Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Two

by Livia Ellis

  Back off or the dress gets it. I'm not messing around. I will turn their Issa London dress into a burning ball of silk. I'm not afraid of them. I'm not. They're just a pair of very thin girls with perfectly formed bare breasts looking on me like a virgin at a Mayan banquet.

  They edge towards me like a couple of feral cats. I will go to my grave swearing the blonde snarled and the brunette licked her chops. I show no fear, but I'm certain they can smell it on me.

  I edge backwards fully away that I'm nearing the steps. I consider throwing the dress and running for my life.

  Olga arrives at that moment and tosses a full bucket of water on the two. I take back thinking that she'd abandoned me. This is clearly a situation she has some familiarity in dealing with. The bucket of water is genius. And shockingly cold based on the way their nipples ruched up. I wonder if she didn't throw some ice into it before coming back to the fight. Olga snatches the dress, holds up a pair of nail scissors she brought with her along with the bucket, makes a snip in the hem of the dress, and then tears it in two with her bare hands. Each of the women get a half.

  Olga takes no prisoners. I'm both impressed and terrified. Just as the women are as they hold their bit of rag. Somewhere in Russia, a Mafioso is missing his favorite enforcer. Olga yells at the two for a minute. They are a pair of stupid girls who have no control or sense of propriety. I think she calls them a pair of dirty whores, but I could just be remembering wrong. Regardless, it worked. The blond looks like she's going to cry. The brunette looks like she's already plotting her revenge. I think if I'm going to pretend to be James Bond, then Olga gets to be my Soviet era dominatrix. All she needs are a pair of hip boots and a gray uniform that shows off her boobs. She already has the accent.

  Olga introduces me to two dripping women. I am the new boy. Elizabeth is the blonde. She is a sweet English rose. Despite the fact she's dripping wet, in her panties, and her breasts are bare, she offers her hand. How charming she is. Talitha is the brunette. She's from Brazil and shows a worrying intense and immediate distaste for me. She does not offer me her hand. She wants to know if I I'm taking over Harold's clients. Am I moving into Harold's room? Harold is going to be pissed off when he finds out someone is stealing his clients. Just because he's working in porn doesn't mean he isn't planning on seeing his regulars while he establishes himself.

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  Olga answers Talitha for me. Harold is gone and good riddance. There will not be another incident like the one when Harold moved in.

  Talitha directly challenges Olga. Harold was her man. If it weren't for Olga, Harold would still be around. Olga is not the boss of her.

  Elizabeth and I look at each other. I think we would huddle together in fear if we weren't too afraid of Olga to move.

  Olga tells Talitha that her days are numbered if she doesn't let the Harold thing go. This seems to work. Talitha stands up from the floor then stomps up the steps. I give Elizabeth a hand up from the ground. I very nearly offer to get her a towel when Olga tells me to follow her, and Elizabeth to get some clothes on. I do as I'm told. I cannot stress enough how scary she is. Like a storm. Beautiful and scary. We keep climbing stairs. I get Harold's old room. Third floor. Private bathroom. Balcony beyond French doors. Windows on two walls. Fireplace. Big closet. This is the master bedroom. It has to be. Why am I getting it?

  Why else? The girls fight over it. So no one gets it. Except, of course, when there is a boy in the house. Then he can have it. It used to be Harold's room. Before him, Mwaka. Before him, Cillian. Before that there was no house. She hands me the key she took from the door. My room. No overnight guests. No clients. There may or may not be sheets in the closet. She hasn't really looked through the place since Harold left. I'm sort of on my own. There's a washer/dryer in the laundry room, which is off the kitchen. She's certain Harold left a lot of his stuff behind. Do whatever I want with it.

  Who is Harold again?

  The cock I'm replacing. He left very suddenly. Good thing The Matchmaker found me as quickly as she did.

  Right. Clearly I'm not the only one that was a bit desperate. Do we all pay her twenty-five-percent?

  Yes. Build up a reputation and a clientele and The Matchmaker can charge more for our services.

  How much does she make an hour?

  Now I'm the one with no manners.

  Was Harold the Kenyan?

