Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Five

by Livia Ellis

  Do I really like golf?

  I do. Can I go with her? It’ll be fun. We can stop along the way. Spend the night at some ridiculous frou-frou guest house and fuck like mad all night so the following morning no one can look at us in the breakfast room.

  I am incorrigible. Do I really want to go with her?

  No. But I can’t bear to be separated from her. If she leaves me my heart will break.

  My heart will not break without her. We’ve known each other two days. Somehow she thinks I’ll survive.

  Is she really willing to take that risk?

  Twenty-five years old. Why can’t I at least be thirty?

  She’ll be the envy of all of her girlfriends.

  Clearly I have never met any of her friends. Pack a bag. Get my golf clubs.

  I don’t really play golf. I just want to be with her.

  The amazing thing about this conversation is that I am the one that is convinced. I want to be with her. I want to drive to Aberdeen. I want to stop at ridiculous frou-frou inns and make loud passionate love to her. Which is what we do. She remains skeptical. She’s the one that takes convincing. But once I’ve got her, she’s mine.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Truth About Harold

  I am brought to the Samurai. She sits at a tri-mirrored vanity table grooming herself. She is wearing a wig. Long black hair hangs down her back. I don’t know if her chosen hair purposely copies Olga’s or if she simply selected a style that would be typical for a young Japanese woman.

  It doesn’t matter. She looks adorable in the camisole and boy shorts she’s wearing.

  Just like what Olga is wearing. Except the color. Olga is prancing around in white. The Samurai is wearing pink.

  The door closes behind me. We are alone.

  Do I think she looks pretty? She looks at me through the reflection as she holds a pair of tweezers to a perfectly arched eyebrow.

  Yes.

  Am I saying that because I’m being paid to say that? (She pouts a little. The hair is no accident. She’s pretending to be Olga. This annoys me. She is not Olga. She is herself. Which is beautiful.)

  I find her question disappointing. I thought she thought better of me than that.

  I am still being paid to be nice to her. What if I didn’t think she looked pretty? What would I say then?

  I would still say she looked pretty. I don’t see a point in being unkind to someone that needs a compliment.

  She puts the tweezers down. She turns and looks at me directly. Why don’t I make love to Olga when we are alone in our room?

  Because I don’t feel like it. Is that what she wants? Is she still watching us? (clearly she is – turning herself out like Olga’s Asian doppelganger is no coincidence.)

  Sometimes.

  We must be boring the tears out of her.

  Olga masturbated when I was in the shower.

  I actually didn’t need to know that.

  Does Olga realize there are cameras in the room?

  No. (Lie – Olga knows very well there are cameras in the room. Everything she does in that room is by design.)

  She liked watching Olga masturbate.

  Did she?

  She puts her feet up on the vanity (she demonstrates for me – one foot on each side of the table – her legs open wide, but her panties covering her secret. There is a small bulge that beckons me.) She slides her hand in her panties.

  Olga slides her panties down and touches herself. She also lifted her top and touched a breast.

  She’s not Olga.

  She wishes she was Olga. Olga sits around in her panties. Don’t I think that’s sexy?

  I do. In fact I rather enjoy that she also seems to like sitting around in her underpants. I find it very sexy.

  If I find it sexy then why are we bickering so much? Why won’t we have sex?

  Because I don’t feel like it. We’ve been cooped up in the room. We can’t get out. We can’t even go to the garden. Quite honestly I’m bored and I don’t feel like it and probably neither does Olga.

  But she masturbated.

  I jerked off in the shower. Didn’t she catch that in her video surveillance?

  She did. She liked to watch me do that.

  I’m sure she did.

  Why did I do that when Olga was in the other room?

  Masturbation is a totally different kind of sex. Sometimes taking care of business on your own is preferable. Right now I’m pretty annoyed with Olga.

  What did she do?

  Nothing. I’m just sick of being around her.

  Her parents forced doctors to give her hormone shots for years. When she was a teenager she went to a gynecologist. She didn’t tell them. It was a secret. She went into a bathroom and changed out of her uniform and into a dress. It was lovely. So free. She felt like a real girl. At the appointment the doctor told her to be good, go home, and listen to her parents. They knew what was best for her. Then he called her parents and told them that she had come to him. He was afraid they would find out he saw her.

  That’s horrible.

  Eventually they gave up on the shots. But she had to agree to stay in the compound. She’s been there ever since.

  How long?

  Ten years? Maybe. No. Eleven years.

  Eleven years since she’s been outside of the walls?

  Yes. Does that surprise me?

  A little bit yes.

  The world comes to her. She is given whatever she wants as long as she agrees to let the world believe she is a man.

  An eccentric man.

  Yes. One with peculiar tastes.

  Yes.

  What happened with Harold?

  I can leave.

  I don’t think so. What happened with Harold? I’d really like to know from her and not from Olga or the Matchmaker.

  She’s not going to discuss this. (she takes her legs down from the vanity as she removes her hand from her tiny penis. I can see an erection pushing at the fabric of her panties.)

