Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Six Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE Prologue

  CHAPTER TWO November

  CHAPTER THREE The Dream

  CHAPTER FOUR The Psychiatrist

  CHAPTER FIVE Uncle Harvey in the Role of Wright the Butler

  CHAPTER SIX The Ladies

  CHAPTER SEVEN Mrs. Bailey

  CHAPTER EIGHT Mrs. Bailey

  CHAPTER NINE Mrs. French

  CHAPTER TEN Mrs. Dawson

  CHAPTER ELEVEN December

  CHAPTER TWELVE The Doctor

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN The Coffees

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN January

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN Mistress Jennifer

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN Renata

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Tea with Dr. Gita Premji

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Israel Rubin

  CHAPTER NINETEEN The Psychiatrist

  CHAPTER TWENTY The Actress

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE February

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO The Italian

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Former Fiancée

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR The Banker

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE The Baron

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Outing with mum – British Museum

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN The Bogus Saudi Prince

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT March

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Lads Weekend

  CHAPTER THIRTY The Company of Men

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE Home

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Dinner

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE April

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR Boundaries

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE The Esthetician

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX Lunch with Elon

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN Call to the LPS

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT Meeting with the Singh Family

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE MMME

  Memoirs of a Gigolo

  Volume Six

  Livia Ellis

  Copyright © 2014 Livia Ellis

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:

  ISBN-13:

  The Writers Tribe

  CHAPTER ONE

  Prologue

  Dante never lived with so many women at one time. If he had, then he truly would have understood hell and heaven. When I moved in with the girls I was like a new puppy. They all adored and petted me. Then they rapidly got bored with me. Fortunately I'm able to feed myself; otherwise I would have died from neglect. In truth, I'm glad after the novelty wore off that I became just another body living in the house. It was then that they became my friends.

  After that initial baptism by fire, my life took on certain sameness. Week in and week out the schedule varied just enough for me to not get bored, but truthfully the clients were usually the same. I gathered my regulars to me like lambs. The sex rarely varied. The menu doesn’t really change much once it’s set. I figured out who I needed to be for each of my clients and easily slipped into those specific roles.

  Was I ever really me with them? One or two of them, yes. The ones who would remain my friends after I left the job would get to know the real me. The Doctor, the Actress, the Latin Pop Star, the MMME, the Psychiatrist. These are the friends that remained with me.

  I did have one change to my life during these months. I started to grow up. I thought I was a man. Then I learned that I wasn’t. Then I grew up. Gradually.

  CHAPTER TWO

  November

  Get new trainers and heart monitor.

  Overnight – The apartment of the Psychiatrist

  11:00am – Uncle Harvey

  12:00pm – 1:00pm Mrs. Nichols

  2:00pm – 3:00pm Mrs. Bailey

  4:00pm – 5:00pm Mrs. French

  6:00pm – 7:00pm Mrs. Dawson

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Dream

  I come awake with a gasping scream.

  For a moment I’m disoriented.

  More than a moment truthfully.

  I don’t know where I am.

  A hand reaches for me.

  This makes me jump.

  For a moment I think I’m in my bed and that the woman who reaches for me is my former fiancée. I want her to tell me that all will be well. I’m just having a dream.

  But it’s not her.

  It’s the Psychiatrist.

  I was dreaming.

  She turns on a light.

  She hands me a glass of water.

  Am I okay?

  Of course. Just fine. Why am I in her bed? Then I remember. We’d gone to some work function of hers. I was going to leave after fulfilling the money making portion of our evening, but I fell asleep. It happens. I’d had a lot to drink. But then again, so did she. No wonder. If anyone would have told me that a bunch of psychiatrists getting together for a fun evening would spend an entire night discussing their patients, I would have brought a hip-flask.

  What was my dream?

  Nothing.

  I really can tell her. Dreams are sort of her raison d’etre. Maybe she can help me sort through it.

  It’s okay. I don’t want to burden her.

  Stop being so polite. No wonder we’re a nation of neurotics.

  I have this dream.

  I dream I’m my father.

  I’m him walking down the street.

  In a charcoal grey suit and white shirt.

  No tie.

  No coat.

  It’s a warm spring day.

  I feel alive.

  My son and I are friends. At last. We have the relationship I always wanted.

  I’m sober and I’ve been sober for better than a year.

  I’ve told my son about my problems with booze.

  He claims he never knew.

  I don’t know if I believe this or not, no matter how much I want to.

  How could he not know I drank? But then again if I’m being honest I did try to pull it in when I was around him.

  I’ve weathered my father’s death without turning back to booze.

  I’m coping with my wife’s illness without drinking.

  I’m terrified she’s going to die but I have my son and in that relationship, I take enormous comfort.

  We need to come to an agreement about how we are going to tell our son she is ill. She doesn’t want him to know. She envies the relationship we have built. She no longer has the strength to fight for my exclusive attention.

