Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Five
Author: Livia Ellis
Date: 2013-03-01 05:00:00+00:00

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE Prologue

CHAPTER TWO London

CHAPTER THREE Mummy

CHAPTER FOUR Miss Parvati Singh

CHAPTER FIVE Kafkaesque

CHAPTER SIX One Night in Bangkok

CHAPTER SEVEN Green Lanyard

CHAPTER EIGHT Land of the Rising Sun

CHAPTER NINE Secrets and Lies

CHAPTER TEN Odysseus

CHAPTER ELEVEN Party Time

CHAPTER TWELVE Coitiōn or Coetus?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN ‘The triple pillar of the world transformed into a strumpet's fool…’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Carnival at Sea

CHAPTER FIFTEEN Partying like it’s 31BCE

CHAPTER SIXTEEN Pompeii

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Field Trip to Kyoto

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN The Ruins of Carthage

CHAPTER NINETEEN Jealousy

CHAPTER TWENTY Home

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 1001 Nights

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Awkward Moments

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE School Boy

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Schoolboy Hijinks

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Limbo

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Acceptable

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN The Truth About Harold

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT History Repeats Itself

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE First Times

CHAPTER THIRTY It's Just Lunch

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE Lotus Eater

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Final Shots

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE Hotel California

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR A Final Chance

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE Happy Halloween Oliver

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX Paris Postscript

Memoirs of a Gigolo

Volume Five

Livia Ellis

Copyright © 2014 Livia Ellis

All rights reserved.

ISBN:

ISBN-13:

My Writing Tribe

CHAPTER ONE

Prologue

If I were to think of the tale I’m attempting to tell in terms of a three act play, I could say with confidence we are reaching the end of the first act. I have introduced the main players and outlined my various and assorted troubles. I have reached a turning point at this moment. The questions which must be answered have been asked. Will I save my home? Will I marry for love? Will I marry for money? Will I beat off the onslaught from my former fiancée?

I suspect at this moment that my former fiancée is complicit in my downfall. That is how she and her father operate. They were the ultimate tag team. A pair of mask sporting luchadores ready to go to the mat against anyone that dare fuck with them. I don’t condemn her for this. This strength in her was one of the things I admired. I just wasn’t sufficiently fearful of her power – no, not that – I never believed she would turn that focused determination and annihilation against me until it happened. I was me after all. And she loved me. That she hid behind her father should have just been assumed. I’m no genius, but I thought I was at least that smart. How wrong I was!

The story moves on. We enter the second act. I am committed to my quest. I have traveled to an unknown land. My mentor is at my side. She supports me whether she wishes to or not – she is as much a part of the journey as I am.

CHAPTER TWO

London

We arrive in London just after noon on Thursday. Olga has said nothing about my meeting that afternoon with the family of my first potential bride. Either she doesn’t care, or she is in the most terrifying way imaginable, being silently passive-aggressive about the whole thing. Truthfully, I know her well enough to fear the worst.

There is a Gordian knot of a riddle wrapped up inside of that woman. I lack the balls to just slash through it with a sword. So I pluck at it with bleeding finger tips as if that might actually get me somewhere.

As I shower Olga sets out my clothes. Black suit, white shirt, and a pearl white and royal blue stripped tie I didn’t know I owned.

Is this mine? I hold up the tie.

Yes. She bought it for me.

When?

In Bath. When I was doing that thing with the car that took so long.

Trying to find a parking place?

Yes. That.

That took maybe twenty minutes. I’ve seen her shop. Nothing happens that quickly when Olga is shopping.

She moves fast when she sees something she likes. Not just for ties. Everything. She knows what she wants when she sees it. She stares at me.

Thanks? It’s a nice tie. Not really my thing. I like solids.

Solids are blah. Am I going to start fussing about her packing for us for the Japan trip? Or am I just going to cooperate?

What time are we leaving in the morning?

The car is booked for seven. Our flight leaves at eleven. We will be in Bangkok thirteen hours later. We are there for exactly thirty-six hours. Then seven hours later, we land in Tokyo.

Why aren’t we flying on a private jet again? This was sold to me with the promise of a private jet.

Do I want to squeeze the Latin Pop Star in or not?

Yes. I do.

Then we fly commercial. The taxi is waiting. We need to go.

She is not coming with me.

She picks up her handbag and slips on her sunglasses. She looks like a woman ready to go with me.

She knows she is not coming with me. Right?

She has shopping to do. She’ll drop me off.

This is acceptable. I’m all for carpooling.

Do I want her to come back around to pick me up?

No – I don’t want her to come back around to pick me up. I’m going to go and see my mother after the meeting.

She’ll go with me.

No. Not this time. Next time.

Okay. She understands. She pulls her agenda out of her bag along with the packing lists.

The packing lists are both thorough and unnerving. I have this feeling of dread in my guts when I see those lists. My Former Fiancée had those lists. They’re couple lists.

Olga peruses her lists as I sit back and ponder my destiny, fate, the nature of the universe, and whether or not I have time to get an Americano before I’m due at the Matchmaker’s offices. My mind is made up when something very obvious occurs to me. I don’t want to pull up outside the offices with a woman. What if someone sees us together? Talk about a bad first impression. I’m surprised Olga didn’t realize that. She’s aware of these subtle nuances. She is forever telling me to pay attention.

I tell the driver to drop me at the Starbuck’s near to the offices.

Olga looks up from the lists. I don’t have time for a coffee.

I’ll make time for a coffee.

It’ll make my breath smell. I don’t want that.

I’ll use a mint.

Best to go straight to the office. I don’t want to be late.

No. Stop at Starbuck’s. I want a coffee. More than that, I think it’s a bad idea for us to show up together outside of the Matchmaker’s office. Bad idea for us to be seen together.

There is a twitching around her eyes that nearly makes me scream J'accuse! I got her. She wanted us to get caught together. There is a conversation coming I do not want to have. I am so looking forward to the flight to Bangkok. With any luck I might be able to slip her a valium. She’ll sleep like the dead. We won’t get arrested on an international flight for fighting. No one with a phone will record us. We won’t end up on YouTube.

I tell the driver to drop me at the next corner. I’ll walk.

He stops the car.

I kiss Olga’s cheek. Don’t bother with my stuff. I’ll pack for myself when I get home. She has enough to worry about. I’m not her problem.

I open the door before she has a chance to object.

I close the door quickly cutting off whatever it was she wanted to say to me.

I don’t go for a coffee. I go for a brisk walk around the block to clear my head.

When the clock strikes on the hour, I walk up the steps to the Matchmaker’s offices. I’ve shaken off Olga. My head is where it needs to be. I’m my most charming self. I’m ready to woo and win a billionaire’s daughter.

As the buzzer for the door indicates I may enter (no one comes to the door for me anymore!) a two tone cream Rolls Royce Phantom catches the corner of my eye.

What do I see? A flock of dark haired women watching me. Some are in saris. One is not. Hard to get a good look at her behind the big black bug-eye sunglasses, but I’m certain that one has to be Miss Parvati Singh. My future bride.

From the distance stretched between my place at the door and the car across the street she seems lovely. So much could be bad about that. The thing about women that are not so pretty is that they are generally more pleasant to be around. They’ve had to actually make an effort to develop their personalities.

A beautiful woman just has to be beautiful. An okay or sort of pretty woman has to put in some effort to make herself appealing. This is what society teaches them.

This is especially true with Indian women. I understand I’m generalizing, but the simple truth is, there is no feature a girl can possess in Indian culture that could rival beauty. Intelligence comes second. Of course this is my opinion.

I step inside and close the door behind me. The Matchmaker’s French male secretary Guillaume greets me. He’s warmer and more welcoming than previously. We’re coworkers now. Different divisions, but still working under the same masthead. I could do his job. Probably wouldn’t make as much money, but I could do his job. Maybe what I need is a real job.

She’s on the phone. There’s tea set up in the sitting room. I’m meeting with the mother, two aunts, and one of the younger twin sisters.

Not her.

No.

Not a surprise. Could be the younger sister I saw in the car.

He noticed they were parked out front. Probably wanted to check me out in advance.

Will they want to check my teeth and have a vial of my blood for testing?

They already know I have a clean bill of health from the Doctor.

Really?

Oh, was that a joke?

That was a joke. (I force myself not to snort, but I do roll my eyes. The French.)

The Matchmaker joins us in the sitting room. Guillaume is dismissed.

I tell her she looks lovely as always and kiss her cheeks.

Honestly – why am I so charming? Very quickly. First. She is so very sorry about my mother. She truly thought I knew.

I should have known. Too many people are keeping things from me. This needs to stop.

If it helps, she’ll always be truthful with me.

This helps.

Getting down to business. We only have a few minutes. They will be late even though she knows they’re waiting out front in the car. When they ask, which they will, I work for her.

I…

She raises a silencing finger.

I work for her. She reaches in the pocket of her suit jacket and removes a small stack of business cards.

Oliver Adair – Public Relations.

I laugh. How can I not? She was serious? Public relations?

She continues briskly. Let’s be honest. I can only do so much fucking and I need to be careful about whom I take on as a client. If discretion was not an issue, she could have me booked night and day. Working for her doing client relations is an excellent cover. I am not to forget that she actually has a legitimate matchmaking business. Those clients would be very comfortable meeting with me. I’m like them. I’m not pretending to be like them. She’s going to put me on the payroll. I already have appointments in Tokyo.

Is she quite serious?

Yes.

What does she want me to do?

Interview clients. Bring in new business. It’s a job. A legitimate job that will pay me a real salary. It will explain why I am spending time in her offices and traveling around to meet with a variety of people on their own turf. It’s truly the perfect cover.

I can do this.

Of course I can.

The doorbell rings.

I slip the cards in my pocket. They’re another piece of my armor. The cards are a thick cream paper with black script print – I rather like them. Simple and elegant. The sort of thing I would have if I did have a real job. If I did have a real job it would be doing something like public relations for a small boutique firm. Why don’t I have a job again? Am I really that much of a lazy bastard? I have a new identity to hide behind. Or maybe an identity to grow into.

I stand and wait for the Singh women.

They walk in with their jewel toned saris fluttering like butterfly wings. They’re all quite tiny.

I am introduced to each lady based on her importance. The younger sister is not the woman I saw in the car. She’s not as pretty.

We are invited to sit by the matchmaker. She and Mrs. Singh and her sister Mrs. Harayama do the bulk of the talking. There is much talk of the weather and everyone’s health. I speak when spoken to.

Yes – I do enjoy working.

Yes – I would be willing to work for Mr. Singh in his enterprises.

Yes – I understand that my children would be raised as Hindu.

Yes – I’m a tiger that has quite changed his stripes.

Yes – I am convinced having the Matchmaker seek out a bride for me was the wise choice as I have no women in my family capable of seeking a bride for me.

Yes – it is terrible my mother is so very ill.

Yes – this is the reason why I have decided it is time to settle down with a proper lady that would make an appropriate wife.

Yes – it is my intention to care for her not only because it is my obligation as her son, but because it is the right thing to do.

These are all very good answers.

I am handed a picture of Miss Parvati Singh.

She is stunning. For certain she is the young woman I saw in the car. In the picture she is wearing a teal and orange sari covered in turquoise and ruby gems. Her eyes are the color of honey, her skin is creamy, her hair is black and shines like silk.

I look at Mrs. Singh and tell her the truth. Miss Singh is truly beautiful. I would be the luckiest man in the world to have such a perfect wife.

This makes all of the women smile.

I am given a list of facts about Parvati.

•She is twenty-six years of age. Perhaps a bit old, but as I can see she is none the less still very beautiful.

•She was educated in the United States at Stanford University.

•She currently lives in London, but she is a very traditional girl with traditional values.

•She is very fond of her charity work.

•She is a virgin.

•She comes with a more than acceptable dowry.

•Would I be interested in meeting Miss Singh?

Yes. I would like to meet Miss Singh.

The Matchmaker takes over again and I am left to sit silently. A meeting will be arranged for a time after I’ve returned from a business trip in Japan.

This is very good. Very good indeed. Mr. Singh will be very pleased that I am a man that is not incapable of doing work.

The meeting is over. Mrs. Singh offers me a hand with I take, then move down the line to the other ladies with the younger sister last. When are palms touch, she slips a folded piece of paper in my hand.

When they are gone I open the note.

Tonight. Nine sharp. Cocktails. Amaranto. Parvati.

When the women are gone I show the note to the Matchmaker.

Not surprising. Miss Singh is perhaps a touch more modern than her mother let on.

This is good.

Just don’t let mama catch me. That could throw a spanner into the works.

I’ll be discrete.

CHAPTER THREE

Mummy

The original plan had been to go directly to Aunt Lucy’s place in Croydon, spend the afternoon with mummy, then head home to sort myself out to leave in the morning.

But I need to change. I need to be a different person for Parvati than I was for her mother.

When I get home, Olga is still out.

Elizabeth and Mi-Young are lurking about.

They help me decide what would be good to go from day to evening. Tan trousers, slim fit dress shirt in midnight blue, stripped aviator scarf (that I’m tempted to pitch as soon as I’m away from them – I look like a pirate), simple brown leather jacket.

They stand back and study me. I’m free to go.

Are they absolutely certain?

Yes. I may go.

I give each of them a kiss on the cheek then take off. I’ll admit I rush. I want to be out the door before I run into Olga. My head is where it needs to be to meet Parvati. I don’t need Olga coming along and confusing me. I’ll admit it. I’d very nearly reached the point when we were together in the country that I considered marrying for love alone rather than duty or family. I don’t need that right now.

The trip to Croydon takes about forty minutes not including a stop for flowers.

Aunt Lucy lives in an apartment behind the butcher’s shop that used to belong to my grandfather. The shop is long closed and news stand operated by a Pakistani family is in its place. They complain about the rent and want to buy the building. Aunt Lucy has common sense enough to know not to sell. That rental income supplements her and Uncle Harvey’s income. And now it takes care of mum.

When I see mum for the first time since our blowout after dad’s funeral I’m a boy again. Looking at my beautiful mummy who has lived her life being compared in looks to Joanna Lumley I’m transported to my childhood. I don’t see the resemblance. I think my mummy is much prettier. No offence to Joanna Lumley.

My beautiful mummy. Butcher’s daughter turned model turned countess. It’s no wonder my father fell in love with her. How could he not?

She’s far too thin and her cheek feels like paper when I kiss her.

She wants to apologize for the fight after dad’s funeral. She wants to apologize for a lot of things.

I don’t want her to. I was wrong. We were both hurting. Enough said.

It’s sunny outside so we go for a walk. I walk and push her in her chair. This is not as hard for me as I imagined it would be. In fact I’m rather pragmatic about the whole thing. I can’t wonder if I’m becoming desensitized to the constant blows.

We take a spin around the park near Aunt Lucy’s place. I give her my pirate scarf. She likes it. She can have it. We talk about crap. I tell her about my “job”. She’s very proud of me going out and finding work. I’m not nearly as precious as my grandparents wanted me to believe. Not that I’m not precious. I am precious. But I’m not some hot-house flower. Did I know I look just like my dad?

I’ve taken up rose gardening.

This makes her laugh and cry a little. Not what I wanted, but in the end it’s all okay.

I take her home when she starts to get tired. Aunt Lucy has tea and fairy cakes for us.

We talk about Cousin Margaret’s upcoming wedding and my decision to go.

They both agree I should go.

I ask mum if she wants to go with me.

She doesn’t want to be a lot of bother.

She won’t be a bother in the slightest. I’ll sort it all out.

That would be very nice. But don’t go to too much trouble.

I promise to return when I’m back from Japan. With presents.

Aunt Lucy walks me to the door. She pulls a roll of hundred pound bills out of the pocket of her pinny.

Where did Harvey really get this from?

Elon. Really.

The money goes back into her pocket. I’m going to pay him back as soon as I can?

Of course I will.

She gives me a hug and a kiss. Hands me a few fairy cakes wrapped in a paper kitchen towel which I stash in my messenger bag. All is better in my world than it has been in a long time.

CHAPTER FOUR

Miss Parvati Singh

I take the tube to Mayfair. I have time to kill so I don’t rush. I want to be early even though I’m absolutely certain she’ll be late. I get a text from Olga as I’m switching from the tube lines. Where am I? When am I going to be home? What about dinner?

Fuck me. I text her back. Just finished with mum. Having dinner out. Will be in late.

I put my phone in my pocket on silent. I don’t want this now.

I arrive at the Four Season’s in good time.

I run into fucking Booth Buxton in the lobby. Twat. I hated him at school and I still hate him. Works for the government. MI5. He gives me a card. Twat. Then I give him one of mine. Twat. Give me some business cards and I become a twat. Amazing.

What the devil am I doing working for a dating service? He recognizes the name. He’s sure he does.

I want to punch him.

He knows the name. The old noodle is still working. Man to man… Isn’t it true some very very exclusive company can be booked through the agency? Is that what I’m doing?

What does he mean? (I need to think twice about passing out cards)

Am I the one planning those parties he’s heard about? They’re like this urban legend. All very Eyes Wide Shut freaky deaky shit. All Venetian masks, passwords at the door, and fit models itching to fuck.

I might know something about this. (Note to self – get a copy of Eyes Wide Shut)

Any chance I could get him on the invite list?

That might be possible. (Do I at long last have something to dangle in front of that odious Booth Buxton?)

That would be damn fine! Damn fine indeed!

A woman walks up to us. She’s obviously pregnant. Booth Buxton – twat – introduces me to his wife.

I’ll be certain to give him a call if something opens up.

He gives me a man to man wink then walks off with his wife.

Twat.

I find a table in the bar that has a view of the door. I order a drink. I wait. At nine-twenty she arrives.

She’s petite and perfectly formed. She’s wearing a gold silk sheath dress that shimmers rather than sparkles, under a black silk coat with shining red shoes. The mass of her black hair plus the shoes make her appear taller than she is.

I could marry this woman on looks alone.

Who am I when I greet her? I’m not James Bond. I’m my grandfather. I’m polite, gentlemanly, and courteous. I treat her like the princess she thinks she is. I take her coat, I offer her a chair, I order her drink. We talk.

She’s certain I’m very nice, but she has a boyfriend.

Oh. Okay.

But her family will never let her marry her boyfriend. He’s a musician. She could marry him, but they’d cut her off and she’d be broke. That she cannot have.

Fair enough.

She likes the idea of being a countess. What are my thoughts on her boyfriend?

As long as she doesn’t have any issue with my seeing someone, then we’re all good.

Man or woman?

Woman.

Fine. She can live with that.

Would it have mattered if it was a man?

Sort of. She’d really like for me to fall desperately in love with her and that won’t really happen if I’m gay.

Okay. What does her boyfriend think of her wanting another man to fall desperately in love with her?

She shrugs and takes a long drink of her martini. She doesn’t really care what he thinks. He’s black and he has an enormous dick. Her parents hate him.

Because he’s black or because he’s a musician?

Both. They’re bigots.

They don’t like black people? (this is worrying)

They don’t like poor people. But I’m okay. Because I’m an earl.

Good to know. I take it she’s not actually a virgin?

I didn’t actually believe her mother did I?

Just so we’re clear, I need to be the actual father of my children. I will not raise some other man’s bastards.

Not a problem. She made her black boyfriend with the big dick have a vasectomy.

She made her black boyfriend with the big dick have a vasectomy.

Yes.

How long have they been together?

Six months.

Six months. So she got him to have a vasectomy after being together only six months.

She got him to have a vasectomy after only two months. Poor people are funny. They’ll do almost anything for money. In fact, she’s pretty sure poor people will do anything for money.

How much is the going rate for infertility?

She has dresses that cost more. So here’s the deal. Her family approves of me. They think I’m a good catch. They like the idea of me being both royal and poor. I’m the exception to their ‘we hate poor people’ stance. It makes me easier to control. She wants to get married in India which immediately means it can’t happen before next fall. Spring is too soon and summer is too hot.

A year?

Yes. Is that a problem?

I suppose not. I was hoping to get married sooner.

Because of my ruinous debt?

Well… yes actually.

I’ll have to figure out a way to manage until then.

Fortunately I have a job.

So we’re decided then?

Yes.

Good. I’m cute. She got a room. Do I want to go up with her? Sort of give me a test drive. She read in Cosmopolitan that a girl should always test drive a car before she buys one. Seems a reasonable thing to do with a man.

Just so I’m clear, she wants to go upstairs and fuck?

Yes.

Her black boyfriend with the big dick shooting blanks isn’t waiting up in the room to beat the shit out of me for daring to dream the dream of falling madly in love with her?

No. He thinks she’s having dinner with her parents.

I finish my G&T in one gulp and set the glass down with a thump. Let’s kick the tires and see if it’s a sale.

As we walk she comes just past my shoulder even in her heels. She’s so tiny it makes me laugh. I love it. I’ve never dated a tiny woman before. Not that I could possibly call our half-hour over cocktails dating. We’ve already skipped to engaged. Sort of. There’s that bit with her family actually knowing we’ve met.

Where does her family think she is?

On a plane to New York to go trousseau shopping with her younger sisters. She’s flying to meet them in the morning. As much as she hates flying commercial, it was worth it to get a chance to check me out properly.

Isn’t she worried her parents will find out? I’m assuming she was supposed to fly in their jet. Won’t someone tell on her?

They wouldn’t dare. Besides, she’s very well practiced at deceit.

Good to know. A quality every man wants in a future wife.

The snarky comments are funny up to a point, but it’s a little annoying after a while. (For a brief and fleeting moment I miss Olga – I miss the fact my snarky comments tend to fly right past her. I’m not saying she’s dumb, but she didn’t go to Stanford like Parvati. Some things tend to get lost on Olga making being a snarky little bastard that much more fun.)

Sorry. It’s my defense mechanism. I go to it when I’m nervous. I fear I won’t measure up to her black boyfriend with the big dick.

I won’t. But I shouldn’t be nervous. She’s really not expecting much. Truthfully she knows her beauty is intimidating and she won’t judge me if I fail to perform adequately. She’s not saying I’ll get used to her beauty, but I’ll grow accustomed to being around it.

How fun! (I keep that snarky comment to myself)

The room she’s secured is a suite. The lights are on. She clearly got ready for the evening in the room.

I take off my messenger bag and set it on the ground.

I excuse myself and go to the cavernous bathroom. I lock myself in the toilet for privacy and check my phone.

Two texts from Olga and a few missed calls. They all run along the lines of where am I. Not good on many levels.

Two texts and a missed call from Elon. Olga thinks we’re together. Next time I need him to cover my ass, warn him. Fortunately he’s home alone getting drunk. He’s considering hiring a hit man to take out Renata and her fetus.

I text both of them.

Olga: I’m out for the evening. Will see her in the morning when we leave for the airport.

Elon: At what point did I end up in a relationship with Olga? Met Parvati. Beautiful but sort of a bitch. She wants to fuck me. Was compared to giving a new car a test drive. Keep covering with Olga. Will call from Bangkok.

Response from Elon: What the fuck is going on? She was very where the fuck is my man but nice.

Me to Elon: I’m fucking cursed. Ran into Booth Buxton.

Response from Elon: Cunthammer. What is that insufferable prick doing?

Me to Elon: Wanted to know if I could get him into Eyes Wide Shut orgies. Must watch movie once and for all. Ass hole asks me and then his PREGNANT wife makes appearance.

Response from Elon: You’ve never seen Eyes Wide Shut? Do you live in a cave?

Me to Elon: Apparently.

Response from Elon: Can you get us into orgies?

Me to Elon: Actually I think I might just have the right connections now.

Response from Elon: Fuck yes! You will hook us up!

Me to Elon: I’ll call from Bangkok. Must dash. Don’t want her to think I’m having massive shit.

I leave the bathroom after a final text to the Matchmaker – What does she know about Parvati’s boyfriend? Is this guy going to be a problem? Will call her from Bangkok.

Parvati is in the bedroom laid out like an odalisque on the bed wearing only a layer of sparkling gold body shimmer. And her shoes.

I’m impressed. I’ll give her that. I’m not certain if she expects me to faint from shock at the sight of her actually pretty good body or if I’m to ravage her. I reach inside of my soul for some guidance. The tuneful voice of Timothy Dalton (yes – my inner voice is starting to sound like Timothy Dalton – all rounded woody Welsh tones – note to self; ask the Psychiatrist if this is a sign I’m starting to go funny in the head) tells me to just go for it. Show her that white boys can pack it in the trouser area too.

I drop my clothes like snotty tissue. Instantly I’m into this. I could fist pump the air and shout to the heavens. I’m back. I’m going to bone a girl I’ve only met thirty minutes prior. Whatever that fog was hanging on in my head for the past few days is shaken free. I’m back. I’m me again. I don’t need Olga to do my job, pack my suitcase, or wonder where I am when I’m not home by ten. Ridiculous. Even if she was my girlfriend that sort of nonsense would not fly.

I give Parvati a good look of what I have to offer. She’s not the only one in the room that has something to offer. I’m some kind of beautiful too.

I appreciate the slightly widened eyes and the curved smile.

So? (I point just to make sure she understands) Thoughts?

She crooks her finger at me and gives me a wink.

I dive into it. Despite my best efforts, Parvati is either an unresponsive lover, I’m terrible in bed, or she’s a bad lover. She’s one of those women that think being beautiful is enough. She doesn’t have to make any effort. So I do all of the work. Fine. I think of this as I would any other paid assignment. I make certain she gets her money’s worth then finish off.

She gets up from the bed and starts roaming around. I drift off.

The sound of Parvati talking wakes me with a start. She’s cooing like a baby into her mobile while walking around in a short robe and a pair of fluffy kitten heel mules. I very nearly throw a pillow at her and tell her to shut the fuck up because I’m trying to sleep. But I don’t. I’ve made strides with Miss Singh. So I put the pillow over my head and squirm deeper under the bedding.

Before I disappear into the cotton cloud of bedding, I pick up my watch. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I fly out of bed.

Parvati gives me a look.

I silently mumble my fuck fuck fuck mantra as I pull my clothing on as quickly as I can. It’s just after five. I have to get home and get packed to be out the door in less than two hours.

Parvati finishes her call. Where am I going?

Japan I told her this. I have a business trip.

Boring. Go to New York with her. Could be fun. I could carry her handbag.

Fun as that sounds, unless she wants to get married tomorrow I need to earn money to hold my creditors at bay.

How much money do I want?

How much money do I want to go to New York with her and blow off work? Is that what’s she’s asking me?

Yes. How much?

Is that how she got her boyfriend to get a vasectomy?

Yes.

I’m not for sale.

She thought I was. Why else would I go to a matchmaker? I’m not Indian.

Because I’m smart. Look. I found her didn’t I? (Even at five in the morning a little flattery goes a long way with a woman that didn’t take her mascara off before fucking) What more could I want? How many bars would I have had to prowl to get so lucky?

A million.

Precisely. I have to go. Should I call her? Pretend we never met?

Pretend we never met. Her parents will sort it out with the Matchmaker. Bring her a gift. Something nice. She doesn’t like cheap gifts. Nothing stupid like flowers. She likes jewelry. Nice jewelry. Not trinkets. Do any jewels come with being a countess or have I pawned them all?

There are jewels. I have not pawned the jewels. I’m not that desperate.

Nice jewels?

Yes. There are some nice pieces. I think my mother still has most of them.

Get them back.

My mother is sick. I’m not going to ask for her jewelry box.

Is there a tiara?

Yes – but I need to get it back from my Former Fiancée.

That fat Scottish cow?

Bit mean, but yes.

Get it back. She wants a tiara. She’ll wear it for her sisters’ wedding. That’ll make them grind their teeth. Who has a double wedding? Honestly.

I’ll do my best. (So looking forward to making that call!)

She doesn’t want to hear do my best. Just do it.

What are her thoughts on beating servants?

If only it were legal. Then they’d probably not screw up so often.

I have few weddings and things coming up. My cousin Margaret for one. Does she want to go with me?

No. No interest.

I’m planning on going with a plus one. If not her I’ll find someone else.

Clearly she needs to explain the situation to me – until the date is set and the engagement is announced, she doesn’t care what I do and with who. Clear? Just get the tiara back for her sisters’ wedding.

When is the wedding?

Valentine’s Day if I can believe it. Nauseating. Cliché. They even have matching dresses. Barf.

Where?

India. We’ll announce the engagement the week before.

Shouldn’t we wait until after the wedding? Might be a bit more polite.

No. What am I stupid? The point is to make them jealous.

I’m not stupid I have manners and we’re not going to announce our engagement in the most attention seeking manner possible.

When I’m in the lobby tell someone call a car for her. A nice car. Not a crappy limo that smells like a hen party and mojito vomit. She needs to get to the airport.

Polite Oliver nearly says something like Oh of course. Not a problem. Living in the cold hard world Oliver that has a very real understanding of the need to set some ground rules takes charge.

The voice of Timothy Dalton silently urges me on in the depths of my head offering me nuggets of wisdom on how to be really fucking sexy. Per instruction, I take Parvati in my arms, dip her back as if we were dancing some lude tango, kiss her on the throat, nip her earlobe with my teeth, then kiss her. With a quick flip, I return her to her feet, give her a smack on the bottom which elicits a rather delighted OOOOOHHHHHH, then step back.

I’m not her servant. Don’t give me orders. Ask me nicely. Please and such works marvels with me.

Tell. Someone. To. Get. A. Car. For. Her. Understand?

Incorrigible brat. I grab her and pull her back over my knee as I sit on the bed. I flip up the hem of that short robe of hers and expose her bare bottom. Just to be clear, I would not have given her a paddling if she hadn’t given my first smack on the bottom such a delighted oh. Clearly princess is into being disciplined.

I’m not going to say that I believe the situation was wholly unsalvageable. I just knew that we needed to be on the same page before there would be any chance at going forward.

My hand makes contact with her round bottom. There is a resounding smack and an equally sharp ahhh.

I move to push her off of me, but she stops me.

She’s fairly certain she’s been very bad.

I have no doubt.

Of all of the sexual situations I’ve been in, this is actually a first for me. Unbelievable I know. But I’ve never been into spanking. Probably because I’ve never been with a woman (or man) that truly needed a spanking. Parvati desperately needed a spanking.

So I gave her one. And I think I liked it almost as much as she did. I gave her a smack, then a rub, then a smack.

She moves a little and I think we’re done. Honestly she a brat, but I don’t want to hurt her.

Instead of getting off of me, she opens her thighs.

An action plan develops. One that will leave her wanting more Ollie-Love – the greatest love of all! Hah, what am I on about? Honestly…

So what do I do? I start using my fingers on her. Just a little. Personally I don’t think that boyfriend of hers is TCB because she’s really up for this. And if she likes this and he’s not doing it then maybe we might be able to find new ground to start on.

Her clit is easy to find. I tap it with the tip of my finger while my other hand pinches her bottom. She likes this.

I pay attention to what’s happening. When the orgasm starts to build in her I pull back. I start spanking again. Then I go back to fingering. She screams when I touch her anus.

No one touches her there.

Does she want me to not touch her there?

Uhhh… maybe?

How about she just tells me no if it bothers her? Can we agree to that?

Yes.

Yes what?

(she hesitates for a moment) Yes please?

Very good. (I could seriously get into this – what a revelation that is)

I slip a finger up to the first joint into her. Then I give her another whack. She’s rubbing her bare mound against the fabric of my trousers. With a small adjustment I can touch her clit without removing my finger.