  What the fuck happened with Harold? Because he’s telling a lot of people a lot of stuff that probably isn’t true and I’d like to know.

  She didn’t try to rape him.

  Clearly.

  She just wanted to have sex with him.

  That’s all?

  That’s all. She made a mistake with him. With me she took her time. Told me what she was like. Showed me. With him she just thought it would be okay. He took her gifts. He seemed to like to be around her. She thought he knew she was a woman.

  What happened?

  She just wanted him to stay. To understand. I understand. Don’t I?

  I understand.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  History Repeats Itself

  My parents very nearly don’t make it to my engagement party. My fiancée and I set the date of the party for February. We’re getting married in the summer. She is keen as my grandmother predicted.

  A week before the party I get a call from my mother. She’s only just gotten the invitation. They were in Argentina. They’re in Los Angeles. They won’t be returning to England at least until May. The date of the party clashes with previous commitment. Is there no chance we can switch weekends? Something in May or June maybe? If I really must insist they could probably manage to get back in April, but it will be just such an inconvenience.

  For reasons that are beyond my comprehension, I want my parents at my engagement party. I ask my fiancée if we can change the date.

  She gestures for the phone, which I hand her. She will speak with my mother. Which she does. Briefly and to the point. Her answer is firm and final. We will not be changing the date. If they cannot make it the party will go on without them. She is very serious. Yes. It would be odd if my mother wasn’t present at my engagement party. No. She will not change the date. She truly hopes they understand each other. Good. She truly does hope they can make it. As fabulous as a Valentine’s party in the Seychelles sounds, some things are more important. The phone
is put down. She won’t let them hurt me again. She won’t. She loves me. She won’t let them hurt me.

  The night of my engagement party my parents make an appearance. My mother is put out. My father has had twenty-five years of her shit and as a result of her pathologic need to be the center of his universe, no discernible relationship with his son. He looks good. She looks older. Tired.

  Dad keeps trying to corner me so we can have a word together.

  I have no interest in a chat with him. Maybe some other time. He gave up the right to have a chat with me on demand when I was eleven.

  I’m nervous and fidgety. I feel like a groom even though that’s still a few months off. Granddad helps me with my tie.

  Dad finally gets me later in the evening during the dancing and after the toasts. Granddad did the honors. As was his right. I’m okay with him catching me now. I was worried he wanted to pretend to be my father and give the toast which blessed my forthcoming marriage.

  He hoped I would ask him to give a toast.

  I just look at him and don’t respond for a long moment. Just don’t go there and when the wedding comes around please try not to make things awkward. It’s not the moment for us to start playing at happy families for show. No one is going to buy it and it might make my fiancée uncomfortable.

  We need to talk.

  About?

  Elon. He knows I’m in love with Elon and that I have been for years. Either I can talk to him about it there or we can talk about it in private.

  Oh my god. He is not serious. Of all of the times and the places. This is not it.

  Do not marry this girl if I’m in love with someone else. I don’t have to live a lie to please my grandfather. I can be who I am and not be ashamed. The world has changed. I can be gay if I want to be gay.

  Oh my god. He is serious. I don’t even know what to say. The only thing I can say is that he doesn’t know what he is talking about. The thing with Elon was basically a bit a collegiate experimentation. I love Elon, but not like that. I want to get married and have children. I like girls. I like boys too, but I also like girls. I’m not sacrificing a slice of my identity by making a choice to marry. He needs to understand that I am not my grandfather. He also needs to know that he has stepped way over the line. This is none of his concern. Not even a little.

  He’s worried about me.

  This is surreal. What does he want? Really. Other than to offend me and potentially cause my fiancée embarrassment by his inaccurate assumptions?

  Lunch. Once a week. He and mum are moving to London. Permanently. He’s done with the constant traveling. He’s had enough of it. He wants to be settled.

  Mum actually agrees to this?

  She’s a grown woman. If she wants to keep chasing the never ending party, she can be his guest. He’s had enough of it. He’s had time to reflect since my birthday party.

  That was not my birthday party. That was his and mum’s anniversary party. Let’s just keep that straight.

  Lunch. Once a week. It’s not much, but maybe he can make up for some lost time.

  Twenty-five years wouldn’t be enough time to make up for lost time. I am sorry. I really am. I always think back to that wretched family holiday we took years ago. Maybe our relationship was still salvageable then, but that ship has long sailed. Pardon the pun.

  I can’t even imagine how many regrets he has from those ten days.

  Did mum ever get to Capri? I’ve always felt terrible about how she didn’t get her way. Heartbreaking really. Poor mummy. We both know how giving she is, never asking for a thing for herself.

  That’s not really necessary. She was very young when she had me and still had a lot of growing up to do.

  I am curious about one thing. That Swedish nanny. I get now that was no nanny but rather a live sex toy the two of you had with you for your holidays. Were the two of you swingers? Still are maybe?

  If not respect, a bit of consideration would be appreciated. I’m still his son.

  Actually no. He signed that right over to my granddad before walking out on me. Or is he going to blame that one on my mother too?

  That was his choice. He’s regretted it ever since.

