Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Two

by Livia Ellis

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE Prologue

  CHAPTER TWO The Hotel

  CHAPTER THREE Where I Flashback to What Happened the Previous Afternoon

  CHAPTER FOUR Where We Return to the Present, My Life Sucks, Elon is No Longer my Friend , Renata is Forever Doomed to be a Narcissistic Bitch, and I Actually have Taken a Job That Involved the Exchage of Sex for Cash

  CHAPTER FIVE The House

  CHAPTER SIX Talitha is a Skanky Bitch

  CHAPTER SEVEN Essentials Kit

  CHAPTER EIGHT Thunderdome

  Memoirs of a Gigolo

  Volume Two

  Livia Ellis

  Copyright © 2012 Livia Ellis

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:9781095436400

  For the tribe.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Prologue

  My adventure, my odyssey, my monomyth if you prefer, has begun. It is only now, many years later, that I see myself and this time I spent in the employ of The Matchmaker as a sort of modern heroic journey. How so? I was a prostitute. I was no Hector, Ulysses, or even Luke Skywalker. But then again, perhaps I was. There is no prerequisite that a hero must be perfect. In fact, they are generally flawed. I was a flawed man. I still am. So how do I reconcile my time spent whoring with that of a mythic journey? It ticks all of the boxes. I have received my call – the offer to sell my body in exchange for money that I desperately needed. I have refused that call – I hesitated, questioning my own ability to prostitute myself. I have taken up the challenge – I accepted money for sexual services rendered. Am I Hercules going from labour to labour paying penance for my hubris? Or am I Orpheus venturing into an unknown underworld to save my true love – my home? I have met my guide; Olga. She will become my Merlin, my fairy godmother, my Obi-Wan Kenobi. From her hands I will receive my weapons, from her wisdom I will be guided. I will learn that when I ignore her, it is to my own peril. I have departed on my journey as I travel to the house where I will live with The Matchmaker's stable of workers. I enter a new world, one far different from the one I came from.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Hotel

  Olga and I leave The Agency together in the back of a taxi. Not quite the Rolls Royce driven by Bruno, but it's better than the underground. Before going to The House, I insist on returning to the horrible little hotel I'd gone to, to pout the previous evening after my thing with Elon. A room in The House was the best signing bonus I could have ever received for many reasons. Not the least of which being I really needed a place to stay.

  Before the offer to live at the house, I had three choices. I could make up with Elon, stay in the grim little hotel populated by backpackers until my cash ran out, or immediately go home to the country. The hotel posed far too many health and safety hazards even for a man that was willing to have sex with random strangers in exchange for cash. That, and one night of being surrounded by hordes of tourists traveling in packs, strummed my last nerve. If I hadn't received the offer to live in the house, I would have headed to the hotel for a final night, then to Paddington Station in the morning to get the train to Exeter. Because that would have cost less. Getting the train to Exeter that evening would have cost more than the combination of the night in the hotel and the ticket for the first train in the morning. I hate that I have to think about these things. I hate that I live and breathe by £20.

  I had to go back, but only to pick up the overnight bag I'd left behind in the luggage storage.

  Olga looks at me over her sunglasses.

  I actually slept in that place?

  Yes.

  I did shower thoroughly this morning, right?

  Yes.

  If I gave her lice or bed bugs or...

  I get the point.

  She makes a disgusted face.

  Olga chooses to stay with the car while I go inside to retrieve the few things I managed to get out of Elon's house the previous afternoon. I make a small promise to myself that I will never stay in a place where the billiards table is in the lobby, there is a sign warning against drug dealing on the premises, and it costs only £20 a night not including the security deposit for the towel (singular). I have standards. They're ebbing low at the moment, but that just gives me incentive to strive for more.