When she is just about to orgasm, I stop like a true evil bastard. I nearly laugh a sort of bwahahaha laugh just for effect.

I set madam on her feet then stand.

But…

Yes darling?

But we’re not done.

I’m done. She can sort herself out when I’ve gone.

But… (The look of something sort of like confusion mingled with wanton frustration on her face makes me smile) Don’t I understand? She’s not finished.

I understand perfectly. In fact, lovely as she is, I just don’t think it’s going to work out between us. I can tolerate a lot, but I’m not going to be a servant in my own marriage. We have to start out with some sort of mutual respect or we won’t even make it out of the gate. Clearly her developing manners doesn’t seem to be in the offing, so best we draw a line under the proposal without any hesitation.

Excuse her?

I check my watch. Fuck. I have to go. I’ll let the Matchmaker know I don’t think we’re a match. I can’t marry a woman that finds saying please to go against her natural grain. Also, let’s be honest, she’s a bit of a selfish lover. I like there to be a bit more give and take in the sack. Not that she was bad, but I can see where the whole me me me thing might get boorish after a while. Oh – and I’m not going to marry anyone with a boyfriend. I check my watch again. I really have to go.

I shoulder my messenger bag and head out the door. I don’t know if I’m ever going to see Parvati Singh again, but I do know that I will not marry a woman that treats me like a servant.

CHAPTER FIVE

Kafkaesque

When I arrive home it’s just six. I figure I have an hour to throw as much clothing as I can into as many suitcases as I can locate, shower, and get my ass downstairs for the taxi.

The house is dark and the alarm is set. I nearly break my neck tripping over the pile of luggage in the dark entry way. When I turn on a light I see three distinct piles. One for each of the groups leaving for destinations on all points of the map that morning.

Olga’s packed for me. That or she requires ten suitcases to go anywhere that requires a clothing change. Which is wholly possible.

I edge around the suitcases and make my way up the stairs. My bedroom door is open and the lights are on. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Olga comes out of the bathroom wearing a slim black skirt and black sweater with a scarf tied around her throat. Her hair is hanging like an oil slick down her back and her blue eyes are cutting like diamond tipped saws. She’s been crying. I hate myself.

Where have I been? And don’t even try to lie to me. She knows perfectly well I was not with Elon unless Elon has moved into The Four Seasons.

Huh? How the fuck…

Latitude. Stop being so dense.

What the fuck is Latitude?

It’s on my phone. It’s a Google thing.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and look at my bewildered expression in the black glass of the screen.

She knows perfectly well I’ve been at The Four Seasons since about nine. And don’t think she didn’t find out when she called the bar that I was there with some short Indian woman for less than a half-hour before we left.

What the fuck?

Who was she? Who was the Indian woman in the gold dress that had a vodka martini while I had a gin and tonic?

I am not having this conversation with her right now. I need a shower.

Because I reek of sex?

Not having this conversation. Not now not ever.

But it’s not going to end. I know it’s not. No man ever extracted himself from an angry woman by announcing that he was not going to have a conversation with her. She follows me into the bathroom.

Where was I?

I was at The Four Seasons with Parvati Singh.

Did I fuck her?

Yes.

Why?

Because she very well might become my wife and quite frankly the offer was put on the table and I didn’t think it would be the gentlemanly thing to do to turn her down.

I step into the shower as Olga berates me for being, amongst other things, a man. The litany of crimes against me as an individual and all men as a less than admiral subspecies continues as I quickly shower.

Olga continues to berate me as I dry off.

Do I know I have a love bite on my ass?

Yes. She put it there.

Oh. Still…

No. No still. Enough. She tried to trick me and I know it. I’m not dumb.

She did not try to trick me.

I need to get married. I thought she understood this.

She understands perfectly well that I need to get married. She thought I had finally realized that marrying for money was stupid and that people should only marry for love.

And what would marrying for love and love alone cost me? Has she even thought about this?

Of course she’s thought about this. Have I thought about what I’m giving up by putting money before love?

Yes. Yes I have. Has she ever considered that no love is worth having to give up everything that has meaning in my life? And that if I did give up everything that has meaning for a life what might happen to that love? That I might eventually grow to resent and hate the person I once loved because I gave up everything that mattered for them? Has she even considered this?

Love makes any sacrifice worth it.

No. No it doesn’t. Has she actually ever been in love? Has she?

Well no. Not really.

How about this? How about she shut the fuck up about love conquering all? When she’s actually been in love and she realizes that love doesn’t conquer all then we can have this conversation. What matters, more than love, is continuity and family. Lots of Adairs on down the line married for reasons other than love and does she know what happened to them?

No.

They lived happy lives. They had children. They had grandchildren.

What about my parents? They married for love.

Oh my god. I am not having this conversation. My parents got married because my mother was three months pregnant with me and my grandfather went after my father with a butcher’s knife.

They didn’t love each other?

On the contrary. They were very much in love with each other. So much so they didn’t have much place in their lives for me. Now can we end this conversation now? Because I’m not interested in having it.

What about love? Nobody should marry for money. They should only marry for love.

And the carousel turns again.

There is nothing more surreal than being confronted in the wee hours of the morning by an angry woman that has a different idea about the nature of your relationship than you do. Add to that the fact I'm exhausted and the whole thing turns Kafkaesque.

The walls are green.

No the walls are not green - they are verdigris.

But that's green.

No. The sky is purple not orange.

Do my fucking head in.

CHAPTER SIX

One Night in Bangkok

How does one define hell? Dante gave it a good crack. But Dante never spent twelve hours locked in a crowded airplane with an angry woman strapped into the seat next to him. And not a reasonably roomy first-class seat with privacy screens. No. Karma had shown up to bite me in the ass for lying to Olga. As she frequently told me during our twelve hour voyage of the damned.

How did it begin? The flight was overbooked. We were lucky to get seats at all. Somehow. Someway. We ended up in economy. It was that or strapped to the wing. The only seats that were available were in the middle of a row. There we sat. Packed in like ear-buds in a box.

When she wasn’t bitching, moaning, and stealing my dried out chocolate cake, she was silent. But not just silent. It was an accusing silence filled with stony recriminations.

The only moment she let up, was that period of time she fell asleep with her head on my shoulder. I looked down at her and I could see the dark circles beneath the makeup. I shouldn’t have fucked Parvati. It seemed like a great idea at the time, but in retrospect it wasn’t worth it.

The silent reprieve only lasts so long. She’s awake and charging at me like a jousting knight. I pretend to sleep. That does it. Not even she will wake me from a sound sleep. Besides, she scribbling furiously in her diary. No doubt about me. Angry words in her tidy flowery Cyrillic script. Oh to hear her thoughts! They probably sound much more forceful in Russian than they do when they’re filtered into English.

The plane can’t land soon enough. We’re on the ground just after six in the morning local time. Familiar faces greet us. The Security Guard and Wardrobe are there. We’re packed off into a car and others are left to manage our bags.

Olga is charming and pleasant during the ride. I’m mostly silent. We get to the hotel. We are taken to the suite of rooms. They smell of vanilla, the air is moist with humidity, and the temperature is nearly uncomfortably warm. The Manager is waiting. Twat is wearing a silk dressing gown and looks like Hugh Heffner.

I barely acknowledge the Manager. I go directly to the set of double doors that have to lead to the master bedroom. I slip inside and shut the door behind me. I very nearly lock it, but I think that’s against the rules.

The Latin Pop Star is stretched out on the bed sound asleep. The TV is on, but the volume is turned down.

I go to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and wash the previous twenty-four hours off of me.

I dry off then discard the towel. As quietly as I can, I adjust the temperature in the room so it’s slightly cooler. My toe pushes the button on the humidifier. The stream of steam stops.

I find a place for myself on the bed.

The Latin Pop Star mumbles a bit, moves, throws an arm over me, gives my shoulder a lazy kiss, asks me about my flight.

Fucking sucked. Don’t want to talk about it. Couldn’t have gotten off the plane soon enough.

His hand grabs my cock and starts stroking me. Too tired for this?

Not if he’s planning on doing the work.

He starts kissing me as he strokes me.

I think of Parvati and her pure selfishness. Am I being like that? No. I don’t think so. I think it’s perfectly fine on occasion to just let yourself be had when the rest of the time you bring it to the bedroom.

He rolls me over onto my stomach, opens my knees until they’re at an angle to my body, warms the lube in his hand, then opens me up.

He slides inside of me and I’ve once again found a slice of heaven. I’m open and filled and feel a sexual awakening occur throughout my body. I’m still tired, but this energy exists separately from that.

As he has me he is thoroughly attentive. This is what a good lover should do. I consider taking notes for Parvati. But I could give a fuck about her at that moment. What I want is the LPS just as he is forever. Fuck women. They’re nothing but trouble.

I ejaculate onto the mattress as he shuddered and shivers to his own climax inside of me.

He rests inside of me for a long moment then rises and goes to the bathroom.

When he returns it’s all about me.

I stay stretched out on my stomach. I'm so comfortable it's like I'm wrapped in cloud. The LPS strokes my back, randomly dotting my skin with kisses. It was just so easy. No stress. No being yelled at.

Do I want to sleep? Do I want breakfast?

Can I lie in bed and do nothing?

I can do that. He's going to order breakfast.

I watch him move out of the bed to the door as best I can without moving my head. In the daylight he's still as goodlooking as he was in the night.

What am I doing arsing around with these women? These women give me nothing but grief. Henry Higgins was right. Women = eternal strife.

This is why men are good. Men don't have the same issues women have.

The LPS slips on a pair of white stretchy boxers that glow against his tanned skin then returns to the bed. He turns on the television that I'd turned off, but keeps the volume low.

What happened on the flight?

Fuck. The flight was oversold. We ended up in economy stuck in the middle of the row. Blah. Blah. Blah.

I should have gone with him. I would have liked Singapore.

I had to go see my mother. (This comes out without passing through my internal filter. I don't know if it's because I'm exhausted or I've forgotten I'm on the clock, but it comes out.)

Why?

She's sick.

Seriously sick?

Yes.

His mother has cancer. Nobody knows that. It's really hard.

I don't say anything. I don't need to. Linking little fingers is enough. I get it. We have this thing together that other people couldn't understand unless they're going through it too. Maybe it's different for men. We're both men. We're losing our mothers. We get what the other is experiencing. Not talking about it helps. Women never seem to get this. Talking doesn't always help. Silence is good.

I don't fall asleep so much as I drift into a trance while he watches whatever it is that makes him happy. There is this sort of surreal moment when MTV or whatever the local equivalent is on (probably MTV actually) is broadcasting one of the LPS's videos and he starts humming/singing along. Surreal.

Breakfast comes. I eat more than I thought I would. I come awake.

We start talking. And talking. The mother thing has opened a Pandora's box.

I tell him about my search for a wife.

He thought I was gay.

I'm more gay than straight. (For certain at that moment I am – the idea of having to spend any concentrated time with a woman leaves me cold) I explain the situation. I need a son an for that I need a wife.

He gets it. He lives a double life. I don't have to explain. But he does want details.

I tell him about Parvati and delve only a bit into the increasingly complicated dynamic between myself and Olga.

I spanked her?

Yes. I was so pissed off I spanked her.

But she was into it.

Yes. She was really into it.

Would I be willing to spank him?

Sure. I didn’t realize he was into that.

He’s not. Might be fun.

Have I googled her?

Actually no.

He grabs his tablet from the nightstand. A few swipes of the finger later and we’re reading my Wikipedia page.

Why me? Seriously – why me?

He googled me. He googles everyone. Except Olga. Olga is nowhere on the internet. He knows her name is really Olga and not Anastasia.

Really? Interesting. Everyone is somewhere on the internet.

Not Olga. He knows all about me. He knows about my Former Fiancée, my financial problems, and my notorious reputation with the ladies. Am I really into men, or am I with him for the money? (he’s so sweetly sincere when he asks me this that I wish the truth were enough to sooth any misgivings he might have)

I’m really into men. I really am. Honestly I don’t like the money thing with us. I don’t. I seem to be getting enough clients. Maybe we can work something else out. Something that might continue after I get married. I’ve had enough of women causing me grief.

My being married would be a good cover.

There’s a knock at the door. He calls out. I flip the sheet over my dick. The Manager walks in wearing a suit rather than that idiotic silk robe. Olga is behind him. She’s changed into a dress and a pair of her extra tall shoes. I know her well enough by now to know she wore the shoes purposefully to make The Manager seem small. That or he’s in to being dominated. Actually – that makes a lot of sense.

They’re going out. Everything we need is coming to us. We are not to go out wandering. Check the pad for the schedule. The trainer is coming soon enough. Get out of bed. Get dressed. Don’t lie around looking like we’ve been fucking all morning.

I don’t look at Olga and she doesn’t look at me. She’s got those big bug eye sunglasses of hers on and she’s playing with her phone.

The clock is ticking. Which means we need to get up. Do we understand this? He does not want us in bed when the trainer arrives.

The LPS takes his tablet and throws it at the manager who actually catches it.

The tablet is set on a table.

Get up.

The Manager leaves with Olga without another word.

The LPS gets out of bed and walks into the main room of the suite, picking up his tablet on the way. I follow him after putting on underwear. Makeup and Wardrobe are there drinking coffee and fiddling with their pads.

I’m greeted warmly then the two of them go into the bedroom with their bags for the bedding.

Creepy thinking someone might actually make an effort to scour the sheets for evidence of DNA.

It happens. What are my thoughts on boutique hotels?

I don’t have thoughts on boutique hotels. I prefer the homogeny and cleanliness of large luxury chains.

Do I know what a boutique hotel is?

Small, independently owned, luxury hotel. They’re usually pretty pricey. Nice. Good for a dirty weekend. But in this economy you get just as nice for less at a chain. Besides, at least with a Hilton you know what you’re getting.

His cousin wants to open a boutique hotel. He needs a million dollars.

I laugh spontaneously. Rest assured – I’ll never ask him for a million dollars for a boutique hotel.

What about a muffin café?

I laugh loudly. Or a muffin café. What is a muffin café anyway?

A place that sells only muffins. Like a cookie place with muffins. Cigar bar?

Dear god no.

Bubble tea shops?

Is this the same cousin that keeps asking for money for these things or is it many cousins?

All of his family. He supports all of them.

Oh sweetheart…

They always seem like such good ideas. Have I ever had bubble tea? It’s really good. How could it fail? But it did.

What does the Manager have to say about this?

It’s his money. He can do with it what he wants.

Does he want a suggestion? From someone that knows very little to nothing about business and is marrying a total bitch for financial salvation?

Sure.

Actually, he should probably say no, but here goes. Ask them for a business plan. If they don’t have a business plan then tell them you can’t make a decision without one. If they give him a business plan have the Manager look at it.

The Manager always says no.

He’s a twat but I suspect he understands business very well.

He hates saying no to his family.

Such is the curse of having a kind and loving heart.

Family is very important to him.

Of course it is.

What should he do?

(Not ask me what to do? Okay – ummm…. What to do… Okay… what do celebrities do?) Why not start some kind of foundation for his mother? The next time a family member wants money to do something tell them all of your extra money is tied up in that. Which I don’t even know if that’s possible, but that’s really doing something for your family that doesn’t involve boutique hotels or cigar bars.

Do I mean like a charity?

Exactly. Like a charity.

This is a good idea. Better than another Cuban restaurant in Miami.

Probably.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Green Lanyard

Olga continues to treat me as if I am either part of the furniture or wholly inconsequential. I do notice she’s wearing a string of diamonds around her neck. I wonder if that’s new.

I stand outside the line of yellow tape with my green lanyard hanging around my neck.

It is no less a marvel watching the LPS perform this time as it was the last time.

The Manager walks up to me. He stands next to my elbow for a moment before speaking.

Was the foundation my bright idea?

Yeah – sorry about that. I shouldn’t have said anything but there was talk of a boutique hotel and a million dollars for some cousin. It just seems like such a bad idea.

Probably not as bad as the purse rental business, but still bad. And more expensive.

I am sorry. He caught me off guard. I’ll be prepared next time.

The foundation idea is a good one. I need to keep my good ideas to myself in the future, but he’ll let that one slide.

I’m sort of surprised the LPS doesn’t already have some kind of foundation that is used to filter all sorts of tax revenue through.

He does. Time to start using it properly.

To help women with cancer?

To manage the family. Too bad it isn’t a sexy disease.

Because there is sexy cancer as opposed to unsexy cancer?

The mother has stomach cancer. Not sexy.

He’s a troll.

Yes. Probably. Next time he needs me to have a good idea, he’ll let me know what it is. Until then, keep my creative thinking to myself. I’m supposed to be doing a job and not offering financial advice.

What do I think as I stand there? I haven’t been paid yet. That’s my thought. I need to remember I’m doing a job. I keep forgetting this. This is where Olga, who stands off to the side in a silver cocktail dress, succeeds where I fail. She is a professional. In this area she is a professional. She let me get inside that silver shell and I made a mistake.

I ignore the Manager and go over to Olga. I put an arm around her waist. I don’t get an elbow in the ribs. This is a good sign.

I put my lips to her ear. I’m sorry.

She turns her head slightly and looks at me.

She’s listening.

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have fucked Parvati.

She doesn’t care that I fucked Parvati. She cares that I lied to her about it.

Really?

Okay – she might care a little. She thought we had an understanding about off the clock relationships.

We need to talk about that. But this is neither the place nor the time.

Just tell her.

There is nothing to say that can’t wait.

Am I going to marry Parvati?

Probably not. I don’t think we’re a match.

Are we a match?

Sweetheart… Truthfully I think we need to concentrate on the job.

Am I going to go with her to her sister’s wedding?

Yes. Absolutely. I promised I would go and I’m going to go no matter what. We are friends after all. Wonderful, good, caring friends.

She looks up at me. Then away. Our flight leaves at ten. Be ready to go at seven. That means ready. Not still trying to pull myself out of bed. The LPS wants to keep me around. I’m still new. He’ll try to get me to miss my flight. I need to understand this. Don’t start thinking I’m special. Because I’m not. I’m still the puppy he hasn’t gotten bored with.

I’ll keep that in mind.

Do. She walks away from me and goes to the Manager. They leave. I won’t see her again until we get into the car for the airport the next morning.

I wait behind the lines taped on the ground. The concert comes to its inevitable conclusion.

The egress from the venue is the same.

We are moved swiftly through the back passages until we arrive at a waiting car and then take to the streets.

This difference this time is that we are alone. There is no Olga to lube up my ass and offer me the benefit of her sagacity.

He’s on me immediately. His skin is warm and covered in sweat. He pulls me to him and holds me tight for a moment before releasing his grip just enough to get his hands around my waist to pull free my shirt from my trousers.

The ride from the arena to the hotel is only ten minutes. There isn’t time for this. Security warned me in advance that we would only have a limited amount of time in the car. I’m in on the hustle. We all are tasked with keeping the LPS happy without letting him know we’re trying to keep him happy.

I tell him we don’t have time for this. As soon as we’re at the hotel I’ll give him what he wants in abundance.

Fine. He pouts. He’s cross with me. He wants his way.

He can have his way with me as soon as we’re back at the hotel.

Fine.

We get to the hotel and up to the room without passing through a public area. Is this what it’s like? Constantly scurrying through back hallways and around darkened corners? Absolutely no moments of being an anonymous face in a sea of humanity. Is this the cost of fame? Are the rewards worth it?

We walk through the main room of the suite to the bedroom.

I can practically see the aura of irritation as it sparks around him.

I shut the doors behind.

He goes directly into the bathroom dropping his clothes along the way.

What do I do? What does he want? I don’t ask. I am just going to make some assumptions and hope I’m right.

I follow him into the bathroom.

Everyone spoils and pampers him. I’m not going to do that.

Is he really annoyed about the fact we couldn’t fuck around in the car? Think about it. Did we have time? Why would either of us rush when we don’t have to? I think he’s too used to the idea of having to sneak around. Ridiculous. We have all night.

I get a look. Maybe I’m right.

I am right. We have all night. We’re grown men. We’re not teenage boys that have to try to hide what we’re doing. Grab what we can when we don’t think anyone is looking. It’s ridiculous. I’m not going to paw him in the back of a car when we’re ten minutes from the hotel.

Fine. I’m right.

I know I’m right. Does he want dinner?

No. He wants to go out. He’s tired of being locked up like a prisoner.

Out?

Out. He wants to go out.

Out for dinner?

Out to a fucking club where there is music, booze, dancing.

(Why me? I’m pretty sure I was flown in to make certain he didn’t want to go out.)

My flight is really early in the morning.

So? He wants to go out. Am I going with him or no?

Of course I’m going with him. Where does he want to go?

Somewhere cool.

There’s a bar in the hotel. Supposed to be really good. Open air. On the roof. We don’t have to get in the car. We’ll just be an elevator ride away from the room when we’re ready to be alone.

We can go there. Call and get us a table at one of the restaurants. He’s actually really hungry. He’s sick of room service.

I’ll do that. He’s going to shower?

Yes. Pick something out for him to wear. He’s tired of being locked up. Ever since that fuck Harold threatened to out him it’s been like this. He’s had enough. There are times he thinks maybe it wouldn’t be as awful as the Manager thinks it would be to come out.

He needs to think about it and make that choice himself.

I leave him in the bathroom as he steps into the shower.

Security is in the main room.

We’re going out to dinner.

No we’re not.

Yes. We’re going out to dinner. Either he can do whatever it is he needs to do as quickly as possible before we walk out the door, or he can do it as he’s running to catch up with us after we’ve left.

I’m supposed to keep him in the room.

He’s a grown man that has a good twenty pounds of pure muscle on me. How am I going to stop him if he wants to go out to dinner and get a few drinks in a bar? He’s not a prisoner.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I get that this isn’t ideal. I’m doing the best I can do to make it easy for everyone. On the plus side, we’re not leaving the property.

That is a plus.

I’ll get him back here as quickly as I can. I’m leaving early in the morning. Maybe I can use that to convince him we should get behind closed doors and so we can have as much time alone as possible before I go.

That’ll work.

I look down when I catch a flash of green. I’m still wearing my green lanyard with the all access pass. I take it off. I’m one of them. I need to work with these people best I can.

We go for dinner followed by a couple of cocktails. I get him back to the room even when he seems determined to stay at the bar in the most expeditious way I can. The truth. I’m leaving in the morning. Early.

He gets the hint. We’ve had our night out. Time to go back into hiding. Especially if he wants to get naked before I leave.

He’s giddy happy when we get back. He rips my clothes off of me like I’m a present. He’s playful and darling. He’s a child that has done something naughty and not been caught.

We roll around the bed, and then tumble onto the floor in a tangle of sheets.

We’re propped up on the pillows with only the light from the TV to illuminate us when the door opens with a thump and a crack. He is angry an episode of something idiotic on MTV that he has in depth knowledge of is interrupted by a fuming and dancing Manager.

Did we leave the suite?

I say nothing. I don’t have a horse in this race.

The LPS gets off the bed and goes to the door. He gives the Manager a shove sending him on his ass outside of the room. He shuts the door then locks it.

That man fucking pisses him off. He’s just about had enough of it. For ten years he’s been telling him what to do and how to do it. He’s kept his end of the bargain. He’s made them wealthy. The Manager doesn’t seem to respect the nature of the bargain they struck.

I listen to this unexpectedly calm tirade and can’t help but to wonder about the story of the man who kept a powerful djinn enslaved and forced him to do his bidding. I try to remember the details, but they elude me. What I do remember of the story is that one day the djinn broke free and the man was nothing more than what remains of a bug when it hits a windshield at speed.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Land of the Rising Sun

I have questions about the Samurai, but Olga has frozen me out. I want to know things I should know. How many times has she been with this man? Is he a large man? By all accounts, Harold and I are the same size. If he was able to overpower Harold, what am I in for?

We’re sat in first class for the flight from Bangkok to Tokyo. She is across the cabin and up from me. We’re due to land in Kyoto after six in the evening local time.

We need to be ready to go whether we feel up to it or not. There will probably be costumes for us.

Mi Young sent a detailed email which I have read over again until I’ve practically memorized it.

I’m ready.

When we land I’m disoriented and uncertain. But I follow Olga as if I am as assured as she is. Our baggage is secured and we locate the car that was sent for us.

In the back of the Rolls Royce with the monogramed seats, we are silent.

Is she planning on ignoring me?

Was there something in particular I would like to discuss?

She hasn’t told me that I annoy her in days.

She assumed that was understood.

I told her from the start we could only be friends.

Yes. And?

We’ve only known each other a couple of weeks.

Is there a point I’m trying to make?

If someone would only shoot me and put me out of my misery, I could rest in peace.

That she can arrange.

Silence reigns again.

We are in the car more than an hour and I’m totally lost before we turn up a drive and pass through two massive painted gates.

The car leaves us at the main doors.

A man in a mandarin collar coat with a small sinister looking goatee welcomes us.

He leads us on a covered terrace around the exterior of the house which is more accurately called a compound. A light drizzling rain begins to fall adding another layer to the already fragrant air.

The layout of the property begins to form in my mind. The semi-circle of buildings face inwards on to a large garden with a pagoda in the center. It’s truly beautiful. Restful. Meditative. I could just sit in the pagoda for hours letting the rain fall around me.

At a pair of sliding doors we pause to remove our shoes before we are allowed to enter.

This is the room which we will share during the duration of our visit. We are to stay in our room unless we are summoned. If we require anything, ring.

Fortunately the room is large and opens out onto the garden. The floor is covered in tatami mats. There is a low rosewood table holding a vase with a lily.

I feel like I’ve just been let into a very expensive Japanese themed boutique hotel. I have boutique hotels on my brain now.

Can we go into the garden?

No. We are to stay in the room with the shutters closed.

The man in the mandarin collar leaves us.

I look to Olga who is already walking around the room setting her things down.

What do we expect?

Generally not having expectations is the best thing. Unzip her.

She moves her hair to the side giving me access to her zipper. I do as I’m told.

She lets her dress slip off and fall to the floor. She does not pick it up. Something is off.

I pick up the dress and follow her into the bathroom.

She turns on the faucet and begins filling the enormous ofuro wooden bathtub.

She drops her panties again without picking them up. (Olga does not drop her panties without picking them up – something is very weird)

She sits on the side of the tub with her legs inside as the water begins to rise.

Am I getting in or not?

Uhhh… what if the mandarin collar guy comes back?

Then he comes back. She gives me a very professional come hither look that unnerves me. This is not my Olga. This is working Olga. Why is Olga working me?

She reaches for me. My shirt is given a tug. Join her.

I make a tactical decision and just go for it. If this is her way of saying let’s just make up and be friends that get naked, I’m into it.

I strip off my clothes letting them fall to the floor as gravity intended.

She moves around, splashing a bit, and in general being very both adorable and sexy. I’m into this. I like this Olga. This Olga is a lot of fun.

Before I get into the bath, she gets out. She stands behind me and begins running her hands over my body. When I’m stiff as a stick and pointing towards the far wall, she returns to the bath. The water is still running and it’s begun to spill over the sides into the bed of polished black volcanic rocks ringing the base.

It’s slightly warmer than I like it, but I’m not going to complain. Before I can sit chin deep in the water, Olga pulls me to her as we stand.

Her teeth nip my earlobe as her hand splashes in the water pouring out of the spigot. One word comes from her. Cameras.

I glance around. Cameras. Fuck me we’re being watched. No wonder.

Someone wants a show. Fine. We can give them a show. This is what we do after all. This is what we are being paid for.

Olga is attentive and fawning. I make a few attempts to engage her, but she laughs girlishly and tells me to let her do what she likes best to do.

Which is?

To make me happy.

The effort it takes me not to laugh out loud at this absurdity nearly damages my internal organs.

Whatever. I let her service me. She washes my body with her own. She massages my shoulders, my neck and my head.

When I exit the bath she dries my body and wraps me in an indigo dyed yukata.

I lay on the mats which make up our bed and let her have me.

As much as I enjoy the attention, I know it’s not real. Every flutter of her tongue, flick of a hand, or brush of her lips is not really for me. It’s for whoever is watching.

Her thighs straddle mine and a condom is rolled on. The way she slips on me with her back arched, her neck long and her breasts sticking up and out is stunning to behold, but wholly artificial. This is not how Olga likes to make love. This is acting.

But it works for me. I certainly don’t hate it and my body responds as expected.

Like a well-orchestrated dance routine, her climax is both anticipated and nicely choreographed. I think it might have been genuine, but why ask?

She slips off of me, cleans me up, puts on a pale pink silk robe, and then massages my feet.

I am not complaining. I lay on the mat staring at the ceiling and listening to the rain on the leaves in the garden. I hope they leave us alone until it’s time to leave. If the Samurai wants to watch us fuck as if we don’t think we’re being observed, fine by me.

But we’re not left alone. I only hear the nearly silently footsteps the last moment before the man in the mandarin collar slides open the door.

We are invited to join The Samurai.

Both of us?

Yes.

Olga rises from the mat securing the silk kimono robe around her body. She needs to change.

Not necessary. We can come as we are.

I rise from the mat, tie the blue and white print cotton robe tight around my body, then follow.

We are brought to a room not unlike the one we left.

Olga kneels and I copy her. We wait. A door facing us slides open.

The person who enters cannot be the Samurai. The person is rather diminutive. If it is the Samurai, I am confused. Best guess, Harold is about my size. I’m not a large man, but I’m tall and reasonably strong. Add to that the assumed fact Harold spends more time at the gym than I ever will. It is not posturing to believe I could easily overpower this person if he tried to harm me.

Olga bows. I follow her lead.

This is the Samurai. This rather androgynous person who looks simultaneously like a pretty man and a handsome woman couldn’t possibly have done to Harold what I have been led to believe. But then again, what do I know and who am I to question the voracity of Harold’s story?

He tells Olga to remove her robe. He speaks English well. He wants to look at her.

Olga rises, removes her robe, and lets it fall to the ground. She stands in the middle of the room.

The Samurai is nearly half a head shorter than Olga. He approaches her as if she is a curiosity. A lovely statue in the Louvre meant to be observed.

I watch filled with curiosity as a most inscrutable ritual begins. The Samurai walks around Olga as he examines her body.

Occasionally a hand strokes a hip or a finger touches a nipple.

He gets on his knees in front of her and stares at her black hair covered sex.

Thoughts of that odious Booth Buxton stopping me in the Four Seasons lobby and wanting to know about the sex parties fill my head. Booth Buxton wouldn’t believe this if I brought him video.

I have to admit I’m dying of curiosity to know what The Samurai is going to do.

His fingers start probing her. Not in a sexual way designed to elicit a physical response from her, but rather just as if he is very curious to see her bits.

He tells her to lay down.

She lays down stretched out flat.

The Samurai begins to stroke her body. He touches her breasts, running his hand around the perfect curve. He is beautifully gentle with her. I don’t know if pretty is a good adjective to describe the motion, but it is the best I can imagine. It is worshipful.

Physically, Olga is as close to perfection as a natural woman could hope to be. She is without surgical enhancement. I cannot help but to wonder if back in the day when people worshiped gods and goddesses without questioning their existence, but rather a pure knowledge that they simply were, would Olga have been set apart for her beauty? Would she have been a temple maiden? Or worse, a sacrifice? Something pure and perfect to offer to the gods?

The way the Samurai touches her feels like worship to this observer.

