Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Five

by Livia Ellis

  He wants to know if I’m having a good time.

  No. Not really. I’d rather be home. Why exactly did they drag me along anyway? I’m practically a prisoner of the Kidz Club. They make me color. With crayons.

  This makes dad chuckle. Perhaps I should spend more time coloring with crayons and less time reading Greek with my grandfather.

  At least at home I’d be able to ride my horse. Just so we’re clear, I’m not happy about the fact we’re arriving in Naples in the morning and the nanny (I use air quotes as I shoot the nanny in her cocktail dress and heels a look) won’t take me on an excursion to Pompeii. I really wanted to go to Pompeii. Granddad has told me all about Pompeii. And now I’m going to miss it because the nanny (air quotes again but I ignore her) spends her days doing who knows what while I linger in the Kidz Club. Has he left the ship?

  Yes. He’s been off the ship every day. The nanny was supposed to be taking me on excursions. The nanny is given a look.

  She shrugs. They all leave really early in the morning.

  He turns from the nanny back to me. He thought I liked the Kidz Club. He and mum thought I’d prefer to stay there. With other children my age. He didn’t think I’d be there all day every day. The nanny is given a second look.

  What? Martina told her she could leave me in the kids club.

  I ignore the nanny. She’s useless. He’s left the ship. When? Did he go to Sicily? I watched the shore from the ship. Does he know that some of the most well preserved Greek ruins are in Sicily?

  They got off in Sicily. They didn’t visit the ruins. They just stayed in Palermo. He didn’t think I’d enjoy it. The Kidz Club blah blah blah.

  They just stayed in Palermo. That’s it. They could have gone to see the Temple of Concord and they arsed around Palermo. Probably shopping. I cannot believe this.

  Mum’s not really one for going around ruins. She’s a city girl in her heart. This is how it works when you have a wife. Got to keep her happy and all that blah blah blah.

  I can’t listen to this. Actually never mind. I don’t care. I’m done with him and this conversation. I’m sure he wanted us to have a lovely family holiday, but he’s just a Lotus Eater.

  A what?

  A Lotus Eater. He had to have read the Odyssey.

  Yes. He gets the reference.

  Good. Then I don’t have to explain.

  Actually yes – I really do need to explain precisely what I mean. Like it or not, he’s still my father. A modicum of respect is still called for.

  Respect is a gift, not an obligation.

  Quoting his father to him really doesn’t help. What do I mean by the Lotus Eater barb?

  He makes all of these grand promises when we’re alone, then mum gets a hold of him and makes him eat the lotus flowers. She makes him forget. She makes time pass. She’s put clouds in his head and apathy in his soul. Practically a year goes by and he doesn’t even notice he hasn’t seen me.

  Why do I think he insisted we go on holiday together?

  Is he serious? Were I Odysseus and he one of my men, I would pull him bodily from mum and force him to come out of his stupor. He needs to wake up and see what’s real if he actually believes we are on the same holiday.

  I could have just told him I wasn’t enjoying myself.

  When have I had the opportunity to speak with him since we parted ways on the first day?

  I could have said something to the nanny.

  I have.

  He looks at the nanny.

  She shrugs. Martina told her to just ignore my incessant bitching and moaning. She’s noticed I tend to whine a lot.

  Obviously Martina is not well. Why hasn’t she come to him?

  She shrugs. Martina told her not to bother him.

  Can I go to bed now? I’ve been in the Kidz Club for fourteen hours. I’m tired. I’m not used to being up this late four nights in a row. If I promise to just stay in my room for the rest of the trip, can I please not go to the Kidz Club again? I’ve learned how to use room-service for my breakfast. They have sandwiches and things I can get for my other meals. There’s a telly that I don’t have to watch cartoons on. I’d really rather just stay in my room.

  I want to stay in my room for the next six days? I’d really rather that than go to the Kidz Club?

  Yes.

  If I’m trying to manipulate him by making him feel guilty about the fact he’d rather spend his day peacefully sitting by the pool with my mother rather than having to cater to my needs, then it’s not going to work.

  I’m not trying to manipulate him. I just don’t want to have to make any more bead necklaces or go to another child disco. It’s not fun for me.

  Fine. I can sit in my room if that’s what I want. Mum’s waiting for him.

  Enjoy the rest of his holiday. And please, just leave me home the next time he wants to have a family (air quotes again) holiday.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Partying like it’s 31BCE

  The garden I had originally admired for its peace and tranquility upon arrival has been transformed. There are divans, couches, platforms and beds. There is a curtained dais off to the side near the pagoda. The pagoda in the center is where the action will be. It must be. What else would a rotating platform be used for in the middle of what is clearly going to be an orgy? As Olga said it would be, it is beautifully lit. I wonder if I’ll make it up there at some point.

  This party is already well underway. There are probably a hundred or so guests. The workers quickly scatter. Our arrival is an escalation.

  I walk around with Olga for a few minutes. She keeps a professional distance. I learn a few things as we meander. The red-metallic hostesses run the party. They are our conduits to the guests. They make certain we aren’t monopolized. One of the guests gets too comfortable with us, they might not want to let us go. We make our money going from client to client. A client wants to keep us for the whole four hours then we get paid for only one client.

