Gigolo Quotes

Mom, this is Annette. Back in the seventeen hundreds when Bones was a gigolo, she used to pay him to fuck her, but after more than two hundred years for banging him, now they're just good friends." p

So, you don’t give out freebies? Like ever?” That just sounded so bizarre to me. I would’ve thought a gigolo would be a complete man-whore, even off the clock. But when his jaw went dead still as he stopped chewing and he said, “Are you…asking for one?

The thing about That Guy Is a Gigolo,' Radar says, 'I mean, the thing about it as a game, is that in the end it reveals a lot more about the person doing the imagining than it does about the person being imagined.

It sounds so far away and different. I like different places. I like any places that isn't here.

Maybe I was worrying for nothing. Maybe it had just been casual for him, and I wouldn't even have to tell him it couldn't happen again. After all, the man was a couple hundred years older than me and a former gigolo. I certainly hadn't robbed him of his virginity.

What would you do if you ruled the world?” The gigolo replied that he would abolish all laws. Barthes said: “Even grammar?

What are you talking about? You’re like a professional boyfriend.” “Thanks. You make me sound like a gigolo.

Your Dragon has been a bit of a gigolo over the centuries, my dear. It would be easier to point out the females he hasn’t nailed than to list the ones he’s bedded.

He was seeing a long line of men stretched through the centuries from Plato onward, whose heir and final product was an incompetent little professor with the appearance of a gigolo and the soul of a thug.

The difference between the rich and the poor, is finding true love.

Fine, but go put on some clothes,” she says. “This is an inn, Mr. Cunningham, not Chippendales. I won’t have you at my breakfast table looking like a gigolo.

Cheese and crackers? Really?" She looks at me skeptically. "Besides, he's not a gigolo, you prude! He's an escort. Big difference." "An escort who, at the end of the night for a little more cash, will have sex with people. What do you call that?" Sara's laugh has a wicked edge to it "I call it my good fortune.

You know, I somehow envisioned embracing motherhood differently. Not at thirty-five, without a partner, and knocked up by a gigolo who might or might not be named Luigi.

Are you mentally ill? A gigolo? A terrorist?” “Blair, stop.” Megan put her hand on her friend’s arm. “And I already accused him of being a terrorist.” “And you believed him when he said no?” “Actually,” she mused, casting an ornery grin at him. “I don’t think he answered me.” “Tricky bastard, aren’t you?

That's Mama, divorces a lunatic and marries a gigolo.

What do you mean 'speaking of fairy tales'? Since when do fairy tales include gigolos?" Annie asked. "Well, since most fairy-tale princes are either gay or weirdly attached to their mommies, I think Walt Disney should seriously consider their inclusion," Sophie answered.

On the morning of our second day, we were strolling down the Champs-Elysées when a bird shit on his head. ‘Did you know a bird’s shit on your head?’ I asked a block or two later. Instinctively Katz put a hand to his head, looked at it in horror – he was always something of a sissy where excrement was concerned; I once saw him running through Greenwood Park in Des Moines like the figure in Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’ just because he had inadvertently probed some dog shit with the tip of his finger – and with only a mumbled ‘Wait here’ walked with ramrod stiffness in the direction of our hotel. When he reappeared twenty minutes later he smelled overpoweringly of Brut aftershave and his hair was plastered down like a third-rate Spanish gigolo’s, but he appeared to have regained his composure. ‘I’m ready now,’ he announced. Almost immediately another bird shit on his head. Only this time it really shit. I don’t want to get too graphic, in case you’re snacking or anything, but if you can imagine a pot of yoghurt upended onto his scalp, I think you’ll get the picture. ‘Gosh, Steve, that was one sick bird,’ I observed helpfully. Katz was literally speechless. Without a word he turned and walked stiffly back to the hotel, ignoring the turning heads of passers-by. He was gone for nearly an hour. When at last he returned, he was wearing a windcheater with the hood up. ‘Just don’t say a word,’ he warned me and strode past. He never really warmed to Paris after that.

