Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Three
Author: Livia Ellis
Date: 2012-12-01 05:00:00+00:00

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 tense 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.

I turn off the water, he takes the condom, and it’s flushed down the toilet.

Do I want to come back to his hotel with him later?

He asks me as if I haven't already been paid to do just that very thing.

Yes. I would very much like to go back to his hotel.

I don't mention the money again.

Neither of us do.

This is a date now.

Going to the Reunion Islands with him will be a vacation. There will be no mention of money. I will be there because I want to be there. Not because I'm being paid to be there. I trust in the fact The Matchmaker knows how to handle that sort of arrangement discretely.

Another kiss on the neck. I can see in the mirror that we are exactly the same height. Nearly the same build. He doesn't have time at that moment, but later he'll make up for not reciprocating.

I've read about the girlfriend experience. Is this the boyfriend experience? I think it might be.

I turn around. I'm between him and the sink. I kiss him. Lots of tongue and a bit of teeth. I'm going to remember that promise.

I ask him if I'm supposed to tell him to break a leg.

He'd really rather I didn't. I'm told to tell him to have a good show.

I tell him to have a good show.

Will I watch from backstage?

Can I? Both The Security Guard and The Manager told me not the leave the room.

As the only person that doesn't have to wear an all access pass or brilliant green lanyard, he gets the final say on who gets to go where. Do I want to watch from backstage?

Of course I do.

His hand reaches between us. He isn't shy about touching me.

Am I aware that I'm hard?

I am aware of this.

The way his fingers stroke and fondle me through my trousers doesn't help. Fact: Men know how men like to be touched. I imagine it's the same for women.

He stops before he knows he has to continue. I'm hard, but I'm not going to suffer. He wants me like this. Wanting him.

I do in fact want him. I remember that I was worried about whether or not I was going to be able to get hard. I could laugh. Not going to be a problem.

There's a ringing and I can feel the vibration of his phone against my leg.

He pulls out his phone and answers. Four second conversation.

It's time to move. Hold his phone for him. He puts it in my shirt pocket.

I'm given another kiss.

We leave the bathroom.

I pick up the suit jacket I left on the couch.

My sunglasses fall out of the pocket.

He takes them. He puts them on. He'll give them back to me. He slips on the hoodie Wardrobe has left for him.

He can pretend to be in disguise all he wants. I'd know him anywhere.

We leave the dressing room.

The Security Guard has a headset on.

Makeup fixes the damage done by the kissing. She hands me a tissue with a wink as she gestures to her mouth. I have traces of makeup on my mouth.

Wardrobe fixes my collar. Do I want her to take my suit jacket? She'll put it in the car that will take us to the hotel. I give her my jacket. Do I want her to take my messenger bag too?

The Latin Pop Star tells her to take it.

I don't want to mention the fact I have a lot of cash in my messenger bag and I don't. I just hand over my bag and trust that my things will be safe.

He tells me to grab smokes and a lighter. And the tequila. No. The vodka.

I shove the carton of cigarettes and the lighters into my messenger bag before Wardrobe walks off with it.

The Security Guard says its time.

The door is opened.

The Latin Pop Star follows The Security Guard.

We're surrounded by eight additional security guards.

The Security Guard lets whoever is listening to him on the headset know that we are on the move.

Walking in the pack of security is like parting the red sea. Everyone makes way for us. I can feel the power of the presence of The Latin Pop Star. I'm also starting to understand his ego. The crowd in the arena above is pounding their feet for him. He's the charismatic leader they've all come to see. He looks at me over the top of the sunglasses that he’s taken. The left corner of his mouth lifts perhaps three millimeters.

A smile just for me. It’s like I’ve received a benediction. I’ve been blessed.

Then I get it. He wants me to fall in love with him.

With every step his actions are becoming more and more transparent to me. He pays for sex because he doesn't want the complications involved in a real relationship. A real boyfriend has the right to make demands. Like not being kept a secret.

I need to compartmentalize. I can see where he could be very difficult to resist. Like a siren. They sing too.

The music has begun above. The crowd is stomping. They know he's coming.

We arrive in a backstage area. People with headsets are moving purposefully. There are a lot of clipboards. Equipment is being shuffled. This is a larger and more complex operation than I could have imagined. I realize then that I've forgotten my all access pass with the brilliant green lanyard back in the dressing room.

We're at the edge of the stage and I'm as far as a woman with a clipboard, a brilliant green lanyard with all access pass, and a headset will let me go.

I'm James?

I nod.

She looks to the ground. Her toe taps at a line of reflective yellow tape.

I can only go this far.

I tell her I've forgotten my pass in the dressing room.

This earns me a couple of eyebrows being twitched up and a knowing smile.

I'm good. Don't worry about it. She'll send someone for it when she has a minute.

I'm left once again to my own devices.

The Latin Pop Star is fitted with an earpiece and an invisible microphone. He swings his arms and stretches.

I watch from behind the yellow tape.

Olga is suddenly at my side.

So?

I ask if there is such a thing as the boyfriend experience.

She looks at me. Not in her experience, no. Why?

Nothing. We can talk later. How was The Manager?

She wiggles her little finger at me and grins. He's a little man in every way.

The Latin Pop Star turns back to me. He sees Olga. He walks up to Olga and kisses her with every ounce of passion and sensuality he'd kissed me in private.

When they break apart, he takes the vodka from me and has a quick drink straight from the bottle before handing it back to me.

It's time.

He turns to the stage and crosses the line. A moment later he walks onto the stage. A roar that I can feel in my bones as much as I felt the stomping and cheering earlier rolls like a wave through the arena.

Immediately he's off.

I’m in awe. No mere mortal could do what he does. If we still lived in a world in which the gods simply were and not in a post enlightened world in which the gods were a maybe, I would believe if I were told that he was a demi-god. An Achilles. I would be his Patroclus. Who wouldn’t?

CHAPTER TWO

With the Talent

I've never seen a concert from backstage before.

The coordinated efforts of so many people to bring together such an event nightly, was nothing short of impressive. That they did it in different venues across the globe finally justified in my mind the cost of a single concert ticket.

Sort of.

Then I think of men like the manager and wonder how much he takes for his part in bringing The Latin Pop Star to the masses.

The Latin Pop Star is talented. But more than that, he is charismatic. I don't doubt that he can sing. But then again so can a lot of people. What he has is that elusive X factor that noisome Simon Cowell loves to blather on about. He has that mystical quality by the bucket.

I'm charmed by him. I am no longer bothered by my all-access pass attached to the brilliant green lanyard nor am I bothered by the fact that my purpose is a known thing to all of the other green lanyard wearers. Like the lover of a medieval king, I suddenly have power by association. Maybe I'm overstating my position, but I know that I am being treated with a great deal of deference.

The Manager walks up to me. He comes up to my shoulder. Through the comb lines in his hair I can see his scalp.

Why am I not in the room where I was told to stay? I shouldn't be backstage.

I pull myself up so I'm no longer slouching. I look down at the manager, but I sort of stare at his hairline rather than his face. I run my fingers through my hair then I answer him. The Latin Pop Star wanted me back stage.

Why?

Because I make him smile. And I really know how to use my jaw muscles.

I need to keep my fucking mouth shut.

How does he do that? Speaking without moving his lips. Is it an American thing?

I need to watch it. It's easy to get rid of me. Just like it was easy to get rid of Harold (who he calls Dusty – what an idiotic name).

So is he going to be going to the Reunion Islands?

The Manager has to crane his neck to look up at me. If he were going to be in a movie I think only Dustin Hoffman could truly do him justice.

I'm really looking forward to two weeks in the Reunion Islands. The Latin Pop Star makes it sound perfect.

I need to watch it. Remember who the boss is.

The talented and sexy man on stage shaking his ass?

No. Watch it. Rent boys are a dime a dozen.

Do people really say dime a dozen? Is that really a thing?

I can be replaced.

Sure I can. Because there are a lot of men like me with my kind of background and desire to remain absolutely anonymous in my dealings just itching to be the secret lover for pay of a multi-national star.

I can be replaced.

Of course. I'm going to need some things for the upcoming trip. Do I give him the list? Or is there someone else?

Olga walks up and puts her arm through mine.

I tell her that the Latin Pop Star invited me to go to the Reunion Islands. I give her a peck on the cheek. Is she going?

If I'm going, she's going.

Aren't we all going to have so much fun? I smile at the manager.

The Manager walks away from us.

Truthfully, I have no idea whether or not he has the power to be rid of me with the snap of his fingers. But I have a feeling that if I do everything right, that if I become that perfect secret lover that never complains and never demands, then The Latin Pop Star will be happy and there is probably very little the manager wants more than to keep his walking talking paycheck happy.

I look at Olga. So is she his beard?

I'm only figuring that out now? Does he like me? Because if he likes me, then that means she gets to travel. What's up with the Reunion Islands? Did he actually ask me to go with him or did he just mention it.

I'm pretty sure he likes me. He wants me to go to the Reunion Islands with him for two weeks.

This is good! This is very good! Two weeks of doing absolutely nothing and getting paid for it. Maybe she'll be able to catch up on her reading.

Because she won't have anything to do?

Not really. No. The last time she went with Harold and The Latin Pop Star on vacation, she didn't see the two of them for practically the entire time. Harold made a big mistake with The Latin Pop Star.

Which was?

Harold started to fall for The Latin Pop Star. Or at least he pretended to. Hard to know. He started to make demands. He wanted stuff. He tried to convince the Latin Pop Star he could come out. Then there was The Manager.

I'm starting to see how this job can easily get very complicated. How does she do it?

Do what?

Avoid falling in love?

She looks at me. Don't be a dickhead. Only an idiot falls in love with a John.

About a half-hour before the concert is scheduled to end, Olga leads me away from where I'm enjoying being a spectator.

We need to prep.

For what?

Don't expect foreplay, or for The Latin Pop Star to be a considerate lover. It's fifty-fifty with him. Best to be ready. Sometimes he can be rough. Especially after a concert. A little preparation in advance doesn't hurt. In fact, a little preparation in advance can prevent a lot of hurt.

We are let into a private bathroom that requires a key to gain admittance.

Very nice. Clearly meant only for the talent. Or, in our case, their paid companionship.

What do we need to do?

I'm told to drop my trousers. If she tells me to bend over and cough, I'm going to protest.

She does tell me to lean forward and hold onto the sink.

She's sorry she had to leave, but The Manager needed to be serviced. He's a good client. Very clean. Lots of personal issues. His teeny-tiny penis bothers him. But like most little men, he likes to compensate. He always tips well.

She shows me the bracelet wrapped around her wrist.

Now that she brings my attention to it, I realize she didn't arrive wearing it.

He's big into the impressive gesture. Wants her to be his exclusive companion.

Why isn't she?

Not her thing. She'd get bored. How was it? With The Latin Pop Star?

I tell her what happened. That it was all very normal. In a way. I felt like I was acting.

Good. That's how it is. Do I think she lets The Manager see the real her? Of course she doesn’t.

This sort of mindless chatter continues as she spreads my cheeks open. A glob of icy cold lube nearly makes me scream.

She laughs at me. Next time she'll warm it up. The pad of her thumb massages the lube around in a circle. She's fingering my ass lightly. The tip of one finger slips inside, past the ring of hard muscle. Loosening it. Forcing the muscles to relax. Working a large quantity of lube inside my passage in preparation for the fucking to come.

I like the conversation. It helps me keep perspective.

Do I get to see the real her?

More or less. She likes me. She doesn't have a lot of friends. Maybe we could be friends.

