Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Eight by Livia Ellis

Author:Livia Ellis
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2014-01-24T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Is it Love if it Doesn't Hurt?

I think I’m in love, but I can’t really tell. With Renata I knew I was in love because it hurt.

This doesn’t hurt. It just feels solid and good.

I question whether or not love can be like this so I remain uncommitted.

I am smart enough though to tell her I love her when she tells me she loves me.

I take her to Royal Ascot.

My grandparents are wonderful.

It’s like we’re colluding to make the experience as memorable and repeatable as possible for her.

She goes to a string of summer weddings with me.

With each one she gains confidence mingling with the crowd that had previously snubbed her.

We go from place to place.

New York.

Hong Kong.

Sydney.

We go from chicken burger headquarters to chicken burger headquarters.

Sometimes I go on tours with her.

The Americans love me.

I’m practically the crown prince of England as far as they’re concerned.

The chicken burger managers bow and curtsy to me.

Sometimes it’s very weird.

We laugh about it in our anonymous hotel rooms as we travel from town to town.

I love this gypsy life of luxury.

She buys me treats and pets me.

She takes me shopping and turns me into her live doll.

She likes me pretty and happy.

She works all the time.

I watch her work.

It’s marvelous to me.

I couldn’t do what she does.

She facilitates the production of mass quantities of food that is only slightly preferable to hunger.

She’s like Lady Macbeth without the warmth.

Nothing will stand between her and her throne.

She works constantly.

It never ends.

I hate this.

I understand the money has to come from somewhere, but I just get so bored.

It’s fine when we’re traveling. But when we’re in London I have nothing to do.

So I go out.

I’m young.

I have fun.

I’m human.

But I know how to make her happy.

Especially when she’s cross with me.

She’s pretty easy to read. So I know when I’ve walked just a step over that line.

Generally speaking my picture appearing in the tabloids with models or actresses at bars is one of those things that piss her off.

A few weeks of being good is usually all it takes.

When she left for work, I didn’t know I’d made the papers again.

After she’s gone I learn the awful truth.

Renata loves to call me to let me in on these things.

She ignores my calls.

I wait for her to come home.

She walks in after ten fairly plastered on white wine.

She’s been out with that pack of harpies she calls friends.

I’m an asshole.

She loves me. Nothing happened. She knows I love her.

I kiss her neck.

I fondle one of those beautifully rounded breasts.

She resists slightly.

The pack of harpies has convinced her to be pissed off at me.

They’ve plied her with booze and dripped poison in her ears.

She thinks she should be mad at me.

But I know better.

She doesn’t want to be angry with me.

She’s drunk.

She wants me to fuck her.

Life doesn’t need to be complicated.

There are easy solutions to problems.

I know her well enough to know that fucking on the kitchen counters would be a touch too exotic for her.

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