The Samurai has her open her legs. He kneels between them but back a distance so he can look at her sex hidden amongst the curls of black hair.

I hear myself hold a breath as he reaches out a finger to touch her.

I don’t know how long this study of the perfect female form takes, but it feels like a while.

A moment comes when the Samurai is suddenly done. He rises from the ground next to Olga and takes a place across the mat.

Olga is dismissed.

She rises from the ground and puts her robe on.

I rise to go with her. Before I’m too my feet, the Samurai tells me to stay.

Olga goes.

I don’t know what to do, so I go back to my knees.

Do I like sake?

Yes. I like sake very much. (I do not add that I could really use a drink after what I just observed. I’m both incredibly turned on and honestly a little unnerved.)

Saki is brought for us.

We drink.

We talk.

Do I think Olga is very beautiful?

Yes. Of course. Olga is very beautiful. That is without question.

We drink more.

We talk more.

Can he look at my body?

Yes. I stand and open my robe letting it drop to the ground.

I undergo the same sort of inspection Olga had performed on her, but he doesn’t touch me. He just looks.

He thinks I’m very handsome. Do men envy me?

I don’t know. If they do then they need to reprioritize.

I can put my robe back on.

I do this then sit again.

We drink more.

We talk more.

I try to be professional, but I get drunk. This is what happens when sake is poured down my throat. I cannot be certain, but I do not think the Samurai is drinking nearly as much as I am even though he keeps refilling my cup.

Do I like men?

This question again. Do I have to like one or the other? Can’t I like both? When I’m drunk I think I’m so very eloquent. I doubt that I am in reality. How do I put this? I’m open minded doesn’t cover it. I like everyone. I’m not picky isn’t right either. I’m not picky but that’s not what I mean. What I mean is I think everyone is beautiful in their own way. No. I think that’s a song. I’m not being very clear.

Do I think there is beauty in a transgender person?

Yes. Of course. He should meet my aesthetician. Now that’s a good looking woman.

I do not find them unnatural?

Not in the slightest.

Would I make love to a transgender person?

Yes. If I found that person attractive, charming and interesting.

I wouldn’t do it just because I found them a curiosity?

No. Maybe. Not anymore. That’s a bit immature and not really respectful.

What about intersex?

Intersex. I know this word. Does he mean hermaphroditism?

Yes. But he likes the word intersex better. What do I think of intersex people?

I think they’re people. I don’t think they’re strange or bad or anything stupid like that. They’re just people that are neither one or the other. Sort of like me in a way. Except I’m all man physically, I go back and forth mentally on what really puts the snap into my turtle. Am I making any sense at all?

Yes. Do I like secrets?

Of course.

Can I keep a secret?

Would he like to tell me a secret? Because it’s a good moment to tell me a secret. My memory is notoriously bad after I’ve been drinking.

He rises from where he’s been sitting. He unties the sash on his black robe and lets it fall open.

I see his very small penis that is erect and probably no longer or larger than my thumb. His hand comes to his genitals. I don’t realize what I’m looking at for a long moment. Then I get it.

He’s like an Aphroditus statue in anasyromenos pose. But in reverse. He is a man lifting the veil and revealing a different sort of secret.

I look up from where his fingers are opening the folds of a vulva, to the penis, to his face.

You’re a woman. It’s so clear. How did I miss this?

Do I think she is a woman?

I don’t know. Does she think she’s a woman?

Yes. But everyone else thinks she’s a man. This is what her parents wanted. But she doesn’t feel like a man.

Then she’s a woman.

This is what she thinks too. But she lives her life as a man.

Can I touch her?

Do I want to touch her?

Yes. I would very much like to touch her.

Do I think she is strange?

No. On the contrary. I think she’s wondrous.

CHAPTER NINE

Secrets and Lies

This wondrous creature stands before me. Neither man nor woman. But something else entirely. A beautiful hybrid. A lovely tea rose. Two things brought together to create something wholly perfect in my eyes. She is the physical embodiment of what I most desire. Neither one nor the other. But both. Everything I physically desire in one body.

Her kimono open, her sexual organs exposed.

I have been granted a special favor. I am allowed inside this secret so carefully guarded against public scrutiny.

I look but I don’t touch.

Her skin is that of a perfect porcelain doll. She is without blemish or freckle. Slim hipped, legs like a baby giraffe, small rounded breasts. A penis no longer or larger than my thumb. No testicles. Just a perfectly pink vulva opened by her fingers and inviting me to look closer.

She’s plied me with sake and taken the edge off of my ability to respond.

I look to her face after careful scrutiny of her body. It is clear she is concerned, fearful even, of how I might react. When I am again sober I will remember this moment and wonder what truly happened with Harold.

Can I touch her?

No.

The robe is closed and tied. The secret is again concealed. I am denied access to the thing I desire most and want it all the more.

She leaves the room by slipping through a door concealed behind a screen. .

The Servant enters a moment later.

I am dismissed. I am to return to my room.

Olga sits on the bed. Wrapped in her robe. One of the three dozen magazines she insisted she absolutely had to have open in her hands.

So? Did The Samurai get all freaky on me?

I don’t want to hear it. I take the magazine from her, toss it against the wall, and then fall on her.

She instantly responds to the roughness of my hands, the insistence of my mouth, and the desire she assumes is directed at her.

We roll on the bed like two rutting beasts. We fuck like it’s the end of the world. We are the only two survivors in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Humanity depends on our ability to get off.

I raise her legs over her head. I turn her on her stomach and take her from behind. I write a new chapter to be included in the Kama Sutra. I’m a fucking machine. I make Ron Jeremy look like an amateur with my prowess. If screwing were an Olympic sport I would have brought the gold home for England.

When we are exhausted and marginally satiated I lay on my back for only a moment. Then the sake reappears. It gurgles up in my stomach until it erupts like a fountain. At least I make it to the toilet.

Olga places a cold cloth to my forehead as I empty out the contents of my stomach.

Am I okay?

I wretch again in response. I hate her, I hate her kindness, I hate that she puts a cloth on my forehead, and I hate that she loves me most of all.

What the hell did the Samurai do to me?

Nothing. I just drank too much, too fast on an empty stomach. That’s all.

She helps me up from the floor and back to the bed. A duvet is placed over me, she telephones to order food, and then she tidies up her magazines after binning the used condoms. The bustling and fussing annoy me beyond reason. But I keep my annoyance in check. Like it or not, I need her. I’ve learned the hard way that the women in my life really do have a limit on how much shit they will take from me before I am denied their love and compassion.

Miso soup, tamagoyaki and rice are delivered along with tea. My favorites. Perfect for an empty stomach.

I eat slowly, still digesting what I have learned.

How many times has she had sex with the Samurai? And by sex I mean penis entering vagina sex.

Never.

Never?

Never. It’s always just the touching and the looking. Weird.

No. It’s not weird. Actually it is very understandable.

How so?

Never mind. It doesn’t matter.

No, really. She wants to know.

She’s very beautiful. Who wouldn’t want to touch her and look at her body?

This earns me a kiss on the cheek. Are we still cross with each other?

I was never cross with her. She was the one that wasn’t speaking to me.

Because I was wrong. Do I admit I was wrong?

Sure. I was wrong. (NOT! Oh these little lies we tell that keep a relationship afloat!)

She drops another kiss on my cheek. She picks up the issue of Italian Vogue (as opposed to French, American, Russian, or British issues of Vogue she absolutely had to buy in the airport newsstand – I probably wouldn’t bitch so much if I wasn’t treated like her fucking pack mule) and skims through it. She shows me a dress. It skims the models body like liquid silver.

Do I like it?

Yes.

Do I think she’d look beautiful in it?

Yes. Does she really need to ask me this? Honestly – has she ever doubted how beautiful she is? Has she ever had a moment in which she questioned whether or not another human would either find her attractive or be attracted to her?

Not really. What do I think of this dress?

The second dress is shimmering red and appropriately slutty for Olga.

I don’t like it.

Really? What don’t I like about it?

I think it looks whorish.

Really? She thinks it’s pretty.

It’s a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen.

She thinks she’s going to get it for her sister’s wedding.

No. She can wear the silver dress, but the red one is just too much.

Really? Since when do I know anything about women’s fashions?

I never said I did. I just know slutty when I see it and that is a slutty dress. I will not go anywhere with her when we are being ourselves, rather than James and Anastasia the traveling prostitutes, if she looks anything less than a wholly proper young lady. And just so she knows, young ladies do not walk around with their tits and asses hanging out. She annoys me. I am annoyed with her. Doesn’t she understand that sometimes I know what’s best?

This shuts her up. Her mind is still working – I can see that in her eyes. Those blue eyes that would slay me with a look if only they had the power to do so. We are again not speaking. Fine. I finish my dinner then read The Odyssey.

The book is older than me or even my grandfather. I took it from the library before we left home. It’s the book in which I received my first lessons in Latin. My grandfather standing over my shoulder as I read slowly and stuttering. He corrected me when I needed it and praised me just as often.

The language is lovely. All thees and thous. I’ve read the Fagles translation. It’s clearly more accessible for our time, but I like the way the eighteenth century translation slips over my tongue.

There are pencil marks in the margins. These are not mine. They are my great-grandfather’s notes. The Oliver Adair that married the American heiress. The American that ruled Wold Hall like a majordomo for eighty years. Bless her – the old bird lived to be a hundred and two! I was seventeen when she died. Maggie Smith couldn’t have done this woman justice. Lady Charlotte. The constant foil to my grandmother Lady Helen. At least until my mother came around. Then they found a common cause.

CHAPTER TEN

Odysseus

It is the height of summer break, but here I sit in a tweed suit complete with short pants (SHORT PANTS! THE INHUMANITY OF IT! WHAT MONSTER MAKES A TEN YEAR OLD BOY WEAR SHORT PANTS!? My grandmother Lady Helen – that’s who. Somehow it’s a matter of pride to her that she’s put me into my father’s old clothes. I won’t even mention how my grandmother has arranged my hair in such a way that the lines from the teeth of the comb remain distinct and undisturbed through the waves of brown – if I were any other boy I’d beat me up on principle), shirt and tie as my grandfather stands over me as I struggle to please him.

Today’s lesson is the same as yesterday’s lesson. I am to learn Latin. This is important. This matters. There is meaning behind this. All I know is that I am the center of his attention. As long as I maintain the charade that I am not only interested, but eager to learn a dead language, two hours each day are devoted to me and me alone. I cannot recall a time in my life when I’ve ever been shown such attention. And devotion. He’s deeply proud of me. I’m such a good student. Quite like him actually. How much would I enjoy a holiday, just gentlemen – in fact he’ll invite his good friend Lionel, to visit the ruins of Ephesus? His grandson the young Classicist. What a joy I am to him.

I hate Latin. Okay I don’t hate it, but I’d rather be riding my horse or arsing around with Gwendolyn, The Greshams’ granddaughter. She’s a load of fun. My age too. Pretty. Freckles. I rather like the way they cover her nose.

Ephesus? I don’t know Ephesus.

We must go. It is decided. Come.

I rise from the table and follow him from the library to the map room. He fetches a large atlas from a shelf. A book that is perhaps a meter tall and a half meter wide. It is opened on the table built for such things.

Ephesus. Modern Turkey. Magnificent Oliver. Truly Magnificent. We will get a good start on my Greek before we go. It is decided. We will go together. Me, Lionel and him. Just us gents on tour.

Will we invite Dad?

We can. But only my father – this is a gentlemen’s trip. No ladies or my mother invited.

I ignore the swipe at my mother. I know well enough, even though I’m ten, how much my grandfather despises my mother. I’m just coming around to the age that I’m done defending her and beginning to feel the first shadows of anger creeping into my soul. In the silence of the night, when I am alone in my bed I think the thoughts no son should ever think of his mother – she’s bad at this. She’s failed me. It’ll take my father one more wrong for me to start believing the worst of him.

Granddad leaves me at the atlas stand and rings a silent bell. A few minutes later Gresham arrives.

Where is his son?

Gresham looks at me then back to my grandfather. The last he saw they were headed off in the direction of the barn with a picnic.

Very good. We will be leaving for an impromptu holiday in the next few days. Start making the arrangements for a week… no two weeks travel around Greece and Turkey.

Gresham nods then leaves.

Granddad gestures for me to follow him. I don’t purposefully mimic his posture as he walks, but I do. Upright. Shoulders straight. Eyes forward. My grandfather is a handsome man even in his advancing years. He wears his hair cropped close to his head, he is purposefully fine of frame through diet and exercise, and he speaks with the command of a Priam or a Prospero or even a Picard. I am not ashamed to admit there will come a moment in my life when I adopt his inflection and vocabulary. I will one day become my grandfather in demeanor. Probably the same day I realize my hairline will never be what it once was and take to wearing it cropped close to my scalp as he did.

We walk through the house, out the French doors which he flings wide open and down across the grass in the direction of the barn.

Oliver. He is getting older. This is a fact. I am an intelligent boy, with a solid head on my shoulders, and eyes that see the world around me.

I don’t respond. Unless I am asked a direct question I know to keep my peace.

It is no secret that my mother is a profound disappointment to my grandparents. Perhaps if she’d made some effort over the years to endear herself, or even to modify her impulses and behavior in such a way as to be perceived as having a modicum of decorum, then they very well would have tried to meet her halfway. But as it stands, she is at best a poor mother, she is unguardedly selfish, has no understanding of what her place is within our family, and quite honestly gets my father to behave like an pubescent boy. Not that he has ever been much more than a disappointment. But that said if he had not met, impregnated, and married my mother (in that order) he would probably have ended up with someone much more appropriate that would have one day make a suitable countess. Do I understand?

Yes, sir.

Therefore, it falls to me. My father’s foolishness, impulsiveness, and occasional bouts of poor decision making, will one day be my problem. Believe it or not, he will not live forever and won’t always be around to wield the rolled up newspaper, so to speak, when my parents need a good whack on the snout. To that end, steps are being taken. Protections are being put into place. I am always to know that I can count on Uncle Albert. He’s the son that should have been born first.

I’m sorry.

Do not ever apologize for something that is not my fault.

I press my lips together rather than apologize again.

I needn’t fret. I am a fine boy. A fine boy indeed. I please him well. I’m certainly more sensible than Cousin Harry. Definitely more intelligent. Harry would never appreciate a trip to see the Roman ruins at Ephesus. I have a good head on my shoulders. It sits well with him that our family name will one day pass to me. I will certainly never disappoint him. That said he’s certain there will be moments in which I get into hijinks, this is all part of being young, but learning how to manage these little incidents is the stuff that makes a man.

When we arrive at the barn, my grandfather takes the full bucket of water overflowing one drop at a time under the bursting tap. There is condensation on the exterior of the bucket and I’m quite certain that water is very cold.

I follow him into the barn. We move silently. The bucket of water makes me slightly curious, but not really all that much.

There are sounds in the barn that are unfamiliar. We round a corner and there are my parents. I don’t know what to think. I know that they are mostly clothed but that my mother’s skirt is around her waist, she is bare from the waist up, and my father’s trousers are bunched around his knees. I can’t imagine what they are doing and then my grandfather douses them with the freezing water from the full bucket.

There is outraged screaming. I get a good look at my father’s erect penis. I’m too horrified to know that I should be traumatized. I’m fairly certain this is the moment in my life I can trace all of my neurosis back to.

Dogs! This is what my grandfather booms at them. Dogs! This is your mother Oliver. A filthy bitch that let’s herself be had like an animal in a barn. And your father. My son. He doesn’t even have the decency to act like a grown man, but rather a hormone befuddled teenager. They are my cross to bear one day. Get a good look. Understand better why they bring him to such levels of despair. Fornicating in the middle of the day in full view of the staff.

I look around. I don’t see anyone else, but I don’t say this. Granted we are in a barn and I don’t see what’s particularly appealing about that, but no one can see them. Other than me. Some things can’t be unseen.

Come.

I turn and follow my grandfather as my outraged parents pull themselves together. We return to the house. I am sent to my room after a brief stop in the library to retrieve my notebook and the hundred or so year old copy of The Odyssey. I sit at my desk and transcribe the Latin text into my notebook. With my dictionary and a level of knowledge that surprises me, I begin to translate word by word the text from the Latin on the left side page into English on the right side page.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Party Time

When I’m woken I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep. Could be minutes, hours, or days. Olga pulls the duvet we’re sharing off me as she rolls herself in it like a caterpillar preparing to metamorphose into a butterfly. Make them go away. Please darling – stay in bed – let me get the fucking door.

But I don’t need to get up. The door opens and the Servant enters. He starts turning on lights and opening shutters like an officious mother.

Wakey! Wakey! Party time!

He snaps fingers and claps hands. Other servants enter. They bring zipped garment bags. We are Antony and Cleopatra.

I’d rather not.

These are our costumes. Be ready for inspection in two hours.

We are left alone.

Olga has only one comment. Thank god it’s not body paint. She stumbles out of the room and into the bathroom. The splash of the water filling the bath filters into the bedroom.

I open the first garment bag. It’s Olga’s Cleopatra outfit. That is if Cleopatra was a Turkish belly dancer rather than the last Queen of the Ptolemy dynasty. A woman known not for her beauty so much as her intelligence, wit, linguistic ability, military prowess, and charm. History has given her a bad rap. Hollywood got Cleopatra wrong. And so has whoever picked out the metallic bikini top and harem skirt that the last Queen of Egypt never would have worn.

With a reasonable level of trepidation, I open my garment bag.

And so… whoever picked out my costume is under the impression Marc Antony, Triumvir of Rome, was a Spartan warrior as envisioned by someone in Hollywood.

I despair.

It looks as if I will be wearing a skirt and a cape. At least they got the color right – deep crimson red.

In the bathroom Olga is already slipping into the water. I join her. I like the way the water spills over the side as I sink up to my chin.

What should I expect?

Stick with her. They’ve dressed us as a couple. If we’re expected to perform, just let her do all of the work.

Perform?

Yes.

In what way?

In the live sex act way.

What?

The lighting is generally really good, so don’t worry. She’ll make me look pretty.

Whether or not I look pretty is not the issue. Fucking her in front of a bunch of people is.

I better get over it quickly.

Maybe if she were Elizabeth, or better Talitha, I could do it, but she is her and I am me and that is different. We are us.

We are not us when we walk into that party. We are James and Anastasia. We’re being paid well to put on a good show.

I’m confused. The Matchmaker told me that I was just to be at the Samurai’s disposal for five days and four nights. There was nothing about a live sex show.

Olga holds up a hand. Stop. Have I actually never been to one of these parties before?

Well… no.

She laughs. This ought to be interesting.

I’m not fucking her in front of a bunch of people.

What did I think? All of my clients would be like the Latin Pop Star and the Psychiatrist? That it would all be prim and proper? Like dating? But with a payoff?

Sort of. I certainly didn’t think I’d have to fuck publicly.

Here’s the cold hard truth. Most of the clients are going to be like the Psychiatrist and the Latin Pop Star. But there will be my fair share of clients like the Manager and Mr. White. Do I think she enjoys having the Manager climb her like a tree? She likes the diamonds. Do I think she finds anything appealing about peeing on Mr. White? Not really but it’s easy cash and he gives her dresses. Do I think she enjoys half of the stuff she has to do? Not really. A lot of it she does enjoy. She loves Mr. and Mrs. Coffee. They’re perfect in every way. He’s delicious. She’d fuck them for free. Most of her clients are like them. But not all of them. At the end of the day, it’s a job. Parties are a lot easier than I’m imagining.

I’m not comfortable doing this.

We can leave. If I really am uncomfortable and I don’t think I can do the job we can go. She’ll call for a taxi and we can be checked into a hotel in an hour. We both did well in Bangkok. We have cash. We’ll have to refund the airfare and the Matchmaker will be pissed off, but no one has a gun to my head. If we stay, I am expected to entertain. By entertaining that means letting people touch my body and if not liking it, then at least pretending I do. It’s my choice.

I need the money. I’ll stick with her.

She leans over and kisses me. Fingers spread over my cheeks. It’ll be fine. Ignore the watchers. We’re not real to them. We’re just objects. We’re not people to these people. They don’t want us to be people. They want us to be a fantasy. Can I do that?

I can do that.

I’m tense. Nervous. On edge. I feel like I’m about to take my A-levels again.

She kisses me with tongue. She straddles my thighs with her own.

Please tell me this is going where I hope it is going?

Will that help me relax?

Yes. It will.

Then it is.

But it shouldn’t. I shouldn’t… exert myself… I need to be able to… work.

It’s the first night. She kisses me again. We can work the crowd more than actually work. Besides, I’m still new at this. Best to ease me in.

Is she trying to use innuendo on me?

Sometimes she thinks I speak English, and then sometimes she can’t be so sure.

She kisses me again then slips out of the bath and into the shower.

Wait. What? I thought…

Don’t be so eager. I’m always so eager. Just relax. Enjoy the bath.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Coitiōn or Coetus?

I’ve just seen my parents engaged in coitiōn or maybe coetus (love my little Latin dictionary! It helps me put some sort of distance between when I witness and how I process it – unfortunately I can’t decide which would be the more appropriate and would rather die than ask my grandfather) and I’m very confused. I love my mummy. Granted she’s not the best mummy in the world, but she’s still mine. I really dislike dad at this moment. I get in a rather abstract way that mummy is his wife and these things happen, but she’s my mummy. My anger is not directed at my grandfather for making me witness this private act, but rather at dad. I could stick a knife in him for what he’s done to my mummy. Oedipus would get my outrage.

There is shouting. My father’s voice carries through the open window in my grandparents’ rooms to my open window. I cannot hear my grandfather’s responses. But somehow I don’t need to hear him to know what he is saying. A gentleman doesn’t need to raise his voice. If one speaks in a low tone then others are forced to pay attention to hear the words. This is how a gentleman speaks. This is not how my father speaks. He is not a gentleman. He does things to my beautiful mother in the barn. Like dogs.

I want to see my mother. I want to confirm that I am still her little boy and that it isn’t a lie when she tells me she misses me when we are apart. I go to my parents’ room. My mother, who is always praised and petted for her beauty, is red-faced and ugly with anger. She throws her and my father’s clothing haphazardly into the open suitcases scattered around the room.

What do I want?

Nothing. I just wanted to see her.

Didn’t I see enough already?

I have no response. I’m ten and I’ve just seen my parents having sex. What the hell am I supposed to say?

Where is she going?

We’re leaving.

Where are we going?

She looks up from where she’s jamming her pharmacopeia of creams and lotions into a makeup case. I’m not going anywhere. She and my father are going. I’m staying at Wold Hall. She would really like me to leave. She just can’t look at me yet. It’s just too awkward.

Why can’t I come?

Because. I’ll be happier at Wold Hall. I have my pony. My grandmother. Mrs. Gresham.

I’d really like to go with them.

Why do I have to be so difficult at this moment of all moments? Why? Why can’t I get that my grandfather is an ass hole and that she can’t spend another minute in this fucking hell? The only reason she’s here is because my father pretty well put a gun to her head and made her promise we would spend a month together as a family in this haunted pit. She hates this place. It gives her the creeps.

He told me the summer.

She only agreed to a month. But that’s beside the point. Do I know the party she’s missing in Bermuda? Do I?

I’ve never been to Bermuda. I’d really like to go.

And?

Is that where they’re going?

Probably. More than likely. She can’t be sure. They’ll decide when they get to London. What is certain is that she will not spend another minute around my grandparents.

We’ve only been together ten days. I thought we were going to be together for the summer. Dad promised.

She gives me that look. The one that is a lighthouse beam of annoyance and irritation directed solely at me. I don’t get it yet, but I will understand soon enough that she never really wanted children. She’ll tell me this directly later so there is no room for me to be left to wonder. The only way to keep my father was to give him a son. Not having children was a deal breaker for my father. At least in that one act of reproduction he didn’t disappoint his parents.

Dad enters the room and shuts the door. He sees me before he speaks to my mother.

Am I okay? Should we talk? Man to man? Maybe he can clear up some things for me?

I don’t know what the right answer is so I’m silent. I can’t really look at him without seeing him on top of my mother, so I avoid his gaze.

My mother holds a bottle of perfume in one hand. I don’t know what it’s called but I smell it on occasion when walking down the street or past the perfume counters in a department store. Few scents have the power to nauseate me as much as that one does. She demands to know what was said.

Dad is of the opinion I should probably leave before they talk.

Mum nods to the door. Scram.

Dad raises a calming hand. Just a moment. He wants to know again if I’m okay. How about we two lads go for a ride in bit? Have a bit of a long overdue chat.

Mum raises her arm and flings the perfume bottle against the wall. It smacks the stone wall with a small sonic boom then shatters. Would he care to know if she’s okay? Or is that no longer important?

Of course that’s important. We’ve all had a bit of a shake-up. Why is she packing?

They’re leaving. They’re going. She doesn’t care to where, but they’re not staying there.

Without me. I’ve already been told that I’m not welcome. Even though he promised me we would spend the summer together. Just for the record, he’s only taken me riding once.

They’re not leaving. We are spending the summer together. This was what was agreed when I left for school the last autumn. No one is going anywhere.

Yes. They’re leaving. Immediately. As soon as she’s done packing they’re going. They’ve already missed the first few days of that fabulously unmissable party in Bermuda, but it doesn’t really matter.

Fine. I can go with them. We’ll all have a wonderful time together.

They can’t bring me to that fabulous party in Bermuda. No one else will have a child with them. Who brings a child to a fabulous party? Has he lost his mind?

I raise my hand a little. I like parties.

Don’t be ridiculous. My mother’s speech reverts to butcher’s daughter from Croydon when she gets anxious. The slip makes her more incensed.

I’m not ridiculous. Dad promised.

He did promise. Dad confirms this. We can do something else. A family thing. We could go to Spain. Or Florida. We could go to Disney or do something absurd like that. It might actually be fun.

No. Absolutely not. Disney? Has he lost his mind? She’s not going to get stuck babysitting for a month. They made an agreement from the beginning that she would not be stuck being the nanny.

I’m not a baby.

Because nine is so grown up? She knows I still sleep with that dog.

I’m ten. And it’s a monkey.

My father is given an ultimatum. Either he leaves with her and they go to Bermuda together, or she leaves alone and goes to Bermuda without him. She’s already missed enough of the fabulous party because he made a promise that he insisted on keeping without discussing it with her first. What’s it going to be?

Dad wipes a hand across his eyes. She’s going to win. She always does. I know this. So I concede before I’m defeated. Like a gentleman.

I’m going to Ephesus with granddad. We’re going to look at Roman ruins. I don’t want to go with them anyway.

Perfect! My mother couldn’t be more delighted. That’s settled. They’re going to Bermuda. I can go… wherever it is I’m going.

Ephesus. It’s in Turkey.

Whatever. Can I go now please this moment? She needs to get packed and I’m in the way.

Yes. I’m in the way. I get it. I leave. I return to my bedroom. My notebook is waiting for me. I continue where I left off because what else am I going to do? When the gong rings signaling the family to gather for dinner I gather up my things and carry them with me.

Granddad is already present in the China Room where we have family meals.

I show him my notebook.

Very well done. He is very pleased. I clearly have his knack for languages.

He mentioned starting me on Greek. Could we begin that evening?

I am eager! Of course we can start immediately.

I smile. I am loved. This faux love of learning makes my grandfather love me.

My parents do not appear for dinner. My great-grandmother speaks openly of my parents and how she finds their behavior disgraceful. She is old therefore she can say what she likes. My grandmother and grandfather exchange many long looks over the potatoes and roast Mrs. Gresham has prepared. I ignore all of this. I am still a naïve child in their eyes. One that doesn’t understand the nuances of their conversation.

Granddad tutors me on the rudiments of the Greek alphabet as Grandmother and Great-grandmother play cards. When grandfather decides that I have done enough, I am told to put my books away. He excuses himself. I don’t miss the shadow of my father in the door.

Great-grandmother tells me to sit at the piano. I’m to play something lively. Something cheerful. Something that will dispel the ambiance of bitter disappointment from the air.

I sit at the piano with my music folder open in front of me. I grab the first sheet my fingers touch and put it on the stand. Slow, easy swing. That’s what the notes tell me to play. D-E-D-B. I just play. And play. Then my great-grandmother stops me.

What is that? It’s very familiar.

Uhhh… Makin’ Whoopee. That’s what’s written across the top of the page.

They laugh. Loudly. I’ve never seen the two of them like this before. They are beside themselves. They are possessed. Hysterical. I’ve just told the funniest two word joke in the history of man.

I don’t get it.

They laugh louder.

What’s making whoopee mean?

The laughter gets more uproarious. I’m absolutely hilarious. Why am I so funny? I don’t get it.

I will. Of this my great-grandmother assures me. Someday I will.

I am sent to bed. In the morning my parents are gone. No one comments on this. I won’t see them again for a year. During Christmas they are in Switzerland for a fabulous party. I am at home with my grandparents. The next summer we take a cruise around the Mediterranean together. This is as far as my mother will concede to taking a family vacation.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

‘The triple pillar of the world transformed into a strumpet's fool…’

I soak in the bath, relaxing as ordered, as I watch Olga wash her hair. We trade places when she’s done.

The water washes over me. I bring myself back to that place I was when I first met the Latin Pop Star. I have been lulled into a false sense of reality. I need an edge again. I need to find my inner rent boy.

Olga fusses with her hair in the bedroom. Her head is a crown of fuchsia curlers and wrapped in a robe. She’s so pretty without makeup. I don’t know why she wears so much. She’s covered her skin in something that makes it shimmer like gold.

I lay on the bed. I have nothing to do while she gets ready. Olga needs a two hour lead time to get ready to walk out the front door to check the mail. I don’t know how she’s going to manage in the time we’ve been given. I am a man. I’ve showered, put on deodorant and run some gel through my hair. I’m ready. I have time before I have to dress. The inevitable can be postponed.

I pick up the book she’s been reading. I immediately put it down. Teenage vampires. Not even with a gun to my head.

She takes the rollers out. I rather like the way the curls spiral down her back. The process is nothing short of painful for me, but I do appreciate the results. It takes a lot of work for Olga to be Olga.

I stare at the ceiling. I get up and wander around. I lay on the bed. I read Italian Vogue. I’m antsy. The relaxation I’ve been promised doesn’t seem to be forthcoming.

Is there any chance we’re going to be able to go out sometime in the morning? I need a book. Something that isn’t popular with tween girls.

She can’t see why not. Probably some of the other workers will want to go into town.

There will be other workers at the party tonight?

She looks at me through the reflection in the mirror. She stops rubbing black kohl along her eyelids. Yes.

A lot of other workers?

Probably two-dozen or more. Maybe dancers. Probably dancers. The Samurai does not hold back when it comes to his parties. Did I think we were going to be the only two?

Kind of.

Oh sweetie. No. Is that why I was so nervous?

Maybe.

We are going to be just two amongst many. Stand up. She’s squeezing something from one of the two dozen tubes of creams that are required to transform her from simply beautiful to a siren. Drop the towel.

She is not rubbing that shit all over me.

Drop the towel. James is walking into that party. Not Oliver. James will do whatever he needs to do to stand out to the clients. The more people he services the bigger the bonus.

I drop the towel.

Her hands smear the same shimmering gold oil over my body that covers hers. She doesn’t miss a spot. I’m getting exactly what she promised me in the bath.