I'd like us to be friends. I don't have a lot of friends either. I especially don't have any friends that would bend me over a sink and lube up my ass. That's real friendship.

She agrees. That's real friendship.

I can't say that what she's doing, with her fingers and the lube, is having no effect. It is. In fact it's having a great deal of effect. I still cannot believe I was worried about my ability to get hard. There truly never was any danger of my suddenly becoming impotent.

I'm good, she tells me as I'm given a pat on the rump.

I pull up my trousers and move away from the sink so she can wash her hands.

Does she need me to do anything?

Yes. Do her. She never knows what The Latin Pop Star is going to want. Sometimes, when he's feeling his masculinity threatened, he goes at her like a bull. Like fucking a woman hard is going to make him any less gay. He might want to prove to me that he’s not gay – he just likes cock.

Men can like cock and not be gay.

No they can’t.

No really they can.

Not in her experience.

They can in my experience.

Do I have a male lover?

It’s complicated.

Bullshit. Do I or don’t I?

Sort of.

When was the last time I had sex with him?

Uhhh… Well… Yesterday.

Ohhhhh!!!!! Is he the one I got into a fight with and that’s why I don’t have a phone anymore?

I really do not want to discuss this.

Did I have a fight with my luuuvvvveeerrrrr?

It’s not that simple.

What’s his name?

Elon. He is not my luuuvvvveeerrrrr – he is my friend. My friend I have sex with.

One of those friends.

Yes. One of those friends. Just because he’s a man doesn’t mean I’m gay.

Doesn’t mean I’m not gay.

I’m not gay. He’s gay. I’m indiscriminate. Does she want me to lube her up or not?

Yes. But she also wants to know about my boyfriend. Is he good-looking?

Yes.

Blond or brunet?

Blond. He’s Norwegian. He looks Norwegian.

Norwegian men are hot. Can she meet him?

No.

What did we get into a fight about?

A lot of things.

Working as an escort?

Yes. Among other things.

Can she meet him?

Does she want me to lube up her ass or no?

With her hands on the sink, she leans forward.

Would I rather fuck her or him?

Her.

My hands slide her dress up and over her bare bottom. Where are her panties? Why is she not wearing any panties?

The Manager kept them. Honestly. He always keeps her panties. You'd think she'd learn to bring a spare pair. She's had to hand over more pairs of panties that she really liked than she'd care to admit because of men and their need for a souvenir.

I can't help but to laugh. My hands are filled with two perfect mounds of flesh, but I can't help but to visualize the teeny-tiny man that is The Manager with a pair of Olga's panties in his jacket pocket. I promise to never steal her panties.

This is much appreciated. Do I really like women more than men?

Yes. I also want to get married and become a father. That’s easier to do with a woman.

Would I rather be friends that have sex with her or with Elon?

At the moment, neither. I want to try to stay professional.

Fine. Whatever. If I change my mind, just let her know.

I’ll do that.

I turn my attention to the task quite literally at hand. How am I supposed to not be effected by the sight of Olga's bare bottom? How? The combination of her stroking and massaging fingers on my rectum, and the tactile sensation of my hands on her soft rounded bottom are too much.

What does she want me to do? Because if she wants me to slide a condom on and just loosen her up that way, I'm more than happy to.

Wouldn’t that be two friends having sex?

That would be two professionals working in harmony.

Sure. Put a condom on. Use a lot of lube.

I don't have my bag. My bag is in the car. My bag with all of the condoms is in the car.

Get one out of her purse. I should keep my bag with me. What am I supposed to do if I'm caught without a condom and she's not around? I need to think of these things.

I let her lecture me as I get a condom from her bag, let my trousers drop, and roll it on. The heels bring her to precisely the right height. I don't need to stoop or stretch. We are meant to come together like this.

A large quantity of lube is spread on my cock and down her crack. My fingers mimic her actions as I massage and relax her opening. I hold my cock in my hand, directing the tip at the tidy pucker of her anus. She presses towards me and I slide in.

Olga cries out a little as her fingers curl into fists.

My bare, hairless crotch makes contact with her smooth rounded ass. I nearly cum. Every ounce of pain I endured getting my boyzilian done has now made it worth it. A chirp of a sigh squeaks out of me. I rub against her. Smooth skin against smooth skin. What I want to do is hold her against me, rubbing her soft skin against my bare balls.

She laughs a little. See? She was right about the waxing. I should listen to her.

What does she want me to do? I'm holding her hips with my hands, waiting for some instruction.

She starts sliding back and forth on my cock. The Manager couldn't fuck his way out of a bag. The worst thing about someone like him is that it leaves her frustrated and questioning her ability. She is really good at what she does, but not even she has the capacity of turning a lousy lover into a dynamo. She hates faking orgasms, but with The Manager, she really doesn't have much of a choice.

I tune her out at this point. I've been with women that liked to talk while I was fucking them. The best and only thing to do is just ignore them. This is why music, loud music, is good during sex. But the message I did get, before I tuned down the volume on Olga, is that she needed a good fucking. I can do this. Without an audience, I can do it even better.

I slip in and out of her as a hand reaches around and finds her bush. I did not have an opportunity earlier to tell her how much I like her bush, so I tell her then.

She pushes back, then pulls forward fast enough so I slip out of her. She turns around, changes my condom with lightening fingers like the expert she is, and then sits on the sink. Her legs grab me and pull me forward. I slide into her as far as I can go. My bare skin is massaged by her silky, black bush. Now I really am going to cum. The heat of her body, the pressure of her cunt muscles, the tickle of the hair. It all comes together in a tactile sensation that is beyond anything I've experienced before.

I grab Olga by the ass with both hands and plow into her. I kiss her neck and squeeze her bottom.

She whispers that she's going to cum as she buries her face against my neck.

My ego is massaged as I'm told how much I satisfy her. How much she likes having me in her.

If this is the treatment her clients get, I can see why she has so much return business.

My orgasm builds up inside of me then pops like the cork on a champagne bottle. I'm sure the last time I had this much action in one day, I'd been on Easter break in India with about ten girls from my college program. They fucked me raw. The stuff old men reminisce about when they've reached the point of incontinence and drooling. I now have this day to add to the pool of memories I can draw from when I am old. And it's not even over yet.

I kiss Olga as I slide out of her.

Did she really cum, or was that for my benefit?

Do I really have to ask?

I kind of do.

She really came. She promises me that she'll never fake with me. Unless she has to because there's a client involved. Then she'll tell me afterward that she had to fake.

I move her away from the sink and start running the hot water. I pull off the condom and drop it in the sink. I fasten my trousers as I watch my swimmers drown.

Can I ask her a personal question?

Maybe. There is a bit of a raised eyebrow. Will I show her a picture of my boyfriend?

I don’t have a picture of Elon.

So he is my boyfriend.

If it makes her happy to think of him as my boyfriend, so be it. I don’t think of him as my boyfriend.

What’s my question?

Why the bush? I thought most women went for the bare pussy? I'm not complaining. I really do like it. I wasn't bullshitting her.

The Samurai pays a lot more for her to go to one of his parties with a full bush. He's a kinky little bastard. He likes to bury his face in it. Sometimes there's whip-cream or frosting involved. She has a few clients like that. No big deal. It grows annoyingly fast. That luxurious black hair on her head? Unfortunately she has it all over. She keeps The Aesthetician in cha-cha shoes with her patronage. She has a standing weekly appointment and every six weeks goes for laser. It's really hard to be a woman.

Why do I enjoy hearing these intimate little details? I don't know, but I do. Probably because she'd never tell a client that she was secretly hirsute and only a well-trained Brazilian transsexual aesthetician kept her from looking like a cave woman.

The concert ends after a well-choreographed encore that leaves the audience satisfied, but still wanting more. The Latin Pop Star bounds off the stage, a ball of energy and excitement. He was as pumped as a cocaine addict on a high. Not that he did drugs. This was all natural.

We are taken through the depths of the arena to where a string of cars waited. Olga and I are in the back of a blackened out Humvee limo with The Latin Pop Star. The doors are closed and we're cut off from the driver. The car begins to roll and I'm put to work.

CHAPTER THREE

The Boyfriend Experience

The Latin Pop Star is covered in a sheen of sweat and his skin is feverishly warm. The heat radiates off him in pulsating waves. There is no asking him what he wants. There isn't an opportunity to ask him. He reaches for me. I'm what he wants. The limo is one of these ridiculously long things that one would believe were only ever created for reality television or gypsy weddings. It is perfect for me to get on my hands and knees while leaning on my elbows over the bench seat. Olga is there. She's undoing my belt and my trousers.

Large hands run over my bare ass. He kneads and smooth’s my flesh like bread dough. Olga is speaking with him. Murmuring and caressing with her tones.

What is she saying? I don't remember. Something like oh you are so big and oh how she's wanted to get her hands on him all night.

He's murmuring back to her. Does she want to watch him fuck me?

Of course she does. She loves to watch him fuck. She'll put the condom on him. He can just keep touching my ass and running his hands over my hips and thighs like they're some sort of prize.

I hear the sound of wet kissing as I'm bent over with my ass up in the air. Then there is more lube. I feel Olga's fingers on me loosening and massaging my entrance. Then I'm penetrated with punch.

He pauses inside of me as his mouth mutters and moans several indecipherable utterances. I think he's reverted to Spanish, but I can't really understand him well enough to know for certain.

Then there is the sound of more kissing. He starts to move inside of me. Hard, deep strokes, which I take a raw and base pleasure from.

Is it wrong that I'm comparing The Latin Pop Star to Elon? I should probably think it is, but I just can't mentally make that bridge. What I do know, is that Elon has never been this rough with me. Could it be that Elon is actually a gentle lover? This thought nearly makes me laugh. How the mind wanders during sex. Especially if one is the passive participant.

What is happening behind me? I don't rightly know. I know that there are kissing noises interspersed with Olga telling The Latin Pop star how incredibly fuckable he is, how much she desires him, and oh gosh wouldn't it be fun later on if she could get both of us on her?

Then she surprises me. She starts talking about the manager and how he has no dick. This makes the Latin Pop Star laugh. She needs a real man. A man like him. A man that knows what real pleasure is and how to both give and take it. Does he know what she'd really like? What would really turn her on?

She needs to tell him.

She wants him to fuck her while he's getting fucked.

Would that make her happy?

Absolutely. Would he? It's just so sexy.

During their conversation, I notice things. There is a feather – a brilliant purple feather with sparkles – wedged just on the edge of where the upholstery of the seat meets the interior of the car. My dick is incredibly hard. I like being pounded. I never thought I would, but I really like it. Gay or straight, no woman could do to me what The Latin Pop Star is doing. Then I have a moment of doubt. Can I fuck as ferociously as he can? I don't know. Fortunately, even though I have a moment of doubt, my dick stays hard.

The two of them come to the agreement that when we reach the hotel, the three of us will fuck as one cohesive unit. Then there are more kissing sounds. His hands stay on my hips as he continues to pound me. I consider touching myself, but decided I like the exquisite torture of being made to wait.

Then another thought occurs to me. I wonder if I ever did try bondage would I be the dom or the sub? I think I would want to think of myself as the dom type, but in my heart I'm really a sub.

His hand wraps around my cock as I'm imagining being Olga's willing slave. He holds me tightly as he rams my ass. There is no being gentle with the new boy. Not even a little. He holds my cock as tight as I would hold it myself, if not a bit more, and then pumps it. The kissing noises stop. I don't know what Olga is doing, but I know that The Latin Pop Star approves. If I had to guess, I would say she had her fingers up his ass. That would be the safe bet.