  I can't complain too much about the hotel. The reality is it's filled with horny tourists that like to fuck. Perfect for the man that is in need of uncomplicated companionship. The two Dutch (or were they Danish?) girls I'd met the previous evening are standing outside smoking with a group of people who are guests in the hotel. I walk up to them as I approach the hotel. One of the two turns to me, greets me, and offers me a smoke. I've given up smoking. Besides, I'm sort of in a hurry.

  The Dutch (or possibly Danish) Girls. I love Dutch (Danish?) girls. I especially love these Dutch (Danish?) girls. Who are the Dutch (Danish?) Girls? They were my sexual port in a storm the previous evening. Returning to the moment I stormed out on Elon with a level of class and sophistication that would cause a pack of twelve year old girls to look upon me admiringly, I shall begin...

  CHAPTER THREE

  Where I Flashback to What Happened the Previous Afternoon

  We are now entering the past. This is the past I'm writing of. Not the present moment as I stand in front of the hotel with the Dutch (Danish?) Girls. The previous afternoon. After Elon was an asshole at the sushi place and I was righteously pissed off. Imagine harp music or the image in your head going all watery if that helps. We are now in the past. Before I've gone to The Doctor. Before I've met Olga. Before I agree to be a prostitute. This is the nature of journal keeping. I know where I am in my own narrative. You may not. Now you do. We are in the past.

  After leaving the sushi bar, I sat in a coffee shop considering my options. As I slowly drank an Americano, I realized I had no friends left in London that I could readily impose upon. They'd all forsaken me. Like cockroaches they scattered when the light of dubious fame shone upon me. All except for Elon. My truest and most constant friend. My own uncle won't take my calls. But Elon took me in. What does this say about the nature of our relationship? Are we grievously codependent? Or is he just an exceptionally decent human being that would never toss out a friend in need? I honestly don't know.

  By the time I reached the dregs at the bottom of my cup, I knew I had to go back to Elon's house. I really didn't have much choice. There was a need to make amends with Elon. Not because I felt that I was wrong. I wasn't. But all of my stuff was in my bedroom. I wasn't ready to eat a slice of humble pie, but I was willing to acknowledge that I'd been churlish and a bit rude if he would admit that I could so be a prostitute if I wanted to. I could. I'd be a great prostitute.

  The walk from the Green Park tube station to Elon's St. James Place house takes about four minutes. When I arrive, he's home. I knew he would be. Sitting in the lounge in front of the telly on the overstuffed couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table and a beer in one hand. He's watching Jerry Springer. I fucking hate that loathsome Jerry Springer. Elon has it on just to piss me off. I'm sure of it. Rather than saying anything to me, he pulls out his wallet and counts out four hundred pounds, which he tosses on the coffee table. Elon never has cash on him. This was premeditated.

  He looks up at me, takes a drink from the bottle, and then smiles.

  Blow him.

  No.

  Because I can't. I lack the stones to blow him.

  I do not lack the stones to blow him. I just don't want to.

  That's what prostitutes do. It's a service industry. If I were a prostitute, I'd blow him whether I wanted to or not. Therefore, his argum
ent is sound. I lack the stones to blow him.

  I could so if I wanted to. I do not want to.

  Prove to him that I can do it. I've never had a cock in my mouth in my life. Just because he's both blown and buggered me, doesn't mean I have the capacity to reciprocate. He puts his bare foot on the cash and pushes it towards me. Blow him.

  I'm deeply and sincerely tempted to do it just to prove to him that I can.

  He reaches inside his trouser pocket, pulls out a condom, and then tosses it on top of the cash. Just in case I was looking for an excuse not to perform on command. Because that's what rent boys do. They fuck and suck on command. As much as he admires my desire to prove my self-sufficiency, we both know that I am about as capable of doing something as gauche as sex for pay as I am of going and working as a fry-cook at KFC. In fact, for the four hundred pounds, could I please go and apply for a job at KFC? He needs a laugh. And while I'm at it, could I get him another beer?

  My anger comes from so many corners that it can only be called rage.

