The Billionaire Bull: A Billionaire and Virgin Romance

by Romi Hart

  “What?” she says in surprise.

  “It’s an expression.”

  “How are we family? Nate is Reagan’s stepbrother. We’re not even sort of related. We’re barely friends.”

  “Yeah, Missus Technically Correct. Sure, fine. Whatever. But hey, Nate is like a brother to me. And Reagan’s your sister. So at least we understand that. It’s called mutual respect. I have respect for you.”

  I finally smile, as genuinely as I can do it. “And hey, I’m sorry about double dipping. I guess if I were germaphobic, you know, it is kind of a big deal.”

  “Yeah, it is," Lyndia says, laughing for once. “Because I do have a real thing about germs. I mean I know guys like you, just stick it anywhere, and don’t think twice. But for someone like me, it is really hard to not OCD on that kind of thing."

  I smile and furl my brow, trying to fathom what she just said. “I’m sorry, did you just say stick it anywhere? What…what…”

  “The chip. Double dipping?”

  “Right. I guess I just misheard you.”

  “Get your mind out of the gutter, Rey.”

  I laugh…and to my relief, she finally smiles back. At least she’s not a complete weirdo. And hey, now that she’s actually treating me like a human being she’s not half bad. Beautiful figure, a mysterious face. Definitely confident, even if she’s batshit crazy half the time. Not my type at all, and yet I feel a strange attraction to her.

  “Anyway, I’ll see you around Lyndia. And hey, you know, stranger things have happened. Maybe we can go out sometime.”

  “Go out?” she says in confusion. “Like to another charity event?”

  “No, I mean…like normal people. Like a man-woman thing. A date. Ever heard of it?”

  “You’re asking me out on a date?” she says, suddenly shrinking her head back.

  “Did I break the social justice warrior code or something?” I say with a grouse.

  “For god’s sakes, Rey!” she screeches back, definitely not smiling or flirting. “And here I was starting to think you were actually a sweet guy.”

  “What?”

  “But no, you did this just so you could hit on me.”

  “WHAT?”

  “I’ve seen your type before. Nice guys who do nice things for a woman and then expect the woman to put out. I mean, after all, she owes him for being so nice, right?”

  “What the actual fuck!” I reply.

  “It’s the whole implication that you think I owe you sex for helping me out of a jam. Call it what it is, Rey. It’s sexism and it perpetuates rape culture.”

  I laugh out loud and struggled to keep my jaw from dropping. This girl is crazy!

  “And you’re laughing right now but it just goes to show you how men really see women, as sexual objects. Just for the record, Rey, although I do appreciate you helping me out, I am NOT going to go out with you. Ever. And there’s no way you can guilt me into going out with you.”

  “First of all Lyndia, I was being nice.”

  “Uh huh, sure. Like I buy that.”

  “And second, I don’t ever have to beg, manipulate, pleads or coerce anyone into sex. EVER! All the women I’ve been out with, I didn’t scheme my way into their panties. They begged me to fuck them. Each and every one of them. They used ME for sex because they knew what I wanted, and they wanted it from ME.”

  “Oh yeah right. All guys say stuff like that.”

  “The fuck! I’m not any guy! I’m REY FUCKING RAMIREZ! And I’m the homerun hitter everyone’s talking about, the World Series winning team, the New York Yankees! Don’t you read Sports Illustrated?!”

  “No,” Lyndia replies coldly. “Lately, I’ve been watching more cerebral sports like Internet chess and televised poker.”

  That’s it! I’m gonna kill this girl! Lock me up and throw away the key! She did NOT just compare my sport to fucking CHESS!

  Lyndia

  I really love glitter cappuccino in the morning. I love the flavor of it and yes, I happen to love the fact that it actually glitters! It’s a specialty creation from Mumbai, Gold and Diamond Cappuccino, three dollars a cup and worth it.

  I doubly adore my coffee time because it I’ve always felt it was my way of bonding with Reagan. Through the years of disagreement, anger, resentment, and “don’t you dare marry him” sentiments, we’ve always found a way to keep our sisterhood going strong.