  I’m building a relationship with my son week by week.

  I’m fond of silently repeating the words of my therapist - we have two chances in our lives to have a healthy parent child relationship. I didn’t have a good relationship with my father. I can still have a relationship with my son.

  He wants this as much as I do.

  If he didn’t he wouldn’t make such an effort to try to randomly punish me for past wrong doings.

  But I’ve noticed the frequency of these sniper attacks grows less and less.

  If he didn’t want this relationship he wouldn’t return my calls.

  He wouldn’t accept my lunch invitations.

  He wouldn’t have gone skiing with me.

  He wouldn’t have come to me when he needed someone to talk with about the ending of his engagement and how he only knew after it was over how much he loved her.

  He wouldn’t have agreed to sit down with me and his mother to celebrate his twenty-eighth birthday.

  This is where I’m hurrying to as I race down the streets.

  The last thing I need at this moment when I’m finally making inroads with my son is to have it all shot to hell by him getting into it with his mother over the fact that she preferred to go to Bermuda without him for his fourteenth birthday rather than spend time with him.

  I’m no less gu
ilty of shirking my responsibility when he was younger, but at least I’ve taken ownership of my mistakes.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket.

  I have a text from my son.

  Where am I?

  Boom.

  The bus hits me.

  I wake up.

  Interesting.

  That sounds – ominous. Why would I dream about my father’s death?

  I’m not really dreaming about my father’s death. Dreams really are never what they seem to be on the surface. In the dream I am not my father. I am me and the bus is my relationship with my father. The accident is the death of the hopes I had for that relationship.

  What am I supposed to do with this? I have this dream a lot.

  Accept that mourning for the loss of a person isn’t just about the end of that person’s life. It’s mourning the relationship that was and the one that could have been. Grieving is a process. Just let it happen. Am I seeing anyone?

  Like a therapist?

  Exactly.

  Her.

  Go back to sleep. We’ll talk about lucid and directed dreaming in the morning. She can’t be my therapist, that would be unethical, but there’s no reason why we can’t discuss these things.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Psychiatrist

  She wakes me at about seven by getting out of bed.

  I would follow her, but I’m not certain how she feels about my presence in her apartment in the morning.

  I don’t know what to do.

  Do I get dressed and sneak out?

  Do I act like this is totally normal?

  I don’t know what to do.

  She exits the bathroom still wearing the slip she slept in and comes to the bed.

  I smell mint toothpaste and rose soap.

  I’m awake.

  I am.

  She reaches under the blanket and takes my dick in hand.

  It’s the morning. Nature has done the job for her.

  The duvet is flicked to the side.

  Am I still on the clock?

  Even if I wasn’t I’d truly rather she not stop what she’s doing.

  She takes a condom off the nightstand and rolls it on me.

  She get’s on top of me and presses down until I enter her.

  She moves a little then stops.

  This doesn’t work for her. She’s too used to using the couch in her office. Better angle.

  What might work? Does she want to switch positions? Maybe from behind?

  I’ve stumped her. She’s sorry. She’s supposes this means she’s in a bit of a rut.

  That means it’s time to switch it up. If she doesn’t like it, then we can mix it up again and again until we find something she likes.

  I go through my repertoire of sexual positions. I’m a virtual maestro of the old slap and tickle.

  We try as follows:

  Missionary – immediately shot down (too intimate)

  Reverse cowgirl

  Ankles up

  Rocking horse

  Doggie style

  Bicycle

  Wheelbarrow

  Seated wheelbarrow

  Crouching tiger – we have a winner

  By the time she decides on a position that works for her, I’m so aroused that I can barely hold back. It’s morning. My ability to control my libido is hobbled before ten. But I manage.

  The Psychiatrist flops on her back. That was good.

  I aim to please.

  Maybe she does need to start mixing it up a bit.

  Let me know what she wants. I’m pretty open minded.

  She will. She has a couple of ideas. She’ll let me know. For the moment, she wants me to start keeping a dream journal. She’s going to write out a list of books she’d like me to look at before our next session.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Uncle Harvey in the Role of Wright the Butler

  I’m home by nine just as I told Olga I would be.

  I’m to begin training.

  I don’t want to begin training.

  But I must begin training.

  Every time I complain about training, she shows me the picture of my abs.

  I’m stuck on the treadmill.

  I’m made to run like a rat desirous of pellets randomly flying down a shoot.

  She keeps fiddling with the controls on the treadmill.

  Suddenly I’m running up a cliff face.

  When that ends she makes me do sit-ups, pull-ups (I finally get what the bar suspended between the bathtub and toilet is for – not really long towels), pushups, and squats.

  She’s evil.

  She makes me get on the scale and she measures every bit of me.