  No. That was Mwaka. Harold is American. He's gone back to Los Angeles. He'd rather be doing porn anyhow.

  What about her? Does she have porn aspirations?

  No. Not even in the slightest. There's something she likes about being a courtesan. Her word. Courtesan. Porn is too crass. There is no seduction. There is no art. It's just fuck fuck fuck. Bad dialog. Fuck fuck fuck.

  I sort of have to agree with her. My reasons for never considering doing porn aren't quite as pure, but I'd never do it. There's already one sex tape of me making the rounds on the internet. That's enough.

  She has stuff to do. Make myself at home. We're going out in an hour. I need an agenda and a phone. I also need my kit. I'll probably be alone in the house for the night. It's Friday after all. Everyone has clients. Except her. Harold getting the boot has affected her negatively. She had to give up a very good client because of him. If I do something that causes her to lose a client, she will be unhappy. Do I want her to be unhappy?

  No. Never.

  If I want her, she's directly below me.

  I lock the door behind her, then wander around my new room and find it would be more appropriately called my rooms. There is a decent sized alcove with a view over the communal garden that contains a comfortable couch with a lamp for reading. And a flat screen TV. Best of all - there are no women’s garments strewn on every surface. The term man-cave has taken on meaning for me.

  There's another TV in the bathroom. Harold had it all figured out. A thought occurs to me. A tingling and almost unbearably tantalizing thought. Perhaps too much to hope for, but still. Without hope, what does one have? My eyes scan the bathroom. The shower beckons to me. I don't feel dirty... actually I feel dirty. That's precisely how I feel. Dirty. The coin operated shower in the hotel ran tepid and I've had sexual encounters with no less than five people in the previous twenty-four hours. I'm no bashful maiden, but even for me, that's a lot. My abs are starting to hurt. I'm going to have to think about my workout. I'm going to have to think about a lot of things.

  I wander around the bathroom and open doors and drawers. Harold has left behind a pharmacopeia of potions. Every conceivable lotion, oil, balm, salve, gel, mouse, and foam I could possibly imagine and then a few more, are in the cupboards and drawers. There is body spray, roll on, stick and gel deodorant. Not just one of each either. I'm not even going to go into the selection of aftershave lotion, aftershave balm, just plain aftershave, and cologne. I cannot help but to wonder if Harold had body odor issues. One drawer is devoted to oral hygiene. I cannot imagine the man that would buy toothbrushes in bulk, but clearly Harold found a need. I find towels, and sheets. A large, thick, white terry robe is hanging on a hook. I drop my clothes and I slip it on. There is also a note. Touch my towels and I will find out! Harold. Thanks for the tip, Harold. I'll keep the door locked.

  I find a stacked washer and dryer and a supply of detergent. I get my bag and my dirty laundry. I sort my things and start a load. The washer and dryer have given me hope. I continue my search for the ultimate man-cave appliance. I find what I'm looking for in a cabinet near the alcove. A microwave and a refrigerator – neither big nor small. It's filled with icy cold bottles of Heineken, a lot of M&S ready meals that have yet to expire, yogurt, and juice. There are no fewer than eleven types of juice. Harold, it would appear, lived off ready meals, yogurt, and juice. And beer. Lots of beer. God bless you Harold. I never have to leave my room again.

  I take a beer and go into the bathroom. It takes me a minute to figure out how to turn on the shower. This is no ordinary shower. This is a show
er that could be used in case of radioactive contamination. There are jets, nozzles, hoses, and sprays coming from ten directions. Elon, with his personal hygiene issues bordering on the neurotic, would appreciate this shower.

  Harold left behind four kinds of shampoo, a variety of conditioners, body scrubs, shower gels, loofahs, oils, and facial masks. Am I glimpsing at the man I will become? One that actually gives a shit about exfoliating and moisturizing? Up to this moment in my life, I've pretty well fallen back on what was melded together when dad's sperm hit mum's egg. The unholy alliance of my parents consummating their carnal desires produced me. I'm pretty lucky. As fucked up as they were, my parents did make a pretty baby.