Strange people. The kind that leave the merest blur behind them, soon vanished. Hutte and I often used to talk about these traceless beings. They spring up out of nothing one fine day and return there, having sparkled a little. Beauty queens. Gigolos. Butterflies. Most of them, even when alive, had no more substance than steam which will never condense.

We see on our death bed, not our whole life flashing before us – as with a drowning man – but an endless sequence of all the things we had wanted to do and had never done.

I didn't fall off the hay truck yesterday, buddy. I want you to go down there and try to boink some sense into her.

The seed of a blue lupin will usually produce a blue lupin. But the seed of a blue-eyed man may produce a brown-eyed bore...especially if his wife has a taste for gigolos.

Way down in the boondocks of Waterford, The girls liked to play for their manly sword. Goodbye, Mr. Mason Lowe. Oh, what a gigolo. Too bad he’s retired to Ellamore. Mason stared at me, stunned speechless. Then he shook his head and cracked a smile. “Manly sword?” “What?” I shrugged. “I never claimed to be a good poet. You try to come up with something that rhymes with Waterford.

The lucid, rational part of Billie wanted to laugh. Here she was, out in the woods of middle-class suburbia, with a man’s fingers inside her panties, inside her, a climax of unimaginable force trembling at the edge of her grasp. And the man who now plied her and played her…a prostitute. A gigolo. A beloved brother and son and uncle, and a suspect, with too many secrets and too much sexual prowess. A man she was falling in love with. The impossibility of it, the crazy, twisted potential swept over her, then ebbed, lost in the surge of unbelievable pleasure that built and built within her like strings drawn too tightly across a fine-tuned instrument. She would die from this, die and scatter into a million fragments and drift like dust on the wind.

Seeing them again in mufti, a year later, confirmed the verdict of defeat and showed these men now to be guilty of numerous sartorial misdemeanors. They squeaked around the store in bargain-basement penny loafers and creased budget khakis, or in ill-fitting suits advertised by wholesalers for the price of buy-one-get-one-free. Ties, handkerchiefs, and socks were thrown in, though what was really needed was cologne, even of the gigolo kind, anything to mask the olfactory evidence of their having been gleefully skunked by history.

If an aristocrat became bankrupt he looked to the sunshine of royal providence [...] but when the nobility sank too low to qualify for royal notice, they became fraudsters, trading on the display of rank: the man would become a card-sharper or gigolo, while the woman sold herself. Actual work would have been unthinkable. It would have offended against the ancient order of things, which assigned that role to the middle classes and the peasantry. This concept is difficult to connect with our modern view of the world, but its very absurdity follows directly from the fact that everything in its old order was so firm and wonderful - with everything in its eternally appointed place and moving in fixed circles like the stars. There was no changing your lot in life at will: it was assigned to you forever, by birth. If you fell below your appointed station, you couldn't just swap it for another - you simply plummeted into the void.

His voice grew more remote. She wondered if he was calling from his condominium, where he’d lost his best friend, or from Avalon, where he’d lost himself. “I like you, Billie. You’re a nice person. Good company. But tonight was a mistake.” She flung an arm over her eyes and swallowed the lump of tears that had lodged in her throat. “Oh? Which part? The part where you introduced me to your family and exposed yourself as coming from a perfectly average, wholesome background? Or the part where you touched me and turned me inside-out while swaying in a hammock in the rich, beautiful woods—one of the most searing sexual experiences of my life? Which part do you regret, Adrian?” “All of it. I can’t have those things with you. You know what I am.” “Yes, Adrian, I know what you are. A gentle man. A likable one. Smart. Cultured. Sexy. I know what you are.” “But the other part—” “What about the other part? You hide behind the other part.” She yanked the pillow out from beneath her head and winged it across the bedroom, furious suddenly. “Did you call to tell me I’m not going to see you anymore? Because if that’s the case, hurry up and say it. Then hang up and go back to work, and don’t worry one bit about me. I’ve been on my own a long time, and I’m tougher than you think. I won’t cling to any man who’d rather be a-a—” She stumbled, bit back the ugly words rushing to her lips. “A what?” he countered softly. “A whore? A gigolo? Go ahead and say it, Billie. If you’re going to waste your time caring about me, then you’d better get used to the idea, because I can’t change. I won’t. Not for you or anyone.” She bit back a sound of pure derision. “How about for you? Think you could walk the straight and narrow for yourself?” He didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. Billie already knew the answer. “You’re afraid.” She sat up among the sheets as cold realization washed through her. “Afraid to live without women clambering to pay top dollar for you. All that money…it’s a measure of your value, right? It’s your self-esteem. What would happen if you were paid in love instead of cash? Would the world end? My God, Adrian. You’re running scared.” The half-whispered accusation seemed to permeate his impassivity. “I was fine before you.” His voice came low and furious. Finally, finally. True emotion. “Damn it, Billie. I want my life back.” “Then hang up and don’t call me again, because I’m not going to pay you for sex, Adrian. What I offer is a worthless currency in your world.

