by Livia Ellis
Of course that’s important. We’ve all had a bit of a shake-up. Why is she packing?
They’re leaving. They’re going. She doesn’t care to where, but they’re not staying there.
Without me. I’ve already been told that I’m not welcome. Even though he promised me we would spend the summer together. Just for the record, he’s only taken me riding once.
They’re not leaving. We are spending the summer together. This was what was agreed when I left for school the last autumn. No one is going anywhere.
Yes. They’re leaving. Immediately. As soon as she’s done packing they’re going. They’ve already missed the first few days of that fabulously unmissable party in Bermuda, but it doesn’t really matter.
Fine. I can go with them. We’ll all have a wonderful time together.
They can’t bring me to that fabulous party in Bermuda. No one else will have a child with them. Who brings a child to a fabulous party? Has he lost his mind?
I raise my hand a little. I like parties.
Don’t be ridiculous. My mother’s speech reverts to butcher’s daughter from Croydon when she gets anxious. The slip makes her more incensed.
I’m not ridiculous. Dad promised.
He did promise. Dad confirms this. We can do something else. A family thing. We could go to Spain. Or Florida. We could go to Disney or do something absurd like that. It might actually be fun.
No. Absolutely not. Disney? Has he lost his mind? She’s not going to get stuck babysitting for a month. They made an agreement from the beginning that she would not be stuck being the nanny.
I’m not a baby.
Because nine is so grown up? She knows I still sleep with that dog.
I’m ten. And it’s a monkey.
My father is given an ultimatum. Either he leaves with her and they go to Bermuda together, or she leaves alone and goes to Bermuda without him. She’s already missed enough of the fabulous party because he made a promise that he insisted on keeping without discussing it with her first. What’s it going to be?
Dad wipes a hand across his eyes. She’s going to win. She always does. I know this. So I concede before I’m defeated. Like a gentleman.
I’m going to Ephesus with granddad. We’re going to look at Roman ruins. I don’t want to go with them anyway.
Perfect! My mother couldn’t be more delighted. That’s settled. They’re going to Bermuda. I can go… wherever it is I’m going.
Ephesus. It’s in Turkey.
Whatever. Can I go now please this moment? She needs to get packed and I’m in the way.
Yes. I’m in the way. I get it. I leave. I return to my bedroom. My notebook is waiting for me. I continue where I left off because what else am I going to do? When the gong rings signaling the family to gather for dinner I gather up my things and carry them with me.
Granddad is already present in the China Room where we have family meals.
I show him my notebook.
Very well done. He is very pleased. I clearly have his knack for languages.
He mentioned starting me on Greek. Could we begin that evening?
I am eager! Of course we can start immediately.
I smile. I am loved. This faux love of learning makes my grandfather love me.
My parents do not appear for dinner. My great-grandmother speaks openly of my parents and how she finds their behavior disgraceful. She is old therefore she can say what she likes. My grandmother and grandfather exchange many long looks over the potatoes and roast Mrs. Gresham has prepared. I ignore all of this. I am still a naïve child in their eyes. One that doesn’t understand the nuances of their conversation.
Granddad tutors me on the rudiments of the Greek alphabet as Grandmother and Great-grandmother play cards. When grandfather decides that I have done enough, I am told to put my books away. He excuses himself. I don’t miss the shadow of my father in the door.
Great-grandmother tells me to sit at the piano. I’m to play something lively. Something cheerful. Something that will dispel the ambiance of bitter disappointment from the air.
I sit at the piano with my music folder open in front of me. I grab the first sheet my fingers touch and put it on the stand. Slow, easy swing. That’s what the notes tell me to play. D-E-D-B. I just play. And play. Then my great-grandmother stops me.
What is that? It’s very familiar.
Uhhh… Makin’ Whoopee. That’s what’s written across the top of the page.
They laugh. Loudly. I’ve never seen the two of them like this before. They are beside themselves. They are possessed. Hysterical. I’ve just told the funniest two word joke in the history of man.