There is some jerking and shuddering as he shivers inside of me. He comes with a yell as he pushes me forward into the seats. The rapid beating of my cock only falters for a moment while he ejaculates.

Then it stops completely.

He pulls out of me quickly then is gone from behind me.

I have no idea what I'm supposed to do. I don't. Do I continue to remain with my ass up in the air? Do I pull my trousers up? What does one do in this situation? He is under no contractual obligation to finish what he started. So I start fumbling with my trousers and find a seat across from him in the car.

Olga is taking the condom off of him and wrapping it in tissue. She's fawning, petting, and stroking him. He's drinking large gulps of water from a bottle as he's allowing her to cater to his needs.

Did I like that?

I would have liked it more if he would have finished me.

Not for the first time, Olga gives me that look. That you make my life a living hell look.

The Latin Pop Star laughs. He's sorry. He was excited. After a concert he gets like this. Selfish.

I have a feeling he is selfish a lot more of the time than just immediately after a concert.

CHAPTER FOUR

Reality TV and Roomservice

Outside the window I notice we’ve entered a parking structure. We’ve reached the hotel. The car comes to a halt. We are moved as a compact group from the parking lot into an elevator that stands open and waiting. The only person to ride with us other than a concierge from the hotel is The Security Guard.

We swiftly move upwards without stopping at any floors other than the topmost which is where we exit. The concierge leaves us after we are let into the living area of a suite of rooms. The Manager is already there.

The Latin Pop Star doesn’t stop walking. He goes directly through an open set of double doors.

Olga and I follow. Before we walk through the doors, he turns to Olga.

He’s not into it. Maybe next time. He edges me into the room then shuts the door.

I drop my messenger bag on a chair as he walks around adjusting lights, turning on the television and turning up the heat.

How was the concert?

Good. I enjoyed it.

Just good?

Excellent. I thought it was great when he brought that girl up on stage. It was sweet.

Do I think she’ll ever forget?

Never.

Probably the best thing that will ever happen to her?

Without a doubt. Probably the best thing that ever has or ever will happen to her.

He’s going to shower.

Does he want company?

No. Give him ten minutes. See if I can find anything worth watching on the television. Order room service. He’s starving. Find out what time departure is scheduled for in the morning. Make sure The Manager charges up his iPad and his 3DS for the flight and that he has enough movies downloaded. He’s going to get really pissed off if he doesn’t have enough shows to watch. Good shows. Not crappy shows. Light the candles. It smells like hotel room. Get someone to take that fucking ugly painting off the wall. It’s going to give him a migraine.

I look around. There are four paintings that could possibly induce a migraine. Which one? They’re all ugly.

He’s stripping off his clothes, tossing them at a chair more than on it. Get rid of all of them. Do I have his phone?

I pull his phone out of my pocket and hold it out to him.

Did anyone call?

I check. He has a few missed calls and a dozen texts.

Anyone important?

Who is important?

His mother.

No.

He walks off into the bathroom. The door closes and locks behind him.

I look at the phone. Four missed calls from Harold and another four texts.

I take down two painting then open the door to the communal area. The Manager, Olga, and The Security Guard are still present. Olga shuffles a deck of cards as The Security Guard sits across from her at a small table. The Manager is working on his laptop and talking on his phone.

What time is departure tomorrow?

Seven. Wakeup call at six.

Are his gadgets being charged?

Yes.

Movies and TV shows that aren’t crappy?

Already loaded.

He wants room service.

Already on its way.

I hold up the two paintings. These are giving him a migraine. I need help taking down the other two.

The Security Guard rises from the table then walks past me into the room.

What does he like to watch on television?

Reality TV.

Seriously?

Yes.

Harold has called four times and sent six texts. I hold up the phone.

The Manager looks from his laptop to me. Show him the phone.

I hand him the phone.

The Manager thumbs the phone for a moment. He hands the phone back to me. Nothing has been erased. He’ll deal with Harold.

The doorbell rings. Room service. The cart is wheeled into the bedroom as the Security Guard exits with the final two paintings.

I return to the bedroom and close the door behind me. The shower is running. I take off my clothes but leave my underwear on. I light the candles. All twelve of them. That heady scent of cinnamon and vanilla begins to fill the air. There is a Pawn Stars marathon on television. If that isn’t to his majesty’s liking, then I can switch to American Pickers or Storage Wars.

The ten-minute shower turns into a thirty-minute shower. The room becomes very hot. I’m desperately tempted to adjust the heating, but I don’t. The only light is from the television and one dim desk lamp.

When he finally emerges, he’s wearing just his skin. His body is perfect. He is perfectly symmetrical. In the race for the survival of the fittest, he represents the peak of human evolution. It really doesn’t get any better. I cannot help but to feel inferior when I hold myself up to him in comparison.

He turns off the desk lamp. He goes to the room-service cart and starts picking. Everything is cold. What time is departure? Did I ask someone to burn the pictures? Why am I wearing underwear? Do I want any fries? Can he smear ketchup all over me and lick it off? He looks up from the unsatisfactory contents of the cart and smiles at me.

I practically swoon.

Does he want to smear ketchup all over me and lick it off?

No. Just wondering.

Good. Because I would really rather not have ketchup smeared all over my body. Other things yes, but ketchup, no.

Has anyone ever wanted to do that?

No.

What’s the weirdest thing a client has wanted to do?

Can I be totally honest with him?

Sure.

He’s my first real paying client.

That’s sort of cool. Do I have a boyfriend?

Nope. I’m single.

Have I had a boyfriend?

It’s easier to say yes than to have to explain the varied and generally complicated nature of my adult relationships so I say yes.

Why am I wearing underwear? Am I shy?

I take off my underwear and toss it to the side. Happy?

Yes.

He sits with a thump next to me on the bed. Pawn Stars is a winner. He loves that Chumlee. He’s a funny guy. Clearly we have equally excellent taste in television.

I do not argue with this. Not because he’s paying me not to argue with him, but because I have already learned from time served with Elon that it is not worth the effort to try to convince someone that finds value in reality TV that it is unwatchable crap.

We sit propped up against the pillows watching television. I find myself curiously drawn into the program. It’s tragedy, comedy and satire all in one.

I would like Olga there. But then again, not really. I’m comfortable. I don’t need her to manage on my own when it comes to having a quiet evening with a lover. Which is exactly what this is. More or less. I still have to put in some effort.

To that end, I reach over and start touching him. There are no objections. He stretches a bit then places his hands behind his head.

I stroke, cup, pull, and squeeze his bits. He likes this. Who would have thought? Watching Storage Wars and getting jerked off would be the way someone both beautiful and famous would want to spend an evening? Who am I to judge?

He stops me with his hand over mine.

Where are the condoms?

I’ll get them.

I roll out of bed and get the condoms and the lube.

He’s changed the channel to porn (all men are the same gay or straight) and he’s rolled on his stomach.

This is where I make a decision. I’m not going to ask him what he wants. My gut tells me that he doesn’t want to talk about it. He just wants me to do it. How do I know this? I’ve been him. I’ve been the one that wanted a good fucking but didn’t want to have to ask for it. Because if I had to ask for it, then I would be admitting I like having a cock up my ass.

I get on the bed behind him. I find a place between his akimbo legs. I massage his back, shoulders, arms and ass. He purrs and hums. I can only put off the inevitable for so long. My only hope is that I don’t reveal the fact that I’ve never actually been inside of a man before.

I take it slowly. If he questions this, I figure I can just tell him that he seems tired after the concert and I just want him to relax. But he doesn’t say anything. Instead he just lays there as I slide inside of him a centimeter at a push.

The fear, worry, anxiety, and self-doubt disappear. I fuck him until he ejaculates in my hand and then I keep going until I’m spent.

Our bodies curl together in a familiar post-coital bliss that anyone that’s ever had really good sex would recognize. We talk. We touch. We fuck again. There’s some sleep. Then there’s more fucking. Me fucking him. That’s what he wants. When we are alone, he wants to be the one that is had.

The phone rings at six. He tells me to answer it. It’s The Security Guard. Time to roll. Get myself pulled together because we are leaving in ten.

I drop the headset into the cradle.

I need to go.

No I don’t. Go to South Africa with him. He wants me to go to South Africa with him. He pulls me to him.

I can’t.

Fuck can’t. I can do what I want. Is this is fucking money thing?

It’s a personal thing. I need to go home for a couple of days. Take care of some things.

Harold would go with him.

I’m not Harold. Will I meet up with him?

I’ll try. I’ll be in Japan in about a week. Where will he be?

How the fuck should he know? Ask The Manager. Just fucking make it happen.

I’ll do my best.

Just make it happen. He slides down my body. He doesn’t put a condom on me. He just starts sucking on my cock. I’m rolled onto my stomach. I hear the sound of a condom package being ripped open.

Did he put a condom on?

Yes.

I reach behind me and grab his dick. He has a condom on.

He said he put a fucking condom on.

He enters me hard and fast.

Why can’t I do what I need to do in a few weeks? Why can’t I just come with him? He thought I liked him.

I do like him. I like him a lot. I already told him that and I meant it.

This is one of those moments that require a decision. I could go with him. I could probably even manage to get to Japan. There really is nothing holding me in London at the moment. The Matchmaker and The Manager could sort out the financial details on their own.

I already told him I have things I need to do. I’ll meet up with him as soon as I can. I really do like him.

The balance of power tips to my side. I have something he wants. I’m single, pleasing, desirous of him, easy enough to control, not afraid of him. I need to keep him wanting that.

He makes me promise that I’ll meet up with him as soon as I can.

He pulls out of after he’s ejaculated, but before I’ve cum. He takes my cock into his mouth then sucks me off.

My hands thread through his hair as he works me with his mouth. I shoot my cum down his throat.

He kisses me and I taste myself in his mouth.

There is a knock at the door.

He breaks the kiss and shouts at whoever it is to come in.

This takes me aback just a touch. I’m bothered by this on many levels. Not the least of which is the fact I’m naked and there are spent condoms everywhere.

Wardrobe and Makeup enter. They are both sweet to me. I’m one of them now.

I get out of bed without having to be asked.

We need to get moving. Clock is ticking. The two women go through the room. They gather up used condoms and empty wrappers which are sealed into medical waste bags. The sheets from the bed are stripped and are bundled up into large canvas bags along with the towels. Scorched earth.

I get dressed in the clothes I came in.

I’m given some final instructions. I am to arrange to meet up with him. He’ll call me from South Africa. I’m dismissed.

The Manager is in the communal room. I’m not certain he’s moved from the couch. Olga is nowhere to be seen.

I tip my head in the direction of the door. He wants me to fly with him to South Africa.

He’ll call the charter company. Arrange to have me added to the manifest. There is no time to get anything from home, but he can arrange to have someone go by my place and pick up whatever I want. It’ll be forwarded in a day or two.

I’m not going. I cant.

Did I actually tell him no?

Yes. I’m heading to Japan in about a week. I can probably arrange to meet up with him either before or after.

I actually told him no.

Yes – I told him no. What is the tour schedule?

He’ll call The Matchmaker. They’ll sort it out.

CHAPTER FIVE

A Winning First Day at the New Job

Olga comes out of a room looking slightly disheveled. Like Sleeping Beauty that didn’t want to be roused.

I'm not exhausted, but I'm nearly there as we walk out of the hotel into the streets of London lit by early morning light.

The security guard stands next to a driver who holds open the rear door of a black Rolls Royce.

Olga climbs in first.

Then me.

The door is closed.