A life like this develops the comedy sense. You can't play tragedy while you're living it.

There is when making love a moment when the body defies gravity. This is the moment to strive for.

It’s lost time that matters, the time between time, the moments when you forget time and things just happen.

Love is like being burned in flames then plunged into icy water. Love leaves scars and broken hearts. Your emotions change from one second to the next.

Think of the rotten time Alice would have had in Wonderland if she hadn't been broad-minded. Take it as it comes.

The cruel smirk of youth which had made her cold, hard and wounding, and had so often caused her to end an affair.

Now then!” cried Vita Palas. “Don’t you go slanging me, you raddled old hussy! I know your kind, all skin and spleen, and wrinkles to wrap over all! Your own morals are sewage, you with your dancing-boys and gigolos! Don’t you try slanging me any more, or I’ll snatch off your wig and really explain what I think of you! It will not be nice! It will turn your long nose blue!

Of course you will,’ she said. It was funny: she really didn’t love him any more. She knew perfectly well that he was lost, done for. But it was such a long time ago that ‘she’ had lost him.

When one is happy, when one is doing what one likes to do – and also when other people like one – one has no right to sit about on tree trunks, alone, in the cold, beside a lake no one has ever heard of.

He was still holding her hand in his. He would die with a woman’s hand in his; all would be well. What did it matter if the woman was his own wife? ‘Happiness between two people,’ he said, ‘it’s not so easy.

At my age, one doesn’t think of death, one clings to life.’ One clings to the pleasures of money, of the night; one makes the most of things, and of people, such as this young man walking beside one down a deserted woodland path.

There is a myth I grew up with and heard so many times that I had believed it. They say money doesn’t buy you happiness. This is a delusion the poor cling to and the rich find comical. Money does buy happiness. Money equals freedom, the highest form of happiness. Money equals pleasure. The more you have the more pleasurable life is. People with money can never know what it is like to be without money. Money is a magnet, it doesn’t trickle down, it is sucked up.

Worrying about what ‘people are going to say’ and ‘what the neighbours might think’ is always in the minds of working people. They aren’t afraid of failure. They are afraid of success and how they would have to make excuses to their friends if it ever came their way.

If you reach a crossroads and your destination is to the left and by mistake you turn right, the further you travel along the wrong road the further you will move away from your destination. It is not easy to turn back, to change your mind. Sometimes, you have to in order to survive.

I could have gone into the philosophy and history of cross-dressing, expounding my own views and feelings on the subject, bringing up the fact that not a few straight men get a kick out of wearing silky panties, heels, and nail polish, not to mention that some women, too, choose to dress in masculine clothing on occasion, among them Marlene Dietrich and George Sand... But I couldn't be bothered.

If he says, “I'm dropping a pearl,” or “A pearl slipped,” he means that he has farted in a certain way, very softly, that the fart has flowed out very quietly. Let us wonder at the fact that it does suggest a pearl of dull sheen: the flowing, the muted leak, seems to us as milky as the paleness of a pearl, that is, slightly cloudy. It makes Darling seem to us a kind of precious gigolo, a Hindu, a princess, a drinker of pearls. The odor he has silently spread in the prison has the dullness of the pearl, coils about him, haloes him from head to foot, isolates him, but isolates him much less than does the remark that his beauty does not fear to utter. “I'm dropping a pearl” means that the fart is noiseless. If it rumbles, then it is coarse, and if it's some jerk who drops it, Darling says, “My cock's house is falling down!