I don’t get it.
They laugh louder.
What’s making whoopee mean?
The laughter gets more uproarious. I’m absolutely hilarious. Why am I so funny? I don’t get it.
I will. Of this my great-grandmother assures me. Someday I will.
I am sent to bed. In the morning my parents are gone. No one comments on this. I won’t see them again for a year. During Christmas they are in Switzerland for a fabulous party. I am at home with my grandparents. The next summer we take a cruise around the Mediterranean together. This is as far as my mother will concede to taking a family vacation.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘The triple pillar of the world transformed into a strumpet's fool…’
I soak in the bath, relaxing as ordered, as I watch Olga wash her hair. We trade places when she’s done.
The water washes over me. I bring myself back to that place I was when I first met the Latin Pop Star. I have been lulled into a false sense of reality. I need an edge again. I need to find my inner rent boy.
Olga fusses with her hair in the bedroom. Her head is a crown of fuchsia curlers and wrapped in a robe. She’s so pretty without makeup. I don’t know why she wears so much. She’s covered her skin in something that makes it shimmer like gold.
I lay on the bed. I have nothing to do while she gets ready. Olga needs a two hour lead time to get ready to walk out the front door to check the mail. I don’t know how she’s going to manage in the time we’ve been given. I am a man. I’ve showered, put on deodorant and run some gel through my hair. I’m ready. I have time before I have to dress. The inevitable can be postponed.
I pick up the book she’s been reading. I immediately put it down. Teenage vampires. Not even with a gun to my head.
She takes the rollers out. I rather like the way the curls spiral down her back. The process is nothing short of painful for me, but I do appreciate the results. It takes a lot of work for Olga to be Olga.
I stare at the ceiling. I get up and wander around. I lay on the bed. I read Italian Vogue. I’m antsy. The relaxation I’ve been promised doesn’t seem to be forthcoming.
Is there any chance we’re going to be able to go out sometime in the morning? I need a book. Something that isn’t popular with tween girls.
She can’t see why not. Probably some of the other workers will want to go into town.
There will be other workers at the party tonight?
She looks at me through the reflection in the mirror. She stops rubbing black kohl along her eyelids. Yes.
A lot of other workers?
Probably two-dozen or more. Maybe dancers. Probably dancers. The Samurai does not hold back when it comes to his parties. Did I think we were going to be the only two?
Kind of.
Oh sweetie. No. Is that why I was so nervous?
Maybe.
We are going to be just two amongst many. Stand up. She’s squeezing something from one of the two dozen tubes of creams that are required to transform her from simply beautiful to a siren. Drop the towel.
She is not rubbing that shit all over me.
Drop the towel. James is walking into that party. Not Oliver. James will do whatever he needs to do to stand out to the clients. The more people he services the bigger the bonus.
I drop the towel.
Her
hands smear the same shimmering gold oil over my body that covers hers. She doesn’t miss a spot. I’m getting exactly what she promised me in the bath.
The glimmering oil is discarded and the lube is retrieved then passed to me. She turns, bends over, and then looks at me over her shoulder. Just like at the arena. Friends lube up friends.
The lube is set to the side so my hands can grab both ass cheeks at once. I remember there are cameras watching us, and then I forget. I don’t care. We are not us. We are transforming into those other two.
I get down on my knees and spread her open with my hands. The tip of my tongue draws a line around her rim then travels to the button of her clit. This would probably be enough, but I want to give her more. I use the flat of my tongue against her sex. Pressing hard, holding for a moment, I wait, then release. After several repetitions Olga’s body reacts like I would expect it too. Her breath pumping through her lungs, her body twitching, the flush on her skin. My hands stay on her bottom as I rise from my knees.
I grab the lube. I fill my fingers with a glob of slick jelly. I slide my fingers around her sex then turn my focus on her anus.
No one is going there. Unless I want to before we leave the room.