  I pull off my messenger bag and let it drop to the ground. I pick up the condom and fall to my knees. Elon glances away from the telly to me for a moment before he resumes watching two women, a mother and a daughter apparently, fighting over the same man.

  As I undo his belt, I take note of the fact it is my belt. The very one I'd spent far too much time that morning searching for. My anger swells. Why does he have to get into my shit and take my stuff all of the fucking time? Why? He wears my shirts, my belts, even my socks, and never even asks or says thank you. As a rule, I really don't mind, but at that moment, as I unfasten my belt, unbutton his trousers, and pull down the zipper, I'm angry.

  Elon doesn't wear underwear, so there is no getting past that to get to his cock. It's just there. Right in front of me. He's big, but I know I'm bigger. That's one win for me in our never-ending competition over everything. I don't look up at him, but I can hear him drink and swallow from his beer. Fine. Drinking beer is one thing. But does he really need to start channel surfing as I'm bolstering up my nerve? Is this what it's like for women? If I'm being totally honest, I've channel surfed and drank beer while being serviced. What a fucking annoying thing to do. Men really are assholes sometimes.

  I don't have to look, to know Elon has decided on porn for his viewing pleasure. I have ears. I know what porn sounds like.

  I take Elon's cock in my hand and hold it for a moment as I put the condom on. It's a lot easier than I thought it would be to put a condom on another man. A lot easier. That said I've practiced on myself enough times to have pretty well mastered the technique. Then I visualize how I like to be blown. Then I just dive in. I have a gag reflex that I didn't know about. Latex is fairly vile tasting, but even worse is the spermicide. It's foul. He did this on purpose. I know perfectly well he uses different condoms for different purposes. He has boxes of condoms that are specifically used for oral. But I persevere. I can so be a prostitute. I prove this when I open up my nostrils to breath and pull him into my mouth.

  Elon tosses the remote to the side. I have his attention. His fingers thread through my hair as my head bobs. I'm getting somewhere rapidly with my combination of sucking and squeezing. The pace of Elon's breath punctuated by increasingly more frequent sighs and moans are good indicators that my technique is clearly satisfactory. I'm sure I'm nearly done. I can feel his cock become more rigid as it fills with blood. I know how a cock works. At least I know how mine works. There is always that rush of blood and increase in stiffness right before I climax.

  Then he stops me. He pushes my head away and his cock falls out of my mouth. His hand holds my hair and pulls my head back. He kisses me like he has many times before. Lots of tongue mixed with the piquant feel of cheeks he didn't bother to shave that morning is more of a turn on than I've ever let him know. I do nothing to feed Elon's unquenchable belief that I secretly desire him above women.

  His hands undo my belt and trousers. As I actually do wear underwear, both trousers and pants are pushed down as he pulls me onto the couch next to him. He fondles my cock as he continues to kiss me. I don't object when he nudges and turns me with his hands onto my stomach. My trousers and underwear are pulled down to my knees as he lies across my back.

  I turn my head to the side and can't help but to see what is on the telly. Two men showering together. Of course Elon would turn on gay porn. He kisses my cheek, neck and jaw with an occasional nip to my ear as he strokes my cock and tells me how much he wants me.

  I am fully aware without needing to be told how much Elon wants me. I'm not going to say that it's fully mutual the level of sexual desire we feel for each other, but I'm not objecting.

  He slides down my body, pulling off my trousers, underwear, socks and shoes by the time he reaches the bottom. I'm certain, although I don't look, that he has completely disrobed.

  His hands squeeze my calves, then thigh, and finally ass cheeks as he makes his way back up my body. Since my fall from grace, we've spent a lot of time together. I have a bedroom in his house, but the simple truth is the lines have been blurred since I returned to London from the country. There is comfort in knowing he hasn't abandoned me. I've abused and used his feelings for me to bolster my own sense of self-worth. I know how Elon feels about me. I don't know that he loves me, but he wants me. I've freely given in to that desire so I could feel less alone. He's taken advantage of my isolation to have my body. We were made for each other. What a couple of assholes. We really deserve each other.