  Olga walks into the bathroom with her phone in hand and her purse slung over her wrist.

  I'm certain I locked the door. In fact, I know I locked the door.

  Why am I in the shower? She told me we were going out.

  I locked the door. I know I locked the door.

  Like a lock is going to stop her. I need to hurry up.

  Could I have some privacy please?

  Because I have something she hasn't seen? We need to talk about the job. There are things that need to be bought. I need to be schooled.

  She leans against the sink. She's not going anywhere. She fusses with her phone as she chats at me. She's called for a taxi. I need to move my ass if we're going to make it to the movies that evening.

  We're going to the movies?

  Yes. She doesn't have a client and she doesn't like going to the movies alone.

  What if I don't want to go to the movies?

  Because I've got something better to do? She's paying. No snacks or fizzy drinks. I have to work on my abs.

  There is nothing wrong with my abs.

  Am I so sure about that? Do I want to go to the movies or not?

  Fine. I'll go. And there is nothing wrong with my abs.

  Sure there isn't. My abs are great. Then she snickers a little. Then she lifts up her phone and takes a picture of me in the shower.

  I've had enough of Olga for the moment. I turn off the water and get out. She hands me a towel.

  Erase the picture.

  No. She shows me the picture. She points to my abs.

  Fuck me she's right. I'm not tubby, but I'm not exactly cut.

  She'll help me. I spend too much time on my vanity muscles and not on my core. She'll have me sorted out in a week or two. She looks from the picture to my gut again. Maybe three or four. Then she gives me a wink and a peck on the cheek. I'm really very handsome, don't I know?

  Not always.

  She kisses me on the mouth. Her hand rests on my cheek. I was awfully sweet earlier. Pity The Matchmaker was in the room. We don't have to go to a movie. We could just watch something together later on. No one else will be in the house. She kisses me again.

  Every bit of me responds. I'm starting to amaze even myself. I had no idea I had so much going power. I am a machine. I can see the slippery slope I'm about to slide down as I approach it. I'm certain that Olga may have some amount of fondness for me, but I think her grabbing my towel and ripping it off of me has more to do with the other women in the house than it does her overwhelming desire for me. Here's the problem. I'm a healthy 28 year old man with an exceptionally vibrant libido. A woman as pretty as Olga not only offering to blow me, but just dropping to her knees and doing it... Only a crazy man would find a reason to object to her drawing my cock deep into her throat and using that swirling tongue like a whip.

  I lean against the vanity and grab on to the edge as she services me. The logical part of my brain knows that she might as well lift her leg and take a piss on me. This is no ordinary blow. This is Olga marking her territory. I'm hers. I'm fucked. I cum into her mouth with a shudder and a groan.

  She rises, rinses her mouth, and pats me on the cheek. Get dressed. She'll meet me downstairs.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Talitha is a Skanky Bitch

  I dry my hair and my body then hang the towel. Talitha the Brazilian is laying prone on my bed in her panties with her chin propped on her wrist. She's flipping through a magazine as if it's the most normal thing in the world to be on my bed in her panties and a camisole.

  Talitha looks up at me. Then she looks down. I'm no genius, but I don't need to be to figure out she's come to check me out. I half expect her to pull out a magnifying glass so she can stare at my dick. If I would have known she was in the bedroom, I wouldn't have left my towel in the bathroom.

  She sits on the bed flipping through her magazine while I finish getting ready. The questions aren't subtle. Are Olga and I having sex off the clock?

  Why does she want to know?

  Just curious.

  None of her business.

  So I am having sex with Olga off the clock.

  I didn't say that. I said it was none of her business.

  My cock is covered in the same shade of shimmery rose lipstick Olga wears.

  For fucks sake. I look down. She's right. I quickly pull on the last clean pair of underwear I have after cleaning myself off with some tissues. I'm not modest, but I would like to keep some boundaries firmly in place. I would also not like to have problems with Talitha. She's a mean girl. I know one when I see one. If I put Talitha and Renata in a cage together I could be certain only one would emerge victorious. I'm not sure which one I would put my money on.

  Do I want to have sex with her?

