Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Six
Author: Livia Ellis
Date: 2013-04-01 04:00:00+00:00

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE Prologue

CHAPTER TWO November

CHAPTER THREE The Dream

CHAPTER FOUR The Psychiatrist

CHAPTER FIVE Uncle Harvey in the Role of Wright the Butler

CHAPTER SIX The Ladies

CHAPTER SEVEN Mrs. Bailey

CHAPTER EIGHT Mrs. Bailey

CHAPTER NINE Mrs. French

CHAPTER TEN Mrs. Dawson

CHAPTER ELEVEN December

CHAPTER TWELVE The Doctor

CHAPTER THIRTEEN The Coffees

CHAPTER FOURTEEN January

CHAPTER FIFTEEN Mistress Jennifer

CHAPTER SIXTEEN Renata

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Tea with Dr. Gita Premji

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Israel Rubin

CHAPTER NINETEEN The Psychiatrist

CHAPTER TWENTY The Actress

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE February

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO The Italian

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Former Fiancée

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR The Banker

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE The Baron

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Outing with mum – British Museum

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN The Bogus Saudi Prince

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT March

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Lads Weekend

CHAPTER THIRTY The Company of Men

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE Home

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Dinner

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE April

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR Boundaries

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE The Esthetician

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX Lunch with Elon

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN Call to the LPS

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT Meeting with the Singh Family

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE MMME

Memoirs of a Gigolo

Volume Six

Livia Ellis

Copyright © 2014 Livia Ellis

All rights reserved.

ISBN:

ISBN-13:

The Writers Tribe

CHAPTER ONE

Prologue

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TWO

November

Get new trainers and heart monitor.

Overnight – The apartment of the Psychiatrist

11:00am – Uncle Harvey

12:00pm – 1:00pm Mrs. Nichols

2:00pm – 3:00pm Mrs. Bailey

4:00pm – 5:00pm Mrs. French

6:00pm – 7:00pm Mrs. Dawson

CHAPTER THREE

The Dream

I come awake with a gasping scream.

For a moment I’m disoriented.

More than a moment truthfully.

I don’t know where I am.

A hand reaches for me.

This makes me jump.

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

But it’s not her.

It’s the Psychiatrist.

I was dreaming.

She turns on a light.

She hands me a glass of water.

Am I okay?

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

What was my dream?

Nothing.

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

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

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

I have this dream.

I dream I’m my father.

I’m him walking down the street.

In a charcoal grey suit and white shirt.

No tie.

No coat.

It’s a warm spring day.

I feel alive.

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

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

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

He claims he never knew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants this as much as I do.

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

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

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

He wouldn’t accept my lunch invitations.

He wouldn’t have gone skiing with me.

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

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

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

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

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

I pull my phone out of my pocket.

I have a text from my son.

Where am I?

Boom.

The bus hits me.

I wake up.

Interesting.

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

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

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

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

Like a therapist?

Exactly.

Her.

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

CHAPTER FOUR

The Psychiatrist

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

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

I don’t know what to do.

Do I get dressed and sneak out?

Do I act like this is totally normal?

I don’t know what to do.

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

I smell mint toothpaste and rose soap.

I’m awake.

I am.

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

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

The duvet is flicked to the side.

Am I still on the clock?

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

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

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

She moves a little then stops.

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

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

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

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

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

We try as follows:

- Missionary – immediately shot down (too intimate)

- Reverse cowgirl
- Ankles up
- Rocking horse
- Doggie style
- Bicycle
- Wheelbarrow
- Seated wheelbarrow
- Crouching tiger – we have a winner

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

The Psychiatrist flops on her back. That was good.

I aim to please.

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

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

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

CHAPTER FIVE

Uncle Harvey in the Role of Wright the Butler

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

I’m to begin training.

I don’t want to begin training.

But I must begin training.

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

I’m stuck on the treadmill.

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

She keeps fiddling with the controls on the treadmill.

Suddenly I’m running up a cliff face.

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

She’s evil.

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

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

I did not know this.

We need to balance me out.

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

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

Does she have a mouse in her pocket?

Why would she have a mouse in her pocket?

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

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

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

I can drink decaffeinated.

No.

Yes.

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

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

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

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

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

I get under the water and she joins me.

Going vegan would be…

I kiss her. That shuts her up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Olga returns to the room.

Her hair has been dried in her bedroom.

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

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

I will not.

This is why men and women need separate bathrooms.

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

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

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

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

The doorbell rings. I check the time.

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

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

Are we going to get that?

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

The doorbell rings a third time. Unbelievable.

Suitcases?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The six women look at each other.

Elizabeth raises her hand. Right about what?

His name. He is Wright.

Mr. Wright?

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

Right.

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

Simone speaks up. They are her panties.

Uncle Harvey flicks them at her. They smack her in the face.

He picks up a shoe with his cane. Anyone?

Emer raises a hand.

He chucks it at her.

She catches it with a yelp. She scrambles for its mate before it comes hurtling at her.

Ladies. Each of them will gather their – he picks up a bra with the cane then tosses it at the women – belongings and remove them from the public areas. They will then go to their respective bedrooms and clean them. There will be an inspection in precisely one hour. If their rooms are below his standard there will be consequences.

Like what? Talitha – of course – is the first to open her mouth.

They will find themselves out on the street.

He can’t do that. It is pas acceptable! She will not be spoken to in such a manner! Simone gets all French on Uncle Harvey.

Yes. He can. He is Wright.

She is not a femme de ménage. She does not clean. C’est tout!

Mademoiselle can go and pack her bags. This is not a hotel. Checkout time is in thirty-minutes.

But… She will telephone the Matchmaker.

She can be his guest.

We wait as Simone calls the Matchmaker. I am put on the phone after about a minute.

Can she assume the butler I mentioned to her has arrived?

Yes she can.

Is he scaring the shit out of them and telling them that they either need to clean up their acts or get the hell out?

Yes he is.

Good. He has her permission to boot out anyone that doesn’t toe the line. It’s not as hard as any one of them thinks for her to replace them.

I hand the phone back to Simone.

Wright has the Matchmaker’s full authority to remove anyone from the house that doesn’t follow his rules.

But!!!

Uncle Harvey raises his cane. No buts.

Who the fuck is he to tell them what to do? Talitha snarls and stomps. She could get work with another madam without blinking an eye.

He is Wright. Never forget. He is Wright. She is welcome to pack and leave. From this moment forward he is the head of this curious little household.

Which means what exactly? Emer holds her shoes as she gathers up another two pairs.

He is the Butler. Consider him the new sheriff in town. The housekeeper will be arriving in the morning. She is about as easy to intimidate as he is. Neither he, nor the housekeeper, has been engaged by the Matchmaker to pick up their mess. They are supposedly young ladies – not a herd of swine.

That banging sound in the background – he places a hand to his ear – that would be the sound of the hammer falling. They are to take their things – he picks up another pair of unclaimed panties then flicks them – gather their belongings or he will gather them for them.

The women stare at him.

NOW!

They scramble around the room for their things.

Who will show him to his rooms?

He's staying? Talitha with a double armful of garments and shoes shrieks.

Until the end of time.

I offer to show him to his room.

He picks up his suitcase then follows me through the dining room then the kitchen to the apartment on the garden level under the kitchen.

The door closes behind us.

They're all hookers?

They're all hookers.

Blimey.

I hate to do this, but my afternoon is booked. I can’t stay to help him settle in.

Not to worry. He can manage the girls. Talitha and Simone will be the real problem. He may have to have them removed from the house.

My phone rings in my pocket. It’s the Matchmaker. I speak to her for a moment, and then put Uncle Harvey on the phone.

Madam. Yes. No. Yes. No. He will have the situation well in hand before mid-afternoon. If that is what must be, then that is what must be. Certainly. The moment he has concluded inspections, he will telephone her. Yes. No. Yes. No. Not at all. He would be delighted. Cocktails it is. He makes a martini that will make her weep for Mother Russia. All will be ready for her when she arrives.

The phone is handed back to me.

She sounds positively charming.

She is. I have what I like to call the Ladies. I’m going to be out most of the afternoon.

All at once?

Four right in a row.

How much is that going to net me?

Probably about three thousand depending on tips.

Damn. Have I really thought about what I'm getting myself into?

Yes. Japan was… interesting. My baptism by fire. I’m good.

What does Elon think about this?

He’s rolling with it.

What about the former fiancée?

Still out to get me. At least I have the tax collectors off my ass. If someone named Harold shows up call the police.

Trouble?

I took over for him. He’s pissed off about losing his job.

He can manage. It’s good being just a touch crazy. It scares the shit out of most people. Do we tell the girls we are family?

Maybe. Eventually. Let’s see what happens. For the moment I just want my life to get easier.

Sounds like things are still pretty hard going.

Things are still pretty hard. But I'm trying to make it all better.

Sounds like I'm changing. For the good. He looks around. It's a good setup. We are on this road together. We will see it through to the end.

CHAPTER SIX

The Ladies

I have four female clients that live within a four block square in Belgravia and Mayfair.

They are the Ladies. They know each other well. They love and despise each other in equal measure. Each of them are divorced from men they shoved up their respective corporate ladders. Each of them replaced by women significantly younger than them. Nothing pleases them more when their ex-husbands become fathers to the children of these much younger women. These women that expect them to do things like change diapers and go on play dates. More than one of them has had an ex come scratching at the door once they coped on to the fact this new generation of wives isn’t like the old generation.

Each of these men gets laughed at and a door slammed in his face. They are truly happier collecting their ruinously expensive alimony payments. They live their lives in this small practically incestuous circle of friends. No one new is allowed in. None of them are allowed to leave.

They have their hair done by the same man. They shop in the same boutiques. They drive the same cars. They lunch in the same restaurants. They fuck the same man (that would be me). They keep score in the ever increasingly complex game that is less about winning and more about maintaining the status quo of their little group.

I adore each of them. I absolutely love them all. They are unapologetic about the fact I am their paid bit of fun. We are marvelous friends each of us. I’m privy to their secrets and I get to hear from each of them their own version of events after a particular party or function.

I am often expected to work very hard for my money. Which I buy a bottle of water from coffee stand and yes – take one of those incredibly handy blue pills. It’s not that I can’t get an erection when I need to; it’s just that sometimes I really don’t feel like making the effort. I have four appointments back to back. That’s a lot of work.

In order, I have Nichols, Bailey, French, and then Dawson. They are the true housewives of London.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mrs. Bailey

I go to Mrs. Nichols house first.

She invites me in as she lets out her private yoga instructor. She’s wearing a velour track suit. I love dogs. I don’t love those little yippy giant rats some people call dogs.

Kisses on each cheek. She pulls out her wallet and counts out the cash. This is not a discreet relationship. She is who she is and I am who I am. There are no little brown envelopes to make us feel better about the sex for cash thing.

We go to her bedroom.

She wants me to tie her up and spank her.

Huh?

She wants me to tie her up and spank her. They’ve all been reading this book about bondage. Marvelous! She can’t get enough of it. Have I heard of it? Everyone is reading it. Have I read it?

No. (If it’s the book I’m thinking of I know Olga has read it. I refuse to touch it on principle.)

I must read it. She’ll give me her copy before I leave. We absolutely must try bondage. We must. It’s all the rage. She wants me to spank her like the bad bad girl she is.

Sure. But I have to tell her that in all honesty I’ve never done this before.

Not a problem. She bought a book.

I’m not sure that book really has anything to do with bondage. (In fact I hear it’s just derivative fan fiction that somehow got popular because someone knows how to market more than she knows how to write)

She bought a bondage how-to manual. The bookstores are absolutely overrun with them.

Okay. That’s helpful.

With pictures. Very nicely illustrated.

If nothing else, I’m not afraid to fail.

That’s the spirit!

On the bed is the illustrated book, fuzzy handcuffs, a whip made out of ribbon, a blindfold, and a riding crop. Not a real riding crop. One topped with feathers.

Mrs. Nichols slips into her dressing room then emerges wearing a revealing leather bustier and a pair of rather saucy thong panties.

Mrs. Nichols! Quite frankly I’m a bit shocked. I really thought I was beyond shock, but clearly that bar has been raised once again.

Now. Turn to chapter one. Let’s see where we begin.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Mrs. Bailey

She’s absolutely certain I’m not hurting her?

Yes. Do it again!

I give Mrs. Bailey a swat on the bottom.

Tell her how naughty she is.

She’s very naughty. (She’s very fucking naughty for fucking making me do this – it’s all I can do not to bust up laughing)

She flips through the illustrated guide to bondage that is identical to the book Mrs. Nichols had. Apparently they went shopping together. Clearly they are reading the same books.

Okay – tie her up and blind fold her. I can do that.

I look at the illustrations as I hold the silk cord in one hand. This shouldn’t be too hard. First I blind fold then truss up Mrs. Bailey.

I’m a bit unsure what to do next. So I take the feather tipped riding crop that is identical to the one Mrs. Nichols had on hand. I give her a paddling with it.

Who is to say if she really is enjoying this or if she thinks she must enjoy it because it’s the THING to want to do.

CHAPTER NINE

Mrs. French

I’m getting pretty good at tying up women by the time I have Mrs. French on her bed trussed up like a calf. I do have to say that she switched it up and decided a little naughty school girl role playing made the whole experience a bit more fun for me.

Maybe it’s not the little skirt, the pigtails and the button busting blouse so much as I’m increasingly more comfortable with this whole faux bondage thing by the time I roll around to her house.

I’m the headmaster and she’s the bad schoolgirl. I’m to give her a spanking for getting caught cheating on her French test.

I give her another swat.

Stop.

Really stop or just stop stop it hurts so good?

Really stop.

I stop.

Could I untie her?

I untie her.

Can she be honest with me?

Absolutely.

She doesn’t want to hurt my feelings, but honestly, isn’t this just a bit ridiculous?

Yes.

It’s just not working for her. Mrs. Nichols and Mrs. Bailey were just so into this she agreed to go along with it. But it’s just not her.

Can I be honest?

Abosolutely.

If she’s not comfortable then I’m not comfortable. I’ve never really done this before and I’m feeling a bit out of my depth. Not everything is everyone’s cup of tea.

This is not her cup of tea.

I just so happen to know what her cup of tea is.

Do I now?

Yes. I do. I knock the bondage gear for beginners off of the bed, get the condoms out of my messenger bag and go old school on my naughty school girl.

CHAPTER TEN

Mrs. Dawson

As I walk down the steps from Mrs. French’s house I check my phone. I have a text from Mrs. Dawson. She’s not home. Meet her at Harvey Nichols.

Unless there’s a dungeon at Harvey Nichols I don’t know about, the tie me up tie me down portion of my day has come to an end.

I find Mrs. Dawson in a dressing room wearing a gown.

Does her ass look enormous?

I give her a good look as I sit in the silk upholstered chair.

Yes. It’s an unflattering dress.

The sales woman could slay me with her eyes.

I am her darling. She knew I would tell her the truth. Get the envelope out of her purse.

I get the envelope of cash out of her purse and put it in my messenger bag.

The dress is removed and discarded with a bump from her perfectly painted toes.

Did they make me tie them up and spank them?

She knows I don’t talk about clients with other clients.

She’ll take that as a yes. She slips into a second dress. Well?

Better.

But not fabulous.

Not fabulous. What’s it for?

Her daughter’s wedding.

She can do better.

This is why I am her darling. Did I enjoy bondage 101? She slips out of the second dress and into a third.

No comment.

She’ll take that as a no. They’ve all read that book. Have I read that book?

No.

Don’t. It’s shit. Pure shit. She couldn’t get halfway through it before she gave it to one of the maids. She’s never read such poorly written crap before. It’s not the bondage that bothered her as much as the language. Really amateur writing. The only reason people are reading it is because of the buzz.

Mrs. Nichols gave me a copy.

Of course she did. She’s the one whipping everyone into a frenzy. She thinks it’s the best thing since lubricated condoms. If I get twenty pages into it and tell her that I actually genuinely truly love it, she’ll buy me a car.

She’s on.

The saleswoman finishes zipping her up. She turns around. Well?

Yes. That’s the dress. Not too much tit and her ass looks like a peach.

That’s what she thought. She should have gone with her first impulse. We’re not going back to her place. Aunt Flo has come for a visit. Honestly she thought she was done with all of that and then boom out of nowhere. So? Cocktails? She could absolutely murder a gimlet.

She’d have to tie me up to stop me.

I am a treasure!

CHAPTER ELEVEN

December

Buy Christmas presents:

- Gift cards for the girls

- Elon – agree to go to his mother’s next wedding

- The Doctor – cognac from cellar

- The Matchmaker - ???

- Olga - ?????????

- Mum – laptop and tablet (maybe computer class?)

- Aunt Lucy – NEW APPLIANCES!

- Uncle Harvey – gorgeous holiday (cruise?)

12:00pm to 2:00pm – Lunch with the Doctor

8:00pm to 11:00pm The Coffees

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Doctor

Lunch with the doctor is a trial.

A once a week trial.

Not even one that I get paid for. I do this voluntarily.

