Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Two
Author: Livia Ellis
Date: 2012-11-01 04:00:00+00:00

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE Prologue

CHAPTER TWO The Hotel

CHAPTER THREE Where I Flashback to What Happened the Previous Afternoon

CHAPTER FOUR Where We Return to the Present, My Life Sucks, Elon is No Longer my Friend , Renata is Forever Doomed to be a Narcissistic Bitch, and I Actually have Taken a Job That Involved the Exchage of Sex for Cash

CHAPTER FIVE The House

CHAPTER SIX Talitha is a Skanky Bitch

CHAPTER SEVEN Essentials Kit

CHAPTER EIGHT Thunderdome

Memoirs of a Gigolo

Volume Two

Livia Ellis

Copyright © 2012 Livia Ellis

All rights reserved.

ISBN:9781095436400

For the tribe.

CHAPTER ONE

Prologue

My adventure, my odyssey, my monomyth if you prefer, has begun. It is only now, many years later, that I see myself and this time I spent in the employ of The Matchmaker as a sort of modern heroic journey. How so? I was a prostitute. I was no Hector, Ulysses, or even Luke Skywalker. But then again, perhaps I was. There is no prerequisite that a hero must be perfect. In fact, they are generally flawed. I was a flawed man. I still am. So how do I reconcile my time spent whoring with that of a mythic journey? It ticks all of the boxes. I have received my call – the offer to sell my body in exchange for money that I desperately needed. I have refused that call – I hesitated, questioning my own ability to prostitute myself. I have taken up the challenge – I accepted money for sexual services rendered. Am I Hercules going from labour to labour paying penance for my hubris? Or am I Orpheus venturing into an unknown underworld to save my true love – my home? I have met my guide; Olga. She will become my Merlin, my fairy godmother, my Obi-Wan Kenobi. From her hands I will receive my weapons, from her wisdom I will be guided. I will learn that when I ignore her, it is to my own peril. I have departed on my journey as I travel to the house where I will live with The Matchmaker's stable of workers. I enter a new world, one far different from the one I came from.

CHAPTER TWO

The Hotel

Olga and I leave The Agency together in the back of a taxi. Not quite the Rolls Royce driven by Bruno, but it's better than the underground. Before going to The House, I insist on returning to the horrible little hotel I'd gone to, to pout the previous evening after my thing with Elon. A room in The House was the best signing bonus I could have ever received for many reasons. Not the least of which being I really needed a place to stay.

Before the offer to live at the house, I had three choices. I could make up with Elon, stay in the grim little hotel populated by backpackers until my cash ran out, or immediately go home to the country. The hotel posed far too many health and safety hazards even for a man that was willing to have sex with random strangers in exchange for cash. That, and one night of being surrounded by hordes of tourists traveling in packs, strummed my last nerve. If I hadn't received the offer to live in the house, I would have headed to the hotel for a final night, then to Paddington Station in the morning to get the train to Exeter. Because that would have cost less. Getting the train to Exeter that evening would have cost more than the combination of the night in the hotel and the ticket for the first train in the morning. I hate that I have to think about these things. I hate that I live and breathe by £20.

I had to go back, but only to pick up the overnight bag I'd left behind in the luggage storage.

Olga looks at me over her sunglasses.

I actually slept in that place?

Yes.

I did shower thoroughly this morning, right?

Yes.

If I gave her lice or bed bugs or...

I get the point.

She makes a disgusted face.

Olga chooses to stay with the car while I go inside to retrieve the few things I managed to get out of Elon's house the previous afternoon. I make a small promise to myself that I will never stay in a place where the billiards table is in the lobby, there is a sign warning against drug dealing on the premises, and it costs only £20 a night not including the security deposit for the towel (singular). I have standards. They're ebbing low at the moment, but that just gives me incentive to strive for more.

I can't complain too much about the hotel. The reality is it's filled with horny tourists that like to fuck. Perfect for the man that is in need of uncomplicated companionship. The two Dutch (or were they Danish?) girls I'd met the previous evening are standing outside smoking with a group of people who are guests in the hotel. I walk up to them as I approach the hotel. One of the two turns to me, greets me, and offers me a smoke. I've given up smoking. Besides, I'm sort of in a hurry.

The Dutch (or possibly Danish) Girls. I love Dutch (Danish?) girls. I especially love these Dutch (Danish?) girls. Who are the Dutch (Danish?) Girls? They were my sexual port in a storm the previous evening. Returning to the moment I stormed out on Elon with a level of class and sophistication that would cause a pack of twelve year old girls to look upon me admiringly, I shall begin...

CHAPTER THREE

Where I Flashback to What Happened the Previous Afternoon

We are now entering the past. This is the past I'm writing of. Not the present moment as I stand in front of the hotel with the Dutch (Danish?) Girls. The previous afternoon. After Elon was an asshole at the sushi place and I was righteously pissed off. Imagine harp music or the image in your head going all watery if that helps. We are now in the past. Before I've gone to The Doctor. Before I've met Olga. Before I agree to be a prostitute. This is the nature of journal keeping. I know where I am in my own narrative. You may not. Now you do. We are in the past.

After leaving the sushi bar, I sat in a coffee shop considering my options. As I slowly drank an Americano, I realized I had no friends left in London that I could readily impose upon. They'd all forsaken me. Like cockroaches they scattered when the light of dubious fame shone upon me. All except for Elon. My truest and most constant friend. My own uncle won't take my calls. But Elon took me in. What does this say about the nature of our relationship? Are we grievously codependent? Or is he just an exceptionally decent human being that would never toss out a friend in need? I honestly don't know.

By the time I reached the dregs at the bottom of my cup, I knew I had to go back to Elon's house. I really didn't have much choice. There was a need to make amends with Elon. Not because I felt that I was wrong. I wasn't. But all of my stuff was in my bedroom. I wasn't ready to eat a slice of humble pie, but I was willing to acknowledge that I'd been churlish and a bit rude if he would admit that I could so be a prostitute if I wanted to. I could. I'd be a great prostitute.

The walk from the Green Park tube station to Elon's St. James Place house takes about four minutes. When I arrive, he's home. I knew he would be. Sitting in the lounge in front of the telly on the overstuffed couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table and a beer in one hand. He's watching Jerry Springer. I fucking hate that loathsome Jerry Springer. Elon has it on just to piss me off. I'm sure of it. Rather than saying anything to me, he pulls out his wallet and counts out four hundred pounds, which he tosses on the coffee table. Elon never has cash on him. This was premeditated.

He looks up at me, takes a drink from the bottle, and then smiles.

Blow him.

No.

Because I can't. I lack the stones to blow him.

I do not lack the stones to blow him. I just don't want to.

That's what prostitutes do. It's a service industry. If I were a prostitute, I'd blow him whether I wanted to or not. Therefore, his argument is sound. I lack the stones to blow him.

I could so if I wanted to. I do not want to.

Prove to him that I can do it. I've never had a cock in my mouth in my life. Just because he's both blown and buggered me, doesn't mean I have the capacity to reciprocate. He puts his bare foot on the cash and pushes it towards me. Blow him.

I'm deeply and sincerely tempted to do it just to prove to him that I can.

He reaches inside his trouser pocket, pulls out a condom, and then tosses it on top of the cash. Just in case I was looking for an excuse not to perform on command. Because that's what rent boys do. They fuck and suck on command. As much as he admires my desire to prove my self-sufficiency, we both know that I am about as capable of doing something as gauche as sex for pay as I am of going and working as a fry-cook at KFC. In fact, for the four hundred pounds, could I please go and apply for a job at KFC? He needs a laugh. And while I'm at it, could I get him another beer?

My anger comes from so many corners that it can only be called rage.

I pull off my messenger bag and let it drop to the ground. I pick up the condom and fall to my knees. Elon glances away from the telly to me for a moment before he resumes watching two women, a mother and a daughter apparently, fighting over the same man.

As I undo his belt, I take note of the fact it is my belt. The very one I'd spent far too much time that morning searching for. My anger swells. Why does he have to get into my shit and take my stuff all of the fucking time? Why? He wears my shirts, my belts, even my socks, and never even asks or says thank you. As a rule, I really don't mind, but at that moment, as I unfasten my belt, unbutton his trousers, and pull down the zipper, I'm angry.

Elon doesn't wear underwear, so there is no getting past that to get to his cock. It's just there. Right in front of me. He's big, but I know I'm bigger. That's one win for me in our never-ending competition over everything. I don't look up at him, but I can hear him drink and swallow from his beer. Fine. Drinking beer is one thing. But does he really need to start channel surfing as I'm bolstering up my nerve? Is this what it's like for women? If I'm being totally honest, I've channel surfed and drank beer while being serviced. What a fucking annoying thing to do. Men really are assholes sometimes.

I don't have to look, to know Elon has decided on porn for his viewing pleasure. I have ears. I know what porn sounds like.

I take Elon's cock in my hand and hold it for a moment as I put the condom on. It's a lot easier than I thought it would be to put a condom on another man. A lot easier. That said I've practiced on myself enough times to have pretty well mastered the technique. Then I visualize how I like to be blown. Then I just dive in. I have a gag reflex that I didn't know about. Latex is fairly vile tasting, but even worse is the spermicide. It's foul. He did this on purpose. I know perfectly well he uses different condoms for different purposes. He has boxes of condoms that are specifically used for oral. But I persevere. I can so be a prostitute. I prove this when I open up my nostrils to breath and pull him into my mouth.

Elon tosses the remote to the side. I have his attention. His fingers thread through my hair as my head bobs. I'm getting somewhere rapidly with my combination of sucking and squeezing. The pace of Elon's breath punctuated by increasingly more frequent sighs and moans are good indicators that my technique is clearly satisfactory. I'm sure I'm nearly done. I can feel his cock become more rigid as it fills with blood. I know how a cock works. At least I know how mine works. There is always that rush of blood and increase in stiffness right before I climax.

Then he stops me. He pushes my head away and his cock falls out of my mouth. His hand holds my hair and pulls my head back. He kisses me like he has many times before. Lots of tongue mixed with the piquant feel of cheeks he didn't bother to shave that morning is more of a turn on than I've ever let him know. I do nothing to feed Elon's unquenchable belief that I secretly desire him above women.