The glimmering oil is discarded and the lube is retrieved then passed to me. She turns, bends over, and then looks at me over her shoulder. Just like at the arena. Friends lube up friends.

The lube is set to the side so my hands can grab both ass cheeks at once. I remember there are cameras watching us, and then I forget. I don’t care. We are not us. We are transforming into those other two.

I get down on my knees and spread her open with my hands. The tip of my tongue draws a line around her rim then travels to the button of her clit. This would probably be enough, but I want to give her more. I use the flat of my tongue against her sex. Pressing hard, holding for a moment, I wait, then release. After several repetitions Olga’s body reacts like I would expect it too. Her breath pumping through her lungs, her body twitching, the flush on her skin. My hands stay on her bottom as I rise from my knees.

I grab the lube. I fill my fingers with a glob of slick jelly. I slide my fingers around her sex then turn my focus on her anus.

No one is going there. Unless I want to before we leave the room.

How can she be certain no one will want to go there? I often want to go there.

No. She won’t do that at these parties. Our bodies are our own. Don’t forget that. We’re prostitutes. We’re not slaves. Someone touches me or does something I don’t like; I have the right to say no.

More lube is applied. I concentrate on her vagina. Is anyone going there?

More than likely.

Someone other than me.

Yes. What do I think?

I don’t say that I am very uncomfortable with this. That I wish she wouldn’t have concentrated so much time and energy on getting under my skin. She’s made all of this so much more difficult for me than it needed to be. She who scolds me about maintaining a professional distance has broken her own rule. Or not. Maybe she’s just able to compartmentalize better than I ever could. I need to keep the job separate from our private life. They are two different things. I slip inside of her from behind and pull her roughly against me. The silicone gel is perhaps too slick when mingled with her natural lube. I’m all over the place and can’t get good traction. So I go for the ass.

Olga arches up as my thumb starts to work the opening. A sigh slips out of her. Am I going there?

Yes. I’m going there. I want to be unique in her experience. At least for that evening.

My thumb presses inside. I use a bit more lube. My dick moves from one entrance to the other. She’s tight and her sphincter muscles squeeze me. This is exactly what I needed.

I fuck her hard. I’ll admit it. I was rough. But she liked it. If she had even whispered with her body that she objected, I would have backed off. But she didn’t so I just hammered her.

Did she orgasm? I don’t rightly recall. I did. That I’ll never forget. The shimmering oil covering her body, the black hair in long ropey curls whipping about, the anticipation of what was the come, the tightness of her ass as it held me tight – it all came together to create the near perfect orgasm. How could it have been better? Easy. If I had someone pounding away at my ass.

I don’t know if I’ve always been particularly loud when ejaculating, but I am then. I don’t hold back. She pulls away from me more than I pull out of her.

She walks away from me to the bathroom. Get dressed. She wants to see what I look like.

I put my costume on. I look like a douche bag. I am neither Roman nor Greek. I’m sure as hell not Marc Antony. But does it really matter? I am not Oliver here. I am James. I am about to enter a new arena. I am once again a gladiator. I am the bestarius - the beast fighter. The matchmaker is the lanista – the pimp that provides the flesh for the arena. Olga is the lorarius – the flogger that whips me until I willingly enter the arena. Yes – it really does help me to think in these terms. It helps me compartmentalize.

Do I look like a douche bag?

Nope. I look sexy. How is her makeup? Egyptian?

Does she have any blue eye stuff? Gold maybe?

Am I actually encouraging her to put more eye makeup on?

Me – no? I would never encourage her to put on more make-up. But James? He would.

Good. I’m starting to get it. She applies more kohl then just hands me the stick when I continue to critique what she is doing.

Turns out, I’m actually pretty good at this. I draw the sort of long lines trailing away from the corner of her eyes that would have been typical.

She takes the kohl. Does the same to my eyes, but not as exaggerated. I don’t object. Mark Antony went native during his time in Egypt. Kohl around the eyes would have been part of that.

She opens the garment bag with her costume. At least it’s not body paint.

I have to help her dress. The top is just strings that have a tendency to tangle.

Does she know that most Egyptian women would have been bare breasted?

Good. She takes the top and tosses it to the side. That thing was going to drive her bananas.

She’s going to go topless?

Does that little stringy thing really make much difference?

I guess not.

She puts the skirt on. It’s just a whisper of fabric attached to a heavy jeweled belt that hangs around her hips. It’s sexy hot. I’m getting wood. Under normal circumstances this might be awkward. I’m guessing this might be good all things considered.

We’re ready to go after she slips on the jewelry which came with her costume. Lots of bangles and a serpent crown for her hair.

So? Pay her a compliment.

Uhhhh... I’d commit myself to an unwinnable naval battle at Actium for her?

What?

Uhhhh… I’d let myself be declared an enemy of the state for her?

What the fuck am I talking about?

Uhhhh… I’d stick a sword in my guts if I thought she was already dead?

Okay. She’ll take that one.

Great! We have a winner! Let’s do this.

At inspection I learn there really are the two dozen workers Olga predicted. Most of them are women. I’m one of six men.

There seems to be a divide between those of us in costumes and those that are covered in a sheen of metallic paint. Red, gold, and silver. There are about thirty metallic girls.

It turns out the red girls are plain hostesses , the silver girls are regular prostitutes for anyone’s use, the gold girls are strictly dancers.

We, the costumed, are reserved for the VIP guests specifically and everyone generally for public performances. We’re expected to perform. Just as I feared.

Avan, the Israeli I met at Mr. White’s, is there. He’s friendlier this time. He’s wearing the same exact thing I’m wearing. There is a definite, pseudo ancient world theme running through the costumes. Then I get it. Roman orgy. I’m a genius.

The kohl around the eyes is a nice touch. He should have thought of that.

Olga’s idea.

Am I going to be at the Vicomte’s for Halloween?

Yes.

That ought to be interesting. If nothing else the Vicomte’s parties are never dull.

Is he planning on going into town in the morning?

It’s already sorted. There are vans for noon. Be ready to go. They’ll come for us.

Awesome. One question. Does he have to share a room with someone?

He’s sharing with Sabrina and Chantal.

Are there cameras in his room?

He nods. Everyone knows the Samurai is a kinky voyeur. It’s what we’re being paid for. This isn’t a vacation.

The doors open and the Servant appears.

We are to enter grandly as the music plays and immediately begin mingling amongst the guests. He and several members of his staff will be paying attention. When we have performed an act we will get a stamp. Our bonus is based on the number of stamps we have. He will be paying attention.

We are lined up. Red girls, Silver girls, Gold girls. Then the costumed. We are nearly the last the enter. By the time we make it out the door, the crowd is loudly cheering. The party has begun.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Carnival at Sea

The family holiday turns out to be more a voyage of the damned than any kind of vacation. To this day I cannot abide windowless rooms or confined places. Fortunately it was an experience never to be repeated. Ten nights cruising the Mediterranean. I poured over the brochure with unbridled joy. Sicily, Pompeii, Carthage. Places I was eager to visit after my two weeks in Ephesus the previous summer with granddad and his very best friend Lionel. Just us three gentlemen (no ladies allowed!) wandering around ruins like wily explorers.

In the evenings we three would have our meals together and then I would sit with them as they sipped large tumblers of whiskey and regaled me of tales of their youth in places like Afghanistan and Africa. The only time I will ever have a holiday that compares will be when I travel with Elon, Roland, my son Jamie and his boys back to Ephesus. Just us gentlemen. No ladies allowed!

Mum and dad bring a nanny with them to watch over me. I don’t get what the deal is with the nanny. This woman is no nanny. I had a nanny for the first ten years of my life. Madam Collette. French. At least sixty by the time I came along. She was my father’s nanny. He was her first. I was her last. She spoke to me exclusively in French, taught me to paint with watercolors, badgered me as I practiced the piano, cared for me, loved me unconditionally, watched over me, and basically removed any need to care for me from my mother. That was a nanny.

This nanny. The one my mother has engaged. This is not a nanny. She’s maybe twenty, Swedish, pretty, and knows nothing about children. She gives me a chocolate bar and a can of soda for breakfast. She dumps me at the Kidz Club (kids with a Z for that annoy me even as a ten year old boy!) first thing in the morning and I stay there until it closes at night. Pretty much fourteen hours a day are spent in the Kidz Club. I don’t mind. I’m annoyed as we approach Naples and my dreams of seeing Pompeii are looking like they will never be fulfilled. I mention this to my father who I see in passing one evening as we cross paths. He’s heading to a cocktail lounge and I’m being taken back to my cabin. That windowless cell in the bowels of the ship.

He wants to know if I’m having a good time.

No. Not really. I’d rather be home. Why exactly did they drag me along anyway? I’m practically a prisoner of the Kidz Club. They make me color. With crayons.

This makes dad chuckle. Perhaps I should spend more time coloring with crayons and less time reading Greek with my grandfather.

At least at home I’d be able to ride my horse. Just so we’re clear, I’m not happy about the fact we’re arriving in Naples in the morning and the nanny (I use air quotes as I shoot the nanny in her cocktail dress and heels a look) won’t take me on an excursion to Pompeii. I really wanted to go to Pompeii. Granddad has told me all about Pompeii. And now I’m going to miss it because the nanny (air quotes again but I ignore her) spends her days doing who knows what while I linger in the Kidz Club. Has he left the ship?

Yes. He’s been off the ship every day. The nanny was supposed to be taking me on excursions. The nanny is given a look.

She shrugs. They all leave really early in the morning.

He turns from the nanny back to me. He thought I liked the Kidz Club. He and mum thought I’d prefer to stay there. With other children my age. He didn’t think I’d be there all day every day. The nanny is given a second look.

What? Martina told her she could leave me in the kids club.

I ignore the nanny. She’s useless. He’s left the ship. When? Did he go to Sicily? I watched the shore from the ship. Does he know that some of the most well preserved Greek ruins are in Sicily?

They got off in Sicily. They didn’t visit the ruins. They just stayed in Palermo. He didn’t think I’d enjoy it. The Kidz Club blah blah blah.

They just stayed in Palermo. That’s it. They could have gone to see the Temple of Concord and they arsed around Palermo. Probably shopping. I cannot believe this.

Mum’s not really one for going around ruins. She’s a city girl in her heart. This is how it works when you have a wife. Got to keep her happy and all that blah blah blah.

I can’t listen to this. Actually never mind. I don’t care. I’m done with him and this conversation. I’m sure he wanted us to have a lovely family holiday, but he’s just a Lotus Eater.

A what?

A Lotus Eater. He had to have read the Odyssey.

Yes. He gets the reference.

Good. Then I don’t have to explain.

Actually yes – I really do need to explain precisely what I mean. Like it or not, he’s still my father. A modicum of respect is still called for.

Respect is a gift, not an obligation.

Quoting his father to him really doesn’t help. What do I mean by the Lotus Eater barb?

He makes all of these grand promises when we’re alone, then mum gets a hold of him and makes him eat the lotus flowers. She makes him forget. She makes time pass. She’s put clouds in his head and apathy in his soul. Practically a year goes by and he doesn’t even notice he hasn’t seen me.

Why do I think he insisted we go on holiday together?

Is he serious? Were I Odysseus and he one of my men, I would pull him bodily from mum and force him to come out of his stupor. He needs to wake up and see what’s real if he actually believes we are on the same holiday.

I could have just told him I wasn’t enjoying myself.

When have I had the opportunity to speak with him since we parted ways on the first day?

I could have said something to the nanny.

I have.

He looks at the nanny.

She shrugs. Martina told her to just ignore my incessant bitching and moaning. She’s noticed I tend to whine a lot.

Obviously Martina is not well. Why hasn’t she come to him?

She shrugs. Martina told her not to bother him.

Can I go to bed now? I’ve been in the Kidz Club for fourteen hours. I’m tired. I’m not used to being up this late four nights in a row. If I promise to just stay in my room for the rest of the trip, can I please not go to the Kidz Club again? I’ve learned how to use room-service for my breakfast. They have sandwiches and things I can get for my other meals. There’s a telly that I don’t have to watch cartoons on. I’d really rather just stay in my room.

I want to stay in my room for the next six days? I’d really rather that than go to the Kidz Club?

Yes.

If I’m trying to manipulate him by making him feel guilty about the fact he’d rather spend his day peacefully sitting by the pool with my mother rather than having to cater to my needs, then it’s not going to work.

I’m not trying to manipulate him. I just don’t want to have to make any more bead necklaces or go to another child disco. It’s not fun for me.

Fine. I can sit in my room if that’s what I want. Mum’s waiting for him.

Enjoy the rest of his holiday. And please, just leave me home the next time he wants to have a family (air quotes again) holiday.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Partying like it’s 31BCE

The garden I had originally admired for its peace and tranquility upon arrival has been transformed. There are divans, couches, platforms and beds. There is a curtained dais off to the side near the pagoda. The pagoda in the center is where the action will be. It must be. What else would a rotating platform be used for in the middle of what is clearly going to be an orgy? As Olga said it would be, it is beautifully lit. I wonder if I’ll make it up there at some point.

This party is already well underway. There are probably a hundred or so guests. The workers quickly scatter. Our arrival is an escalation.

I walk around with Olga for a few minutes. She keeps a professional distance. I learn a few things as we meander. The red-metallic hostesses run the party. They are our conduits to the guests. They make certain we aren’t monopolized. One of the guests gets too comfortable with us, they might not want to let us go. We make our money going from client to client. A client wants to keep us for the whole four hours then we get paid for only one client.

I thought we were getting a flat fee.

We are. But we get bonus money for servicing clients.

A red-hued hostess beckons to Olga.

I move to follow, but she brushes me away. She needs to work and so do I.

She walks off to where the hostess is sitting with a trio of white middle-aged men dressed in togas. They welcome Olga with applause and hearty guffaws. Piggy bastards.

I wander. I mingle. I have no idea what the hell to do. I go to the bar. I ask for well iced vodka.

The bartender leans in drawing me close.

What the fuck? I should know workers aren’t supposed to drink. I’m not a guest.

One of the cocktail waitresses who looks like she was plucked out of the main casino in Caesar’s leans into me as she picks up a tray of drinks. If I need water go around to the building where the workers take their breaks. That hostess seems to be gesturing for me.

I look as a hostess approaches me.

She has a catch for me. (American – the accent is a dead giveaway) A good one. What’s my name?

Marcus Antonius.

Don’t bullshit her. Just because she’s working the party doesn’t mean she’s an idiot.

James.

They’re here for all three nights. I’d better tip her well if they like me. She has tuition to pay.

I will. Does she have a name?

Octavia Minor.

I deserve that.

On one of her couches is a man I recognize. Not because I know him, but because everyone knows him. Another celebrity who likes the world to believe he is straight, but in reality is totally queer and everyone knows it. The Actor and his pretty beard wife are on the couch. They are off to the side in a secluded area. If they try to get me to join their freaky cult, I quit.

I join them on the couch after a few introductions. Octavia leaves for another of her couches after establishing I am what they are looking for. There are condoms and lube prominently on display.

There really isn’t much small talk. They tell me what they want as if they are ordering from a menu. The wife wants a good seeing to.

I can do this.

It really turns her on to see her husband getting blown.

I can do that too.

Not that he likes to be blown, it just turns her on.

I get it. We’re all good. Would it help if I said that I’m not gay but I really like to get fucked by a man on occasion?

Exactly. The Actor gives me a smile.

Only a man can really give it to another man. It’s not a sexuality thing, it’s a physical thing.

Finally someone that gets it.

I get it all right. I have a few clients that aren’t gay. They just like a good fucking.

The Actor is first. I see that this man could potentially be a very good client. Every time Olga has blown me has been a lesson in how to get it done. I’ve learned her tricks. My tongue curls and stiffens. I use it like a swirling stick. He’s not very big. This makes my job much easier. I can take more into my mouth and manipulate it more readily. He climaxes fairly rapidly.

I move on to the wife.

I give her exactly what she wants. A truly good seeing to. She frantically rubs against me. This pretty woman is so twitchingly sexually frustrated she can’t even slow down enough to enjoy being fucked.

The Actor’s hand runs across the curve of my ass as I’m banging his wife. His fingers draw lines down my thigh.

She’s done. I pull away from her before I reach the point that I need to continue. If I can avoid climaxing I will.

After, there is some stroking and touching.

Octavia the hostess comes for me. She hates to pull me away, but there are others just itching to meet me.

I’ll be here every night. I give The Actor a smile and a wink before walking off.

The rotating platform in the pagoda is occupied. The multihued lighting creates shadows and mystery. Avan I know immediately. The platform turns. Olga and another woman. The three of them are engaged in sexual gymnastics brought to life previously for me in a copy of the Kama Sutra in the library back home. Beautiful book. Leather bound. Brought back from India by my great-grandfather. I can’t look. I really can’t.

I’m brought to the Servant. Octavia the hostess confirms two. One was intercourse. Vaginal.

My left arm is given three stamps only visible under black light.

Octavia brings me to the next client. A Japanese man that wants to fuck me. Octavia stays with us. She puts the condom on him as I get on elbows and knees. I can only presume Octavia is the one that lubes me up before the man’s stereotypically diminutive penis works me.

As this occurs I make a mental list. I need books. I need black shoe laces. I need… And we’re done.

Octavia moves me along back to the Servant.

Received anal sex. Four stamps.

A new hostess comes and takes me from Octavia. There is some mild quarreling between the two before I go with the new girl. When I have twenty stamps on my arm, the Servant tells me the Samurai wants me. I am brought to her.

She is in the curtained dais as I suspected she might be.

I sit as instructed.

She stands in front of me. She wears a turban like a sultan and a black robe. She opens her robe. She’s bare underneath. Her small cock hard. Her breasts tiny and nicely pointed.

Do I still find her wondrous?

Yes.

Did I see Avan and Olga on the platform?

I didn’t notice.

They are very beautiful together.

She would like to see me on the platform. But not at that moment. She would like to spend some time with me.

Does she want me to touch her?

No. She doesn’t do that.

She’s going to have to excuse what is truly an embarrassing level of ignorance on my part, but I assumed – never a good thing do to – that she could enjoy herself physically.

She can. She just prefers to do some things privately.

We’re private. No one can see what is happening behind the sheer curtains of the dais.

She takes hold of herself as she stands in front of me. Do I want to touch her?

Yes.

Why?

Because I am very sexually attracted to her.

Because I like boys?

She’s not a boy. She’s a fully grown adult.

Do I like boys?

No.

I told her I like everything and everyone.

I draw the line at pedophilia if that’s what she’s implying.

Have I ever been raped or molested?

No.

Why am I a prostitute? Do I have some sordid sexual history?

Not really. I’ll admit I’ve gotten around a bit. But I was never molested.

(I am not going to discuss these things with this woman at this party whilst she is standing before me pointing her erect penis at me. Yes – I have had things happen to me. Unpleasant things I make a choice not to dwell on. Are these the things that have driven me to prostitution? Not really. But then again, I don’t know. What if I hadn’t seen my parents having sex? Or what if that jackass Booth Buxton hadn’t tried to molest me at school? What if my grandfather hadn’t fucked with my head when I was a confused fourteen year old? Maybe these things have pushed me into prostitution. Would I be able to do what I’m doing if I really were totally together when it came to my sexuality? I really don’t like how the Samurai gets into my head.)

If I touch myself, she’ll touch herself.

Okay.

We masturbate whilst watching the other like a couple of curious but timid teenagers.

For the first time in the evening I achieve climax and ejaculate into my fist.

When she is finished and her robe is secured, I’m invited to leave.

That’s it?

She holds open the curtain for me. That’s it.

I return to the party.

A new hostess takes me to a couch. I don’t even really remember what was required of me. Taking it up the ass I think. No. Blow. Blow. Up the ass. Blow.

I don’t make it to the platform.

With the sound of a gong, the party ends abruptly. Like a car crash. One minute there is a party. The next the guests are being told the party is over. Everyone is to go to their own rooms. The doors we entered the garden through are open. Olga takes my hand and we move.

We are back in the well lit room we were inspected in. All of us are looking a bit worse for the wear after four hours of fucking.

Olga whispers to me that we wait.

The Servant enters the room with two of his flunkies.

One by one he holds a black light over our left arms. The number of glowing stamps are counted. A note is made by the first flunky. The second flunky pays out cash.

I make more than Olga even though she has more stamps. My guess is that it’s a numbers game and in some circumstances men are more valuable than woman. This being one of them. Day to day work there is more demand for the ladies. But when it comes to getting a lot of boys together there needs to be more of an incentive.

She waits at the door for me. We hold hands as we walk back to our room.

When the door is locked behind us, we go straight for the bathroom. Her hair is piled up and a scoop of cream is smeared over her face. Some blue liquid is poured on cotton wool. She comes at me with it.

What is that shit?

Eye makeup remover. I did really well.

One question. Why did I make more per stamp than her?

She has no idea. Everyone should have made the same per stamp. But clearly the Samurai likes me. He does have his favorites.

We get into the shower. I wash her back, massage her shoulders, and kiss her neck. After stepping out I dry her off with a large towel.

We both just want sleep. Comfortable, long, hibernating, sleep.

She sets the alarm clock after putting on panties and a camisole. I find my pajama pants and t-shirt under the pillow right where I left it. We get into bed. I reach over her and turn off the light. Goodnight.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Pompeii

The confrontation with my father in the corridor leaves me anxious. I never censure my parents’ behavior. I accept it as a matter of course. They could just leave me. I don’t know that they would, but I imagine that they could. I was too bold. Too cheeky. I wasn’t my usual well behaved self. I was mouthy and rude. My grandmother would be very cross with me. I lay in my bed and imagine what I need to do to get home. This is how I fall asleep sometime in the middle of the night.

The next morning I’m up early and dressed as I normally am. I consider going to my parents’ cabin and asking their permission to go to Pompeii on my own. But I’m not wholly certain where their cabin is. Or the nanny’s. That and I don’t want to be banished back to the Kidz Club.

There is a knock on my door. Room service. I’ve learned rapidly. I am nothing if not a master of taking care of myself. If I want breakfast that isn’t a Bounty and a Coke, I need to sort myself out. The Dominican man named Smiley, who is my room steward leaves a fill-in card that, if I hang it on my door before midnight, equals breakfast in the morning. He also folds my towels into shapes – a lobster, a swan, a chimp, a peacock. It’s like origami. I find it intriguing. I’ve taken pictures of each. I think Mrs. Gresham will like this. I wonder if I can convince her to turn my towels into an elephant.

Dad’s at the door. He’s dressed in chinos and a polo shirt. I was unaware that he was capable of being up before noon.

What does he want?

Good morning is a more appropriate greeting.

Good morning. What does he want? I thought he was breakfast. Where is my breakfast? I look past him and down the hall.

We’re going to go to Pompeii. Together. Just the two of us. If we hurry we can get breakfast. Don’t I have a window?

No. I do not have a window. Does he have mum’s permission or is she in their room chucking the perfume at the wall? Where is their room anyhow? Or is it a secret?

It’s not a secret. Haven’t I been up there? No, he supposes I haven’t been have I?

No. I haven’t. Could he explain to me why he made me come along?

He thought it would be fun. Family holiday.

For who? Does this really seem like a family holiday to him? What about this has been family oriented? We haven’t had one meal together. I don’t even know where they’re staying. I haven’t seen mum once. I get that she despises me, but does she have to be so in my face about it?

She doesn’t despise me. She’s just not feeling very well.

I just don’t understand. I know what my friends from school do with their families over holidays. This is not it.

Do I want to go to Pompeii or not?

Yes.

Get my camera or whatever I want to bring with me.

We go to Pompeii. We pile on the bus with the rest of our tour group. He booked us places after our confrontation the previous evening. This is supposed to be a family holiday. Perhaps putting me in the Kidz Club for the whole day wasn’t the best thought out plan. Maybe we should have planned to have lunch together every day.

It’s just he and mum are really night people as it is. On top of that, Mum’s not feeling very well. She’s had a bit of an upset recently. This might not have been the best moment to go on a holiday, but he didn’t want to disappoint me.

Because this hasn’t been a huge disappointment?

The Lotus Eaters reference was a bit harsh, but he is willing to concede how I might see things that way. I just need to understand that he and mum love each other so much that they sometimes forget to make room in their lives for me.

I’m supposed to believe this is acceptable? Their love for each other is so great that it excuses their pathological neglect of my emotional wellbeing? This is supposed to make me feel better? I don’t care. I’m off the ship and I’m going to see Pompeii.

The tour bus makes a stop at a cameo factory. We are shown how cameos are made.

Do I want to get a present for mummy?

Not particularly. I would like to get something for my grandmother and great-grandmother and Mrs. Gresham. I pick out pendants for the three. Dad choses a fourth for me to give to my mother. It’s a rose. Blah. Lotus Eater.

He’d really like it if I didn’t keep calling him a Lotus Eater. Mum’s not doing so well. She’d probably really like a gift. Maybe something to cheer her up.

Fine. I can choose my own. I pick out a salmon pink cameo with a mermaid carved into contrasting lemon stone. I like it. The mermaid has a pretty face.

Nice choice.

I nod. Mum’s like a siren. She’s always calling him to her with her song.

Do I only read classics and mythology?

No. I have my readers from school. They’re banal.

As soon as we’re back home he’s going to dig out his old Enid Blyton books.

When we arrive at Pompeii we meet our tour guide. He knows things that actually impress me. He speaks Latin. He answers the barrage of questions I pelt him with. I take picture after picture. I run out of film (those were the days!). Dad buys me a new supply. He’s loving and attentive. We’re such a charming father and son duo. It’s not real, but I so want it to be. Me with my handsome dad walking around ruins. The tour guide takes a picture of us.

We stop at a crossroads. The guide points to the building. It’s the Lupanar. I follow even though the tour guide suggests all children remain outside. I don’t really think of myself as a child. I’m certainly nothing like that annoying boy with our group that needs a haircut and can’t stop picking his nose. Gross.

I know what the word lupanar means (thank you granddad for teaching me Latin). I also know in a vague sort of way what a brothel is.

Above the doors leading into small cells with raised cement beds were the famous frescos I’d found black and white plates of in some of the books in the library. I’ll admit I’m curious. I’m eleven. Thanks to my grandfather I’ve seen more than any boy should.

I start taking pictures. Purely for academic reasons of course. Every fresco an advertisement for what is on offer through the door. Perhaps. Scholars continue to debate this. Grandfather will appreciate how meticulous I’ve been in visually cataloging my tour of Pompeii.

The hand on my shoulder makes me jump. Dad looking down at me, a sort of weird smile on his face and his eyebrows raised make me smile. I’m just taking pictures.

We will be having a long overdue talk very soon.

I smile.

Did I get my pictures?

Yes.

He hugs me. We move along with the group.

The hour arrives for us to depart as we sit at a small café. I’m drinking something lemony and he’s enjoying an espresso.

I haven’t been even a little difficult. I’ve gone out of my way to be easy going and fun to be around. If this were a date, I’d be pushing for a second.

We’ve had a good time when we board the bus. I don’t know what to do when we arrive at the ship as he hands our passports and cards over to the attendant. So I follow him. We take the elevator to places I’ve never been before. We stop at a place that promises to develop my pictures in an hour. Then we move on. I realize that we are going to my parents’ room.

I’m appalled when I see where they are staying. Not that I’m allowed to go beyond the living room area of the suite. Mum is out on the balcony sunbathing with the nanny. So this is how the other half lives. Not in a grim windowless cell below the waterline. I really am nothing but a wart on my mother’s backside. If only she could have me surgically removed every part of her would be so beautiful.

Dad returns from the balcony. We’re all going to have tea together.

I don’t like the nanny. Does she have to join us?

No. She doesn’t.

I have tea with my mother and father on deck.

Dad is animated and engaging about our trip. He had a wonderful time. She really should have joined us.

Or, here’s a thought, they could have gone to Capri like she wanted. They could have had the nanny take me to Pompeii if it really meant so much to me. When she was a child if she’d been taken on such a wonderful holiday she would have been grateful rather than spend all of her time complaining about being forced to have fun with other children. What kind of child prefers to spend his time locked up in a tiny room rather than go to the Kidz Club? The reason she very purposefully picked this holiday was because of the Kidz Club. A normal child would be delighted to spend the day playing games and going to mini-discos. Don’t think she doesn’t realize how cleverly I’ve manipulated my father.

Can I go back to my room?

Yes. And next time I want to attention seek, do it on someone else’s time. Go. My mother waves me away with a hand.

I go before my father finishes lodging his objections. She’s going to win again. She always does.

My room has been tidied and the towel of the day is a hermit crab. I name him Bob.

Bob and I sit on my bed watching Italian television and picking at grapes from off of my room service plate that came with the tea I ordered. Between my knowledge of French and Latin, I’m fairly certain I’m starting to understand Italian.

I look at the cameos I picked out. I don’t think I’m going to give the mermaid to my mother. I like her far too much to part with her.

Smiley the Dominican room steward comes by early in the evening.

What am I doing in my room?

I’ve negotiated a deal that will keep me out of the Kidz Club as long as I remain sequestered in my room.

I watch him as he moves around tidying my already tidy space.

Every cruise there is a kid like me.

What does that mean?

Nothing. Do I need anything? Want anything? Chocolate bar? Soda? Smiley has a little boy back in Dominica. He knows what little boys like.

No. Could he get me some Italian newspapers or magazines?

Sure. He can do that.

Can he show me how to make the lobster with the towels?

Sure. He can do that too.

What’s his little boy’s name?

Daniel. He’s ten.

I’m eleven.

He finishes doing his job. Asks me again if there is anything I need?

Nope. I’m good. I’ve had some tea. I’ll order room service for dinner in a few hours.

I’m left alone. The ship begins to move at some point. I’ve nodded off. It was a long day. I nearly fall asleep again, but there’s a tapping at the door.

Dad again. He’s wearing a suit and shirt with an open collar. I’m going to dinner with him and mum.

Does mum know this?

They had a conversation after I left. Mum’s family was very close. She recognizes we’re not as close as we could be. She agrees that we should start spending more time together as a family.

I don’t believe him. I don’t. But I don’t say this. I don’t know what I’m supposed to change into to.

I don’t need to change. Most of the kids at dinner in their dining room are dressed pretty casually.

There are other kids at dinner?

Yes.

So other families eat together on a nightly basis?

Yes.

What an extraordinary thing. Can he tell me truthfully if they’re ashamed of me? Is that why they pretend I don’t exist? Is that why there is no room in their bubble of love for me? I’m not ugly. I’m not stupid. I have reasonably good manners. What is it?

Do I want to go to dinner with them or not?

No. Sorry. I’m not in the mood to be an annoyance, manipulative, ungrateful, or accused of attention seeking. I had a really good time with just us together. It was a nice day. I want it to stay that way.

Come to dinner. It’ll be fine. He promises. If I go, when we arrive in Tunisia he’ll take me on the excursion to the ruins of Carthage.

That is the sort of bribery that works on me. I’m in.

Mum is standing outside the dining room. There is no nanny.

Where is the nanny?

Dad answers. She got off in Naples. This is a family holiday. We will be a family on this holiday.

Mum smiles tightly. It really wasn’t necessary to send the nanny packing.

Dad repeats his previous statement. This is a family holiday. We will be a family on this holiday. A time for everything and everything in its time.

Whatever.

We go in for dinner.

Our table is located along a banquette that curves around the room. Mum takes a chair and dad and I sit on the bench. The table is already set for three. The nanny, so it seems, was permitted to dine with them. Like no nanny I’ve ever met before or since.