It started at one thirty on a cold Tuesday morning in January when Martin Turner, Street performer and, in his own words, apprentice gigolo, tripped over a body in front of the West Portico of St. Paul's at Covent Garden. Martin, who was none too sober himself, at first thought the body was that of one of the many celebrants who had chosen the Piazza as a convenient outdoor toilet and dormitory. Being a seasoned Londoner, Martin gave the body the "London once-over" - a quick glance to determine whether this was a drunk, a crazy or a human being in distress. The fact that it was entirely possible for someone to be all three simultaneously is why good-Samaritanism in London is considered an extreme sport - like BASE jumping or crocodile wrestling. Martin, noting the good quality coat and shoes, had just pegged the body as a drunk when he noticed that it was in fact missing its head.

Knocking on a massive carved door minutes later, the sigils on it shouting to those literate enough to ‘Stay away or else!’ he received a nice surprise when the door swung open. Well, hello there. Reaching only his shoulder, with a wild mop of black hair, bright brown eyes and a rounded body made for worship – by his tongue – Remy wondered if he could convince the servant girl to come around the corner with him for a quickie before he met with this Ysabel person. Then she opened her luscious mouth. “If you’re done gawking, you might want to step back before I smash your nose with the door when I shut it.” Someone got up without sex today. He could fix that. “Hello beautiful, I actually have business with the occupant of this suite. I’m here to meet with Ysabel, the witch.” “Really.” Her tone said what she thought of his claim and her brown gaze looked him up and down, then dismissed him. “I don’t think so.” The door slammed shut in his face. What. The. Fuck. Remy pounded on the door. It immediately opened. The ebony haired vixen, her arms crossed under her bountiful tits, smirked. “Back already. What’s wrong? Did I hurt your feelings?” “Listen woman, I don’t know what crawled up your ass and turned you into an uptight bitch, but I’m here to see Ysabel, so get the fuck out of my way before I put you over my knee and –” “And what? Spank me?” Her eyes actually sparked with challenge, the minx. “I’d like to see you try. But, before you do, just so you know, my name is Ysabel. The witch.” Aaaaah, shit. Never one to admit defeat, he let a slow simmering smile spread across his face. It worked on demonesses, damned souls, human women, and even gay men, but apparently, it had no effect on scowling witches. Too bad. “It’s your lucky day. Lucifer has informed me that you’re my next assignment.” “Not by choice. And what are you supposed to do exactly? I need a tracker, not a gigolo. What happened? Did your gig as a pole dancer not work out? Equipment too small?” She dropped her gaze to his groin and sneered. A sudden, irrational urge possessed him to drop his pants, flip her over and show her there was nothing wrong with the size of his cock. He abstained, but couldn’t prevent himself from taunting her, eyeing her up and down in the same dismissive manner. “Anytime you want to measure my dick, you let me know. Naked.” “Pig.” “No, demon. Really, get your terminology straight, would you? After Lucifer’s warning, I expected someone older and badder.” To his credit he didn’t drop to the ground, but the pain in his balls did require he bend over to cup them gently which in turn meant he got the door in the face. Again. -Ysabel & Remy

Tell me, M. Antoine,’ said Harriet, as their taxi rolled along the Esplanade. ‘You who are a person of great experience, is love, in your opinion, a matter of the first importance?’ ‘It is, alas! of a great importance, mademoiselle, but of the first importance, no!’ ‘What is of the first importance?’ ‘Mademoiselle, I tell you frankly that to have a healthy mind in a healthy body is the greatest gift of le bon Dieu, and when I see so many people who have clean blood and strong bodies spoiling themselves and distorting their brains with drugs and drink and foolishness, it makes me angry. They should leave that to the people who cannot help themselves because to them life is without hope.’ Harriet hardly knew what to reply; the words were spoken with such personal and tragic significance. Rather fortunately, Antoine did not wait. ‘L’amour! These ladies come and dance and excite themselves and want love and think it is happiness. And they tell me about their sorrows—me—and they have no sorrows at all, only that they are silly and selfish and lazy. Their husbands are unfaithful and their lovers run away and what do they say? Do they say, I have two hands, two feet, all my faculties, I will make a life for myself? No. They say, Give me cocaine, give me the cocktail, give me the thrill, give me my gigolo, give me l’amo-o-ur! Like a mouton bleating in a field. If they knew! Harriet laughed. ‘You’re right, M. Antoine. I don’t believe l’amour matters so terribly, after all.

