Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Five

by Livia Ellis

  When I go to bed that night I’m happy. Mum, Aunt Lucy and Uncle Harvey remain in the kitchen talking. I can hear their voices through the wall but I can’t really make out what they’re saying. The next morning we decide that we’ll stay another night, which in the end becomes a long weekend. On the train back home we laugh constantly about Uncle Harvey and his cherub wings. We’re both too horrified to directly refer to the way his stomach folded over his genitalia. But we both know what the other means when we reference the stomach.

  At home when we have dinner with dad and the grandparents in the China Room they refuse to believe us. Not even Harvey would be so lewd.

  That is a good memory.

  Olga agrees with me. That is a good memory. Tell her another good memory. I must have another.

  I have others. The day I got my pony and dad actually managed to get mum on a horse. The day I graduated from Trinity. When mum asked no questions when I needed cash to pay for the aftermath of not using a condom and believing Renata when she told me she was on birth control. The day of my grandmother’s funeral when mum held my hand during the service. There are plenty of good memories. They’d just been overshadowed by the bad. In fact, there are more good memories than bad ones. But this is the way of memories. One bad outweighs a dozen good.

  I spend large chunks of the flight relating the happy stories from my childhood. When we land twelve hours later, I’m exhausted but I have my head on straight for perhaps the first time ever when it comes to what my relationship with my mother was really like. I’m not a child anymore. I’m able to look at my mother with objectivity.

  When she was bad, she was a real bitch. But most of the time she was all right. She just wasn’t cut out to be a mother. And she knew it. As I got older she was better able to deal with me on terms she understood. But by then I wasn’t having it. The seeds of understanding are sown during that flight. It won’t be until I’m a father – especially a father of teenagers – that I really get it.

  There are worse parents than mine. They didn’t beat me. They made sure I was well cared for. I fixed my relationship with dad before he died. I still have time to fix it with mum.

  As for the job, we don’t discuss it. We don’t need to. I get it at last. There need to be boundaries. I can do the job. I’m sure of it now. I will never allow myself to get befuddled by a client like that again. I have passed the first real test. I’ve crossed a threshold. I will never be the same again and there is no going back to who I was before. I may not be a master, but I am no longer a novice.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Happy Halloween Oliver

  We land in Paris and go directly to the house where the mandatory Halloween party is in progress.

  The taxi driver is a lunatic Russian with a death wish. Olga shouts at him in their shared mother tongue until he drives with a measure of sanity.

  The house is beautiful. The décor is appropriately themed for Halloween. We are given a room together. Olga and Ollie. Joined at the hip. I don’t mind anymore. I don’t fight this anymore. She has once again rescued me from my own hubris. At least this time I think I’ve learned.

  Olga has to leave. Body paint. She doesn’t hate body paint, but it’s going to take days for her to get it all off.

  I take her in my arms, kiss her, and then promise her I’ll help her get the hard to reach spots.

  She kisses me back.

  Just so we’re clear, we are not working this party. When we go to bed tonight it is alone and only with each other.

  That’s fine.

  She kisses me again. She’ll find me at the party. She leaves.

  I have my phone back. I’m not handing my phone over to anyone again. I will not cut myself off from the outside world again. Mum’s available for video chat.

  I look good. She loves these chats. How is Kyoto?

  I’m in Paris now.

  Really? I do get around. How long am I in Paris?

  A week. Maybe. I don’t know yet. I need a few days after Kyoto. I think I might just get a hotel room and disappear with Olga.

  Sounds ideal. Olga is lovely by the way. I could have told her I had a girlfriend.

  It sort of happened in Kyoto. I’ll bring her along the next time we have lunch.

  Please do!

  I don’t want to upset her. I really don’t. But I need to understand something. What happened on that cruise she made me take with her and dad? Even she has to recognize something was really wrong.

  She doesn’t want to talk about that.

  I know. But I need to know. She wasn’t herself. I just need to know. I don’t want to upset her. But it’s something that has always colored our relationship.

  She’d had a miscarriage a week before we left.

  I’m speechless. I’m stunned into silence.

  What should she say? This is what happened. She’d had a miscarriage a week before we left. She wanted to cancel, but dad insisted we go. He didn’t want to disappoint me again.

  My mouth moves, but nothing comes out.

  They were going to tell me on the boat that I was going to have a little sister. She was nearly five months along. She knew she was having a girl. They were going to name her Martha after her mother. What do I want her to say? It was horrific. The last thing she wanted at that moment was to go on a holiday. She couldn’t look at me. All she could see was the baby that would never be. A little girl with my father’s green eyes and brown hair.

  Mummy, I had no idea.

  She knows. She and dad made a decision that it was best not to tell me. They didn’t want me to be disappointed when I found out I would never have a little sister or brother. Maybe they should have told me. I was eleven.

  Why didn’t they try again?

  It wasn’t possible. There was too much damage.

  Maybe a baby would have helped.

  Physical damage. She couldn’t get pregnant again. The truth is it was just really hard for a long time after that. She’s made mistakes. She owns this.

  I’m sorry I made her talk about this.