  In fact, Reagan’s actually enjoying our conversations again, not just because I got her addicted to cappuccino, but also because Rey Ramirez has been the center of attention lately. And I’m sure she loves talking about that jackass rather than me criticizing her husband Nicholas—as usual.

  “Well, that's what I told him," I repeat to Reagan. "That just because he helped me out doesn't entitle him to a date. I really hate it when guys put that kind of pressure on girls, as if we’re required to say yes to be polite.”

  “Well sis, is it possible that he wasn’t actually trying to manipulate you into bed? Maybe he was just, you know, being nice?”

  “Oh really?” I say with a raised eyebrow. “You do seem awfully fond of Rey Ramirez, sis. Are you suddenly a baseball fan?” I send her a devilish grin.

  “No, no!”

  “Uh huh, you’re just very concerned about him, I know.”

  I taunt her with one more knowing look. Even a complete dolt would know that Reagan’s marriage is failing. That tends to happen when you’re married to a complete asshole like Nicholas. But I know my sister. And I know she has the hots for Rey.

  “Come on, it’s not like that,” Reagan says with nervous laughter. “I just think, you know, I’m friends with Nate and Rey is his best friend. We’re like a family or something.”

  “Yeah or something. A really screwed up family.”

  “Call me crazy but I really think Rey…you know, he’s arrogant, he’s a rich kind of jerk sometimes. But my suspicion is that he likes you.”

  “Yeah right. He’s the kind of guy who likes everyone with a skirt. Or jeans. Or long hair. Or a vagina. I deal with sexist pigs like Rey all the time around our neighborhood.”

  “Well, the difference is that he likes you. But he doesn’t really like all those girls he uh…dates. He’s just a nice guy in that respect.” Reagan laughs.

  “Really? A nice guy? A nice guy who goes through that many women in a day’s time?”

  “Wait a minute. Are you slut-shaming him?” Reagan asks with a knowing smile. “I never thought I’d hear you slut-shaming somebody. You once told me that the worst thing about rape culture is how sexist men shame women for being sexual. But now you’re saying that you expect guys to be celibate? He’s a sports star. Women want him. You really expect him to say no? Wouldn’t that make him rude.”

  I bite my lip and stare down my sister, knowing she’s got me beat. But still…very weird this fixation she has on Rey Ramirez. Not to mention the weird thing she has with Nate Jiggur, another womanizing pig.

  But I have to admit one thing…

  “Okay…maybe you’re right. Maybe I did overreact to his act of kindness. Maybe it was like a nervous thing, that he hits on women when he can’t think of anything else to say.”

  “Definitely. From what Nate tells me, Rey is a standup guy. And it’s not like he said anything about sex. He just offered to take you out. Free dinner, probably a fancy place, you know.”

  “He has that much money?”

  “He’s in the MLB. Major League Baseball?”

  “Ah, I really only watch international sports.”

  “I know,” Reagan laughs. “Listen…just my advice. Don’t assume the worst of everyone you meet. You’re always going to be disappointed that way. And you’re going to turn everybody against you. I mean, so you hate Rey. But what if you scare away your future husband because you’re always talking about how terrible men are.”

  I give her a pouty, resentful look…which I know she’s smart enough to interpret as surrender. I can’t bring myself to say you’re right, but I k
now there’s truth in what she’s saying. Maybe Rey really was just being a gentleman for once in his life.

  “So…you really think he likes me? Even though I’m not his type?”

  “How do you know you’re not his type?”

  “Because I don’t even watch baseball, I mean more than just the World Series. And didn’t you once tell me that he likes…older women? You know like…like…”

  I give Reagan a bashful smile.

  “Are you implying I’m old?” she laughs.

  “Nooo! You’re a total cougar though. And that’s what I heard Rey likes.”

  “Well I’m off the menu,” she snaps back.

  “That only makes them want you more.”

  “The topic is YOU not me, sis. Just keep an open mind is all I’m saying. Me personally, IF it was me, I’d be jazzed up to date a millionaire. But hey, it’s your life.”