There is a glass barrier between us and the driver and The Security Guard.

Olga stars fussing with her phone. I truly wonder what it would take to separate her from that thing for twenty-four hours.

I put my head back and fall into a trance as the car pulls into traffic. I watch London as we roll past it in the silent cocoon of the car. Delivery vans block streets.

We drive past the place where my grandfather used to go for a haircut and a wet shave. I haven't been through the doors since he died. I wonder if it's still the same. The smell of sandalwood and cedar permeating the air. Or if it's been commercialized just like everything else that has the sheen of class and sophistication.

Slap a Royal Warrant on a building and the stampede of the would be Posh and Beckham crowd can be heard approaching from the distance with a pack of Vicky Pollards at the forefront. What the chavs have done to Burberry makes me sad. At least they haven't usurped Barbour. Small blessings.

I think about the past less often than I think a normal person might. I wonder about my mother. I regret the loss of the relationship we never had. I’m angry at her so much of the time. Who the fuck does she think she is abandoning me yet again when my father died? The moment she could have acted like a mother, she acts like a fucking spoiled child and runs off to India.

At least my father tried after my grandfather died too finally for once in his life act like a father. But of course, only my father would step in front of a fucking bus four months after my grandfather’s death. I finally reach a moment in my life when I think my father and I might have a relationship and he fucking has to walk and text directly into the path of an oncoming 38 bus. I hate mobile phones.

I miss my grandfather. I wonder if I'm still grieving. I’m certain I’m still grieving. I wonder if I ever properly grieved. My father doubling down on my need to grieve probably didn’t help me process my grandfather’s death.

My grandfather and my grandmother were all that was normal in my life for a long time. There are times I wonder how they could have produced my father.

Is it possible I was always so comparably good because he was so fucking bad? I'm not saying I was an angel, but I was never malicious or stupid. I wanted to make them happy. I played my part better than my father ever did.

I went to boarding school just like I was supposed to and they never had to think twice about me. What trouble I did get into, I kept it away from them. My boyish hijinks happened far away from home just as they are supposed to. The two times I had to find the money to pay for abortions when I was at university, they never knew about.

This was how I was raised to behave. Responsible in the face of my irresponsibility. Why couldn't my father do the same? Not pay for abortions (which I'm sure the fucker had to do), just be responsible when the time to be responsible came. Why did he wait until my grandfather died to try to be responsible? Why couldn’t he have done years, rather than months, before he quite literally got hit by a bus?

Suddenly I have an encompassing desire to go home.

I don't know if I drift off while I’m cataloging my unresolved angst, but fingers stroking my cheek wake me from the contemplation of my past and out of my reverie.

We're home. Lips kiss my cheek.

My hand combs my hair as I pull myself awake.

The door to the car is opened for us.

The Security Guard hands me my phone as my body unfolds. I'm then given an envelope.

Something extra. Off the books.

Isn't it all off the books?

Actually it's not. He isn't certain, but he thinks it's technically entertainment.

Good enough.

He'll see me around.

Is that an endorsement?

Harold never got a tip. Take it for what it's worth.

Olga gets out of the car behind me.

He doesn't hand anything to Olga.

She gives him a hug and tells him to email her about his mother. She wants him to know she's thinking about him.

We turn to the house and are met by Elizabeth who has just gotten out of a taxi.

The three of us are quiet as we walk into the house and up the steps to our rooms.

I close and lock my door behind me.

I drop my bag onto the ground then look inside of the envelope. Five-thousand pounds.

I can go home for a couple of days.

Pay back Mr. And Mrs. Gresham. Pay off some of my local bills.

Everyone has been very nice about my reversal of fortune.

They don't remind me at the undertakers my grandfather's funeral hasn't been totally paid off or that my father’s funeral hasn’t been paid for at all.

The veterinarian doesn't remind me that I never did make payment on the bills for the horses that I used to own.

These are the people I want to pay first.

The Gresham's, Mr. Hall and Dr. White.

If he were alive, these are the people my grandfather would have insisted I pay first.

My clothes are shrugged off of my body as I walk around the room and close every shutter and curtain I can find.

It's daylight and the rest of the world is coming awake. The last thing I want is to be woken by a stray sunbeam smacking me in the face.

In the bathroom I step into the shower and let the water wash away my sins.

Perhaps a touch dramatic, but there was no way I was going to bed without taking a shower first. I'm just not. I’m covered in sweat, the stink of cigarette smoke, lube, and sex. I feel a little disgusting. A five minute shower does me a world of good.

Outside of the shower I go for a towel on the tidy stack. The warning note from Harold is still there. I take one of his towels and thank him for being so dumb as to let a client like The Latin Pop Star go. I can't imagine in this world that the clients come much better. I really can't.

There must be more to the story of Harold. There has to be.

The first towel is wrapped around my waist and I reach for a smaller towel for my hair. Along with the towel comes a roll of cash.

Pennies from heaven? Actually pounds.

One hundred fifty-pound notes all rolled up and banded. Harold left more behind than his towels and his clothes.

I take the roll of cash, my tip envelope and the envelope I received from the accountant and put them together in a sock which I stuff in the bottom of a drawer.

For the first time I get a look at the closet. Harold left behind a wardrobe that even Elon would admire.

What is it with this guy? Never mind. I'll figure it out later on.

I fall into bed.

My door opens and closes just loud enough to wake me as I'm dropping off. I really need to start remembering to lock the door.

Then I remember I did lock it. Olga and I are going to have to have a conversation about boundaries.

Olga climbs into bed with me. She smells like a vanilla cookie and her skin is slightly damp.

I'm not the only one that needed a shower.

She snuggles up to me.

All I want to do is sleep. That's it. I tell her this.

My arms and my body are adjusted until she's curled like a shrimp and tucked against me. Her lips touch my arm.

She tells me to go to sleep.

I'm never going to figure her out.

CHAPTER SIX

Living With Others - Part One

I wake with the lovely Olga on the pillow next to mine. She's still sound asleep.

I look at the Dalvey clock on the nightstand. Harold had good taste. It's just after eleven.

My cock is throbbing in response to the soft, warm body tucked next to mine.

Do I wake her or not? I wake her. She wants to climb into my bed? She has to deal with the consequences of what her presence does to me.

I am nice about it. It's not like I just start shaking her shoulder, demanding she rise and service me.

Instead I reach over her and open the drawer on the nightstand. Condoms. Harold is as predictable as every other man in the universe when it comes to some things.

The condom is set on the nightstand as I lean in and start kissing her awake.

Languid stretching of arms and legs is her response to my hands and mouth. A hand in my face pushes me away as I'm being told to buzz off. Her period started. I am to consider her body a temple I may not enter for the next three days.

I really don't care if she's on her period. It doesn't bother me. We can just put a towel down.

I am to consider her body a temple I may not enter for the next three days. Do we understand each other?

We understand each other.

Her hand wraps around me and she gives me one of her fists of lightening jerk-off's.

Olga is amazing. She really is.

She tells me to leave her alone so she can go back to sleep.

I'll probably sleep again, but for now I want tea and toast. I slide out of bed and into a pair of new boxers I find in the closet.

She pulls the duvet around her and mumbles something about coffee.

Milk? Sugar?

Another mumble that sounds like yes.

I leave her in bed as I go in search of the kitchen.

I'm never going to figure Olga out. My best guess – she'll get bored with me eventually. I'm a fun novelty. If she wants to sleep with me, I'm going to let her. I learned my lesson with The Saudi Princess. The next time a woman gets an itch for me that needs to be scratched, I'm just going to let her have me.

My life would have been a lot easier if I'd just let The Saudi Princess get bored with me.

Olga will get bored with me eventually.

Picking my way through the rubble, I eventually find the kitchen.

I open the door and the smell is overpowering. What a bunch of slobs.

I nearly close the kitchen door and call for a hazmat team. But I don't.

If I'm going to live with these women, there will be standards maintained. A minimum standard of hygiene will be enforced.

There is a roll of untouched bin bags in the larder. I snap the first one open and just start throwing shit away.

Every window I can find is opened.

Either my nostrils are scorched beyond use from the stench or the fumes are starting to dissipate.

The kitchen could be phenomenal if it wasn't encrusted with filth. Ditto the rest of the house.

The dishwasher is empty. I sincerely doubt it's ever been used. The box of dishwasher soap is unopened. Every dish I can fit goes in. That still leaves me with a large butlers sink filled with lipstick stained cups and glasses. I flick on the hot water and let it run until the steam rises from the sink.

How is it possible these women live like this?

When one bin bag is filled I snap open another one. Normally I'm a stickler for recycling, but everything that even remotely looks like trash is tossed.

I go through the ground floor of this magnificent home silently promising it that it will be treated with proper respect as long as I'm in residence.

I find an industrial sized washer and matching dryer in a room devoted to laundry. I also find laundry baskets.

I can't throw out their shoes, but I can hold them hostage. Piles begin to form. Shoes, handbags, sunglasses, and clothing. Unopened mail. Miscellaneous. Each one gets a basket except for the mail. That gets a folder.

Once the rubble is cleared, a beautifully decorated home is revealed.

At some point in the past there was a housekeeper. A man or a woman that understood order. I find the closet where the cleaning implements are stored. It's the only room in the house that looks as if it hasn't been disturbed. Hanging from a hook is a ring of keys.

Marvelous.

I take the keys and the hoover. I start in the reception room. I dust and hoover.

A hand on my shoulder makes me jump.

The Matchmaker is smiling at me.

Am I aware of how many women’s fantasies I'm fulfilling at that moment?

I don't understand.

A good-looking man in his underwear doing the hoovering. Half the women in England would pay a premium just to sit back with a cup of tea and a biscuit whilst I do the washing up.

I laugh. I get it. Can she please tell me why these women are such slobs and why doesn't she force a housekeeper on them? I thought women were supposed to be tidier than men.

She laughs at me. Women are not tidier than men. That is a myth. Get a group of women together and they will out mess anyone. Not one of them wants to become the mother of the group, so they all become the infant.

She wishes me the best of luck in living with them. If I can find a housekeeper that won't quit after the first week, she'll gladly pay the woman double. Normally she has eight women living in the house. Never has she found a housekeeper willing to put up with the mess of eight women each giving her conflicting instructions and individually expecting special treatment.

A thought begins brewing in my head which I give voice to.

What this place needs is a butler. A gentleman's gentleman. Someone that could run interference between the women and a housekeeper. Someone that will not be easily intimidated.

Do I know someone?

In fact I do. Mr. Wright. He would be ideal. If he’s available that is. He won’t come cheap, but he would be able to manage the house. He’s also discreet and has excellent references.

Hire him. Have him get a housekeeper. Some big boned Polish woman that doesn't scare easily. The girls will pay for it whether they like it or not. They're ruining her property value with their mess. That and the neighbors constantly complain about the noise. She needs someone around to act as warden.

Or zookeeper.

Yes – zookeeper is more accurate.

We work out the details as I make coffee in the kitchen that has reached a minimum standard of hygiene.

She has jobs lined up for me. Do I think I can go solo?

Probably. I've had my cherry popped. I'm ready. I know what to do.

How do I feel about taking on a client that afternoon?

Depends. Truthfully, I’m a bit sore.

Not a man. A woman. A very nice woman. Very professional. Very straightforward. American. A psychiatrist.

Is she going to try to analyze me?

Probably not. At least Harold never said anything about her being particularly interested in his private life.

Pity. I could probably use some therapy. Why hire a man? The only women I know that can’t get a man to fuck them for free are… Actually I don’t know any women that can’t get a man to fuck them for free. Is there something wrong with her?