  No! No! Actually she feels good. She’s glad we talked about this. In fact she feels really good. A weight has been lifted from her.

  Can I ask her one thing? What was the deal with that nanny?

  Oh her. That woman was no nanny. She was a last minute decision. Dad actually thought we could manage if we had someone to watch over me when she needed time to rest or just be peaceful.

  So they weren’t swingers?

  What?! Mum laughs loudly. Oliver! What kind of question is that?! And honestly – would I really want to know if they were? Not that she’s saying they were, but really… what kind of question is that?

  I made her laugh. I made her smile. My lovely mummy has roses in her pale cheeks. I grieve for my little sister Martha that I never had, that would have inherited her beauty. She would be seventeen and need me desperately. Our mummy is dying. I probably would have made different decisions if I knew I had her depending on me.

  More like I’ve shocked her! Swingers indeed! I am cheeky. Don’t forget she’s a woman with a heart condition. How was Kyoto? Am I working too hard? I look tired and more than just jetlagged. Was I at least able to get out on occasion and enjoy myself?

  I’m working quite hard. I had a bit of a dilemma. I was asked to do something that I maybe shouldn’t have done.

  Was it part of the job?

  It was.

  Was it illegal or unethical?

  No. I gave the client exactly what she paid for.

  Did it involve shoveling shit or digging trenches?

  Not at all.

  I’ve never had a job before. I need to learn that sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do simply because we’re being paid to do them. When she worked at Boots they made her…

  Stop. She worked at Boots?

  Yes. Didn’t she ever tell me that?

  No.

  She worked at Boots for about a year before she met dad.

&n
bsp; I thought she was a model.

  She was. She also had to work at Boots. London is expensive even for a girl sharing a flat with four other girls. This is where she met dad. He was shopping for bandages. He’d cut his finger trying to open a Thompson Twins cassette.

  She’s lying! They met at a party. Besides, dad would never have listened to Thompson Twins.

  No, she’s not lying. Seriously. She met dad when she was working at Boots. He just preferred to tell people they met through friends at a party. And he loved Thompson Twins.

  Why am I only hearing this now? I can’t stop laughing. I can’t. Tears are rolling down my cheeks. I would almost prefer they were swingers. Dad loved Thompson Twins. I won’t believe it.

  He really had horrendous taste in music. I was conceived in the back of his car after a Culture Club concert he made her go to.

  I do not need to know this. No child needs to know where he was conceived.

  That’s what I get for the swingers comment. I am so much like my dad. I probably like that horrible Bieber boy.

  I do not. Why is she telling me this now? She should have told me all of this years ago.

  She never really thought about it.

  Why not tell me? Dad’s gone. My grandparents are gone. It’s just us now. I’m right. There are things I could understand better. When I’m home we’ll talk more. Maybe she’ll tell me why she was such a raging bitch at my engagement party.

  I’d actually like to know what happened there.

  That ought to be good for a laugh or two. And by the way, her tits were not hanging out of her dress. I’d just spent too much time with that prudish bitch I was going to marry.

  She really wasn’t that bad.

  How can I possibly defend her?

  I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t. I wasn’t exactly a saint. There’s plenty of blame to go around.

  Let’s just say she’s very happy I didn’t marry my former fiancée. What a little bitch.

  I have to go. I have a thing I need to get to and Olga is probably waiting on me.

  Olga is beautiful and has a kind heart. These are the things that matter. She knows my grandparents gave me different ideas, but at the end of the day I need to be with someone that loves me unconditionally and not someone that is only going to make a good countess and knows how to inventory the linens and marmalade.

  I know. I’ll talk to her soon. After we’ve gotten settled.

  She blows me a kiss.

  I shower and change. I’m stopped by one of the Party Planner’s staff and directed to the costuming room.

  The costumer is a fussy young woman that takes her job a hair too serious.

  I’m the new boy? James?

  I suppose I am.

  The Vicomte wants me to wear something very special. I’m shown what is in essence a very skimpy loin cloth. The Vicomte would like for me to come to the party as Tarzan.

  Over my cold lifeless body.

  But…

  No. Are all of the guests required to wear costumes?

  I’m not a guest. I’m a worker.

  Am I now?

  I really won’t wear the loincloth?

  Not ever.

  She offers me a selection of alternative costumes. I can be a pirate, a Spartan, a fighter pilot, a sexy zombie (huh?), Zorro, Robin Hood, the Grim Reaper, a foxy Viking warrior, a vampire…

  Stop. I’ll take that.

  The costumer starts gathering pieces. A cape (black silk lined with purple velvet) is offered to me. I refuse. I’m done wearing costumes. I take the pointy plastic teeth and slip them into my mouth. I give the costumer a smile. I’m a vampire. Just like that pasty twit in those freaky Mormon vampire books (note to self – I will NEVER forgive Olga for making me try to read that bullshit – next time we travel anywhere I’ll bring my own books).

  But…

  I slip the teeth out of my mouth and drop them into my trouser pocket. Fuck off.

  I walk away and into the party.

  I travel from room to room.

  In the music room I find people I know. Talitha, Elizabeth and Mi Young.

