servant.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Kafkaesque

  When I arrive home it’s just six. I figure I have an hour to throw as much clothing as I can into as many suitcases as I can locate, shower, and get my ass downstairs for the taxi.

  The house is dark and the alarm is set. I nearly break my neck tripping over the pile of luggage in the dark entry way. When I turn on a light I see three distinct piles. One for each of the groups leaving for destinations on all points of the map that morning.

  Olga’s packed for me. That or she requires ten suitcases to go anywhere that requires a clothing change. Which is wholly possible.

  I edge around the suitcases and make my way up the stairs. My bedroom door is open and the lights are on. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Olga comes out of the bathroom wearing a slim black skirt and black sweater with a scarf tied around her throat. Her hair is hanging like an oil slick down her back and her blue eyes are cutting like diamond tipped saws. She’s been crying. I hate myself.

  Where have I been? And don’t even try to lie to me. She knows perfectly well I was not with Elon unless Elon has moved into The Four Seasons.

  Huh? How the fuck…

  Latitude. Stop being so dense.

  What the fuck is Latitude?

  It’s on my phone. It’s a Google thing.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and look at my bewildered expression in the black glass of the screen.

  She knows perfectly well I’ve been at The Four Seasons since about nine. And don’t think she didn’t find out when she called the bar that I was there with some short Indian woman for less than a half-hour before we left.

  What the fuck?

  Who was she? Who was the Indian woman in the gold dress that had a vodka martini while I had a gin and tonic?

  I am not having this conversation with her right now. I need a shower.

  Because I reek of sex?

  Not having this conversation. Not now not ever.

  But it’s not going to end. I know it’s not. No man ever extracted himself from an angry woman by announcing that he was not going to have a conversation with her. She follows me into the bathroom.

  Where was I?

  I was at The Four Seasons with Parvati Singh.

  Did I fuck her?

  Yes.

  Why?

  Because she very well might become my wife and quite frankly the offer was put on the table and I didn’t think it would be the gentlemanly thing to do to turn her down.

  I step into the shower as Olga berates me for being, amongst other things, a man. The litany of crimes against me as an individual and all men as a less than admiral subspecies continues as I quickly shower.

  Olga continues to berate me as I dry off.

  Do I know I have a love bite on my ass?

  Yes. She put it there.

  Oh. Still…

  No. No still. Enough. She tried to trick me and I know it. I’m not dumb.

  She did not try to trick me.

  I need to get married. I thought she understood this.

  She understands perfectly well that I need to get married. She thought I had finally realized that marrying for money was stupid and that people should only marry for love.

  And what would marrying for love and love alone cost me? Has she even thought about this?

  Of course she’s thought about this. Have I thought about what I’m giving up by putting money before love?

  Yes. Yes I have. Has she ever considered that no love is worth having to give up everything that has meaning in my life? And that if I did give up everything that has meaning for a life what might happen to that love? That I might eventually grow to resent and hate the person I once loved because I gave up everything that mattered for them? Has she even considered this?

  Love makes any
sacrifice worth it.

  No. No it doesn’t. Has she actually ever been in love? Has she?

  Well no. Not really.

  How about this? How about she shut the fuck up about love conquering all? When she’s actually been in love and she realizes that love doesn’t conquer all then we can have this conversation. What matters, more than love, is continuity and family. Lots of Adairs on down the line married for reasons other than love and does she know what happened to them?

  No.

  They lived happy lives. They had children. They had grandchildren.

  What about my parents? They married for love.

  Oh my god. I am not having this conversation. My parents got married because my mother was three months pregnant with me and my grandfather went after my father with a butcher’s knife.

  They didn’t love each other?

  On the contrary. They were very much in love with each other. So much so they didn’t have much place in their lives for me. Now can we end this conversation now? Because I’m not interested in having it.

  What about love? Nobody should marry for money. They should only marry for love.

  And the carousel turns again.