No. There’s nothing wrong with her. Why does anyone hire a professional? They want the job done right and they’re willing to pay for it.

Sounds straight forward.

It is. The Psychiatrist is a nice woman that likes a good shagging once every week and can’t be bothered with a boyfriend. Not having time for a relationship doesn’t mean she doesn’t have needs that she’d like to have met.

Weekly?

Weekly. Normally on Thursday, but her last appointment was cancelled because of Harold and I’ll be in Japan for the next Thursday. I’m to meet her at her office at 6pm that afternoon.

She works on Saturday?

The Psychiatrist works all of the time. She’s very busy. Very devoted to her career. Something the Matchmaker understands.

The Matchmaker pulls out a folded paper from her handbag then passes it to me.

I read the paper. I truly am going to Bedlam?

Yes. Do I like the room?

Better than I could have asked for. What about Harold’s stuff?

Do what I want with it. Use the clothes. She paid for them and she'd rather see them burn before he gets his hands on them. The topic is changed. Did I enjoy meeting The Latin Pop Star?

Of course I did.

The Latin Pop Star adores me. At least that's what The Manager told her. The Manager thinks I'm kind of a dick, but as long as I don't start making problems for him, we're all going to get along beautifully. Clearly I did very well.

He wanted me to South Africa with him.

Why didn’t I go?

I need to go home for a couple of days. I’m also not sure what protocol is. I don’t want to just make assumptions where her business is concerned.

If only all her workers could be more like me. Next time, use my best judgment. Especially with the Latin Pop Star. Just call it in to her and she will deal with The Manager.

I bring up my boyfriend experience theory again.

That sounds about right to her. How did I like him in general?

The Latin Pop Star was an excellent first client. I'm looking forward to seeing him again.

I will be seeing him again in Bangkok.

Will I?

I will. My departure for Japan has been pushed up by two days. I’m making a stop in Bangkok.

International booty call?

Yes.

One night in Bangkok? To bang some cock?

I’m far too clever for my own good. I'm told to get my agenda.

I fill a cup of coffee, black as the only milk in the house was greenish and bring it to Olga.

I leave the coffee on the night stand.

Olga reaches a hand out from under the duvet and takes the cup.

I grab my new agenda. Plain black Moleskin filled with thick cream pages.

The Matchmaker is on her phone when I return to the kitchen.

When she's done we go over the basics of agenda keeping.

Perhaps Olga is right. I really don't know how to keep an agenda like an escort would.

I put my first standing appointment in. The Psychiatrist. One hour ever Thursday morning from eight to nine. I have an address and a phone number.

If anyone really wanted to use my agenda against my clients they could. If I forget it in the back of a taxi or leave it on a bar, it's just another agenda with a bunch of anonymous appointments. And don't fill in any of the personal information.

I put my second standing appointment in. The Doctor. Thursday. Two hours beginning at noon. We are to meet at his club for lunch.

This could be problematic for me. Technically I’m a member of the same club as The Doctor. Not that I haven’t been there since before my grandfather died and my father was permanently banned years before he died. It’s possible I’ve been banned. I’m not certain. Is she aware of this?

She and The Doctor discussed this. He is of the opinion that I will never regain my place in society again if I hide myself away.

I like The Doctor. I don’t want to cause him any embarrassment by being seen with me.

She has considered this. She has considered everything. I am to tell anyone that asks that I am now working in public relations. It will make it easier for her to find me a wife if I appear to be attempting to rehabilitate my reputation.

Public relations?

Public relations. She’s having cards printed for me.

Good. Something to put on my CV if I ever decide to work for a living.

Yes. Precisely. Let the world know I am turning over a new leaf.

I am turning over a new leaf.

Marvelous. Time to get the girls moving. She goes to the alarm box against the wall near the door to the garden. After pushing a few buttons, a wailing siren pierces the air. Crude but effective.

Ten minutes later six women, each carrying an agenda, stumble into the kitchen. The uniform seems to be sunglasses and ponytails. The rest is up to their own personal taste. A large quantity of boyshorts and camisoles seem to be preferred.

I count. There are six women including Olga.

I'm introduced

Of course I know Olga. I have already met Mi Young from Hong Kong, Talitha from Brazil and Elizabeth from Surrey. I do not know Emer from Ireland or Simone from France.

Emer is friendly. She has a lovely voice and I suspect a gift for song. She's one of the Irish girls with skin like milk that no freckle would dare touch and fox red hair.

Simone gives me that look even moderately attractive French girls seem to perfect at a young age. That please me and maybe I won't treat you like shit look.

I give her that look of English boys who learn young and fast that French girls aren't worth half the grief they dish out. That fuck off I'm not interested look.

I can see the shock in her eyes.

It makes me want to smile. But I don't. I just ignore her. Nothing will aggravate Simone so much as my ignoring her.

The Matchmaker immediately gets down to business.

Imelda will be replaced.

Harold, as they can all see, has already been replaced.

If any one of them thinks they're irreplaceable, they're wrong.

Make no mistake. There is always a younger, prettier, and more willing girl just waiting to take any of their clients from them.

That said there will be some changes.

There will be a new housekeeper who will only answer to the new butler.

They will pay for both. If anyone has a problem, she's already looking for a girl to replace Imelda. Replacing two is just as easy as replacing one.

There are no objections.

Imelda and Harold being booted shook them. They have all been reminded who the madam is, and who the workers are.

Assignments are given out.

Olga and I are going to Japan after a side trip to Bangkok.

Mi Young will be going to the Maldives.

Talitha and Simone have a week on a yacht in the Caribbean.

Emer is heading to Dublin for her sister's wedding.

Elizabeth has her standing appointments and will be covering the other standing appointments while the rest of the girls will be out of town.

Elizabeth protests. She won't be able to walk after the week.

The Matchmaker promises to bring in some of the girls that work the odd job to help cover the appointments. Elizabeth will only do the big money clients.

This makes Elizabeth and the rest of the girls happy.

There is a party coming up. A Halloween party.

Everyone groans.

Then the synapses in my brain start firing. Red Hair. Party Planner. The Matchmaker’s girlfriend is a party planner.

The Matchmaker rambles on about the details of the party.

Everyone is expected to be in Paris for the party with the exception of Olga and me. We will be just coming off of the Japan trip. We get a pass.

All of the big money clients will be in attendance.

The last of Imelda's standing clients looking for new girls will be there. She's already told all of them this. The party in Paris is their last chance to try to win the clients over before she starts handing them out.

Moving on. Harold's appointments.

All eyes turn to me.

She's contacted most of his clients. Most of them are happy. Some of them aren't. Doesn't matter. I'm picking up new clients. Word is getting around that I'm packing.

All of the girls, except Olga, look at my crotch.

I cross my legs like a prim spinster. Suddenly I'm even more interesting.

The Matchmaker concludes her business.

That's it. She'll see all of us in a week.

I'm told to walk her to the door.

The girls scatter.

Before she leaves I ask her about Olga.

Why did she tell Olga that I was looking for a wife? I thought confidentiality was sort of her thing.

She's known Olga for years. Olga can be trusted. Olga also knows a lot of Russian girls that come from very wealthy families.

So Olga said. I’m not wholly certain I’m pleased my personal information was shared with her.

Truly, she wouldn’t have said a word to Olga if it wasn’t potentially for my benefit. I need to trust that she knows how to do her job.

Why is Olga sleeping with me?

Maybe Olga likes me. The Matchmaker shrugs. I could do worse than Olga. Just don't let it interfere with the job if we decide to hookup. This is not the relationship to be in if I'm a jealous man.

I laugh. If only I had the luxury to engage myself in another frivolous relationship.

Speaking of jealous men, a gentleman called Elon telephoned the offices.

Did he? Of course he did.

He did. He offered a substantial amount of money for the pleasure of your company.

Did he? This is funny. What was he told?

That he had the wrong number. Were we lovers?

I suppose so. It’s a bit more complicated than that.

It always is.

How is the hunt for my wife coming along?

India is looking promising.

The continent or a woman named India? I’m ever so clever sometimes.

Don’t be a smart ass. I’m not that cute. The subcontinent. There are a lot of very wealthy Indian families that would like a daughter that was a countess. Indians also understand the concept and the value of an arranged marriage. India is the direction she's headed. Thoughts?

India sounds good to me. I like cricket and curry. What more do I need?

Love?

It's overrated.

She kisses me on the cheek. It's not overrated. She's working on my wife problem. Be patient. Give her time.

CHAPTER SEVEN

That One New Coworker with Boundary Issues

I close the door as she goes to her car.

My room isn't empty when I walk through the unlocked door.

Olga is sitting on the bed with her phone to her ear, her agenda propped on her knees, and a coffee mug in her hand. The curtains and blinds have been opened. The room is filled with sunshine.

I kiss her on the cheek and whisper in her free ear that she really does need to get off the phone before I flush it down the toilet.

I don't know what it is about her, but I want her in my bed. Maybe I'm rebounding.

She says something in Russian on the phone, then removes it from her ear.

It's her father. She rolls her eyes.

I kiss her on the mouth. I'm going and taking a shower.

Is it wrong I want to fall into the faux familiarity of this pseudo relationship? She wants us to play boyfriend and girlfriend and I don't mind. But I know I need to tell her the absolute truth. I'm done lying to women. Lesson learned well.

I let the water fall over my head as if it could drown me.

Olga joins me five minutes later. She stands outside of the shower with her mug cuddled in her hands.

I sort of listen to her as she starts yakking on about her father and how much he annoys her.

Her sister is getting married. Can I believe her sister is getting married?

I don't know. Is there a reason her sister shouldn't get married?

She's younger. Need she say more? How dare her sister, who is younger, get married before her? It's against the natural order of things.

Right.

We're going to the wedding together.

Of course we are.

She's going to tell everyone that not only am I her boyfriend, but that I'm an earl and I have a castle.

Naturally.

And that I know the Queen.

In for a penny in for a pound.

Am I being a dickhead?

Never. When is this wedding?

Right before Christmas. We can spend Christmas together.

That sorts what I'm doing for Christmas. Where is this wedding taking place? Bahamas? Bermuda? Somewhere tropical and punishingly hot? Because it had better if she expects me to cooperate.

Russia. St. Petersburg to be exact.

I start laughing and I can't stop. Just so we are absolutely clear, she wants me to go to Russia with her for both Christmas and her sister's wedding.

That's right. We'll be there for about ten days. Chances are we'll be booked over New Years.

I just want to make absolutely certain. She wants me to go to RUSSIA in the dead of winter and pretend I'm her boyfriend.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Where else would her sister get married? What's wrong with pretending to be her boyfriend? Do I really think I could do much better than her? Because I couldn't.

I'm not going to Russia. I'm not. Maybe in July, but not in December. As for the rest, I'm certain I would be the luckiest man in the world to be blessed with such a lovely and charming girlfriend. I step out of the shower and take the towel she hands me.

That's right. (She frowns and pouts. This is annoyingly and shockingly effective. I had no idea that I would ever be moved by the frown/pout combo ever again) Please. Please won't I go with her? She'll pay for everything. If we tell everyone that we're a couple then we can stay together in the same room.

She wraps her arms around my neck. Then she kisses me.

Please won't I go with her? Please?

Fuck. Fine. We can go to Russia for Christmas and her sister's wedding.

Did I know that I am the absolute best? Did I? We will have so much fun! Really we will!

Sure we will. I wrap the towel tighter around my waist. I go to the closet where the linens are stored for another towel, I find another few bundles of cash. Unbelievable.