  “Hmmm. Well, money doesn’t matter to me,” I reply. “But I don’t think Rey is my type because he’s a player. And I’m not. I am single but I don’t feel the need to date every cute guy I meet. Maybe that’s just one of things we don’t have in common.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Sooo…if you see Rey again or Nate, you should let him know that.”

  “Know what?”

  “That I am not interested in dating him. Because I don’t date players. It’s not a Feminazi thing. I just date guys who are real, you know?”

  Reagan gives me a funny look and opens her eyes wider, before nodding and ending the conversation.

  “You know it’s an interesting debate,” I add, already thinking ten steps ahead like I tend to do. “The whole male and female perspective is very different when you think about it.”

  “You’re learning quickly,” Reagan says with a sweet smile.

  “It gives me an idea for an article, actually. I’ve been dealing with writer’s block lately and I think I could turn this into a piece for the New York Times.”

  “Really? That’s exciting!”

  “Yeah…I really think we need to reevaluate dating etiquette for the modern age, since so many people are confused. I’d really like to make an objective commentary and open people’s minds a little bit.”

  “Oh yeah? Cool! What do you think the title will be?”

  “Hmmm…”

  Salon: “Why All Men Are Rapists”

  by Lyndia Rouge

  * * *

  “…It’s about time we accept that men, whether consciously or not, are primarily concerned with spreading their seed at the expense of the woman they intend to mate with. We are genetically disposed to reject inferior semen and male volunteers that offer our fertile wombs this DNA. But men are genetically disposed to volunteer indiscriminately because their survival depends on quantity, not quality. Womankind, on the other hand, must evaluate each specimen, determining whether such a man is truly worthy of her fertility.

  While most men have left behind the primitive habits of lower primates and do not try to illegal to “rape women”, they still are guilty of perpetuating elements of rape culture. For example, practically all men objectify women sexually. They feel entitled to talk about their large breasts, bubble butt, or even speculating about how “good” a woman might be at oral sex. They treat women like sexual objects, figuring that their fantasizing and degrading comments about women are sexual experiences they are entitled to as free men—regardless of consent.

  I recently spoke to a well-known baseball player, one who shall remain nameless but who is a homerun hitter for the Yankees who notoriously has a predilection for “milfs”.

  His gut reaction to meeting me was not to become my friend or ask me about my life, but rather, to speculate on when I wanted to “date him” since he was “very popular with women.” It was a sexist comment and yet a sin that men continue to tolerate…”

  Rey

  “This woman is crazy! She’s not a bitch, I’m sorry for ever implying that she was one. Because dogs are awesome. Dogs are man’s best friends. Dogs are loyal, friendly and compassionate. But this crazy voodoo witch is insane! She wrote an article about me! What kind of insane person does that? Who has a bad date and runs off to tell 20 million people about it, blaming an entire gender for the foibles of one conversation? No, no, no, no, I’m through. From now on, I am shunning her. I will never speak to this woman again. In fact, I’m getting a restraining against her tomorrow morning. She is a stalker, total stalker, like the Manson family, this girl.”

  Nate snickers like a school girl, finding genuine amusement in my suffering.

  “Oh, you like that? You think I deserve this? What a good friend you are."

  “Dude, can I just say something?”

  “Say whatever you want, I don’t care. I’m through with it. I’m tired of dealing with politics and with women’s lib.”

  “I don’t think what Lyndia is doing is feminist or anything like that,” Nate says. “In fact…well…I think it’s kind of funny what’s going on here, actually.”

  “Oh, you like that? You like my suffering at the hands of a mad woman? I’m not dealing with a normal twenty-year-old white girl. I’m dealing with fucking Tyler Perry. A crazy ass black man pretending to be a woman, dressing up like a white girl. That’s what Lyndia is. That’s the level of insanity we’re dealing with here.”

  Nate cracks up laughing again. “Dude, I can’t believe you don’t understand what’s going on here.”

  “What?”

  “She’s playing you!”

  “Playing me?”