His hands undo my belt and trousers. As I actually do wear underwear, both trousers and pants are pushed down as he pulls me onto the couch next to him. He fondles my cock as he continues to kiss me. I don't object when he nudges and turns me with his hands onto my stomach. My trousers and underwear are pulled down to my knees as he lies across my back.

I turn my head to the side and can't help but to see what is on the telly. Two men showering together. Of course Elon would turn on gay porn. He kisses my cheek, neck and jaw with an occasional nip to my ear as he strokes my cock and tells me how much he wants me.

I am fully aware without needing to be told how much Elon wants me. I'm not going to say that it's fully mutual the level of sexual desire we feel for each other, but I'm not objecting.

He slides down my body, pulling off my trousers, underwear, socks and shoes by the time he reaches the bottom. I'm certain, although I don't look, that he has completely disrobed.

His hands squeeze my calves, then thigh, and finally ass cheeks as he makes his way back up my body. Since my fall from grace, we've spent a lot of time together. I have a bedroom in his house, but the simple truth is the lines have been blurred since I returned to London from the country. There is comfort in knowing he hasn't abandoned me. I've abused and used his feelings for me to bolster my own sense of self-worth. I know how Elon feels about me. I don't know that he loves me, but he wants me. I've freely given in to that desire so I could feel less alone. He's taken advantage of my isolation to have my body. We were made for each other. What a couple of assholes. We really deserve each other.

Do I want him?

This is what he's paying for isn't it?

If that's the way that I want to be, fine.

His hand comes down hard on my ass. I jump more from the surprise than the pain. He smacks me a few more times. I'm starting to see why a little slapping around could be arousing. After each sting, he rubs gently for a moment before slapping me again. After five swats, he stops. His hands come down on my ass cheeks and rest for a moment. He's rougher with me than he's ever been as he squeezes presses together, and then pulls apart my ass cheeks. When he bites me I cry out. He pulls back for a moment and asks if he actually hurt me.

I very quickly tell him no. He didn't hurt me. He just surprised me.

Surprise is good.

He spreads open my ass cheeks wide as they will go. I wait for the touch of his finger, but instead feel the velvety swipe of his tongue across the rim of my anus. My body is filled with a sudden electrical charge that pulses directly to my cock.

Did I like that?

Yes. Yes I did.

There are so many things we can do that we haven't done. Things that don't involve having a woman in the room to both coddle me and distract and annoy him. He stops talking and resumes using his tongue.

I start rubbing my cock against the couch, certain I'm going to cum just by the touch of Elon's tongue. Then he stops. The tongue is replaced by the finger I'd initially expected. It presses and probes and opens me up. I spread my legs a little and relax. We've done this before. I'm not a virgin. When Elon enters me he does so slowly as he nips at my shoulder and holds my cock.

It takes a few strokes, moving carefully in and out, before he's fully resting inside of me. He stays like this for more than a moment. I love this. The pressure from being spread and opened is divine. His body presses mine into the couch as he lies on top of me. I could stay like this for a long time. The moment he begins to move, his phone rings. It's on the coffee table. Singing and dancing. He reaches for it. Looks at the display. Then, the bastard actually takes the call.

Just to be completely clear, we are naked, spread out on the couch, his dick is inserted in my anal cavity, and he takes a phone call. I think the reason I refuse to commit to being gay is simply because by being so, I would end up with a man. I'm not saying there aren't women that take calls during sex, but they're probably a rarer find than a man that would be willing to do the same.

So here I lay... On the couch. Watching gay porn. With a cock up my ass. As Elon has a conversation with Renata. For every fag there is a hag. Elon has Renata. Fucking Renata. All right... not fucking Renata. She's one of the few people still speaking to me. She finds my scandal delicious. Her father was a politician. Back in the 90's he was very publicly caught in drag with a Taiwanese lady-boy masseuse. Her father's subsequent suicide and her mother's alcoholism give her a curious take on life. She's a performance artist. Men in fishnet stockings and women wearing four strap harnesses with enormous dildos tend to feature prominently in her pieces.

Elon pauses talking to Renata to address me.

Do I want to meet Renata for martinis?

No. I do not want to meet Renata for martinis.

Elon returns to speaking with Renata.

What are we doing? We're fucking.

A pause allowing Renata to respond appropriately.

No really. We're fucking. We're on the couch. He has his cock up my ass.

The phone is pressed to my ear. Of course it is. I'm a part of the discussion whether I want to be or not. Renata's speech contains the same sort of polished clipped cadence filled with lengthened vowels as my own possesses. Perhaps I should try to get a job working for the BBC... There's a thought... Anyhow... we are children of privilege whom behave like a couple of reprobates. We are the cancer of our generation.

Are you and Elon really fucking?

Yes. Could you possibly call back later darling? We are a bit busy.

Of course. But first... Martinis? She's found an absolutely scrummy looking little dive. We must go.

Busy at the moment Renata. Will get back to you when I'm no longer being penetrated by Elon.

One more thing. Am I really going to be a gigolo? Because if yes, she has a fiver burning a hole in her pocket.

My hand snaps around to grab the phone.

Elon is faster. The phone is removed from my ear.

Elon resumes his conversation with Renata. Instead of martinis and anal sex, they start talking about a pair of shoes Renata found at Harvey Nichols. Does she really need kangaroo skin shoes? Isn't there just something really gross about the idea of wearing kangaroo? These are the trials and tribulations that make up Renata's day. To buy the kangaroo skin shoes, or to not buy the kangaroo skin shoes... that is the question that haunts her thoughts.

Elon is not completely oblivious to the fact I'm under him. There is movement down below. His mouth latches on to my shoulder or neck as Renata dominates the conversation. He touches my arm or shoulder with a finger.

Elon is woefully unaware of the sensibilities of others, but he is never purposefully cruel. Renata delights in demoralizing. Time and experience have made me cautious of her and her intentions. One year of my life was devoted to trying to make her love me. Two years after were spent in therapy. Finally my therapist told me exactly what I needed to hear; Renata is a bitch – Some people cannot be fixed simply because they do not want to be fixed – Some people really are purposefully cruel for the sake of being cruel – Stop trying to figure her out because you never will – If you really want to get even with her, don't let her screw with your head ever again – Being untouchable by her meanness would be the best revenge – Just let it go – Move on.

I've had enough. Renata is keeping Elon on the phone purposefully. She is toying with us. Me specifically. I open my legs into a wider stretch. When Elon is ever so slightly deeper inside of me, I begin to clench my muscles around him. I know how to get his attention.

Elon's voice quavers as he speaks to Renata. I begin to move under him, pressing into the couch, then up against him. Rapidly he finished the call then tosses the phone on the coffee table.

When he begins to move, he does so without pause or apology. He moves both hard and fast. A sigh followed by a throaty purr comes out of me. I do like the feel of being penetrated. Penetration feels good. Simple as that. Does that make me gay? I don't know. I don't think so. I think it makes me human. And male. I think gay is a whole other thing that really has nothing to do with wanting a dick up my ass. Elon claims he's always known he was gay. It's who he is. It's just not how I identify myself.

I don't think I'm gay. I don't think I'm particularly straight either. Bisexual is probably most accurate, but then again seems a bit inaccurate. Heteroflexible? Is there such a thing? I think I'm more straight than gay. I know for certain that I'd rather end up with a woman for the simple fact I both need and want a son. It's that or my cousin Harry gets all that I inherited from my father and my grandfather. Not that I mind Harry. He's alright. He's as much a slouching loafer as I am. It's that father of his I can't stand. Call me the end product of a thousand years of English breeders that actually think things like blood and family matter and I'll raise my hand guilty as charged. I want a wife and I want a son I can pass my name on to. As long as I am gifted with the choice, I'm going to make the one that will give me what I want long term. But in the short term, I am delighting in the feel of Elon's impressive, although comparatively smaller cock, as it pulses in and out of my rectum.

I watch the men on the telly as they fuck while I am being fucked. Elon is humping me closer and closer to his own climax. Me, I'm just relaxing into the feel of being serviced. He stops twitching and thrusting. He reaches under me and I turn just enough to give him access to my cock. His hand wraps around me and begins to stroke me vigorously. I'm closer than I realized to climaxing. A few tight tugs of his hand and spurts of cum are flying. I'm not displeased when an impressive wad of my jism lands on his phone.

Elon kisses the side of my mouth then my jaw before he resumes banging me. He comes not long after, and then just lies on my back, leaving his cock inside of me. He kisses me again. Unusual. As a rule, after we've both ejaculated, we very politely get sort of butch about the whole man on man sexual encounter. There's usually a discussion about cricket or rugby. Something sufficiently dude like to counterbalance the fact he just plowed me. This is for my benefit. Elon has no problem with the fact he likes cock.

There is no rugby chat. Not this time. This time, he kisses me. It's sweet. Soft. Maybe even romantic. He's penitent and charming. I've been vanquished once again. There is no need to take a victory lap. He's stretching himself and making an effort to woo me. The dynamic has shifted. We are no longer two friends that occasionally fuck. Something has changed in the weeks since my downfall and I could smell it on the air. This has happened before. We were much younger then. Hadn't quite yet established the fact that I really did like girls and wasn't just deluding myself.

I know I shouldn't have blown him. Fine, he's been on me fairly regularly since I moved in with him, but that is our normal. But me servicing him is a different animal. I know I shouldn't have pulled the lid off of that particular Pandora's Box. But I did. And I will have to suffer the consequences. Elon will be hurt. He won't tell me he's hurt, but he will be. Does Elon hurt more than others? I think he might. His bravado and nonchalance are telling. The simple truth is I can't love him the way he wants me to. I do love Elon. He's my best friend. I'm just not in love with him the way I should be in order to engage in the sort of relationship he deserves.

We lay together on the couch for a long time. He moves just enough to not squish me, but enough to stay inside of me. His hand strokes my arm, my shoulder, my thigh. He picks up the remote and turns off the porn and turns on some documentary on crusaders, sharks, Hitler, or Atlantis – I don't really remember what it was – just to please me.

He is sorry he was such a prick. The idea that I'd even consider selling my body just makes him angry. I should know better than anyone that he's not the best communicator when it comes to his emotions.

My phone chirps in my bag. He reaches over me and pulls it out. Automatic appointment reminder from The Doctor. Also, I'm out of credit. Do I know that I'm out of credit? It annoys him when I'm out of credit on my phone. Is that why I didn't respond to any of his texts? We'll stop to buy credit when we go to meet Renata for martinis.

