Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Two

by Livia Ellis

  We are now returning to the moment I'm standing in front of the grim hotel I went to pout in after leaving Elon, his four hundred pounds, the phone he paid for, and his keys. At least I kept my dignity and a sense of pride. Cue the harp music and the watery mental images... We are now in the present. Olga is with the taxi. I am employed by The Matchmaker. The money from The Doctor is in my pocket.

  I go into the hotel. The housekeeper, still wearing her babushka although her broom is parked off to the side, sits behind the counter, which is behind a Plexiglas barrier. I ring the bell even though I'm certain she noticed me. She looks up from her Puzzle Compendium and clicks her biro.

  If it wouldn't be too much bother, would she be ever so gracious to let me into the left baggage room? I even give her a smile.

  She tells me the manager/owner is out. Her English is as rough and menacing as the manager/owner. Come back in twenty. She looks back down at her Puzzle Compendium. She's in the middle of a logic problem. Tricky things those logic problems.

  Why can't she let me into the stored luggage?

  Security. Again she clicks the biro at me.

  Security. There was an orgy going on in the room across from mine, and security is a concern.

  The manager/owner won't let her have the key. Security issues. Come back in twenty minutes. She clicks the biro again.

  I make my way back to the taxi. Olga is standing outside the car with a phone to her ear and a cigarette hanging off of her fingers. The giant sunglasses and the dress the color of gunmetal do nothing to enhance the anti-tobacco lobbyists’ campaign that smoking is somehow uncool. Olga makes it look very cool. I can't help but wonder how she ended up working for The Matchmaker. I'm also wondering if the mobile is permanently attached to her ear.

  I take her cigarette from her and inhale deeply. I promise myself that someday I'll quit. Then I make myself a more concrete promise. I'll quit on my wedding day. Until then, I'm going to smoke, drink, fuck indiscriminately, and get paid for it. She lights up another and hands me the pack and a silver Dunhill lighter. Gauloises. Of course. No girly Silk Cut for Olga.

  The finished cigarette gets flicked away. I want my boots back. I don't have the money. But I just want my boots back. I can't explain this feeling. I want my boots back. I want to ride horses and play polo. I just want my boots. They were getting polished. Fifty-pounds. I have seventy-five courtesy The Doctor. I'm going to get my boots. I want a piece of my life back.

  Where is my bag?

  Locked up for another twenty minutes.

  Are we leaving? Please tell her we are leaving.

  No. Not yet. I need to get my boots then go back. She can either come with me or stay with the taxi.

  Boots?

  Boots. Real boots. Riding boots. This is not a shopping detour. She can come with me.

  She'll come with me. She pays for the taxi then makes a note of the amount in an agenda before tucking the receipt into an envelope.

  We walk together to the unremarkable doorway and I press the bell. After confirming my identity through a speaker, a buzzer sounds and we are let into the building. Olga follows me up to the steps to the salon of The Cordwainer.

  The Cordwainer remembers me. Of course he does. He's been making boots for my family for years. He is predictably obsequious. He calls me Lord Harkslon. Nobody calls me that. He does have my boots. It is not a problem at all that I haven't been around to fetch them.

  Olga clears her throat.

  Right. Miss.... I have no idea what Olga's last name is.

  Lenin. Miss Lenin. She would very much like to have a pair of boots made.

  The Cordwainer bows a little. Of course. Of course. He snaps his fingers. A chair is brought for madam. An assistant arrives with a large book. Madam's feet, her ankles, her calves, and her shins are measured. She stands on the book in her bare feet. One tracing is taken of each foot on two blank pages. Decisions are slowly and carefully made after much debate and discussion. Fortunately someone has the good sense to bring me a cup of tea. Soothing the savage male beast that accompanies madam on her shopping trip with tea and a small plate of biscuits equals a more agreeable shopping experience for madam. Which of course means madam will spend more of the savage male beast's money. I know how these things work.

  Eventually, Olga decides on what she wants. A strap and buckle classic field boot in black.