  Someone I don’t know confronts me. Harold.

  He knows who I am. He wants his shit back.

  This is neither the time nor the place…

  Don’t give him that fucking uppity English bullshit. He wants his shit back. He knows I’ve moved into his bedroom. He wants his shit back.

  This is not my decision.

  We both know what he left behind in that room and he fucking wants it back.

  He’ll need to discuss this with the Matchmaker.

  Talitha and Elizabeth are going to pack his shit and send it to him. Do not fucking try to stop them.

  I’m not having this discussion with him.

  He gives me a poke in the shoulder.

  There is no temptation to punch him. I’m better than him and we both know it. I do what a gentleman would do and I simply walk away.

  I wander aimlessly looking for Olga.

  Two men practically accost me. The Vicomte and his lackey The Banker. I must be the new boy. The one with the cock. Why am I not wearing the costume that was chosen special just for me?

  Because I possess a modicum of dignity.

  OHHHHH!!!! We are proud! Take off my clothes.

  No.

  I must. He insists. I must do as he says. I’m being paid to do as I’m told.

  Actually no. I was told I was a guest. I’m not working. If he wants me to leave, I’ll leave. Happily and willingly. But I’m off the clock.

  He’ll give me five-thousand euros to wear the loin cloth.

  I wouldn’t do it for fifty.

  The two mutter to each other as I stand wondering what might come next. Curiosity roots me to my spot.

  Would I really do it for fifty?

  I said I wouldn’t do it for fifty.

  They confer again.

  Would I be willing to take my clothing off for five?

  Ten. And no touching.

  They’ll take it.

  Cash?

  It’ll be delivered to my room in the morning.

  It better be. Well? I’m not dropping my trousers in the middle of a hallway for them? Some privacy please.

  We go to a room that is locked. Inside is an office. I take off my clothes. They stare at me for a good ten minutes. There is a lot of muttering between them.

  The Vicomte clears his throat. They would like me to masturbate for them.

  That wasn’t part of the deal.

  They’ll give me another ten.

  I grab my lad and do what I’ve been doing so very well on my own since I was twelve. I avert my eyes as the Banker allows spurting cum to splatter all over his face.

  Judging is not my thing, but there is something about these two that just gives me the creeps. I can’t get out of that room fast enough.

  I stop at one of several bars I pass along the way and get the biggest glass of well iced vodka available.

  I end up in an atrium where there is a group performing various sexual acts on a platform.

  Is this what we looked like as we did our thing for the Samurai and her guests? I suppose it is. I’m not doing that again. I’m not. I’m going to make different choices going forward.

  The Matchmaker finds me.

  What happened in Japan? Why did we stay so long?

  We can discuss it later. I made a judgment call that was probably bad.

  Is it going to cost her business?

  On the contrary – the Samurai wants to make me her personal geisha.

  Her?

  Did she know the Samurai was intersex?

  What?

  Intersex. A hermaphrodite.

  She knows what intersex means. What am I talking about?

  The Samurai is intersex. Olga does not know this. In fact, I would appreciate it if she kept it to herself.

  Absolutely. This is between us. In fact, why am I telling her?

  I know what really happened with
Harold. The Samurai wanted him to actually have intercourse with her. He flipped out. Threatened to tell anyone that would listen that she was a freak if she made trouble for him.

  That little prick. He’s here.

  I know. Just so she knows, I’m not working any more parties. I’m not into it. I prefer more intimate settings.

  She thought that might be the case. She wants to introduce me to a few people. Top shelf clients. The sort of people who value discretion and will pay for it.

  Sounds ideal.

  I meet the Footballer and the Sheik. These are the sort of clients I want. Wealthy men that demand absolute discretion. These two plus the Latin Pop Star might be all I need to rebuild a nest egg during my search for a wife. We will be in contact.

  Olga finds me. She’s a storm cloud or a shadow. I don’t know. She’s shimmering gray from head to foot.

  I tell her about the Vicomte and the Banker. She finds them as creepy as I do.

  She’s booked us over New Year’s. The Billionaire and His Wife. Their chalet in Davos. Just the four of us. This pleases me. These are the sort of clients I want us to have.

  Her body drapes over mine. She takes possession of me and makes me virtually inaccessible to the other guests. I don’t care. I only want to be with her. But I am enjoying the couple on the platform. I won’t ever work one of these parties again, but I might enjoy being on the guest list.

  It’s been a week or more since I’ve made love to her. She practically starts rubbing against me in anticipation. Would I have imagined there was ever a circumstance in which I fingered my girlfriend in public? Yes girlfriend – I am a man that has accepted there are some things I cannot fight and Olga’s absolute determination to slot herself into that role is one of them. She stood her ground and won. If nothing else I am capable of admitting I cannot withstand her onslaught a moment longer. I want a girlfriend and she’s a big girl. I’ve been totally honest with her. When it’s over between us she knows it’s over.

  She’s wet and slick as my fingers slide over her smooth sex.

  Her hand reaches for my zipper, but I’m not into it. Not there. I want us to be alone before I pull my dick out again.