  “Come on, dude. Lyndia is obviously playing you because she likes you.”

  “No, this isn’t a game, Nate.”

  “Like hell. How many times have you given a woman a hard time, flirting with her and pushing her around a little bit? Every player knows that getting a reaction is better than getting no reaction. You didn’t even notice who she was until she busted your balls a little bit.”

  I quiet down and think it over. Holding my forehead, trying to figure out if it’s even remotely possible that someone is playing the player.

  “You mean…she’s mindfucking me?”

  “Yeah. You’re like the guy equivalent of a hot milf to a smart girl like that. She knows the only way you’ll obsess over her is if she treats you like crap.”

  “Jesus Christ. I…I never even thought about it.”

  “Well who talked to who first? Did you approach her?”

  “No. She spoke to me. She accused me of breaking food etiquette.”

  “When?”

  “Right around the time, I was…totally checking out that hottie from the party. Oh my God, you're right!"

  “See? Do I know women or do I know women?”

  I shake my head in disbelief. I can’t believe I didn’t see it. Playing a player. I’ll be damned. Well, I got to put a stop to this. No more games. From now on, I’m calling her out on her bullshit.”

  “Just be sure…”

  “What?”

  “I’m just saying,” Nate says with a smirk, “if you’re going to play mind games with a master, you better sure as hell win.”

  “Hey man, don’t worry about me. I can be a player on and off the field. And oh yeah I can play dirty. If she wants to play ME, the master player, she’s got another thing coming. I never strike out. I always score and I always win.”

  Hearing that Lyndia is playing me like a piano got me all riled up. I decided to stalk her Facebook account last night, which is where I heard that she’s going to be coming out tonight, in an Uber (naturally).

  Namely, to Larry’s Sports Tavern. A dance club downtown with live music and cheap hard drinks. I’ve decided to pay Lyndia a little visit.

  Not sure what I’m going to say yet, but I’m good at improvising. I think I’ll show up, be extra kind, and respectful…and then smack her down with a neg-hit compliment right when she least suspects it. I’m going to let her know that I ain’t playing her game. I’m the one ready to play ball.

 
; Damn, not to get distracted from my goal of revenge tonight, but there sure are some hot ladies waiting at the bar tonight. I scan around my lovely surroundings and look for the skinny, goofy looking twenty-something nerd hiding among hot milfs. I’m sure she sticks out like a sore thumb.

  There she is! I squint my eyes and make sure that the woman I’m seeing is actually Lyndia. Sure as hell. I’d recognize that hipster figure anywhere. Skinny with a tiny little belly. Wearing some babushka hat with a striped pattern sweater and dark pants. Look like she’s here to make a statement.

  NOT look beautiful and have a good time. No, not Lyndia. She’s here to make people uncomfortable. That sounds like her.

  I shake my head in shame as I walk up to greet the little social justice warrior queen. I’m dressed in a casual blazer and look damn good, which explains all the looks I’m getting from women on the dance floor. But tonight my goal isn’t flirting around. It’s settling a vendetta.

  “Soo LYNDIA…” I say, looking cocky and sweet.

  She turns around and makes eye contact.

  But just as her eyes meet mine, my eyes drift down…

  What the hell is she wearing?

  I notice she’s not actually wearing pants—no, she’s wearing red yoga pants. And she is leaving…nothing to the imagination. Her yoga pants are super tight maroon colored leggings that show a well-defined outline of her cute little muppet.

  Jesus Christ, I can basically see her pussy lips! What the hell is she wearing…and uh…uh…

  Fuck. Now she’s staring at me and I’m at a complete loss for words.

  “Yes?” Lyndia says in sarcasm.

  “Um…hey,” I say shaking off the image of her perfectly sculpted camel toe. Remember man…repulsive personality. Try to stay focused. “Uhhh…I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Yeah, what a strange coincidence,” she says with a suspicious face. “Should one of us leave now or something?”

  “Nah. Enjoy your drink. And hey, have a good night.”

  “Oh yeah, right. I’ll sure try.” She says, rolling her eyes not too subtly.