  An excellent choice. The Cordwainer fawns and gushes over Olga. Madam has exquisite taste. And, do forgive him for being so bold, a beautifully turned ankle, the arches of a dancer, toes that beg to be sucked. The Cordwainer fusses and compliments Olga often. I think I start grumbling and snorting to myself at some point. At least I have my cup of tea and plate of biscuits.

  Madam practically shimmers with delight at every compliment. Someone likes being treated like a princess.

  As I wait, cup of tea in hand, I look out the window as I've done so many times before. I like this view of the hotel. I'm detached from it. It's not a part of my life from my perch. It's just a curiosity that really doesn't overlap my world. For a moment I'm Lord Harkslon again. Bored. Fussy. Arrogant. Entitled. Polo playing, horse owning, boot wearing, Lord Harkslon. I even have a pretty girl with me just because at one o'clock on a Friday afternoon, I have nothing better to do with my time than to go to The Cordwainer, drink tea, and eat biscuits whilst my lady friend gets measured for a pair of boots.

  When the moment arrives to pay the deposit for Olga's boots, I hate that I am poor. But there is nothing I can do about it. The Cordwainer looks to me for the money. Olga pulls out her wallet and hands over cash. She even pays for my boots in the process. I have the money. I could have paid for my boots myself. I earned that money that morning. But she pays and I don't object. I need the money I have in my pocket. I don't know when my next pay is coming.

  She follows me into the hotel, stops, waves her hand in front of her nose, makes a face, and confirms that I did in fact shower.

  The manager/owner has returned to his place behind the Plexiglas. As it is after noon, I will have to pay for another night’s stay.

  I just want my bag back. It's in the left baggage.

  It's after noon. I will have to pay for another night’s stay.

  Just so I'm certain I understand I have to pay for another night in the hotel if I want my bag back.

  Yes. I must be some kind of genius.

  Then something happens. I don't know what precisely as I don't speak Russian, but Olga leans over the counter, says a few things to which he responds, flashes her boobs at the man, makes him laugh, gives me a smack on the ass, a peck on the cheek, tells me she's going outside to get a taxi, then walks out of the hotel.

  The manager/owner is still laughing as he rises from his chair. He gestures for me to meet him at the entrance to the door where I had left my bag that morning.

  He hands me my bag then offers me a bit of advice. The next time I get into a fight with my wife, be a man and just suck it up. Going to sulk in a shitty hotel where she won't think to look for me doesn't do anyone any good. Especially if I'm wrong and she's right. Clearly she's better than I deserve. Nice rack too.

  I take my bag and the advice. I have to agree. Olga is better than I deserve. Any woman that willingly flashes her tits to save me £20 is worth her weight in platinum.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The House

  It's hard not to notice that Olga has a tendency to draw a crowd. She stands next to a taxi. Not far from where she is waiting for me, a group of young men trying very hard to look gangster in their shell suits and caps worn askew are watching her intently. By the way two of them are posturing and posing like a couple of alpha gorillas in the zoo, I don't doubt that one of them at some point soon will come over and try to pick her up. I have no doubt that Olga is used to unwanted attention, but I really don't want to become the object of some young rejects ire when she blows him off.

  I take the phone from her, threaten to leave her in the middle of Whitechapel by
herself in shoes that were clearly not meant to be walked in, then hand her the phone back. She gets into the taxi. She's still talking on her phone, but at least we're moving away from the young men that found her so interesting. I'm happy we seem to understand each other. Open communication is essential in establishing a good working relationship.

  Eventually the phone goes back into her handbag.

  Does she always spend so much time on the phone?

  Yes. I'd better get used to it.

  Is she certain we will be spending that much time together that her excessive phone usage might become a problem?

  No. She laughs at me. I had better plan on being on the phone a lot. Do I have an agenda? A real agenda. Paper in a book. Not electronic. Phones and computers can get hacked. Don't I read the papers? She pauses and gives me a look that tells me she reads the papers. She knows exactly who I am.