I remind him I have no money.

He reminds me that I just earned four hundred pounds. My phone is placed on the coffee table not far from the pile of cash he offered me. He picks up his phone covered in my cum. He wipes it on his discarded shirt then checks his texts. Renata. He is to call when he's done fucking me.

He wants to shower. Do I want to shower with him? He's willing to not only pay for my drinks when we go to meet Renata, he'll give me an extra fifty quid to frot with him in the shower. If I'm really feeling frisky, I can fuck him when we get home. In fact, he'd actually like that. We'll check what the going rate for a night with an escort is in the taxi. He's going to shower. He slips his cock out of me as he kisses my neck. He's sorry about the fight, but I have to admit that I could never fuck for money. I'm just not that kind of person.

What kind of person would that be?

The kind that could fuck for money. He stands from the couch, picks up his shirt, wraps it around his cock, and pulls off the condom. He's still a bit hard. Then again, Elon is always a bit hard. Instead of taking the shirt with him and disposing of the condom, he just tosses the shirt to the side. His housekeeper, a lovely Polish woman that suffers Elon because the simple truth is he pays well and regular work is hard to find, will discover it when she's around in the morning. He truly is the most slovenly person I have ever met in my life.

I watch him walk out of the room. I wish I were gay so I could fall in love with Elon and be the person he deserves to have in his life. I'd be lucky to have someone as stealth-fully loving, kind, and generous in my life as Elon. Not to mention incredibly good looking. I've got to say, Elon is a solid ten out of ten regardless of the kind of day he's having. Even sick there is a sort of feverish gleam in his eyes that makes him look tragically beautiful. I know the real him. Not many people do. I want to fall in love with him. I want us to be a couple of annoying old fags that grow into our dotage together. But it's not there. I'm done lying to people about being in love with them especially for their money. Never again.

This is why I do what I do next. I get up. I get dressed. I go to my bedroom and pack as quickly as I can. Elon takes environmentally ruinous showers – thirty minutes minimum of scalding hot water is apparently what is absolutely required to get him clean. I don't know how our friendship survived backpacking for a year through Asia. I really don't. I know I have at least twenty minutes to get out the door. Probably more. The house has seven bedrooms, eight bathrooms, and two kitchens. It'll take him a while to figure out that I've bolted.

Renata has a theory that the only way to truly end a relationship is for it to end badly. This is the reason why every one of her exes requires a large quantity of therapy. I know – I'm one of them. I love Elon. He is my best friend. But he is in love with me and I know it. I cannot continue to pull him in only to push him back and hold him at arm’s length. I never should have blown him. I should have just told him to fuck off and that we needed to talk. But I did. And then when I should have said no I said yes. A line was crossed that shouldn't have been crossed.

The shower is still running as I pick up his phone. I send him a text with his own phone. A hand written note might be missed. He never misses a text. I don't want to think about what I wrote. I just don't. I want him to find someone that he can fall in love with and who will love him back. I don't deserve him. I'm a fucking mess and I can't keep on expecting him to pay for my phone credit and martinis. This is not what I write. Instead I get mean. I tell him that he could keep his fucking money. He could go and fuck himself. I never want to see him again. And he can just piss off.

I leave my phone, which he paid for, next to his on the pile of money I neatly stack. Next to the stack, I leave my house keys. From Elon's trousers, I take my belt and shove it in my bag. I'm out of the house and hopefully passing through the barrier at Green Park Tube Station before he notices I'm gone.

As I wait on the platform, I do a quick count of my cash. I have enough for the night and to get the train home to the country the following morning. At home in the country, I can figure out what to do next. I hadn't ruled out going to Japan, but I also knew Elon had a very good point; although I'd engaged in gay sex, I was neither the instigator, nor was I the aggressor. My role had always been passive. And he had always been present. Even that afternoon, I hadn't blown him to ejaculation. He'd stopped me before I finished him off. But, I did blow him. There is something to be said for that.

I travel through the sprawling intestines of the underground, until I reach Whitechapel. I check into the hotel I know because it's across the street from a cordwainer I used to come to for riding boots. Before becoming destitute, when I used to have things like horses and fun, I would go to the man often enough to have made note of the hotel. His workshop, which has been in the same location for a thousand years or so, is on the second floor of a building across from the hotel. It is the sort of place that one learns of because their father and their grandfather had their boots done by the man or his father or his father before him. Except for a small sign next to the bell, there is no proof the place exists. From inside The Cordwainer's shop, as I would sit or stand having my feet and legs measured, the glowing £20 neon sign in the window fascinated me. Who would pay to sleep in a hotel that the owners deemed was only worth £20 a night? It boggled my narrow little mind.

But there I was. Seeking accommodation in the hotel that had once enthralled me with its migraine inducing neon sign and promises of free tea and coffee. A new low. On the upside, if I ever did make it out of the purgatory my life had become, The Cordwainer was still open for business across the street. He had a pair of my boots and I wanted them back.

Behind the desk was a man of about forty, purposefully bald, tattooed, muscular, and clearly a force to be reckoned with. He spoke with a villainesque Russian accent and barked instructions to a woman in a babushka mournfully pushing a broom around the lobby filled with idling rovers.

After paying cash to a man for the room, and an additional £10 security deposit for a towel (please note the use of the singular) I was assured was clean, I was given two tokens for the shower and the key. I passed through the lobby, ignored the free tea and coffee station, stopped momentarily at an overstuffed bookshelf with a Take One Leave One sign, helped myself to a copy of Gone with the Wind – it was one of the few books in English – then went to my room which was located on the second floor directly across from an orgy in progress.

How do I know there was an orgy going on in the room across the hall from mine? The door was open. After I secured the door with a chair shoved under the handle, I began looking for any discarded hypodermic needles or used condoms stuffed under the mattress.

I confirmed that the shower really was coin operated. I had no idea such things existed before. Wiping the surfaces of my crummy hotel room with a moist towelette I found in the bottom of my messenger bag, did little to prove him wrong. I am priggish. I'm also arrogant, entitled, superior, and often smug. Truthfully, I am a pack of King Charles Spaniels and a hunting rifle away from becoming an eccentric country squire type with a fondness for tweed and Wellie boots. My darkest moment was as I killed a spider – I actually considered contacting my mother and asking her if she had any money I could borrow. Truly my darkest moment.

Hours later, after giving up on trying to make the television work, and coming to terms with the fact the room is freezing and I may never be warm again, there is a knock at my door. The interruption takes me away from lying on my bed and writing poisonous and vitriolic words in my diary about Elon, my former fiancée, Japanese businessmen, and my poverty. Two girls I'd noticed participating in the hijinks across the hallway, stand in the doorway. I look past them and into the room across the hall. The orgy continues.

There's a party across the way. Do I want to join?

No. I don't want to join.

There is some flirty talk on their side that I refuse to engage myself in. I'm sulking and it's going to take more than two pretty blond girls giving me come hither eyes to pull me away from wallowing in my own misery. I've finally had enough of the two of them and I get to the point.

If you want to fuck, then come in. Otherwise, leave me alone. I have no interest in a gang bang at the moment.

They converse amongst themselves as I stand at my open door letting what little heat I have in the room out into the hallway. Truthfully, I have no interest in sex at that moment. Elon worked me over pretty well and I just don't feel like it. I want to finish writing in my diary and start reading Gone With the Wind. Part of me, the one that is genuinely considering going to Japan as a sex worker, tells me to treat the women like paying customers. I'm not always going to want to have sex when I'm being paid to do it. So do it. Push myself. Consider it like practice. Or an internship. Unpaid work that I'm expected to do well in order to advance to a paying post. After about twenty seconds of going back and forth, I interrupt.

What I want to tell them: You bore me. I am bored with you. You have three seconds to decide whether or not you want to come inside. One... Two... Three....

In my dreams I shut the door leaving the two of them on the other side.

What I do tell them: Honestly, I'm just not feeling it. I got into a fight with my best friend. I just want to sit on my bed and feel sorry for myself.

Dutch (Danish?) Girl 1 – or G1 as I shall think of her – holds up a bottle of vodka I hadn't previously noticed.

Dutch (Danish?) Girl 2 – G2 – has a shot glass.

How do these things happen? How do we go from three people that are tossing back shots to me on my back with DG1 riding me and DG2 sitting on my face? How does this happen? I don't know. There is usually a fair amount of slap and tickle and then someone dares someone else to do something that's going to get the whole thing started. Sort of like a boring evening at a house party in the country. Everyone is just humming and blahblahblahing until someone chirps up and says let's all take off our clothes and fuck! Then everyone else say oh yes jolly good that sounds like loads of fun! And before you know it you've got your trousers off and two Danish (Dutch?) girls are abusing your body and you're just sort of present during the whole thing wishing they'd go away and let you read your book and bemoan your fate all by your lonesome.

I get in a very direct and obvious way, this spontaneous little ménage à trois really had nothing to do with me. It didn't. I was there as a ruse. I was the excuse G1 used to get G2 naked. Fair play to G1. If I'd been in the mood I might have been a bit more willing to make it easier for her. But I wasn't. So it became all about me. As it was the first time I was the pickle in the middle of that sort of sexual sandwich. What do I recall of my first sexual encounter with three? Elon and Renata set me up, I'm certain they did, and then they tried to make me think it was all my idea. Best part of all – Renata was my girlfriend at the time. Nice. If the two of them had been honest with me (Elon and Renata – not the Dutch (whatever?) girls) then I would have gone along willing. But that is just so them. Why be honest and straight forward when there is the possibility to complicate a situation?

Two hours later we're naked and wrapped around each other like a twisty pretzel. I'm drunk, sweaty, covered in girls, and out of condoms. They're falling asleep. I've reached the end of my hospitality. I don't knock them off of me, so much as I... well I actually kind of knock them off of me. But nicely. I'm very nice about kicking them out of my room. Nice and firm. I hand them their panties and their shorts. I have a thing in the morning. I need some sleep. Thanks for the booze. Sex was great. Bye. While the sex was superb as always, even afterward I still wasn’t into it. The vodka blurred the details, all I really remember is that each of us came multiple times and I really didn’t want anything more to do with G1 or G2.