Mum is quiet. She seems sad, but I don’t know if she’s just angry or what. If I’d brought the cameo with me to dinner, I might offer it to her to see if that might make her smile. But I didn’t.

I pretend to be a shadow. I’m silent. I eat my supper. I don’t spill anything. I smile at the waitress and the water boy. I’m so very thankful for everything they do. I’m brought a special sundae that looks like a clown head at the end of the meal.

Dad pulls out the pictures from our day in Pompeii. He makes mum look at them as I edge closer on the bench seat next to him. Just so I know he’s already removed several pictures which will be returned to me at a later date. Perhaps when I turn thirty.

We come to the picture of us. Me and my handsome dad with the clear blue Italian sky behind us. Dad hands the picture to mum.

I glance at mum as she takes the picture. She looks at the picture of me and my handsome daddy. Then I see it. The answer to all of my questions. It’s in her eyes. There’s a flash that could be anger or could be something else. Maybe jealous?

I like this thought so it becomes the truth.

She’s jealous. She’s jealous of me. She covets my father like a golden calf. My daddy that gave me his green eyes and brown hair and full mouth. My handsome, wealthy, future earl of a daddy that lowered himself to a level somewhere between an amoeba and a worm by marrying my slag of an unacceptable mother the butcher’s daughter.

That jealously is delicious to me. It’s in her eyes and the line of her mouth. She will do anything to keep him. She will do anything to prevent another person, even her own son, from getting a toehold on my daddy’s heart. But she’s too late. I see what she doesn’t. My daddy loves me and it breaks his heart that she forces him to choose between us.

I put my head on dad’s shoulder as I smile at mum.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Field Trip to Kyoto

Olga and I are up just past ten. She set the Dalvey travel alarm clock that I’m sure I left at home in my bedroom. I’m ready to leave for Kyoto just before noon. I need books and gifts for the family. Something for Mi Young and Elizabeth.

OIga already has a list. She puts books on it. We need a couple of e-book readers. She’ll get them when we’re back in London. It’s ridiculous that we still haul paperbacks around with us.

I begrudgingly agree. I never thought I’d give up paper, but she has a point. I finished the three books I bought in Heathrow before we landed in Japan. If we’re going to be traveling a lot I need a fully loaded e-book reader. It’s that or I might end up having to rely on Olga’s taste in “literature” to keep me occupied.

She needs to change her shoes. She is going to be miserable walking around in those shoes. I have every intention of seeing more of Kyoto than the inside of a bunch of boutiques.

She’s not going to change her shoes. She’ll be fine.

Unbelievable. I go to the suitcases of shoes she brought and pick out the most sensible pair I can find. Black ballet flats. I put them in my messenger bag. She’ll thank me later.

No she won’t because she won’t need them.

Fine. We’ll see.

We will see.

The door opens. The Servant. The Samurai wishes to see me. Olga is to go with the footman. The others are waiting on her at the vans.

But…

The Servant looks at me. Is there a problem?

I really wanted to go into Kyoto.

I am to be at the Samurai’s disposal during the length of my time in Kyoto. Was this not made clear to me?

It was. Fuck. I’m not in the mood for this. I reach inside of my messenger bag and give Olga the shoes. For me she is to take them with her.

She takes the shoes and puts them in her massive bag. She’ll get the things we were going shopping for. She’ll get me something to read.

Something good.

What’s good?

Probably anything that she would never read.

Nice.

No vampires, no werewolves, no dragons, no wizards, no spacemen, no bodice ripping pirates, no quirky but confused working girls that just want to fall in love and get married, no procedural crime…

Something boring.

Yes. Something boring. If it has a sticker on the cover that reads it’s somehow associated with the Booker Prize, then get it. She kisses me on the cheek at the door. We can stay in Kyoto for a few days when we’re done. She’ll have a poke around and see what looks like a nice hotel. Maybe something with a spa or a hot spring.

Do that. That sounds perfect. I kiss her on the mouth then let her go.

We go our own ways. I am brought to the Samurai.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Ruins of Carthage

My mother is jealous of me. This is a revelation second only to Muhammad in the dessert or Moses on Sinai. A golden light shines on me. My eyes have been opened. My world has been turned upside down. I sit snuggled up to my father as she flip through the pictures we took in Pompeii. My head on his shoulder. Mum’s bitterness dripping off her fangs like venom. She’s jealous of me and I like it.

My mother is jealous of me. I’m certain of this. There can be no other explanation for her behavior. So like any eleven year old would do, I stick the knife in and turn.

I love you dad. I had so much fun today. I can’t wait until we get to Tunisia. I’ve read all about Hannibal. I’m so excited to see the ruins of Carthage.

He loves me too. He puts an arm around me and gives me a hug. He’s looking forward to it too.

Wait. What about Tunisia? She already wants to go to the bazaar in Tunis. Not the ruins of Carthage.

Oliver wants to go to the ruins. They’ve been to the bazaar in Tunis a dozen times already. We can all go to the ruins of Carthage together.

No. She wants to go to the bazaar. All along she’s said she wants to go to the bazaar.

Carthage could be fun for all of us.

Explain to her what is fun about walking around ruins? Besides, didn’t they kill their young? Weren’t they into child sacrifice? Why would she want to go anywhere near such a place?

It’s never been proven they performed infanticide. I’m just full of these little factoids. It’s no wonder the other boys at school want to pummel me.

Why can’t I be a normal child? My mother would really like to know why I dress like a sixty year old man and seem incapable of having normal fun like a child would have. Why? Do I even know how to play?

I like my horse.

Dad reaches out to both of us. Let’s just talk about what we all want to do.

What mum wants, more than anything else in the world, is for this to end. She wishes he would have sent her home rather than the nanny.

Well maybe if she made a bit more effort and not spend every moment dwelling and moping she might be in better spirits and things would be going better.

I’ve actually never heard dad talk back to mum. I’m rather proud of him.

Before a real fight begins, she thumps her fist against the table, gathers up her handbag and walks out of the restaurant with her head held high.

Dad takes me back to my room. He’ll talk to mum. As much as he wants to take me to Carthage, he might need to smooth things over with her. Maybe we should have just given in and agreed to go to the bazaar with her. That’s fun too. When I’m a grown man with a wife I’ll understand better.

He doesn’t come for me when we land in Tunisia the next morning. I see Smiley regularly. As promised he delivers a stack of Italian newspapers. Most of them have been read already, but I don’t care. I don’t like the look on his face. Pitying and sad. I put the do not disturb sign on the door. This is a boundary he respects. I’m not his problem anymore. The sign absolves him of all responsibility. If they find me dead then he can point the finger at the sign. I’m left alone in my cave. With Bob the hermit crab folded towel.

In my windowless room time takes on new meaning. I sleep a lot. I think it’s morning when it’s really afternoon. I think it’s day when it’s night. I use the television for light. I call for room service at irregular hours. I stop dressing and just lay on my bed in my boxers. I’m cagey, confused, disoriented and somewhat feral when my door opens after I ignore unexpected knocking.

It’s dad. He turns on the lights.

He looks at me and the state of the room I’ve been living in for what turns out to be five days. It’s the evening of our final night on the ship. He wanted to make sure I’d packed my things and put them outside the door.

I see the room as he sees it. It’s a mess. I’m hungry. I don’t remember the last time I bothered to call room service.

He sits on my bed and puts his face in his hands. His shoulders shake and I understand he’s crying. I really am that much of a disappointment to him.

I put a hand on his shoulder. I tell him I’m sorry about everything. I just didn’t realize things had gotten so bad. I’ll tidy up.

He looks at me. His green eyes are red and wet. Have I been in my room the whole time?

Yes. I told him I wouldn’t leave my room if I didn’t have to go to the Kidz Club again.

I could have gone and gotten some fresh air. I could have gone to the Kidz Club. He assumed I’d keep myself busy. It’s not like I’m a baby anymore. I’m not a prisoner.

I told him I wouldn’t leave my room if I didn’t have to go to the Kidz Club again. I haven’t left my room. I did as I promised I would do. Is he going to take me home now? Does this mean I get to go home now? Is it all over?

He’s going to take me home in the morning. He never should have brought me on the cruise. He should have known what would happen. This was just a bad idea. He should have cancelled the whole thing. He’s going to take me home. He’s going to talk to my grandparents. They take good care of me. As much as he’s bitched about them, he’s starting to realize that for all of his complaints they’re better parents than he’s ever given them credit for.

Mum wasn’t ready for this. He is a lotus eater. He is. I’m right about this. I’m eleven and I see better than he does how skewed things are. He needs to take care of mum. He’s sorry. He truly is. But she has to be his priority right now. He’s going to take me home. My grandparents will be delighted when he gives them what they’ve wanted all along.

I don’t understand these ramblings.

I’m hungry. I’m shaky. The light hurts my eyes. I just want to go back to sleep again. When I wake up I want to be in my bed as Mrs. Gresham whips open my curtains and my grandmother complains about the fact I’m incapable of at the bare minimum hanging my trousers over my chair rather than leaving them in a heap on the floor.

He makes me get up. He makes me dress. I’m marched out of my room. He catches Smiley and orders him to go and clean my room. It takes cash for Smiley to agree to do my father’s bidding rather than call on someone with the power to make life awkward for dad by divulging the fact my parents kept me confined to my room up for nearly a week. Smiley isn’t the only one that knows what’s going on.

I’m taken up on deck. It’s night. We are at sea. Mum is at a table with another couple. They’re all attractive people.

What is this? My mother’s voice turns to a hiss when she sees me.

I just want to go back to my room. Please let me go back to my room.

Yes. My mother agrees with me. I am to go back to my room. I’m the one that didn’t want to go to the Kidz Club. I’m the one that wanted to be a martyr. How do I enjoy being a martyr? I certainly stink of martyr. Have I even bothered showering? Have the past few days been as fun for me as she hopes they’ve been? Am I bored to tears? Am I sorry for being such a little brat? Do I wish I would have just learned to like the Kidz Club? Do I wonder even a little why she doesn’t enjoy going places with me? She doesn’t want to be around me.

The couple she’s sitting with doesn’t know what to make of me. I’m this pathetic creature in rumpled clothing they probably didn’t know existed. They leave after mumbling something about needing to be anywhere but where they are.

Dad makes me sit. He thought she had checked on me. She told him she’d checked on me. Several times.

The do not disturb sign was on the door. She shrugs. He’s too soft on me. He doesn’t see how I try to manipulate him. She sees it. She’s on to me. A few days on my own has probably done me an absolute world of good.

I stop listening to them. Instead I look as other children my age look joyful and sleepy as they run about on the final night of their family holiday. They haven’t been in seclusion for days. Their skin is not sallow from lack of sun and their eyes are not wide and glossy.

Dad makes me go to the midnight buffet with him. I don’t want anything I see even though I’m hungry. I’m tired of chips, burgers, and sandwiches. I take cheese, a roll, olives, and some fruit.

I eat silently then ask to go back to my room. I haven’t packed up my things. I didn’t realize it was the last night.

My father tells me that I’m moving to their room for the last night. We all have to be up early in the morning. There will be no argument or objection. He’s had enough. She’s gotten everything she wanted.

No. She didn’t get to go to Capri. Or has he already forgotten?

The look on my father’s face is one I will never forget. At last my mother has taken a step too far. She sees this instantly. For the first and only time she capitulates.

Very well. If he insists.

He does. We three were originally supposed to share the suite. That was the plan. That was what she had agreed to. This was supposed to be a family holiday. Not Martina fucking pissing and moaning like a goddamned infant for ten days because he wanted to spend some time with his son. Not him jumping through hoops of fire to keep her happy because he took his son on an outing.

He’s angry. I’ve seen my father sad, joyful, expectant, morose, undone, and happy. But rarely angry. He’s angry. This is not the family holiday he had imagined. These ten days have been nothing but a punishment for him. Whether she realizes it or not, he’s upset too. She isn’t the only one that is suffering. He’s hurting too.

I love to hear that somehow I am the source of suffering and hurt. Because it has to be me they’re speaking of. This is the way a child’s mind works.

With a huff and a puff my mother gathers her handbag to storm off.

My father isn’t having it. He grabs her hand and makes her sit. He’s not having it anymore. He’s not. They will bring me home the next day.

No. They will put me on a plane and they are continuing on to New York. That’s the plan.

No. He’s taking me home. If she wants to go to New York on her own, fine. He’s taking me home.

Does he realize someone named Herman Gould is in New York and he’d be absolutely delighted to see her without him?

Fine. In fact good. Maybe that’s for the best really. Maybe it’s time his priorities shifted. He doesn’t know what he was thinking these past few days, but his head is starting to clear. He needs some time to think. Her going to New York without him is probably a good idea.

This is like a slap in the face to my mother.

I watch this drama unfold before me as I eat olives. This is what a marriage on the brink of cracking in two looks like. I don’t understand this at the time. But like the meaning behind Makin’ Whoopee, it will come to me in time. Mum has a choice at this moment. Dad’s getting on that plane with me whether she likes it or not. She’s used up her ammunition and already thrown the gun at him.

The best thing that could have happened to me was for my mother to make a final push. To get my dad to really and truly make that choice between the two of us once and for all. No matter what, dad was still the product of my grandparents. He may not have wanted children, but he had me. He understood that the line needed to continue on. And if not through him then it would all go to his detested brother by legal default. That he could not have.

Even mum was smart enough to know that this was not the hill she was going to die on. If she wanted to live to fight another day she needed to retreat. If she didn’t return to England with us, then their relationship would be forever changed. She capitulates. She will return to England with us. But she’s staying in London. She refuses to go to Wold Hall. This is a compromise everyone can live with.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Jealousy

I am brought to the Samurai. She is behind a solid door in a room. But not to the room where we first met. This is a bedroom based on how it’s furnished. But there are no windows. A windowless cave. A den. A lair. A cavern. A burrow. A hideout. A sanctuary. A snuggery.

Everything is only as we perceive it to be. This room is just a room without windows. Nothing more. A perfectly private place where the Samurai can be herself.

The room is dimly lit and smells of jasmine and spice. Something about the way there are sheer curtains dividing the space and surrounding the carved opium bed, that I can only assume is where she sleeps, makes it feel like a sultan’s harem with only one occupant.

The opium bed is magnificent. Wooden canopy, horse hoof legs, shutters which are open.

Boudoir seems to be the best word to describe the effect the opium bed covered with pillows combined with the candlelight and general feeling of Zen the atmosphere produces.

She sits on a divan. A tablet in her hands. She is wearing a wig. Shoulder length blond hair. She’s wrapped in an orange silk robe. I like the color.

The door closes behind me. We are alone.

Do I realize there are cameras in the room?

I figured there probably were.

She knows I asked Avan about the cameras. She likes that I didn’t lie to her. Do I find Avan attractive?

Yes.

Would I fuck Avan in front of her?

Sure.

Would I like to watch Avan fuck Olga?

She’s going to have to excuse me. I don’t really have an answer to that question. I’m not certain what it is she’s looking for. I think the question is far more layered than she is leading me to believe.

Perhaps it is. Do I like watching other people fuck Olga? Is that something we are into?

We’re prostitutes. I see her having sex with other people all of the time.

But do I like it?

I’m indifferent. (No – I am ambivalent and struggling, but I don’t say this) What happens on the job is on the job.

What about privately? Do we fuck other people when we are not working?

Again, I’m not certain what she’s looking for.

She’s been watching us.

And?

Olga isn’t very bright is she? Personally she thought the Battle of Actium quip was hilarious.

She’s going to have to excuse me. I don’t have the benefit of being able to rewind and review conversations I’ve already had.

A finger beckons for me to join her on the divan.

I sit.

She turns the tablet towards me. I’m shone on the tablet four camera angles first of Olga and I fucking from beginning to end. I am really loud when I cum. I didn’t know that. I also have this sort of weird look on my face. I might need to work on that. But then again, who looks pretty when they’re fucking? Actually Olga does. But that’s different.

Do I like fucking Olga up the ass?

Yes.

I continue watching. We dress. We talk. These pedestrian exchanges between two people that share a life should never be recorded. The conversation is just this unending repartee and a sort of code of half uttered sentences only one within the couple could fully understand. What we say to each other couldn’t possibly be interesting to anyone other than us (do we really spend as much time as we clearly do discussing her footwear or my rose gardening? I suppose we do – we are so fucking boring!). Or perhaps not. Clearly The Samurai finds it fascinating.

Then we come to the Battle of Actium quip.

I sound like such a pretentious snot. I knew Olga wouldn’t know what the hell I was talking about, but I enjoyed being such a smarty-smarty. Something else I need to work on.

The Samurai thinks this little exchange is hilarious. She keeps on reversing and replaying.

Olga is dumb.

Olga is smart in her own way. She’s also very kind and has a good heart. These things matter. (For certain Olga would never delight in watching another being privately poked at – she would think it was mean even if she wasn’t the butt of the joke)

She’s pretty.

She’s that too.

Could it be possible the only reason I like her is because she’s pretty? Because if Olga were ugly, deformed, fat…

I get the idea. I don’t judge people on their looks.

Everyone judges people on their looks.

Who gave her the authority to speak on behalf of everyone?

This takes her aback. I don’t think she’s used to being talked back to. She is the empress of this little island. No one dares give her lip.

I don’t judge people on their looks. Martin Luther King Jr. got that one very right. I prefer to judge people on the content of their character. (I’m annoyed. I wanted to go to Kyoto. I was looking forward to lunch with Olga in a restaurant and not in our bedroom. I wanted to get to a phone and call the Matchmaker. There are things I need to tell her. I have this feeling my emails are being monitored.)

Is Olga my girlfriend?

Olga is my friend.

The Samurai takes the tablet and flicks her fingers over the smooth surface.

I am shown footage of the two of us returning from the party. We are in the shower. I massage Olga’s shoulders and kiss her neck. It’s insultingly intimate. Having to share this moment with the Samurai makes me feel more violated than Avan ever could.

The video continues to run as I dry Olga off then we slip into bed. I assume the show is going to end when the lights go off, but it doesn’t. It’s as if we are being watched through night vision goggles. Here we are. I’m the big spoon. Olga is the little spoon. And we fall asleep. If nothing else I have hard proof she steals the covers.

The Samurai stops the replay. So?

So what?

Is she my girlfriend?

What does she want me to say? We work together. We’ve been put into the same bedroom with one bed. Should I sleep on the floor?

She could change sleeping assignments. She could move me in with someone else. Put Olga in with Avan.

No.

Why no? Because Olga’s my girlfriend?

Because I’m not going to be jerked around.

It’s her house. She can make people sleep where she wants them to sleep. Especially if she’s paying for it.

I think it’s time for me to go. The job wasn’t what I thought it was going to be.

I can’t leave. I’m due to stay another two nights. There are two more parties.

I’d like my phone back and someone to drive me into town. I rise to leave.

She grabs me by the shirt.

I can’t leave.

Yes. I can. I am not a prisoner. Or am I?

I’m not a prisoner. She would like me to stay. She won’t move my room.

I’ll stay. Just so we’re clear. She’s not Olga. She’s special in her own way.

She wishes she was Olga.

Why? What is it in her head that makes her believe Olga is superior? Can I be totally honest with her?

Maybe. Probably not. She’s fragile. Am I going to say a bad thing about her?

No.

A nice thing?

No. Something about Olga.

Okay.

Olga isn’t so great. She’s bossy, demanding, fussy, annoying… the list is long.

Olga is beautiful.

So is a hurricane. The moment she let’s go of this desire to be someone she isn’t, but rather learn to love who she is, then good things might start to happen.

Okay. How about this. She wanted me to come to her room for a reason, and I think that she wants us to touch. Is that it?

She shrugs. Maybe.

What would make her the most comfortable?

Why do I wear clothing during the day? Why don’t I wear a robe? It’s not like I’m leaving.

First of all, I thought I was going to Kyoto. Second, I prefer to dress in the morning. I like to do things a certain way. Maintain a level of order. I don’t exactly have a regular schedule so I have to make one. Part of that is dressing appropriately every morning. Otherwise standards start to slip and before I realize it I’m sitting around in my underwear day in and day out not precisely certain when it was the last time I showered.

She would like it if I came to her room wearing a robe. It makes things less awkward for her.

I can do that.

Will I change? She points to a sliding door.

I step through it. I’m in a hallway with five doors. Two on each side. One facing the opposite from the door I’ve entered through. Five doors. Button button who has the button?

First door on the left. A closet. More than a closet. A room devoted to the art of dressing. Olga would go catatonic at upon viewing the racks of shoes. I never want her to see this room. This room would only give her ideas.

I close the door and move on. First door on the right. No Vegas casino has so many security monitors set up in one location. Three walls of monitors. I find our bedroom. It’s empty.

Moving on. Second door on the left side. Toilet. Wash basin. Stand with neatly folded towels.

Second door on the right. Bathroom. Gorgeous. Teak (I think it’s teak) lined and sauna warm. I walk through the room. There is a sauna. Perfect. There is a steam room. I’m in heaven. I walk through another door within the bathroom. Inside along with standard cardio equipment is a compact lap pool. State of the art. If I had the money, I’d buy one in a second.

It’s understandable how someone would be content to never leave. The Samurai has everything she could ever want in one place. My home is my castle, but hers is a self-contained island. Cut off the internet and no one could ever penetrate the walls with their toxic bullshit.

I leave and enter the final door. I am in the room where I have met alone with the Samurai previously. This is the door she escapes through. Interesting. I’m in a maze. For certain I am disoriented. It’s like a casino. I’m not certain I could find my way to the exit.

I go back to the “closet”. More like medium sized boutique that caters only to size zero women with tiny feet and a wig fetish. I find what I’m looking for in a lacquer cabinet. The men’s clothing. Suits, ties, shirts. Indigo and white cotton robe.

I undress and slip it on. I leave my clothing folded in a reasonably tidy pile on a chair.

The bedroom is practically dark when I return. The only light emanates from a few candles. I could get it on with just about anyone in this atmosphere.

She’s like a fawn. If I startle her she might bolt.

She gestures and I lay on the opium bed. Some of the shutters have been closed.

She joins me on the bed closing the doors behind her.

Candlelight from the room beyond filters through the carved openings on the bed. There are only shadows inside the shuttered bed. It could be day. It could be night. There really is no knowing.

She unties the sash on my robe and opens it. Her hands feather over my skin. I don’t recall if she snapped her fingers, but somehow a bottle of oil magically appears.

The robes are discarded fairly early in the process. She’s wearing panties. Every once in a while I feel her tiny cock brush against my body through the thin fabric.

I won’t judge her on the quality of the massage. That wasn’t the point. She was touching me like a lover and not like a cow up for auction. There was no prodding or poking. Just caresses. Lovely long caresses and sharp deep presses.

She isn’t cheap with the oil. I can feel the thick coating of it. As I lay on my stomach, she leans over my back using her hands and her breasts to massage my skin. Her nipples make just enough contact with my skin. I don’t know if she purposefully runs a breast down the line between my ass cheeks, but I’m so happy she did. The most phenomenal sensation ever. Well-oiled pert breast sliding down my crack. Heaven.

I want to touch her, but I’m also aware she is in charge. I don’t want to spook her.

Her hands push me until I roll onto my back.

She doesn’t avoid my dick. Oily hands grasp and massage.

Do I want happy ending massage?

I laugh. The overtly racist Asian prostitute accent was somehow precisely right. Please. Happy ending. Would she please offer to love me long time?

She just does happy ending massage.

Fortunately I’m very good at happy endings. I need a condom.

She’s a virgin. But I can fuck her up the ass. Like I did to Olga.

I’m speechless. I really am. Probably better that than saying something stupid. So what do I say when I finally regain the power of speech? Has anyone ever fucked her up the ass before?

No.

I’m not going to say no. I’m not. But I think we need to crawl before we sprint. If she really wants to just go for it, we can. But I’m on the big side (I’m really really not bragging) and she’s tiny as it is. So how about we just ease into that. Okay?

Fine. What first?

How about the panties come off?

No.

How does she expect me to fuck her up the ass if she’s wearing panties? (I put it differently than that. IN fact I’m certain the words ‘fuck her up the ass’ are never uttered. I’m actually really sweet even if I do say so myself.)

She was going to get up on her knees like Olga and just push the backside of her panties down.

How about the panties come off? I’d really like to touch her. I really would. I find her beautiful. I see in her everything I find sexual.

Really?

Yes. Really.

She hooks her thumbs through the band and gives them a push down.

Her tiny cock points at me like a finger.

Does she have condoms for herself?

Yes. She opens a small concealed cabinet. From it she takes a box. Inside are dozens of tiny condoms.

Perfect. I have everything I need. Condoms and time.

I lay her back against the pillows and start out from the beginning. Kissing first, then touching. When my hand reaches her cock she nearly bolts.

I have to touch it. I do. I must touch it. So I’m very soothing and calm. She lets me touch her. She’s never let anyone touch her there before.

When she’s comfortable with this I move on. My hand open her thighs. With the sort of steady hand a bomb diffuser uses, my fingers creep towards their goal.

Eventually, with care and caution, she lets me finger her.

What is the penultimate moment of this experience for me? When I have a condom on her, I have her fully in my mouth, and I’ve located her g-spot with my middle finger. She screams. Truly screams. Her back arches and she sort of ejaculates as she orgasms.

It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. This is the ultimate sexual experience. Within one person I can find everything that is sexual to me.

I’m back to the place I was when I first saw her bare before me. She is wondrous. To physically be able to experience such pleasure. What an amazing thing.

Does she still want me to fuck her up the ass? Because I’m ready. I’m more than ready. I’m ready to burst. My mouth comes down on her nipple and sucks.

She pushes me off of her. She gets off the opium bed. Her wig is slightly askew. Turns and I can see her fully from the front.

It’s time for me to leave. She needs to get ready for the party.

But. I look down. I’m… My happy ending? Where is my happy ending?

Olga is back. I can get my happy ending there.

She walks through the door in the direction of the other rooms. I’m alone. But only for a moment. The Servant enters. I’m handed the robe. He pretty well tosses me out of the room after telling me my clothing has already been removed to my bedroom.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Home

I’m put to bed by dad in the second room in the suite that was originally intended for me. The cave was for the nanny. Who I strongly suspect was not a real nanny.

Dad sits with me. My hair is still damp from the shower he had me take before putting on clean pajamas. He strokes my forehead. He had such a nice time in Pompeii. He promises me he’ll take me to Carthage. He doesn’t expect me to understand why he had to take mum to the bazaar in Tunis, but he did. When I’m a married man maybe I’ll understand.

No. I’m never going to understand. When I get married I’m going to marry someone that’s nothing like mum. Someone nice and kind.

Probably a good idea. But just so I know, sometimes we can’t control who we fall in love with.

Marriage isn’t about love.

Did grandmother or grandfather tell me this?

Both of them.

Their marriage isn’t really an ideal I should strive for.

Why not? They get along really well. They’re nice to each other. They both like to garden and ride horses.

Maybe someday I’ll understand. For the moment it’s enough for me to know things aren’t always what they seem. Things about granddad’s best friend Lionel. Maybe when they’re dead he’ll tell me what’s really going on. He owes his parents that much when it comes to their secrets and lies.

I don’t like to think about my grandparents dying. So I yawn widely.

He kisses me on the forehead. He’ll sort out my luggage for me. I’m to go to sleep and dream of nice things.

They take me home the next day. Mum stays in London. Dad and I take the train to Exeter. Mr. Gresham meets us at the station with the Land Rover.

I’m so thrilled to see my grandmother, I run to her. She smells of her garden roses and home. She takes me around the house to her garden while dad goes off with my grandfather. I lay on the green grass and stare at the sky as I listen to my grandmother make the sounds I associate with tending to her roses.

A shadow falls over me. I open my eyes and look up at dad. He crouches down next to me. I sit up and I’m given a hug. Bigger than I ever remember getting.

He’s leaving. He doesn’t need to tell me this, but he does. He’s going. He’s not sure when he’s going to be back. He and mum need to sort some things out. Granddad and grandmother are going to take care of me. Maybe we can try to have a family holiday again. But better planned.

That would be nice. I don’t say that I know it’s never going to happen. My mother will never release her hold on him ever again. This family holiday has brought them closer to the edge of splitting up than either of them is comfortable with. I’m not worth the risk of losing her in his mind.

He walks off after holding me tight again. These are his demons he’s struggling with. Not mine. I’m home. My part in their drama is finished. If this were a movie or television the director would call out that I am wrapped. The two people that have always played the part of my parents are now officially my parents. I don’t know this at this moment as I sit on the grass, but I will learn in time that my father has given his father what he’s wanted for years. Legal guardianship of me. The papers were sitting in wait in my grandfather’s desk. Prepared in advance by my responsible Uncle Albert.

The one consequence of this relinquishment of parental authority is that my parents and grandparents begin to find common ground. They start to get along. Make no mistake, they will never like my mother, but they start to tolerate her. Now that I’m not her problem anymore my mother warms to me slightly. I become the son they always wanted, and not one of the ones they had. It took them two tries before they got the third one right.

My bad behavior would be brushed off as boyish hijinks and my successes proof that I am their brilliant Oliver. In essence, they become indulgent older parents in whose eyes I can do no wrong. Talk about setting me up for failure.

As for dad and mum what happens to them you may wonder.

I won’t see dad again until the summer after my thirteenth birthday. I don’t care enough to find out about whatever caused the fight between him and mum that brought him back to Wold Hall without her. I’ve discovered the writings of D.H. Lawrence, Henry Miller, Collette, my own blooming libido and the Gresham’s granddaughter. How could such freckled perfection be beneath my nose for so many years and me never notice? Her lips are like butterfly wings against mine. It’s all so perfect until grandmother catches us together. She’s sent home and there is much tittering behind napkins during meals for several days until something new catches their attention.

The summer after my fourteenth birthday mum and dad return to Wold Hall. They announce they will be spending every summer with me. Two months. Guaranteed. Just us as a family. It’s too late. I could care less. I’ve discovered Elon.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

1001 Nights

I return to the room. Olga is back. How did the Samurai know? Weird.

How was the Samurai?

I don’t want to talk. I just want to fuck. I’m certain we’re being watched. I want the Samurai to know precisely what she just tossed out of her bedroom.

Olga has changed out of the dress she wore earlier. She’s in a golden silk robe as she fusses around with the shopping bags. I come up behind her and wrap my hands around her upper arms. I missed her.

How much?

Pressing my erection against her bottom in my answer along with a few kisses to the neck.

That much.

If I promise I will be very quick…

Blah blah blah. Help her move the bags off the bed. And don’t muss her hair. She just spent a fortune to have it blown out.

She unties the sash on her robe.

I pull her to me before she can take it off. I open my robe just enough to give her access.

She straddles my thighs.

Like this?

I don’t want to be accused of hair mussing. This seems the safest.

She truly appreciates that I think about these things. Hair really does matter.

Absolutely.

I wrap my robe around us slightly. Our spectator can only imagine what we are doing because I’m not letting her see a thing.

Olga does me good just like I could predict she would.

We’re done with a satiated pop as she slips off of me.

What happened with the Samurai?

Nothing. Just conversation.

Did she get my books?

Maybe. She can’t be sure. There wasn’t much of a selection. She hands me a bag.