How can she be certain no one will want to go there? I often want to go there.
No. She won’t do that at these parties. Our bodies are our own. Don’t forget that. We’re prostitutes. We’re not slaves. Someone touches me or does something I don’t like; I have the right to say no.
More lube is applied. I concentrate on her vagina. Is anyone going there?
More than likely.
Someone other than me.
Yes. What do I think?
I don’t say that I am very uncomfortable with this. That I wish she wouldn’t have concentrated so much time and energy on getting under my skin. She’s made all of this so much more difficult for me than it needed to be. She who scolds me about maintaining a professional distance has broken her own rule. Or not. Maybe she’s just able to compartmentalize better than I ever could. I need to keep the job separate from our private life. They are two different things. I slip inside of her from behind and pull her roughly against me. The silicone gel is perhaps too slick when mingled with her natural lube. I’m all over the place and can’t get good traction. So I go for the ass.
Olga arches up as my thumb starts to work the opening. A sigh slips out of her. Am I going there?
Yes. I’m going there. I want to be unique in her experience. At least for that evening.
My thumb presses inside. I use a bit more lube. My dick moves from one entrance to the other. She’s tight and her sphincter muscles squeeze me. This is exactly what I needed.
I fuck her hard. I’ll admit it. I was rough. But she liked it. If she had even whispered with her body that she objected, I would have backed off. But she didn’t so I just hammered her.
Did she orgasm? I don’t rightly recall. I did. That I’ll never forget. The shimmering oil covering her body, the black hair in long ropey curls whipping about, the anticipation of what was the come, the tightness of her ass as it held me tight – it all came together to create the near perfect orgasm. How could it have been better? Easy. If I had someone pounding away at my ass.
I don’t know if I’ve always been particularly loud when ejaculating, but I am then. I don’t hold back. She pulls away from me more than I pull out of her.
She walks away from me to the bathroom. Get dressed. She wants to see what I look like.
I put my costume on. I look like a douche bag. I am neither Roman nor Greek. I’m sure as hell not Marc Antony. But does it really matter? I am not Oliver here. I am James. I am about to enter a new arena. I am once again a gladiator. I am the bestarius - the beast fighter. The matchmaker is the lanista – the pimp that provides the flesh for the arena. Olga is the lorarius – the flogger that whips me until I willingly enter the arena. Yes – it really does help me to think in these terms. It helps me compartmentalize.
Do I look like a douche bag?
Nope. I look sexy. How is her makeup? Egyptian?
Does she have any blue eye stuff? Gold maybe?
Am I actually encouraging her to put more eye makeup on?
Me – no? I would never encourage her to put on more make-up. But James? He would.
Good. I’m starting to get it. She applies more kohl then just hands me the stick when I continue to critique what she is doing.
Turns out, I’m actually pretty good at this. I draw the sort of long lines trailing away from the corner of her eyes that would have been typical.
She takes the kohl. Does the same to my eyes, but not as exaggerated. I don’t object. Mark Antony went native during his time in Egypt. Kohl around the eyes would have been part of that.
She opens the garment bag with her costume. At least it’s not body paint.
I have to help her dress. The top is just strings that have a tendency to tangle.
Does she know that most Egyptian women would have been bare breasted?
Good. She takes the top and tosses it to the side. That thing was going to drive her bananas.
She’s going to go topless?
Does that little stringy thing really make much difference?
I guess not.
She puts the skirt on. It’s just a whisper of fabric attached to a heavy jeweled belt that hangs around her hips. It’s sexy hot. I’m getting wood. Under normal circumstances this might be awkward. I’m guessing this might be good all things considered.
We’re ready to go after she slips on the jewelry which came with her costume. Lots of bangles and a serpent crown for her hair.
So? Pay her a compliment.
Uhhhh... I’d commit myself to an unwinnable naval battle at Actium for her?
What?
Uhhhh… I’d let myself be declared an enemy of the state for her?
