The Forbidden Gigolo

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The room was engulfed in darkness.

My phone was the only one that glowed—alive, accusing, restless.

I should have been asleep at forty-four. Compliant. Respected. I played the part of the good wife.

Rather, my fingers shook as they frantically navigated the screen:

The meaning of Gigolo.

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard the word “Gigolo”-but tonight it demanded meaning.

The word means when a woman gives a man money for love, or bluntly speaking, for sex.

A woman pays a man. My pulse stumbled, like guilt tripping over hunger

My chest lifted. I opened my mouth. My heart was racing.

Lover and friend.

In my world, dust was once, but now it was sharp, dangerous, and promising.

Ads suddenly appeared on my screen as if they had heard me.

Private and secure. Women’s companions on your terms.

I ought to have moved on.

I didn’t.

He was there. More of a trap than a picture.

A smile that was more promise than pose curled lips.

I could see dark eyes looking at me through the glass.

A jolt went through my legs. Warmth. Disgrace. Desire.

My nipples felt like they had been waiting for him for years as they pressed against my blouse.

“Insanity,” I muttered. My thumb continued to move. I couldn’t get my eyes to close.

The room became darker and heavier. The air felt complicit as well.

And I understood that I wasn’t merely watching.

I had already started to fall.

By the time I locked my phone, I had already unlocked something in myself.

⸻

The TV Program

The madness had roots. It had begun that afternoon, glowing on the TV.

The anchor’s voice filled the living room:

Elite agencies provide discreet male escorts for women. Once taboo, this trend is becoming more prevalent in urban life.

I felt a surge of heat. My pallu had been drawn tighter across my chest.

“World of shamelessness,” I whispered. “Even women now…”

Riya chuckled next to me. My daughter—twenty-one years old. Sharp and modern.

“Don’t be shocked, Mom. Women also have needs. There are others besides men.”

I was shaken by the word needs. I also had them once.

Then, almost in collusion, Riya leaned in.

“Do you know Neha’s mother, Padma aunty? That’s what I’ve heard she does. Take a look at her glowing face.”

Padma Khandelwal. The silent widow of the colony. Silent and always pale. But lately—a softer smile, tinted lips, brighter saris.

At the time, I hadn’t given it much thought. However, the pieces clicked in ways that burned tonight as I stared at the advertisements on my phone.

I didn’t realize then that a single word could become an infection.

⸻

The Party of the Kitty

But whispers always travel faster than news. The same word floated into our kitty party, dressed in laughter.

I had sat among women wearing vibrant saris a few weeks prior, with wine glasses full and bangles clinking.

Then, radiant as a bride, Padma entered.

A woman smirked and whispered:

“Rasoiya rakh liya hai lagta hai Padma ne apni bhookh ke liye naya.”

(Padma appears to have hired a new chef to satisfy her appetite.)

Silly laughter erupted.

I assumed they meant a cook, and I laughed nervously.

But as I looked at that man’s photo tonight, I realized.

Not a cook.

A man.

A man to fill the void left by her deceased husband.

Fire tightened in my stomach.

⸻

The Book

I heard Riya’s voice again:

“The Kiss Quotient, Maa. A novel in which a woman hires a man. Not filthy, but romantic. A bestseller.”

I had brushed her off. I searched later, in private.

It was a novel by some author, Helen Hoang.

The house slept. Only the blue glow of my phone watched me type her name—Helen Hoang.

A lonely woman who paid for sex—lessons that turned into love—was described in the synopsis.

I put it on my bookmarks. I never ventured to read more.

But being aware that there was such a story… I was shaken.

⸻

The Rewind: My Matrimony

This wasn’t always the case.

It was a dream that led to my marriage. He was lustful, focused, and charming.

I was impressionable, young, and insatiably tactile. During those mornings, afternoons, and breathless nights, we devoured one another.

Cracks, however, murmured in. I was surprised by the scent in his dress that I didn’t possess. I found lipstick stains. He disappeared some nights. His extra-marital affairs evolved from rumors to facts.

He turned to stone when I protested and pleaded with him to stop.