Agatha Christie. I can live with that even though I’ve read them all before. There are a few magazines. A Sudoku book. This will do me for the next two days. She gets a kiss on the cheek.

The door opens. The Servant enters.

Our costumes. We have two hours.

He leaves.

I open the first garment bag. Olga’s again. Harem girl. She coo’s a delighted OOOHHHHH! She loves it!

I open mine. Ali Baba. Fuck me.

I shower. I read nearly half of Murder on the Orient Express. I turn my attention to the Sudoku. I’ve never tried Sudoku before. I could never get what the big deal was. Olga hands me a pen rather than let me go through her purse to find one myself. Someday someone is going to figure out what it is with women and their pocketbooks and win a Nobel Peace Prize.

Sudoku. I love Sudoku. Bury me with a pen and a Sudoku book to take with me to my next life. Give me a cup of tea and a Sudoku book, sit me in the rose garden on a beautiful day – I am a happy man.

We have to go.

I hold up the pen. Just… one… more… minute…

We have to go. I still need to get dressed.

I’m wearing fucking harem pants and a vest.

Get dressed. She takes my Sudoku book away from me.

Fine.

I get dressed.

I go for inspection.

We are let out into the garden. Again the party began long before we arrived.

The company is bibulous and desirous of entertainment. The wine a nostrum promising a good time for all if they only keep consuming. The Samurai sits within her dais. The curtain is open. She is dressed grandly is golden robes. The turban around her hair. Her mien is that of an emperor or a sultan or even a grand vizier. The mammonish display of the dancers painted in gold twirling about between the guests would please Ba’al himself in terms of pure gross extravagance.

I am passed from guest to guest. There is nothing more to add because there is no variation. It would be as if I wrote today I woke, took my breakfast, walked the dogs, had my lunch, finished a few Sudoku puzzles, ate my dinner, watched some television, and went to bed. Day after day. Just substitute fucked for Sudoku and performed felatio for walked the dogs.

The Samurai requests my presence in the dais.

Finally. An exit out of the party.

The Servant closes the curtains as I join the Samurai.

She enjoyed what we did earlier.

I did. But then again not. I would have appreciated a bit of attention.

Why did I fuck Olga wrapped up in the robes?

She didn’t want me to muss her hair.

She thinks I did it so she couldn’t see what we were doing.

She told me to get my happy ending from Olga. I did.

True. She has been considering the issue of her virginity.

She has nothing if not my undivided attention.

I am not to answer her at that moment, she would prefer I take a day to think about it, would I be her first?

I’m simply delighted I’ve been given time to think about this. Because I’m not certain I want to do this.

Will I do to her again what I did that afternoon?

Yes. That I will do.

She gives me one of her small condoms. I give her a mind blowing double orgasm. This is how I roll.

I don’t make it to the platform. I spend the remainder of the evening with the Samurai in the curtained dais.

Abruptly, I am dismissed.

I wander around for about five minutes.

With the sound of a gong, the party ends abruptly.

We are back in the well lit room we were inspected in. All of us are looking a bit worse than the day before after four hours of fucking.

The Servant enters the room with two of his flunkies again. The same routine is repeated, count the stamps, pay the cash.

I have relatively few stamps, but I receive the same amount as the previous evening. Access has it’s privileges.

Olga waits at the door for me. We walk back to the room together. We shower. We go to bed. Nothing new to report. Except a woman wants me to be the first man she has vaginal intercourse with. That’s different.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Awkward Moments

How do these things begin? With a touch in the dark generally. That’s how it began between me and Elon. A simple touch in the dark.

Elon began coming home with me during the summers the year after that disastrous cruise my parents forced me to go on. Misery. Pure misery.

My grandmother put us in my bedroom. The house was already full with guests and there was a film crew running about like ants on a hill getting ready to shoot a movie. This little side venture had turned out to be surprisingly lucrative for my grandparents. That we had the furniture and chattel in place made the cost of renting out Wold Hall well worth the money.

She thought nothing of us sharing a bed. We’re two fourteen year old boys. What difference could it possibly make?

It’s late. Near midnight. My parents are entertaining friends on the terrace below. I find my mother’s attempts to engage me in conversation nothing short of irritating. I much prefer my Uncle Harvey who has taken to swanning around whenever the movie people are near. He lives in hope of getting at minimum a walk on role in the Channel 4 miniseries which will begin shooting in the next few days. Some WWI thing that involves lots of parties and women in ball gowns. Uncle Harvey is a crackup.

It’s hot. Unusually so. I have the bedroom windows open. Elon walks past me fresh out of the shower wearing nothing but his skin.

This confuses me awfully. The sight of his naked body stirs my guts in the same way kissing the Gresham’s granddaughter did.

I’m in my underwear as I walk around turning off lights.

He jumps on the bed and stretches out. There’s just moonlight in the room. Which is good because I’m hard and I’m not certain I want him to know this.

I don’t know what to do with him stretched out naked on my bed, so I just pretend this is wholly normal. That every night for the past week instead of wearing underwear or pajama bottoms he’s just hopped into bed in the nip.

I lay down next to him. Staring up at the ceiling.

He leans over and kisses me.

We’ve made out before. Nobody knows this. We’ve kissed with our mouths and our tongues while our hands have explored the other’s body with a barrier of clothing to stop us from going too far. We’ve done this a few times. I’m not going to say Elon introduced me to the wonders of masturbation, but he certainly hasn’t discouraged me from exploring what that world has to offer.

Elon is bold and fearless. It’s dark and we’re anonymous. This is a secret world that will vanish when the sun rises.

We are both still reasonably smooth cheeked, but have the bodies of blossoming young men. Like a pair of beautiful Agathons that would make any Ancient Greek philosopher weep into his cup of watered down wine for the want of us. We are the dream of a pederast made real.

He kisses me and touches me. He takes my hand and wraps it around his erection. I’ve never touched him like this before. When he takes me into his hand it’s a second first. We’ve never done this before. We’ve touched ourselves in front of each other, but never have we touched the other.

Between the kissing and the touching I am undone.

Before I can ejaculate in his hand he stops. I never get used to this. He will do this to me from the beginning to the end.

He wants to do something different.

Different? Different how? This is already different.

I’m such a coward. He wants to do something different.

We’ve watched porn together. Gay porn. I know what different could mean. I’m not ready for different.

Stop being such a baby. If I don’t like it he’ll stop. If I do like it I can do it to him.

Or not.

Whatever.

He slides down my body and takes my penis into his mouth. We’re both novices, but the feel of the wet heat of the cavity as his velvety tongue engages is more than I can bear. I ejaculate with a cry from deep within my body as a snap and a crack of an orgasm shudders me to the core. He keeps sucking, drawing me deeper inside as wave after wave of cum shoots out of me.

I’m fairly certain I’m going to die. But what a death it will be. La petite mort. The French got that one right.

Elon leans over me. He places his mouth to mine. I taste my cum on his lips. He wants me to do him.

I can’t. I’m not ready for that. It’s too much too soon. I’m sorry.

I don’t have to be sorry. He loves me. He does. It’s true. I’m the only person in the world he loves. Do I love him?

I don’t love him like that. But I love him. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had.

Please don’t freak out on him. He loves me. He’ll wait for me. I’ll love him like that eventually. He knows I will.

I touch him without being asked. I masturbate him as I would myself. He cries and sighs in my ear as he ejaculates in my hand.

He loves me. He tells me this again.

Our limbs braid together and we hold each other. I want to love him and I think I could. Elon can be a bit of a pain in the ass, but I could do worse. We’re friends. We could be together. Everyone at school already thinks we’re kind of gay as it is. This is what my thoughts are filled with I fall asleep, his leg thrown over mine and his arm wrapped around me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

School Boy

The party’s theme on the final evening is Japanese anime characters. I’m to wear a sort of sailor suit, which I’m assured several times really is what some Japanese school boys wear. I’m not buying it. No school boy could wear something like this day in and day out and not get the piss regularly beaten out of him. It was bad enough my school uniform consisted of a boater and a cane. A sailor suit is a whole new level of twat.

Olga is a space girl. Or some kind of flight attendant. I’m not certain. There are epaulets, boots, and short pleated skirt. We are not matchy-matchy for once. Which is good. Because I cannot be around her another minute. I cannot be around her constant grooming. I cannot stand another moment of her managing my life. We’ve been stuck together the entire day. I finished the Agatha Christie before my breakfast tea grew cold. I’ve filled in just about every Sudoku puzzle in the book. The killer Sudoku’s are the only ones left and they are just pissing me off. I can’t get them. Every time I look at the solutions Olga is on me like a vengeful schoolmarm.

I don’t know why we bother with the costumes. I know perfectly well I’ll be out of mine within the first hour and take to wearing just a towel as I walk from couch to couch. It’s an orgy. Not a pageant.

What have I learned about Olga in the days we’ve spent together in this room? She takes fucking forever to get ready to go anywhere! She wasn’t like this at home. But home didn’t require doing evening make-up. Evening make-up is a whole other animal.

She is a beautiful woman that for reasons which I do not understand must airbrush on her makeup. I just don’t get it. Her skin is flawless. Why?

And the hair. I need someone to explain to me why she needs to blow-dry her hair, then use a straightener on it, and then put it in rollers only to twist the mass into a couple of pigtails poking out of either side of her head. Why?

Do I think her hair looks good or not?

Yes. Her hair looks good.

Then stop my bitching and find something to do.

I pick up the book she’s been reading. I’m maybe five pages in and I can only wonder what her criteria for choosing reading material might be. Vampires. Teenage vampires that aren’t really teenagers. They’re centenarians. That fucking go to high-school. How can she read this shit? If I were a hundred year old vampire I wouldn’t be worrying about passing my algebra exams.

I throw the book to the side.

Do not throw her book.

How can she read that shit?

It’s not shit. It’s beautiful. It’s a beautiful story.

It’s not a beautiful story. It’s Mormonism. Mormon vampires.

They are not morons.

Mormons. They’re Mormons. And morons, but that’s beside the point.

Does she call the people in my books morons?

Kafka! Kafka!

What the fuck is Kafka and why do I keep on shouting Kafka? Am I having a stroke or something? Some kind of breakdown? Because if I need a slap to bring me to my senses she’d happily oblige.

I can’t take it anymore. I can’t. We’ve been stuck in that room together for far too long.

I’m ready to get the hell out of here.

The Samurai is screwing with my head. Or at least trying to. I can’t figure out what her game is, and I’m pretty certain I don’t want to know.

I do not want to have sex with her if she truly is a virgin. I’ve thought about it and I’ve made up my mind.

I’m the first to admit I find her fascinating. Her body is a wonder. But there is a menace beneath the surface that frightens me just a little.

I will be happy to go. Olga and I were not meant to be cloistered together for long periods of time. We are people that need our space.

The moment comes for inspection.

Olga and I are given a glance. We pass.

The doors open. The party is still the same. The decorations and the music have changed.

I make my usual rounds. I wait for the moment when the Servant will come for me.

The Servant comes to me.

Olga and I are wanted on the platform. Fetch her and get up there.

I find Olga with a group of Japanese business men. She’s holding up her skirt. One of the men has his face buried in her bush as his fingers squeeze her bottom. I’ve noticed this over the past few nights. They love to bury their faces in that bush of hers. Personally I’m starting to find it annoying. I keep getting hairs stuck in my throat.

I signal for the hostess. Olga is wanted on the platform with me.

The hostess looks at the group. Okay. They’re just messing around anyway.

Olga is extracted after making many promises to return which she will surely not keep.

We go to the platform where we are met by a Japanese girl in the same sort of space sailor girl costume Olga is wearing. Pigtails and all.

It’s the Samurai. But only I could recognize her because to these people at the party she is either the shadowy figure behind the curtains or a peculiar little man.

We three go up on the platform.

No one really pays much attention to what happens on the platform. Especially this late in the evening.

What the fuck is this all about? Why?

Olga knows this is the Samurai. I’m sure of it. I can tell. There’s a great deal of winking and nodding.

What do we do to keep the crowd that isn’t really paying attention entertained? I stand to the side as I’m urged to do and let the women do what they want to do to me. They touch me. They fondle me. They remove my towel and toss it to the side. I’ve been sufficiently objectified to no longer care. The Samurai gets down on her knees and lifts up Olga’s skirt. Again, the fascination with the bush.

Olga moves in front of me her bottom pressed to my cock as the Samurai rubs her nose against Olga’s pubes and her tongue around her clit. I enter her from behind.

I don’t know why I was so bothered by the platform. In the end, what does it really matter? On the platform or on a couch, it’s still fucking in front of other people.

I forget about the crowd. I just concentrate on what I’m doing. Olga is responding to both my touch and that of the Samurai. In my rush to pure selfishness and making everything about me, I forget to consider that Olga might actually enjoy this. That the Samurai might enjoy this. I put in some effort. My hands curve around Olga’s breasts. I kiss her neck. I move within her like I mean it. I give her the best orgasm I can and she certainly seems to enjoy it.

We leave the platform. We go to the Dais.

Olga enjoyed that. She touches the Samurai’s cheek. He makes such an adorable girl. She was starting to think they wouldn’t have any more time together alone. He knows that if he ever wants to do anything other than touch her, that she’d welcome it.

Yes. He knows. She can leave. I can stay.

Olga goes.

Do I like my costume?

I don’t like costumes. I already wear enough masks.

Did she surprise me?

Yes. Most definitely.

I have been given sufficient time to consider her offer. I have. I’m not certain she’s truly considered it.

She has.

I’m due to leave in the morning. If this is what she wants, then we can arrange an appropriate time and place.

Because this is not it?

No. I would rather give her an experience that is personal. Not like this.

I am thoughtful.

Perhaps. Perhaps in a few days she will realize she would rather choose a different course.

Perhaps.

I’m dismissed. I find Olga. She knew that was the Samurai.

He likes to dress in drag. She’s surprised he wasn’t mingling with the guests in one of his disguises on the other nights.

This is a thing with the Samurai?

God, yes.

The gong sounds.

We go with the others. Our stamps placed on our right biceps are counted and we are paid.

Olga and I return to the room. We shower separately.

The Servant enters our room as the two of us argue about what really is the right temperature for a bedroom. Perhaps I’d be more willing to keep it cold if she didn’t steal the duvet.

I just want to go to bed. What does he want?

The Samurai would like me to extend my visit.

Olga answers for us. No. We’re leaving in the morning.

She is not being asked to extend her stay.

Olga responds for me. Then the answer is definitely no. We came together. We leave together.

The servant looks at me. The Samurai would like me to extend my visit. Alone.

No. I can speak for myself. Olga and I came together. We leave together. She annoys me, but she is right about this.

Very well. If he agrees to let her stay, would I be more amenable?

How much? Olga never forgets what our purpose is. Per day.

The original agreed rate. For each of us.

I look to Olga. I nod. She knows I need the money.

She nods back.

We’ll stay.

The Servant nods. There is much nodding going around. He will come for me when the Samurai summons me. Until then, we are to stay in our rooms.

We go to bed. I hold Olga tight to me. We whisper as quietly as we can in the dark. Neither of us certain how sensitive the microphones are. She doesn’t really want to stay. I really would like the money. What I don’t tell her is that I have not decided about whether or not I want to fully be with the Samurai. If nothing else we agree we need to be gone in no more than a four days. We need to get back to London for a few days before we’re expected in Paris for the Vicomte’s Halloween party.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Schoolboy Hijinks

I know my family is comparatively wealthy, but in fact we struggle to pay the bills. Wold Hall is a huge money suck. It is a pit we throw every spare penny we have into maintaining. The electricity goes out whenever the wind blows (which is often as we are on the sea), the hot water runs from tepid to scalding, and the whole bloody place is haunted. I spent my early years playing with the disembodied spirit of the son of the Fourth Earl who died tragically at the age of five by means of falling off a cliff.

But – home is home. And my home is literally my castle.

I sleep that night and dream of a life with Elon and all that entails.

Elon’s family owns the largest private shipping company in Norway. He is extraordinarily wealthy. His parents love him, but they love themselves better. He is the product of his father’s second of eight marriages and his mother’s first of four marriages. Giving credit where credit is due, both of his parents consistently married partners that never were older than thirty-five despite the fact they kept aging.

They have pretty well banished him from Norway after a series of incidents that disingratiated him from his parents’ respective spouses. Dad has a new family and a wife that doesn’t appreciate being called a gold digging whore. Mum has a husband that finds her son more attractive than her. Elon is permanently invited to stay in England and far away from Bergen. That he is welcome to come to Wold Hall for holidays is a privilege they’re happy to pay for. I don’t know how much they send my grandmother to keep him, but I do know there is an amount she politely refuses and that they insist she takes. I think it’s quite a lot, but we will truly never know.

Elon wakes me with kisses and caresses. What happened the night before really happened. It wasn’t just a dream.

He slips down my body as I come awake. He uses his mouth on me again. At least this time I last long enough to enjoy the experience.

I’m still not ready to do the same to him.

He doesn’t mind. He loves me. He’ll wait for me to be ready.

I marvel at how tender and vulnerable he is when we are like this. No one would believe it.

This is how we are, naked with arms and legs entwined, mouths pressed together, when the bedroom door opens and my grandfather walks in.

Boys! He laughs. Oh dear!

Granddad! There is a great deal of scrambling to find any kind of covering we can.

The pure humiliation of having ones grandfather not only catch you in the act is bad enough. But couple that with the fact you are with another boy, have raging questions about your sexuality and the topper being he stands his ground rather than fleeing the room – I would say it’s little wonder I don’t have more issues to contend with than I already do.

Never mind. He’s seen more than a few naked asses in his time. He’s wondering if I’m interested in meeting with an archaeologist that will be coming by to talk about digging on the property. The man is quite certain there is a treasure to be discovered. Could be quite interesting to hear what the man says if nothing else.

Granddad!

Get myself sorted out. Meet him in his sitting room. He’ll be there waiting for me. One other thing. Locking the door is always a good idea. Imagine if my grandmother or Mrs. Gresham had walked in!

He closes the door behind him leaving a wake of laughter as he goes.

Did that just happen?

Elon is muttering in Norwegian as he puts my boxer shorts on. He’s going to pack. Fuck. We should have made sure the door was locked. He doesn’t want to leave me. So stupid.

I’m going to go and talk to my grandfather. Maybe it isn’t as bad as that. Maybe he won’t have to leave.

I pull on trousers and a shirt. I leave Elon in my bedroom after hugging him for a moment and promising him that if he has to go, I’m going with him. This comforts him.

I enter my grandfather’s sitting room where I find him sitting in an arm chair with a large leather bound photo album open on his knees in front of him.

Sit.

I do as instructed.

I can explain. I really can. We were just messing around.

Granddad holds up a hand. Boys will be boys. A little slap and tickle with one of the lads is all part of growing up. My indiscretions are waved away with a chuckle.

Is it?

Of course it is! He was a boy once. He knows the way of the world.

He’s not going to tell my grandmother is he?

He’s smarter than that! Give him a little credit at least!

He’s not going to tell dad, right?

Never. My father gave up the right to have an opinion about these things when I was eleven. This is all between us men.

I’m not in trouble?

Not even a little. But do lock the bedroom door from now on. Consider that rule number one when I want to have a bit of fun with another chap.

He’s really not angry with me?

What is there to be angry about? Elon is a handsome young man. I am energetic and curious. This is all very normal. When he was my age he might have gotten up to the same hijinks. Boys will be boys.

Really?

I’m given a big wink. We are complicit in this. We are both men of the world. We understand that sometimes boys will be boys especially when it comes to other boys.

Really. It’s quite okay. I’m not in trouble for being a young man. Now that said, there are some things I need to understand. Things about boys being boys and men being men and what it means to be responsible and to do what is right as opposed to what one wants to do. Just because I’m attracted to men doesn't mean that excuses me from having to do the things that are expected of me.

I like girls too. It’s all very confusing.

All the better! This makes things much easier. He likes girls too. Girls are lovely. He loves my grandmother very much. They are the best of friends, they are life partners, and they are a team. But….

He holds up the photo album turned towards me. I am shown a picture of him and his friend Lionel when they were much younger men. When they were Harrow students just like me and Elon.

He also loves Lionel very much. This is something we need to talk about. Something that I need to understand. Just because we love someone doesn’t mean we have the right to give up our lives to be with them. He is not unaware that times are changing and it is becoming wholly acceptable to be a homosexual publicly, but this is not for us. We are men with greater obligations than to see to the needs of our libidos. It is within us to ensure our family continues. We must marry. We must have children.

Does my grandmother know about this? About Lionel?

She made a choice years ago to not know about it, he has been gentleman enough to shield her, and they have always lived very happily together. When I marry, which I must do make no mistake, then I should marry a girl that understands the way the wind blows and accepts that some things are immutable. The time will come soon enough when I will need to find a nice young lady from an acceptable family to marry. Someone he and my grandmother approve of. Do not make the mistake my father did and confuse lust for love. Do not marry someone like my mother. A marginally literate bimbo that knows how to be a frisky whore in bed. This is not the stuff that makes a marriage.

I don’t think I want to marry someone like my mother.

Wise.

What kind of girl should I marry?

Marry a girl that is educated but not insufferable, charming but not false, firm but gentle, frugal but not parsimonious, able to direct a staff but not turn into a dictator, an excellent hostess, and above all loyal.

Beautiful would be nice. I like really pretty girls.

Beautiful does not matter. Beautiful is at the bottom of the list of what makes a good wife. My grandmother, good a woman as she is, was never described as beautiful. Handsome. Perhaps. But never beautiful. What makes my grandmother worthy of being a wife is that she has in abundance the qualities that matter. My mother has only beauty. Like it or not, that’s starting to fade. Marry a girl of substance. Live my life as I so desire – within reason of course – and produce a son.

Okay.

Do I want to meet with the archaeologist when he arrives?

Yes. Does Elon have to leave?

No. Of course not. Just keep the door locked and don’t act like a couple of little buggers in public. Can we do that?

Sure.

One other thing. When I start the hunt for a wife, if she’s wealthy all better.

I return to my room.

Elon is sitting in the window.

I lock the door. I’ve learned my lesson.

Elon’s crying.

I go to him and hug him. It’s fine. He doesn’t have to go. I’ve just had the weirdest conversation with my grandfather that I am pretty sure I will ever have. I think he might be gay. But I can’t be certain. There is definitely something up with his friend Lionel.

That queenie old fag my grandfather makes us go to dinner with once a month? The one we call Cecil Vyse? The one we make fun of?

Yes.

Yeah he can see that. He’s really okay with us?

Yes. As long as nobody else finds out. We have to keep it secret. We’re not allowed to go out in public and act like a couple of little faggots or something like that. Buggers. We can’t act like buggers in public.

That’s bullshit. What the fuck?

Nobody can find out. I have to get married.

I’m fourteen.

Not today obviously. Someday. When I’m older. But as long as I’m discreet it’s okay.

Bullshit. The days of living in the closet are over.

I need to have a son.

Why? That’s crap. Let my cousins have kids.

No. I need to have a son. I like girls too. I can get married. My grandfather’s right. It can work out fine with the right girl.

Bullshit. I’m just confused.

I am confused. That’s the only thing I really know.

He loves me.

I know that too.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Limbo

We linger in the rooms. For three days. We are not allowed to leave the rooms. We linger.

I cannot stand the smell of Olga’s nail polish anymore. She’s slowly trying to suffocate me with the fumes. I cannot watch her groom herself another moment. No prize show dog is brushed and combed as much as she is. The way she sits with her tweezers poised waiting to pluck an eyebrow hair that might suddenly appear like a dolphin breeching the surface of the sea.

I will say that I much prefer her studying her own face with the tweezers ready to strike then when she turns that focus on me. I managed twenty-eight years of life without needing to pluck my eyebrows. I think I can manage another twenty-eight. That she keeps on examining my ears and nostrils is starting to make me paranoid.

When I think her toes cannot possibly bear the weight of another coat of red polish, she sticks her foot up and begins the process once again.

I pick up her moronic teen Mormon vampire book. It’s like a car wreck. I can’t stop looking at it. I hate myself that I want to read it just to see how bad it can get. When I reach the last page I need a brain enema. When she tells me she has the next three in the series I scream. Oh the humanity! If I ever have a little girl I will make certain she never reads that kind of twaddle.

I’m bored.

Read a book.

I’m bored.

Read a magazine.

I’m bored!

She is not my entertainment committee.

Never going to let that one go.

Probably not. Do I want to use her laptop? Check my email? Find something to do other than bother her?

Please yes for the love of god yes please give me the laptop.

Get it myself. It’s in the Mulberry case.

Which is…

I’m useless. One toenail covered in drying polish points at the stack of luggage against the wall. That one.

Fine. I’ll figure it out. I roll off the bed. I figure out what a Mulberry case is. Saying yellow leather bag might have helped.

It’s her problem I have no idea how to recognize a Mulberry bag?

Did she really have to bedazzle her laptop?

Yes. She really did.

What’s the password?

Am I trying to be as irritating as I can be do get her to stop painting her nails and pay attention to me?

I just need the password.

Bring her the laptop. She picks up a pen.

I hold the laptop open to her like a present.

The password is tapped in.

Is she going to tell me the password?

No.

Any particular reason?

Yes. She doesn’t want me snooping around on her laptop.

For fuck sakes…

Do I want to use her laptop or not?

Fine.

Then quit my bitching.

The bedazzled laptop has red Cyrillic stickers on the keys.

Fortunately some things are universal. I’m trolling the internet nearly immediately after entering the Wi-Fi password I found on a neatly printed instruction sheets for guests staying in the room.

I go through her pictures.

Who took all the boobie pictures of her?

Wouldn’t I like to know.

Actually probably not. Kitten pictures? Really?

Kittens are adorable. Why don’t I like kittens?

I like kittens just fine. Preferably tied up in a sack and sinking to the bottom of a river.

What did I say?

Nothing darling. Just that I’m more of a dog person.

Should we get a cat?

Over my cold lifeless body.

What about a puppy?

Maybe. Which means maybe. That doesn’t mean go out and get a puppy. She already bought a horse.

I’m not the boss of her.

Meh.

Silence.

When was the last time I checked my email? I can’t remember. Four or five days at least. Maybe six. Possibly a week. I can’t recall. What I do have are over a thousand unread emails. I filter through the spam and am left with nearly four dozen emails that have any relevance. They’re mostly from mum, Aunt Lucy, Elon, Uncle Harvey, Renata, the Greshams, Cousin Margaret….

Why does my Cousin Margaret want to know if we would rather stay in a guest house or at her fiancé’s castle?

Tell her we want to stay in the castle.

That actually doesn’t answer the question.

She told me she was going to contact Cousin Margaret about the wedding.

We are not going to stay at the castle. We need to stay in a place that mum can get around in using her wheelchair if she needs it.

Fine. I might have mentioned sooner that mum would be joining us. She’ll contact Aunt Maisie. She’ll have a good idea what might be ideal.

How the fuck does she know my Aunt Maisie?

She’s been cc’d in on the emails. So have I. If I read my emails I’d know this.

I click back through the string of emails between Olga and Cousin Margaret. Cousin Margaret. My former fiancée’s best friend. Olga and Cousin Margaret are far too friendly for my comfort.

How did she get Cousin Margaret’s email?

On the wedding website.

The wedding website.

Yes. It’s a website set up so people going to the wedding can get information.

I’m aware of what a wedding website is.

So then why am I asking her what a wedding website is?

I wasn’t… just never mind.

I take a moment to Google my wedding website. The first time I’ve done this voluntarily. All wedding planning was the provenance of my former fiancée and the team of experts she hired. Fuck me it’s still up. It’s the same, but with one notable difference. Some clever bunny has come along and jazzed it up. The engagement photo now splits down the middle and my half bursts into virtual flames. Hilarious.

I open a screen to compose a message to my former fiancée.

What she’s done to the wedding website is unkind. I’d appreciate it if she would just delete it.

Send.

I get an email back from her as I read through a string of emails bouncing back and forth between Elon and Renata that I’ve been cc’d on. I believe I’ve found the true definition for clusterfuck.

She didn’t do it. Truly. She didn’t even realize it was still up. She’s sorry. It is unkind and unnecessary. It’ll be taken down as soon as she gets ahold of Camille.

Do I respond? No? Yes? No? Yes? What else could I possibly write? I let it go. I should have probably phrased the first email a bit differently. Pushed the door open to a dialog. But I didn’t and it’s too late. What could we possibly have to say to each other?

I finish reading through the emails between Renata and Elon. Each of them are bcc’ing me into the conversation. The number of emails I receive grows at an exponential rate. More continue to pop up as I reach the bottom. This is an email battle in real time. They have reached a stalemate but continue to lob projectiles at the other. Any victory will be a Pyrrhic one.

No one is coming out of this alive. Least of all me.

I can’t even run halfway around the world to get away from it.

I was born in the wrong century. I would have been very comfortable living in a world without email. Back in the days when people put pen to paper and a letter took weeks to traverse the globe. I would have been comfortably oblivious to all of this bullshit. I would have been on tour. Reading books on the deck of a ship as she steamed around the globe. Dressing for dinner. Playing shuffle board. Reading three week old newspapers.

Not being drawn in to a shitstorm that will just have to blow itself out in time.

Which it will.

In time.

That baby is coming one way or another. That Rubicon has been crossed. The die has been cast. Renata is not going to have an abortion. I know from personal experience that she needs to be presented with the options in such a way that the decision is hers. This was not done. So she has chosen the path that will make her the biggest pain in as many asses as possible.

I know what to do. But I’m not going to do it by email and I’m certainly not going to do it from Japan. This will have to wait. If I could order a cease fire and force the two into their neutral corners until I could get to the negotiating table, some semblance of order might be restored.

So I send an email.

I will be home in a few days. Just leave it until then.

They turn their sites on me.

Mind my own fucking business.

In two weeks she won’t be able to have a fucking abortion. I do not want a fucking kid and if I did it wouldn’t be with that fucking crazy slag.

If you don’t want my help then BOTH of you need to stop bcc’ing me on your fucking email conversations.

I turn to the emails from mum, Uncle Harvey, and Aunt Lucy.

More shit piled upon shit. Somehow it’s all my problem. Everything is my problem and I must solve every problem. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Even in Kyoto they can lay their bullshit at my feet.

The door to the room slides open. The Servant enters. I am to come with him. I’ve been summoned.

Thank god. I’ve been rescued.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Acceptable

Two days after my twenty-fifth birthday I’m summoned to my grandparents’ sitting room. They’re having tea. I’m invited to join them.

My grandmother starts the conversation. My new friend is charming. A bit unsure of herself, but charming. Malleable. Willing. Eager. Charming. These are all things she can work with.

I suppose charming is a good word.

My grandfather continues the conversation. Do I remember when he promised me that they would tell me when I presented them with an appropriate potential bride?

I seem to recall something about this.

This girl, her father is the one that owns that fast food restaurant chain?

Yes. She works for him. Actually she more or less runs the business side of the operation from what she’s told me. She’s quite intelligent. She has an MBA from Harvard. She went to Saint Andrews.

Very nice! Very nice indeed! My grandmother truly couldn’t be more delighted.

They heartily approve. My grandfather nods sharply.

I’ve known her two days.

She’s keen. My grandmother is absolutely certain. It won’t take much to win her.

Turn on the Adair charm. It shouldn’t take much to make the girl fall in love with me.

She’s hardly a girl. She’s thirty-three.