Not that I find his company anything less than a delight. I enjoy his company. After living with the girls and Uncle Harvey, I welcome the company of a person that likes to talk about something other than shoes or fondant. I now know more about shoes than Christian Louboutin.

Lunch is not the problem. Rather it is his insistence I join him at his club that I find painful.

Yes.

His club.

His gentlemen’s club.

It was my grandfather’s club and I think technically I’m a member.

The last time I walked through the doors, before the Doctor insisted I meet him for lunch at the club, was that final lunch I had with my grandfather and his friend Lionel.

At that time I’d become the messenger between my father and my grandfather.

I passed messages back and forth.

They were done speaking to each other. A line had once and for all been dashed under that relationship.

The only time they were in each other’s presence was when it involved me.

I never want to have that sort of a relationship with a child.

I will do things differently.

I get why dad clung to mum. I do. Finally he had someone that loved him unconditionally and completely. I get why he would need that and would fear losing that. Dad wasn’t perfect. Neither was granddad. But at least dad understood he had made mistakes when it came to me. Granddad went to his grave believing his hands were clean.

I don’t hate the club so much as it symbolizes the past that holds me hostage. It’s my grandfather incarnate. It’s a dinosaur. A relic from an era that has drifted into the past, but just doesn’t know it yet.

Maybe like me.

I wonder as I wait.

Am I a relic from a past that has no place in the present?

This is the question I ask myself repeatedly when my past life comes in contact with my present life.

Would it really be so bad if I just walked away? Would it? Sometimes it seems like such an obvious thing to do.

Another line drawn under another chapter in my life.

But then again, I’m no quitter.

I’d rather meet the Doctor at his office. That suits me. This insistence that we go to lunch bi-weekly is a trial. Not because of his company, but because it forces me out into the world I used to live in. I’m pushed out of the seedy underworld that I inhabit on a day to day basis and made to be that other me. The me I was raised to be.

So we meet at the club. In fact, we arrive at the same moment and enter together. Coats are handed over and we are ushered into the inner sanctum. I know several of the men we pass. They greet me both warmly and indifferently.

We are seated at our usual table.

How am I?

Eh.

Really Oliver. Use my words. Eh is no better than a grunt. How am I?

Fine.

I’m not fine. He can see it in the set of my shoulders. Just tell him what the matter is. Believe it or not, he has been around the block a time or two. He’s learned that nothing is ever as bad as it seems. Sometimes chatting with a friend helps find a new perspective.

Honestly I am feeling the pressure of it all. It’s as if I spend my life in this place where I am so desperately tightly wound that if I give up trying to control it all for a moment I fear I may fly apart.

Perhaps what I need to do is give up control.

I can’t do that. I can’t. How could I possibly give up control?

He removes a pen and a card from inside his jacket pocket. A number is scribbled down and passed to me.

Mistress Jennifer?

Mistress Jennifer. Wait a day before I call. He’ll contact her to let her know he’s referring me.

I don’t really know if that’s my sort of thing.

Of all the people he knows, he would have assumed I would be the one most willing to embrace an experience just to try it. Not to back away cowardly from the fear of the unknown.

Did he just call me chicken?

Never. He would never be so gauche. That I am un grand poulet is clearly evident by the fact I won’t even entertain the possibility of putting myself into the hands of a trained dominatrix. Perhaps her brand of making me let go might just be what the doctor ordered.

I will not have electrodes attached to my scrotum.

I’ve been reading too many of the wrong books and not enough of the right ones.

Is this something he’s into?

Yes. In fact he is. He and Mistress Jennifer go way back.

I won’t let her put a cowl on me.

Just trust that she knows what she’s doing. She’s really very good. She has an instinct for knowing what a client really needs and wants.

My mind is as open as a field of poppies.

Good.

After lunch we go back to the Doctor’s office.

Nothing has changed from the first time he paid me for my services in his office. Not a thing.

I sit in the chair, my legs propped up in the stirrups, his finger works my g-spot, and his mouth pulls me to a supernova of a climax.

I dress.

He would like me to arrange something.

Sure. Whatever he would like.

He would like to watch me engage in sexual congress with another young man. Someone attractive. Not particularly hirsute. He likes tall men.

We could…

No. As he has told me before, he has a certain way he likes to do things. In this instance he would simply like to observe.

I know an Israeli man that might do.

Avan?

Yes.

Avan would be perfectly acceptable.

I’ll sort it out.

The Matchmaker calls me as I leave the Doctor’s office.

Does she know Mistress Jennifer?

She does.

The Doctor recommended I make an appointment with her.

If I can get an appointment with her, she recommends I take it. Might do me a world of good to just submit to a world class dominatrix.

I don’t want my nipples squeezed in clamps.

Whatever have I been reading?

Nothing.

Call her.

I will.

Very good. She has me booked for that evening. A married couple. Colombian. Out of towners like most of my clients will be. They always book an escort when they're in London. Husband likes to watch the wife get fucked. Ask Olga. She's had them before. They take turns. Sometimes the wife likes to watch.

I need to go home. I'd rather not have another late night two nights in a row.

It won't be a late night. Elizabeth and I are expected at their hotel at eight.

Wait. Elizabeth?

Yes. Is that a problem?

Well no. But I’ve only worked with Olga before.

Time to branch out.

What is Olga going to think about this?

Olga had better think nothing of this or she’s in the wrong profession. I'll be done under two hours. They always pay for three, but I'll be out the door so they can get on with their night alone.

I can do that.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Coffees

At home Olga gets me ready for the evening. While I'm shaving she tells me what I need to know. She's been with them before. They're nice. Not great tippers. But, they always pay for three hours, and she's usually done after two. The husband won't touch me. He'll just watch. That's his thing. If he does want to mix it up, just go for it. We both have clients at the Savoy. We'll go early so she can introduce me to The Concierge. Don't forget to tip him. Ten-percent. He can be a real little bitch if he doesn't get tipped.

Ten-percent? Really?

I can probably blow him.

Does she blow him?

Nope. She's not really his cup of tea. But me on the other hand... She runs the flat of her hands over my pecks. I'm exactly what he masturbates to.

Would she blow him or pay him the ten-percent?

She'd pay him the ten-percent. She doesn't like him. She'd rather him think he could never have her even if he wanted to. He's a little troll.

I'll pay him the ten-percent. If The Concierge wants to pay the £200 for an hour, he can.

Olga kisses me. That's the right attitude. She kisses me again. Her arms wrap around my neck. Another kiss. She's toying with me. Then she lets me go. She needs to get dressed.

She does know I’m going with Elizabeth, right?

She knows. She has a different client.

Elizabeth and I travel together to the hotel. She introduces me to the Concierge.

He’s not half as bad as Olga made him out to be.

I’m friendly.

He’s friendly.

Sometimes Olga is not as friendly as she could be. This could be why she has her issues with the Concierge.

I’ll tell him I’ll catch up with him when we’re done.

He gives me a wink (when is this ever not creepy?) then tells me he’ll be looking for me.

We go up to the suite occupied by the Coffees.

They are an attractive couple. He’s Colombian. She’s American.

We are offered cocktails and our cash which we take.

There is some conversation.

He’s wearing trousers and a shirt. She’s in a flimsy robe.

Elizabeth knows what to do. She very directly asks if they’d like to move to the bedroom, or stay in the sitting room.

The husband sits in an oversized chair. We will stay in the sitting room.

Elizabeth slips out of her dress revealing a whole lot of nothing underneath.

There is a lot of girly giggling and a fair bit of playful kissing. I get why the husband enjoys watching this. I’m certainly not bored.

Elizabeth unties the wife’s robe and slips it off of her shoulders while twirling her tongue around the woman’s mouth.

I’m waiting for the signal Elizabeth told me would come.

Both women have smooth bare pussies that they begin fingering simultaneously.

I swear I’ve seen this done in porn more than once.

The wife moves to the couch. With legs spread open and propped on the coffee table, Elizabeth uses the flat of her tongue against the slick soft skin of the wife’s slit. Elizabeth is aware of where the husband is. She must be. The way she moves her head and her hair indicate that she knows how to give him the best view of what she’s doing to his wife.

I have to say her ass is particularly lovely as it sticks up in front of me.

The husband gives me a nudge. He flicks his fingers a bit and taps me into the game. That’s the signal. It couldn’t have come soon enough.

Only Velcro could have helped me get my clothes off quicker.

I tag Elizabeth and she moves away.

The husband calls her to him.

I sit on the couch and the wife gets on my lap. She sits facing away from me looking towards her husband. She uses her hand to guide my dick inside of her. I get two handfuls of full breasts as she fucks me.

Elizabeth is on her knees blowing him.

I can feel the eye contact between them. I wonder what this is like. To be married to someone and have this kind of open relationship. I don’t know if I find it creepy or intriguing. I think I should find it creepy but in truth I find it fascinating. I can’t say for certain that with the right wife that I wouldn’t want this kind of openness.

I move my fingers to her clit. She has a head tossing orgasm just as Elizabeth sucks off the husband.

We four move to the bedroom. The husband takes a chair and watches as Elizabeth and I fuck his wife.

When he moves to remove his clothing it’s time for us to go.

He’s very polite about kicking us out, but he’s still very firmly telling us it’s time to go.

We leave the bedroom and the door closes behind us.

We get our clothes on quietly and quickly.

I notice there is a leather picture folder on the desk next to the closed laptop. They have children. Two. Son and a daughter. Both under five. Society wants this to bother me, but it just doesn’t. In fact I like the Coffees even more. They’re consenting adults. They’re married. They’re not just parents. They’re lovers too. I want that when I get married.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

January

January

Get vitamins, more pens, padlock for bedroom door (possibly alarm? Nanny cam?)

Figure out who Israel Ruben is and why he keeps leaving messages for me

Figure out who the hell let the paparazzi know Olga and I were in Brazil and kill them

10:00am to 11:00am – Mistress Jennifer

12:00pm to 1:00pm – Lunch with Renata

2:00pm to 3:00pm – Tea with Dr. Gita Premji

4:00pm – 5:00pm – the Psychiatrist

6:00pm to TBD – the Actress

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Mistress Jennifer

Why am I going to Mistress Jennifer? Why? Because I’m not a chicken. Or un grand poulet. That and I failed the football player. Okay he doesn’t think I failed, but the truth is I was out of my depth. What the hell do I know about spanking people? I don’t know anything about this. So what do I do? The same thing I did when I was in school and needed help. I find a tutor. Mistress Jennifer.

I’m nervous. I’ll admit this. Obviously I don’t think she’s going to start spanking me (god forbid!) but I don’t know what to expect and this makes me uneasy.

My fear stems from the unexpected. I’m terrified of the unexpected. I’ve had far too many surprises in my life recently. I’m all done with surprises.

I walk up to the black door in the brick wall over which the numbers as I have them written down are displayed. There was no name plate. Not that I expected one. What would it say? Dungeon?

Not knowing what to expect, I ring the bell.

I step back. I’m certain I have the right place. I double checked the address.

Three things I know:

1. If she answers the door trussed up in leather with a whip, I’m gone

2. If she blindfolds me, puts a dog collar on me, or trusses up my nuts with a rope I’m gone

3. If she expects me to call her mistress I’m gone

The door opens. I’m fairly certain I have the wrong door. Mistress Jennifer cannot be this woman in black wool trousers and deep purple tailored silk blouse. She is tall with short blond hair and the build of a runner. She is an attractive woman of an undeterminable age. Much like the Matchmaker.

I’m very sorry …

Oliver?

Yes.

Why am I sorry?

I thought I had the wrong address.

Do I spend a lot of time apologizing for things that require no apology?

Yes.

She is Mistress Jennifer. I am very welcome. Come in. Join her

We walk through dimly lit corridors lined with doors. I can hear other people doing god knows what. I pass both women and men (many trussed up in leather as I feared Mistress Jennifer would be) then enter a room. A leather bench dominates the space.

Take off my shoes.

I take my shoes off.

For once I’m the client.

I reach into my bag, remove the envelope with the cash and set it on the bench.

She picks up the envelope. This is very much like a business transaction. This is familiar and comforting for me. The envelope is put into one of the cabinets that line the walls.

She turns and stares at me. I’m nervous.

Yes.

Why?

I don’t know what’s going to happen.

What do I want to happen?

Can I tell her something?

Yes. I can tell her anything.

Okay – a while back – maybe three years or so ago – I was with my former fiancée – we were in Exeter driving home after a concert – it was late – she was asleep in the passenger seat – I’m driving along – there was this man – he was walking down the street – it was very late – the streets were pretty empty – here was this man – in a cowl and a dog collar – just walking down the street – in these tiny leather pants – and no shoes – he had no shoes on – so here is this man in a cowl, a dog, collar, little leather pants walking down the street in the rain well past midnight – all I could think is something has gone terribly wrong for him.

It sounds like something did go terribly wrong for him.

I don’t want to be that man.

Because I fear vulnerability and exposure?

Yes. I suppose so.

I am safe in this place. She places her hand on the door. Nothing will happen that I don’t want to happen. I can be as vulnerable as I need to be and I will not get hurt. I can give up my need to control and feel free to just be.

That scares the hell out of me.

Of course it does. Freedom is terrifying. We need a word.

A safe word?

Yes.

I’ve thought about this.

She thinks I probably spend a lot of time thinking too much about such things.

How does she like Clytemnestra? Not a word that comes up in regular conversation. Hard to mistake.

Scarlet.

What?

The safe word is Scarlet. I need to trust her to make the decisions. No cowls. No dog collars. No little leather pants. Put myself in her hands. Slowly, step, by step, she will help me learn new boundaries. I must have places where I am free to shut the world and all of its troubles out. Does this sound like something I would like to do?

Yes.

Then let’s do it.

Do I need to take off my clothes?

No. In fact – how about I have one activity in my life that doesn’t involve taking off my clothes. At least not yet. Maybe in time. But for the moment small steps.

From inside of one of the cabinets she takes a blindfold.

I…

Do I trust her?

I want to.

This is where we start.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Renata

Renata has become a splinter in my ass. My desire to banish her from my life doesn’t equal my ability to banish her from my life. She is tenacious. Nothing will deter her. Not even purposefully ignoring her.

I could have persisted, but she tracked down my mother.

This I cannot have. She succeeds in getting me to return one of her calls.

If I had appropriate boundaries in place in my life, this would never have happened. Mistress Jennifer is absolutely correct. I need boundaries in my life. Not every place must contain my angst. I’m truly willing to ring a fence around Renata.

I agree to lunch. One lunch. The plan being to make it very clear to her that I am an exhausted resource. There is nothing she can do to get me to participate in her lunacy.

We meet at a café near Oxford Street. Her choice. It’s vegan. Of course. She knows me so well.

First impression: I don’t realize it’s her. What I see through the falling snow as I approach my destination is a woman with a baby bump wrapped in layer upon layer topped with a sort of floppy muffin hat. She looks homeless. The fingerless gloves and the ground sweeping peasant skirt over the oxblood Doc Martens enhance this impression.

I assume she’s begging. Which she is. She is begging. She’s asking for change from people passing by. I would not believe it if I didn’t know she did this sometimes just because she could.

I nearly toss a pound coin I have jangling around in my pocket into her paper coffee cup.

I see it’s her under the Dr. Who scarf.

This is really too much. It really is. Why is she begging?

Because Elon won’t give her any money.

So she’s been reduced to begging.

Yes.

I know Elon is supporting her. Elon and I talk. Often. Daily. I know he pays her bills, has provided her with a more than adequate living arrangement, and once a week has groceries delivered. She is far better off than the vast majority of women in her situation. Elon is not a monster. Without Elon she’d still be living with her mother. What more does she want from him? Or me for that matter?

He won’t give her cash. All she wants is cash. Why can’t he give her cash?

Because she’s irresponsible. Is that what this is about? Because if it is, then we’re done. It’s snowing. I’m in that weird place where I’m both roasting under my coat whilst my nose is freezing. I’m also starving.

Can’t I at least buy her lunch? She’s bored having to cook for herself. She’s bored being stuck at home.

Fine. I’ll buy her lunch.

She moves to the door of the café.

Not there.

Because I’m too good to have lunch with a homeless beggar?

Because I don’t eat vegan.

We go to a pub a few doors down. We find fireside seats. I shed my coat, scarf, and hat with a shrug. I could probably sit for hours with a book right where I am.

After the coat and the Doctor Who scarf are removed I get a good look at Renata. She looks good. I’ll give her that. Pregnancy has put a few pounds on her. She doesn’t look as emaciated and sickly as she has in recent years. I wonder if the ratty t-shirt and peasant skirt are part of a look.

I go to the bar and get myself a pint of Guinness and juice for Renata.

What the fuck is this?

Juice.

She wanted cider. She told me cider.

Then she can go to the bar and order it herself. I’m not going to bring a pregnant woman alcohol. In fact I sincerely hope she hasn’t been drinking. Has she been drinking?

She has no money for booze.

Small blessings.

We are silent as we scan menus. I have no idea what I’m supposed to say to her. I really don’t. I’ve culled her out of my psyche. Maybe a few years too late, but at last it’s done. This is what I learn as I choose chicken pie.

The woman with a baby at a table near ours is pleasant. When is our baby due?

