Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Three Read online

  Contents

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE Thunderdome

  CHAPTER TWO With the Talent

  CHAPTER THREE The Boyfriend Experience

  CHAPTER FOUR Reality TV and Roomservice

  CHAPTER FIVE A Winning First Day at the New Job

  CHAPTER SIX Living With Others - Part One

  CHAPTER SEVEN That One New Coworker with Boundary Issues

  CHAPTER EIGHT The Baboon

  CHAPTER NINE Uncle Harvey

  CHAPTER TEN The Psychiatrist

  CHAPTER ELEVEN Living With Others - Part Two

  For the Tribe

  CHAPTER ONE

  Thunderdome

  I hear the noise from the arena, but more than that, I feel it in my bones. There is a rhythm to it that is positively primordial. There is a power to the stomping and clapping. There is a psychological element to that sort of communal cacophony. There must be. Beating of drums, chests, swords against shields. These behaviors don't just occur without purpose. The beat of the drum compares to the beat of the heart and the thrum of blood in the ears. Again, there is something primal in it. How much different are we now than we were two thousand years ago when we stomped our feet and banged our hands together to bring out the gladiators?

  I am a gladiator as I walk through the concrete tunnels of the arena. I feel the pounding of the crowd. I hear the call of the music of the opening bands. I begin to move in step with the pulse of the crowd. If I close my eyes and envision the world around me, as it was when a warrior fought for the pleasure of Caesar on the floor of an arena, I am certain I would understand that feeling when raw emotion takes over reason and rational behavior. I get the lure of the cheering crowd. I understand why people crave fame and why their lives are utterly devastated when they've had it and then it's gone. It must be hell to have been a contender on X-Factor then have to return to obscurity.

  But then again, maybe not. I've tasted infamy, which is the poor bastard cousin to fame. I hated it. I want a quiet life. I don't want fame. I want my anonymity. I don't want to be this man that hides behind his sunglasses as if he is some poor man's Clark Kent that can somehow conceal who he is and his true purpose behind a flimsy disguise. These green lanyard wearing people know who I am. There is no hiding my purpose. I'm the one that has been brought in to serve the needs of the talent. They know his dirty little secret. They are complicit in his self-delusion. I suspect each and every one of them is far too afraid of their own skin to tell the Emperor that he wears no clothes. The rest of the world has caught on to the fact he’s gay. He’s the only one that doesn’t seem to know it. I’m about to become part of the conspiracy. My only hope is that the secrets don’t unravel while I am part of the secret. I don't want to be famous. I just want to be Oliver. But then again right now, who is Oliver? How very fucking existential of me.

  This is the problem with a classics education. Try as hard as one does to skate by doing the minimum required level of work, knowledge has this annoying way of creeping in. I understand myself and what I'm going through better than I would if I didn't enjoy reading about stoicism and actually know what an epicurean truly was. I should have gone to school and studied accountancy. I could just be a soul siphoning tax collector that is incapable of original thought and simply sucks the marrow of the bones of others to survive. I hate tax collectors. I really do. I get it now what drives normally sane people into doing drastic things when tax collectors are involved. They're like leeches.

  Okay – truthfully I’m just being unkind. I know I am. I’m also forgetting that until not that long ago I was one of the members of the 1% - those loathsome bastards I both envy and resent the most at the moment. I’m certain that lumping together all tax collectors then tossing them into the same circle of hell is a bit of a stretch, but considering my recent experience, I think I should be allowed a bit of hyperbole. Anyhow – I digress. In the arena.

  We stop at a door manned by a security guard.

  We're let in without a pause.

  The Security Guard leaves us in this room that is both comfortable and expensively furnished. No folding tables and chairs.

  There is a second door leading into an adjacent room next to a table covered in neatly ordered rows of bottles.

  Precisely thirty-six pink labeled bottles of Evian stand waiting next to thirty-six crisp green glass bottles of Perrier.