CHAPTER FOUR

Where We Return to the Present, My Life Sucks, Elon is No Longer my Friend , Renata is Forever Doomed to be a Narcissistic Bitch, and I Actually have Taken a Job That Involved the Exchage of Sex for Cash

We are now returning to the moment I'm standing in front of the grim hotel I went to pout in after leaving Elon, his four hundred pounds, the phone he paid for, and his keys. At least I kept my dignity and a sense of pride. Cue the harp music and the watery mental images... We are now in the present. Olga is with the taxi. I am employed by The Matchmaker. The money from The Doctor is in my pocket.

I go into the hotel. The housekeeper, still wearing her babushka although her broom is parked off to the side, sits behind the counter, which is behind a Plexiglas barrier. I ring the bell even though I'm certain she noticed me. She looks up from her Puzzle Compendium and clicks her biro.

If it wouldn't be too much bother, would she be ever so gracious to let me into the left baggage room? I even give her a smile.

She tells me the manager/owner is out. Her English is as rough and menacing as the manager/owner. Come back in twenty. She looks back down at her Puzzle Compendium. She's in the middle of a logic problem. Tricky things those logic problems.

Why can't she let me into the stored luggage?

Security. Again she clicks the biro at me.

Security. There was an orgy going on in the room across from mine, and security is a concern.

The manager/owner won't let her have the key. Security issues. Come back in twenty minutes. She clicks the biro again.

I make my way back to the taxi. Olga is standing outside the car with a phone to her ear and a cigarette hanging off of her fingers. The giant sunglasses and the dress the color of gunmetal do nothing to enhance the anti-tobacco lobbyists’ campaign that smoking is somehow uncool. Olga makes it look very cool. I can't help but wonder how she ended up working for The Matchmaker. I'm also wondering if the mobile is permanently attached to her ear.

I take her cigarette from her and inhale deeply. I promise myself that someday I'll quit. Then I make myself a more concrete promise. I'll quit on my wedding day. Until then, I'm going to smoke, drink, fuck indiscriminately, and get paid for it. She lights up another and hands me the pack and a silver Dunhill lighter. Gauloises. Of course. No girly Silk Cut for Olga.

The finished cigarette gets flicked away. I want my boots back. I don't have the money. But I just want my boots back. I can't explain this feeling. I want my boots back. I want to ride horses and play polo. I just want my boots. They were getting polished. Fifty-pounds. I have seventy-five courtesy The Doctor. I'm going to get my boots. I want a piece of my life back.

Where is my bag?

Locked up for another twenty minutes.

Are we leaving? Please tell her we are leaving.

No. Not yet. I need to get my boots then go back. She can either come with me or stay with the taxi.

Boots?

Boots. Real boots. Riding boots. This is not a shopping detour. She can come with me.

She'll come with me. She pays for the taxi then makes a note of the amount in an agenda before tucking the receipt into an envelope.

We walk together to the unremarkable doorway and I press the bell. After confirming my identity through a speaker, a buzzer sounds and we are let into the building. Olga follows me up to the steps to the salon of The Cordwainer.

The Cordwainer remembers me. Of course he does. He's been making boots for my family for years. He is predictably obsequious. He calls me Lord Harkslon. Nobody calls me that. He does have my boots. It is not a problem at all that I haven't been around to fetch them.

Olga clears her throat.

Right. Miss.... I have no idea what Olga's last name is.

Lenin. Miss Lenin. She would very much like to have a pair of boots made.

The Cordwainer bows a little. Of course. Of course. He snaps his fingers. A chair is brought for madam. An assistant arrives with a large book. Madam's feet, her ankles, her calves, and her shins are measured. She stands on the book in her bare feet. One tracing is taken of each foot on two blank pages. Decisions are slowly and carefully made after much debate and discussion. Fortunately someone has the good sense to bring me a cup of tea. Soothing the savage male beast that accompanies madam on her shopping trip with tea and a small plate of biscuits equals a more agreeable shopping experience for madam. Which of course means madam will spend more of the savage male beast's money. I know how these things work.

Eventually, Olga decides on what she wants. A strap and buckle classic field boot in black.

An excellent choice. The Cordwainer fawns and gushes over Olga. Madam has exquisite taste. And, do forgive him for being so bold, a beautifully turned ankle, the arches of a dancer, toes that beg to be sucked. The Cordwainer fusses and compliments Olga often. I think I start grumbling and snorting to myself at some point. At least I have my cup of tea and plate of biscuits.

Madam practically shimmers with delight at every compliment. Someone likes being treated like a princess.

As I wait, cup of tea in hand, I look out the window as I've done so many times before. I like this view of the hotel. I'm detached from it. It's not a part of my life from my perch. It's just a curiosity that really doesn't overlap my world. For a moment I'm Lord Harkslon again. Bored. Fussy. Arrogant. Entitled. Polo playing, horse owning, boot wearing, Lord Harkslon. I even have a pretty girl with me just because at one o'clock on a Friday afternoon, I have nothing better to do with my time than to go to The Cordwainer, drink tea, and eat biscuits whilst my lady friend gets measured for a pair of boots.

When the moment arrives to pay the deposit for Olga's boots, I hate that I am poor. But there is nothing I can do about it. The Cordwainer looks to me for the money. Olga pulls out her wallet and hands over cash. She even pays for my boots in the process. I have the money. I could have paid for my boots myself. I earned that money that morning. But she pays and I don't object. I need the money I have in my pocket. I don't know when my next pay is coming.

She follows me into the hotel, stops, waves her hand in front of her nose, makes a face, and confirms that I did in fact shower.

The manager/owner has returned to his place behind the Plexiglas. As it is after noon, I will have to pay for another night’s stay.

I just want my bag back. It's in the left baggage.

It's after noon. I will have to pay for another night’s stay.

Just so I'm certain I understand I have to pay for another night in the hotel if I want my bag back.

Yes. I must be some kind of genius.

Then something happens. I don't know what precisely as I don't speak Russian, but Olga leans over the counter, says a few things to which he responds, flashes her boobs at the man, makes him laugh, gives me a smack on the ass, a peck on the cheek, tells me she's going outside to get a taxi, then walks out of the hotel.

The manager/owner is still laughing as he rises from his chair. He gestures for me to meet him at the entrance to the door where I had left my bag that morning.

He hands me my bag then offers me a bit of advice. The next time I get into a fight with my wife, be a man and just suck it up. Going to sulk in a shitty hotel where she won't think to look for me doesn't do anyone any good. Especially if I'm wrong and she's right. Clearly she's better than I deserve. Nice rack too.

I take my bag and the advice. I have to agree. Olga is better than I deserve. Any woman that willingly flashes her tits to save me £20 is worth her weight in platinum.

CHAPTER FIVE

The House

It's hard not to notice that Olga has a tendency to draw a crowd. She stands next to a taxi. Not far from where she is waiting for me, a group of young men trying very hard to look gangster in their shell suits and caps worn askew are watching her intently. By the way two of them are posturing and posing like a couple of alpha gorillas in the zoo, I don't doubt that one of them at some point soon will come over and try to pick her up. I have no doubt that Olga is used to unwanted attention, but I really don't want to become the object of some young rejects ire when she blows him off.

I take the phone from her, threaten to leave her in the middle of Whitechapel by herself in shoes that were clearly not meant to be walked in, then hand her the phone back. She gets into the taxi. She's still talking on her phone, but at least we're moving away from the young men that found her so interesting. I'm happy we seem to understand each other. Open communication is essential in establishing a good working relationship.

Eventually the phone goes back into her handbag.

Does she always spend so much time on the phone?

Yes. I'd better get used to it.

Is she certain we will be spending that much time together that her excessive phone usage might become a problem?

No. She laughs at me. I had better plan on being on the phone a lot. Do I have an agenda? A real agenda. Paper in a book. Not electronic. Phones and computers can get hacked. Don't I read the papers? She pauses and gives me a look that tells me she reads the papers. She knows exactly who I am.

I stare back.

I need to come up with a way of remembering my clients while not writing down their names.

I don't have an agenda. I'm not really an appointment person. I don't have a mobile phone.

How do I not have a mobile phone? Everyone has a mobile phone.

I left it at a friend’s house.

Get it back. We can go by the friend’s house and pick it up.

Dear god no. I laugh. The thought of Olga and Elon meeting both horrifies and intrigues me. I explain to her that we not talking. I haven't gotten around to replacing it. Besides, the only people that are calling are intrepid reporters and bill collectors.

I know who you are. Olga smiles at me. I'm a very bad boy. I am that guy. The one that had the affair with the married Swedish princess, and then followed up by running off with the Saudi princess right before she got married. She reads all of the tabloid magazines. It's her dream to be on the cover of Hello!.

Perhaps she should aim higher.

I can fuck off. Am I really an earl? The Matchmaker told her I was an earl. But she already knew that. She reads Grazia like the Pope reads the Bible.

Yes. I really am an earl.

Would I marry her for her money?

In a second. Send along tax returns for the previous five years along with a letter from the bank and we'll talk.

She looks at me as if she's contemplating purchasing a twenty-eight year old earl and all of his baggage. Ultimately I'm rejected. I can see the thumbs down in her eyes.

No. I don't think so. I'd rather marry for love.

So would I darling. So would I. Unfortunately I don't have that luxury.

People should marry for love.

I'm not arguing with her.

She's only going to marry someone that loves her and not her money.

Absolutely. By the way... I thought the matchmaker was discreet. How does she know about my search for a bride?

The Matchmaker told her. She is also very discreet. She knows a lot of wealthy Russian girls. She has four sisters. They know a lot of wealthy Russian girls.

Does she? This is curious. I do like Russian girls. Especially of the post-Soviet nouveau riche variety.

She does. Do I like Russian girls?

I do happen to like Russian girls.

Do I know any royals?

Yes.

Other than the married Swedish princess and the Saudi princess that is now engaged to a Qatari prince? English royals?

Yes.

Did I know the married Swedish princess is pregnant and expecting her first baby? It was in the tabloids.

Yes.

Am I the father of the married Swedish princess' baby?

No. (note: I actually don't know if I'm the father – I truly wish a bus would hit me sometimes).

Will I introduce her to some royals?

No.

Why not?

It's been a big year for me. The invitations aren't exactly piling up.

I'm old news. People have moved on. Did I see the pictures of Prince Albert holding his dick?

I laugh loudly. The sound of it startles me.