What's unbelievable?

Nothing. Then I make a decision. I'm not ever going to lie to Olga. Maybe it’s wrong to trust her, but I need to trust someone. I’m taking a chance on her and my gut tells me it’s a good one. I tell her the truth. I show her the three rolls of bills I find tucked in with the flannels. I tell her about the rest of the cash.

Harold was arrogant. Only an arrogant idiot would be so careless with his money. Respect money and it will respect you. Her father taught her that.

Then I backtrack a touch. Does she understand that what we say to each other stays between us? I don't need for the other women living in the house knowing that there are little deposits of cash hidden in my room.

She gets offended and even a bit angry. Yes. She understands. I can bite her ass.

I'm sorry. Can I really bite her ass? Or does that violate temple law?

No I cannot bite her ass. Do I really think that she would have been so intimate with me if I didn't think what happened between us stayed between us? I'm an ass. Do I really think it's a good idea to piss her off when she's on her period? I'm a stupid man. Don't I know anything about women?

I'm very sorry. I humbly beg her forgiveness. If I had a sword, I would fall on it. Stupid of me to say what I said.

Am I being a dickhead again?

Never. I have been shown the error of my ways. Forgive me my darling and there will be sunshine in my life again.

I pick up a comb and stare at my reflection. The hair really does make a difference.

I'm provisionally forgiven. If I can refrain from making any more stupid comments, then she'll let that one slide.

She takes the comb from my hand and begins to style my hair.

This is an excellent opportunity I don't pass up to kiss her.

I truly don't want to ruin our day, but I have to tell her the truth before I start to feel like I'm lying to her. I know she has more information from The Matchmaker than I might be happy about. I tell her everything about my life and my search for a wife while she combs my hair.

I need to get married. Why I need to get married. That there will come a point when we will go our separate ways.

Will I go with her to Russia for her sister's wedding?

Yes.

Will I take her to lunch?

I'd be delighted.

I don't know what I expect to happen, but her reaction wasn't at the top of what I anticipated.

She kisses me and tells me to get dressed. Then she kisses me and tells me not to get dressed because she wants to pick out what I'm wearing. She doesn't want us to be matchy-matchy, but she does want us to coordinate. That's it.

Does she want to discuss this?

Not really. She leaves the bathroom and goes to the bedroom. From the closet she takes jeans, a t-shirt and a hoodie. This is what I'm supposed to wear.

When she's gone, I shave and dress. I don’t put the hoodie on. I don’t wear hoodies. I’m just not a hoodie guy. I need some of my own clothes. Harold and I have very different taste. Shell suits and hoodies are two things I just don’t wear and he has in abundance.

I manage to find a Dubarry sweater that is more my style and a button-down oxford that he had to have taken from someone else. Someone with the initials GMH.

I think for a moment.

GMH.

GMH.

The Doctor.

I both do and I don’t want to know how Harold ended up with one of The Doctor’s shirts. Did The Doctor try to bring Harold to The Club? Why do I find this comical?

I take some of the cash I've found and feed my starving wallet. I make certain the rest of the cash is fairly well hidden. I fill my messenger bag with everything I think I’m going to need for my appointment with The Psychiatrist.

My bedroom door opens, and Olga walks in wearing jeans.

She's called for a taxi. Why am I not wearing the clothes she left for me? Why am I wearing a boring sweater?

I look at her, lean over and kiss her. Who is getting attached to whom?

I like boring sweaters. I do not wear hoodies. She can push me around to a point, but I’m not going to start dressing like a footballer to please her. Do we understand each other?

Fine.

My phone rings, but I don't realize it's my phone. What I hear is the title music used for all of the Bond films.

Olga takes my phone out of my pocket and answers it.

It's The Matchmaker. Olga looks at me. Do I want to take a job that afternoon?

I already have a job that evening. The Psychiatrist.

Another job. The next job will start at three. It's both of us together. I’ll be done by four. Plenty of time to get to The Psychiatrist.

I thought her body was a temple.

This isn't sex. I can do this, she tells me. Trust her.

Fine. Let's do it. We do have time for lunch, right?

We have time for lunch.

I need condoms. I didn't bring enough condoms with me for two clients.

We don't need condoms. We need liquids. Lots of liquids.

Because...?

Easiest money I'll ever make. Seriously. We just need to hydrate.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Baboon

This is where I am torn.

Is there such a thing as too much information in my personal accounts?

Possibly.

Do I want to write down for posterity’s sake what it is that gets The Baboon off? Do I even want to go into detail about why The Baboon was given the name The Baboon by the girls long before I arrived?

It again raises the question of where do I draw the line?

For the record, I will never take a shit on someone. I will not. Nor will I allow anyone to take a shit on me. I won't.

I'm not going to sit in judgment of anyone that gets off on anything as long as the lines of decency are not crossed, and the law is observed.

But that is just something I will not do.

That stated, allow me the opportunity to introduce you to The Baboon.

The Baboon.

What can I write about The Baboon?

He likes to have people pee on him.

What more can I write about The Baboon?

He is wealthy – but aren't they all.

He has a home in Knightsbridge.

He is a fashion designer.

He likes to have people pee on him.

He likes other things (this is where the name comes from) but there is a line that I will draw and I will draw it now. I never had any experience with that facet of his fetish. Olga had no experience with that aspect of his fetish. I feel no need to elaborate.

Here's what happens at The Baboon's.

Olga and I arrive after a pub lunch that includes two pints of cider for me and a pint of beer for Olga.

I must pee so badly when we arrive, I'm doing what my grandmother used to call the tinkle dance.

At the same moment we arrive, Emer and Mi Young pull up behind us in a minicab. The four of us go to the door and are immediately let in.

The butler is ideal. Just the sort of person I would hire to work in the house if I didn't have a mind to start paying back debts both of gratitude and cash.

We are taken downstairs to what is in essence a changing room with cubby holes for our clothes to one side and showers to the other.

The room is crowded. It contains Simone and Elizabeth dressed like naughty nurses in white latex dresses with brilliant red crosses over their nipples and those white hats that look like origami boxes, four other women I don't know who are already naked and two men that are disrobing.

Elizabeth, proper English girl that she is, introduces me.

The men – Avan and Sasha. Israeli and Russian.

We'll exchange numbers later.

Each of them are always on the lookout for another man to work with.

They heard about Harold. Porn is just such a bad idea. He had problems with professionalism.

This conversation happens as we all strip down to our skin and fold up our clothes to be placed in one of the cubby holes built into the wall. It reminds me of school days having to get ready for sports.

A man with a stop watch in one hand and a clipboard in the other walks in.

Simone and Elizabeth are sent through the door he entered from.

He looks at me. I must be the new boy. Do I know what's going to happen?

I have a pretty good idea. Olga was thorough over lunch.

Good. Again, the rules are the same. We will all be paid the basic. The one with the longest time gets the bonus.

Olga raises her hand. She's on her period.

Marvelous. The man makes a note on his clipboard. She'll be compensated properly.

I inadvertently catch Sasha’s eye. We share a look. A look that says yuck. I like him instantly. I could be friends with Sasha.

The man with the clipboard starts snapping his fingers. We line up at the door. Emer is in front of me. She's dancing from one foot to the other.

Tinkle dance.

Yes! Tinkle dance! As soon as we have a chance we'll go out for pints.

Do not mention liquids!

She laughs. We'll go for pints tomorrow.

Can't. I'm going home in the morning.

Home...?

Home to the country. I need to check in with my caretakers.

Olga is in front of Emer. Olga looks over her shoulder. I'm going to my castle?

Yes.

Can she come with me?

No.

Please? She frowns. Please? Please?

We'll talk about it later.

Please?

I'm leaving very early to get the train. Practically the middle of the night.

We can take her car.

Her car?

We can take her car. I can drive. I'll love her car.

What kind of car?

Uhhh... Silver?

Emer adds that it has black interior. And that it’s really nice

That's right. Silver with black interior. It was a birthday present. She never drives it.

Are we talking a Skoda or a Mercedes?

There is no opportunity to get more information. The door is opened and we file through.

The room we enter covered in large sparkling white tiles. There are several drains in the floor and a variety of spigots and nozzles around the room. There is a bath that could hold several people. The Baboon is sat in a sort of sunken chair that allows for people to easily straddle him.

What of The Baboon?

That king of the small coterie of people who actually care about fashion?

Designer of gowns worn by the fabulously wealthy? Or at least that fabulously wealthy that could give a shit about such things?

Elizabeth, in her latex naughty nurses outfit is up first.

She lifts up the hem of her white dress, squats over The Baboon, and then lets a long stream of piss pour out of her.

I nearly wet myself watching her empty her bladder.

He moans. He groans. He encourages Elizabeth to let that glorious piss cover him.

I nearly bite my bottom lip to keep from snickering.

I should have studied sociology. I could use this entire experience for a dissertation.

One after another the line moves forward.

After Elizabeth, Simone goes. She tinkles delicately and is nearly booed by the man with the clipboard. Her time is disappointingly low.

Not that anyone says this.

We all just know it. Just like we all knew who the underachiever was in school without needing to be told.

She moves to the side.

One naughty nurse on each side of The Baboon. Elizabeth and Simone start rubbing their urine all over his body with their bare hands.

They are careful to not touch his curiously flaccid cock.

I would think that someone that got off on being pissed on would find it at least a little arousing.

Avan goes next.

I observe his technique.

Being male and in possession of a penis, Avan is better able to direct his stream of urine. He shoots it everywhere. He gets a high score.

The Baboon is starting to get stiff.

When Avan is done, he leaves through the door we entered from.

As I'm lined up waiting to piss on this man, a thought occurs to me.

My former fiancée adored The Baboon. She spent a fortune on his dresses. I've met him. In better days I was dragged to his fashion shows. Because of her money and her willingness to spend it, she always ended up in a place that allowed us the opportunity to meet the designer.

I've met The Baboon before.

I nearly bolt.

The last thing I want is for him to recognize me and report back to my former fiancée that I've taken to pissing on people for a living.

Olga goes. Literally. She goes. She squats over The Baboon and pees.

I can't watch anymore. My need to pee is so great I nearly can't hold it anymore. I'm certain I'm on the edge of doing damage to myself.

Emer goes then leaves as has everyone before her.

It's my turn. I wait for the signal from the man with the clipboard.

Go!

I aim my cock at his and pee.

The relief is like none I've ever known before.

It’s practically orgasmic.

I could sing I'm so filled with bliss. I sigh and just let my bladder empty.

I don't think about mixing up the direction. I just hold the stream at his cock.

Then the unexpected happens.

The Baboon starts to laugh. He sounds like a Baboon. The other reason for his moniker. The sound is this sort of animalistic hooting. Whaaa whaaa whaaa whaaa – I don’t think I could properly mimic it. It’s just so bizarre. What makes it even worse is that there is something simian about his features.

The Baboon starts to cheer. He's cuming! He's really cuming! He's going to cum. He is! Oh what joy! Oh what bliss! Piss piss piss on him!

The naughty nurses applaud and cheer him on. They don't touch his penis.

I continue to pee, tapering to a finish.

When I think I'm done, I pause for a moment, then another few seconds worth of urine leaves my body.

A small hiccup of seaman exits The Baboon's body.

This is a moment of great rejoicing. Everyone, including me, applauds.

He looks at me. Did I see that?

I did. Nicely done.

I’d give him a cuff on the shoulder for a job well done, but there is nothing that would get me to touch a man covered in the urine of more than a half-dozen people.