  There are no glasses.

  Just bottles of water.

  Next to the water is a carton of Lucky Strike cigarettes.

  Unopened.

  Four blue Bic lighters are neatly lined up on top of the carton.

  At the opposite end of the table is a stainless steel oval ice bucket filled with twenty four bottles of Corona next to six bottles of Grey Goose Vodka, six bottles of Bombay Sapphire Gin, and six bottles of Muchote Tequila.

  There are six crystal shot glasses, a crystal bowl filled with sliced limes, another crystal bowl of coarse salt and at last a crystal bucket of ice.

  A man of about forty, or perhaps a very young looking fifty, sits on one of the couches.

  I loathe him instantly.

  Next to him is a Louis Vuitton briefcase. It's the sort of thing I see someone carrying and generally think what a fucking twat.

  He is tanned to an unhealthy copper.

  His black hair is thinning and combed in such a way that it clearly bothers him.

  He has an earring.

  A small hoop with a dangling diamond.

  I want to yank it out.

  His legs are crossed.

  He wears loafers without socks.

  I want to tell him that Don Johnson called and demands his look (Miami Vice circa 1985) returned.

  He's on his phone.

  He's smoking.

  Around his neck is an all access pass on a brilliant green lanyard.

  I know, as one knows these things, that I could totally kick his ass.

  I know that he is one of those parasitic leeches that has attached onto someone that has both talent and soul. Without The Latin Pop Star or some other person possessing charisma and ability, he would be a small time promoter hustling to make a living.

  He probably has a business degree.

  He probably judges not only his worth, but the worth of all others he encounters by how much money they make because in his mind that is the only stick a man can be measured by.

  I learn something about myself in this instant. I have standards. No matter how much this man offers, I would not have sex with him.

  I both can and will be selective about my clients. This will be how my real money is made. I will choose them. They will not choose me.

  When the door closes behind us, he looks up, winks and smiles at Olga, and then stares at me.

  I don't think he likes me very much.

  I'm both younger and prettier than he is.

  I also have more hair.

  A lot more hair.

  I run my hand over my head. My hair is rather bristly yet smooth.

  I feel like a puppy. An adorable puppy that on my better days wouldn't have to pay Olga to sleep with me.

  Unlike him.

  The Security Guard gestures to me to hand over my messenger bag.

  I unwrap it from over my shoulder and pass it to him.

  Without asking, he starts to rummage through it.

  I'm given my messenger bag back.

  The mobile phone Olga set up for me in the car is taken. I'll get it back later.

  I ask him if he'd mind charging it.

  He takes the charger. Sure. Not a problem. Anything else?

  I ask in a quiet voice what would happen if I took one of the bottles of water?

/>   He chortles for a moment then tells me not to touch the water. In fact, I'm not to touch anything. Within reason of course. Nudge nudge wink wink.

  He turns to Olga.

  Olga hands over her bag and her phone without having to be asked. She gets her phone back along with her bag. Olga can be trusted.

  The new boy gets his phone with the camera and the internet connection taken away from him.

  The Security Guard gets a call on his walkie-talkie. I'm not to go anywhere. Just stay put. He leaves us.

  Olga helps herself to the vodka. She offers me a shot.

  Is this a test? Am I allowed to take vodka? Because if I am I'd really rather have a tequila shot.

  The man on the phone concludes his conversation. He doesn't stand up. Instead he reaches into his Louis Vuitton briefcase and pulls out a folder of documents. He looks at me.

  I need to sign a confidentiality agreement. Okay?

  Fine. Where do I sign?

  Just for the record, what's my real name?

  James Albert Oliver Alexander Stanley Adair, 18th Earl of Harkslon, 14th Earl of Connalara.

  Stop bullshitting him.

  I'm really not bullshitting him. That's really my name. I don't tell him that no one has ever called me James. James was my grandfather, but it's still the first in a long string of names I was gifted with.