“Meera. Don’t go too far. You are aware of your position.”

Sharp as a slap, but quiet.

And he punished me by not having sex with me after that night. Weeks after weeks, he didn’t touch me.

And whenever he came, his arrival was abrupt, harsh, and devoid of love. Instead of softening, he spat his poison into me, and my body remained dry.

It was expected to be quiet. Unimaginable—divorce.

I put on sarees like armor, smiled like masks, and swallowed my sorrow.

Riya noticed. Kids always do. She saw her father drifting, her mother getting smaller, and the distance.

Silence was better for her, I told myself.

However, my world was already in ruins.

⸻

The Slow Burn

The servants moved around me like clockwork. The marble floors were polished until I could see my reflection in them, and the chandeliers glowed every morning.

It’s been a month.

As a wealthy woman, my day began with the usual tasks of placing orders, overseeing, and making corrections.

“Savita, please add extra sugar to Sahib’s tea.”

“Kamla, before Riya’s classes, make sure her clothes are pressed.”

“The garden needs to look new before the guests arrive, Ramesh.”

I was able to utter every command with ease. My life had not changed on the outside. In my palace, a queen.

However, I had a secret inside that no crown could conceal.

⸻

The Recollection That Persisted

The words came back every night when the house was quiet.

Gigolo’s meaning.

I made an effort to bury it. I prayed, went to temples, had kitty parties, and went shopping to divert my attention. However, my fingers repeatedly let me down by entering those words into Google in the seclusion of my room.

Each search turned up new information. Women like me—wives, widows, mothers—who had dared to cross the line were mentioned in articles, forums, and whispers.

A month of confidentiality. A month of shaking.

I browsed a lot of these websites, each with its own invitation. Nearly all of them started with a form that needed to be filled out. By requesting only an email address and not a real name, address, or phone number, they pledged privacy. Furthermore, even that might be a fake mask put on for the occasion.

I opened that form more than once. I typed my name and age and waited.

My breath caught before the last step every time. I kept my thumb over the submit button.

And each time, like a wicked prayer book, I closed the phone and held it to my chest.

One side was temptation. On the other, guilt.

And being rejected made the fire inside of me burn hotter.

⸻

The Laughter of Riya

With her easy laughter, her friends on video calls, and her youth radiating like sunlight, Riya glided through the days. Sometimes she made fun of me—

“Maa, doesn’t Padma aunty look younger now? Perhaps she has a secret that you are unaware of.”

I would give her a gentle reprimand, but the words made my stomach turn.

I was now aware of Padma’s secret. At least I thought I was.

My silence grew as Riya vanished into her room at night. She enjoyed her freedom, her world, and her laughter.

All I had was my phone and an insatiable hunger.

⸻

Husband’s Distancing

My husband stayed the same throughout it all: cold, irritable, and quick to snap at the servants, but he never touched me.

He only came to my side once during the entire month, hurried and wordless.

His presence was laden with disdain as he strode into the room that evening. Without saying anything, he seized my arm, bruising it, and pushed me onto the bed, face down. His force caused the mattress to creak, and the impact sent a shockwave through my body.

Without even looking at my face, he growled, “Turn over,” his voice as sharp as a blade. My breath caught as I hesitated, but I had to comply when his hand clamped harder on my shoulder.

Shaking, I muttered, “Don’t you even want to see me?”

“Stop talking,” he spat in a disgusted tone. “You can stop sniveling at me.”

He didn’t care and didn’t pause.

He became agitated and muttered something under his breath before spitting it in my direction:

“Hamesha sookhi rehti ho, tumse zyada behtar hoti randi bhi.”

(“You’re constantly dry. You are worst than a whore.”)

His thrusts were not as deep as the words. And then I had a thought—a bitter truth that I could not get rid of. He didn’t come here to get me. He was here because he couldn’t find release elsewhere, or because his usual female friends had turned him away.

After a few moments, he grunted and turned away without looking.

That was done for him.

For me, it was just suffering, embarrassment, and the nauseating realization that I had only served as a stand-in when his other needs weren’t satisfied.