What the fuck am I talking about?
Uhhhh… I’d stick a sword in my guts if I thought she was already dead?
Okay. She’ll take that one.
Great! We have a winner! Let’s do this.
At inspection I learn there really are the two dozen workers Olga predicted. Most of them are women. I’m one of six men.
There seems to be a divide between those of us in costumes and those that are covered in a sheen of metallic paint. Red, gold, and silver. There are about thirty metallic girls.
It turns out the red girls are plain hostesses , the silver girls are regular prostitutes for anyone’s use, the gold girls are strictly dancers.
We, the costumed, are reserved for the VIP guests specifically and everyone generally for public performances. We’re expected to perform. Just as I feared.
Avan, the Israeli I met at Mr. White’s, is there. He’s friendlier this time. He’s wearing the same exact thing I’m wearing. There is a definite, pseudo ancient world theme running through the costumes. Then I get it. Roman orgy. I’m a genius.
The kohl around the eyes is a nice touch. He should have thought of that.
Olga’s idea.
Am I going to be at the Vicomte’s for Halloween?
Yes.
That ought to be interesting. If nothing else the Vicomte’s parties are never dull.
Is he planning on going into town in the morning?
It’s already sorted. There are vans for noon. Be ready to go. They’ll come for us.
Awesome. One question. Does he have to share a room with someone?
He’s sharing with Sabrina and Chantal.
Are there cameras in his room?
He nods. Everyone knows the Samurai is a kinky voyeur. It’s what we’re being paid for. This isn’t a vacation.
The doors open and the Servant appears.
We are to enter grandly as the music plays and immediately begin mingling amongst the guests. He and several members of his staff will be paying attention. When we have performed an act we will get a stamp. Our bonus is based on the number of stamps we have. He will be p
aying attention.
We are lined up. Red girls, Silver girls, Gold girls. Then the costumed. We are nearly the last the enter. By the time we make it out the door, the crowd is loudly cheering. The party has begun.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Carnival at Sea
The family holiday turns out to be more a voyage of the damned than any kind of vacation. To this day I cannot abide windowless rooms or confined places. Fortunately it was an experience never to be repeated. Ten nights cruising the Mediterranean. I poured over the brochure with unbridled joy. Sicily, Pompeii, Carthage. Places I was eager to visit after my two weeks in Ephesus the previous summer with granddad and his very best friend Lionel. Just us three gentlemen (no ladies allowed!) wandering around ruins like wily explorers.
In the evenings we three would have our meals together and then I would sit with them as they sipped large tumblers of whiskey and regaled me of tales of their youth in places like Afghanistan and Africa. The only time I will ever have a holiday that compares will be when I travel with Elon, Roland, my son Jamie and his boys back to Ephesus. Just us gentlemen. No ladies allowed!
Mum and dad bring a nanny with them to watch over me. I don’t get what the deal is with the nanny. This woman is no nanny. I had a nanny for the first ten years of my life. Madam Collette. French. At least sixty by the time I came along. She was my father’s nanny. He was her first. I was her last. She spoke to me exclusively in French, taught me to paint with watercolors, badgered me as I practiced the piano, cared for me, loved me unconditionally, watched over me, and basically removed any need to care for me from my mother. That was a nanny.
This nanny. The one my mother has engaged. This is not a nanny. She’s maybe twenty, Swedish, pretty, and knows nothing about children. She gives me a chocolate bar and a can of soda for breakfast. She dumps me at the Kidz Club (kids with a Z for that annoy me even as a ten year old boy!) first thing in the morning and I stay there until it closes at night. Pretty much fourteen hours a day are spent in the Kidz Club. I don’t mind. I’m annoyed as we approach Naples and my dreams of seeing Pompeii are looking like they will never be fulfilled. I mention this to my father who I see in passing one evening as we cross paths. He’s heading to a cocktail lounge and I’m being taken back to my cabin. That windowless cell in the bowels of the ship.