Or Bess's boobs? Hilarious. If she were Bess, she'd only take her clothes off in the bathroom with the doors locked. Honestly – Bess really should know better. If she were married to Prince James she'd be a little smarter, but just as charming. She adores Bess.

I don't recall the last time I laughed spontaneously. For sure it's been months.

Olga hugs me. Am I better now? She's sorry she made me grumpy. If I promise to introduce her to some royals, then she won't bring up the fact my life is fodder for the press.

I promise her that if I ever get invited anywhere ever again, that she will be my date. It would be my pleasure to have someone as lovely as her on my arm. I also appreciate her flashing the man at the hotel and saving me the cost of another night in order to get my bag back. I also know that I'm never going to receive an invitation to go anywhere ever again, so there is no risk I'll show up at a function with a Russian prostitute on my arm.

That was nothing. Russian men are easy. She kisses me on the cheek then smudges away the lipstick imprint. Hopefully she'll get to buy a hat. She would love to have a reason to buy a really fantastic hat. Not one of those fascinators. Did I know they were banned from the Royal Enclosure at Ascot?

I actually do know this. My former fiancée nearly shat a kitten when the word came down those idiotic things that looked as if they were stapled to the side of a woman's head were banned from the Royal Enclosure at Ascot. Nothing could have pleased me more.

She starts talking about hats, parties, royals, dresses, and a bunch of other blah blah blah.

The car pulls to a stop in front of a white, semi-detached house with off-street parking and an elegant entrance. Home is better than I could have imagined. We're on Elgin Crescent. Just around the corner from Portobello Road. This is home. Finally I have the swanky London address I've always dreamed of.

I wait as Olga pays the driver, takes the receipt, and makes a note in her book. She stands next to me as if she wants to tell me something, then goes to the door. In my heart I want an old butler not unlike Hobbs who was my grandfather's gentleman's gentleman to open the door. Hobbs would be in his glory. A fashionable London address at last at last. Just like the good old days. There is no butler. There is no prim middle-aged house matron. Some firm yet soft woman with a prow of a bosom that keeps the unusual sorority of girls living under her charge in good order and, above all, acting like ladies. No such luck. The only inhabitants of the house are five women all in their early twenties living together with no clearly established house rules.

Olga leads me into a house littered with clothing, newspapers, magazines, discarded paper coffee cups with a rainbow of lipstick stains on the plastic lids, and shoes. Everywhere I look there are shoes. The sound of raised voices floats down from upstairs. I'm completely nonplussed by the state of the house.

I look at Olga in dismay. Maid’s day off?

She laughs. There is no maid.

No shit. Why?

They keep quitting. It's not her fault. She's not the problem.

I find that singularly hard to believe. It's like I've walked into a birdcage. Five pretty birds live in the cage. And they keep dropping their shit everywhere. My only hope is that I don't have to share a bathroom with them.

My contemplation of the disorder around me is broken by the sound of women suddenly shrieking and furniture being overturned. I know what a bar fight sounds like. Whatever is happening upstairs probably needs a bouncer or two to break it up.

Olga charges up the steps. I follow. No time like the present to meet my new roommates. Or break up a fight. Or both. I figure with Olga in front of me as my human shield, I don't have anything to worry about. She has those freakishly strong thighs. If she had to, I imagine she could strangle someone between them. Who needs pepper spray when you have the Thighs of Death?

The stairs open onto a mezzanine, which looks out over a formal dining room. Perfect for a string quartet to play during a party. But at that moment, two women, one blond one brunette, wrestle in their panties (note: just panties – no bras) over what appears to be a dress. As I watch these two, undeniably beautiful women, act out the opening moments of what could be excellent low quality porn, I wonder for the first time if living with a bunch of women might be a bad idea. In my heart I am a heterosexual man. I'm willing to go gay for the fun and the money, but I am not immune to the effect of two practically naked women rolling around in the ground in their underwear.

I stand over the two and start telling them in my firm yet completely ignored do as I say tone, to stop it and stop it now. It's as if I'm not there as the brunette grabs the blond and starts spanking her. I have a moment of regret that I'm not speaking with Elon. He would appreciate the humor of my situation.

Olga is no help. She continues up the stairs past the two women as if they are not pulling hair and slapping asses.

The blonde wriggles free of the brunette then grabs her by the hair. The brunette tosses the dress out of the reach of the blonde. They seem fairly evenly matched. So I do what any man in my situation would do. I grab the dress and hold it over the two.

It takes a moment for them to realize I've joined the fray. Yelling at them to stop their childish behavior immediately and act like a couple of adults, gives them a common enemy. The enemy of my enemy is my friend and blah blah blah.

They're on hands and knees as they inch towards me. Two pretty faces look up at me with heat in their eyes and four perky breasts swaying beneath them. I almost let them get me. They could make me their prisoner. Use my body. Punish me by making me service them. Repeatedly. Why for the love of God did I agree to live with five women? I must be out of my mind.

The brunette tells me to give her the dress. The blonde tells me to give her the dress. They growl at me like a couple of minions of satin. I've known fear before, but not like I do when I'm being stared down by two angry hookers fighting over a dress I'm holding. Olga's lighter is snagged from my pocket. I give it a couple of flicks. The flame shoots up.

Back off or the dress gets it. I'm not messing around. I will turn their Issa London dress into a burning ball of silk. I'm not afraid of them. I'm not. They're just a pair of very thin girls with perfectly formed bare breasts looking on me like a virgin at a Mayan banquet.

They edge towards me like a couple of feral cats. I will go to my grave swearing the blonde snarled and the brunette licked her chops. I show no fear, but I'm certain they can smell it on me.

I edge backwards fully away that I'm nearing the steps. I consider throwing the dress and running for my life.

Olga arrives at that moment and tosses a full bucket of water on the two. I take back thinking that she'd abandoned me. This is clearly a situation she has some familiarity in dealing with. The bucket of water is genius. And shockingly cold based on the way their nipples ruched up. I wonder if she didn't throw some ice into it before coming back to the fight. Olga snatches the dress, holds up a pair of nail scissors she brought with her along with the bucket, makes a snip in the hem of the dress, and then tears it in two with her bare hands. Each of the women get a half.

Olga takes no prisoners. I'm both impressed and terrified. Just as the women are as they hold their bit of rag. Somewhere in Russia, a Mafioso is missing his favorite enforcer. Olga yells at the two for a minute. They are a pair of stupid girls who have no control or sense of propriety. I think she calls them a pair of dirty whores, but I could just be remembering wrong. Regardless, it worked. The blond looks like she's going to cry. The brunette looks like she's already plotting her revenge. I think if I'm going to pretend to be James Bond, then Olga gets to be my Soviet era dominatrix. All she needs are a pair of hip boots and a gray uniform that shows off her boobs. She already has the accent.

Olga introduces me to two dripping women. I am the new boy. Elizabeth is the blonde. She is a sweet English rose. Despite the fact she's dripping wet, in her panties, and her breasts are bare, she offers her hand. How charming she is. Talitha is the brunette. She's from Brazil and shows a worrying intense and immediate distaste for me. She does not offer me her hand. She wants to know if I I'm taking over Harold's clients. Am I moving into Harold's room? Harold is going to be pissed off when he finds out someone is stealing his clients. Just because he's working in porn doesn't mean he isn't planning on seeing his regulars while he establishes himself.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

Olga answers Talitha for me. Harold is gone and good riddance. There will not be another incident like the one when Harold moved in.

Talitha directly challenges Olga. Harold was her man. If it weren't for Olga, Harold would still be around. Olga is not the boss of her.

Elizabeth and I look at each other. I think we would huddle together in fear if we weren't too afraid of Olga to move.

Olga tells Talitha that her days are numbered if she doesn't let the Harold thing go. This seems to work. Talitha stands up from the floor then stomps up the steps. I give Elizabeth a hand up from the ground. I very nearly offer to get her a towel when Olga tells me to follow her, and Elizabeth to get some clothes on. I do as I'm told. I cannot stress enough how scary she is. Like a storm. Beautiful and scary. We keep climbing stairs. I get Harold's old room. Third floor. Private bathroom. Balcony beyond French doors. Windows on two walls. Fireplace. Big closet. This is the master bedroom. It has to be. Why am I getting it?

Why else? The girls fight over it. So no one gets it. Except, of course, when there is a boy in the house. Then he can have it. It used to be Harold's room. Before him, Mwaka. Before him, Cillian. Before that there was no house. She hands me the key she took from the door. My room. No overnight guests. No clients. There may or may not be sheets in the closet. She hasn't really looked through the place since Harold left. I'm sort of on my own. There's a washer/dryer in the laundry room, which is off the kitchen. She's certain Harold left a lot of his stuff behind. Do whatever I want with it.

Who is Harold again?

The cock I'm replacing. He left very suddenly. Good thing The Matchmaker found me as quickly as she did.

Right. Clearly I'm not the only one that was a bit desperate. Do we all pay her twenty-five-percent?

Yes. Build up a reputation and a clientele and The Matchmaker can charge more for our services.

How much does she make an hour?

Now I'm the one with no manners.

Was Harold the Kenyan?

No. That was Mwaka. Harold is American. He's gone back to Los Angeles. He'd rather be doing porn anyhow.

What about her? Does she have porn aspirations?

No. Not even in the slightest. There's something she likes about being a courtesan. Her word. Courtesan. Porn is too crass. There is no seduction. There is no art. It's just fuck fuck fuck. Bad dialog. Fuck fuck fuck.

I sort of have to agree with her. My reasons for never considering doing porn aren't quite as pure, but I'd never do it. There's already one sex tape of me making the rounds on the internet. That's enough.

She has stuff to do. Make myself at home. We're going out in an hour. I need an agenda and a phone. I also need my kit. I'll probably be alone in the house for the night. It's Friday after all. Everyone has clients. Except her. Harold getting the boot has affected her negatively. She had to give up a very good client because of him. If I do something that causes her to lose a client, she will be unhappy. Do I want her to be unhappy?

No. Never.

If I want her, she's directly below me.

I lock the door behind her, then wander around my new room and find it would be more appropriately called my rooms. There is a decent sized alcove with a view over the communal garden that contains a comfortable couch with a lamp for reading. And a flat screen TV. Best of all - there are no women’s garments strewn on every surface. The term man-cave has taken on meaning for me.