My grandmother sighs. Whatever I do, do not highlight that fact. Unless of course she’s keenly aware of her age and is in a rush to settle down. Even better actually. We might have this wrapped up by the next summer.

I should propose to her at Christmas. It’s romantic and it gives everyone enough time to plan a summer wedding. My grandfather looks to my grandmother for confirmation.

Yes. This is the goal to shoot for. No woman would be able to say no to Lady Charlotte’s diamond ring. She’ll have it ready for me when the time comes.

I’ve known her two days. I cannot emphasize this enough. Two days. I actually sort of have a girlfriend. I probably should send her an email or something. Let her know we’re done.

They have every confidence in me. I am dismissed.

I return to my room. She who will become my fiancé the following Christmas as predicted, is finishing packing her bags. She’s leaving. I wasn’t glad to be rid of her so much as I was ready to have my space back. I’ve enjoyed her company. She was great when I needed someone. But it’s time to go.

Or not.

I do as instructed and turn on the Adair charm. Not the full blast which no woman or man can withstand, but enough.

I kiss her neck and then her cheek. Does she really have to go?

Yes. She really has to go. What’s it like to not have a job? It must be nice.

Stay with me. Don’t go.

I am a delightful distraction and more than a little bit tempting, but she really does have to get to Aberdeen.

What’s in Aberdeen that I can’t give her right where we are?

A celebrity golf tournament her father is planning. Charity keeps him busy and out of her hair. But I don’t ever need to repeat that.

I like golf. Can I go with her?

Do I really like golf?

I do. Can I go with her? It’ll be fun. We can stop along the way. Spend the night at some ridiculous frou-frou guest house and fuck like mad all night so the following morning no one can look at us in the breakfast room.

I am incorrigible. Do I really want to go with her?

No. But I can’t bear to be separated from her. If she leaves me my heart will break.

My heart will not break without her. We’ve known each other two days. Somehow she thinks I’ll survive.

Is she really willing to take that risk?

Twenty-five years old. Why can’t I at least be thirty?

She’ll be the envy of all of her girlfriends.

Clearly I have never met any of her friends. Pack a bag. Get my golf clubs.

I don’t really play golf. I just want to be with her.

The amazing thing about this conversation is that I am the one that is convinced. I want to be with her. I want to drive to Aberdeen. I want to stop at ridiculous frou-frou inns and make loud passionate love to her. Which is what we do. She remains skeptical. She’s the one that takes convincing. But once I’ve got her, she’s mine.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The Truth About Harold

I am brought to the Samurai. She sits at a tri-mirrored vanity table grooming herself. She is wearing a wig. Long black hair hangs down her back. I don’t know if her chosen hair purposely copies Olga’s or if she simply selected a style that would be typical for a young Japanese woman.

It doesn’t matter. She looks adorable in the camisole and boy shorts she’s wearing.

Just like what Olga is wearing. Except the color. Olga is prancing around in white. The Samurai is wearing pink.

The door closes behind me. We are alone.

Do I think she looks pretty? She looks at me through the reflection as she holds a pair of tweezers to a perfectly arched eyebrow.

Yes.

Am I saying that because I’m being paid to say that? (She pouts a little. The hair is no accident. She’s pretending to be Olga. This annoys me. She is not Olga. She is herself. Which is beautiful.)

I find her question disappointing. I thought she thought better of me than that.

I am still being paid to be nice to her. What if I didn’t think she looked pretty? What would I say then?

I would still say she looked pretty. I don’t see a point in being unkind to someone that needs a compliment.

She puts the tweezers down. She turns and looks at me directly. Why don’t I make love to Olga when we are alone in our room?

Because I don’t feel like it. Is that what she wants? Is she still watching us? (clearly she is – turning herself out like Olga’s Asian doppelganger is no coincidence.)

Sometimes.

We must be boring the tears out of her.

Olga masturbated when I was in the shower.

I actually didn’t need to know that.

Does Olga realize there are cameras in the room?

No. (Lie – Olga knows very well there are cameras in the room. Everything she does in that room is by design.)

She liked watching Olga masturbate.

Did she?

She puts her feet up on the vanity (she demonstrates for me – one foot on each side of the table – her legs open wide, but her panties covering her secret. There is a small bulge that beckons me.) She slides her hand in her panties.

Olga slides her panties down and touches herself. She also lifted her top and touched a breast.

She’s not Olga.

She wishes she was Olga. Olga sits around in her panties. Don’t I think that’s sexy?

I do. In fact I rather enjoy that she also seems to like sitting around in her underpants. I find it very sexy.

If I find it sexy then why are we bickering so much? Why won’t we have sex?

Because I don’t feel like it. We’ve been cooped up in the room. We can’t get out. We can’t even go to the garden. Quite honestly I’m bored and I don’t feel like it and probably neither does Olga.

But she masturbated.

I jerked off in the shower. Didn’t she catch that in her video surveillance?

She did. She liked to watch me do that.

I’m sure she did.

Why did I do that when Olga was in the other room?

Masturbation is a totally different kind of sex. Sometimes taking care of business on your own is preferable. Right now I’m pretty annoyed with Olga.

What did she do?

Nothing. I’m just sick of being around her.

Her parents forced doctors to give her hormone shots for years. When she was a teenager she went to a gynecologist. She didn’t tell them. It was a secret. She went into a bathroom and changed out of her uniform and into a dress. It was lovely. So free. She felt like a real girl. At the appointment the doctor told her to be good, go home, and listen to her parents. They knew what was best for her. Then he called her parents and told them that she had come to him. He was afraid they would find out he saw her.

That’s horrible.

Eventually they gave up on the shots. But she had to agree to stay in the compound. She’s been there ever since.

How long?

Ten years? Maybe. No. Eleven years.

Eleven years since she’s been outside of the walls?

Yes. Does that surprise me?

A little bit yes.

The world comes to her. She is given whatever she wants as long as she agrees to let the world believe she is a man.

An eccentric man.

Yes. One with peculiar tastes.

Yes.

What happened with Harold?

I can leave.

I don’t think so. What happened with Harold? I’d really like to know from her and not from Olga or the Matchmaker.

She’s not going to discuss this. (she takes her legs down from the vanity as she removes her hand from her tiny penis. I can see an erection pushing at the fabric of her panties.)

What the fuck happened with Harold? Because he’s telling a lot of people a lot of stuff that probably isn’t true and I’d like to know.

She didn’t try to rape him.

Clearly.

She just wanted to have sex with him.

That’s all?

That’s all. She made a mistake with him. With me she took her time. Told me what she was like. Showed me. With him she just thought it would be okay. He took her gifts. He seemed to like to be around her. She thought he knew she was a woman.

What happened?

She just wanted him to stay. To understand. I understand. Don’t I?

I understand.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

History Repeats Itself

My parents very nearly don’t make it to my engagement party. My fiancée and I set the date of the party for February. We’re getting married in the summer. She is keen as my grandmother predicted.

A week before the party I get a call from my mother. She’s only just gotten the invitation. They were in Argentina. They’re in Los Angeles. They won’t be returning to England at least until May. The date of the party clashes with previous commitment. Is there no chance we can switch weekends? Something in May or June maybe? If I really must insist they could probably manage to get back in April, but it will be just such an inconvenience.

For reasons that are beyond my comprehension, I want my parents at my engagement party. I ask my fiancée if we can change the date.

She gestures for the phone, which I hand her. She will speak with my mother. Which she does. Briefly and to the point. Her answer is firm and final. We will not be changing the date. If they cannot make it the party will go on without them. She is very serious. Yes. It would be odd if my mother wasn’t present at my engagement party. No. She will not change the date. She truly hopes they understand each other. Good. She truly does hope they can make it. As fabulous as a Valentine’s party in the Seychelles sounds, some things are more important. The phone is put down. She won’t let them hurt me again. She won’t. She loves me. She won’t let them hurt me.

The night of my engagement party my parents make an appearance. My mother is put out. My father has had twenty-five years of her shit and as a result of her pathologic need to be the center of his universe, no discernible relationship with his son. He looks good. She looks older. Tired.

Dad keeps trying to corner me so we can have a word together.

I have no interest in a chat with him. Maybe some other time. He gave up the right to have a chat with me on demand when I was eleven.

I’m nervous and fidgety. I feel like a groom even though that’s still a few months off. Granddad helps me with my tie.

Dad finally gets me later in the evening during the dancing and after the toasts. Granddad did the honors. As was his right. I’m okay with him catching me now. I was worried he wanted to pretend to be my father and give the toast which blessed my forthcoming marriage.

He hoped I would ask him to give a toast.

I just look at him and don’t respond for a long moment. Just don’t go there and when the wedding comes around please try not to make things awkward. It’s not the moment for us to start playing at happy families for show. No one is going to buy it and it might make my fiancée uncomfortable.

We need to talk.

About?

Elon. He knows I’m in love with Elon and that I have been for years. Either I can talk to him about it there or we can talk about it in private.

Oh my god. He is not serious. Of all of the times and the places. This is not it.

Do not marry this girl if I’m in love with someone else. I don’t have to live a lie to please my grandfather. I can be who I am and not be ashamed. The world has changed. I can be gay if I want to be gay.

Oh my god. He is serious. I don’t even know what to say. The only thing I can say is that he doesn’t know what he is talking about. The thing with Elon was basically a bit a collegiate experimentation. I love Elon, but not like that. I want to get married and have children. I like girls. I like boys too, but I also like girls. I’m not sacrificing a slice of my identity by making a choice to marry. He needs to understand that I am not my grandfather. He also needs to know that he has stepped way over the line. This is none of his concern. Not even a little.

He’s worried about me.

This is surreal. What does he want? Really. Other than to offend me and potentially cause my fiancée embarrassment by his inaccurate assumptions?

Lunch. Once a week. He and mum are moving to London. Permanently. He’s done with the constant traveling. He’s had enough of it. He wants to be settled.

Mum actually agrees to this?

She’s a grown woman. If she wants to keep chasing the never ending party, she can be his guest. He’s had enough of it. He’s had time to reflect since my birthday party.

That was not my birthday party. That was his and mum’s anniversary party. Let’s just keep that straight.

Lunch. Once a week. It’s not much, but maybe he can make up for some lost time.

Twenty-five years wouldn’t be enough time to make up for lost time. I am sorry. I really am. I always think back to that wretched family holiday we took years ago. Maybe our relationship was still salvageable then, but that ship has long sailed. Pardon the pun.

I can’t even imagine how many regrets he has from those ten days.

Did mum ever get to Capri? I’ve always felt terrible about how she didn’t get her way. Heartbreaking really. Poor mummy. We both know how giving she is, never asking for a thing for herself.

That’s not really necessary. She was very young when she had me and still had a lot of growing up to do.

I am curious about one thing. That Swedish nanny. I get now that was no nanny but rather a live sex toy the two of you had with you for your holidays. Were the two of you swingers? Still are maybe?

If not respect, a bit of consideration would be appreciated. I’m still his son.

Actually no. He signed that right over to my granddad before walking out on me. Or is he going to blame that one on my mother too?

That was his choice. He’s regretted it ever since.

I’m really sick of hearing about all of his regrets. I really am. He regrets everything yet does nothing to make amends. Is there nothing he doesn’t regret? Is there no moment he doesn’t wish he’d done differently? At what point does he stop creating new regrets and learn from the old ones?

My twenty-fifth birthday. That was the moment he realized it might be too late. He didn’t realize I actually hated him.

I don’t hate him. I was just angry. I shouldn’t have said that. The truth is I am indifferent to him most of the time. In fact I don’t even think about him. Truthfully when they’re not in front of me I don’t remember they exist. More than hating him, I think he should truly be saddened by the fact he is so meaningless to me. That’s much worse than hate. I should know. My own parents have been indifferent at the best of times to me.

Lunch. Once a week. Once a month. That’s all he wants.

I’m really busy. I’ll see what I can do, but I just don’t think we can set up anything regular. Maybe after the wedding. Maybe not. We might be moving to Hong Kong for a while. We’ve just bought a flat in London that requires more than one shopping trip to Italy to buy furniture to fill. Things are just in transit at the moment. I just can’t commit myself.

He’s hurt. Deeply hurt. Not that he says so. But I can see it in his face. And I like it. Finally I am capable of inflicting the sort of pain that he was incapable of shielding me from. I hope it bleeds.

He’s going to need to excuse me. Nice chatting. Please keep his fucking mouth shut about the Elon thing. He couldn’t be more wrong. And do me a favor. If he and mum are coming to the wedding, make sure she wears something more appropriate. I’m not happy about the fact her fucking tits are hanging out. My fiancée hasn’t said anything but I know she finds it appalling that my mother is dressed like a Russian prostitute at her engagement party.

I’m elated and empowered as I walk away from my father. I’ve wounded him to the core. I have denied him my love and my affection and any promise that we might one day be a proper father and son at last. I have waited years for this moment. He has come to me offering his hand and I have slapped it away. The circle is complete. He is now the one that needs me and I shall forever remain out of his grasp.

I catch Elon’s eye as I pass him on my way to the toilets. Elon follows me. He discretely slips into the toilet behind me. I lock the door. That lesson learned years earlier.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

First Times

I’ve never had sex with a virgin. I haven’t.

I’m grumpy as I lay on the bed. I feel like an idiot.

What the fuck is my problem?

Nothing. (The Samurai is a virgin. She wants me to be her first. I should not go there. I shouldn’t. I should tell her to find a boyfriend. A real boyfriend. I already have a tendency to get overly involved.)

How did she lose her virginity?

Mind my own fucking business. How did I lose my virginity?

Mind her own fucking business.

Stop being such a little bitch and tell her.

I am never sharing a room with her for this long again. I’m not. I swear I won’t.

It wouldn’t be so bad if we weren’t locked up like caged animals. She is never agreeing to this again. We should have left when we had the chance.

This isn’t normal?

Not even a little. She’s come to expect that things will always be a little weird when she comes here, but this time it’s all very weird. So it has to be my fault.

How so?

I’m the new variable.

Good point.

So? How did I lose my virginity?

How did she lose her virginity?

She sold it for five-hundred-thousand euros in an auction.

No really.

That’s the truth and she doesn’t want to talk about it. So?

I was fourteen and a chalet girl took a fancy to me when I was on a ski trip in Switzerland with my family.

She thought all of my family holidays were shit.

When my grandmother was present to take care of me they were generally really good. My parents just needed to be free to act like a couple of fucking adolescents and not be saddled with the responsibility of a child. Did she really sell her virginity in an auction?

Yes.

What did she do with the money?

Mind my own business. She’s had enough. She’s going to get us a hotel in Kyoto. There is really something wrong with going to Japan and not getting any shopping done. We’re getting out of here. We’re not prisoners. Start packing my bags.

No. Could she please stop trying to manage my life for me?

Someone needs to considering what a shit pile I’ve made of it.

Bite me. Can I use the laptop?

Whatever.

I check my email after she enters the secret password.

I have four!!!URGENT!!! messages. One from Uncle Harvey. One from Elon. One from Aunt Lucy. One from Mrs. Gresham. My mother has been admitted to the hospital.

I need a telephone.

I get up from the bed and go to the door. It’s locked. The door is fucking locked from the outside. I pick up the phone next to the bed.

Olga is reading the emails. She’s going to try to contact Elon.

Do that.

I get a footman on the phone. I must have a telephone to call outside the compound.

He will speak with the Servant.

No. Not good enough…

The phone goes dead.

Unbelievable.

I put my shoes on. The door is made from paper and spindly wood. The lock is symbolic. My foot goes right through the frame.

Olga yelps a little as she looks up from the screen. She says nothing about the door. If she can’t get Elon she’ll try to get my Aunt Lucy.

I nod then go through the door.

I’m stopped by the Servant who is rushing down the hall.

What have I done? I will pay for such an outrage.

I need a phone and I need it now.

I will return to my room immediately.

I continue walking. He’s on my heels. I reach the door to the Samurai’s sanctuary. The door is locked. This is a real lock.

I pound on the door.

The Servant insists I return to my room. Security has been called.

Fine. Tell him to call for a car for me too. Olga and I are leaving.

But…

The door to the Samurai’s rooms opens. She stands there in a pale blue silk kimono. Why am I being so disruptive?

I need a telephone.

Why? Who do I want to call? I have internet. That’s enough.

I need a telephone. Not questions. Certainly not to be locked in my room a moment longer.

Very well. She steps aside and lets me enter. I’m ushered to the divan and handed a telephone. I call Mrs. Gresham. It’s the only number I know by heart.

Everything is fine. At least it seems to be fine. It was just a scare. Martina is still in the hospital, but she should be home in a couple of days. Where am I that they can’t reach me when they need me? She doesn’t want to come down on me, but I really need to be available. What if this hadn’t been a scare? What if something had happened and they couldn’t get ahold of me? I need to call Uncle Harvey and Aunt Lucy. Do I have their numbers?

Not on me. I’m given the numbers which I write on a paper the Samurai hands me.

I end the call and go to make another.

The Samurai reaches for the phone. Why do I need to make more than one call? Haven’t I already determined that all is well?

Yes. That doesn’t mean I don’t need to call the rest of my family. They’re concerned about the fact they can’t reach me. I need to tell them that I’m fine.

Why?

Because they’re worried about me.

Why? Am I not a grown man capable of managing my own life? Do I need four different people to chase me down to give me a message?

I don’t need four people to chase me down.

Honestly. She’s not trying to be difficult or intrusive, but why doesn’t this seem a bit excessive to me? It certainly seems excessive to her. Can’t this woman I just spoke with tell them that I am well and they shouldn’t worry so much? Honestly, it sounds more like they’re trying to manipulate me than genuine concern for my wellbeing? Truthfully – why do four different people need to send me the same email message? Do they not speak to one another?

They do.

Wouldn’t one have been enough?

Yes. One would have been enough. How does she know four people sent me pretty much the same email message?

I mentioned something to woman I spoke with.

Did I?

Obviously. How else would she know I received four emails? As for busting down the door… that what wholly unnecessary. The alarmist nature of the emails clearly affected me negatively. I probably should have more distinct boundaries up when it comes to these things. In fact, why am I not in direct contact with my mother’s doctors? Wouldn’t it make more sense to have them contact me directly when there is a problem rather than four family members that have little information of real value? What exactly did the woman I spoke with tell me other than it was just a scare?

Nothing I suppose.

What message will calling everyone on the list send other than I am willing to participate in that sort of nonsense? If I want her advice, I should send one email to all of them telling them that in the future only one person needs to contact me and that person preferably should be a doctor. Otherwise, let’s be honest, I am being paid to do a job that doesn’t involve busting down doors and wreaking havoc on her otherwise tranquil island of peace.

I suppose she has a point.

Good. She takes the phone from me and sets it to the side. Besides, it’s the middle of the night in England. Unless I only want to contribute to the drama, she suggests I leave it until I’ve had time to think about it.

I didn’t realize what time it was back home. Now I do.

Since I’m there with her, she wants to know what my decision is. Will I give her what she wants?

Yes. I will. I’ll give her what she wants. I knew I was going to all along.

Stay with her for a while? Just a couple of nights. Surely Olga can live without me for just a bit. I know how envious she is of Olga. If we’re going to have sex, she wants me to herself. It’s quiet, peaceful, no incessant chatter, she has books worth reading, and we can go out in the garden together.

I’ll stay with her. But she needs to let Olga out of the room.

Fine. She’ll arrange to have the Servant take Olga on excursions around Kyoto.

Perfect.

She takes my hand. Where do we start?

A bath is always good.

We bathe then I bring her to bed. I probably use far more lube than I need to. I just don’t want to hurt her. She tells me that her gynecologist has already broken her hymen. That needed to be done. Otherwise she wouldn’t be able to have sex.

Nails dig into me as I push into her. I’m in the weeds. Do I go fast like ripping off a bandage, or do I go slow?

It’s not as bad as I imagine. There is pain and blood, but nothing that isn’t manageable. I try my hardest to be the sort of decent sensitive man women dream of having their first sexual experience with. I’m old enough to know better than a fumbling teenage boy what to do.

I hold her when we are done. We sleep. We have meals. I don’t ask about Olga. But she does tell me that Olga is being taken out to see the sites. She is being entertained.

I can live with this.

The sex improves. She’s adventurous and wants to know the limits of what our bodies can do.

The guests have all gone. Do I want to go to the pagoda? It’s a beautiful day.

It’s the middle of the night.

What am I thinking? It’s the afternoon.

We go to the pagoda. It is a beautiful afternoon. As evening falls she asks me if I want to do something fun. A portable karaoke machine is brought along with an unending supply of sake. Finally, this job is starting to match my expectations.

CHAPTER THIRTY

It's Just Lunch

Elon presses hard kisses to my mouth as he fumbles with my belt and zipper. My fiancée, much in the way my grandmother decided years earlier to do, has made a concerted effort to ignore the subtle clues which indicate Elon and I might be more than just friends on occasion. Granted there are many things we haven’t done, I still have never brought myself to suck him off, but we’ve fucked. Multiple times. I do like the feel of being penetrated and Elon is generally happy to oblige when I need a bit of the rough. He also takes every opportunity I offer to blow me.

At this moment, after my delightfully fulfilling confrontation with my father, I want to push my endorphin level up just a notch more.

Elon drops to his knees and takes me in his mouth. I lean back against the sink and just let him do what he does so well. He’s improved markedly from that first suck on my bed so many years earlier. That said, I can control myself a bit better and have learned to savor the experience. I’ve also come to appreciate the power of a man’s jaw muscles.

I ejaculate into his mouth as my hands grasp the edge of the sink. I needed that. I really needed that.

Elon rises to his feet and nudges me to the side. He rinses his mouth then spits.

What the fuck was I talking about with my father? He nearly came over, but he figured that it was just best to stay out of it.

He thinks we’re lovers.

We are.

He thinks I’m living a lie and that I should be honest.

I am living a fucking lie. We do belong together. This is my problem. Not his. Certainly not my father’s. When I figure it out, he’ll be waiting for me. Until then, he’s always around when I need him.

He kisses me. He loves me. I am to never forget that. No matter what he’s there for me.

I leave the bathroom first. My heart is dancing.

My fiancée joins me. Her hand in mine. I can feel the stone of Lady Charlotte’s diamond press between my fingers. The engagement ring is one of the things I know sets my mother’s teeth on edge. She’s always wanted it. But my grandparents refused to let her have it. I suspect she has been waiting patiently for their deaths to get her hands on it. Now that will never happen.

What’s going on? Why were my father and I looking like we might stick knives in each other? This is supposed to be a party.

My father wants to have lunch with me. Regularly.

She knows.

He spoke to her?

She had a conversation with both of them earlier in the evening. Before the party started.

She did?

Yes.

What did they talk about?

She just made some things clear to them. Guaranteed we were all on the same page.

One of those conversations. How did they react?

My father was charming and facilitating. My mother was chewing the carpet.

I’m not surprised. I know my fiancée. She is nothing if not direct when to comes to everyone in the world. Except for me and my grandparents. She could be more enchanting with my grandparents. There is no love lost between her and my mother. Oddly enough (or perhaps predictably) my mother and my fiancée’s father get on like a house on fire. They both have working class backgrounds and feel at sea when running in my family’s crowd.

My mother is none too fond of her at the moment. Not that Martina changed her dress despite her very polite yet firm request.

My fiancée manages every situation and rarely leaves anything to chance. This is what she does. She takes control and leaves no room for anyone to question her decisions. I can only imagine what she said to my parents.

This is neither the time nor the place for this sort of conversation. We will discuss it later in private. She does not know what has been said, but whatever it was she is absolutely certain it was neither appropriate nor called for. She is very aware of the dynamic between the three of us and it ends right there. She had hoped our upcoming wedding would offer an opportunity if nothing else for the four of us to find common ground. But sometimes there is no common ground and we must simply accept the fact ties must be severed and relationships come to an end. But this is not the place to have these conversations or make those decision.

She’s absolutely right.

Of course she is. Now that’s settled, the guests have monopolized her handsome groom for far too long. We haven’t even danced one dance yet.

She takes me to the floor. I hold her tight, the smell of rose perfume and coconut shampoo in my nostrils. I love her. I don’t often say it, and sometimes it may not seem like it, but I do love her. Does she know this?

She does. She wants me to do something for her.

Anything.

Go to lunch with my father. She truly believes he sincerely wants a relationship with me. And after all, it’s just lunch.

Will this make her happy?

Yes. More than that. With any luck she’ll be on her way to becoming a mother within a year. She won’t have any animosity between me and my parents if her child is going to spend any time with them. It would be sad for her child to only know her father as a grandfather, but unless the dynamic changes, that is what will happen. It’s up to the three of us to sort this out.

Will she give me coupons for chicken burgers and chips?

Stop it. (This makes her laugh – she knows better than anyone how that food is made – she knows it’s a death sentence to eat at one of her own chicken burger franchises) I’m very bad.

Which begs the question to be asked what someone as good as her is doing with me? For she is very good.

I am just very lucky.

I am indeed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Lotus Eater

I am woken with butterfly kisses on my stomach. The Samurai touches my body as if she owns it. Which she does to a degree. She did pay for the use of it after all. I have to force myself to remember this.

She rubs me until I’m hard. If I want a condom, then I have to put it on. Which I do. Virgin or no – I take no chances. She climbs on top of me and slips my cock inside of her. I lean up enough to get a good look at her tiny cock as she fucks me. I move my hand and grasp it with three fingers. I pinch it just enough and stroke. I know how to make her cum. Now that we are having vaginal sex, if I do it right, stimulating both her penis and her internal g-spot simultaneously, the effect nearly renders her unconscious.

My magic fingers do the work well. She collapses on the bed next to me. I finish myself off with my hand.

What shall we do? It is raining outside. So we must stay inside.

These are our two choices. Outside or inside. Going to Kyoto is out of the question. The world comes to her. She does not go to it. This is our island.

We could go and sit in the pagoda.

This is possible. We could go and sit in the pagoda. We are alone. We have privacy and can go out to the pagoda.

So we go to the pagoda.

The fall sunlight hurts my eyes. It’s been days since I’ve seen sunlight.

The samurai and I sit in the pagoda. There is nothing else to do. We could return inside. But then what would we do other than sit. So I lay against the cushions and watch the clouds float across the sky.

There is a commotion in the garden. I sit up just as Olga charges down a path. She has a stack of folded clothing in her arms and security hot on her heels.

She stomps into the pagoda. Her heels punishing the wooden steps.

Enough is enough. We are leaving. The clothes are tossed on me. Security tries to pull her back to her room.

I wave them off. They take instructions from me. I am an inhabitant of the island. Olga is just a guest. I’m not ready to go. Perhaps in another few days. Perhaps not. I’m not ready to go home. I like it here.

We’re leaving now. She can’t take it anymore. We’re fucking prisoners.

The Samurai speaks to her calmly. She is not a prisoner. She can leave whenever she wants.

People know she’s there. She’s told them where she is. If she doesn’t contact them in the next hour to let them know we have been allowed to leave the compound in our own transportation they will call the police and the Russian and British embassies. She wants our mobiles and our cash.

This is outrageous. The Samurai snaps her fingers. The guards move in.

Olga is tough. I’ll give her that. The first one that touches her gets a handbag in the face before I tell them to back off.

Bullshit. She’s had enough. Get dressed. She’s booked a flight to Paris for us.

I don’t want to go to Paris. We’re not due in Paris until the end of the month anyhow.

It is the end of the month. Do I not even know what fucking day it is?

I think about it. Actually I don’t.

It’s the fucking thirtieth. We’ve been in Japan for more than two fucking weeks. Get my fucking trousers on. She’s called for a fucking taxi. It should be outside the fucking gates. Unfuckingbelievable. Unfuckingbelievable. Unfuckingbelievable. Three times for effect.

That can’t be right.

She picks up the tumbler of water from the table and tosses it in my face. Have I been fucking smoking something? When was the last time I read my email? People are trying to reach me. They’re contacting her. Elon is ready to fly to Kyoto to find out for himself what the fuck is going on. The Matchmaker is pissed off.

The Samurai growls at Olga. She can’t take me away. She can’t. I’m going to stay on the island.

Why is Elon threatening to fly to Kyoto?

Because he is my friend and he is concerned. They’ve been video chatting every day.

She’s video chatting with Elon?

Yes. And mum. What the fuck am I thinking? My poor mum is so sick and I can’t even fucking bother to respond to her emails. What the fuck kind of son am I? Fortunately I have her. She’s sorted it out with a home health aide to come around and mind her while Aunt Lucy is at work. Mum is in no state to be left alone.

My poor mum is a total bitch that has psychologically tortured me my entire life. She is not my problem. She is not my responsibility. She had no right to get sick without having someone else to bear that burden. I’m not going to do it. I’m not. I am not that kind nor am I that forgiving. I don’t love her. I don’t even like her. She had no right to interfere in my private family business.

Olga cracks me across the face with an open palm. Grow the fuck up. Get my trousers on.

What the fuck?

Get dressed. We’re leaving. If I’m not in the car with her, then Elon will notify the British Embassy that there is something very weird going on here and he hasn’t heard from me directly in far too long. Olga turns on her boot heel and leaves us alone in the pagoda.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Final Shots

I’ve just buried my father. What’s left of him at least. He had to be cremated. His headless corpse turned to ash. The skull and brains just a smear under a bus tire. Some poor drudge that works for the City of London probably had the vile task of hosing the blood and bits down a drain.

I am possibly the loneliest person in the world at this moment. No one can say or do anything that will help. I am quite certain this feeling will never go away.

Mrs. Gresham forces me to sit at the kitchen table and drink tea. I am James Albert Oliver Alexander Stanley Adair, 18th Earl of Harkslon, 14th Earl of Connalara. Lord Harkslon if you prefer. Wold Hall, with her leaking roof and haunted halls is all mine.

Elon sits with me. He offers to take me to Cyprus, to Athens, to Turkey, to Italy. He’ll do whatever I need him to do to make it all better.

There is nothing that can make me feel better.

I’m supposed to be getting married in two days. I want to call my former fiancée and beg her in the name of all things decent and holy to please for the love of god take me back. But I don’t think she will. I had hope up until the moment she didn’t show for dad’s funeral. I figured if she showed for dad’s funeral that she would take me back. I am a pitiful wreck. The way she likes me best. I am the most worthy of her nurturing and love at this moment.

But she wasn’t there. She doesn’t love me anymore.

I drink my tea. Mrs. Gresham wraps up food, pays the caterers, and manages everything beautifully. When the doorbell rings, I get it. She’s busy and I need an excuse to get out of the kitchen. Her efficiency is starting to make me angry.

There is a man I don’t know at the door. Am I Oliver Adair? He has a clipboard.

Yes. More papers. Fantastic. I sign and take the large envelope from him.

I rip it open and pull out the contents as I walk up the steps to my rooms.

What the fuck am I reading? Am I being sued? I’m being sued. I’m being fucking sued by my fiancée’s father for the cost of the wedding, all sundry expenses, and for inflicting emotional torture. What the fuck is this? He wants twenty-million-fucking-pounds from me? This has got to be a joke. It has to be.

I walk into my rooms as I reach for my mobile. They were my grandparents’ rooms, but they’re mine now. Dad didn’t want them. He just felt too uncomfortable moving into their space. We agreed that I could take them. He’d stick with his rooms. Mum kicked off, but we ignored her. Something beautiful happened when the two of us started going to lunch. We became friends then allies. Together we were stronger against the will of my mother. We became the inseparable couple and she was the one on the outs. Perhaps I exaggerate, but still. I had the relationship with my father we both always wanted at last.