  There is nothing more surreal than being confronted in the wee hours of the morning by an angry woman that has a different idea about the nature of your relationship than you do. Add to that the fact I'm exhausted and the whole thing turns Kafkaesque.

  The walls are green.

  No the walls are not green - they are verdigris.

  But that's green.

  No. The sky is purple not orange.

  Do my fucking head in.

  CHAPTER SIX

  One Night in Bangkok

  How does one define hell? Dante gave it a good crack. But Dante never spent twelve hours locked in a crowded airplane with an angry woman strapped into the seat next to him. And not a reasonably roomy first-class seat with privacy screens. No. Karma had shown up to bite me in the ass for lying to Olga. As she frequently told me during our twelve hour voyage of the damned.

  How did it begin? The flight was overbooked. We were lucky to get seats at all. Somehow. Someway. We ended up in economy. It was that or strapped to the wing. The only seats that were available were in the middle of a row. There we sat. Packed in like ear-buds in a box.

  When she wasn’t bitching, moaning, and stealing my dried out chocolate cake, she was silent. But not just silent. It was an accusing silence filled with stony recriminations.

  The only moment she let up, was that period of time she fell asleep with her head on my shoulder. I looked down at her and I could see the dark circles beneath the makeup. I shouldn’t have fucked Parvati. It seemed like a great idea at the time, but in retrospect it wasn’t worth it.

  The silent reprieve only lasts so long. She’s awake and charging at me like a jousting knight. I pretend to sleep. That does it. Not even she will wake me from a sound sleep. Besides, she scribbling furiously in her diary. No doubt about me. Angry words in her tidy flowery Cyrillic script. Oh to hear her thoughts! They probably sound much more forceful in Russian than they do when they’re filtered into English.

  The plane can’t land soon enough. We’re on the ground just after six in the morning local time. Familiar faces greet us. The Security Guard and Wardrobe are there. We’re packed off into a car and others are left to manage our bags.

  Olga is charming and pleasant during the ride. I’m mostly silent. We get to the hotel. We are taken to the suite of rooms. They smell of vanilla, the air is moist with humidity, and the temperature is nearly uncomfortably warm. The Manager is waiting. Twat is wearing a silk dressing gown and looks like Hugh Heffner.

  I barely acknowledge the Manager. I go directly to the set of double doors that have to lead to the master bedroom. I slip inside and shut the door behind me. I very nearly lock it, but I think that’s against the rules.

  The Latin Pop Star is stretched out on the bed sound asleep. The TV is on, but the volume is turned down.

  I go to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and wash the previous twenty-four hours off of me.

  I dry off then discard the towel. As quietly as I can, I adjust the temperature in the room so it’s slightly cooler. My toe pushes the button on the humidifier. The stream of steam stops.

  I find a place for myself on the bed.

  The Latin Pop Star mumbles a bit, moves, throws an arm over me, gives my shoulder a lazy kiss, asks me about my flight.

  Fucking sucked. Don’t want to talk about it. Couldn’t have gotten off the plane soon enough.

  His hand grabs my cock and starts stroking me. Too tired for this?

  Not if he’s planning on doing the work.

  He starts kissing me as he strokes me.

  I think of Parvati and her pure selfishness. Am I being like that? No. I don’t think so. I think it’s perfectly fine on occasion to just let yourself be had when the rest of the time you bring it to the bedroom.

  He rolls me over onto my stomach, opens my knees until they’re at an angle to my body, warms the lube in his hand, then opens me up.

  He slides inside of me and I’ve once again found a slice of heaven. I’m open and filled and feel a sexual awakening occur throughout my body. I’m still tired, but this energy exists separately from that.

  As he has me he is thoroughly attentive. This is what a good lover should do. I consider taking notes for Parvati. But I could give a fuck about her at that moment. What I want is the LPS just as he is forever. Fuck women. They’re nothing but trouble.

  I ejaculate onto the mattress as he shuddered and shivers to his own climax inside of me.