Renata smiles. April.

Not our baby. I let the woman with a baby of her own know this. I will not let Renata draw me in even by omission.

The woman is still pleasant. Her little baby is adorable. Here’s the truth. She’s white and that baby is Asian.

A man joins her. He’s as white as she is. He takes the baby. That’s a family.

I point this out to Renata. That’s a family. Doesn’t she want a family for her baby?

She’s not giving her baby to strangers.

I discretely nod to the family. That is a happy family. That baby is theirs even though they clearly didn’t make that baby. She could give that to her baby.

She’s not giving her baby to strangers.

What is her plan?

She’s going to raise her baby.

Fine. I’m not getting dragged in to this. What does she want from me?

She’s lonely. She’s realized that Elon and I are her only friends.

After that shit she pulled with Olga at Wold Hall we are no longer friends.

Why can’t anyone take a little teasing anymore? She was just teasing.

That saddest thing is I truly believe she thinks she was teasing.

She was teasing.

I know. Which is why I’m done. I’m going to order. Does she want anything or is she refusing to eat?

With a sigh and some grumbling about meat equaling death, she requests lamb shanks.

Topics covered during lunch:

My career as a prostitute.

The pictures of me and Olga frolicking in Brazil in the trashier tabloids.

More on my career as a prostitute.

Her baby.

My clients.

What she’s going to name the baby.

Why kind of clients do I have?

The flat Elon purchased which she lives in rent free.

How I get my clients.

What she is planning on doing once the baby comes.

Where do I meet my clients? How much do they pay me? Do they ask me to do anything weird? How are they screened…?

Stop. Why is she so curious about all of this?

She’s curious. Curiosity is normal. Why won’t I just answer some of her questions? If I answered some of her questions she might not be so curious. I’m making it all seem like some dirty secret. She respects what I’m doing. She just wants to make some conversation. Talk about me for once rather than her. Isn’t this one of the things I always complained about?

I’m done with the job. (this is a lie of course but her questions make me uncomfortable – they are too probing – they seem to prepared – I’m suspicious of her now in a way I have never been before – this woman sitting across from me is not my friend – I’m not certain she ever really was a friend – I don’t know if she’s capable of friendship)

No I’m not.

Yes I am. I’m done. I don’t do that anymore.

But…

I’m done with it. I work for the Matchmaker interviewing clients for her matchmaking business. That’s it. I organize mixers.

Like speed dating?

Sure. Like speed dating. But not really. Classier.

She doesn’t believe me. She thinks I just don’t want her to know that I’m still getting paid to be a ‘ho.

Sorry to disappoint her.

Am I sure I’m not being paid to be a ‘ho?

I think I’d know if I were. We have actually never gotten to the point. Why did she want to see me so desperately that she would stoop so low to call my mother?

Like she said, she’s lonely.

Okay. I’ll believe that. (I don’t, but I figure what the hell – I’m nearly done with her so I can pretend to believe her lies one last time)

Can we have lunch more often?

No. We’re never going to see each other again. I’m done with her. I mean that. She’s to leave my mother alone. My mother is sick. Dying. I won’t have it.

Fine. Whatever. She’s sure I’ll change my mind.

Probably not.

I excuse myself and go to the men’s room. I need to get going. I’ve lingered longer than I should have. I’ve done my time.

When I return she’s talking with the woman with the baby. They’re discussing smartphones.

For a brief moment I feel hopeful. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the girl growing in her belly has changed Renata.

The woman passes her phone over to Renata.

Renata instructs the woman who is as baffled by technology as I was when Olga bought me my first smartphone. Now I wonder how I ever lived without it.

Renata holds out the phone to the woman who punches in her security code.

The two continue to chat about babies and where to buy furniture as Renata taps at the phone.

I’m ready to go as Renata hands back the phone. She quickly slips into her coat and gives me a nudge.

The woman stops us with a polite yet somewhat confused excuse me please.

What did Renata do to her phone? She can’t seem to unlock it.

Oh. This is the problem with people. They’re far too trusting. She should never hand her phone over to a stranger.

What? (this is both me and the woman)

Handing her phone over to a stranger was just dumb. Consider this a good lesson learned.

Huh? (this is again both me and the woman)

She reset the phone, erased the contents, and reset the password.

The woman and I are both silent.

She may not thank her at that moment, but someday she’ll appreciate the lesson learned. Don’t trust anyone. What if she’d handed over her baby to her and she’d just walked off with her baby? Really dumb. Really really dumb.

I can’t witness this. I’ve been this woman more than once. I’ve been the subject of one of Renata’s lessons. I walk to the door and don’t look back. I have no idea what happens to Renata. I just keep walking and put as much distance between us as I can. I’m building boundaries.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Tea with Dr. Gita Premji

Not even Renata could ruin my day. I shake off the negative energy and move on. I don’t have to carry my troubles with me wherever I go. I am serene after my session with Mistress Jennifer and the feeling persists. I don’t know if I’ve ever handed control of my person over to another before in my life. Even so, I know I didn’t give myself the gift of fully turning over control to her. But in time I hope that will come. For certain if an hour with Mistress Jennifer gives me the power to dismiss Renata so readily, I will keep returning to her.

It is with this feeling of pure wellbeing that I sit and wait in a coffee shop near the hospital where Dr. Gita Premji has her offices. She walks in wearing a rather boring black parka over her lab coat and scrubs. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail. Small strands of hair bust out in wily defiance. She’s short. Maybe she comes to my shoulder, but I doubt it. The smear of lipstick across her mouth looks like an afterthought. This is not a woman that spent hours making herself desirable. I like her instantly.

She gets tea.

We talk.

One perfect hour of conversation.

She is intelligent, witty, and charming without trying.

In fact she’s not trying. This is probably why it is all so easy.

I know when my hour is up, that I will probably never see her again.

I’m not her type.

I’m feckless.

I’m irresponsible.

I’m in the tabloids frolicking on Brazilian beaches with Russian beauties.

I’m not the man for her.

Not that she tells me this. She is far too polite to ever be so rude.

When my time is up, she takes my hand and wishes me well.

Then she’s gone.

Neither of us offers a second date.

Neither of us wants to put her into the position of having to reject me.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Israel Rubin

I spend more of my day going from appointment to appointment than actually in the appointments. The upside of this is that I have a great deal of time to catch up on my reading and take care of the sort of minutia that rules every person without a personal secretary’s life. I haven an email from someone named Israel Rubin. He wants to arrange to rent Wold Hall. I have no idea about any of this. This is why granddad had Gresham. Gresham dealt with this sort of bullshit for Granddad. I send him a text.

Does he know who Israel Ruben is? He’s emailing me about renting Wold Hall.

He’s the assistant for one of the directors that use Wold Hall as a location. Why?

He called me. Actually he keeps on calling me. Repeatedly. I have an email from him.

Call him back. Could mean enough money to get the plumbing fixed.

How much did Granddad usually ask for from these people?

He’d have to check. It usually depended on how long they needed the place for, whether or not it was interior, exterior, or both… Can I give him ten minutes?

Sure. I won’t contact Israel Rubin until I’ve heard from him. I’m traveling. If he doesn’t get me I’m out of range.

Look for a text.

Thanks.

I walk into the Piccadilly Circus tube station a few minutes later and my phone rings.

Israel Ruben.

I take the call.

He’s slightly surprised that he actually has me although he doesn’t say this.

What can I do for him?

He would like to rent out Wold Hall. Interior, exterior, the grounds.

That shouldn’t be a problem. When?

That’s the issue we need to talk about. It’s for two projects. Both television. One is a sure thing. The other is a pilot. If they pick it up then it could be long term. If they don’t then it’s a one off thing.

(television – my heart soars – I receive a text from Gresham as I’m ready to start skipping around – when I read the numbers I could fly)

Neither should be a problem. I know he used to deal with my grandfather regarding the financial details. Should I just assume that the daily rate will be what it was the last time the property was rented out?

Yes.

Excellent.

Can we meet out at Wold Hall sometime soon? We need to talk about the house itself. He needs to know about the history. Get some interior pictures. Introduce me to the producers.

Sure. What kind of television is this?

Unscripted.

What is that?

Well… reality TV.

Really? I laugh loudly. Okay. Sure. Why not? What kind of reality TV?

Here’s the concept. They’re going to take fifty people and make them work as servants in a country manor house.

Okay – interesting – why would people want to watch this? Is he going to make them do shots off of each others asses and then have night vision cameras watch them screw?

Clearly I am an aficionado of the genre.

Only when there is a gun to my head. My girlfriend makes me watch reality TV.

Here is the concept. What it was like to be living as a servant in a great manor house before WWI.

Hell. It was hell. I love my home – don’t get me wrong – but castles are not the most hospitable places now in the twenty-first century – a hundred years ago it had to be pure misery to be staff. He needs to talk to Gresham.

The butler?

Yes. His family has worked for the Adair’s for over two-hundred years. He can tell him anything he wants to know.

Can he talk to Gresham?

Yes. Within reason. I’ll call Gresham. There will have to be boundaries. (boundaries – I’m getting good at boundaries)

Of course.

Just out of curiosity who would willingly subject themselves to this sort of torture for… how many days?

Twelve weeks.

Insanity. Pure insanity. Who would agree to this?

He has over ten-thousand applicants.

Unbelievable. If he does this right, they will be in hell.

He’s counting on it.

What is the other project?

Period drama. Could be big. Maybe. This is his project. He has a lot of hope for it.

So do I.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Psychiatrist

The Psychiatrist have taken to meeting at her home more often than not. I prefer this. Going to her office in the hospital always feels so conspicuous. Besides – she has this curved chaise in her bedroom that makes for the most phenomenal fucking imaginable. She calls it a yoga chair. Bullshit – that thing is designed for fucking.

She lets me in and pays me so quickly that it’s almost as if it hasn’t happened. We venture into the apartment chatting on the way to the bedroom.

She appreciates my coming to her home. She’s being stalked and can’t go in to work until the police catch up with the guy.

Stalked?

Yes. Nightmare.

Does this happen a lot?

Often enough. The police are on it. This is the downside of dealing with psychotic patients.

Do they know where she lives?

No. Not at all. She’s very safe at home. There’s a reason she pays for an apartment with a doorman on duty round the clock.

Good. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.

That’s sweet. She actually does believe I care.

I do care.

I shouldn’t care. We’ve discussed this.

We have.

Have I started to see a therapist?

Yes. Just that morning. Boundaries. Letting go of my need to control.

Excellent!!! This is very good. She’s very pleased to hear that I’m seeing someone. How is everything going? Did I do what she suggested and start keeping a dream journal?

I did. I also did something she advised me not to do.

What?

I had lunch with Renata. I should have listened to her.

God – how did that go?

I tell her about the woman with the smartphone.

That’s evil. She knows evil anti-social behavior and that’s evil anti-social behavior. I really need to try to convince Elon to take the child. He may not be an ideal parent, but Renata is clearly someone that is soulless. No person could survive in that sort of toxic environment.

Maybe she needs therapy.

Again, we’ve discussed this. Some people cannot be fixed. Coming to the realization that Renata cannot be fixed is part of my own process of being free of her.

She walks first into her bedroom. The curtains are already drawn. The only light comes through the fabric. We don’t use the bed except for that one time I spent the night. Her bed is probably what Mistress Jennifer would call sacred space. Fair enough. I can respect that. Besides she has the yoga chair. I love that thing. I may just have to get one.

Have I had any other clients since that morning? (she wants to know if I’m covered in dried sex sweat)

No – she’s my first. (I’m not instructed to shower – we have established that I am acceptably hygienic)

She slips into the bathroom.

I have not forgotten my first instruction from the Psychiatrist – arrive prepared.

The thought of the yoga chair and the almost perfect way two people can come together using it is all I need.

I undress and I’m ready to go. I get the condom on and lube it up.

She emerges from the bathroom in one of her slips. She has a lovely full figure, but I could tell her this until I ran out of breath and she still wouldn’t believe me. So I make no comment on the slip and I respect her boundaries. What a perfect word. Boundaries. It’s my new mantra.

What does she want to do? The options are endless. Since we began using the chair we’ve moved away from her on top of me.

She’s been thinking about this.

Good! Just what I like to hear.

She gets on the chair, leaning her body over the larger curve in the S shape. I see what she wants immediately. I get behind her, feet flat on the floor, I slip right inside of her. We come together perfectly. I must be tapping her belly button from the inside I’m so deep.

We stay like this for a while. Then she wants to move. We sit facing each other in the dip of the curve. My feet on the ground propels me as I thrust. Something is slightly different this time. Her fingers are in my hair and on my neck. This is new. As a rule she doesn’t really touch me. This is far more intimate than we’ve ever been before. I roll with it. I don’t mind being touched. If I did I would be in the wrong profession.

She pulls back slightly. What are limits of what I’m willing to do?

Honestly they’re pretty broad. Why? What would she like to do?

Would I be willing to put a vibrator up her ass while penetrating her?

Sure. Not to diminish the fact she’s venturing into new terrain, but that’s pretty standard.

She knows. It’s just nothing she’s done before.

Get it. Let’s do it. Before she knows it she’s probably going to want more than a vibrator up there.

One step at a time.

Of course.

She slips off of me and the chaise. From inside of her nightstand she pulls a small vibrator. Just the right size for a beginner.

She returns to me. Clearly she’s out of her depth.

I get up and move her to the position we started out in. She’s bent over in front of me. I slip my cock back inside of her. There is enough lubricant already present so I don’t need more. Has she ever had anything up there?

No.

Taking it nice and slow then.

Please. Nice and slowly.

If she wants me to stop then just tell me.

She nods.

I start with my thumb pad just pressing. She flinches a little at the unfamiliar touch, but doesn’t swat my hand away.

Slowly I work enough lube around the rim that she starts to relax. This is what I need her to do. Just relax and trust that I know how not to hurt her. Buts that’s really it isn’t it? Not just with the Psychiatrist, but with everyone. That learning to trust we won’t hurt them maliciously.

My thumb is replaced by the vibrator. It goes in slowly. I turn it on so it’s shimmying slightly.

I remind her to breathe more than once.

It’s just so very unexpected. She had no idea.

Nice huh?

Yes. Yes very nice.

I begin moving my body and the vibrator in rhythm. To borrow an Americanism from Marcus, this is not my first rodeo. With my free hand I touch her clit. Just a light touch. Not enough to overstimulate. Just enough to make her scream. I’m fairly certain the Psychiatrist hasn’t done enough screaming in ecstasy in her life and could do with some more.

I toss the vibrator to the side when she’s pretty well collapsed in a heap of spent ecstasy over the chaise.

Does she want me to fuck her up the ass? Just to see what it’s like?

Yes.

I use more lube. A lot more lube.

Why do I like anal? Especially on women. This is one of these things I need to figure out about myself. My former fiancée, who reminds me a lot of the Psychiatrist never did this with me. But then again, I never asked. She might have been willing if I had nudged her delicately down that path as I’ve done with the Psychiatrist.

Regardless, she’s perfectly snug and I have a genuinely satisfying orgasm.

When I’m done and she’s gone limp, I go into the bathroom and clean up. In the bedroom she’s wearing a robe and sitting on her bed with her phone in her hand. The vibrator is gone.

Well?

She looks up at me from the phone. That was mind-blowing. She’s always wanted to do that but just never had the nerve to ask.

What about the men she’s dated? To personal?

No. That’s okay. Sometimes it’s difficult to be bold even with a man she’s in a relationship with. Asking for something different is just too much of a risk. Especially if there is an established way of doing things within the relationship. This is different. She can’t really blow my mind she suspects.

She can’t. How would she like to try something that will really blow her mind?

Maybe. Depends. What do I have in mind?

Has she ever thought about being with more than one person at a time?

Yes. She has thought about that. Again. It’s the sort of thing that’s hard to ask for, but when it’s offered that’s different.

I could sort it out for her.

She’d like that. The woman would have to be pretty but not too pretty.

(OKAY!!! Totally not what I expected!!!)

I can sort it out. I know just the right girl.

She’s going to need to think about it. But probably yes. Maybe at a hotel.

Leave it to me. Just let me know when she wants to give it a go.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The Actress

I arrive at the Knightsbridge home of the Actress precisely on time which means five minutes late. It annoys her when I am punctual. She finds it far too regimented for her taste.

Her butler, a young Cuban man, answers the door.

We talk for a moment as he takes my coat and pays me for the night.

He lifts a phantom glass to his lips.

Right. She’s been drinking. Could be bad. Could be good. For certain it will be interesting.

I go directly up to her boudoir. Not bedroom. Boudoir. This is what she calls it. Her boudoir. I’ve never pretended it wouldn’t be a trial to age, but I think people that make their living based on their looks have a much harder go of it than the rest of us poor sacks. I’m not going to pretend I don’t know I’m a good-looking man. I am. Such is the way that genetic roll of dice came up when I was conceived (apparently in the back of dad’s car after a Culture Club concert – note to self: If I ever have children I will never tell them how and where they were conceived! Thank you mother for that one!)