  Do I want him?

  This is what he's paying for isn't it?

  If that's the way that I want to be, fine.

  His hand comes down hard on my ass. I jump more from the surprise than the pain. He smacks me a few more times. I'm starting to see why a little slapping around could be arousing. After each sting, he rubs gently for a moment before slapping me again. After five swats, he stops. His hands come down on my ass cheeks and rest for a moment. He's rougher with me than he's ever been as he squeezes presses together, and then pulls apart my ass cheeks. When he bites me I cry out. He pulls back for a moment and asks if he actually hurt me.

  I very quickly tell him no. He didn't hurt me. He just surprised me.

  Surprise is good.

  He spreads open my ass cheeks wide as they will go. I wait for the touch of his finger, but instead feel the velvety swipe of his tongue across the rim of my anus. My body is filled with a sudden electrical charge that pulses directly to my cock.

  Did I like that?

  Yes. Yes I did.

  There are so many things we can do that we haven't done. Things that don't involve having a woman in the room to both coddle me and distract and annoy him. He stops talking and resumes using his tongue.

  I start rubbing my cock against the couch, certain I'm going to cum just by the touch of Elon's tongue. Then he stops. The tongue is replaced by the finger I'd initially expected. It presses and probes and opens me up. I spread my legs a little and relax. We've done this before. I'm not a virgin. When Elon enters me he does so slowly as he nips at my shoulder and holds my cock.

  It takes a few strokes, moving carefully in and out, before he's fully resting inside of me. He stays like this for more than a moment. I love this. The pressure from being spread and opened is divine. His body presses mine into the couch as he lies on top of me. I could stay like this for a long time. The moment he begins to move, his phone rings. It's on the coffee table. Singing and dancing. He reaches for it. Looks at the display. Then, the bastard actually takes the call.

  Just to be completely clear, we are naked, spread out on the couch, his dick is inserted in my anal cavity, and he takes a phone call. I think the reason I refuse to commit to being gay is simply because by being so, I would end up with a man. I'm not saying there aren't women that take calls during sex, but they're probably a rarer find than a man that would be willing to do the same.

  So here I lay... On the couch. Watching gay porn. With a cock up my ass. As Elon has a
conversation with Renata. For every fag there is a hag. Elon has Renata. Fucking Renata. All right... not fucking Renata. She's one of the few people still speaking to me. She finds my scandal delicious. Her father was a politician. Back in the 90's he was very publicly caught in drag with a Taiwanese lady-boy masseuse. Her father's subsequent suicide and her mother's alcoholism give her a curious take on life. She's a performance artist. Men in fishnet stockings and women wearing four strap harnesses with enormous dildos tend to feature prominently in her pieces.

  Elon pauses talking to Renata to address me.

  Do I want to meet Renata for martinis?

  No. I do not want to meet Renata for martinis.

  Elon returns to speaking with Renata.

  What are we doing? We're fucking.

  A pause allowing Renata to respond appropriately.

  No really. We're fucking. We're on the couch. He has his cock up my ass.

  The phone is pressed to my ear. Of course it is. I'm a part of the discussion whether I want to be or not. Renata's speech contains the same sort of polished clipped cadence filled with lengthened vowels as my own possesses. Perhaps I should try to get a job working for the BBC... There's a thought... Anyhow... we are children of privilege whom behave like a couple of reprobates. We are the cancer of our generation.

  Are you and Elon really fucking?

  Yes. Could you possibly call back later darling? We are a bit busy.

  Of course. But first... Martinis? She's found an absolutely scrummy looking little dive. We must go.

  Busy at the moment Renata. Will get back to you when I'm no longer being penetrated by Elon.

  One more thing. Am I really going to be a gigolo? Because if yes, she has a fiver burning a hole in her pocket.

  My hand snaps around to grab the phone.

  Elon is faster. The phone is removed from my ear.