I leave him there and head for the kitchen, sighing when I see a chair shoved over to the counter, Maddie standing on it, digging through the cabinets. “What do you think you’re doing, little girl?” “Looking for the Lucky Charms,” she says as I pull her down and set her on her feet. “I’m afraid we’re all out.” I grab a box of Cheerios. “How about these?” She makes a face of disgust. “Raisin Bran?” Another face. “How about some cottage cheese?” She pretends to gag. “Uh, well, how about—?” “How about I take you out for breakfast?” Jonathan suggests, stepping into the kitchen. “Pancakes, sausage, eggs…” “Bacon!” Maddie declares. “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, you know, with the whole you being you thing.” “Me being me,” he says. “Yeah, chances are you’ll get recognized and then have to explain this whole thing and well, you know, I’m not sure it’s worth it for some breakfast.” “But it might be bacon,” Maddie whines. Jonathan hesitates, thinking it over, glancing between us before he says, “I know somewhere we can go.” Mrs. McKleski’s place. Landing Inn. That’s where he takes us. Maddie and I stand in the woman’s foyer in our pajamas, while Jonathan wears just the leather pants from the Knightmare costume. Mrs. McKleski looks at us like we’ve gone crazy, and I instantly want to be anywhere else in the world, but it’s too late, because Maddie’s been promised some bacon. “You want breakfast,” Mrs. McKleski says. “That’s what you’re telling me?” He nods. “Yes, ma'am.” She stares at him. Hard. I expect a denial, because this whole idea is absurd, but after a moment, she lets out a resigned sigh. “Fine, but go put on some clothes,” she says. “This is an inn, Mr. Cunningham, not Chippendales. I won’t have you at my breakfast table looking like a gigolo.” He cocks an eyebrow at the woman. “Wasn’t aware you knew what a gigolo was.” “Go,” she says pointedly, “before I change my mind.” “Yes, ma’am,” he says, flashing her a smile before turning to me and nodding toward the stairs. “Join me?” I stare at him, not moving. He steps closer. “Please?” “Fine,” I mumble, glancing at Maddie, not wanting to cause a scene. “Hey, sweetheart, why don’t you have a seat in the living room?” “Nonsense,” Mrs. McKleski says. “She can come help me cook. Teach her some responsibility. Not sure her father ever learned any.” Jonathan scowls before again motioning for me to follow him. “And no hanky-panky,” Mrs. McKleski calls to us as we start upstairs. “What’s the hanky-panky?” Maddie asks, following the woman to the kitchen. “She means the hokey-pokey,” I yell down before Mrs. McKleski can answer, because there’s no telling how that woman would explain it. “Oh, I like the hokey-pokey!” Maddie looks at the woman with confusion. “Why don’t you wanna play it?” “Too messy,” Mrs. McKleski grumbles. “All that turning yourself around.” Shaking my head, I go upstairs, stalling right inside the room as Jonathan sorts through his belongings to find some clothes.