There's another TV in the bathroom. Harold had it all figured out. A thought occurs to me. A tingling and almost unbearably tantalizing thought. Perhaps too much to hope for, but still. Without hope, what does one have? My eyes scan the bathroom. The shower beckons to me. I don't feel dirty... actually I feel dirty. That's precisely how I feel. Dirty. The coin operated shower in the hotel ran tepid and I've had sexual encounters with no less than five people in the previous twenty-four hours. I'm no bashful maiden, but even for me, that's a lot. My abs are starting to hurt. I'm going to have to think about my workout. I'm going to have to think about a lot of things.

I wander around the bathroom and open doors and drawers. Harold has left behind a pharmacopeia of potions. Every conceivable lotion, oil, balm, salve, gel, mouse, and foam I could possibly imagine and then a few more, are in the cupboards and drawers. There is body spray, roll on, stick and gel deodorant. Not just one of each either. I'm not even going to go into the selection of aftershave lotion, aftershave balm, just plain aftershave, and cologne. I cannot help but to wonder if Harold had body odor issues. One drawer is devoted to oral hygiene. I cannot imagine the man that would buy toothbrushes in bulk, but clearly Harold found a need. I find towels, and sheets. A large, thick, white terry robe is hanging on a hook. I drop my clothes and I slip it on. There is also a note. Touch my towels and I will find out! Harold. Thanks for the tip, Harold. I'll keep the door locked.

I find a stacked washer and dryer and a supply of detergent. I get my bag and my dirty laundry. I sort my things and start a load. The washer and dryer have given me hope. I continue my search for the ultimate man-cave appliance. I find what I'm looking for in a cabinet near the alcove. A microwave and a refrigerator – neither big nor small. It's filled with icy cold bottles of Heineken, a lot of M&S ready meals that have yet to expire, yogurt, and juice. There are no fewer than eleven types of juice. Harold, it would appear, lived off ready meals, yogurt, and juice. And beer. Lots of beer. God bless you Harold. I never have to leave my room again.

I take a beer and go into the bathroom. It takes me a minute to figure out how to turn on the shower. This is no ordinary shower. This is a shower that could be used in case of radioactive contamination. There are jets, nozzles, hoses, and sprays coming from ten directions. Elon, with his personal hygiene issues bordering on the neurotic, would appreciate this shower.

Harold left behind four kinds of shampoo, a variety of conditioners, body scrubs, shower gels, loofahs, oils, and facial masks. Am I glimpsing at the man I will become? One that actually gives a shit about exfoliating and moisturizing? Up to this moment in my life, I've pretty well fallen back on what was melded together when dad's sperm hit mum's egg. The unholy alliance of my parents consummating their carnal desires produced me. I'm pretty lucky. As fucked up as they were, my parents did make a pretty baby.

Olga walks into the bathroom with her phone in hand and her purse slung over her wrist.

I'm certain I locked the door. In fact, I know I locked the door.

Why am I in the shower? She told me we were going out.

I locked the door. I know I locked the door.

Like a lock is going to stop her. I need to hurry up.

Could I have some privacy please?

Because I have something she hasn't seen? We need to talk about the job. There are things that need to be bought. I need to be schooled.

She leans against the sink. She's not going anywhere. She fusses with her phone as she chats at me. She's called for a taxi. I need to move my ass if we're going to make it to the movies that evening.

We're going to the movies?

Yes. She doesn't have a client and she doesn't like going to the movies alone.

What if I don't want to go to the movies?

Because I've got something better to do? She's paying. No snacks or fizzy drinks. I have to work on my abs.

There is nothing wrong with my abs.

Am I so sure about that? Do I want to go to the movies or not?

Fine. I'll go. And there is nothing wrong with my abs.

Sure there isn't. My abs are great. Then she snickers a little. Then she lifts up her phone and takes a picture of me in the shower.

I've had enough of Olga for the moment. I turn off the water and get out. She hands me a towel.

Erase the picture.

No. She shows me the picture. She points to my abs.

Fuck me she's right. I'm not tubby, but I'm not exactly cut.

She'll help me. I spend too much time on my vanity muscles and not on my core. She'll have me sorted out in a week or two. She looks from the picture to my gut again. Maybe three or four. Then she gives me a wink and a peck on the cheek. I'm really very handsome, don't I know?

Not always.

She kisses me on the mouth. Her hand rests on my cheek. I was awfully sweet earlier. Pity The Matchmaker was in the room. We don't have to go to a movie. We could just watch something together later on. No one else will be in the house. She kisses me again.

Every bit of me responds. I'm starting to amaze even myself. I had no idea I had so much going power. I am a machine. I can see the slippery slope I'm about to slide down as I approach it. I'm certain that Olga may have some amount of fondness for me, but I think her grabbing my towel and ripping it off of me has more to do with the other women in the house than it does her overwhelming desire for me. Here's the problem. I'm a healthy 28 year old man with an exceptionally vibrant libido. A woman as pretty as Olga not only offering to blow me, but just dropping to her knees and doing it... Only a crazy man would find a reason to object to her drawing my cock deep into her throat and using that swirling tongue like a whip.

I lean against the vanity and grab on to the edge as she services me. The logical part of my brain knows that she might as well lift her leg and take a piss on me. This is no ordinary blow. This is Olga marking her territory. I'm hers. I'm fucked. I cum into her mouth with a shudder and a groan.

She rises, rinses her mouth, and pats me on the cheek. Get dressed. She'll meet me downstairs.

CHAPTER SIX

Talitha is a Skanky Bitch

I dry my hair and my body then hang the towel. Talitha the Brazilian is laying prone on my bed in her panties with her chin propped on her wrist. She's flipping through a magazine as if it's the most normal thing in the world to be on my bed in her panties and a camisole.

Talitha looks up at me. Then she looks down. I'm no genius, but I don't need to be to figure out she's come to check me out. I half expect her to pull out a magnifying glass so she can stare at my dick. If I would have known she was in the bedroom, I wouldn't have left my towel in the bathroom.

She sits on the bed flipping through her magazine while I finish getting ready. The questions aren't subtle. Are Olga and I having sex off the clock?

Why does she want to know?

Just curious.

None of her business.

So I am having sex with Olga off the clock.

I didn't say that. I said it was none of her business.

My cock is covered in the same shade of shimmery rose lipstick Olga wears.

For fucks sake. I look down. She's right. I quickly pull on the last clean pair of underwear I have after cleaning myself off with some tissues. I'm not modest, but I would like to keep some boundaries firmly in place. I would also not like to have problems with Talitha. She's a mean girl. I know one when I see one. If I put Talitha and Renata in a cage together I could be certain only one would emerge victorious. I'm not sure which one I would put my money on.

Do I want to have sex with her?

No.

Why not? Clearly I have no problem with Olga being on my dick.

I don't want any complications. I need the work. I need the place to live. I plan on treating each of them like professionals. The last thing I need is for there to be blurring of the lines. So, thanks for the offer, but I'm going to decline.

We will work together. Might not hurt to get to know each other in advance.

I'll think about it.

Talitha rolls over on to her knees so she can watch me. I take a shirt from the closet and slip it over my shoulders.

Do I plan on helping myself to Harold's things? And she doesn't just mean Olga. Did I know they had a thing?

Yes. No. Just the shirt. I'm just borrowing the shirt. At least until I can get home and pick up my own things.

Harold isn't going to like that. Any of it.

He probably shouldn't have left all of his stuff behind if it mattered so much to him.

I should be careful with Olga.

She's going to have to be more specific. I can see many ways in which I need to tread lightly around Olga.

Olga seems to like me. She did the same thing with Harold. Attached herself to him. Drove him crazy. Finally he left. It was the only way to get away from her. She did the same thing to Mwaka. So I should tell her now to piss off otherwise I'm never going to get rid of her.

Talitha smiles at me, but there's a touch of menace on her lips. She wants me to give Olga a shove.

I'm good. I appreciate her concern, but it's really not necessary.

The bedroom door opens, and a woman that can only be described as perfectly beautiful enters. She is without flaw. A perfect China doll. Her eyes are puddles of black ink, her skin is paper white, and her lips are pink rose petals. Truthfully, I'm not really into Asian chicks, but she's stunning.

When she steps up to me I realize I've stopped breathing.

She is Mi Young. She bows slightly and lowers her eyes. How she does this without the gesture seeming contrived or affected is marvelous to me. I want to take her hand and kiss it. I want to build a golden cage and place her in it. I am in love with Mi Young.

Mi Young, in her striking red Chinese dress with her hair pulled into a crisp roll at the nape of her neck, looks beautiful and I tell her this. Her reaction is genuinely flattered. Talitha snorts a little as she rolls off the bed and leaves.

Mi Young smiles just a whisper then takes over buttoning my shirt. I let her. She can dress me. Undress me. If she'd propositioned me as she sat on my bed in her panties reading a magazine, I wouldn't have hesitated. But Mi Young would never do anything so vulgar.

Do Talitha and Olga get along?

Not even a little, Mi Young laughs. They came to blows over Mwaka. She won't even touch what happened with Harold. She is in my room for a reason. She sets out my shoes so I can step into them.

To rescue me from Talitha?

To tell me that she will be giving me lessons on Japan.

Japanese?

No. Japan. There are things I need to know about Japan before I go. She has a client that afternoon and another that evening, but we'll make time. Would I like a word of advice?

Sure.

Olga is lovely. Talitha is a mean girl. Olga and Mwaka genuinely cared for each other. Talitha was jealous. Harold wasn't a strong man. He wanted both of them. Olga wouldn't have it. She is a strong woman. Am I a strong man?

I'm learning.

Olga walks in wearing jeans. She should always wear jeans. What are we talking about?

Japan, Mi Young says.

Not Talitha? Because Talitha is a skanky bitch who is really lucky Olga hasn't gotten around to kicking her ass

Not Talitha.

Olga tidies a bit of Mi Young's hair. She's called for a taxi and there's another one already out front. That would be for Mi Young. We leave together after I make absolutely certain the room is locked tight and the keys are in my pocket. Mi Young goes in her taxi and we go in ours.

The car pulls into traffic.

What was Talitha doing in my room?

Checking me out.

Talitha is a skanky bitch who should be really lucky she hasn't had her ass whipped once and for all.

Olga is looking a little bit scary. I make it very clear that I'm not getting in the middle of their cat fight.

