Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Two

by Livia Ellis

Yes. And?

  And what?

  Am I going to fuck her?

  Probably yes. That's the job isn't it?

  The taxi driver turns down the radio. We are far more interesting than The Archers.

  Am I going to fuck her when it's not work?

  No. I am not going to fuck Talitha or any of the other girls in the house when it's not work. I swear, as god as my witness, that I will not engage in any extracurricular activities with the girls in the house. What I do not add, mostly because I'm far too afraid of Olga to say anything that could offend her, is that I have no interest in getting involved with a woman that is, for all intents and purposes, a whore. Not now. Not ever. I have enough in my life that could come back to bite me in the ass. I'm not going to have the future mother of my children be a former prostitute. End of statement.

  What about her? Or does her blowing me in the bathroom mean nothing to me?

  One thought runs through my head. Shoot me now. Please God, shoot me now. The temptation to tell the taxi driver to stop so I can run back to Elon nearly overcomes me. Only a crazy man would live with five women.

  Does she want me to fuck her off the clock? Because that was the impression I was getting.

  Maybe. She's still trying to make up her mind whether or not it's worth it.

  Thanks. Please do let me know when a decision has been made.

  She was just wondering if I wanted to or not. I don't need to get snippy. Do I or don't I?

  My desire for her is bursting forth! I can hardly contain my ardor. Every minute that I cannot have the pleasure of her in my bed will be an eternity in hell. Happy?

  Olga pauses for a moment as she thinks about this. She looks at me over her sunglasses. I annoy her. This is the look I'm getting. That, you are an irritation that is creating a nuisance in my life, look that women seem to be gifted the moment their first period arrives. Then comes the sigh. I am her cross to bear. Why has The Matchmaker saddled her with such a burden? Anyhow... She needs to take me shopping.

  I tell her I have no money.

  She tells me I can pay her back.

  I tell her I can't with any certainty any time in the near future.

  She tells me to shut the fuck up and stop annoying her. She starts fussing with her phone again.

  I take her phone and threaten to throw it out the taxi window.

  She threatens to scream.

  I threaten to scream louder.

  She starts screaming at me in Russian.

  I understand how people end up on the telly being dragged off by the police for pummeling each other. How is it possible we seem to have so much sexual chemistry, but can barely keep from strangling each other?

  The taxi driver threatens to pull over and toss both of us and the mobile out the window.

  We come to an accord.

  She will loan me the money for the phone and the agenda.

  I will pay her back when we get paid for the Japan trip.

  She will stop talking on her mobile when we are in confined spaces.

  I will stop taking her phone from her by force.

  We are allowed to stay in the taxi.

  Peace reigns supreme.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Essentials Kit

  We are left on Regent Street where the two main tools of my new trade are purchased. Two of the three main tools of my trade. The phone and the agenda. Do I really need to write what the third one is? I thought not. Olga's made an appointment for me at The Stylist. He's not far. We can walk. How she walks in her shoes is beyond my understanding. But then I don't get how people on stilts manage to do it either. I'd probably fall on my arse and break my fecking neck if I ever tried to walk on either stilts or stilettos. Part of me admires her ability to walk in her shoes. God knows I couldn't do it.

  During the walk I'm given a brief primer on how to use my agenda.

  I know how to use an agenda.

  No I don't.

  Yes I do.

  No I don't.

  Yes I do.

  She stares at me over her sunglasses and mouths a giant NO I DON'T.

  Fine. She wins. If she wants to show me how to keep an agenda, so be it. I will let her set up my new smartphone. I can't say I don't appreciate her fronting me the cash. As I see it, she did toss me a freebee in the bathroom, so I sort of owed her already. I will pay her back and make it up to her.

  Our next stop is Boots. At Boots we take a basket and fill it with what she calls the basics for my kit. Condoms go into the basket first. Lube goes into the basket next. Flavored and silicon based. Do I know which I use for which hole? She's smiling and making jokes.

  I'm sure I can figure it out.

