- A man living off the earnings or gifts of a woman, esp. a younger man supported by an older woman in return for sexual attentions and companionship.
- A male professional dancing partner or escort.
- 1922; from the French masc. form of gigole meaning tall, thin woman: dancing girl; prostitute perhaps from the verb gigoter “to move the shanks.”
I played golf one day with a general surgeon who was a close personal friend. He was, in fact, more of a surgical dilettante who only had to work part time because his wife made a six-figure annual salary in real estate sales. He had been married for about thirty years and was not only a devout Catholic, but was a good family man to his two children. Infidelity was never a consideration.
Several years before that he confided to me that his wife’s personality was often difficult to deal with, including a labile temper; stating that if there was any such thing as a battered husband, it would be himself. On occasion he had to dodge flying dishes or pots and pans, among other things, with the situation becoming especially bad when both his daughter and his wife had simultaneous PMS; a curious phenomenon that happens to women living in close proximity. Those were the days when he played thirty-six holes.
But he had married her, and given his high ethically moral standards, there was never a consideration other than to stick it out, for better or for worse… with never the smallest intimation to infidelity.
Even if he did have an affair he would not have survived his wife’s ire, because she would have ripped his nuts off before serving him with divorce papers. Also given their salary differential he would then have had to move into a trailer park and live in a double-wide.
This scenario was pointedly brought home several years later when another one of my friends on the medical staff cheated on his wife with a bimbo nurse, who had a notorious penchant for screwing married men and breaking up homes. In losing his wife, his house and his children, he subsequently bemoaned the fact that he was one of the Hamptons wealthiest homeless men until he finally relocated to a rented basement apartment.
I was then taken aback when one day my surgeon friend turned to me as we were walking down the first fairway, and blurted out that his secret life’s ambition was to become a Gigolo. He floored me when he said that he would be very happy one day to have a chance at landing a trophy bride. That was all well and good, I thought, but cautioned him that everything has a price to pay and knowing his wife’s temperament, he might want to reconsider.
I then told him a story I heard at a cardiology conference as recounted by a senior member of a cardiac transplantation team from a major medical center in Houston, Texas.
Transplantation surgery requires critical medical evaluation; along with paying diligent attention to physical as well as social and emotional factors. Transplant organs are hard to come by, tissue matches are difficult at best, and the entire process is enormously expensive.
Apparently in the early days of the hospital’s program, the team had transplanted a new heart into a handsome, muscular thirty-eight-year-old man whose own heart had succumbed to a viral infection. He was described as a personably charming Adonis, who made the nurses turn their heads and swoon when he walked by them in the hospital’s corridors. He was Mr. Atlas personified; buffed, beautiful, magnetically seductive and oozed sexuality from every pore.
Everything went well with both the surgery and his recuperation, at which point he was told he could go back to work. Everything then was fine until a number of months later when he was brought into the hospital DOA, with a bullet hole shot straight through the middle of his brand new heart. It seems that despite the fact of excellent medical screening, not enough diligence had been applied to his social history; while having been distracted by his good looks and fabulous physique, no one had bothered to dig beneath the surface to find out what he really did for a living.
After a forensics investigation it soon became apparent that his occupation was that of a high priced male ‘escort’ who had catered to a bevy of wealthy housewives in one of Houston’s upscale neighborhoods. Apparently over some considerable period of time, principally by word of mouth alone, he had built up quite the chic clientele.
His good looks spoke for itself, and as his reputation preceded him, he was becoming legendary in a small circle of bored, horny, sexually frustrated women who had way too much time and far too much money on their hands. Many of these women were beautiful trophy second wives anyway who liked the accoutrements of wealth, but who either did not enjoy being ignored all day, or in the pre-Viagra era were lamenting the poor performance of their spouses’ soon to be vestigial genital organs: the old dying genital soldiers.
The gigolo’s career came to a sudden fateful halt when a particularly suspicious and jealous husband, having found out the truth from a private detective, enticed the man to come to his house one day under the false pretense that his rutting wife would be at home waiting for him with both open arms as well as openly spread legs.
The last thing he remembered was ringing the doorbell.
But this was Texas, where because screwing around with another man’s wife is considered to be a premier social faux pas; the homicide was deemed perfectly justifiable.
After the fact, the entire transplant screening process was revamped and certain exclusion criteria were applied to some considered high risk occupations, of which the category of “professional gigolo” was certainly added to the list. It was then strongly suggested to these patients during preoperative psychological counseling that these as well as certain other types of jobs be abandoned or at least be grossly modified.
Good looks can be deceiving. Beauty and charm can be disarming. Therefore, for all those bored, lonely or dissatisfied married folks out there: if ever considering taking on a lover, also remember first and foremost that one should never judge that book by its cover.
I’m just a gigolo, and everywhere I go,
People know the part I’m playin’.
Pay for every dance, sellin’ each romance,
Ooohh what they’re sayin’.
There will come a day, when youth will pass away,
What will they say about me?
When the end comes I know, there was just a gigolo
Life goes on without me.
(Lou Bega: Just A Gigolo ©zap-letras.com)