Of love and matters of the purse

The gigolo smirked. He stood almost naked in front of the WOMAN. She was in his room. His bed occupied most of his room. His things were arranged neatly but there was a general disarray – as though the room had been put together for a purpose other than housing its inmate.

“Ma’am, I will need your rating ma’am’ he said very earnestly ‘I am trying to get some new business” She didn’t like something about the way he spoke. He seemed to have a swagger. It was as though he was cocksure (pun intended) that she would give him stars that spilt over his stupid rating scale. “You wouldn’t score too highly on several fronts you know’ she said, avoiding his look by staring pointedly at her garishly painted toe nails. Her beautician had the worst choice of nail paints but the woman always let the beautician pick. The WOMAN lived in the vain hope that someone else would one day succeed in discovering what suited her best, since she herself had failed so abysmally on several occasions (and several fronts).

Still ………………….. coming back to the gigolo who was now starting to smirk again, she raised one eyebrow and eyed him archly. “It’s not all about having a big build and flexing your muscles you know” she said. “No ma’am’ he said and the way he looked at her had her getting all hot and bothered. He had certainly done more than flexing his muscles. He had made her scream and moan and writhe under him. He had reversed the roles she had envisaged for them – of him being the naïve and eager young lad who would be tutored under her able expertise. Instead he had driven her to a passion she never even had known she possessed.

For some reason this made her very resentful. Although she really wanted to give in to and bask in the languorous aftermath of their lovemaking she didn’t want to think anything more about it than that it was something she would be paying for. He was after all – just a gigolo. It would be dangerous to look at him as anything beyond that. It would do no good to look at his eyes or worse still…………into his eyes. It would do no good to try and talk to him. It would certainly do no good to listen to him. If she listened hard enough, maybe he would really start talking and that was a bad thing for a gigolo to do. He after all needed the money. She knew that, in purely practical terms, and seeing the fringes of ill wealth his room touched, that practicality would win hands down everytime this young gigolo would even attempt a vapid romantic encounter. He didn’t look like he had even one romantic bone in his body, or even a tendon, or ligament. She shook herself harshly. Her failed attempts at doing nursing had left a lasting damage on her imagination. Everything boiled down to the physiological and anatomical details. This didn’t leave much room either for imagination or fantasy. Her favourite fantasy had long been of herself nursing some brawny young man to a state of arousal and subsequent good health. Neither had she become a nurse nor had she found any brawny young man to arouse. The gigolo was the next best option.

Engaging him for a few hours hadn’t really been her idea. Her aunt ran an old age home which reeked of imminent death and ongoing despair. She often went to the old age home to get a vicarious unhappiness of how she envisaged her own life to ultimately become. At the old age home, the most unlikely of older women spoke often of her multiple sexual encounters with multiple young men – some unpaid but most paid. The older woman had repeatedly mentioned that she had spent most of her income on these dubious activities which had left the rest of the family socially humiliated as well as financially none the better off for her wealth. “Its stupid to save all your money for your stupid children and grandchildren’ she had cackled rather hawkishly. “I make my money. I make merry. The day I die should be the day my last penny is spent so that accounts are all absolutely settled” 

She had sounded so convincing that the WOMAN had readily let herself be convinced. Today was the first of what she hoped would be several interesting encounters with different young men.

The gigolo she was with now tried to hide a yawn. This irritated her no end. Here she was – deeply philosophizing to the limited extent that she was capable of, and this upstart looked like he was already planning his next assignment.  He didn’t even pretend to be remotely enamoured with her. It was like he just didn’t care a damn. If she fell of his stupid balcony onto the lush lawn below, he would probably be more worried that his warden would find out about his nefarious activities and evict him from his cozy little hideout.

She uncharitably glared at him and pulled out a five hundred rupee note. “I wasn’t completely satisfied with your performance” she started to say but caught herself when she noticed his expression. He was looking at the note in her hand. “ Oh madam” he said in a dangerously soft voice “if you weren’t satisfied, don’t pay me anything madam. The next time I will arrange for someone else” She caught her breath. Not see him again? Not be in his arms again? That would not be nice.  Maybe she hadn’t seen enough gigolos. Maybe each one was better than the one before. Maybe they would drive her to an insane frenzy of mindless passion. But still…………….she realized in a sudden moment of truth. This first gigolo was the only one she ever wanted. Not because of the way he treated her, not because of the way he touched her but only because he was the first. She didn’t want his memory to be tarnished. She wanted him to be the first and the only. She quietly pulled out two more crisp five hundred rupee notes and placed them beside her on the bed. “I will call and let you know when I would need your services next’ she said quiety. “Yes madam’ he said the smirk returning. ‘Next time madam, you pay five hundred more and I will give you back massage. Nice…………you will forget your worries madam. Only enjoy”.

“Thank you” she said with as much dignity as she could muster and she walked out of his room. As she made the long walk across the lawn, she knew he would neither be at his window to wave to her nor would he be thinking of her. She was a client, no more, and it would be best she remembered that – never mind her breaking heart.

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