Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Two
Page 6
The taxi takes us to a stadium venue known for hosting events that draw record crowds. I look at Olga. Who is the client?
She smiles at me. Be cool. Don't be a dickhead. If I make an ass out of myself, she'll beat me.
Who is the client?
She smiles at me.
We get out of the taxi. She pays yet again. Notebook. Receipt. She's nothing if not meticulous. Without a doubt, she's keeping a tab of what I owe her.
She leads me through a gauntlet of vendors with t-shirts draped over their arms, glowing neon bands strung around their necks, screaming girls in miniskirts, and a lot of men that either look like their being punished or are gay.
I look at Olga. Who is the client? Because if it's the Latin pop star that keeps on denying he's gay even though everyone knows he is, I might have a panic attack.
Don't be a dickhead. This is what she tells me. He's just a man. A very very very good-looking man, but still just a man. We go to a side door that is manned by police, ushers, and security guards. One guard, a large man without a neck, knows Olga. But not as Olga. She's Anastasia. Just like the Russian grand duchess.
They hug.
I'm introduced. James. Not Oliver. He shakes my hand. He's checking me out behind his sunglasses.
Am I English?
Yes. I'm really English. I offer to show him my passport. No one calls me James. Everyone calls me Oliver. But the first of my long string of names is actually James. I'm not technically lying.
We are given all access passes attached to brilliant green lanyards, which are draped on cords over our necks. We are warned not to take them off. Then he looks at me. Within reason.
He's been waiting for us. We're not late. Olga tells him this. He knows. He's just been waiting. The Latin Pop Star is curious to meet the new boy. I'm assuming that would be me. Harold, who is known as Dusty it turns out, has been trying to get in touch with The Latin Pop Star. Olga promises to call him. Try to reason with him. The Security Guard gives her a nod. If he keeps it up, steps will be taken.
He looks at me again. What am I? Model? Actor?
None of the above.
So?
I'm broke.
The Security Guard laughs. Nothing wrong with having a sense of humor. But seriously. What am I?
I'm an unemployed Greek and Latin teacher. This is the honest to God truth. I am qualified to do this. I have a certificate and everything. I do actually have an education.
The Security Guard looks at me. Seriously?
Yes. Seriously.
No wonder I can't find a job in this economy.
He takes us into a room where a woman is sitting in front of a laptop with a stack of receipts next to her. She knows Olga, a.k.a. Anastasia. They're very friendly. Chummy even. Olga's been around these people before.
We're each given a thick envelope.
She's so very sorry, but she just didn't have enough in pound notes. She hopes euros are okay? She did adjust for the exchange rate.
Olga tells her that it's not a problem at all.
Do I count it? Do I not count it?
Olga pulls the cash out of her envelope and counts it as she continues to talk to the woman.
I count my cash. Twenty €200 notes. That's €4000. There has to be a mistake.
Olga says something about the extra money before I have to wonder what to do.
The woman nods to The Security Guard.
There's an after party. Might go all night. We're both invited.
Olga nods. She puts her envelope into her bag. I follow suit.
The Security Guard walks out with us following. I have now been paid for a night of top notch sexual prowess with one of the most desirable men in the world. I'm fairly certain my dick will never be hard again. I'm too nervous.
We walk deeper into the structure down a corridor that is deceivingly repetitive in design. I would swear we keep on walking by the same series of doors over and over again through the same groups of people each with a badge hooked to a lanyard hanging around their neck. The brilliant green of my lanyard strap is the rarest color of all. The people we pass with the brilliant green look me up and down as if I'm a particularly interesting specimen. I suppose I am. The brilliant green lanyard people clearly know who I am and what I'm there for.
I put my sunglasses on. I don't care that I'm indoors. I don't want these people to know that I notice them looking at me. The Matchmaker's words are coming back to me. Do not go in as myself. Compartmentalize. Who am I? Am I James Bond? No. Not feeling Bond. Bond wouldn't blow a man. Who am I? Am I Justin Timberlake bringing sexy back? Could be. But then again, don't really see him with the fellas. Who? Then it hits me. What is one of my favorite movies of all time? My Own Private Idaho. I know who to be and how to be a hustler. And no, not the sweet sensitive street kid. The other one. The one with the edge. The one that puts an expiration date on his days as a prostitute.
A swagger enters my step. I know who I am. Or at least who I'm pretending to be. I'm not Oliver. I'm James. I have cash, condoms and lube. I'm even starting to get a bit hard. The excitement is encouraging. There is a buzz in the place. The boom and thump of last-minute sound checks raises the energy surrounding us as we walk. This is my Thunderdome. I'm a gladiator entering the arena. I am Rocky, I am Maximus, I am Braveheart. The temptation to fist pump the air is nearly uncontrollable. But I keep my cool. Because that's who I am. I'm James the Whore hear me roar. I fuck for cash and I take no prisoners. Two men enter, one man leaves. I can do this.