I may be handsome and in truth I probably couldn’t be doing the job I’m doing if I wasn’t, but it isn’t how I define myself. So when my looks fade and that inevitable moment arrives when I must accept the fact my hairline is receding (which it is and it is not my imagination) I will not be devastated. My life will go on.

I cannot say the same for the Actress. She is in her sixties, a former Bond-girl, beautiful with a figure most women a third her age would envy, a string of ex-husbands, wealth, and charm. She has more stories than I can recollect. She knows everyone.

The lighting in the boudoir is pink and theatrically flattering. Anyone could look good naked in the boudoir. As I walk in the door, she is there across the room to greet me. I have to admit I rather like the negligee. It has an old Hollywood glamor to it.

Darling! I’ve startled her. Am I here already? She’s hardly had a moment to put freshen up.

(OH – it’s going to be one of THOSE evenings!)

My dear (I cross the floor in several swift steps) she is perfection itself.

I am an old flatterer. She’s a fright and she knows it.

(I take her hand and kiss the knuckles) Had I known she was waiting for me looking so ravishing I would have been more prompt.

Nonsense. I’m just on time. She barely had a moment to pull herself together. She had the most dreadful Dreadful DREADFUL lunch with this odious little director that simply must have her for his next project.

(I’m guessing this means she met with a director and didn’t get the part she was fishing for – as far as I can figure based on what the internet can tell me is that she hasn’t worked for some time)

Would I care for a cocktail?

I toss my messenger bag to the side then pull her in my arms. The only thing my mouth yearns for are her lips on mine. (Yes – I actually said something like this – Uncle Harvey helped me practice some lines – I’m not proud) No cocktail will quench the desire burning inside of me. I must have her.

So I pick her up (Yes – I really sweep her into my arms) put her on the bed, rip off my shirt (careful not to rip it – I go through more shirts with this woman!), throw off my trousers, and, without mussing her hair or touching her makeup, make love to her.

I get the negligee off of her and spend a fair amount of time waxing poetically on the pure perfection of her body. She is a good looking woman. This isn’t such a hard thing to do. But the need to constantly make certain at every moment during the process that I am utterly enamored with her is fucking exhausting.

I can see why she went through so many husbands. This sort of demanding neediness day in and day out would be unbearable. Suffocating even.

Part of me wonders if Olga might end up like the Actress.

The other part of me knows that when that time comes, our lives will have gone in wholly different directions and I will probably never know.

I will admit the Actress is one of the clients I routinely use a bit of help with. Not because I don’t find her attractive, but because so much of my concentration and focus goes to not messing her hair and her make-up that I can hardly spare a thought to getting into the proper frame of mind. One day, I’m just going to mess up that hair of hers and give her a great big mouthful of a kiss.

Deep inside of her there must be a very passionate woman. I have to believe this.

So I do my part. And my part takes some doing. She is pretty drunk. Not so drunk that I shouldn’t do what I’m doing. But drunk enough that it takes a lot of doing to get the job done.

Finally my tongue does the trick. This always works on every woman that I have ever encountered. This one is no exception.

When it’s over I’m just happy. This is not how sex should be. But this is how it is with her. And I’m being paid to act like I can’t get enough of her. Of all of my clients she is the one that I am least like myself with.

I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling.

She gets up and goes to her dressing table and the vodka.

I pull myself off the bed and go to the bathroom.

When I emerge she’s studying her face in the perfectly lit mirror.

I help myself to the vodka. I’m not going anywhere. I’m there for the night. If she’s going to get plastered, then so am I.

I think this is really why I’m here. She doesn’t want to drink alone.

The first time I met her, I very professionally refused to drink. This made her unhappy. When I finally joined her, she loosened up.

I’m not entirely certain the sex is wholly necessary except for appearances sake.

Paying me to come and drink with her is far less dignified than paying me to come and give her a right good rodgering.

So we drink together. Hand up – every once in a while I really need to get drunk. And honestly – I don’t like drinking alone either.

It’s near midnight when she finally passes out.

I put her to bed. I leave a note on the pillow.

My darling you were sleeping so peacefully I didn’t have the heart to wake you. Again, you’ve made this foolish boy’s heart beat with desire. I will think of you until I next see you. Promise me that when I return, we can have that dinner we spoke of. That I have to keep our beautiful friendship hidden saddens me. Until then - James

I get dressed, put enough cold water on my face to wake me up, call for a taxi, and ponder my place in this vast universe. I’m pretty drunk. I get contemplative.

What am I doing in this place with this woman who has just self-medicated with vodka until the world went dark?

The cold hard truth comes at me out of the haze. I’m here for the money. But more than that. It’s like with each of these people I feel some need to make a human connection with them in order to validate the work I’m doing. With the Actress I drink away my woes. I am the enabler she probably needs the least in her life. What she needs is a friend. A real friend. One that is not involved in the faux glamor of show-biz and one she doesn’t have to pay. A friend that will adore her simply for being so fabulous. One that will worship her relentlessly.

London is cold as I step out into the night. The stars battle to be seen against the glare of light pollution. It’s a good night. I pull my phone out of my pocket. I punch a couple of buttons.

The Doctor answers his phone.

I know he’s usually up late. I hope I’m not bothering him.

Not at all. Is everything fine?

It is. I’m leaving for Los Angeles in the morning. I won’t have a chance to talk to him otherwise. I was hoping he might be interested in meeting a friend of mine.

Well to be totally honest that might make him a bit uncomfortable. He is rather selective and he enjoys the friendship we are building. Besides, he’s content to wait until I return to London.

Not that kind of friend. A lady friend. An actress actually. I tell him who.

He would be delighted to meet her! What a coup! In fact, what he’ll do is plan an evening. A little soiree. At his place. Just his most intimate of friends.

That would be perfect. She’s perhaps a bit down.

Well just leave it to him!

I shall.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

February

Call former fiancée and arrange to pick up tiara

Drop off drycleaning.

Buy swimming trunks

Double check what I need for Mexico

Speak to Avan about Mexico and the Doctor

Pick up shirts.

10:00am – 10:30am The Italian

10:45am – 11:15am The Banker

11:45am – 12:15pm The Baron

1:00pm – 2:30pm The Psychiatrist

3:00pm – 5:00pm Outing with mum – British Museum

8:00pm – TBD New Client Interview

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Italian

This is the day I spend on my knees. When I took the job I quickly realized most of my clients would be men. Not a problem. What I didn’t realize was that the vast majority of them would want the same thing – oral. I get it. Sorry ladies – men are much better at giving another man a really good blow. Much better than a woman ever could be. There’s something about the jaw muscles and quite frankly being in possession of a dick myself that gives me an edge.

The Italian is my first client on these mornings. He was introduced to me through Mr. White. He does shoes. Shoes are his thing. We’ve been to Milan together more than once and New York. He’s perhaps in his sixties and openly gay. Why pay me? Convenience.

I walk into the work room where the receptionist who knows me well has brought me.

The Italian looks up from the workbench where he is closely inspecting a pair of men’s shoes.

Nice.

Hmmm. Do I like them?

I do. I didn’t know he did men’s shoes.

He doesn’t. He’s considering branching out. Small leather goods for men. These are a prototype.

I’d buy them.

Come.

I follow him as we walk to his office. We discuss men’s shoes. How to get men to buy more shoes. Men are not like women. Women buy shoes because they love them. Men buy shoes because they need them.

Not always true.

No – that is true.

He walks me into his office. He closes the door behind us and locks it.

I slip my messenger bag off and drop it into the chair.

Why do I use a messenger bag?

Mostly because I carry a lot of stuff around with me and a briefcase just doesn’t really suit my line of work.

Curious.

He sits in his desk chair, I pull the condom out of my pocket, I wonder if I should mention that he hasn’t paid me, and then decide to just let it go for the moment.

He’s a smallish man which makes my job infinitely easier. Small men are easier to manipulate with the tongue.

The Italian is always very straight forward in his office. It is when we are at his home in Milan that I have to drop my trousers and work.

I’m done and out of the office within a half-hour of the hour I have booked. Perfect. I even have a new wallet from the samples and my cash.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Former Fiancée

The call I’ve avoided making for months needs to be made. I find as I try to put the number into the phone, I don’t recall it as instinctively as I once did. I have to think about it. Then it comes to me in a mnemonic shuffle of my finger across the number pad.

I get the secretary.

I’m put on hold.

My former fiancée picks up after a minute.

She’s not the kind to make people sweat it out on the phone waiting to talk to her. She just has the secretary tell them to buzz off.

What do I want?

I need to get the tiara back from her.

Oh. That. Fine. What suits me?

We shuffle back and forth with schedules. Valentine’s Day – of course – is the next day that works for her.

Valentine’s Day might be bad for me.

It must be Valentine’s Day.

I can meet her first thing in the morning.

No. No that won’t do at all. Early afternoon. A very specific time is chosen.

Is she really scheduled that tightly?

No. But she’s got a window then and that’s when my coming around works best for her. Otherwise she’d have to do some juggling.

Fine. I’ll be there.

She’ll be waiting for me. With the tiara.

The phone call ends. Then I remember to ask her for the engagement ring. I consider calling her back, but I figure it’s in the apartment. I can just ask for it at the time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Banker

The Banker is every bit as odious now as he was when I first met him at the Vicomte’s Halloween party in Paris. But he’s much easier to stomach without the Vicomte. In fact – separate the two and neither is quite so bad. It’s when they are together that they’re particularly vile.

The Banker really is a banker. He works for a small, prestigious Swiss bank that caters to the supremely wealthy. It turns out he’s Austrian.

What do I do for the banker? Nothing. I refuse to touch that man. I have standards. I meet Avan in the hallway outside the doors to the very discrete offices of this very exclusive bank.

Do I have time for coffee after?

Maybe. Let’s see how long it takes. If nothing else I need to ask him about a trip I have coming up and schedule another evening with the Doctor.

Why do I think he just likes to watch?

Why does anyone want anything?

Good point.

We head through the doors. The receptionist knows us. I don’t know who she thinks we are, but she never asks for identification and refers to us the gentlemen from Bucharest when speaking to the Banker on the telephone.

We are put into the same conference room we always use.

Avan’s ass hurts. Would I mind being on the bottom?

No. It’s fine. Just keep an eye on him. I just have one more client that’s usually oral.

Good. Thanks. He’ll watch him.

Not a problem.

The door opens and the Banker enters. He pays us immediately. We both count our cash.

Avan doesn’t have the same aversion to touching the Banker that I do. But then again as I understand it Avan is willing to do things that I would never do.

The door is locked and we get down to business.

The Banker is simply ecstatic when he learns the three of us will be switching things around.

In truth, I have the easiest role of all in this little farce. I just have to bend over and take it up the arse.

I drop my trousers, as the banker sits in a chair. I bend over the conference table, my ass up in the air. I’m not facing the banker or Avan. If only I could check my messages or read the Times on my phone during all of this.

Avan is behind me. He spreads my cheeks open wide exposing my ass to the Banker.

The Banker is so very pleased. Very pleased indeed. This is all very stimulating for him.

The lube on Avan’s fingers is cold as it makes contact. His fingers massage me until I loosen up despite the fact the Banker is watching.

Avan carries on a conversation with the Banker as he fingers me. The dialog pretty much goes something like this:

- He is very perfect? No.

- Yes. Yes. Quite perfect.

- How much will he offer for this perfect specimen?

- Oh very much. Yes very much indeed.

Then there is a bit of negotiation about my worth and finally a price is agreed upon and the Banker is covered with a condom by Avan and then penetrates me. During penetration, Avan strokes my cock. Then he does something different. Unexpected. He smacks the Banker’s ass. Hard.

What the hell is it with everyone and wanting to be spanked lately?

The Banker is practically screaming in delight as he fucks me.

Das ist gut! Das ist gut! Ja, bitte! Ja, bitte. Ich war ein sehr böse junge.

I swear I put my teeth through my lip trying not to laugh. I hope Avan doesn’t speak any German.

The Banker finishes with a sort of tittering shrill cry.

I get my trousers back on while Avan cleans up.

That was very good! Very good! We are very good! He will see us in a week. He will be very certain to be a very bad boy!

We are left alone in the conference room. We know the way out.

We leave the offices and make it to the elevator before we bust up.

What the fuck was that? Avan is crying he’s laughing so hard.

I don’t know. All I know is that he kept on saying he was a very bad boy in German. Why the hell did he start spanking the Banker?

Sometimes he just has this overwhelming urge to give that man a smack. He couldn’t help himself.

Next time I get to spank him.

Fair enough. It’s an experience worth having. Do I have time for coffee?

I check my watch. I can if we hurry.

We go to the coffee bar in the lobby.

He’ll see if he can work the Mexico trip into his calendar.

We set a date for the next evening with the Doctor. We agree that he is a gentleman.

I realize that I’m going to be late for the Baron.

I run off, but not before we agree to get together for something not work related very soon.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Baron

The Baron occupies the top floors of the building. This is only fitting as he owns the building.

I get off on one floor. Check in with a receptionist. Then I’m taken to a second elevator.

As the doors open, I find myself alone in a waiting room. I know I’m late.

Part of me wants to just drop the Baron as a client.

The other part of me reminds me that he pays well and I’m not in this to like my clients. The Banker – as much as I like to pick on him – doesn’t make me uneasy or even frighten me a little like the Baron.

A door opens. The Baron waves me in to his private office. He’s on the telephone.

He sits at his desk after unbuckling his trousers and setting his dick free.

I’m to blow him as he’s on the phone.

Fine. I can do this. It’s not the first time he’s been on the phone as I’ve sucked him off.

I put the condom on him and get to work.

He puts his hands on my head and presses me down.

I try to pull away just a bit so I don’t gag.

The hands clamp around my head and press me down.

I breathe through my nose. I repress my gag reflex. He’s doing this on purpose to dominate me.

He comes just before I’m about to asphyxiate.

He lets me go and I fall back on my heels.

I was late.

He didn’t have to try to choke me.

He takes his fingers and flicks them against my forehead. Don’t talk back to him.

I wasn’t talking back.

He’ll fucking tell me if I’m talking back or not. Get out.

He needs to pay me.

No. I was late. I don’t get paid.

I pull my phone out of my pocket. I will make a call he doesn’t want me to make.

What? He laughs at me. Go ahead. Call the Matchmaker.

Actually I think I’ll call Boris. I have his number on speed dial.

He pulls cash out of a drawer and tosses it on the desk. He expects me to be on time next time.

I take my money and go.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Outing with mum – British Museum

Mum arrives in the van that I hire to take her on outings as often as possible. I think we both find these outings a bit contrived, but we enjoy them just the same. We’re getting along. If it takes her dying for us to come to a place where we get along, then I guess that’s what it takes.

The British Museum is her idea. She wants to see the Elgin Marbles.

One of our great and shining moments as the pirates of the world. The shameless theft of the Elgin Marbles. Nothing makes me more proud to be British than the Elgin Marbles. Our history of plundering artifacts is our national shame (one of them at least). If I could return them to the Greeks myself, by god I would.

Here we are. Me. Mum. Aunt Lucy. Pretending to look at pilfered Greek treasures when really we’re people watching and making bitchy observations. We’re considering turning this into a regular outing. Mum makes me take pictures with my smartphone of particularly interesting specimens. She’s considering starting a blog. Observations of a woman knocking on heaven’s door. I love this idea. I’m on board. We name our nebulous blog Evil Mummy and her Bitchy Boy. I’m having a marvelous time.

As we sit observing, I notice someone just as she notices me. Dr. Gita Premji. Instead of pretending she doesn’t see me, she smiles and comes for our trio. With a man. An older man. Petite. Soberly dressed. He must be Gita’s father. He has to be. They have the same eyes.

That’s Sanjay Premji. Mum grabs my arm. The one who wrote all those books.

Gita arrives from across the hall and I rise to greet her. I introduce her as my friend.

She nods and smiles. Friends works for her too. We could be friends. Lovers no. Friends yes.

She knows my mother is unwell. I told her this in the hour I had to charm her. She is kind to my mother. She introduces her father.

The famous Dr. Sanjay Premji. The one who wrote all those books.

He takes my mother’s hand between two of her own as he gets down to her level.

It is easy to see that in his heart and soul, he is a doctor that wanted to help as many people as possible and not a charlatan out to sell books.

My mother tells him that his books have been a great comfort to her. She tells him about her illness. They discuss it in technical terms I’ve never wanted to understand. For me mum’s dying. That’s all I really want to know about the medical side of it. More information is not going to make me feel better. It might just scare the shit out of me.

Would we like to have tea? Gita suggests we all go for tea.

Mum and Aunt Lucy are in and so am I.

Gita seems like she’d be an excellent friend. The sort that doesn’t judge a person’s worth based on external criteria. If she finds something of value in me then I’m certain I’m not worthless.

We go to one of the court cafes and find seats. It’s not crowded.

The conversation stops at mum’s illness, moves away from it, then circles back.

I’m worried the Premjis are bored with this shop talk, but they seems genuinely interested. Possibly cardiologists are just like psychiatrists; when they’re not working all they can talk about is work.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. One of the Matchmaker’s secretaries. I don’t know her well. I wasn’t aware she knew of the side work the Matchmaker did. Every conversation I’ve had with her revolved my expense reports submitted as part of my legitimate job. The one I received pay lodged into my bank account on the first of every month. Am I interested in a job?