She's not asking me to. She's just letting me know that Talitha is a skanky bitch.

I wait silently. I didn't emerge from a cave. I know what women are like. Olga is far from done.

Did she come on to me?

Drop it.

Did she come on to me?

Yes. And?

And what?

Am I going to fuck her?

Probably yes. That's the job isn't it?

The taxi driver turns down the radio. We are far more interesting than The Archers.

Am I going to fuck her when it's not work?

No. I am not going to fuck Talitha or any of the other girls in the house when it's not work. I swear, as god as my witness, that I will not engage in any extracurricular activities with the girls in the house. What I do not add, mostly because I'm far too afraid of Olga to say anything that could offend her, is that I have no interest in getting involved with a woman that is, for all intents and purposes, a whore. Not now. Not ever. I have enough in my life that could come back to bite me in the ass. I'm not going to have the future mother of my children be a former prostitute. End of statement.

What about her? Or does her blowing me in the bathroom mean nothing to me?

One thought runs through my head. Shoot me now. Please God, shoot me now. The temptation to tell the taxi driver to stop so I can run back to Elon nearly overcomes me. Only a crazy man would live with five women.

Does she want me to fuck her off the clock? Because that was the impression I was getting.

Maybe. She's still trying to make up her mind whether or not it's worth it.

Thanks. Please do let me know when a decision has been made.

She was just wondering if I wanted to or not. I don't need to get snippy. Do I or don't I?

My desire for her is bursting forth! I can hardly contain my ardor. Every minute that I cannot have the pleasure of her in my bed will be an eternity in hell. Happy?

Olga pauses for a moment as she thinks about this. She looks at me over her sunglasses. I annoy her. This is the look I'm getting. That, you are an irritation that is creating a nuisance in my life, look that women seem to be gifted the moment their first period arrives. Then comes the sigh. I am her cross to bear. Why has The Matchmaker saddled her with such a burden? Anyhow... She needs to take me shopping.

I tell her I have no money.

She tells me I can pay her back.

I tell her I can't with any certainty any time in the near future.

She tells me to shut the fuck up and stop annoying her. She starts fussing with her phone again.

I take her phone and threaten to throw it out the taxi window.

She threatens to scream.

I threaten to scream louder.

She starts screaming at me in Russian.

I understand how people end up on the telly being dragged off by the police for pummeling each other. How is it possible we seem to have so much sexual chemistry, but can barely keep from strangling each other?

The taxi driver threatens to pull over and toss both of us and the mobile out the window.

We come to an accord.

She will loan me the money for the phone and the agenda.

I will pay her back when we get paid for the Japan trip.

She will stop talking on her mobile when we are in confined spaces.

I will stop taking her phone from her by force.

We are allowed to stay in the taxi.

Peace reigns supreme.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Essentials Kit

We are left on Regent Street where the two main tools of my new trade are purchased. Two of the three main tools of my trade. The phone and the agenda. Do I really need to write what the third one is? I thought not. Olga's made an appointment for me at The Stylist. He's not far. We can walk. How she walks in her shoes is beyond my understanding. But then I don't get how people on stilts manage to do it either. I'd probably fall on my arse and break my fecking neck if I ever tried to walk on either stilts or stilettos. Part of me admires her ability to walk in her shoes. God knows I couldn't do it.

During the walk I'm given a brief primer on how to use my agenda.

I know how to use an agenda.

No I don't.

Yes I do.

No I don't.

Yes I do.

She stares at me over her sunglasses and mouths a giant NO I DON'T.

Fine. She wins. If she wants to show me how to keep an agenda, so be it. I will let her set up my new smartphone. I can't say I don't appreciate her fronting me the cash. As I see it, she did toss me a freebee in the bathroom, so I sort of owed her already. I will pay her back and make it up to her.

Our next stop is Boots. At Boots we take a basket and fill it with what she calls the basics for my kit. Condoms go into the basket first. Lube goes into the basket next. Flavored and silicon based. Do I know which I use for which hole? She's smiling and making jokes.

I'm sure I can figure it out.

Word to the wise. Always make sure I put the condom on the client when I'm bottoming. Men can be pricks sometimes. Especially powerful men. Be prepared for them to lie to me. She reminds me that I always have the power to walk away if I'm unhappy with a situation. The clients know the rules. The Matchmaker runs a tight ship. Think of her as the flight attendant on our little sexual voyage. Our safety is always her first concern.

The client in Japan. Was this why he was dropped?

Yes. This is why The Samurai was dropped. He's a small man and Harold nearly beat the piss out of him. Instead of pounding The Samurai, Harold called The Matchmaker. She told every one of the other madams that work on her level what happened. The Samurai was dropped from each of their client lists. The madams can be competitive, but their reputations are dependent on their stable of workers. Taking a stand against an abusive client shows that the escorts are of primary importance. Treat an escort poorly, then there is always another madam that will take on a proven worker with an established client list.

She keeps filling the basket at Boots. On top of the condoms and lube, she tosses in body lotion, tweezers, nail clippers, razors, shaving gel, toothbrush, mouthwash, and tampons.

What the hell do I need tampons for?

Those are for her. A small warning. All of the women in the house are on the same cycle. Be prepared for tomorrow to be rough. There's almost a sadistic gleam in her eyes.

I swallow hard. I need to go home for a couple of days to get my things. Probably best to do that when they're all menstruating. Our final stop is WH Smith. Along with the bags from Boots, she begins loading books into my arms. When pretty much every book on sex and sexual technique is added to the stack, a few health and fitness books followed by two on how to mix cocktails top the pile.

I'm finding it a little insulting that a woman I clearly had no problem pleasuring just a couple of hours earlier seems to think I need the Man’s Guide to How to Give a Woman the Best Orgasm She'll Ever Have in hardback. This sparks a debate about my performance. The sort of conversation that I'm sure the woman ringing up our selection of books either found shocking or extremely amusing.

My humiliation is complete when Olga asks the cashier if a man can really ever be too good a lover.

The cashier agrees with Olga as she gives me a wink.

I hate both of them.

The cashier stares at me. Say... doesn't she know me from somewhere...? There's something awfully familiar about me...?

I put my sunglasses on and tell Olga to take the books.

She accuses me of not being a gentleman.

I'm not her pack mule. It's the books or the bag from Boots. She takes the Boots bag I take the books.

As we walk down the street, Her phone rings and she has to take it. It's The Matchmaker. She looks at me.

Do I want to take a job that evening? Two hours. Outcall.

I have no idea what that means. What is an outcall? With who? What do they want?

Outcall – we go to the client. Who, is confidential. One of The Matchmaker's most discrete clients. What, is a standard three-way. Male/Male/Female.

I'm not ready to take a job alone. I tell her this.

It's not alone. She'll be with me. She's the female. This is important to her. This is the client she thought she'd lost because of Harold.

Fine. Let's do it.

She speaks with The Matchmaker in Russian as she juggles her phone and her handbag until her hands are free. Talitha is mentioned several times. I need to learn Russian. Her hands start roaming over my chest and waist. The tags on my clothes are examined. What size do I wear in a suit and shirt? She could have just asked me. No need to feel me up in the middle of the street. Am I really complaining? No.

The two women continue their conversation that is no doubt about me and my inseam based on the position of Olga's hands. A pair of older women pass us. I give them a smile. They move on. Young people. Who gets them? Olga rises and walks around me. Her hands rest on my shoulders for a moment, then slide down my back. Hands encircling my waist are nearly a bit too much.

Olga seems satisfied. She pulls her agenda from her bag and clicks open a pen. She scribbles down the details. The call is finished and the phone is deposited into her bag. Harold and I are about the same size. I will wear what she tells me to wear. Agreed?

Whatever. It's not the first time I've had a woman telling me what to do and how to dress. I only have one question. How much?

£2800 after The Matchmaker gets her cut. We split it £2100 / £700. I get the £700.

How does that work in her mind?

She's worth more an hour than I am.

Fine. But, I only owe her £500.

She corrects me. £600.

How does she figure that?

Interest.

Unbelievable.

I ask her if she has connections to the Russian mafia.

She does.

I actually believe her. Somewhere in that mobile phone of hers is a number for a knuckle dragging knee buster named Boris that would probably be happy to crack a few heads for Olga. She can have her interest. £700 for two hours of work is more than I imagined I could ever make. It's very possible that even if The Matchmaker doesn't find me a wife that I might be able to build up my savings again to a level that I can manage to draw a small but livable income from the interest.

When that day comes, I may just lock myself up in my home in the country never to emerge again. Except to garden and ride my horse. Maybe shoot a few unsuspecting pheasant on occasion. Fishing. That I could do a lot of. The idea of becoming an eccentric old earl surrounded by my pack of spaniels, constantly carrying around a shotgun whilst wearing an ascot and Wellies has more appeal than I care to admit.

I'm not averse to wearing tweed or Barbour. I love my country home. That I could have ever considered using it as a means to an end, other than a family home, makes me angry with myself. But never mind. I've learned my lesson. In time I will become the country-squire-gentleman-farmer of my dreams. A sigh escapes me as my new fantasy life coalesces in my thoughts. Dogs. Horses. Hunting. Fishing. Gardening. Possibly sheep. Yes. Sheep.

Olga nudges me. I need to pay attention. She's telling me things I need to know.

If she didn't talk all of the time, it might be easier to pick up on the important bits.

I'm brought to The Stylist. The man is practically a stereotype of the middle aged gay male hairdresser. This is precisely what he is. There is a long discussion that I am not a part of. Rockabilly? Brush? Textured? Finally they make a decision. My hair goes from messy and a bit longish, to high and tight. They're very pleased. Dress me up. Dress me down. It'll take me anywhere. I have the jaw for it. Very Justin Timberlake. My joke about bringing sexy back is ignored. They continue speaking as if I do not possess the capacity for verbal communication. I've never felt so singularly objectified in my life. I have a feeling that particular bar will soon be raised.

The hair is good. Not what I would have ever decided on, but I can't say I hate it. For certain it makes me look a lot more sophisticated and even a bit older. These are not bad things.