Hannah Winter was sixty all of a sudden, as women of sixty are. Just yesterday - or the day before, at most - she had been a bride of twenty in a wine-coloured silk wedding gown, very stiff and rich. And now here she was, all of a sudden, sixty. (...) This is the way it happened! She was rushing along Peacock Alley to meet her daughter Marcia. Anyone who knows Chicago knows that smoke-blackened pile, the Congress Hotel; and anyone who knows the Congress Hotel has walked down that glittering white marble crypt called Peacock Alley. It is neither so glittering nor so white nor, for that matter, so prone to preen itself as it was in the hotel's palmy '90s. But it still serves as a convenient short cut on a day when Chicago's lake wind makes Michigan Boulevard a hazard, and thus Hannah Winter was using it. She was to have met Marcia at the Michigan Boulevard entrance at two, sharp. And here it was 2.07. When Marcia said two, there she was at two, waiting, lips slightly compressed. (...) So then here it was 2.07, and Hannah Winter, rather panicky, was rushing along Peacock Alley, dodging loungers, and bell-boys, and traveling salesmen and visiting provincials and the inevitable red-faced delegates with satin badges. In her hurry and nervous apprehension she looked, as she scuttled down the narrow passage, very much like the Rabbit who was late for the Duchess's dinner. Her rubber-heeled oxfords were pounding down hard on the white marble pavement. Suddenly she saw coming swiftly toward her a woman who seemed strangely familiar - a well-dressed woman, harassed-looking, a tense frown between her eyes, and her eyes staring so that they protruded a little, as one who runs ahead of herself in her haste. Hannah had just time to note, in a flash, that the woman's smart hat was slightly askew and that, though she walked very fast, her trim ankles showed the inflexibility of age, when she saw that the woman was not going to get out of her way. Hannah Winter swerved quickly to avoid a collision. So did the other woman. Next instant Hannah Winter brought up with a crash against her own image in that long and tricky mirror which forms a broad full-length panel set in the marble wall at the north end of Peacock Alley. Passerby and the loungers on near-by red plush seats came running, but she was unhurt except for a forehead bump that remained black-and-blue for two weeks or more. The bump did not bother her, nor did the slightly amused concern of those who had come to her assistance. She stood there, her hat still askew, staring at this woman - this woman with her stiff ankles, her slightly protruding eyes, her nervous frown, her hat a little sideways - this stranger - this murderess who had just slain, ruthlessly and forever, a sallow, high-spirited girl of twenty in a wine-coloured silk wedding gown.

He doesn’t say anything, but he points to my guitar and raises his brow. I don’t know what he wants, and he can’t tell me, so I just look at him. I don’t want to acknowledge his presence, but he’s sitting with his knee an inch from mine. When I don’t respond, he puts a hand on my guitar. He points to me and strums at the air like he’s playing a guitar. I realize I’ve stopped playing. But he did put a twenty in my case, so I suppose I owe him. I start to play “I’m Just a Gigolo.” I love that tune, and love playing it. After a minute, his eyebrows draw together, and he points to his lips. I shake my head because I don’t know what he’s asking. Either he wants me to kiss him or I have something on my face. I swipe the back of my hand across my lips. Not that. And the other isn’t going to happen. He shakes his head quickly and retrieves a small dry-erase board from his backpack. Sing, he writes. I have to concentrate really hard to read it, and there are too many distractions here in the tunnel, so I don’t want him to write anymore. I just shake my head. I don’t want to encourage him to keep writing. I could read the word sing, but I can’t read everything. Or anything, sometimes. He holds his hand up to his mouth and spreads his fingers like someone throwing up. I draw my head back, but I keep on playing. Why does he want me to sing? He can’t hear it. But I start to sing softly, anyway. He smiles and nods. And then he laughs when he sees the words of the song on my lips. He shakes his head and motions for me to continue. I forgot he can read lips. I can talk to him, but he can’t talk back.

Laughing, I took her hand back in mine. “I don’t like seeing someone as hot as you bruised up, but I don’t judge you fighting for money. We all do what we can. Look at me and my work. Not exactly a dream job, but I’m big, strong, and don’t mind hurting people. Not a lot of jobs for a guy with my skill set. I was never good at school. I hate computers and have no patience with fixing things. I had the choice of being an enforcer or a gigolo.” Raven smacked my hand away. “Stop being charming, you dipshit.” “I’ll try, but it just comes so naturally for me.” “Why not a gigolo?” “I’m too shy.” Raven laughed. “That’s too bad. I’d pay to fuck you.” “Of course, you would. I’d totally pay to have you give me a lap dance.” “You couldn’t afford me.” “I don’t know. I’ve been saving up for something special. This could be it.