Excuse me? I have a job. As she well knows I’m in the process of arranging a dinner party to introduce a group of young professional Indians living in London. (note to self – confirm reservations)

Am I interested in a job? One of those jobs.

Uhhhh... hold on. (I excuse myself from the table) What job? (the only person at the Matchmaker’s agency that has ever called me about a job was the Matchmaker) The Matchmaker didn’t say anything to me about a job.

The Matchmaker is still out of town. She has a job for me if I want it. Out of towner. Last minute. Used to be a client of Howard.

Harold?

That’s right. Harold. The money is excellent. He’s Saudi. He’s a very good client of the Matchmaker. I should take the job.

What are the details? I take down what I need to know. It all seems right. I’m uncomfortable about taking a job from someone other than the Matchmaker until I give it a second thought. I’ve taken jobs which came through each of the girls without speaking to the Matchmaker. I suppose this is no different. I tell her to send a messenger over to the house to pick up a suit for me. Have it dropped at the hotel under my name.

Why do I need a suit?

Okay… I need a suit because if the gentleman is Saudi he’s going to expect me to be dressed in a suit and tie when I arrive. Has she discussed the client with the Matchmaker?

No. But she knows he’s a good client.

Just send a messenger over to the house. Wright will have what I need waiting.

When the call is ended I text Uncle Harvey. He knows exactly what I need. It’ll be waiting for the messenger.

I check the time as I put away my phone and agenda. I return to the table.

I’m sorry. I have a work problem. We need to get going. It’s truly been pleasant running into Gita. I’ve enjoyed meeting her father. Probably not as much as my mother has enjoyed meeting her father, but still.

Gita and her father offer to take mum and Aunt Lucy home.

My mother would prefer to stay with them.

I don’t know what to think about this. I want to make certain mum gets home.

They each promise me that all will be well. If I’m going to leave my mother with anyone, not one but two cardiologists are a good choice.

Fair enough. I can’t argue with that kind of logic.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The Bogus Saudi Prince

The Saudi Prince

I have time – enough time to get to the hotel and get a room. The Concierge is on duty. He hooks me up with a room. I don’t let him blow me, but I do let him watch me shower as he sits on the toilet and masturbates.

We talk while I wait on my suit.

Does he know anything about the client?

Not a thing.

Odd. I thought he knew everything about everyone staying in the hotel.

I overestimate his omniscience.

I thought he knew everything about everyone staying in the suites.

That he does know. But no – he can’t tell me anything. He’ll have a look when he gets down to his desk.

My suit arrives, I push the Concierge out the door, I get ready. Before I walk out the door, I turn up the heat and turn down the lighting. The room is mine for the night. I plan on using it. A bed all to myself.

I travel through the hotel to the suite where the client is waiting.

I knock.

A man in a thawb and white keffiyeh answers the door.

I’m so taken aback I don’t know what to say. This is not normal. I don’t know what to do, so I introduce myself. I’m James. I work for the Matchmaker.

He ushers me into the room and places me on the couch. He sits across from me. There is no one else in the room. There are no male servants. There are no butlers offering to fetch me a drink. There are no secretaries, no aides, no nobody.

This is weird. I’ve had my fair share of middle-eastern clients since going to work for the Matchmaker. None of this is standard for a first meeting. Or any meeting. There at minimum should be servants and security.

How much do I charge?

Excuse me?

How much do I charge?

I’m not certain what he is looking for. He’ll need to be specific. Is he seeking a new wife for himself or perhaps one of his sons?

He puts an envelope on the table and nudges it towards me. I can see the cash. Anal sex.

I stare at the envelope like a cobra on the table. He’s mistaken.

He crosses his legs.

My blood rises to my neck. I can feel my ears tingle. For the first time since I began the job I feel genuine fear. Nothing is as it seems. Or, I look at this man, perhaps all is exactly as it seems.

I’m not certain what he’s imagining, but I work for the Matchmaker. I screen clients for her business.

He pushes the envelope towards me. One thousand pounds. Should we go into the bedroom?

I’m… I rise from the couch. I move away from the envelope. It’s like a snake hidden in an urn.

He is quite mistaken about what my purpose in coming to his room is.

I needn’t be coy. He knows all about me. He has friends that have hired me.

I can’t get to the door fast enough. I’m out of there like a shot. I run to my own room. I close the door and lock then bolt then chain it behind me.

What the fuck was that?

I stand with my back to the door. I breathe as my heart bumps in my chest.

What the fuck was that?

I tug off my tie and shrug my jacket down my arms.

When my collar is unbuttoned I call Boris. Not the Matchmaker. I go to Boris. I get one of his boys. I can hear the sort of music one would expect in a standard Russian strip club.

Who the fuck was that?

What am I talking about?

Who the fuck was the fake Saudi? That was no fucking Saudi.

What am I talking about?

I tell him in detail everything adding that I’m fucking on to him and his bullshit and that he’s going to have to try harder if he is trying to get shit to blackmail me with.

I need to calm the fuck down. It wasn’t him.

I don’t believe him.

I don’t have to believe him. It wasn’t him. He already has enough on me to blackmail me if he really wanted to.

This I believe.

Keep a low profile. Give him two days to figure out what the fuck happened. If someone is messing with his business he’s going to find out about it.

This I also believe.

He’ll be in touch.

Fine.

I consider calling the concierge, but then don’t. I just don’t want to know. I’m also not going to stand between Boris and whatever he does to get to the bottom of these things.

I order room service, turn on the television, and sit in the dark in my underwear. When my phone rings I’m running a chip through a glob of ketchup.

Renata.

I answer it.

How did I know? The shoes? It can’t be the shoes. She paid a fortune for the shoes.

Nope. The socks. No billionaire would wear cheap synthetic socks. They wear silk or merino. Sometimes cotton but rarely.

She can get to me. She’s proven that. I need to talk to Elon. He needs to give her what she wants.

She really has no idea who she has pissed off.

She knows me pretty well. I can just get over it. Get her cash.

I’m not the one she pissed off. If I’m angry with anyone I’m angry with myself.

Who? Elon? He’s as toothless as I am. She’s desperate. I should not underestimate her desperation.

I don’t.

Just to be clear, she needs me to talk some sense into Elon – by sense that means he needs to agree to her terms or she will mentally fuck up their kid and make my life hell.

I hang up the phone. I’m done with Renata.

I call Elon. I warn him.

I call the concierge. I want proof I’m in the hotel. Does he want to come up? The client was a bust.

His shift is nearly over. He’s off for the next two days.

Can he get the room for two days? I could do with some hiding out from the world.

He can do that.

In exchange for what ends up being decent sex with someone my age who hates reality television, reads books, travels extensively, and appreciates fine dining, I have proof I was no where near whatever it is Boris is going to do in response to the fake Saudi.

For two days and two nights I hide in that hotel room with the concierge. If he ever suspected I had an ulterior motive, he didn’t say. What I’m waiting for comes the third morning as the concierge prepares to return to work after what was in essence an incredible dirty weekend.

The aftermath of Boris’s anger at having his business tampered with is in all four of the papers I’ve arranged to have brought with my breakfast. Unnamed woman was stabbed in a random attack. Extensive facial lacerations. Particularly vicious. Detective Constable Blah Blah Blah appeals to anyone that might know something.

This is the world I live in. I’ve come to accept this. This is the dark side of it. Am I responsible for this woman getting stabbed? No. Her own stupidity and doubtless greed brought her to this end. She knew enough about the Matchmaker’s side business to cause trouble. She had to have known, even if she didn’t know she was messing with Russian mobsters, that it’s a dark business run by people that live in the shadows.

The concierge prepares to leave. Are we still on for dinner?

We’re still on. I like him. He could be a friend. We’ve been mutually clear neither of us are looking for a relationship.

He leaves after asking me to stop by his desk on my way out.

I call Renata.

She picks up nearly immediately.

What the fuck did I do? What the fuck is wrong with me that I would do something like this?

What did I do? I’ve had a long think about her need for cash. I think it’s a mistake letting her have money. Probably best to leave things as they are.

Did I see the papers?

I have. Then she’ll know that we’re in for more snow and ice. She’s to promise me that she’ll be very careful. I wouldn’t want her to get hurt in her delicate condition. As for meeting for lunch – I’ve reconsidered. Would Friday work for her?

I’m never to call her again. I need to stay far away from her. She hangs up on me.

My phone rings as I finish dressing. The concierge. There is a car waiting for me.

I find one of Boris’ henchmen standing by the door of the sort of white stretch limo only children think fancy people ride around in.

Boris is in the back.

The door closes behind me. We move into traffic.

I thank him for not nabbing me off the street. I compliment him on his taste in cars.

The look he gives me would dry paint. It’s a rental.

Ah. Still. Classy.

We drive in silence. I have nothing to say and neither does he. I accept with cold detachment the possibility of my impending death.

We stop at the edge of Hyde Park. We get out of the car. The sky is clear, but the air is bitingly cold. Except for a few intrepid joggers, we are on our own.

The problem has been managed.

I never doubted he would get on top of it.

I’m smarter than he generally gives me credit for. He underestimates me far too often.

Thanks?

That was a compliment. Socks. Really?

It’s was all weird. Honestly – when was the last time he opened his own door?

It’s been a long time.

I have an issue with how it was handled.

I don’t know as much as I think I do.

That is the truth.

He wants me to work for him.

I already work for him.

Work that doesn’t require me to take off my trousers.

I thought we’d already drawn a line under that?

He’s extending the offer a second time.

Is there a possibility for a third chance if I turn him down?

Yes.

Then I’m going to politely decline. I’m still living in hope of things somehow miraculously turning out for me. There may come a moment when I will happily go to work for him. I’m just not there yet. I’m not sure I’ll ever be there. I’m willing to reorient my moral compass for a short period of time, but I’m not ready to totally turn in a new direction.

God loves an optimist.

Amen.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

March

Aer Lingus Flight 801 to Galway

Enjoy holiday!

Back to London

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Lads Weekend

Lads Weekend

I spent four years in Ireland. Sometimes I find it difficult to imagine it’s been five years since I’ve returned to England. What have I accomplished in the intervening years that even compares to what I did during those years in Dublin?

Nothing?

In my quiet moments, when my mind stills just enough for the thoughts for the normal buzz of my rambling inner dialog to be silenced, I think thoughts like I should have gone to graduate school. If I’d gone to graduate school I’d have a doctoral degree at this moment and probably a very different life.

I wasn’t properly thinking during those years in Dublin. I’ll admit it. I let Renata and her insanity drag me along in her wake.

I wanted to go to graduate school. It wasn’t because I didn’t know what else to do. This is what I let her believe. I wanted to go because I loved school. I was afraid to leave it behind.

The only thing I’ve done in my life that garnered any praise from my grandfather was achieving so superbly in school.

Actually that is incorrect.

I have another achievement he considered to be nothing short of splendiferous.

He died believing I would marry my former fiancée.

This was an achievement in his mind.

I’d bagged a wealthy wife. My worth was wholly invested in my ability to marry and procreate. My value to my family lay in being an attractive prospect to a woman who could restore the family coffers. This idea is so backwardly Byzantine it makes my head hurt.

I liked school. I wanted to stay in school – forever.

I could easily visualize myself lecturing in one of those grim and brutalistic concrete bunkers they called theatres in the Arts Block at Trinity.

There is something ironical in that the arts are housed in the ugliest building on what is otherwise a beautiful campus. Boggles the mind.

Had my grandfather known I wanted to go to graduate school his magnetic pull might have been stronger than Renata’s. Maybe. From the moment I graduated from college until I met my former fiancée, he led a focused campaign directed at finding me a suitable wife. That my former fiancée presented herself at precisely the right moment was a fluke.

My fatal error was letting Renata know, before anyone else, what I wanted. Her response came at me as if I had asked her permission rather than informed her of my intention. It’s possible I sought out her permission. I wanted her approval.

Good thing that’s a thing of the past.

Renata simply said no. She was done living in Dublin. She wanted to return to England. Besides, school bored her and it was just too much work, so spoke the woman that used poor graduate students in need of money to write her papers.

I loved her and wanted to make her happy.

I so feared being without someone to love me that I capitulated.

This was the depth of my loneliness and fear of abandonment.

I didn’t apply to graduate school. I wrote Renata’s senior thesis along with my own because I loved her and wanted her to love me.

Somehow she made it through the exams.

The following October when I returned with my parents and my grandparents for commencement she was off somewhere in the South Pacific with a Rastafarian, with a Jamaican accent that sort of came and went like the tide, she’d picked up in London, who she let him move in with us and called me uptight when I protested. She liked to think of herself as a vegan hippy at this moment. The Rastafarian liked to tell me in great detail and depth with disturbing regularity what my problem was - I was a capitalist bourgeois pig that lived off the backs of others, and how I could be happy - namely giving his mission to bring his new religion to the world all of my money.

I was able to get rid of both of them by conspicuously leaving a large sum of cash easily accessible and making it clear I’d be gone for no less than two nights. They took the bait. I returned home to the apartment in London after four days to find a note from Renata suggesting I learn to “chill out” and a promise that she’d call me when she’d cleansed her chi of my negative mojo. Or some bullshit like that.

Fucking hippy dipshits.

I drew a line under my relationship with Renata and considered applying for graduate school. But it always felt as if that ship had sailed. That door was somehow closed to me. All I had left was to cultivate that image of a devil-may-care playboy. And it worked. I met scores of appropriate women. I just wasn’t quite ready to settle down. But I knew based on experience that when I decided to get married, the field was open to me. I could pluck a wealthy wife from the crowd like a cherry from a bowl.

Here I am. So many years later. Flying across the Irish Sea. Headed to Ireland. Just me, Marcus, and Elon. A lad’s trip to attend a party that has all sorts of salacious undertones and wrapped in secrecy. We are going to what I am imagining in my mind will be some sort of mannerbund with oaths and handshakes and secrets which have come down through the ages.

Olga is excluded from this. She is a woman. This is a men’s only event. The invitation came to me through the Doctor. I was allowed to bring Elon and Marcus with me after assuring the Doctor that the two of them were in fact (in his words) a couple of goers.

I am so looking forward to whatever it is that will happen over those days surrounding St Patrick’s Day. I hope there will be bonfires and general madness. This is the kind of crazy shit I signed on for.

Wanting to go with just to men to Galway was just the sort of thing I knew was going to be an issue. I’ve never gone anywhere without Olga since our journey began. Never once since I started scheming (because what else could it be called?) with Elon to spend St. Patrick’s Day in Ireland with Marcus did I wonder whether or not she’d let me go without a fight. In fact, based on her Valentine’s Day bait and switch, I knew in my gut she’d kick off.

This is how the conversation went:

I’ve decided I’m going to Ireland with Elon and Marcus after all for the Doctor’s house party.

Fine. She doesn’t want to go, but she’ll go. Obviously I must want to go since I keep bringing it up.

She already knows this is a men’s only event.

That’s stupid. It’s not like they’ll turn her away if she just shows up.

She’s not invited. I’m going to Ireland with Elon and Marcus for the Doctor’s St. Patrick’s Day party. Just us men.

She wants to go too. She doesn’t like when we’re apart.

It’s just the boys this time darling. Maybe next time.

Why can’t she go?

Because it’s just the lads (I’m being very jovial and light still although an edge is starting to creep in).

She can be one of the boys. She wants to go too.

No.

Yes.

No.

Yes.

No.

What am I planning on doing in Ireland that I don’t want her to know about?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

So why can’t she go?

Because it’s just men.

Marcus is Elon’s boyfriend.

And?

They’re a couple. We’re a couple. It should be a couple’s trip. Not a boy’s trip.

(I’ll admit she was coming at me with arguments I hadn’t anticipated. The couple thing threw me off. I don’t think of Elon and Marcus as a couple. I know Elon thinks of Marcus and Elon as a couple, but I don’t know what Marcus thinks about that.)

She’ll book a hotel in Galway. She’ll stay there when I’m off doing whatever the hell it is those freaky cultists do.

I don’t think they’re freaky cultists. It’s sort of this thing with men to have secret societies. We’ve been doing it for a long time.

What kind of sex party doesn’t have women?

(The kind filled with men that don’t want to have to put up with a bunch of women for a couple of days?)

I don’t really know darling. I truly haven’t been given many details. As she well knows.

(This thing I’m going to has been shrouded in so much secrecy that it’s starting to make me uneasy. If it weren’t for the fact The Doctor would be present I wouldn’t be going. This is his thing. Secret societies aren’t my thing. But honestly he is my friend, he has invited me along with Marcus and Elon, so I will go.)

So I’m going to be gone for nearly a week…

Actually I’ll be gone a week. After the secret society sex party we’re all driving up to Northern Ireland to see my crumbling ruins.

I have a castle in Northern Ireland?

More like a crumbling tower. Or it was a crumbling tower. It’s been taken over by a trust that was set up by my former fiancée to restore it. Who knows what’s up now? Not me.

She cannot believe that I would go and do something like that without her.