  I stare back.

  I need to come up with a way of remembering my clients while not writing down their names.

  I don't have an agenda. I'm not really an appointment person. I don't have a mobile phone.

  How do I not have a mobile phone? Everyone has a mobile phone.

  I left it at a friend’s house.

  Get it back. We can go by the friend’s house and pick it up.

  Dear god no. I laugh. The thought of Olga and Elon meeting both horrifies and intrigues me. I explain to her that we not talking. I haven't gotten around to replacing it. Besides, the only people that are calling are intrepid reporters and bill collectors.

  I know who you are. Olga smiles at me. I'm a very bad boy. I am that guy. The one that had the affair with the married Swedish princess, and then followed up by running off with the Saudi princess right before she got married. She reads all of the tabloid magazines. It's her dream to be on the cover of Hello!.

  Perhaps she should aim higher.

  I can fuck off. Am I really an earl? The Matchmaker told her I was an earl. But she already knew that. She reads Grazia like the Pope reads the Bible.

  Yes. I really am an earl.

  Would I marry her for her money?

  In a second. Send along tax returns for the previous five years along with a letter from the bank and we'll talk.

  She looks at me as if she's contemplating purchasing a twenty-eight year old earl and all of his baggage. Ultimately I'm rejected. I can see the thumbs down in her eyes.

  No. I don't think so. I'd rather marry for love.

  So would I darling. So would I. Unfortunately I don't have that luxury.

  People should marry for love.

  I'm not arguing with her.

  She's only going to marry someone that loves her and not her money.

  Absolutely. By the way... I thought the matchmaker was discreet. How does she know about my search for a bride?

  The Matchmaker told her. She is also very discreet. She knows a lot of wealthy Russian girls. She has four sisters. They know a lot of wealthy Russian girls.

  Does she? This is curious. I do like Russian girls. Especially of the post-Soviet nouveau riche variety.

  She does. Do I like Russian girls?

  I do happen to like Russian girls.

  Do I know any royals?

  Yes.

  Other than the married Swedish princess and the Saudi princess that is now engaged to a Qatari prince? English royals?

  Yes.

  Did I know the married Swedish princess is pregnant and expecting her first baby? It was in the tabloids.

  Yes.

  Am I the father of the married Swedish princess' baby?

  No. (note: I actually don't know if I'm the father – I truly wish a bus would hit me sometimes).

  Will I introduce her to some royals?

  No.

  Why not?

  It's been a big year for me. The invitations aren't exactly piling up.

  I'm old news. People have moved on. Did I see the pictures of Prince Albert holding his dick?

  I laugh loudly. The sound of it startles me.

  Or Bess's boobs? Hilarious. If she were Bess, she'd only take her clothes off in the bathroom with the doors locked. Honestly – Bess really should know better. If she were married to Prince James she'd be a little smarter, but just as charming. She adores Bess.

  I don't recall the last time I laughed spontaneously. For sure it's been months.

  Olga hugs me. Am I better now? She's sorry she made me grumpy. If I promise to introduce her to some royals, then she won't bring up the fact my life is fodder for the press.

  I promise her that if I ever get invited anywhere ever again, that she will be my date. It would be my pleasure to have someone as lovely as her on my arm. I also appreciate her flashing the man at the hotel and saving me the cost of another night in order to get my bag back. I also know that I'm never going to receive an invitation to go anywhere ever again, so there is no risk I'll show up at a function with a Russian prostitute on my arm.

  That was nothing. Russian men are easy. She kisses me on the cheek then smudges away the lipstick imprint. Hopefully she'll get to buy a hat. She would love to have a reason to buy a really fantastic hat. Not one of those fascinators. Did I know they were banned from the Royal Enclosure at Ascot?

  I actually do know this. My former fiancée nearly shat a kitten when the word came down those idiotic things that looked as if they were stapled to the side of a woman's head were banned from the Royal Enclosure at Ascot. Nothing could have pleased me more.