  Word to the wise. Always make sure I put the condom on the client when I'm bottoming. Men can be pricks sometimes. Especially powerful men. Be prepared for them to lie to me. She reminds me that I always have the power to walk away if I'm unhappy with a situation. The clients know the rules. The Matchmaker runs a tight ship. Think of her as the flight attendant on our little sexual voyage. Our safety is always her first concern.

  The client in Japan. Was this why he was dropped?

  Yes. This is why The Samurai was dropped. He's a small man and Harold nearly beat the piss out of him. Instead of pounding The Samurai, Harold called The Matchmaker. She told every one of the other madams that work on her level what happened. The Samurai was dropped from each of their client lists. The madams can be competitive, but their reputations are dependent on their stable of workers. Taking a stand against an abusive client shows that the escorts are of primary importance. Treat an escort poorly, then there is always another madam that will take on a proven worker with an established client list.

  She keeps filling the basket at Boots. On top of the condoms and lube, she tosses in body lotion, tweezers, nail clippers, razors, shaving gel, toothbrush, mouthwash, and tampons.

  What the hell do I need tampons for?

  Those are for her. A small warning. All of the women in the house are on the same cycle. Be prepared for tomorrow to be rough. There's almost a sadistic gleam in her eyes.

  I swallow hard. I need to go home for a couple of days to get my things. Probably best to do that when they're all menstruating. Our final stop is WH Smith. Along with the bags from Boots, she begins loading books into my arms. When pretty much every book on sex and sexual technique is added to the stack, a few health and fitness books followed by two on how to mix cocktails top the pile.

  I'm finding it a little insulting that a woman I clearly had no problem pleasuring just a couple of hours earlier seems to think I need the Man’s Guide to How to Give a Woman the Best Orgasm She'll Ever Have in hardback. This sparks a debate about my performance. The sort of conversation that I'm sure the woman ringing up our selection of books either found shocking or extremely amusing.

  My humiliation is complete when Olga asks the cashier if a man can really ever be too good a lover.

  The cashier agrees with Olga as she gives me a wink.

  I hate both of them.

  The cashier stares at me. Say... doesn't she know me from somewhere...? There's something awfully familiar about me...?

  I put my sunglasses on and tell Olga to take the books.

  She accuses me of not being a gentleman.

  I'm not her pack mule. It's the books or the bag from Boots. She takes the Boots bag I take the books.

  As we walk down the street, Her phone rings and she has to take it. It's The Matchmaker. She looks at me.

  Do I want to take a job that evening? Two hours. Outcall.

  I have no idea what that means. What is an outcall? With who? What do they want?

  Outcall – we go to the client. Who, is confidential. One of The Matchmaker's most discrete clients. What, is a standard three-way. Male/Male/Female.

  I'm not ready to take a job alone. I tell her this.

  It's not alone. She'll be with me. She's the female. This is important to her. This is the client she thought she'd lost
because of Harold.

  Fine. Let's do it.

  She speaks with The Matchmaker in Russian as she juggles her phone and her handbag until her hands are free. Talitha is mentioned several times. I need to learn Russian. Her hands start roaming over my chest and waist. The tags on my clothes are examined. What size do I wear in a suit and shirt? She could have just asked me. No need to feel me up in the middle of the street. Am I really complaining? No.

  The two women continue their conversation that is no doubt about me and my inseam based on the position of Olga's hands. A pair of older women pass us. I give them a smile. They move on. Young people. Who gets them? Olga rises and walks around me. Her hands rest on my shoulders for a moment, then slide down my back. Hands encircling my waist are nearly a bit too much.

  Olga seems satisfied. She pulls her agenda from her bag and clicks open a pen. She scribbles down the details. The call is finished and the phone is deposited into her bag. Harold and I are about the same size. I will wear what she tells me to wear. Agreed?

  Whatever. It's not the first time I've had a woman telling me what to do and how to dress. I only have one question. How much?

  £2800 after The Matchmaker gets her cut. We split it £2100 / £700. I get the £700.

  How does that work in her mind?

  She's worth more an hour than I am.

  Fine. But, I only owe her £500.

  She corrects me. £600.