When he was done, he suddenly withdrew, leaving me exposed and cold. Before my skin had even cooled from his touch, he rolled over, his back a wall of indifference.

The word gigolo burned in my chest as I sobbed quietly into my pillow that night.

⸻

The Secret of Padma

A courier accidentally brought Padma’s Amazon package to my house one afternoon.

Ordinarily, I would have instructed a servant to give it back. However, Riya’s statement stuck in my head: Padma aunty glows because she uses someone.

Suddenly, the package seemed like a justification. To my own surprise, I said, “I’ll take it.”

⸻

At Padma’s House

Her neat, slightly incense-scented home was smaller than mine. Her eyes widened and then softened when she opened the door to see me.

“Meera ji! You came by yourself?”

I smiled as I gave her the package. “It was en route. Additionally, Riya frequently discusses Neha, so it seemed appropriate to drop by.”

Her face softened at the mention of her daughter. As though my visit were a privilege, she ushered me inside.

As I looked around the room, the kettle whistled; the simple, well-maintained furnishings were nothing like the opulence of my own house. But when Padma came back, her lips were a bold pink, and her saree was clean. The ease with which she glowed disturbed me.

⸻

The Discussion

We talked about the temple function, our daughters’ classes, and even the ridiculous cost of tomatoes while sipping tea. However, the true query raged within me.

I tried to sound casual as I said, “I heard that you’ve hired a new cook.”

Padma’s forehead raised. “Cook? No, I like to cook for myself.”

I spoke more softly. “Someone joked that you had found a cook to satisfy your hunger at the kitty party.”

I was startled by her sharp, fearless laugh. “Oh. Hunger. I do have it, yes. However, you are aware that I am not hungry for that food.”

I tightened my throat and gripped my pallu. “You shouldn’t say things like that out loud, Padma. People talk.”

Her voice was unapologetic, but her smile softened.

“Do you understand what it’s like to go without sex, Meera? It’s punishment, not just loneliness.”

I became irritable. “You give the impression that a woman cannot survive without it.”

Her eyes locked with mine.

“She can, of course. A woman can survive without touch, just as she can survive without color, music, or laughter. What sort of life is that, though? Living is not the same as merely existing.”

Her words stuck with me. I recalled nights when my husband was not looking at me, and the one time he had taken me—rough, hurried, and only using me because he had failed somewhere else.

I sighed, trying to remain calm. “Even so, Padma ji, you had the option of selecting dignified men. Someone worthy. Not this.”

Her eyes lost their warmth. With a thump, she put down her cup.

“Dignity?” she asked again. “I tried after my husband passed away. With his best friend, once. He reminded me of the ‘favor’ he had done, speaking as though he owned me. With a younger staff of my husband, another time. He smothered me with demands while clinging to me like a child. I was viewed as a woman by both—only as something to be proud of or control.”

Her voice became steady again as she let out a sharp exhale.

“That is the distinction. Normal men have desires, ego, and jealousy. Professionals don’t. Who you are outside of that room doesn’t matter to them. Your life is not taken with your body. They simply give. And they depart after it is finished. No guilt. No debt. Just relief.”

Heat rose to my cheeks as I tightened my hold on my cup. Her words sounded more like truth than confession because of her composure.

I attempted to scoff. “You make it sound like a business transaction.”

“It is,” she said calmly. “And the beauty lies in that. The power is yours once you pay. Here you hold the keys.”

“I could never,” I muttered. Her words, however, sparked something inside of me that I was afraid to reveal.

Padma noticed. Although she didn’t ask, I could tell by her smile that she was aware.

⸻

The Repercussions

I was haunted by her voice that night:

It’s punishment, not loneliness.

Both of the men I tried with didn’t work out.

Experts make you whole.

You have the power.

My body betrayed me, and I trembled as I buried my face in the pillow. My release was abrupt, humiliating, and unavoidable.

My phone buzzed then.

A single unread WhatsApp message—from Padma.

Here’s the link in case you ever need it. Secure. Be discreet. Expert.

Like a forbidden key, the link glowed.

Even though I said in a whisper that I shouldn’t, I already knew in my heart that I would.