  I thought we were getting a flat fee.

  We are. But we get bonus money for servicing clients.

  A red-hued hostess beckons to Olga.

  I move to follow, but she brushes me away. She needs to work and so do I.

  She walks off to where the hostess is sitting with a trio of white middle-aged men dressed in togas. They welcome Olga with applause and hearty guffaws. Piggy bastards.

  I wander. I mingle. I have no idea what the hell to do. I go to the bar. I ask for well iced vodka.

  The bartender leans in drawing me close.

  What the fuck? I should know workers aren’t supposed to drink. I’m not a guest.

  One of the cocktail waitresses who looks like she was plucked out of the main casino in Caesar’s leans into me as she picks up a tray of drinks. If I need water go around to the building where the workers take their breaks. That hostess seems to be gesturing for me.

  I look as a hostess approaches me.

  She has a catch for me. (American – the accent is a dead giveaway) A good one. What’s my name?

  Marcus Antonius.

  Don’t bullshit her. Just because she’s working the party doesn’t mean she’s an idiot.

  James.

  They’re here for all three nights. I’d better tip her well if they like me. She has tuition to pay.

  I will. Does she have a name?

  Octavia Minor.

  I deserve that.

  On one of her couches is a man I recognize. Not because I know him, but because everyone knows him. Another celebrity who likes the world to believe he is straight, but in reality is totally queer and everyone knows it. The Actor and his pretty beard wife are on the couch. They are off to the side in a secluded area. If they try to get me to join their freaky cult, I quit.

  I join them on the couch after a few introductions. Octavia leaves for another of her couches after establishing I am what they are looking for. There are condoms and lube prominently on display.

  There really isn’t much small t
alk. They tell me what they want as if they are ordering from a menu. The wife wants a good seeing to.

  I can do this.

  It really turns her on to see her husband getting blown.

  I can do that too.

  Not that he likes to be blown, it just turns her on.

  I get it. We’re all good. Would it help if I said that I’m not gay but I really like to get fucked by a man on occasion?

  Exactly. The Actor gives me a smile.

  Only a man can really give it to another man. It’s not a sexuality thing, it’s a physical thing.

  Finally someone that gets it.

  I get it all right. I have a few clients that aren’t gay. They just like a good fucking.

  The Actor is first. I see that this man could potentially be a very good client. Every time Olga has blown me has been a lesson in how to get it done. I’ve learned her tricks. My tongue curls and stiffens. I use it like a swirling stick. He’s not very big. This makes my job much easier. I can take more into my mouth and manipulate it more readily. He climaxes fairly rapidly.

  I move on to the wife.

  I give her exactly what she wants. A truly good seeing to. She frantically rubs against me. This pretty woman is so twitchingly sexually frustrated she can’t even slow down enough to enjoy being fucked.

  The Actor’s hand runs across the curve of my ass as I’m banging his wife. His fingers draw lines down my thigh.

  She’s done. I pull away from her before I reach the point that I need to continue. If I can avoid climaxing I will.

  After, there is some stroking and touching.

  Octavia the hostess comes for me. She hates to pull me away, but there are others just itching to meet me.

  I’ll be here every night. I give The Actor a smile and a wink before walking off.

  The rotating platform in the pagoda is occupied. The multihued lighting creates shadows and mystery. Avan I know immediately. The platform turns. Olga and another woman. The three of them are engaged in sexual gymnastics brought to life previously for me in a copy of the Kama Sutra in the library back home. Beautiful book. Leather bound. Brought back from India by my great-grandfather. I can’t look. I really can’t.

  I’m brought to the Servant. Octavia the hostess confirms two. One was intercourse. Vaginal.

  My left arm is given three stamps only visible under black light.

  Octavia brings me to the next client. A Japanese man that wants to fuck me. Octavia stays with us. She puts the condom on him as I get on elbows and knees. I can only presume Octavia is the one that lubes me up before the man’s stereotypically diminutive penis works me.

  As this occurs I make a mental list. I need books. I need black shoe laces. I need… And we’re done.

  Octavia moves me along back to the Servant.

  Received anal sex. Four stamps.

  A new hostess comes and takes me from Octavia. There is some mild quarreling between the two before I go with the new girl. When I have twenty stamps on my arm, the Servant tells me the Samurai wants me. I am brought to her.

  She is in the curtained dais as I suspected she might be.

  I sit as instructed.

  She stands in front of me. She wears a turban like a sultan and a black robe. She opens her robe. She’s bare underneath. Her small cock hard. Her breasts tiny and nicely pointed.

  Do I still find her wondrous?

  Yes.

  Did I see Avan and Olga on the platform?

  I didn’t notice.

  They are very beautiful together.

  She would like to see me on the platform. But not at that moment. She would like to spend some time with me.

  Does she want me to touch her?

  No. She doesn’t do that.

  She’s going to have to excuse what is truly an embarrassing level of ignorance on my part, but I assumed – never a good thing do to – that she could enjoy herself physically.

  She can. She just prefers to do some things privately.