  How does she figure that?

  Interest.

  Unbelievable.

  I ask her if she has connections to the Russian mafia.

  She does.

  I actually believe her. Somewhere in that mobile phone of hers is a number for a knuckle dragging knee buster named Boris that would probably be happy to crack a few heads for Olga. She can have her interest. £700 for two hours of work is more than I imagined I could ever make. It's very possible that even if The Matchmaker doesn't find me a wife that I might be able to build up my savings again to a level that I can manage to draw a small but livable income from the interest.

  When that day comes, I may just lock myself up in my home in the country never to emerge again. Except to garden and ride my horse. Maybe shoot a few unsuspecting pheasant on occasion. Fishing. That I could do a lot of. The idea of becoming an eccentric old earl surrounded by my pack of spaniels, constantly carrying around a shotgun whilst wearing an ascot and Wellies has more appeal than I care to admit.

  I'm not averse to wearing tweed or Barbour. I love my country home. That I could have ever considered using it as a means to an end, other than a family home, makes me angry with myself. But never mind. I've learned my lesson. In time I will become the country-squire-gentleman-farmer of my dreams. A sigh escapes me as my new fantasy life coalesces in my thoughts. Dogs. Horses. Hunting. Fishing. Gardening. Possibly sheep. Yes. Sheep.

  Olga nudges me. I need to pay attention. She's telling me things I need to know.

  If she didn't talk all of the time, it might be easier to pick up on the important bits.

  I'm brought to The Stylist. The man is practically a stereotype of the middle aged gay male hairdresser. This is precisely what he is. There is a long discussion that I am not a part of. Rockabilly? Brush? Textured? Finally they make a decision. My hair goes from messy and a bit longish, to high and tight. They're very pleased. Dress me up. Dress me down. It'll take me anywhere. I have the jaw for it. Very Justin Timberlake. My joke about bringing sexy back is ignored. They continue speaking as if I do not possess the capacity for verbal communication. I've never felt so singularly objectified in my life. I have a feeling that particular bar will soon be raised.

  The hair is good. Not what I would have ever decided on, but I can't say I hate it. For certain it makes me look a lot more sophisticated and even a bit older. These are not bad things.

  When my hair is given Olga's stamp of approval, I'm turned over to a six-foot Brazilian transsexual aesthetician with two inch firecracker pink nails, who dresses and moves like a samba dancer. She tells me with a click of her nails and a jangle of her bracelets, that there are no more bananas. She doesn't stop talking. Not even for a breath. I'm stripped down to nothing and laid out on a table. I'm not a particularly hirsute guy, but what I have is ordered removed. At least the talkative Brazilian tranny aesthetician includes me in the conversation with Olga about what is to be done to me. I appreciate this. Anyone that spreads hot wax on my body then rips it off should at least make eye contact with me.

  Olga leaves. Time is tight and she needs to get ready. She'll be back with clothes for me.

  There is no messing around. She immediately goes for my junk. The term boyzilian was one I'd heard, but never imagined I'd have intimate knowledge of. On the pain scale, I'm going to give having my pubic hair removed a ten out of ten. The only benefit is that I no longer have the capacity to feel pain as she moves on to the rest of my body. The constant chatter is soothing in a way. She calls me baby and tells me about some son-of-a-bitch named Martin that never fucking appreciates her. If he didn't have her to take care of his mother... well, who knows what would happen to either of them? Right?

  Absolutely.

  When my hair is removed from my body, she slathers me in oil then wraps me in a thick terry robe. I get a good look at myself in the mirror before I'm covered up. I look different. I've been transformed. Not wholly, but I'm definitely a whole lot more polished than I was when I woke up that morning. I don't want to sound like a dick, but the truth is I'm not bad looking. The hair. The waxing. I've been taken from a solid eight to a very promising nine. Put the right clothes on me and I might even have a ten moment in my future.

  I'm laid out on the reclining chair, the lights are adjusted and I'm told to close my eyes and just relax. I've never had a facial before, but I have to say I'm a fan. I listen to the buzzing chatter as my face is left to steep under a layer of mud while my nails are tended to. I'm sure I fall asleep.