  So what the fuck is he supposed to call me? Sir James?

  No. Actually, it would be my lord, your lordship, or Lord Harkslon. But he really can just call me James.

  What I notice during this exchange is that Olga is staring at me.

  This is interesting her. This speaks to that Grazia and Hello magazine reading little social climber inside of her that would wrap herself in the title of countess like a mink coat.

  Olga would truly appreciate being a countess.

  I know she would.

  Not only would she be a great countess, she'd make all the other earls weep in their brandies about how I am so lucky to have such a beautiful wife and how miserable they are because they don't.

  Too bad she doesn't have any money. I'd marry her in a second and make her a countess in exchange for even a small fortune.

  The man pulls a laptop out of the briefcase and flips it open.

  After a moment’s pause, he starts typing.

  He's Googling me.

  I know it.

  I wait.

  And there it is.

  The look on his face that lets me know he's found me on Wikipedia. I need to do something about that picture of me they have attached to my entry. I make a mental note to figure out Wikipedia when I have a minute.

  He'll be damned. What the hell am I doing working for The Matchmaker?

  I'm fundamentally lazy and I like to fuck. Why not get paid for it?

  He laughs. Fair enough. Puts a pen on top of the documents. Initial and sign where indicated.

  Before I sign I read through the document. Basically if I ever speak a word about what is going to happen, my life is forfeit.

  I sign.

  I know what it's like to be the focus of the paparazzi machine. I get the need for precautions. This is also a two way street. I appreciate the precautions. Sort of like wearing a condom. I'm protected too. The Latin Pop star is the ideal client. Olga once again was right.

  The man takes the documents from me, tucks them along with the laptop into the briefcase, rises from the couch, and picks up the briefcase. He can't be more than 5'4”.

  Olga is a giantess next to him.

  This is why I’m more than a little surprised when he gives her a nod and they go to the door.

  I'm given final instructions before they depart.

  Help myself to the booze. Within reason. And don't leave the room. I'm on the clock. He checks his watch. Starting then.

  They're gone and I'm alone. Me and the table full of liquids. I pour a shot of tequila, lick my hand, salt it, and then toss it back. Tequila. Salt. Lime. Divine. I honestly didn't realize how much I needed that.

  I go to the second door, which opens into a dressing room. Lit candles are the only source of light. Four racks of clothes line one wall. A chocolaty brown suede couch dominates the space. It's warm enough to be called hot. Two humidifiers are churning out steam. The room smells like vanilla and cinnamon.

  The exterior door opens and closes. I feel busted. I come out of the room and there he is. There is a brief moment when I very nearly squeal like a teenage girl. I'm quite certain I've never been in the presence of someone quite so perfect before.

  He looks at me. He smiles. His teeth are blindingly white. When he speaks, his English has a slight accent that is more charming than disruptive. I have to be with Olga (he calls her Anastasia). Do I want a drink? He needs a drink. Do I smoke? Do I care if he smokes?

  Yes drink. Yes, I smoke. I don't care if he smokes. Does he care if I smoke? I have every good intention to quit smoking.

  Don't we all? The Latin Pop Star opens up the carton of Lucky Strikes. We both light up. Where is Olga? Did they just abandon me?

  Olga has gone with The Manager. I'm fine on my own.

  He laughs. Of course Olga has gone with The Manager. He doesn't really want to insult me, but contrary to what I might be thinking, he's not the one that insists on company. The Manager is well aware that the only way he'd get any time with Olga is by paying for it. He likes The Manager. He's not adverse to company. Everybody wins.

  We have shots of tequila. Then he realizes something. He hasn't introduced himself. We shake hands. I don't want to say that I know who he is, but of course I do. I tell him my name is James.

  He laughs. James? Really? Not Dusty, Damian, Dakota, or Devlin?

  I have to laugh. No. James. I offer to show him my passport.