Oh no! I've done very well. Very well indeed. A note should be made of that. Has a note been made of that? The new boy has done very well. We must invite the new boy back again.

A note is made of dubious accomplishment.

I am dismissed.

I go through the door and walk immediately to the occupied showers.

Avan is already dressing.

Sasha is showering with Olga and Mi Young. They're talking amicably. This is normal.

Sasha asks me - Did I make him cum?

I suppose I did. Not that I did it alone. Teamwork and all of that.

Well done none the less. Care to go for a pint?

Could do with a pint. I have time before I need to get to my next client.

Olga doesn't want to go for a pint. She wants me to take her shopping. She needs to get things for our trip to the country. There’s also a handbag she can’t stop thinking about she wants to get.

Sasha didn't invite her.

They start speaking (arguing really based on the tone) in Russian.

I start planning my trip home. I know that Olga is going with me whether I want her to or not.

I exit the shower bay before the two of them are done with their pissing match (I do crack myself up).

Olga exits the shower area wrapped in a towel.

Am I going with her, or am I going for pints with Sasha?

I'm going for pints with Sasha.

I'd rather go for pints with Sasha than go handbag shopping with her?

I laugh. Really? Seriously? Be a sweetheart and don't make a big fuss about nothing. I kiss her on the cheek. I also need to talk to a friend and I need to do that without anyone around.

The friend I got into a fight with? My luuuvvvveeerrrrr Elon?

Different friend.

Fine. Don't forget I have The Psychiatrist at seven.

Six.

Seven. The Psychiatrist changed the time. There's a message on my phone.

She checked my messages.

Do I have a problem with that?

We need to have a talk about boundaries.

Be a sweetheart and don't make a big fuss about nothing. She kisses me on the cheek then starts to dress.

I grab my things and leave the dressing area. Instead of leaving the house, I'm made to wait in the sitting room along with the others that have already finished dressing.

Olga enters the sitting room and moves next to Mi Young. Olga starts whispering into Mi Young’s ear. The way the two of them are looking at me tells me all I need to know. They are talking about me. I ignore them.

As I was one of the last to go (snicker) the man with the clipboard arrives fairly soon after I’m seated.

He smells strongly of urine. I try not to look at his shoes.

Well done all of us.

The man with the clipboard begins passing out those ubiquitous brown envelopes.

Sasha wins the time test. Learn from him.

Everyone counts their cash.

Discretely.

They don't just pull it out of the envelope.

I received £400 for showing up. I received another £1000 for making The Baboon ejaculate.

Unbelievable.

But when I think of the money my former fiancée paid for one dress, I know he can afford it.

Olga leaves with Mi Young and I stand with Sasha for a moment as we decide where to go.

His phone rings.

He has to take it.

He speaks for a moment.

He pulls an agenda out of his messenger bag that is similar to mine.

He takes down some notes then ends the call.

He has a client. Actually one of Harold's. No hard feelings.

Not one.

He gives me his number. He's in town for a week. Lots of Harold's clients. No hard feelings really. In fact, he'll tell the ones he's picked up he's only in town for a week, that he's met me, and that I seem okay to him.

Can I ask him a question?

Shoot.

Why does he work as an escort?

The money. He was a model. Trying to get work as an actor. He ended up signing on for one of the madam's in Moscow. He's been doing it for eight years. He's too old to model. Maybe he'll give acting another try in a year or two. Maybe not. He's made a lot of money. When he's ready to give it up, he'll introduce me to some of his clients.

I don't think I'm going to be doing this that long.

That's what we all think when we start.

He waves down a taxi. Can he drop me somewhere? He's heading to Charing Cross.

I'm good.

He gets into the cab and is gone.

I'm alone.

Blissfully alone.

My thoughts are allowed to fill my head.

The static of Olga's chatter has ceased distracting me.

My need to please no longer presses on me.

I'm Oliver again.

I have better than an hour to do what I need to do.

CHAPTER NINE

Uncle Harvey

The Tower of London.

The cornerstone upon which the mighty British Empire was built.

Open from 9:00am to 5:30pm Tuesday through Saturday. 10:00am to 5:30pm Sunday and Monday.

Many who have fallen from grace have found themselves living in her looming shadow.

My uncle is no exception.

Not my father's brother.

No.

My father’s brother, Uncle Albert, is a solicitor, a banker, a wealthy man by his own right, and possibly in the process of hiring a hit man to take me out so he can inherit the title which is mine by chance of birth order.

I’m at the Tower to see my other uncle.

My mother's brother.

Uncle Harvey.

I find him where I expect to find him.

Courting the attention of the tourists.

Uncle Harvey is a big man. Broad faced and jolly. English to the bone. The son of a butcher and a homemaker.

I never really knew my maternal grandparents.

Another charge I can leverage against my mother.

Mum kept it well hidden that she was a poor girl that had done well in hooking my father.

Like many big men, Uncle Harvey is kind and generous of spirit.

His girth makes him an impressive Henry VIII.

This is what he does.

He dresses up as Henry VIII and poses for pictures with tourists.

I don't know where the costume came from – I think it was his final acting job – A Man for All Seasons more than likely – I don't really remember. He's been using the costume for years. His Henry VIII gig has been paying for his bedsit and his booze for years.

I hang back and watch.

He has a group of tourists – American or Canadian – who can tell the difference? – posing with him as they hold their pocketbooks and wear their sensible shoes.

I want him to not be pathetic.

But he is.

I hate that he is an embarrassment to my mother.

At least Uncle Harvey tries.

More than I can say for me.

I’m pretty well convinced that my family has abandoned me, but then I remember Uncle Harvey.

I have no idea if he's abandoned me. I haven't bothered to check.

He finishes with the tourists. They tip him well. At least well enough for him to doff his cap and give a hearty Fare Thee Well my Lords and Ladies as they depart.

I stand to the side and smile.

I wait for him to see me.

Then he does.

His face lights up.

He lets out a hearty laugh.

He's very pleased to see me.

We move off the street and go to a nearby pub.

I lay it all on the table for him.

Bottom line – I have the best acting job he could ever wish for. Free room. Free everything. And a pay check.

What's the job?

I need a valet. Or a butler. A gentleman’s gentleman. Not forever. Just for a few months until I have my feet under me again.

Ollie – him calling me Ollie used to set my mother off - he doesn't want to be unkind, but haven't I had a bit of a set back? Should I really be thinking about hiring servants at a time when I need to be thinking about my future?

This is the part I need him to just understand and not judge. Can he do that?

He’s a forty-five-year-old man that dresses up like Henry VIII to pose for pictures with tourists. Who the fuck is he to judge anyone? Do I really think he'd ever judge anyone else? Especially his favorite nephew?

No.

Tell Uncle Harvey everything.

I tell him everything.

He pauses me with a raised hand. The Baboon fucking paid me fourteen hundred quid to take a piss on him?

Yes.

What the fuck is wrong with people?

I know.

Give him the wankers number. He'll piss on him for half the money. Does my mother know about this?

God no.

Have I spoken to my mother?

No.

I should call her. She worries about me.

That is a lie. Does he actually talk to my mother?

They Skype.

They have internet in the ashram?

Don’t be such a smartass. She left India months ago. She’s staying with my Aunt Lucy.

Why is my mother staying with my Aunt Lucy?

Why don’t I give her a call and ask her?

Does he want the job, or not?

Tell him what I want him to do again.

CHAPTER TEN

The Psychiatrist

I take a taxi to the hospital where I am to meet The Psychiatrist.

I am directed to a reception area where I do as I am told and check in with a nurse. The nurse tells me to take a seat as she picks up a telephone.

Five minutes later a woman, mid-thirties, deliciously zaftig, blond, well groomed, and wearing a white lab coat over a black pencil skirt and deep purple silk blouse appears through a set of heavy doors clearly marked with several warnings regarding letting people either in or out without correct permissions.

I liked that her hair was held up by a pencil and that she wore glasses with cat’s eye frames. She reminded me of Miss Taylor my Art History teacher in boarding school. My first schoolboy crush.

She comes up to me with a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other.

James?

Yes.

She appreciates my making the effort to meet her on a Saturday evening. Her office is down the hall.

I knew she was American before meeting her, but I find the accent charming. All of those lovely full R’s.

I follow as she walks.

The Matchmaker told her I’m replacing Harold.

Harold? Not Dusty?

She understands the need for compartmentalizing in what we do and would never have over stepped the line, but she always found the name Dusty to be a bit ridiculous. Very porn star. Besides, as a child she had a dog named Dusty. It just didn’t work for her. Harold let her call him Harold.

Oliver. Call me Oliver.

As I like.

She opens the door to an office and lets us inside.

The office, unlike the sterile and somewhat severe hospital outside the door, is comfortable and warm. The windows along the far wall overlook the street below with a fair amount of covering from some well-placed trees. There is a large desk that is neatly arranged. Bookshelves. A large Persian rug that looks expensive. A leather chair. A small table with a clock and a box of tissues. The space is dominated by a leather lounge that looks like something out of a movie about Freud.

You have a couch? I thought most psychiatrists didn’t really use a couch.

She does.

She puts the clipboard on her desk after locking the door to her office. Her handbag is removed from a drawer and is set on her desk. From it she takes her wallet and counts out my fee for one hour of services rendered.

I’m handed the bills which immediately go into my bag.

She goes to a cabinet and removes a hospital sheet which opens with a flick and falls cleanly on the couch.

I’m slightly at a loss for what to do. So I ask. What does she want?

She slips off her lab coat and steps out of her shoes. Her glasses are placed onto the desk. Take off my clothes and lay down on the couch. Not only is it great for patients, it’s marvelous for when she needs to take care of business. Did I take anything? Viagra? Cialis?

No. Does it matter? I start undressing. I’m not exactly hard. Clearly I haven’t taken anything that will put snap into my turtle. I’m going to need to get warmed up a bit before we can get down to business. I realize this might not be a desirable situation for some clients. I’m going to have to start thinking about these things.

She doesn’t have a lot of time. Just for future reference, if I’m feeling like I might have an issue, she would appreciate it if I arrived ready to go. Just because she’s paying for an hour and that they secretary will have me booked in for a fifty-minute session, doesn’t mean she has that much time to spare. Come ready to go. It’s all right this once.

Message received. I need to show up ready to work.

I lay down on the couch and start touching myself while she lays her blouse over the back of her chair then slips out of her panties. She leaves on her bra and the retro looking long black slip she had on under her clothes that is more covering than some cocktail dresses I’ve seen. The pencil is removed from her hair and it falls like a shiny blond wave over a shoulder. She’s pretty in her own subtle way. My guess is that she’s probably very smart. The selection of diplomas on the wall spoke to her devotion to education.

I think of Miss Taylor my Art History teacher. I’m getting hard so I don’t feel like I’ve failed my first solo client.

She comes up to the couch and sits on the edge facing me. A condom is left on the side table. My hand is waved away and she takes over stroking me. I am big. That was no exaggeration. The Doctor promised her that she would not be disappointed.

She knows The Doctor?

He was the one that recommended she give me a try. Harold was a bit of an anomaly for her. Before him she hadn’t paid for sex. She didn’t think she’d look to replace him after their arrangement had come to an end. But, she figured, why not give me a go?

How does she know The Doctor?

She would rather we not discuss personal matters. Not to be rude, she has all of the respect in the world for the fact a lot of clients prefer to be psychologically intimate with me, but she would rather we just keep it physical. Do I understand?

Absolutely. I’m hard.

She puts the condom she left on the table on me then she straddles me. She lifts up the hem of her slip just enough for me to get a peek of her sex. Small patch of hair. As I noted previously, she is meticulously groomed with a lush figure. Not at all unlike my former fiancée.