  We’re private. No one can see what is happening behind the sheer curtains of the dais.

  She takes hold of herself as she stands in front of me. Do I want to touch her?

  Yes.

  Why?

  Because I am very sexually attracted to her.

  Because I like boys?

  She’s not a boy. She’s a fully grown adult.

  Do I like boys?

  No.

  I told her I like everything and everyone.

  I draw the line at pedophilia if that’s what she’s implying.

  Have I ever been raped or molested?

  No.

  Why am I a prostitute? Do I have some sordid sexual history?

  Not really. I’ll admit I’ve gotten around a bit. But I was never molested.

  (I am not going to discuss these things with this woman at this party whilst she is standing before me pointing her erect penis at me. Yes – I have had things happen to me. Unpleasant things I make a choice not to dwell on. Are these the things that have driven me to prostitution? Not really. But then again, I don’t know. What if I hadn’t seen my parents having sex? Or what if that jackass Booth Buxton hadn’t tried to molest me at school? What if my grandfather hadn’t fucked with my head when I was a confused fourteen year old? Maybe these things have pushed me into prostitution. Would I be able to do what I’m doing if I really were totally together when it came to my sexuality? I really don’t like how the Samurai gets into my head.)

  If I touch myself, she’ll touch herself.

  Okay.

  We masturbate whilst watching the other like a couple of curious but timid teenagers.

  For the first time in the evening I achieve climax and ejaculate into my fist.

  When she is finished and her robe is secured, I’m invited to leave.

  That’s it?

  She holds open the curtain for me. That’s it.

  I return to the party.

  A new hostess takes me to a couch. I don’t even really remember what was required of me. Taking it up the ass I think. No. Blow. Blow. Up the ass. Blow.

  I don’t make it to the platform.

  With the sound of a gong, the party ends abruptly. Like a car crash. One minute there is a party. The next the guests are being told the party is over. Everyone is to go to their own rooms. The doors we entered the garden through are open. Olga takes my hand and we move.

  We are back in the well lit room we were inspected in. All of us are looking a bit worse for the wear after four hours of fucking.

  Olga whispers to me that we wait.

  The Servant enters the room with two of his flunkies.

  One by one he holds a black light over our left arms. The number of glowing stamps are counted. A note is made by the first flunky. The second flunky pays out cash.

  I make more than Olga even though she has more stamps. My guess is that it’s a numbers game and in some circumstances men are more valuable than woman. This being one of them. Day to day work there is more demand for the ladies. But when it comes to getting a lot of boys together there needs to be more of an incentive.

  She waits at the door for me. We hold hands as we walk back to our room.

  When the door is locked behind us, we go straight for the bathroom. Her hair is piled up and a scoop of cream is smeared over her face. Some blue liquid is poured on cotton wool. She comes at me with it.

  What is that shit?

  Eye makeup remover. I did really well.

  One question. Why did I make more per stamp than her?

  She has no idea. Everyone should have made the same per stamp. But clearly the Samurai likes me. He does have his favorites.

  We get into the shower. I wash her back, massage her shoulders, and kiss her neck. After stepping out I dry her off with a large towel.

  We both just want sleep. Comfortable, long, hibernating, sleep.

  She sets the alarm clock after putting on panties and a camisole. I find my pajama pants and t-shirt under the pillow right wh
ere I left it. We get into bed. I reach over her and turn off the light. Goodnight.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Pompeii

  The confrontation with my father in the corridor leaves me anxious. I never censure my parents’ behavior. I accept it as a matter of course. They could just leave me. I don’t know that they would, but I imagine that they could. I was too bold. Too cheeky. I wasn’t my usual well behaved self. I was mouthy and rude. My grandmother would be very cross with me. I lay in my bed and imagine what I need to do to get home. This is how I fall asleep sometime in the middle of the night.

  The next morning I’m up early and dressed as I normally am. I consider going to my parents’ cabin and asking their permission to go to Pompeii on my own. But I’m not wholly certain where their cabin is. Or the nanny’s. That and I don’t want to be banished back to the Kidz Club.

  There is a knock on my door. Room service. I’ve learned rapidly. I am nothing if not a master of taking care of myself. If I want breakfast that isn’t a Bounty and a Coke, I need to sort myself out. The Dominican man named Smiley, who is my room steward leaves a fill-in card that, if I hang it on my door before midnight, equals breakfast in the morning. He also folds my towels into shapes – a lobster, a swan, a chimp, a peacock. It’s like origami. I find it intriguing. I’ve taken pictures of each. I think Mrs. Gresham will like this. I wonder if I can convince her to turn my towels into an elephant.

  Dad’s at the door. He’s dressed in chinos and a polo shirt. I was unaware that he was capable of being up before noon.

  What does he want?

  Good morning is a more appropriate greeting.

  Good morning. What does he want? I thought he was breakfast. Where is my breakfast? I look past him and down the hall.

  We’re going to go to Pompeii. Together. Just the two of us. If we hurry we can get breakfast. Don’t I have a window?

  No. I do not have a window. Does he have mum’s permission or is she in their room chucking the perfume at the wall? Where is their room anyhow? Or is it a secret?