Mum is in my rooms. She’s in the boudoir used by my grandmother and great-grandmother before her to dress. The place is a shambles. My former fiancée’s things are tossed around the place, drawers are emptied, jewel boxes turned out onto the floor.

Where is the ring?

What the fuck is she doing?

Where is the ring? The fucking ring? Lady Charlotte’s diamond. She wants it. Where the fuck is it?

I don’t have it.

Why the fuck not?

Because my fiancée has it.

Former fiancée. Why haven’t I gotten it back yet?

We haven’t spoken since she broke up with me. Besides, I was sort of hoping she might take me back.

Get the ring back. It’s rightfully hers. She wants it.

How is it rightfully hers?

She’s the dowager countess. It’s the dowager countess’ ring. She wants the ring.

This is insane. Clearly she is having some kind of breakdown.

The conversation spirals downward from there. Eventually it ends when Elon pulls me out of the room and Mr. and Mrs. Gresham take hold of my mother. They separate us bodily. I am tossed into the passenger seat of Elon’s Audi. He drives us back to London. He gets his pack of flying monkey lawyers on the papers. Yes. My former fiancée’s father really is suing me. Uncle Albert is brought in.

I am given many lectures on the importance of responsibility and how I am not to sell off the furniture to pay for my bad choices.

I ask him what to do. I genuinely need his advice.

He tells me to get off my ass and get a fucking job.

Doing what? I’ve never worked a day in my life.

He suggests I go and find a wealthy wife.

The sum is negotiated down to an amount which is curiously close to precisely what I have in my trust fund and the trust used to maintain Wold Hall. Figures my fiancée knows well as she has long since assumed management of my money. I empty my trust and make a promise to pay down the rest of the money. This is unacceptable. The money must be paid immediately.

But I can’t pay the money.

But I must pay the money.

But I can’t pay the money.

But I must pay the money.

Round and round and round we go.

The team of lawyers hired by my former fiancée’s father come to me with a compromise. My former fiancée’s father always fancied owning a castle. Sign it over to him and the slate will be cleared.

Not over my dead body. In fact, if I were dead, that would sort of solve all of my problems. Wold Hall would automatically go to Uncle Albert and my debts would die with me.

Suicide becomes an option.

For about a minute.

Then I move on. I have within me the strength to persevere. I am on my knees, but I am not defeated.

I rise again with Elon at my side. We become more frequent lovers. I move into his home and into his bed. He arranges to have all of my problems disappear. He believes at long last I am ready to acknowledge that we belong together. This is not what I want. I’m done exchanging my body for comfort and money. I love Elon like I loved my former fiancée. Like a person loves a friend. I still want to get married and have children. I want that life and I mean to have it.

What am I left with? What job offer do I receive? What am I qualified to do? Fuck. That’s all I’ve ever really been good at. This is the thing my former fiancée liked best about me. I can fuck. Ten-thousand pounds to spend a few days at the disposal of a Japanese gentleman. Who is not actually a man. But something else entirely. A beautiful hybrid that longs to keep me in her world of secrets.

She rubs my skin with perfumed oils, she sings me songs, plays her shamisen, she feeds me wine, she makes me forget. I’ve become the Lotus Eater. Time passes without being marked. One day blends into the next. I would happily stay on this island The Samurai has created for herself. In seclusion. My troubles all far behind me.

I don’t need a castle. I don’t need a sick mother. I don’t need a wife. I don’t need Olga.

Everything I will ever need is contained within the walls of the compound the Samurai’s family has built around her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Hotel California

I run my hand through my damp hair. Olga’s right. I need to go.

No. No I can’t go. I can’t leave her. I mustn’t leave her. She’ll give me whatever I want. But please don’t go.

I have to go.

She clings to me and holds me tight as I try to dress.

Please don’t go. I must stay. She will be so lonely without me.

I’ll return. I promise.

When. When will I return?

When I’ve dealt with my mother and let Elon know I’m still alive.

She can’t let me go.

I put my shirt over my head and accidently give her an elbow in the gut. It’s sharp and I’ve hurt her a little. But she’s off of me and I can rise from the cushions.

She tackles me. She’s stronger than she looks. I’m pummeled and punched. I’m kicked in the ribs. She tries to bite my arm.

I have to push her off of me. I don’t really have a choice. She lands hard on her back.

Is she okay?

I’ve hurt her. I must stay now.

I didn’t hurt her that badly. Biting me was uncalled for. I promise I’ll be back. I will.

I walk out of the pagoda as she lies on the cushions. I find my way back to the room Olga and I initially shared.

Olga is standing with the Servant. She has two large envelopes tucked in the curve of her arm.

We were here for sixteen days. We will be paid for sixteen days. If he doesn’t want to pay us, then she will take the matter up with the Matchmaker. There is also the matter of the per-diem and the airfare.

They bicker. She is firm. More cash is produced. She is content. We have been paid in full.

Our bags are removed by a pair of servants.

I slip the leather jacket on she hands me before picking up my messenger bag. I’m handed my envelope of cash. This was a job. Again I have forgotten this one very basic thing. First with the Latin Pop Star and now with the Samurai. I’m not cut out for this. I’m really not. This has to be the end of it. Maybe I can do something else, but I can’t do this.

We are escorted to the taxi which has been allowed to enter the gates. Our bags are loaded on.

I slip into the back seat with Olga. The taxi moves only to be stopped at the gate to wait for it to open.

The Samurai runs after the car. She’s screaming and waving.

I tell the taxi driver to move. I need to get off the island. We pass through the gates. I know the Samurai will not follow. She cannot leave her island. She is a prisoner, but I am not.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

A Final Chance

Olga, my Odysseus, takes my hand as we move. She says nothing and I appreciate that. There is nothing to be said. It is when we are on the plane and have reached altitude that she turns to me.

When she was thirteen her mother died. She loved her mother. But she was thirteen. They had been fighting for a long time about everything I could imagine. Everything. The sky being blue could cause a fight. One morning she fought with her mother. The school she went to had rules about makeup and that sort of thing.

Rules she broke regularly? (I give her hand a squeeze. I know how my Olga loves her slap. I may be the only man that has ever seen her fully without it. Even then she insisted on having lip-gloss close at hand. I’m fairly certain I’ve never witnessed her brush her teeth. Some things are just too private to be shared.)

Yes. All the time. Lipstick is not a crime.

Only when I can’t get it off my neck.

Be quiet. This is important. I always make jokes and get snarky when things are important.

Sorry my darling. Do go on.

She went to school after having a fight with her mother. Vera. With her makeup bag hidden in her backpack. When she got to school she went into the girls’ bathroom and did her makeup. The principal catches her. Calls her mother. She has to sit in the office and wait for her mother to come. When her mother gets there Vera’s furious. Just furious. Vera’s not screaming but that’s coming. But it doesn’t. Vera gets a pain. In her head.

Olga touches her head.

Vera starts stumbling around. She can’t talk. Then she just falls on the ground. Boom. Like a bag of rocks. The ambulance comes. Vera’s taken away. She never wakes up again. It’s all her fault because she had to wear eyeliner. Doctor tells them Vera had an aneurysm.

It was not her fault her mother had an aneurysm.

She knows this. Do I know that it’s not my fault my father is dead because he was coming to meet me for lunch?

It’s like she has the bullet in the chamber ready to shoot.

Most of the time I know this. Sometimes I don’t.

It will get better. She promises. After Vera dies, she becomes a saint. Everything Vera did was perfect. Vera was better than human. She was the best mother ever. Her hair was always perfect, her clothing was always stylish, and her makeup was flawless. Vera was perfection personified. In her mind. The truth was her mother was not perfect. Vera would have been the first one to laugh at her for raising her up on so high a pedestal. Vera had her faults. Vera could lose her temper. Vera could be a little bit selfish. Vera had cellulite. Vera gave birth to five daughters and had the tits to prove it. Vera was human.

But she made her a saint.

Yes. She made her a saint. She even had a shrine. Pictures, candles, and flowers. Then her father did the most unbelievable thing she could imagine.

He remarried?

Yes. The woman wasn’t so bad. Maybe she should have been a bit nicer to her. The second wife was certainly better than the third.

The devil you know.

Exactly. Vera was a saint and no woman was good enough for her father. He was punished for not wanting to be alone. What she is trying to explain, is that her mother was no saint. No one was ever as kind or evil as we think they are in our own memories. Memories are skewed in our favor. Is it possible I’m not remembering my mother as she truly was, but as I believed her to be?

Probably. Yes. I have this tendency to be rather juvenile when it comes to recollecting the memories of my past. My mother is not half the devil I like to think she was. Perhaps I have exaggerated things a touch.

Vera was not a saint. Martina is not a devil. Maybe she wasn’t a great mother, but truly was she that horrible?

No.

My mother is dying. Make some new memories before it’s too late. Don’t let her die without giving her a chance to leave this world knowing she’s at least tried to make amends. Weren’t things getting better before my dad died?

They were.

Close my eyes. She wants me to think. There must be one moment. One memory that I have of my mother that is good. Can I think of one?

I do as I’m told. I close my eyes. Immediately I find a memory. A good memory.

I’m sixteen. Uncle Harvey is in a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. He’s the watchman. It’s the middle of summer. Elon has been recalled to Norway to attend his father’s most recent wedding. I would have gone with him, but the truth is, I like my summers with my parents. I’d never admit it, but I do.

Mum drags me to London with her. Dad refuses to go. He just won’t. She has nothing in her arsenal that will get him to sit through A Midsummer Night's Dream. He won’t even be talked into going to London. If he’s in London she’ll think of a way to get him to go. And he won’t go. He sat through Agamemnon. He’s done his time.

So we go together. We take the train. It’ll be an overnight trip so we both have a piece of luggage. We’re staying with Aunt Lucy because it’s easier than not staying with her. Aunt Lucy understands why dad prefers a hotel. But I and mum are us and there’s no reason we should be paying out money to stay in a hotel when there are two perfectly good beds that are all but unused. If we stayed in a hotel it would be personally offensive to Aunt Lucy.

So we make the journey to Croydon. We are given tea and sandwiches when we arrive at Aunt Lucy’s neurotically tidy home behind the newsstand which now occupies the place where my grandfather’s butchers shop once was. Uncle Harvey used to live with her. But the drink just got to be too much at times. Besides, she likes her quiet and their parents left the place to her.

There is cake. Madeira sponge with buttercream frosting. She’s crushed up the Smarties and mixed them in with the frosting like I like.

We eat and then we dress. Mum does Aunt Lucy’s hair and makes her wear one of her dresses. Aunt Lucy and mum look really lovely. Mum’s beautiful. Sometimes I get why dad’s so dumb for her.

Mum refuses to bend on taking a taxi. We will take a taxi. We are not going in our smart clothes on the tube. Especially to the neighborhood we’re going to. She will pay for it.

We get to the theater with enough time to go to the pub across the way for a drink. She gets me a cider. Why not? I’m sixteen. She gets a white wine and Aunt Lucy a sherry.

What does anyone know about this play? I look at mum and Aunt Lucy.

It’s supposed to be avant-garde.

Mum and I both look at each other. There was nudity the last time Uncle Harvey was in a production of something described as avant-garde. I spent three hours watching mum’s fingertips as a nude Uncle Harvey treads the boards as an outraged Hamlet. I’ve never been so grateful for mum before in my life.

Is there nudity?

Aunt Lucy certainly hopes not! Imagine. She doesn’t want to be unkind, but Harvey isn’t exactly the poster boy for Weight Watchers.

But she has confirmed there is no nudity. Right?

Well no. But honestly she didn’t think to ask. Harvey just said it was avant-garde.

This is not good.

How possible is it he does two plays in the nip? Honestly, not even Harvey would do that.

Or would he?

We three finish our drinks in silence. Then, we three, we happy three, we band of immediate family, make the journey from the pub to the theater that is only accessible after climbing three flights of stairs.

There’s actually a bit of a crowd. This could be good.

We take our seats, which are middle center. Harvey will miss us if we leave at intermission. There is no escape.

I’m sat between mum and Aunt Lucy. The lights go down and the curtains go up. There is Uncle Harvey. Naked as the day he was born with a garland of flowers on his head and angel baby wings on his back. His body denuded of hair. He’s a smooth fat Baby Huey. His dick is just there. There is no missing it. Thank god he doesn’t have an erection. But that too will pass. Nude Oberon practically does him in.

Aunt Lucy shrieks.

Mum and I look at each other.

Is she going to put her hand over my eyes? My virgin eyes?

Virgin her ass. She knows about me and the chalet girl in Switzerland.

Dad told her?

He didn’t have to tell her. She may not be the best mother, but she’s not blind. If she has to watch this, so do I. Besides, dad will never believe just her. I’m her witness.

So we watch Uncle Harvey prance around as a buck nekked cherubic Puck for three hours.

We call dad during the intermission. He almost wishes he was with us. But just almost. Not really. We are not to have too much fun without him.

No chance of that.

When the curtain drops, we scram. We go to the pub where our evening started. I’m sent to the bar to get drinks. We three sit at a table and stare at each other. Then we laugh. We can’t stop. Mum laughs so hard her eyes tear up and the mascara runs down her face. I’ve never seen her so joyful.

Harvey joins us. Thank god he’s dressed. But I’m pretty sure I’ll never get the sight of his nekked prancing arse out of my head. That image is burned in there forever. There is a bit of theatrical make-up around his collar. This is no accident.

What did we all think?

It was avant-garde. Mum and I both repeat this several times.

Yes! This was what he was going for! Avant-garde! But overall, what did we think of his performance?

Who fancy’s a curry? Mum is absolutely dying for a curry. Her life will be less than complete without a curry at that very moment.

Since when does she eat curry? As far as I know my parents despise curry.

She loves curry. Dad is the one that can’t stand it. She can never eat a curry when he’s around. So do we go for a curry?

Aunt Lucy smacks the table. Yes. We go for a curry. All in for a curry.

We go to an Indian place not far from the place in Croydon. They’ve been going there since they were children. I’ll admit it’s really good curry. We four laugh a lot. Uncle Harvey drinks too much and eats too much all the while protesting he’s dieting.

When I go to bed that night I’m happy. Mum, Aunt Lucy and Uncle Harvey remain in the kitchen talking. I can hear their voices through the wall but I can’t really make out what they’re saying. The next morning we decide that we’ll stay another night, which in the end becomes a long weekend. On the train back home we laugh constantly about Uncle Harvey and his cherub wings. We’re both too horrified to directly refer to the way his stomach folded over his genitalia. But we both know what the other means when we reference the stomach.

At home when we have dinner with dad and the grandparents in the China Room they refuse to believe us. Not even Harvey would be so lewd.

That is a good memory.

Olga agrees with me. That is a good memory. Tell her another good memory. I must have another.

I have others. The day I got my pony and dad actually managed to get mum on a horse. The day I graduated from Trinity. When mum asked no questions when I needed cash to pay for the aftermath of not using a condom and believing Renata when she told me she was on birth control. The day of my grandmother’s funeral when mum held my hand during the service. There are plenty of good memories. They’d just been overshadowed by the bad. In fact, there are more good memories than bad ones. But this is the way of memories. One bad outweighs a dozen good.

I spend large chunks of the flight relating the happy stories from my childhood. When we land twelve hours later, I’m exhausted but I have my head on straight for perhaps the first time ever when it comes to what my relationship with my mother was really like. I’m not a child anymore. I’m able to look at my mother with objectivity.

When she was bad, she was a real bitch. But most of the time she was all right. She just wasn’t cut out to be a mother. And she knew it. As I got older she was better able to deal with me on terms she understood. But by then I wasn’t having it. The seeds of understanding are sown during that flight. It won’t be until I’m a father – especially a father of teenagers – that I really get it.

There are worse parents than mine. They didn’t beat me. They made sure I was well cared for. I fixed my relationship with dad before he died. I still have time to fix it with mum.

As for the job, we don’t discuss it. We don’t need to. I get it at last. There need to be boundaries. I can do the job. I’m sure of it now. I will never allow myself to get befuddled by a client like that again. I have passed the first real test. I’ve crossed a threshold. I will never be the same again and there is no going back to who I was before. I may not be a master, but I am no longer a novice.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Happy Halloween Oliver

We land in Paris and go directly to the house where the mandatory Halloween party is in progress.

The taxi driver is a lunatic Russian with a death wish. Olga shouts at him in their shared mother tongue until he drives with a measure of sanity.

The house is beautiful. The décor is appropriately themed for Halloween. We are given a room together. Olga and Ollie. Joined at the hip. I don’t mind anymore. I don’t fight this anymore. She has once again rescued me from my own hubris. At least this time I think I’ve learned.

Olga has to leave. Body paint. She doesn’t hate body paint, but it’s going to take days for her to get it all off.

I take her in my arms, kiss her, and then promise her I’ll help her get the hard to reach spots.

She kisses me back.

Just so we’re clear, we are not working this party. When we go to bed tonight it is alone and only with each other.

That’s fine.

She kisses me again. She’ll find me at the party. She leaves.

I have my phone back. I’m not handing my phone over to anyone again. I will not cut myself off from the outside world again. Mum’s available for video chat.

I look good. She loves these chats. How is Kyoto?

I’m in Paris now.

Really? I do get around. How long am I in Paris?

A week. Maybe. I don’t know yet. I need a few days after Kyoto. I think I might just get a hotel room and disappear with Olga.

Sounds ideal. Olga is lovely by the way. I could have told her I had a girlfriend.

It sort of happened in Kyoto. I’ll bring her along the next time we have lunch.

Please do!

I don’t want to upset her. I really don’t. But I need to understand something. What happened on that cruise she made me take with her and dad? Even she has to recognize something was really wrong.

She doesn’t want to talk about that.

I know. But I need to know. She wasn’t herself. I just need to know. I don’t want to upset her. But it’s something that has always colored our relationship.

She’d had a miscarriage a week before we left.

I’m speechless. I’m stunned into silence.

What should she say? This is what happened. She’d had a miscarriage a week before we left. She wanted to cancel, but dad insisted we go. He didn’t want to disappoint me again.

My mouth moves, but nothing comes out.

They were going to tell me on the boat that I was going to have a little sister. She was nearly five months along. She knew she was having a girl. They were going to name her Martha after her mother. What do I want her to say? It was horrific. The last thing she wanted at that moment was to go on a holiday. She couldn’t look at me. All she could see was the baby that would never be. A little girl with my father’s green eyes and brown hair.

Mummy, I had no idea.

She knows. She and dad made a decision that it was best not to tell me. They didn’t want me to be disappointed when I found out I would never have a little sister or brother. Maybe they should have told me. I was eleven.

Why didn’t they try again?

It wasn’t possible. There was too much damage.

Maybe a baby would have helped.

Physical damage. She couldn’t get pregnant again. The truth is it was just really hard for a long time after that. She’s made mistakes. She owns this.

I’m sorry I made her talk about this.

No! No! Actually she feels good. She’s glad we talked about this. In fact she feels really good. A weight has been lifted from her.

Can I ask her one thing? What was the deal with that nanny?

Oh her. That woman was no nanny. She was a last minute decision. Dad actually thought we could manage if we had someone to watch over me when she needed time to rest or just be peaceful.

So they weren’t swingers?

What?! Mum laughs loudly. Oliver! What kind of question is that?! And honestly – would I really want to know if they were? Not that she’s saying they were, but really… what kind of question is that?

I made her laugh. I made her smile. My lovely mummy has roses in her pale cheeks. I grieve for my little sister Martha that I never had, that would have inherited her beauty. She would be seventeen and need me desperately. Our mummy is dying. I probably would have made different decisions if I knew I had her depending on me.

More like I’ve shocked her! Swingers indeed! I am cheeky. Don’t forget she’s a woman with a heart condition. How was Kyoto? Am I working too hard? I look tired and more than just jetlagged. Was I at least able to get out on occasion and enjoy myself?

I’m working quite hard. I had a bit of a dilemma. I was asked to do something that I maybe shouldn’t have done.

Was it part of the job?

It was.

Was it illegal or unethical?

No. I gave the client exactly what she paid for.

Did it involve shoveling shit or digging trenches?

Not at all.

I’ve never had a job before. I need to learn that sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do simply because we’re being paid to do them. When she worked at Boots they made her…

Stop. She worked at Boots?

Yes. Didn’t she ever tell me that?

No.

She worked at Boots for about a year before she met dad.

I thought she was a model.

She was. She also had to work at Boots. London is expensive even for a girl sharing a flat with four other girls. This is where she met dad. He was shopping for bandages. He’d cut his finger trying to open a Thompson Twins cassette.

She’s lying! They met at a party. Besides, dad would never have listened to Thompson Twins.

No, she’s not lying. Seriously. She met dad when she was working at Boots. He just preferred to tell people they met through friends at a party. And he loved Thompson Twins.

Why am I only hearing this now? I can’t stop laughing. I can’t. Tears are rolling down my cheeks. I would almost prefer they were swingers. Dad loved Thompson Twins. I won’t believe it.

He really had horrendous taste in music. I was conceived in the back of his car after a Culture Club concert he made her go to.

I do not need to know this. No child needs to know where he was conceived.

That’s what I get for the swingers comment. I am so much like my dad. I probably like that horrible Bieber boy.

I do not. Why is she telling me this now? She should have told me all of this years ago.

She never really thought about it.

Why not tell me? Dad’s gone. My grandparents are gone. It’s just us now. I’m right. There are things I could understand better. When I’m home we’ll talk more. Maybe she’ll tell me why she was such a raging bitch at my engagement party.

I’d actually like to know what happened there.

That ought to be good for a laugh or two. And by the way, her tits were not hanging out of her dress. I’d just spent too much time with that prudish bitch I was going to marry.

She really wasn’t that bad.

How can I possibly defend her?

I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t. I wasn’t exactly a saint. There’s plenty of blame to go around.

Let’s just say she’s very happy I didn’t marry my former fiancée. What a little bitch.

I have to go. I have a thing I need to get to and Olga is probably waiting on me.

Olga is beautiful and has a kind heart. These are the things that matter. She knows my grandparents gave me different ideas, but at the end of the day I need to be with someone that loves me unconditionally and not someone that is only going to make a good countess and knows how to inventory the linens and marmalade.

I know. I’ll talk to her soon. After we’ve gotten settled.

She blows me a kiss.

I shower and change. I’m stopped by one of the Party Planner’s staff and directed to the costuming room.

The costumer is a fussy young woman that takes her job a hair too serious.

I’m the new boy? James?

I suppose I am.

The Vicomte wants me to wear something very special. I’m shown what is in essence a very skimpy loin cloth. The Vicomte would like for me to come to the party as Tarzan.

Over my cold lifeless body.

But…

No. Are all of the guests required to wear costumes?

I’m not a guest. I’m a worker.

Am I now?

I really won’t wear the loincloth?

Not ever.

She offers me a selection of alternative costumes. I can be a pirate, a Spartan, a fighter pilot, a sexy zombie (huh?), Zorro, Robin Hood, the Grim Reaper, a foxy Viking warrior, a vampire…

Stop. I’ll take that.

The costumer starts gathering pieces. A cape (black silk lined with purple velvet) is offered to me. I refuse. I’m done wearing costumes. I take the pointy plastic teeth and slip them into my mouth. I give the costumer a smile. I’m a vampire. Just like that pasty twit in those freaky Mormon vampire books (note to self – I will NEVER forgive Olga for making me try to read that bullshit – next time we travel anywhere I’ll bring my own books).

But…

I slip the teeth out of my mouth and drop them into my trouser pocket. Fuck off.

I walk away and into the party.

I travel from room to room.

In the music room I find people I know. Talitha, Elizabeth and Mi Young.

Someone I don’t know confronts me. Harold.

He knows who I am. He wants his shit back.

This is neither the time nor the place…

Don’t give him that fucking uppity English bullshit. He wants his shit back. He knows I’ve moved into his bedroom. He wants his shit back.

This is not my decision.

We both know what he left behind in that room and he fucking wants it back.

He’ll need to discuss this with the Matchmaker.

Talitha and Elizabeth are going to pack his shit and send it to him. Do not fucking try to stop them.

I’m not having this discussion with him.

He gives me a poke in the shoulder.

There is no temptation to punch him. I’m better than him and we both know it. I do what a gentleman would do and I simply walk away.

I wander aimlessly looking for Olga.

Two men practically accost me. The Vicomte and his lackey The Banker. I must be the new boy. The one with the cock. Why am I not wearing the costume that was chosen special just for me?

Because I possess a modicum of dignity.

OHHHHH!!!! We are proud! Take off my clothes.

No.

I must. He insists. I must do as he says. I’m being paid to do as I’m told.

Actually no. I was told I was a guest. I’m not working. If he wants me to leave, I’ll leave. Happily and willingly. But I’m off the clock.

He’ll give me five-thousand euros to wear the loin cloth.

I wouldn’t do it for fifty.

The two mutter to each other as I stand wondering what might come next. Curiosity roots me to my spot.

Would I really do it for fifty?

I said I wouldn’t do it for fifty.

They confer again.

Would I be willing to take my clothing off for five?

Ten. And no touching.

They’ll take it.

Cash?

It’ll be delivered to my room in the morning.

It better be. Well? I’m not dropping my trousers in the middle of a hallway for them? Some privacy please.

We go to a room that is locked. Inside is an office. I take off my clothes. They stare at me for a good ten minutes. There is a lot of muttering between them.

The Vicomte clears his throat. They would like me to masturbate for them.

That wasn’t part of the deal.

They’ll give me another ten.

I grab my lad and do what I’ve been doing so very well on my own since I was twelve. I avert my eyes as the Banker allows spurting cum to splatter all over his face.

Judging is not my thing, but there is something about these two that just gives me the creeps. I can’t get out of that room fast enough.

I stop at one of several bars I pass along the way and get the biggest glass of well iced vodka available.

I end up in an atrium where there is a group performing various sexual acts on a platform.

Is this what we looked like as we did our thing for the Samurai and her guests? I suppose it is. I’m not doing that again. I’m not. I’m going to make different choices going forward.

The Matchmaker finds me.

What happened in Japan? Why did we stay so long?

We can discuss it later. I made a judgment call that was probably bad.

Is it going to cost her business?

On the contrary – the Samurai wants to make me her personal geisha.

Her?

Did she know the Samurai was intersex?

What?

Intersex. A hermaphrodite.

She knows what intersex means. What am I talking about?

The Samurai is intersex. Olga does not know this. In fact, I would appreciate it if she kept it to herself.

Absolutely. This is between us. In fact, why am I telling her?

I know what really happened with Harold. The Samurai wanted him to actually have intercourse with her. He flipped out. Threatened to tell anyone that would listen that she was a freak if she made trouble for him.

That little prick. He’s here.

I know. Just so she knows, I’m not working any more parties. I’m not into it. I prefer more intimate settings.

She thought that might be the case. She wants to introduce me to a few people. Top shelf clients. The sort of people who value discretion and will pay for it.

Sounds ideal.

I meet the Footballer and the Sheik. These are the sort of clients I want. Wealthy men that demand absolute discretion. These two plus the Latin Pop Star might be all I need to rebuild a nest egg during my search for a wife. We will be in contact.

Olga finds me. She’s a storm cloud or a shadow. I don’t know. She’s shimmering gray from head to foot.

I tell her about the Vicomte and the Banker. She finds them as creepy as I do.

She’s booked us over New Year’s. The Billionaire and His Wife. Their chalet in Davos. Just the four of us. This pleases me. These are the sort of clients I want us to have.

Her body drapes over mine. She takes possession of me and makes me virtually inaccessible to the other guests. I don’t care. I only want to be with her. But I am enjoying the couple on the platform. I won’t ever work one of these parties again, but I might enjoy being on the guest list.

It’s been a week or more since I’ve made love to her. She practically starts rubbing against me in anticipation. Would I have imagined there was ever a circumstance in which I fingered my girlfriend in public? Yes girlfriend – I am a man that has accepted there are some things I cannot fight and Olga’s absolute determination to slot herself into that role is one of them. She stood her ground and won. If nothing else I am capable of admitting I cannot withstand her onslaught a moment longer. I want a girlfriend and she’s a big girl. I’ve been totally honest with her. When it’s over between us she knows it’s over.

She’s wet and slick as my fingers slide over her smooth sex.

Her hand reaches for my zipper, but I’m not into it. Not there. I want us to be alone before I pull my dick out again.

She pulls her hand back and lets me fondle her. My fingers slide inside of her, twirling then separating into a wide V until she starts sighing against my neck. I find her clit and tap it. I have yet to find a woman that doesn’t love this. Renata is a punishing bitch, but she taught me this one.

Olga presses against me as her body trembles and shakes. She doesn’t scream out or yell in ecstasy. There is sighing and small cries, but they are for me only. This is not a performance. This is my Olga responding to my touch. We are perfect lovers. We know each other so well.

I’m more than ready to take her up to our room. I don’t want to meet anyone else. I just want us to be alone.

We shower together and try to get the paint off of her. It’s going to take days.

When she joins me in bed I put aside the copy of the Odyssey I’ve been reading since I was ten. The noise from the party is enough to drive a crazy man sane. Some idiot starts shouting in the hallway. As much as I don’t want to leave Olga’s warm naked body where it’s taken up the place next to mine, I’m ready to snap.

I open the door and scream until the two idiots fighting over hash find somewhere else to argue over who has the drugs.

Olga folds me into her arms when I return to bed.

We are not staying in this house another night. We’re not. We both need some time after Kyoto. I don’t know what I was thinking. I got too involved. I should have listened to her. I’m never going to make that mistake again.

Everything is fine now. It’s all fine. The Samurai has a reputation for being odd. I shouldn’t have spent as much time alone with him as I did. No wonder it started to mess with my head.

I slip on top of her and make love to her like I like to do. As we did when we were alone in my bed back home. Without cameras watching us or with what I do to her scrutinized afterwards by a third party. I just do what comes naturally to both of us. It’s wonderful, lovely, perfect and so very normal and boring. When I move inside of her I feel whole and perfect. When my orgasm passes I kiss her before I pull out. I think I’m asleep the moment I land on my back.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Paris Postscript

I fall in love in Paris. I don’t recognize that I’m in love until later. I fight it for longer than I should. But it is in Paris that I fall in love. I will always think of Olga in Paris whenever fall is fully upon us and the air is unmistakably cold.

We check into the Georges V and she pays with an unending supply of frequent flyer miles. I don’t believe for a second that she’s paying with frequent flyer miles. I know how these things work. I don’t care. She enjoys these little lies. I let her have them. Besides, we both have stacks of cash from Kyoto and The Vicomte’s party.

What do we do? We make love often, we go out every night, we sleep late, and I don’t complain when she drags me up and down the Champs Elysees and treats me like a pack mule when she needs someone to carry her shopping bags. I’m not ever going to excuse my parents’ behavior, but I can understand why they enjoyed living their lives like this.

I probably shouldn’t have asked my mother if they were swingers. That’s really her business. I am certain a lot of those fabulous parties they went to had much in common with the Vicomte’s soiree and the Samurai’s week long bacchanalia. It’s very possible they went to these things and stuck together. After all I enjoyed looking, but only touching Olga at the Vicomte’s.

Actually this is the sort of thing I should never dwell on.