  Did I know my right side is bigger than my left side?

  I did not know this.

  We need to balance me out.

  Looking forward to it. Now if she would please let me go and have the dry heaves, I’ll be just fine.

  Stop being such a baby. We’re going to quit smoking and cut out caffeine.

  Does she have a mouse in her pocket?

  Why would she have a mouse in her pocket?

  Because by “we” I assume she’s talking about herself and the mouse in her pocket.

  It’s like I’m a crazy person sometimes. We are quitting smoking and giving up caffeine.

  We are not. I’ll ditch the fags, but I’m not giving up coffee and she can’t make me.

  I can drink decaffeinated.

  No.

  Yes.

  No. Not now. Not ever. I’m not giving up coffee or any other caffeinated beverage.

  We’re going to try going vegan for a week.

  Again, I hope she and the mouse she has in her pocket enjoy that. I plan on having some delicious dead animal for lunch. Preferably smothered in bacon.

  A week won’t kill me. I might even really like it and never want to go back to being a carnivore.

  The thing I fear the most. It’s not going to happen. I’m taking a shower.

  I get under the water and she joins me.

  Going vegan would be…

  I kiss her. That shuts her up.

  I’m not going vegan and I’m not giving up coffee. I will try to quit smoking as long as she tries to quit smoking.

  She starts telling me all she’s read about the sins of meat and the benefits of going vegan. Words like mucus and intestinal flora start popping out of her mouth. I tell her that if she stops talking about my intestinal health I’ll consider a vegetarian diet.

  Olga takes my head and bends it down as she scrubs my scalp with her fingers. I'm rinsed then kicked out of the shower. I'm clean and she needs to wash her hair. This is something that requires space. Freedom to move her arms. Piss off.

  I get out of the shower, dress, check my planner, and pack my messenger bag accordingly. I have the Ladies that afternoon. I could be shopping, lunching, fucking, or drinking cocktails. Or all of the above.

  Olga exits the bathroom with her hair in a towel, wrapped in my bathrobe. She disappears out of my room presumably to go to her own room which is more of a closet to store her clothes and shoes as she has otherwise moved into my room.

  I sit with my new tablet and start loading books onto it in preparation for the trip I have later in the week to New York. I will not make the same mistakes I made in Japan on practically every level. One of those mistakes being not having enough reading material.

  Olga returns to the room.

  Her hair has been dried in her bedroom.

  I’m willing to let her sleep with me. I’m happy to have her shower with me.

  I will not let her lady shit take over my space.

  I will not.

  This is why men and women need separate bathrooms.

  The one time her crap started creeping into my room I put it all in a bin bag and handed it back to her.

  Now that was a fight I could have sold tickets to.

  Olga wanders around the room. Her lipstick is fixed in the mirror. She starts putting toge
ther outfits for me for my New York trip. I’ll be gone for five days. This is my first solo trip. She has all the confidence in the world that I’ll do just fine. I just can’t be trusted to pack enough underwear without her supervision.

  I’ve come to terms with the fact she will pack my bags for me whether I want her to or not. And why not? Honestly what do I gain out of packing my own bags? If she wants to do it for me, I say let her. Before I leave in the morning I’ll make certain I have everything I know I need which will be the things that go into my carry-on.

  The doorbell rings. I check the time.

  Olga instructs me to get down my suitcases. She could get them herself, but nails.

  The doorbell rings again. It's as if she doesn't hear the chime.

  Are we going to get that?

  She's not expecting anyone. Is there a reason I’m not getting the suitcases down?

  The doorbell rings a third time. Unbelievable.

  Suitcases?

  Allow me. I'll get the door. I repeat this over and over again, shouting it as I run down the steps. At the door I find Uncle Harvey. He is impeccable. He even managed a bowler hat.

  I bring him into the sitting room. I show him the shoes. I show him the panties hanging off the sconces. I show him the paper cups of mold encrusted half-drunk lattes. I show him the unopened mail. I show him the spilled nail polish. I show him the general state of the place.

  Uncle Harvey looks around. This place is a mess. Even by his standards. Which are pretty low.

  He really has no idea. I go to the panel by the door and set off the alarm.

  The women come stumbling down the stairs. They think it’s the Matchmaker. She’s the only one that uses the alarm on them.

  Mi Young, Elizabeth, Emer, Simone, Olga, Talitha.

  Ladies. Uncle Harvey removes his hat and makes a small bow. He is Wright.

  The six women look at each other.

  Elizabeth raises her hand. Right about what?

  His name. He is Wright.

  Mr. Wright?

  Just Wright. Always Wright. Forever Wright. They will call him Wright.

  Right.

  That is correct. He is Wright. He lifts his cane and removes the panties from the sconce. These belong to...? He waves the panties like a red flag.

  Simone speaks up. They are her panties.