So how are things otherwise? Are Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee behaving themselves?” Kat shook her head. “I just don’t know. Lock is a sweetheart, as always. But Deep…well, Deep is Deep. And I mean that both literally and figuratively.” Sophie frowned. “Meaning what—that you two are still fighting?” “We have what you could call an uneasy truce right now,” Kat said. She looked behind her and then leaned closer to the viewscreen and lowered her voice. “But I found something out about him. Something he did—” “Kat,” a deep male voice said from somewhere off screen. “The ship leaves very soon. You need to hurry.” “Just a minute!” Kat looked harassed. “We have to leave on the flower hunt tonight and the guys are waiting outside the shuttle so I can talk to you two privately. But I guess they’re getting impatient.” “Forget about them,” Liv said. “Tell us what you found out. Is he an axe murderer? A gigolo?” “No,” Sophie cut in. “She said it was something he did. What did he do, Kat? Was it awful?” “Kat!” said the deep male voice again. “We have to go now.” Kat sighed. “Sorry, I guess I’ll have to tell you later. But believe me, you will never guess in a million years. Love you both.” She blew kisses at the viewscreen and Liv and Sophie did the same. “Kat,

combination of numbers that relates to my birthday or my address or something. She’s telling me that the green-eyed man will play an important role in my future and that very soon there will be unexpected announcements or some such twaddle. “Brendan’s going to propose,” Lani whispers. “Either that or he’s announcing that he’s giving up the real estate business to become a professional gigolo. That’d be unexpected.” “Don’t be sarcastic, this is serious.” Maybe for some of us. I turn my attention back to Madame Zara who is now squinting over the paper.

angel’s penis into his mouth.

The mistress and her servant - you two are sharing the same man, aren't you? Don't lie to this old woman, some gigolo must have grabbed both of you like a pair of chopsticks.

It is stereotypically English to accept that we are born with a fixed ‘station’ in life. It’s what keeps the poor downtrodden.

Gossip is the human condition. It’s like water. It finds its way through every crack and gap. It can’t be contained.

Love smells of moonlight and old photographs. Love is the sound of your name being called by your lover.

Groningen, Den Bosch, Maastricht en Vlissingen, overal dezelfde stank.

I could smell her perfume. It was light and airy, a scent I didn’t know, and seemed personal to her. She was so beautiful, I couldn’t bear to look at her.

I was a stranger in the strange land of the rich and was coming to see that they do things differently there.

Ebenezer Scrooge, aangevuld met chocolade, marsepein en winterpeen op de Wikipedia, als Lodewijk Asscher, hangt de paljas en Gigolo uit en heeft vastbesloten, nìet te lezen of schrijven.

The Gigolo is what 50 Shades tried to be, but failed!

Angelina, I adore you...," crooned Louis. Then the New Orleans Gang picked up the beat and King Louis sang, "I eat antipasto twice, just because she is so nice, Angelina..." Fresh pasta time. Angelina cracked three eggs into the center of a mound of 00 flour, in time to the music, and began teasing the flour into the sticky center. With a hand-cranked pasta maker, she rolled out the dough into long, silky-thin sheets, laid them out until they covered the entire table, then used a 'mezza luna' to carefully slice wide strips of pasta for a new dish she wanted to try that she called Lasagna Provencal, a combination of Italian and French cheeses, Roma and sun-dried tomatoes, Herbes de Provence, and fresh basil. It was a recipe for which she had very high hopes. Angelina started assembling her lasagna. She mixed creamy Neufchatel, ricotta, and a sharp, grated Parmigiano-Reggiano in with a whole egg to bind it together. She layered fresh pasta sheets in a lasagna dish, coated them with the cheesy mixture, ripped in some fresh basil and oregano and sun-dried tomatoes. She worked quickly, but with iron concentration. "I'm-a just a gigolo, everywhere I go...," sang King Louie. For the second layer, she used more pasta topped with Gruyere and herbed Boursin cheese. The third layer was the same as the first. For the fourth layer, she used the rest of the Boursin and dollops of creme fraiche, then ladled the thick, rich tomato sauce from the stove on top and finished it with a sprinkling of shredded Gruyere. She set it aside for baking later and felt a flush of craftswomanly pride in the way it had all come together.