Would it help if I were to tell her that her usual footwear would probably be wholly inappropriate to make the trek across the bogs to get to the site?

No.

I’m going without her. Either she can accept this or she can let it make her angry. I’m going without her.

But…

No.

But… (petulant sigh)

No.

But… (foot stomping)

No.

But… (eyes filling with tears)

No.

But… (hands going for my trousers)

No. She’s welcome to go for my junk, but she’s still not going to Ireland.

But…

No. Unless she grows a penis in the next hour…

What do I mean hour?

I’m leaving in an hour.

But… Why didn’t I tell her sooner?

Because we just decided that morning and she was gone.

But…

And this continues until the doorbell rings and Elon bounds into my bedroom like a puppy. Thank god he’s early for once. For a man with a wristwatch obsession, there is a sort of predictability about his constant lateness.

Olga turns to him. Her tears appear just for his benefit.

She wants to go to.

Elon kisses her on the cheek. Not this time. Men only.

I won’t say that I had to chew off my leg to get out of the house, but I nearly lost a shoe trying to slip out the door before it slammed shut and locked me inside.

Marcus is waiting at the car Elon hired to bring us to the airport. Blond Marcus with his American good looks and perpetual grin. He’s a good time, but not good enough for Elon. Unfortunately I’ve lost my vote when it comes to who Elon chooses to spend his time with. There are moments when I wonder if Marcus isn’t his way of demonstrating how much I’ve lost by giving him that final push.

I look at Marcus for just a moment before climbing into the back of the car.

Why didn’t he come inside?

He didn’t want to see Olga.

Any particular reason?

He would rather stay as far out of the shit storm brewing between Olga and Vladimir as possible.

I thought things were better after Christmas.

Marcus stares at me. He looks like a cowboy. All steely gaze and pouting lips. He’s sizing me up.

(What do I know? What to tell me? How deep in this ocean should he dip his oar? Does he in fact have a horse in this race or not? These are the questions I can see in the set of his mouth.)

He heard I might be going to work for Vladimir.

I laugh loudly. The spontaneity of it surprises me. I’m certain I snort at some point.

No. Not ever. I have no intention of going to work for Vladimir. What has he heard?

I impressed Vladimir over Christmas. And him for that matter. I can play polo. Vladimir wanted to know if he could find a place for me on the team. He told Vladimir he could. That was it.

I know nothing about this. Not a thing. I need to have a conversation with Olga.

That might be in my best interest. What’s the plan for Ireland Dublin?

(that’s that conversation finished)

CHAPTER THIRTY

The Company of Men

We drive to Galway. But not quite Galway. We end up in some valley on the edge of a lake surrounded by those sheep dotted rolling hills so typical of western Ireland. The GPS stops working at some point and there is no signal for the mobiles. We are left with luck and a map. One man may not ask for directions. Three men together become quickly convinced they have the skills of homing birds and have the blood of Native American trackers running through their veins.

We were hopelessly lost. Just hopelessly lost. Not that any of us would admit it.

In truth, Ireland isn’t all that large. It’s an island. And a small island at that. We drove in circles for longer than it would take to drive the length and breadth of the country.

By the time we make it to “civilization,” in the form of a small village that time forgot we accept the fact we have lost our way. Not that any one of the three of us admits it out loud.

Here is the first of several slightly insane and inexplicable things that will mark the course of the next forty-eight hours.

Elon is driving. I am in the passenger seat. Marcus finds driving on the “wrong” side of the road unnerving and prefers to sit in the back with his eyes averted out the window.

The car comes to a halt in front of a pub. Signs all in Irish. Not English. We are truly strangers in a strange land.

Who walks right in front of the car?

The Doctor.

I stare at him for a good long moment before I realize the man in the wide brim hat and well waxed Barbour field jacket is the Doctor himself.

We’re not lost.

I scramble out of the car.

The Doctor stops at the sound of his name. I’m given a hearty hello there my good fellow what are you doing so far from the house he’s only just come to town on a whim to see if anyone has seen hide or hair of us and here we are.

Here we are indeed! I’ve never been so happy to see someone before in my life.

Introductions are made. I get in the Land Rover he drove to town as Marcus and Elon follow behind.

We make it to the manor house on the edge of the lake just as the sun begins to slip beneath the lip of the hills.

We will be sharing a room. He hopes I don’t mind too terribly. Space is at a premium.

I don’t mind in the slightest. In fact I’m rather pleased to have the Doctor as my human shield. I’ve now been to a couple of these parties. Pushing off an unwanted paramour can get tricky. I need a convenient excuse to hide behind. Since Olga is back in London pacing the floors and sticking pins into a voodoo doll she has no doubt fashioned to resemble me, which leaves the Doctor.

The house is filled with men. Men that know me not as James, but as Oliver. I know these people by sight. Many were friends of my grandfather. Some have been to Wold Hall. I am Lord Harkslon. I am a guest. A friend of the Doctor. A potential initiate to this small coterie of crazy wealthy older men that have nothing better to do with their time than play at secret society.

I’m more than a bit disconcerted to see granddad’s “friend” Lionel.

My eyes scan the crowd for Uncle Albert. Thank god he’s not around.

Then I get it. They are all gay. Maybe not publicly, but privately in the quiet of their minds, they’re gay. And they believe me to be one of them. After all I am my grandfather’s grandson.

Drinks are pressed into our hands. There is polite conversation that is cut short due to the lateness of the hour. We are shown to our rooms and told we are to dress for dinner.

This causes some sturm und drang with Marcus. No one told him he’d have to dress up.

Elon can deal with this. This is not my problem. I go to my own room where my bags have been deposited and the Doctor is already dressing.

There is a collegial spirit to this portion of the evening. He’s enjoying dropping hints of what is to come. I’m enjoying actually dressing for dinner. I really was born in the wrong era.

Dinner is just what I imagined it would be. Perfectly formal. I enjoyed it completely. Evelyn Waugh couldn’t have written it better. All us gentlemen in our finery slurping our soup and laughing politely.

I speak with Lionel during the brandy and cigars portion of the evening.

He hopes this isn’t all very awkward for me. He knows that I know that he and my grandfather were very much in love.

Is he going to make a pass at me?

No.

Then it’s all good.

He wanders off and I don’t speak with him again.

Servants circle with spindly wooden carts containing small glasses filled with slimy brilliant green liquid. I’m offered one after it is diluted with water and sugar. Absinthe. Something new for me. I propel it down my throat. Anise. Bleck. This is what I get for leaping before I look. If nothing else the evening will be interesting.

At what turns out to not be midnight, but rather some minutes before, a gong is struck somewhere in the house. The master of ceremonies, a man I was introduced to earlier in the evening who I know from lunching with the Doctor at his club and through me just being me, invites us all to proceed outside.

Servants wait with robes.

Yes.

Robes.

White robes.

White robes with hoods.

Hoods we have to put up over our heads.

I should probably add that they are heavy wool with long dolman sleeves.

Marvelous.

It’s a cool evening so I’m happy for the extra layer as we walk in the direction of the bonfire visible through the trees.

So much becomes clear to me as I walk outside with the Doctor who comes up alongside of me with the crowd. I’m his delightful little boy toy. There is a proprietary swagger to his step as he walks with me.

I look at him.

Would it be wrong of me to assume these other gentlemen might think we have a special relationship?

Don’t we have a special relationship? Are we not good friends?

We are.

Besides – he looks at me in such a way that makes him seem boyish and mischievous – they’re all grinding their teeth with envy. Let him have his moment.

Was this the plan all along?

No. In fact it wasn’t.

I’m delighted to be his date. I count myself as lucky to know him. (This is the god’s honest truth. This is also my greatest flaw. I care too much about these people that pay me for my time. But I’m not being paid to attend this bacchanalia. I’m the Doctor’s guest. His significantly younger companion. And he’s right about one thing – he’s the envy of all. I’m not some street walking hustler. I’m Oliver Adair. James’ grandson.)

What is going to happen?

Patience.

We approach the bonfire burning in a clearing up ahead.

There is a campsite. That’s really the best word for it although it doesn’t wholly encapsulate the setup around the bonfire. What there is there, are a lot of rustic couches covered in animal skins. Lamps hanging from the circle of trees. Drums. Lots of drums. Wineskins? I think I see wineskins. Wineskins are good. I like wineskins.

We are a band of hunters. Or druids. Maybe we’re supposed to be druids. Regardless, I don’t know what we’re supposed to be. But we are a company of men that wear robes, light fires, bang drums, drink from wineskins, and fuck on animal skins. I love this! Sign me up! Teach me the secret handshake! I’m all in!

As individuals we are unrecognizable in our robes. The hoods do a good job concealing our faces. Perfect for a bunch of secret buggers.

There appears to be an altar by the fire. All our attention is focused on the fire as we gather around it and the possible alter is forgotten until later.

Then the master of ceremonies is there. He rings a bell.

We gather in closer, standing shoulder to shoulder in a circle around the bonfire. I am between the Doctor and a man who I think is an MP, but I can’t be totally certain.

He speaks to the stars. He chants. He calls forth. He summons. I don’t understand the language. I would know Irish if I heard it and that’s not Irish he’s speaking. It could be Linear B or Esperanto for all I know.

A man – a naked man – with stag’s horns tied to his head approaches through the crowd.

It takes every ounce of my will to not laugh and scream.

It’s fucking Harold!

God as my witness he is everywhere.

Harold. A mythical creature in the buff on this frigid night with stag’s horns strapped to his head.

How absurd we all are! What are we all about in our robes with Harold and his stag’s horns? In what world would this ever be normal? This one apparently.

I watch. The absinthe is taking a hold on my senses.

The master of ceremonies reaches into a basket held by another horned rent boy. From it he takes a peat brick and tosses it on the fire. In turn a dozen or so men, the Doctor included, toss a brick on the fire.

The smoke billows up and I a catch of whiff of something earthy and sweet.

It gets into my eyes. It gets up my nose.

This is when it all starts to go a bit funny.

Harold – was it Harold or was I just imagining it was Harold? – and another of the stag horns start fucking on the altar. There’s a bit of dancing around and a lot of touching and such, but in essence they start ritualistically fucking on the altar.

I say ritualistically because there’s a lot of arm waving and posing and such. Or maybe I’m just imagining it. Who knows what I really saw? I think the absinthe has fully kicked in. That combined with whatever is contained within the smoke is taking me on a ride.

I watch as the light from the fire, the shadows from the smoke and the chill of the air all come together to stir up my perceptions.

I hear music, but I don’t know if it was external or internal.

Someone whose face I never properly see because of the hood and my inebriation undoes my trousers and pulls out my cock. I get slowly sucked as I watch Harold and the other stag horns fuck on the altar. But they’re not just men wearing stag horns. They’re both men and stags. In one. They’re minotaurs. Neither man nor beast.

I push the man away. I don’t want this. I want to walk to the flames. They’re golden and they call to me.

The Doctor takes me by the arm and pulls me back. Perhaps absinthe isn’t for me. I find a place on one of the fur covered couches.

There is a part of my brain that is very calmly telling me that I’m hallucinating. Again it’s the voice of Timothy Dalton. The soundtrack of my life narrated by Timothy Dalton. I listen to the warm dulcet tones of English spoken with a Welsh accent telling me to just hang on for the ride.

Then there are other men. Without a stitch on. Some keep their hoods and robes on. Other just run about in the nip. In the cold.

I see the wind as it moves through the trees. I swear to fucking god I see the wind. It swirls like a van Gogh painting.

The Doctor is with me. He strokes my hair as I stare at the sky. The stars are filled with messages. If I’m a druid in my white robe, then I can read the fates in their patterns.

He laughs. The Green Fairy flutters between the leaves. The sparks from the fire are tiny fae. Their wings tinkle like tiny bells.

One comes to me. Small with a pinched face. It’s Renata. But a tiny pregnant fae Renata. Her voice is a squeaky buzz. She cackles as she threatens me with exposure. Clarity fills my thoughts. She is the one behind the paparazzi knowing my secrets. She’s the source. Has to be. No one else other than Elon has been privy to the sort of information they’ve used against me. I feel smarter, more handsome, stronger, and better than I ever have before. It’s a vision this conversation I have with the minute flying Renata is a vision. My purpose is clear. I am the Pythia getting messages out of the smoke.

My hand reaches up and I give her a smack. She flies off with an angry buzz. She’ll get me she will. But I’m smarter, faster, and stronger now that I’ve seen the truth.

The man beasts run about. The hooded men wander from couch to couch. The Doctor stays with me and brushes them away. They are not to touch me. I’m his.

I don’t know if I pass out or if I fall asleep.

What I do know is that I wake up in a bed. Without a stitch on. I’m laid flat out on my belly and there is the smell of both toast and tea in the room. There is the sound of a newspaper rattling like the leaves.

I roll just enough to look. It’s the Doctor. He wears pale blue tailored pajamas under a silk robe with a pair of soft leather slippers.

What happened?

He looks at me. Absinthe does not agree with me. He advises me both as a friend and a physician to never touch it again.

I whole heartedly agree with him.

Did anything happen? (I don’t want to state the obvious that I’m naked and in the bed)

Do I want to know if he took advantage of the fact that I was physically incapable of giving him consent to engage in sexual relations? He’s disappointed in me. Surely I know him better than that.

I’m sorry. I actually am sorry. I do know him better than that.

Besides, I should know perfectly well by this point that he prefers to do things in a certain way. There is tea and toast. I am to get a move on.

Why? I would really prefer to just stay in bed.

We’re going hunting. Fresh air will do me a world of good.

Hunting?

Hunting.

I love this plan. I feel like me again.

We go hunting. All of us men that spent the previous evening wrapped in robes prancing about in an orgiastic drug induced frenzy. Today we are all gentlemen in our tweeds and wools.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Home

Elon hires a plane to take us from Galway to Exeter. The three of us agree that we need a few days to process the pure weirdness of our time in Ireland. This is the benefit of having a friend that is worth the GDP of Monaco. Sometimes it’s good to have someone around that truly can throw money at a problem to make it go away.

There is a car waiting for us in Exeter. The three of us sit shoulder to shoulder in the back.

Marcus is the one that breaks the silence.

What the fuck was that?

I start to laugh. I don’t know. I really don’t.

They were druids? He thinks they were druids. What the fuck was that?

Elon just chuckles.

Wold Hall appears around the curve in the road just as the sun is about to set. It takes me a moment to realize what I’m looking at. The drive is filled with trade vans. Mostly being packed up by an assortment of plumbers and electricians.

Near the door is a black Mercedes. I know that car.

Why?

Why me?

I’m starting to believe in god. I really am. Only a supreme being with a maniacal desire to get me and get me good could orchestrate the near constant shit storm that is my life.

Is that…. Elon cranes to look.

Yes. That is her car.

The car we are in comes to a halt just as my former fiancée exits the house with a man I recognize. It’s the architect that was in charge of the restoration of Wold Hall.

I get out of the car.

I join the duo.

Elon and Marcus walk past us as if we’re not there. Probably for the best. Putting Elon and my former fiancée together could be volatile.

It takes me a good long moment to realize my former fiancée, true to her word as she always was, has arranged to get the plumbing and the electrical back to the shabby working order it was in before she had it ripped out.

What I would like to know, which I can’t ask in front of the architect, is what the fuck is she doing at Wold Hall and is this part of her father’s plan to destroy me and steal my home.

The architect leaves.

What the fuck is she doing here?

Why do I always have to say fuck?

What is she doing here?

She wanted to make certain everything was done properly. She thought I was in Ireland.

She does have spies watching me!

Don’t be an idiot. She called Mrs. Gresham. Besides. She’s spent a fortune on the repairs. She wanted to make certain it was done properly.

Is this part of her and her father’s big plan to take my home from me? Get the repairs done then get that woman, that horrible Betty Crusher, to start showing the place to more potential buyers?

She stares into my eyes.

What?

She is trying to see if my pupils are dilated. Or, perhaps I’ve recently hit my head? Could that be it?

I don’t believe for a second that she doesn’t know what’s happening with her father. I don’t.

More workmen move past us as they depart for the day.

She smiles that tight just you wait until I get you alone smile. Can we move inside and discuss this privately?

Fine. Agreed. Not in front of the staff darling.

I follow her inside and up the steps to MY rooms. Apparently she’s been staying for a few days. Nice. I do hope she’s made herself at home.

Don’t be an ass. Do I really expect her to stay in a hotel when Wold Hall is empty? The least I could do is thank her for coming through and doing what she said she would do.

Fine. Thanks.

Once and for all, what is supposedly going on with her father.

I go into the office and get the file filled with papers. I hand it to her.

She’s fussing with her laptop.

I set the file next to her on the couch and take the chair. Does she have internet access?

Of course she has internet access.

How does she have internet access?

She turned the Wi-Fi on.

What Wi-Fi?

She looks up at me and over her glasses. The Wi-Fi. She had Wi-Fi and a satellite dish installed while I was off fucking that Swedish whore. This is what she did while I couldn’t keep my dick in my trousers. She tried to make life more comfortable for us whilst I tried my very best to break her heart.

We have Wi-Fi?