  No.

  Why not? Clearly I have no problem with Olga being on my dick.

  I don't want any complications. I need the work. I need the place to live. I plan on treating each of them like professionals. The last thing I need is for there to be blurring of the lines. So, thanks for the offer, but I'm going to decline.

  We will work together. Might not hurt to get to know each other in advance.

  I'll think about it.

  Talitha rolls over on to her knees so she can watch me. I take a shirt from the closet and slip it over my shoulders.

  Do I plan on helping myself to Harold's things? And she doesn't just mean Olga. Did I know they had a thing?

  Yes. No. Just the shirt. I'm just borrowing the shirt. At least until I can get home and pick up my own things.

  Harold isn't going to like that. Any of it.

  He probably shouldn't have left all of his stuff behind if it mattered so much to him.

  I should be careful with Olga.

  She's going to have to be more specific. I can see many ways in which I need to tread lightly around Olga.

  Olga seems to like me. She did the same thing with Harold. Attached herself to him. Drove him crazy. Finally he left. It was the only way to get away from her. She did the same thing to Mwaka. So I should tell her now to piss off otherwise I'm never going to get rid of her.

  Talitha smiles at me, but there's a touch of menace on her lips. She wants me to give Olga a shove.

  I'm good. I appreciate her concern, but it's really not necessary.

  The bedroom door opens, and a woman that can only be described as perfectly beautiful enters. She is without flaw. A perfect China doll. Her eyes are puddles of black ink, her skin is paper white, and her lips are pink rose petals. Truthfully, I'm not really into Asian chicks, but she's stunning.

  When she steps up to me I realize I've stopped breathing.

  She is Mi Young. She bows slightly and lowers her eyes. How she does this without the gesture seeming contrived or affected is marvelous to me. I want to take her hand and kiss it. I want to build a golden cage and place her in it. I am in love with Mi Young.

  Mi Young, in her striking red Chinese dress with her hair pulled into a crisp roll at the nape of her neck, looks beautiful and I tell her this. Her reaction is genuinely flattered. Talitha snorts a little as she rolls off the bed and leaves.

  Mi Young smiles just a whisper then takes over buttoning my shirt. I let her. She can dress me. Undress me. If she'd propositioned me as she sat on my bed in her panties reading a magazin
e, I wouldn't have hesitated. But Mi Young would never do anything so vulgar.

  Do Talitha and Olga get along?

  Not even a little, Mi Young laughs. They came to blows over Mwaka. She won't even touch what happened with Harold. She is in my room for a reason. She sets out my shoes so I can step into them.

  To rescue me from Talitha?

  To tell me that she will be giving me lessons on Japan.

  Japanese?

  No. Japan. There are things I need to know about Japan before I go. She has a client that afternoon and another that evening, but we'll make time. Would I like a word of advice?

  Sure.

  Olga is lovely. Talitha is a mean girl. Olga and Mwaka genuinely cared for each other. Talitha was jealous. Harold wasn't a strong man. He wanted both of them. Olga wouldn't have it. She is a strong woman. Am I a strong man?

  I'm learning.

  Olga walks in wearing jeans. She should always wear jeans. What are we talking about?

  Japan, Mi Young says.

  Not Talitha? Because Talitha is a skanky bitch who is really lucky Olga hasn't gotten around to kicking her ass

  Not Talitha.

  Olga tidies a bit of Mi Young's hair. She's called for a taxi and there's another one already out front. That would be for Mi Young. We leave together after I make absolutely certain the room is locked tight and the keys are in my pocket. Mi Young goes in her taxi and we go in ours.

  The car pulls into traffic.

  What was Talitha doing in my room?

  Checking me out.

  Talitha is a skanky bitch who should be really lucky she hasn't had her ass whipped once and for all.

  Olga is looking a little bit scary. I make it very clear that I'm not getting in the middle of their cat fight.

  She's not asking me to. She's just letting me know that Talitha is a skanky bitch.

  I wait silently. I didn't emerge from a cave. I know what women are like. Olga is far from done.

  Did she come on to me?

  Drop it.

  Did she come on to me?