I slide into her as she comes down on me. She doesn’t push my hands away when I place them on her hips.

Her hands press against my bare chest as she rides me. She finds a rhythm that seems to work for her. She neither kisses me nor makes eye contact with me. I might as well be inanimate. There is no intimacy in this intimate act. It’s curious. I’m not certain I’ve ever been fucked by a woman before. I’ve had Elon and now The Latin Pop Singer use my body as an object, but never has a woman treated me with such indifference. Usually they’re a little more mentally involved in the process.

A few times she stops and rests. I leave my hands on her hips. I can’t be certain, but I guess that if she wanted me to touch her breasts she wouldn’t have left them covered. But then I also wonder if she’d kept her slip on because she is uncomfortable with her body. Truthfully, she’s a bit plump. But then again so was my former fiancée.

Here’s the truth. In my head I had moments when I was a bit of a dick about the extra weight my former fiancée carried around. I knew every one of her insecurities about her body. At the heart of it she never felt beautiful. Then I publicly humiliate her by engaging myself in a relationship with a woman far more beautiful than all of the plastic surgery and liposuction in the world could ever make her. I don’t know if I could pick a worst part of what happened, but one thing I regret is the fact my former fiancée and I were friends. I hated that she felt so bad about her body.

I wonder if The Psychiatrist has the same issue with her weight that my former fiancée had.

As I lay there on the couch with her using me like a human dildo, I’m offered a moment to reflect on my current state of affairs.

I’m going home in the morning. Olga will probably come with me. This is only a problem if she makes it a problem. I’m not certain what she thinks castle life is like, but she’s in for a rude awakening.

I need to clear out Harold’s shell suits and Adidas trainers.

I need to see if there is more cash hidden in the closets.

I need to figure out a way to get out of going to Olga’s sister’s wedding.

I think of Olga.

I find this strange that I think of Olga.

Normally wandering thoughts go directly to the Swedish Princess.

I don’t think I’m over her. In fact I know I’m not over her.

So why do I think of Olga… Olga in front of me bent over the sink, my fingers fiddling with her snatch…Oh fuck I’m going to cum.

Shit.

I think of cricket. Who the fuck thinks of cricket?

I think of my former fiancée.

That doesn’t help.

She has the same sort of lush figure The Psychiatrist has.

I never really minded her figure.

I liked it. I liked that there was something to hold on to.

I certainly liked her tits. They were enormous. What hot blooded English man doesn’t like a big pair of tits?

And I ejaculate.

Fuck.

But it doesn’t matter.

The Psychiatrist climaxes as I do.

Lucky save.

She takes a moment to recover before sliding off of me.

I’m left to tend to myself on the couch. Fortunately, she keeps a box of tissues at hand.

That was good. She wasn’t expecting me to achieve orgasm.

Is that bad? The condom is taken off. She offers me a trashcan to drop it into.

No. Just unexpected. Harold never came. She had made an assumption that was what she should expect. Wrong of her to jump to a conclusion based on her experience with one gigolo. She begins to dress.

Does it bother her? I get up and start dressing.

No. But just so we understand each other, when she’s done she’s done. If I’m close, she won’t stop, but if I have a ways to go, then I’m free to TCB in the men’s bathroom in the corridor. She offers me a bottle of water which I take.

I swallow down half of the water in a gulp. TCB?

Take care of business.

Right. I buckle my belt then sit in the chair at her desk to put my shoes on.

She sits across from me. Her glasses are slipped on. She gives the mouse on her desk a little jiggle and the monitor lights up. Her fingers tap against the keyboard for a moment as she enters a password. She picks up the pen she was carrying when we met then pulls the clipboard in front of her. What was I thinking of?

Excuse me?

What was I thinking of? Clearly I was concentrating on something very intently. What?

What was I thinking of?

Yes. I can tell her. She begins transferring information from the page on the clipboard in front of her to the open document on her computer.

I’m trying to figure out a way to get out of going to a wedding.

Why don’t I want to go to a wedding?

It’s in Russia in December over Christmas.

What’s wrong with Russia? She’s been to Russia. Russia is beautiful.

It’ll be cold. All that snow.

Sounds like it might be beautiful. The snow and the lights.

It does sound beautiful. I don’t know why I’m trying to think of a way to get out of this. The person that invited me has been truly very nice to me when I needed a bit of kindness. It’s like she mentioned earlier. There is a need to compartmentalize. To create boundaries.

Do I work with this woman?

I do. I’d like to keep our relationship professional, but she has been very nice to me. I also don’t have anything to do over Christmas. I’m torn.

If I were to think of what I do as a job like any other, would I say no to a colleague that needed a date to go to a wedding she was probably loathe to attend alone?

I would go without a second thought.

What do I want to do? She grabs her hair, gives it a twirl, picks up the pencil, and then shoves it into the messy bun.

Go with her.

Then do that. Word of advice?

Sure.

If I want to approach my work as a pure professional, then I need to treat what I do like a job and only a job. Sex and intimacy aren’t mutually exclusive. But that doesn’t mean part of what I’m being paid for is to get emotionally involved. This is something she knows about. She has people on her couch pouring their hearts out to her on a daily basis. She has to not care. That professional detachment needs to be maintained. Treat my coworker like a coworker. Leave the sex in the bedroom.

Or on the couch?

Exactly.

Can I ask her a question? One professional to another?

Shoot.

Why would someone want to be pissed on?

She laughs loudly. Do I have a desire to piss on someone?

Not even a little. I tell her about The Baboon without naming names.

Fetishes are a curious thing. Do I have an email address?

I do. I give it to her.

She’ll email me a paper she wrote on fetish behaviors. It doesn’t cover pissing, but it will give me some overview and insight into fetish behaviors.

That would be great. I would appreciate that.

She clicks on her keyboard. I should have it in my inbox. She will make one observation. I’m smarter than Harold. That is abundantly clear. He was pretty, but kind of dumb. She can see why a coworker would try to rope me into going to a wedding with her. I could be passed off as a real date. We need to go over the schedule.

I pull my planner out of my messenger bag.

We go over our schedule.

I’m gone this upcoming Thursday.

She will be at a conference in Miami the Thursday after that.

That leaves us with the following Thursday.

I pen her in. Every Thursday morning. Fifty minute hour. Her office. The Psychiatrist.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Living With Others - Part Two

I walk in the door just before nine.

I've been gone less than six hours and already the mess is beginning to creep like mold over bread.

Someone has taken the baskets of carefully sorted shoes, clothes, and miscellaneous rubble and dumped them out. The shoes are scattered. There are panties hanging off the sconces.

I ignore this.

When I’m back from Japan Uncle Harvey will sort the lot of them.

I go upstairs.

I find Talitha in my bedroom.

She's going through the closet and throwing things on the bed.

I'm not a man that would abuse a woman. I’ve just had enough of people walking into my room without an invitation.

I feel a demonstration of my position on her coming into my locked bedroom and going through the place needs to be made.

Get out.

No. She needs to get Harold’s things. I need to get out until she’s finished.

Get out now.

Or what? Fuck off.

I grab her by the hair, twist it around my hand and march her out the door. I press her against the wall.

She is never to go into my room again. Does she understand?

Everything in that room belongs to Harold.

I twist the knot of hair harder. There is a rage building up inside of me that isn’t wholly her making.

I do not like this person this fucking whore has turned me into by her presence in my space.

Does she understand that she is never to go into my room again?

Harold wants his stuff back.

There are bulges in her jeans. I pad her down. I pull out three rolls of cash. Each one is tossed back into my bedroom.

That's her money.

When I've verified I'm not missing any cash, then I'll give it back to her.

Does she understand that she is never to go into my room again?

Do I need to call The Matchmaker and tell her that she was violating my space and I quit? Because I have the feeling she probably needs me more than she needs another trouble making girl that can easily be replaced.

She'll stay out of my room. Harold wants his stuff back.

Harold needs to call The Matchmaker.

I release her hair. I wait for her to fight back. She doesn't. Maybe she isn't totally stupid.

Then comes her hand to slap me in the face.

I grab her by the wrist before she strikes.

I don't want any problems. She needs to stop trying to make problems. Does she understand?

She jerks her wrist out of my hand then walks away.

I close and lock the door.

The world is on the other side and it can just stay there.

I take two beers, I shrug off my clothes, and slip into the bathrobe, fetch the remote, and double check the door is locked.

My phone rings. I recognize the song. The Latin Pop Star. I take the call. I’m going to preface this by stating that I do like him. I understand that the call is part of a bigger fantasy, but it is not a lie that I like him – I know without a doubt there will come a point that he will be done with me. If he were to say to me in that call that he wanted to come out to be a couple and he wanted me to be a part of that ride, I’d probably jump on board. But that won’t happen. For the moment I’m happy to be a part of his fantasy world.

He’s in Johannesburg. Just got into his hotel. Tell him again why I didn’t come with him.

I’m regretting my choice. At least this is what I tell him. I’ll see him in Bangkok. It’s already been arranged.

Do I really want to meet him in Bangkok?

I really want to meet him in Bangkok. I’m happy we met. I like him. Does he like me?

He likes me very much. We connected. Did I feel that?

I did. We had a connection. There is no doubt about that.

He’s looking forward to our trip to the Reunion Islands. Bangkok will be good, but two weeks alone will be ideal.

What about Olga? She thinks she’s going.

He’d rather it was just us. So what am I wearing?

It turns into one of those conversations that have a happy ending.

There is no cricket on the telly, but there is rugby.

I start organizing the mess left by Talitha.

I look for the cash I earned.

It's still there.

I look for the three rolls of bills I found.

They aren’t where I left them.

I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but even I can deduce she lifted the cash.

I take the three rolls of bills I removed from Talitha.

They're placed into my messenger bag.

They’re mine now.

I might have been nice about the clothes and money before, but she crossed a line.

I’ve lived communally with other people for more than half of my life.

From boarding school to university.

I’ve always had to share my living space with other people.

Other people that understand the rules about fucking with other peoples shit.

You don’t do it.

If you do, you suffer the consequences if you get caught.

The consequences generally being your shit gets fucked with.

The game ends. I turn on CNN. The world is going to shit. There is enough grief in my life. I turn off the news.

I begin flicking through channels.

The gods of programming are smiling on me.

Ursula Andress as my personal favorite Bond girl Honey Rider in the classic Dr. No is sauntering up the beach in her white bikini.

When I have a minute I'm going to try to mimic Sean Connery's walk.

I open every door and drawer.

A pile of clothing begins to form in the corner of the room.

A pile of cash starts forming on the dresser.

When I’m done clearing out Harold and making room for me, it’s still early, but I’m exhausted.

I lay on the bed in the robe with the telle on and the lights off.

There is a peace that comes over me. There is a light at the end of the tunnel and it might not be an oncoming train.

At some point I fall asleep.

I wake up just enough to know Olga is silently walking around the room closing curtains and turning off the television.

The bed shifts slightly.

Her body curls against mine.

Where was she?

Went to the movies with Mi Young.

Did she have a good time?

It was okay. She’s sorry she kicked off about going for pints with Sasha.

Doesn’t matter. I didn’t go in the end.

How was The Psychiatrist?

Very straight forward. Talitha was in the room going through Harold’s stuff when I got home. Pissed me off. I found more cash.

How much?

Near fifty thousand.

Harold deserves what he gets. She kisses my shoulder. Go to sleep. She didn’t mean to wake me up.

I’m not spending the night alone.