  She starts talking about hats, parties, royals, dresses, and a bunch of other blah blah blah.

  The car pulls to a stop in front of a white, semi-detached house with off-street parking and an elegant entrance. Home is better than I could have imagined. We're on Elgin Crescent. Just around the corner from Portobello Road. This is home. Finally I have the swanky London address I've always dreamed of.

  I wait as Olga pays the driver, takes the receipt, and makes a note in her book. She stands next to me as if she wants to tell me something, then goes to the door. In my heart I want an old butler not unlike Hobbs who was my grandfather's gentleman's gentleman to open the door. Hobbs would be in his glory. A fashionable London address at last at last. Just like the good old days. There is no butler. There is no prim middle-aged house matron. Some firm yet soft woman with a prow of a bosom that keeps the unusual sorority of girls living under her charge in good order and, above all, acting like ladies. No such luck. The only inhabitants of the house are five women all in their early twenties living together with no clearly established house rules.

  Olga leads me into a house littered with clothing, newspapers, magazines, discarded paper coffee cups with a rainbow of lipstick stains on the plastic lids, and shoes. Everywhere I look there are shoes. The sound of raised voices floats down from upstairs. I'm completely nonplussed by the state of the house.

  I look at Olga in dismay. Maid’s day off?

  She laughs. There is no maid.

  No shit. Why?

  They keep quitting. It's not her fault. She's not the problem.

  I find that singularly hard to believe. It's like I've walked into a birdcage. Five pretty birds live in the cage. And they keep dropping their shit everywhere. My only hope is that I don't have to share a bathroom with them.

  My contemplation of the disorder around me is broken by the sound of women suddenly shrieking and furniture being overturned. I know what a bar fight sounds like. Whatever is happening upstairs probably needs a bouncer or two to break it up.

  Olga charges up the steps. I follow. No time like the present to meet my new roommates. Or break up a fight. Or both. I figure with Olga in front of me as my human shield, I don't have anything to worry about. She has those freakishly strong thighs. If she had to, I imagine she could strangle someone between them. Who needs pepper spray when you have the Thighs of Death?

  The stairs open onto a mezzanine, which looks out over a formal dining room. Perfect for a string quartet to play during a party. But at that moment, t
wo women, one blond one brunette, wrestle in their panties (note: just panties – no bras) over what appears to be a dress. As I watch these two, undeniably beautiful women, act out the opening moments of what could be excellent low quality porn, I wonder for the first time if living with a bunch of women might be a bad idea. In my heart I am a heterosexual man. I'm willing to go gay for the fun and the money, but I am not immune to the effect of two practically naked women rolling around in the ground in their underwear.

  I stand over the two and start telling them in my firm yet completely ignored do as I say tone, to stop it and stop it now. It's as if I'm not there as the brunette grabs the blond and starts spanking her. I have a moment of regret that I'm not speaking with Elon. He would appreciate the humor of my situation.

  Olga is no help. She continues up the stairs past the two women as if they are not pulling hair and slapping asses.

  The blonde wriggles free of the brunette then grabs her by the hair. The brunette tosses the dress out of the reach of the blonde. They seem fairly evenly matched. So I do what any man in my situation would do. I grab the dress and hold it over the two.

  It takes a moment for them to realize I've joined the fray. Yelling at them to stop their childish behavior immediately and act like a couple of adults, gives them a common enemy. The enemy of my enemy is my friend and blah blah blah.

  They're on hands and knees as they inch towards me. Two pretty faces look up at me with heat in their eyes and four perky breasts swaying beneath them. I almost let them get me. They could make me their prisoner. Use my body. Punish me by making me service them. Repeatedly. Why for the love of God did I agree to live with five women? I must be out of my mind.

  The brunette tells me to give her the dress. The blonde tells me to give her the dress. They growl at me like a couple of minions of satin. I've known fear before, but not like I do when I'm being stared down by two angry hookers fighting over a dress I'm holding. Olga's lighter is snagged from my pocket. I give it a couple of flicks. The flame shoots up.