Yes. And no. She will not give me the password. I can just fuck off. She agreed to plumbing and electric. Not communications with the outside world. Now. What is this shit I keep going on about with her father?

Everything is in the file.

She picks up the file.

Page by page she goes through it.

Just so she knows he served me the day of my father’s funeral.

She holds up a silencing finger. Pages are spread out over the table into piles that begin to take on meaning.

It takes her an hour. I steal the laptop and check my email. Olga. Olga. Olga. Cousin Margaret. Olga. Olga. Cousin Margaret. There is nothing urgent. I log off my email. I surf the net. I check my bank accounts. I look at the price of airline tickets to Spain. I shop for shoes. I go back to my emails and read the ones from Cousin Margaret.

What’s the deal with Margaret?

I’m going to need to be more specific. There are many deals with Margaret. We are within six weeks of her wedding. Margaret is about to come unglued.

That actually explains a lot. Is there a reason I’m not to wear an orange tie?

Oh that.

I don’t own an orange tie. Am I known for wearing orange? Do I own any orange?

Just ignore Margaret.

I want an orange tie now.

Don’t be difficult. Besides, orange doesn’t suit me. Unless I’ve gone out on an orange clothing buying spree, then I don’t own any orange. Can we discuss what is going on with her father?

Please.

Okay – as her father is want to do, he has gone a bit far.

A bit?

A bit.

Just a bit?

Yes. Just a bit. Don’t think I don’t deserve at least a good portion of the shit that’s been lumped on me. Just not all of it.

Unreal.

Let’s discuss reality, shall we? Do I know whether or not that Swedish whore’s baby is mine?

Actually I don’t. And truthfully I don’t want to fight with her. I just want it to stop. I’m trying to rebuild my life. I can’t do that if I have Betty Crusher trying to shoehorn me out of my home.

I should just sell Wold Hall. I’d be better off financially.

I’m not going to do that.

She knows. She’s going to think about it. Bottom line, her father was well within his legal rights to do what he’s done.

It’s wrong.

She looks up at me over her glasses. That is a matter of perspective. What I did to her was wrong. That was wrong. What her father has done was well within his legal rights. Now if I want mercy, she’ll consider it. But don’t for one moment act the injured party in her presence. She won’t have it. I’ve gotten everything I deserved both financially and emotionally. There is such a thing as karma. Acting the victim is going to perpetuate the cycle of destruction in my life.

(and she’s back to being a Buddhist again)

I am sorry. I am.

Truly?

I truly am sorry.

How sorry?

I have nothing but regrets.

Pretty words. Sort of my specialty.

I was ready to settle down after the Saudi Princess. I was. I was ready to settle down and start a family. I’d finally crossed that line. If she’d never found out about that then I truly believe we could have been happy.

Probably not. She’d stopped trusting me. What she really wanted from me at that point was my sperm and then to get the fuck out of her way.

Nice.

Part of her thinks we should have just gotten married. She’d put up with so much up to that point, what was one more infidelity? She could have married me, gotten pregnant, and then stuck me in the country with an allowance and instructions to keep out of her way.

Her phone rings. She looks at the display. She sends whomever it is off to voicemail. I’ve never taken priority over a call. Amazing.

She looks at me for a long moment. We need to jump off this treadmill. We do. It’s done. We’re done with that stage of our lives. Both of us. That relationship was toxic. We’re both better off. That was no environment to bring a child into.

I was ready to change.

She does believe me.

The gong rings in the house.

Dinner.

Is she staying?

Yes.

I…

What? It’s going to be another three days before the work is done. After all of the holidays she footed the bill for, the least I can do is not expect her to leave just because I’ve shown up unexpectedly.

I don’t expect her to leave. It’s still my house though. I don’t need to announce my arrival. She can sleep on the couch.

She’s not going to sleep on the couch. I can sleep on the couch. Are we going for dinner? Mrs. Gresham is probably dying to know what’s going on.

It’s a wonder she’s not standing at the door with her ear pressed to the wood.

My phone buzzes silently in my pocket. I ignore it.

Let’s go to dinner.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Dinner

During dinner my phone keeps buzzing.

Elon answers his phone. He hands it to me.

Olga.

Where am I?

Wold Hall.

Why am I ignoring her calls?

I’m not.

She’s called me twenty times in the past four hours. I’m ignoring her calls.

What does it say to her that she’s called me twenty times in the past four hours?

That I’m ignoring her calls. Why am I ignoring her calls?

I’m in the middle of dinner. I’ll call back later.

She’s driving out to meet me.

No.

Why not?

Because… (I get up from the table and excuse myself – I walk from the China Room to the gun room – why do I have such a good signal so deep inside of the house?) Because it’s not necessary. I’m having dinner, I’m going to read for a bit, and then I’m going to bed.

She wants to drive out to meet me. She misses me.

I miss her too. One more night isn’t going to make any difference.

But…

No. This is ridiculous. I’m leaving for London first thing in the morning.

She misses me.

I’m getting angry. I really am getting angry. This is ridiculous. Why is she acting like this?

She’s driving out whether I want her to or not. I should have told her I was going to Wold Hall. She could have been there when I arrived.

No. Absolutely not. This is insane.

It’s driving her crazy that I’m ignoring her calls. Why don’t I want to be with her?

Because she’s fucking suffocating me. Okay? Is that what she wants to hear? I need some space. Every day I was in Ireland we had to speak six times. Every day six times. If I didn’t answer my phone she called Elon. What the fuck?

She loves me. Why can’t I understand that she just wants to be near me?

This is not love. This is crazy. I need some space. We spend so much time together I never get a break. My trip to Ireland was supposed to be a break. It wasn’t. She needs to give me some space.

People that are in love want to spend every minute together and it hurts them when they are apart. She’s hurting. I’m hurting her because I don’t want to be with her.

Then I guess that I don’t love her, because being together every minute will drive me insane. Do not drive out here. I do not want to see her. I do not want to talk to her. She needs to stop calling me every ten minutes. Stop calling Elon trying to get me. That, more than anything else, really fucking pisses me off.

She sorry. She just wanted to talk to me.

What was so urgent that she had to call me twenty times in four hours?

Nothing. She just wanted to talk to me.

I’m staying at Wold Hall for a few days. She is not to come here. She is to stop calling me. She just needs to back the fuck off and give me some space.

Space to do what? (she’s sobbing at this point which is only making me more angry) What do I want to do that she can’t be around for?

To breathe. This is unreal. The person she was when we first met would not recognize the person she has become. I miss that person. I don’t understand what has happened in the past couple of weeks, but I don’t like it. I need some time and she needs some time. I’ll be home in a few days. Do not call Elon looking for me.

Elon’s phone goes into my pocket after I turn it off. I return to dinner.

Trouble in paradise? Elon is enjoying this far too much.

Desert is on the table. Lemon tart.

My former fiancée is snickering in her tea as she and Mrs. Gresham chat whilst pretending not to notice my return.

I poke at my tart. I push it away. I have no interest in tart. I’m going to bed.

What do I notice when I walk into the rooms? It’s warm. Delightfully warm. I step back into the stone corridor. It’s cold. Back in the room. It’s warm.

The radiators hidden behind wooden screens are pumping out heat. In my lifetime the radiators have never worked so well.

I go to the bathroom. I stand in front of the shower. It’s no ordinary shower. It’s the shower of my dreams. In my bathroom. I turn on the faucet that hangs over the bathtub. Hot and cold water. I notice that there is a selection of oils and salts that are familiar lined up around the rim. Do I shower? Do I bathe? I’m spoiled for choice. I let the water fill the bathtub. I’ll leave the shower for the morning.

The door opens.

Can she knock? We’re not married anymore.

We never were married.

She knows what I mean. Knocking would be appreciated.

Sorry. She just wanted me to know the water was working. She thought about it. She’s going to get a hotel room in Exeter.

Why?

She knows I have a girlfriend. Girl being the operative word.

Unnecessary.

I should have told her I had a girlfriend before we hooked up on Valentine’s Day.

She wasn’t my girlfriend when we hooked up.

Pity. For once she would have enjoyed being the other woman.

Really? This does make me laugh. How not like her.

It sucks being a good girl. Maybe if she’d been bad on occasion I might not have strayed.

She gets that had nothing to do with her, but everything to do with me?

In an abstract way. Hard not to take it personally though.

She’s changed. She was so good for so long it was a thrill to be the bad one for once. Who would have thought I would cheat on a girlfriend with her?

She’s better looking than she’s ever given herself credit for being. Personally I always liked her.

That’s a lie.

Not really. My bath is full. She doesn’t have to leave.

Is that an invitation? Because if it is, she’s going to have to say no.

Leave the bathroom yes. But not Wold Hall. I’ll sleep on the couch.

Okay. She’ll stay.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

April

Pick up drycleaning!!!

Get new charger for phone – see if GPS tracking is available

Schedule service for car

Call Avan about the Doctor

Buy orange tie to wear to Margaret’s rehearsal dinner

Call Former Fiancée about engagement ring

Renata’s due date

9:00 to 11:30 – Esthetician

12:00 to 2:00 – Lunch with Elon at Clouds

3:00 to 4:00 – Call to LPS

7:00pm to TBD – MMME

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Boundaries

Why am I having lunch with Elon again?

Olga shows me my agenda.

Because I always have lunch with Elon.

Where is Clouds?

Why is she reading my agenda again?

Where is Clouds? She’s googled it. There is no restaurant called clouds. What is this code for?

That’s not the name of the place. I just can never remember the name of the place. It has clouds on the walls. Clouds.

She has time. She’ll join us for lunch.

Okay – remember that fight we had? The one about her constantly being in my space?

Yes.

Let’s not go back to that place again. I give her a kiss on the cheek. I need to go.

Uncle Harvey is in the kitchen with Emer and Simone.

Both women are dressed. There is no more walking around the house in panties. There is no more leaving shoes where they fall. The Matchmaker pays Uncle Harvey very well and I know already that even when I am done with the job, he will still be carrying on. At last he’s found the role of a lifetime.

I grab a muffin and my travel mug he’s already sorted out for me.

Can he get my drycleaning? I’m desperate.

He cannot get my drycleaning.

He could if he really wanted to.

He could walk barefoot over hot coals if he really wanted to.

Please.

Leave the ticket. If he can get to it when he’s out running errands he’ll do it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The Esthetician

The Esthetician

So she says to that son-of-a-bitch Martin that doesn’t fucking deserve her despite how good she is to him and his mother that he can just go ahead and fucking take his shit and get the fuck out. She and his mother will be better off without his bullshit. Her words to god’s ear. They would be better off.

Honestly – they probably would.

She knows they would.

I mean it. I’m not just saying that. They really would be better off without him. She is a good person. One of the nicest, kindest, most honest, people I’ve ever met. She deserves someone that is going to love her and appreciate her. Martin’s mother sounds like a kind old lady that maybe has had a bit of a hard life.

That’s the god’s honest truth. Nice old lady. Gives and gives to those worthless fucking boys of hers until she’s got nothing left for herself.

She’s a good person. She deserves better.

The worst thing of all – do I want to hear the worst thing of all?

There’s more?

He won’t go to her gig.

Her gig?

She’s performing at the Bon Vivant. Martin won’t commit. He keeps telling her maybe he’ll be there maybe he won’t. He has to see what’s going on.

When is her gig? I’ll go.

That evening. She’s on at nine.

I can’t do it. I’m sorry. I have a date with a regular. Is she on another night?

Every Thursday for the next six weeks.

I’ll be there next Thursday.

Really?

Of course. I’ll bring some of the girls.

I will not!

I will. We’ll make a night of it.

See now why can’t Martin be more like me?

I’m no treasure.

I am so. Now roll over. She needs to do my butt.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Lunch with Elon

Olga thinks I’m lying but I really am having lunch with Elon and there are clouds on the walls. This is how I remember the name of the place. I put a note in my agenda – the place is actually called Silver Linings. Elon doesn’t show. I get a text from him. Renata has gone into labour. I’m out of it. I only want to know because otherwise I would assume he had stood me up.

I don’t stay at Silver Linings. Instead I go to the pub off of Oxford Street that I like despite the fact Renata tried to ruin it for me.

I sit after getting a pint and ordering my lunch at the bar.

It’s warm. Beautifully warm outside so the fireplace is cold. I look up when someone sits across from me.

Booth Buxton. Troll.

Oliver!

Booth.

So. How are things?

I’m waiting for someone. He’s going to have to excuse me.

He knows I’m not waiting for anyone. He knows that I was meeting Elon for lunch at Silver Linings and that Elon is witnessing the birth of his child. A girl.

Curious. Any reason why he knows so much about such trivial things? Or does MI5 really have nothing better to do than keep track of Elon?

I’m much more interesting than Elon.

Doubtful.

I can just take his word for it.

I’ll do that. Does he want something?

Yes. He picks up the flap top briefcase he left on the ground next to his foot. He opens it just enough to pull out of a file folder. It’s handed to me.

I take it.

Pictures of me with Olga, Elizabeth, Talitha, Mi Young, the Matchmaker, the Doctor, the LPS, the Baron, and ever so many more. A pictorial of my life for the previous seven months.

He knows all about me.

And?

He knows all about me. What I do for a living. Who I do it with.

I work in client services for a dating service.

Bullshit. Seriously. Give the government a bit more credit than that.

I’m not doing anything illegal. I even pay my taxes.

Nope. I’m not doing anything illegal.

I’m handed a second folder.

More pictures. A study of me and Boris walking through Hyde Park on a cold February afternoon. Nothing about this could be good.

Is he trying to make a point?

What is my relationship with the man in the picture?

He knows so much about me and he can’t figure that one out?

He has a pretty good idea what is going on. From where he sits it could be spun in such a way as to equal jail time. For me.

How? (this gets a laugh out of me – I know I’m not doing anything illegal and I know Booth is trying to intimidate me – he’s going to have to try harder) Pictures of me having a conversation with the brother of the woman I work for is not a crime.

Knowingly working for multinational criminal syndicate could be a gray area.

What is the point of all of this?

That I have come to his attention. Not like I can afford to hire more lawyers at this moment in time. Or run the risk of having Parvati Singh toss me out again. Things are going well with the Singh family from what he hears despite the fact I’m boning the daughter of a Russian gangster.

What does he want?

He doesn’t want anything. Her majesty’s government needs me.

He needs a favor.

Not ever.

Renata’s little sting operation was clever.

He knows about that?

He knows everything. He needs a favor. Small favor.

I’m inclined to say no.

He has better pictures than Renata could get with her spy cam hidden in the begonias.

A third folder is pulled out of his briefcase.

I don’t want to look, but I do. Pictures of me and the Latin Pop Star in the Seychelles. Naked pictures.

Did it ever occur to him to just ask me nicely? Offer me a favor?

Would that work?

No. These people are dangerous. I don’t care if he puts a video of me fucking the LPS on the internet; I’m not going to cross them. I’d rather go bankrupt than put myself in that kind of danger. My life isn’t worth my dignity.

Since when do I have any dignity left?

Let me make something very clear to him. There are a lot of things I will do, but there are some lines I will not cross. I will not do anything that will either put me in danger, is criminal, or morally despicable.

He’s trafficking women from Eastern Europe. Some of them might be minors.

Fuck me. One of the two, possibly three things he could have told me that would work.

Maybe he should have approached me differently.

Probably.

What does he want from me?

At the moment, nothing. Just keep doing my job. We’ll be in touch. If my friend asks, tell him the truth. We’re old school chums.

I’m getting married soon enough. When that happens I’m drawing a line under that life whether he’s gotten what he wants from me or not.

How soon am I getting married?

Very soon. The sooner the better. In fact. That afternoon if at all possible.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Call to the LPS

I’m distracted after the encounter with Booth. I feel as if I’m truly in over my head in a way I never imagined possible. I have to be at the Matchmaker’s to meet with the Singh Family soon enough that I don’t have time to go home and long enough that I have too much time to kill.

Something is nagging at me. Something I’m missing.

I check my phone, I check my mail, finally I check my agenda.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I have a call with the Latin Pop Star and I’m in the middle of a crowded shopping street. This is not good. How could I forget I have a call? Easily. Booth Buxton and Boris.

No wonder I’m distracted. My life still hangs in the balance.

What do I do? What do I do? I look around me. I can’t make this call in a café or a restaurant.

It comes back to me my plan for the afternoon. Lunch with Elon then either go to his place to make the call or go to the Matchmaker’s early.

Fuck Renata for going into labour. She did this to me.

Okay – thinking.

There is a boutique hotel across the street.

I dodge traffic like a lunatic. Just before I bolt through the door, I stop and compose myself.

I wait behind a couple. American. Tourists. Seniors. Fanny Packs (what a name!!!). I discretely take a picture of them and send it to mum.

Her response comes as it’s my turn at the desk. I’m very naughty – which is why she loves me.

I need a room.

Single? Double?

Single. Just for the night. (just for an hour max truly but I won’t say this – this is a nice place – not a by the hour place)

I do the usual credit card, identification, sign the register blah blah blah.

I get a key card and a ticket for my complimentary breakfast.

I make it into the door of my room with a moment to spare. I get my messenger bag off of my shoulder and into a chair.