Jazz had stayed with her for three hours. Three, long luxurious hours where he'd pleasured her---to use an old-fashioned word---time after time. And what she'd paid for was good old-fashioned romancing. That had taken her by surprise. All of Jazz's attention had been entirely focused on her body, her desires. He'd managed to push buttons that she didn't even know she had. How many women could say that they got the same service from their husbands? He'd been the ultimate professional, the perfect gentleman. It was hard to see this arrangement as a fairly sleazy business contract. Jazz had seemed to enjoy himself too; either that or the man was a damn fine actor. She closed her eyes and a stream of sexy images washed over her. His attaché case had contained a range of potions, lotions and toys to set the scene for a very naughty evening. He'd drizzled chilled champagne all over her body and had lapped it up with his hot tongue. The thought of it made her shiver with delight.

street performer and, in his own words, apprentice gigolo,

As Muire and the pretty gigolo sat down, the landlord appeared from his strategic retreat and came to them across the empty bar.

There are two themes I wish to illustrate through this almost entirely true short story. The first is that God compensates women He does not endow with good looks in His own mysterious ways. A plain-looking, homely type of girl need not envy her better-looking sisters because men are more likely to make passes at her than at girls who resemble Marilyn Monroe or Prema Narayan. He makes good-looking lasses haughty and arrogant and only gigolo types have the confidence to approach them. That is why the plainer-looking have a better time with men and end up making better marriages than pretty ones who seldom have a satisfying sex life and usually make disastrous marriages.

It started at one thirty on a cold Tuesday morning in January when Martin Turner, Street performer and, in his own words, apprentice gigolo, tripped over a body in front of the West Portico of St. Paul's at Covent Garden. Martin, who was none too sober himself

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There's always women who show up who... they don't really want a baby, you know? They're just lonely. And you kind of feel like a gigolo here. You're supposed to look good. Charm the women, make them feel comfortable. You just don't have sex with them.

Warden wore his comparatively new tan suit of Forstmann tropical worsted with the saddle-stitched lapels that had cost him $120 tourist prices, and that he saved for great occasions. But all the way into town he was furious with himself for coming. His hand hurt him and was swollen fatly and that also was her fault. He wished furiously he had stayed with Pete and the guys, forgetting how miserable he had been with them. He wished furiously he had left her and the rest of these middle-class society women to the gigolos who were neurotic enough themselves to be able to understand them. He wished furiously a lot of things. Once he even wished furiously he was dead and in hell. He knew then that he was in love. - From Here to Eternity ; James Jones.

A lobster bisque ought to be the crowning glory of the potager. And this one was excellent. Silky as a gigolo’s compliment and fishy as a chancellor’s promise.

Sonnet for Thunder Lovers and Primary Colors” When Sweet Nothings Just Don’t Cut It You’re more than soda fizz, than sparklers lit for kids at play, than fireflies’ flit in sky. You spin around my heart and up my thigh with the whistle and boom of a bottle rocket. Baby, those other jugglers’ gigolo tricks— magician’s spell and mime’s unspoken sigh— don’t turn my head, don’t catch my ear or eye, but your mercury rolls in my hip pocket. Some women like the subtle hints, require a pastel touch, a whispered cry and blush, but not me; I am all hyperbole. Your howls of red, your strokes of green sapphire, your cayenne kiss, serrano pepper rush from lip to nape of knee will do for me. from Rattle #12, Winter 1999. Tribute to Latino/Chicano Poets

It's said that within every story there's a vacuum just waiting to be filled with fantasies and fabrications.

You know, there are some people who want something, crave it even, but they're too proud to admit it, even to themselves. Then they despise, or belittle, or harm whatever it is. Almost as though mocking the object of their desire will stop them from wanting it. Do you get what I mean, sweetie?

[Henry:] Was thinking last night apropos of “Mile. Claude” and Germaine that it was a pity that women could not enjoy gigolos in the same way as men enjoy a whore.

Within days of Wells’s proclamation, the dogs were loosed upon his dandy. First to attack this new gigolo bard was London’s National Portrait Gallery.