  He rests inside of me for a long moment then rises and goes to the bathroom.

  When he returns it’s all about me.

  I stay stretched out on my stomach. I'm so comfortable it's like I'm wrapped in cloud. The LPS strokes my back, randomly dotting my skin with kisses. It was just so easy. No stress. No being yelled at.

  Do I want to sleep? Do I want breakfast?

  Can I lie in bed and do nothing?

  I can do that. He's going to order breakfast.

  I watch him move out of the bed to the door as best I can without moving my head. In the daylight he's still as goodlooking as he was in the night.

  What am I doing arsing around with these women? These women give me nothing but grief. Henry Higgins was right. Women = eternal strife.

  This is why men are good. Men don't have the same issues women have.

  The LPS slips on a pair of white stretchy boxers that glow against his tanned skin then returns to the bed. He turns on the television that I'd turned off, but keeps the volume low.

  What happened on the flight?

  Fuck. The flight was oversold. We ended up in economy stuck in the middle of the row. Blah. Blah. Blah.

  I should have gone with him. I would have liked Singapore.

  I had to go see my mother. (This comes out without passing through my internal filter. I don't know if it's because I'm exhausted or I've forgotten I'm on the clock, but it comes out.)

  Why?

  She's sick.

  Seriously sick?

  Yes.

  His mother has cancer. Nobody knows that. It's really hard.

  I don't say anything. I don't need to. Linking little fingers is enough. I get it. We have this thing together that other people couldn't understand unless they're going through it too. Maybe it's different for men. We're both men. We're losing our mothers. We get what the other is experiencing. Not talking about it helps. Women never seem to get this. Talking doesn't always help. Silence is good.

  I don't fall asleep so much as I drift into a trance while he watches whatever it is that makes him happy. There is this sort of surreal moment when MTV or whatever the local equivalent is on (probably MTV actually) is broadcasting one of the LPS's videos and he starts humming/singing along. Surreal.

  Breakfast comes. I eat more than I thought I would. I come awake.

  We start talk
ing. And talking. The mother thing has opened a Pandora's box.

  I tell him about my search for a wife.

  He thought I was gay.

  I'm more gay than straight. (For certain at that moment I am – the idea of having to spend any concentrated time with a woman leaves me cold) I explain the situation. I need a son an for that I need a wife.

  He gets it. He lives a double life. I don't have to explain. But he does want details.

  I tell him about Parvati and delve only a bit into the increasingly complicated dynamic between myself and Olga.

  I spanked her?

  Yes. I was so pissed off I spanked her.

  But she was into it.

  Yes. She was really into it.

  Would I be willing to spank him?

  Sure. I didn’t realize he was into that.

  He’s not. Might be fun.

  Have I googled her?

  Actually no.

  He grabs his tablet from the nightstand. A few swipes of the finger later and we’re reading my Wikipedia page.

  Why me? Seriously – why me?

  He googled me. He googles everyone. Except Olga. Olga is nowhere on the internet. He knows her name is really Olga and not Anastasia.

  Really? Interesting. Everyone is somewhere on the internet.

  Not Olga. He knows all about me. He knows about my Former Fiancée, my financial problems, and my notorious reputation with the ladies. Am I really into men, or am I with him for the money? (he’s so sweetly sincere when he asks me this that I wish the truth were enough to sooth any misgivings he might have)

  I’m really into men. I really am. Honestly I don’t like the money thing with us. I don’t. I seem to be getting enough clients. Maybe we can work something else out. Something that might continue after I get married. I’ve had enough of women causing me grief.

  My being married would be a good cover.

  There’s a knock at the door. He calls out. I flip the sheet over my dick. The Manager walks in wearing a suit rather than that idiotic silk robe. Olga is behind him. She’s changed into a dress and a pair of her extra tall shoes. I know her well enough by now to know she wore the shoes purposefully to make The Manager seem small. That or he’s in to being dominated. Actually – that makes a lot of sense.