My phone rings before I have a chance to make the call or even get my shoes off.

Hola bebe – what am I wearing?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Meeting with the Singh Family

The Matchmaker sits in her usual striped arm chair until the moment the Singh family is ushered into the sitting room. They are predictably late as we all knew they would be.

Tea is served.

Part of me marvels at how sweetly duplicitous Parvati is. She looks angelic as she sits quietly staring at her hands folded primly in her lap. I think of her as my Kate – my shrew that could perhaps be tamed. Maybe we could be happy together. Maybe.

The usual pleasantries are exchanged.

I cut to the point before the Matchmaker tells them what I would like in the latest round of negotiations. Because that is what this meeting is supposed to be. Negotiations. My push for a wedding in June at the latest then followed by whatever kind of crazy ceremony she wants to plan has been a sticking point. I am in no position to blow this on a technicality. Booth Buxton reminded me of that.

If they would like the wedding to take place in September, then I am willing to get married in September. If Miss Singh would like a September wedding then I am amenable.

Mrs. Singh is very pleased. Very pleased indeed. Five months is not an eternity, but it’s enough.

I only ask that the wedding take place in England. Wold Hall would be ideal, but a London venue is perfectly acceptable. Truthfully my mother is too unwell to travel to India and I want her to be present.

Mrs. Singh agrees that this is a reasonable request to make. My mother should be present if at all possible.

As for the financial arrangements, I think they have been more than generous. I would, if at all possible, separate from these talks, like to secure meaningful employment at one of Mr. Singh’s enterprises. To put it bluntly, I would like an income of my own. Something that I can think of with pride as my contribution to my family. Perhaps something in America. Or even India. Not permanently, but for a period of time. I am willing to work, to prove myself if they prefer, to take a place within the organization.

This is all very good. Mr. Singh approves. He would certainly find a most suitable post for me in India. I will begin work after Parvati and I are married.

(DAMN!)

India sounds fantastic. In fact, with every passing moment I’m falling more and more in love with the idea of moving to India. I would miss England, but India seems infinitely more secure to me at that moment than home.

September then?

Yes! Mrs. Singh takes my hands in hers. September!

We will make the announcement in June. Late June. Does this seem acceptable to me?

Yes. Very acceptable. I would be happy to hold off on making the announcement until the end of June.

Do I have a ring that is appropriate for someone as lovely as Parvati?

I’m sorry to say that I do not. I truly wish I did. (Lies – all lies – Parvati would implode at the sight of Lady Charlotte’s diamond. But that’s not for her. If I ever get it back I already plan on giving it to someone else. Someone I fall in love with and want to marry after my marriage with Parvati inevitably implodes.)

No matter. Something else will be arranged. Something appropriate for Parvati. Something that is as beautiful as she is.

Nothing is as beautiful as Parvati. I am the luckiest man in the world.

The Matchmaker rings for champagne.

We all rejoice. Me especially. I have five months to bide my time and hopefully not end up dead. This was never what I wanted. All I wanted was to find a wealthy wife I could learn to live with. I’ve done that. Time to start drawing more lines under more chapters in my life.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

MMME

Any manicurist, hairdresser, masseuse, or prostitute will tell you the same thing; their bread and butter is the standing appointment. Before long after becoming employed by the Matchmaker, I have several of these. My personal favorite is with the Mild Mannered Marketing Executive. Or the MMME, as I like to think of him. He's slightly older than me, but not by much. Conservative. Shy. Sweet. Endearing. If I didn't need the money, I'd fuck him for free. I really do like him that much. He's kind. So few people are kind for the sake of being kind.

He's slightly shorter than me, brown hair, blue eyes, half horn rimmed glasses with a penchant for V-neck sweaters. The third Thursday of every month at 6pm is the start time of our scheduled appointment. We meet at a hotel halfway between London and the small, yet immensely popular small town that is a mecca for tourists, where he both lives and works. The MMME is head of the tourism office for the town where he lives. The town is home to a university. A very famous university. Hence the tourists. He actually has a very important job for someone living in what is in essence a backwater.

Although he is openly gay, he is alone. Whether this is a result of his introverted nature, his inability to connect on an emotional level with anyone he's met, or a personal preference, I don't really know the first time I meet him. Eventually, after time and a lot of post-coital chat, I learn that he's alone because he's shy. Simple as that. Part of me deeply and truly wishes I were a bonafide homosexual. If I were, I'd grab hold of him and never let him go. I really and truly do like him that much.

So how does a shy man come to have a standing appointment for sex? For every fag there is usually a hag. The MMME's best friend is a woman. One that understands how lonely he is and how powerless she is to help him. So for his fortieth birthday, she gets him a present. The best present one friend can get for another. Guaranteed sex. One night of uninhibited, raunchy, consuming, selfish, sex. Basically me wrapped in a bow.

I know all of this before I go to meet him the first time. His best friend, the Fag Hag, has sat me down over cappuccinos and biscotti and explained the situation to me. I like the Fag Hag. She's married with kids. She wears Crocs with socks and says cock indiscriminately. How fucking awesome is that? Every gay man needs a friend like the Fag Hag.

So the plan is fairly straight forward. She's taking him for dinner at the hotel which will eventually become our meeting place. She already has rooms booked for the night. During dinner, she will get him sufficiently liquored up to be both randy and a goer, but not too drunk to perform. I join them during dessert. She drops me on him like a bag of wet cement. Before he has a chance to object, I have him in his room with his trousers off. I love this plan. I'm all in.

The night of his birthday everything goes as plan. As dessert is served I join them. I've had a chance to look at the MMME from a distance during the evening. He's lovely. Well groomed. Well dress. Reasonably fit. Again, were I gay I would have snatched him up. Halfway through dessert and coffee, the Fag Hag gives me the signal. She takes off the scarf she has tied around her neck and gives it a shake before putting it back on. I sit at the table with them. She introduces me to the MMME.

He's shocked. He laughs. He can't believe it. But yet he can. He knows the Fag Hag so well. It's so like her. He loves her. She's his best friend. He couldn't possibly no matter how sweet she was to think of him and the fact he hadn't had sex in over a year.

This is when I step in. The Fag Hag and I were well rehearsed and well prepared.

I lean over and whisper in his ear. If nothing else, he could just let me blow him. He can come to my room, I can go to his, whatever he wants. His friend has gone to so much trouble for him. The least he could do would be to show a little appreciation for her effort. Besides, the blow job is sort of my thing. What does he say?

He laughs. His cheeks are filled with roses. Fine. Okay. He'll agree to that. He can't believe how outrageous she is. Only she would think to do such a thing. He agrees, but only to go to my room. He wants the power to leave as he likes and to not have the burden of kicking me out. This was what I planned on. Shy girls and shy men are the same. Shy. They want to be able to walk away at their will. Not to have to push someone out. So we go to my room.

The lights are already dimed, the condoms are already ready.

When we are behind a closed and locked door, he's nervous and fumbling. He stammers a fair amount as he speaks. He's not really certain what to do under the circumstance. What is the normal procedure? Who does what? Should he take his suit jacket off or leave it on?

I'm a professional. I'm being paid to do a job and I do it. I get to the point. This isn't about him having to say or do the right thing to get me into bed. That's already been done. The Fag Hag handed over the cash hours earlier. I'm his for the night whether I find him charming or sexy or not. I'm also the boss. Not a problem. People are willing to pay top dollar to turn themselves over to another person. If they weren't then there would be no such thing as bondage.

Like so many good things, our encounter together starts out with a kiss. His tongue is soft, smooth and tastes a bit like amaretto. Bliss. If only all of my male clients could be the MMME.

After the first kiss, he's still unsure. What is he supposed to do?

Nothing, I tell him. Do nothing, I repeat. Just let me do for him what he wants me to do. There is no pressure for him to perform. I feel like the lead singer in a boy band when I tell him to just let me make love to him. But it works. He relaxes and relinquishes any responsibility he might have felt in our preplanned encounter.

With care and consideration, I plan each step of my seduction like a grand master chess player plots out every possibly move during a match. My actions end up being equal and opposite. I take off his shirt then I take off mine. I take off his trousers, then I take off mind. There is a lot of kissing between shedding each layer of clothing.

With every step his kisses and his confidence become bolder. By the time I have him in a pair of blue and white stripped boxer shorts that he probably wouldn't have chosen if he knew a man was going to see him in his underwear, he's practically bold for the MMME. Bold equaling kissing me with a lot of tongue and touching both my arms and chest without continually asking me if every little stroke of his hands is okay.

My fingers loop around the waist of his shorts as his tongue explores my mouth. I know this isn't going to end with just a blow. The condoms and the lube discretely tucked away in the nightstand will be put to good use before the night is up.

Three things happen in one continuous movement. I push his underwear down to his ankles, as I go to my knees and he sits on the edge of the bed. He flops back on the bed as I pull his cock into my mouth. I'm good at what I do. I suck, lick, pull, squeeze, thrum, and hum for all I'm worth. If I were turning forty and felt a little depressed about it, I'd want someone to give me a fucking fantastic blow. So I pull out all the stops. I fuck the MMME with my mouth like I were doing it to myself. I once again take the Doctor's advice. I do it like a man. I engage my jaw muscles and I'm even a little rough. Based on personal experience, I know I'm not going to pull his dick off with the power of my jaw muscles. So I go for it.

Just as he's about to come, he pushes me off of him. This surprises me more than a little for only a moment. I lean back slightly perplexed as he rolls over onto his stomach. His legs are somewhat spread and a beautifully curved ass is on display in front of me. If only every one of my male clients were so lovely. They're not. The MMME is special.

Fuck me, he tells me. Just do it. But not too hard. It's been a while.

I was already hard, but being told to do my duty makes the blood surge to my dick. I grab a condom and the lube. My underwear is discarded like a used tissue. It's going to be hard to be gentle with him, but I swear I'll do my best.

There are few clients I want to fuck. Truly, desperately, and consumingly want to fuck. The very few that wouldn't have to pay me for the pleasure. The MMME is one of them.

I fall on the bed next to him. My body is spent and my blood is flowing.

Lie to me, he tells me. Tell me that was as good as I want to believe it was.

I wouldn’t have to lie, I say. That was good. It's not like I can really fake it in the end. Ejaculating is ejaculating.

Would I be willing to see him again?

Yes. I would be willing to see him again. Most assuredly.

We meet once every third Thursday. I plan my Thursday around this “date”.

We are together this particular day for no particular reason other than it’s a Thursday and he’s in town.

We meet for cocktails, then dinner, followed by the night at his home. He usually picks the place.

We are a charming gay couple having dinner.

I think he’s using me to make a dark haired man he knows professionally jealous.

We meet for cocktails as we normally do. Then we get our table.

He insists I try to chicken. He’ll have the Basque cassoulet. We can split.

Fine by me. How is work?

Brutal.

Is that punishing bitch still punishing?

He’s ready for her skin to turn green and for her to dress her secretary up as a flying monkey.

I laugh.

I’m nearly knocked off my chair as Elon appears from a bend in the space time continuum at our table.

More than practically pushing me to the ground, the mere sight of him scares the shit out of me.

Where the hell did he come from? He nearly gave me a heart attack.

He was here. He was there. He is everywhere. He is Elon.

He offers his hand to the MMME. He is Elon.

The MMME takes his hand with a sort of wry grin that speaks of the sort of tolerance I find admirable in him.

He is also very drunk.

Yes. He is very drunk.

He is also a father.

He was celebrating with a hundred of his new friends the birth of his bastard. Peanut Shoshanna Banana Bran Muffin.

What?

Peanut Shoshanna Banana Bran Muffin. That’s the name of his daughter.

No it is not. Not even Renata would stoop so low.

Ana. He agreed to give Renata a million pounds to call the girl Ana.

Did he really agree to give Renata a million pounds to call the girl Ana?

Yes. But he didn’t sign anything so it’s his word against hers.

He falls off the chair we are sharing and lands on the ground.

I stand and pull him up with me.

I look to the MMME. Would he please excuse us? I need to put my friend into a cab.

No. He’s not going into a cab. He wants to sit.

Elon sits in my chair.

He smiles at the MMME.

So are we on a date? (I find the use of air quotes wholly unnecessary and a little insulting)

I could kill him with my butter knife. I could.

Here’s the thing Elon doesn’t understand. If he’s being totally honest, he’d fuck the MMME for free. Would the MMME like him to fuck him for free? He’d even buy him dinner first. For the MMME he might even stay the night and not purposefully give him the wrong number.

The MMME laughs. He’s confused. Doesn’t Elon have a daughter? Peanut?

Ana. Yes. And what a mistake she was! If he had his way she would have been aborted months ago. Now she’s this living thing with tiny little fingers that he’s responsible for. Because someone has to be responsible. That cunthammer of a mother of hers is just a waste of resources.

Okay! We are going to the men’s room for a moment, I’m going to put Elon in a cab, then I will be back and we will just move on with our evening.

The MMME offers to help me. This is the sort of person he is. Infinitely decent.

I refuse to let him help me drag Elon away from the table. Elon is my problem. Not this kind and lovely man’s problem.

In the bathroom I very nearly slam Elon’s head against a wall. But even drunk he could probably take me.

My friend is foxy! This he tells me as he sort of pees into a urinal.

He needs to stay away from him. He needs to go home and sleep it off.

No. He’s going to celebrate the entry of a new life into the world just waiting to be destroyed. She’s really perfect. It’s heartbreaking that something so perfect could be handed over to Renata for destruction.

Then do something about it.

No. He’s into me. My friend.

He’s not into me.

He is. He’s hot. Why the hell does someone like him need to pay for sex? Why? He meant it when he said he’d fuck him for free.

I need Elon to understand something. He is a nice man. A very nice man.

He’s a nice man.

No. Not a nice man. A bad man. Bad, bad, bad, bad man. Besides. What about Marcus?

Who?

Marcus. Boyfriend? Lives in Russia? Really into horses and himself?

They have an open relationship.

Another reason to stay away from the MMME.

Not going to do that.

I am trying to work. If nothing else please be respectful of that.

Work. Ridiculous. He’d fuck the MMME for free. Actually explain to him why someone as good looking as the MMME needs to pay to get fucked?

He’s shy.

Really? Shy and good looking?

Please stay away from him. He’s a good client.

No body odor issues and has yet to take a piss on me?

One – no one has ever taken a piss on me. Two – all of my clients maintain an acceptable level of hygiene.

What sets this one apart? What could it be about this one that gets my panties in a bunch? Could be… Let’s see… He’s… he’s got it. My foxy date is not the only one pretending. I am too. Oh that’s it. His guess is – and his guesses are usually pretty good – my foxy date is my one client that truly deep down doesn’t make me feel like I’m doing something I wouldn’t do if money changed hands.

I have no answer.

Good looking, age appropriate gay male – I’d date him even if he didn’t pay me for the privilege.

I’m getting a cab and sending him home.

Elon slips past me (without washing his hands) and heads out of the men’s room.

I follow him back to the table.

He’s taken a seat on the banquette next to the MMME.

I will give the MMME credit – this man with a penchant for V-neck sweaters and wire rimmed glasses – he’s taking all of this in stride. Elon is right. I would date him. If I decided I truly had a preference for men over women I would be more likely to date the MMME than Elon. He is solid, grounded, intelligent, and most important of all, acts his age.

Get off of him! I swat my napkin at Elon like he were some randy dog.

It’s fine. The MMME truly doesn’t seem to mind that a slobbery drunk Elon is attempting to devour his neck.

I need to get him home.

Yes – Elon actually bites the MMME’s earlobe – take him home and put him to bed. They can lose the stiff.

If I am the stiff – which I am not stiff – then there will be no losing me.

The MMME pulls himself away from Elon and rises. He pulls Elon up with him. They’re going to get a cab. They’ll meet me out front.

He really doesn’t have to do that. Honestly. I can call someone to pick up Elon.

Get the bill. He has friends. It’s not the first time he’s had to pour someone into a cab and see them home. When that’s done we can maybe still make it to the late concert he has tickets for.

I’ll get the bill.

Elon grabs the nearly full bottle of sauterne from the ice bucket and the hunk of chocolate cake that was the MMME’s dessert before he’s dragged out of the room.

The manager is at my elbow with the check. Like so many problems, I toss enough cash at it and it’s gone.

There is a drizzling mist on the street when I exit the restaurant. The MMME has a car for us. Elon is shoved into the back seat with his wine and cake.

I give the driver Elon’s address.

Unreal. I cannot apologize enough to the MMME.

He assures me he’s been in my shoes. Besides. This is much more fun than jazz.

Elon offers each of us the wine. Apparently the cake is superb. He kisses the MMME. He offers to rock his world. Repeatedly. For free.

I swear I could push him out of the car into traffic.

The MMME is not objecting to any of this. Part of me wonders if he just might be attracted to Elon. And why not? Elon is beautiful and fearless. Like a Norse god. I can understand why a normally reserved man would find the sort of attention Elon is thrusting upon him sexual and alluring.

Elon chugs from his bottle of wine after finishing the last of his cake.

So. What is your name darling? And do you like blonds with enormous cocks?

Roland. And yes. He does like blond men with enormous cocks.