  He wants to see it.

  I hand him my passport.

  He looks it over. Do I like to travel? He can tell I must like to travel by the number of stamps I have. He likes to travel. Have I ever been to the Reunion Islands?

  I actually haven't. It's on my list.

  It's incredible. He's going in a couple of months for a break. Think about it. Private island. Private beaches. Private everything. Two weeks of nothing but sleeping and lying on a silent beach.

  I'm in. Sounds perfect.

  He'll have The Manager talk with The Matchmaker.

  Right. I smile but say nothing other than some sort of positive affirmation that yes, he really should do that.

  Reality keeps my lips zipped.

  I'm working.

  Forgot for a moment.

  Then I remember and wonder how much two weeks on an island with this man will net me. Quite a lot I imagine, as I stand there looking into his honey brown eyes. I like him. He's friendly. Gorgeous. Tall. Well built. I like that he's in a t-shirt and jeans. I would go gay for this.

  The door opens and two women enter. Brilliant green lanyards. Wardrobe and Makeup.

  We all shake hands. I'm invited to go into the second room.

  The Latin Pop Star grabs the shot glasses and the limes.

  I take the tequila and the salt.

  The four of us have shots, smoke, and talk while The Latin Pop Star is made ready. There is some debate about what he wants to wear. In the end he sticks with the jeans and t-shirt he'd originally walked in wearing. He does try on a baseball hat, which he decides to keep.

  I don't know when I forget that I'm being paid to be there, but I do.

  The Security Guard walks in. The doors have been open for nearly two hours. Full house. The last opening band has started. He's got twenty minutes before he has to be on the move. The Security Guard looks at me. My phone is being charged. Wardrobe and Makeup leave with The Security Guard. The door is closed behind them.

  I'm not the one that makes the first move. He is. Olga told me in the car that he likes to be the aggressor. I only remember this after he takes the initiative.

  His hands are strong and warm on my waist. He's very tense. He's always very tens
e right before he goes on stage. Can I tell him honestly, if I hadn't been paid for it, would I blow him?

  I offer to give him his money back. I'd pay him for the privilege. I find him very attractive and I let him know this. Not only that, I like his company. Anytime he's in London and wants someone to do shots with, call me.

  This makes him laugh. Warm, rich, and throaty. He believes me. He enjoys my company too.

  Would I mind blowing him? He's really very tense.

  He sits on the couch and I grab a condom made for just that sort of thing from my bag.

  I undo his trousers and pull out his cock. He’s as clean and hairless as I am. Big. Uncircumcised. I roll the condom on him and take him in my mouth.

  His fingers thread through my hair.

  His hands move my head in a way that I find wholly unnecessary and a bit uncomfortable. I’m partially worried he’ll snap my neck. I lift my head up and look at him.

  He’s hurting my neck. I know what I’m doing. Just let me do it please.

  He releases his hands and lets me continue. His fingers return to my hair, but this time they are just stroking and petting.

  He holds my head as he ejaculates.

  When he's done, he releases my head and I rise to my feet. I take the condom off of him as he lies back against the couch, his arms spread wide.

  That was excellently done.

  I aim to please.

  Did he hurt me?

  No. It’s fine. Just try not to be too rough. A little rough is fine. Too much and I can be hurt.

  I go through another door that leads to a bathroom.

  When the steam starts to rise, I drop the condom into the bowl and let the hot water pour over it.

  The Latin Pop Star walks into the bathroom.

  I get a hand on the waist and a kiss on the neck. That really was excellently done. He really would like me to think about two weeks in the Reunion Islands with him.

  There is nothing to think about. I'm already there in my mind.

  He'll make certain it's all arranged. Well done with the hot water too, by the way. The last thing he wants is a bastard. A friend of his left a condom behind once. Next thing he knows he's being accused by a cleaning woman of fathering her child. He wasn't the father. But still... lesson learned. Scorched earth policy.