  I’m really sick of hearing about all of his regrets. I really am. He regrets everything yet does nothing to make amends. Is there nothing he doesn’t regret? Is there no moment he doesn’t wish he’d done differently? At what point does he stop creating new regrets and learn from the old ones?

  My twenty-fifth birthday. That was the moment he realized it might be too late. He didn’t realize I actually hated him.

  I don’t hate him. I was just angry. I shouldn’t have said that. The truth is I am indifferent to him most of the time. In fact I don’t even think about him. Truthfully when they’re not in front of me I don’t remember they exist. More than hating him, I think he should truly be saddened by the fact he is so meaningless to me. That’s much worse than hate. I should know. My own parents have been indifferent at the best of times to me.

  Lunch. Once a week. Once a month. That’s all he wants.

  I’m really busy. I’ll see what I can do, but I just don’t think we can set up anything regular. Maybe after the wedding. Maybe not. We might be moving to Hong Kong for a while. We’ve just bought a flat in London that requires more than one shopping trip to Italy to buy furniture to fill. Things are just in transit at the moment. I just can’t commit myself.

  He’s hurt. Deeply hurt. Not that he says so. But I can see it in his face. And I like it. Finally I am capable of inflicting the sort of pain that he was incapable of shielding me from. I hope it bleeds.

  He’s going to need to excuse me. Nice chatting. Please keep his fucking mouth shut about the Elon thing. He couldn’t be more wrong. And do me a favor. If he and mum are coming to the wedding, make sure she wears something more appropriate. I’m not happy about the fact her fucking tits are hanging out. My fiancée hasn’t said anything but I know she finds it appalling that my mother is dressed like a Russian prostitute at her engagement party.

  I’m elated and empowered as I walk away from my father. I’ve wounded him to the core. I have denied him my love and my affection and any promise that we might one day be a proper father and son at last. I have waited years for this moment. He has come to me offering his hand and I have slapped it away. The circle is complete. He is now the one that needs me and I shall forever remain out of his grasp.

  I catch Elon’s eye as I pass him on my way to the toilets. Elon follows me. He discretely slips into the toilet behind me. I lock the door. That lesson learned years earlier.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  First Times

  I’ve never had sex with a virgin. I haven’t.

  I’m grumpy as I lay on the bed. I feel like an idiot.

  What the fuck is my problem?

  Nothing. (The Samurai is a virgin. She wants me to be her first. I should not go there. I shouldn’t. I should tell her to find a boyfriend. A real boyfriend. I already have a tendency to get overly involved.)

  How did she lose her virginity?

  Mind my own fucking business. How did I lose my virginity?

  Mind her own fucking business.

  Stop being such a little bitch and tell her.

  I am never sharing a room with her for this long again. I’m not. I swear I won’t.

  It wouldn’t be so bad if we weren’t locked up like caged animals. She is never agreeing to this again. We should have left when we had the chance.

  This isn’t normal?

  Not even a little. She’s come to expect that things will always be a little weird when she comes here, but this time it’s all very weird. So it has to be my fault.

  How so?

  I’m the new variable.

  Good point.

  So? How did I lose my virginity?

  How did she lose her virginity?

  She sold it for five-hundred-thousand euros in an auction.

  No really.

  That’s
the truth and she doesn’t want to talk about it. So?

  I was fourteen and a chalet girl took a fancy to me when I was on a ski trip in Switzerland with my family.

  She thought all of my family holidays were shit.

  When my grandmother was present to take care of me they were generally really good. My parents just needed to be free to act like a couple of fucking adolescents and not be saddled with the responsibility of a child. Did she really sell her virginity in an auction?

  Yes.

  What did she do with the money?

  Mind my own business. She’s had enough. She’s going to get us a hotel in Kyoto. There is really something wrong with going to Japan and not getting any shopping done. We’re getting out of here. We’re not prisoners. Start packing my bags.

  No. Could she please stop trying to manage my life for me?

  Someone needs to considering what a shit pile I’ve made of it.

  Bite me. Can I use the laptop?

  Whatever.

  I check my email after she enters the secret password.

  I have four!!!URGENT!!! messages. One from Uncle Harvey. One from Elon. One from Aunt Lucy. One from Mrs. Gresham. My mother has been admitted to the hospital.

  I need a telephone.

  I get up from the bed and go to the door. It’s locked. The door is fucking locked from the outside. I pick up the phone next to the bed.

  Olga is reading the emails. She’s going to try to contact Elon.

  Do that.

  I get a footman on the phone. I must have a telephone to call outside the compound.

  He will speak with the Servant.

  No. Not good enough…

  The phone goes dead.

  Unbelievable.

  I put my shoes on. The door is made from paper and spindly wood. The lock is symbolic. My foot goes right through the frame.

  Olga yelps a little as she looks up from the screen. She says nothing about the door. If she can’t get Elon she’ll try to get my Aunt Lucy.

  I nod then go through the door.

  I’m stopped by the Servant who is rushing down the hall.

  What have I done? I will pay for such an outrage.

  I need a phone and I need it now.