  I wake briefly when the door to the room is opened then closed. For a moment I feel infused with love and I believe that all is right in the world and that nothing truly bad can ever happen to me. Then the sound of The Aesthetician moving her small wheeled stool wakes me totally. Olga is back. She's waiting for me. Getting her hair done. We need to finish up.

  The Aesthetician helps me dress. Black Armani suit and black shirt. She tells me I look sexy as she threads the belt through the loops around my waist. The clothes I came in are shoved into my grubby messenger bag. When I'm dressed I look in the mirror. I might be having a ten moment. Maybe it's the lighting. I don't know, but I do know I can walk out of the salon and go fuck for cash. I feel incredibly good. They can ignore my humor all they want – I am bringing sexy back.

  Olga is sitting in the chair as The Stylist works on her hair. Her eyes have been done and her hair is being brushed out. I don't know about dresses, but I know I like what she's wearing. Red suits her. So does short. Her legs are her best accessory. Covering them would be a crime.

  She looks at me through the reflection in the mirror. The Stylist notices I've appeared. They both turn and stare at me. Her eyes study me. I get a nod. That's it. I've passed inspection. I'm to leave my messenger bag. I can pick it up tomorrow. The Aesthetician will lock it in her cabinet. She promises me it'll be perfectly safe. I believe her. I'm handed a new leather messenger bag. Inside are my new phone and agenda, condoms, lube, Vaseline, toothbrush, mouthwash, toothpaste, deodorant, underwear, comb, tissues, handy wipes, and an anal plug. I do not want to know where that came from or where it's been. I just don't.

  Olga is giving me instructions as I rummage through the new bag. Take only the essentials.

  Which are?

  Everything in the bag. Cash – no credit cards. Phone. Agenda. Just this time I can bring my passport with me. They're going to want to check my I.D. Next time leave it at home.

  Who is the client and why is he going to want to check my I.D.?

  She's annoyingly coy. I want answers.

&nbs
p; Isn't a certain level of anonymity part of the job? I was rather counting on that. In fact it's practically essential. I know there will be clients who know who I am. I also know that there will probably be an element of mutually assured destruction if they start naming names. Clients that have as little interest in the world finding out they paid for the pleasure of my company, as I have in the world finding out it was available for a price, are ideal.

  I need to just relax. The client doesn't want anyone ever to find out he's a bugger. In fact, he's probably my ideal client. Rich, good-looking, and desperately afraid anyone will find out he likes it up the arse.

  Sounds ideal. So... who is the client and why is he going to want to check my I.D.?

  She laughs. I'm so cute!

  Marvelous.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Thunderdome

  When we leave the salon, evening is falling. The sun is bright in my eyes as we head up the street. How she walks in her shoes is a mystery. I'm allowed to put my sunglasses on after asking permission. She tells me to stop being a prick. If I want to wear my sunglasses, I can wear my sunglasses. Why can't I realize that everything she does she does to help me? I don't appreciate her and all her efforts. And I owe her another £300 for the salon. She makes a note in her book and tucks away the receipt.

  Does that include interest?

  I can just go and fuck myself.

  There is no other way to put it – people stare at us. Men especially, stare holes into Olga. And why not? How often does the world at large get to see a woman that stands over six feet in her shoes walk down the street in a red cocktail dress that barely covers her ass? She has to be at least six-two. We're standing eye to eye. What is hard not to notice is the female attention I'm receiving. I'm certain I could walk into just about any club in London and get laid.

  Spontaneously, I lean over and kiss Olga on the cheek. Thanks for helping me. I feel great. I can do this. She did that. I truly do appreciate her.

  I get a smile.

  When we are in the back of a taxi I'm given a few details. The word discreet is mentioned repeatedly. The client is a public figure. Please do not act like an asshole when I meet him. She will beat the shit out of me if I embarrass her. I ask her to please stop talking about asses and shit. It's making me nervous. Olga laughs and takes my hand. I'm going to be fine. The client is really and truly lovely in every way.