When my hair is given Olga's stamp of approval, I'm turned over to a six-foot Brazilian transsexual aesthetician with two inch firecracker pink nails, who dresses and moves like a samba dancer. She tells me with a click of her nails and a jangle of her bracelets, that there are no more bananas. She doesn't stop talking. Not even for a breath. I'm stripped down to nothing and laid out on a table. I'm not a particularly hirsute guy, but what I have is ordered removed. At least the talkative Brazilian tranny aesthetician includes me in the conversation with Olga about what is to be done to me. I appreciate this. Anyone that spreads hot wax on my body then rips it off should at least make eye contact with me.

Olga leaves. Time is tight and she needs to get ready. She'll be back with clothes for me.

There is no messing around. She immediately goes for my junk. The term boyzilian was one I'd heard, but never imagined I'd have intimate knowledge of. On the pain scale, I'm going to give having my pubic hair removed a ten out of ten. The only benefit is that I no longer have the capacity to feel pain as she moves on to the rest of my body. The constant chatter is soothing in a way. She calls me baby and tells me about some son-of-a-bitch named Martin that never fucking appreciates her. If he didn't have her to take care of his mother... well, who knows what would happen to either of them? Right?

Absolutely.

When my hair is removed from my body, she slathers me in oil then wraps me in a thick terry robe. I get a good look at myself in the mirror before I'm covered up. I look different. I've been transformed. Not wholly, but I'm definitely a whole lot more polished than I was when I woke up that morning. I don't want to sound like a dick, but the truth is I'm not bad looking. The hair. The waxing. I've been taken from a solid eight to a very promising nine. Put the right clothes on me and I might even have a ten moment in my future.

I'm laid out on the reclining chair, the lights are adjusted and I'm told to close my eyes and just relax. I've never had a facial before, but I have to say I'm a fan. I listen to the buzzing chatter as my face is left to steep under a layer of mud while my nails are tended to. I'm sure I fall asleep.

I wake briefly when the door to the room is opened then closed. For a moment I feel infused with love and I believe that all is right in the world and that nothing truly bad can ever happen to me. Then the sound of The Aesthetician moving her small wheeled stool wakes me totally. Olga is back. She's waiting for me. Getting her hair done. We need to finish up.

The Aesthetician helps me dress. Black Armani suit and black shirt. She tells me I look sexy as she threads the belt through the loops around my waist. The clothes I came in are shoved into my grubby messenger bag. When I'm dressed I look in the mirror. I might be having a ten moment. Maybe it's the lighting. I don't know, but I do know I can walk out of the salon and go fuck for cash. I feel incredibly good. They can ignore my humor all they want – I am bringing sexy back.

Olga is sitting in the chair as The Stylist works on her hair. Her eyes have been done and her hair is being brushed out. I don't know about dresses, but I know I like what she's wearing. Red suits her. So does short. Her legs are her best accessory. Covering them would be a crime.

She looks at me through the reflection in the mirror. The Stylist notices I've appeared. They both turn and stare at me. Her eyes study me. I get a nod. That's it. I've passed inspection. I'm to leave my messenger bag. I can pick it up tomorrow. The Aesthetician will lock it in her cabinet. She promises me it'll be perfectly safe. I believe her. I'm handed a new leather messenger bag. Inside are my new phone and agenda, condoms, lube, Vaseline, toothbrush, mouthwash, toothpaste, deodorant, underwear, comb, tissues, handy wipes, and an anal plug. I do not want to know where that came from or where it's been. I just don't.

Olga is giving me instructions as I rummage through the new bag. Take only the essentials.

Which are?

Everything in the bag. Cash – no credit cards. Phone. Agenda. Just this time I can bring my passport with me. They're going to want to check my I.D. Next time leave it at home.

Who is the client and why is he going to want to check my I.D.?

She's annoyingly coy. I want answers.

Isn't a certain level of anonymity part of the job? I was rather counting on that. In fact it's practically essential. I know there will be clients who know who I am. I also know that there will probably be an element of mutually assured destruction if they start naming names. Clients that have as little interest in the world finding out they paid for the pleasure of my company, as I have in the world finding out it was available for a price, are ideal.

I need to just relax. The client doesn't want anyone ever to find out he's a bugger. In fact, he's probably my ideal client. Rich, good-looking, and desperately afraid anyone will find out he likes it up the arse.

Sounds ideal. So... who is the client and why is he going to want to check my I.D.?

She laughs. I'm so cute!

Marvelous.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Thunderdome

When we leave the salon, evening is falling. The sun is bright in my eyes as we head up the street. How she walks in her shoes is a mystery. I'm allowed to put my sunglasses on after asking permission. She tells me to stop being a prick. If I want to wear my sunglasses, I can wear my sunglasses. Why can't I realize that everything she does she does to help me? I don't appreciate her and all her efforts. And I owe her another £300 for the salon. She makes a note in her book and tucks away the receipt.

Does that include interest?

I can just go and fuck myself.

There is no other way to put it – people stare at us. Men especially, stare holes into Olga. And why not? How often does the world at large get to see a woman that stands over six feet in her shoes walk down the street in a red cocktail dress that barely covers her ass? She has to be at least six-two. We're standing eye to eye. What is hard not to notice is the female attention I'm receiving. I'm certain I could walk into just about any club in London and get laid.

Spontaneously, I lean over and kiss Olga on the cheek. Thanks for helping me. I feel great. I can do this. She did that. I truly do appreciate her.

I get a smile.

When we are in the back of a taxi I'm given a few details. The word discreet is mentioned repeatedly. The client is a public figure. Please do not act like an asshole when I meet him. She will beat the shit out of me if I embarrass her. I ask her to please stop talking about asses and shit. It's making me nervous. Olga laughs and takes my hand. I'm going to be fine. The client is really and truly lovely in every way.

The taxi takes us to a stadium venue known for hosting events that draw record crowds. I look at Olga. Who is the client?

She smiles at me. Be cool. Don't be a dickhead. If I make an ass out of myself, she'll beat me.

Who is the client?

She smiles at me.

We get out of the taxi. She pays yet again. Notebook. Receipt. She's nothing if not meticulous. Without a doubt, she's keeping a tab of what I owe her.

She leads me through a gauntlet of vendors with t-shirts draped over their arms, glowing neon bands strung around their necks, screaming girls in miniskirts, and a lot of men that either look like their being punished or are gay.

I look at Olga. Who is the client? Because if it's the Latin pop star that keeps on denying he's gay even though everyone knows he is, I might have a panic attack.

Don't be a dickhead. This is what she tells me. He's just a man. A very very very good-looking man, but still just a man. We go to a side door that is manned by police, ushers, and security guards. One guard, a large man without a neck, knows Olga. But not as Olga. She's Anastasia. Just like the Russian grand duchess.

They hug.

I'm introduced. James. Not Oliver. He shakes my hand. He's checking me out behind his sunglasses.

Am I English?

Yes. I'm really English. I offer to show him my passport. No one calls me James. Everyone calls me Oliver. But the first of my long string of names is actually James. I'm not technically lying.

We are given all access passes attached to brilliant green lanyards, which are draped on cords over our necks. We are warned not to take them off. Then he looks at me. Within reason.

He's been waiting for us. We're not late. Olga tells him this. He knows. He's just been waiting. The Latin Pop Star is curious to meet the new boy. I'm assuming that would be me. Harold, who is known as Dusty it turns out, has been trying to get in touch with The Latin Pop Star. Olga promises to call him. Try to reason with him. The Security Guard gives her a nod. If he keeps it up, steps will be taken.

He looks at me again. What am I? Model? Actor?

None of the above.

So?

I'm broke.

The Security Guard laughs. Nothing wrong with having a sense of humor. But seriously. What am I?

I'm an unemployed Greek and Latin teacher. This is the honest to God truth. I am qualified to do this. I have a certificate and everything. I do actually have an education.

The Security Guard looks at me. Seriously?

Yes. Seriously.

No wonder I can't find a job in this economy.

He takes us into a room where a woman is sitting in front of a laptop with a stack of receipts next to her. She knows Olga, a.k.a. Anastasia. They're very friendly. Chummy even. Olga's been around these people before.

We're each given a thick envelope.

She's so very sorry, but she just didn't have enough in pound notes. She hopes euros are okay? She did adjust for the exchange rate.

Olga tells her that it's not a problem at all.

Do I count it? Do I not count it?

Olga pulls the cash out of her envelope and counts it as she continues to talk to the woman.

I count my cash. Twenty €200 notes. That's €4000. There has to be a mistake.

Olga says something about the extra money before I have to wonder what to do.

The woman nods to The Security Guard.

There's an after party. Might go all night. We're both invited.

Olga nods. She puts her envelope into her bag. I follow suit.

The Security Guard walks out with us following. I have now been paid for a night of top notch sexual prowess with one of the most desirable men in the world. I'm fairly certain my dick will never be hard again. I'm too nervous.

We walk deeper into the structure down a corridor that is deceivingly repetitive in design. I would swear we keep on walking by the same series of doors over and over again through the same groups of people each with a badge hooked to a lanyard hanging around their neck. The brilliant green of my lanyard strap is the rarest color of all. The people we pass with the brilliant green look me up and down as if I'm a particularly interesting specimen. I suppose I am. The brilliant green lanyard people clearly know who I am and what I'm there for.

I put my sunglasses on. I don't care that I'm indoors. I don't want these people to know that I notice them looking at me. The Matchmaker's words are coming back to me. Do not go in as myself. Compartmentalize. Who am I? Am I James Bond? No. Not feeling Bond. Bond wouldn't blow a man. Who am I? Am I Justin Timberlake bringing sexy back? Could be. But then again, don't really see him with the fellas. Who? Then it hits me. What is one of my favorite movies of all time? My Own Private Idaho. I know who to be and how to be a hustler. And no, not the sweet sensitive street kid. The other one. The one with the edge. The one that puts an expiration date on his days as a prostitute.

A swagger enters my step. I know who I am. Or at least who I'm pretending to be. I'm not Oliver. I'm James. I have cash, condoms and lube. I'm even starting to get a bit hard. The excitement is encouraging. There is a buzz in the place. The boom and thump of last-minute sound checks raises the energy surrounding us as we walk. This is my Thunderdome. I'm a gladiator entering the arena. I am Rocky, I am Maximus, I am Braveheart. The temptation to fist pump the air is nearly uncontrollable. But I keep my cool. Because that's who I am. I'm James the Whore hear me roar. I fuck for cash and I take no prisoners. Two men enter, one man leaves. I can do this.