The Billionaire Bull: A Billionaire and Virgin Romance

by Romi Hart

  “And yet I’m such a disgusting man that I’m still chasing over-forty bar sluts. Probably my low self-esteem. I don’t deserve you, kid. See, I’m just too intimidated to score with you. Life’s funny that way.”

  “You’re an asshole, Rey Ramirez.”

  Lyndia opens the limo door in a rage, not even waiting for Charles to come to a complete stop. But at least we got her home. She leaves in a huff and slams the door hard.

  I roll the window down.

  “Yup, the kind of asshole who reminds you to take your damned purse with you.”

  “Gimme! Now get the fuck off my property!”

  Charles and I cut up all the way home. Boy, this is a story for the ages.

  Caller ID says it’s Lyndia calling me. Big surprise. Ten hours ago, she was stumbling inside her house, drunk off her pretty little ass. Now she’s probably calling me to apologize. Predictable. But I sure as hell deserve a thank you. A lesser man not only would have taken advantage of her last night. He would have also left her stranded there. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t leave friends drunk. Even friends of friends. Even friends of friends who hate me.

  I grab the phone and grin.

  “Well, well, sober up yet?”

  “I wasn’t drunk!” she shoots back. “I was tipsy. And even if I was drunk, Rey, that gave you no right to pull that father figure bullshit that you did.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m allowed to get drunk! Who the hell put you in charge of my life? I don’t need a daddy. I was looking for a date. And you pulled the same male chauvinist behavior you always do.”

  My jaw drops and never closes. I don’t know whether to laugh or shriek.

  “I’m waiting for my apology!” she says.

  “ME?! Apologize to you?!”

  “That’s right!”

  “You’re the one who got drunk!”

  “I was NOT drunk, Rey.”

  “Yes, you were."

  “Just because a woman finds you funny and flirts with you a little does not mean she’s drunk!”

  “Well…well…”

  “Yeah! Dipshit. Maybe from your perspective, you thought I was drunk. But I was just having fun.”

  “So…when you came to the limo…”

  “Yeah?” she says, followed by a full stop.

  “And when you…I mean…you really weren’t drunk? You were just hitting on me?”

  She laughs softly. “Well, that depends. Are you admitting that you thought about it?"

  “Of course I thought about it,” I say, a little warm from the excitement of admitting how breathless I felt in that moment of temptation. “But I just assumed…”

  “Of course you ass-umed. Because you’re an ass, Rey.”

  “I don’t hit on drunk girls. It’s no challenge for me. It’s unfair to them. It’s cheating.”

  “How noble. And if I really was drunk, I’d have appreciated your heroism. But I was not drunk. The first hint that a girl is drunk? When she tells you she’s drunk. Idiot.”

  “But your breath wreaked of whiskey.”

  She laughs scornfully. “What would you have preferred my breath smell like after drinking for an hour? Tuna?”

  “Well…”

  “Just admit it, Rey. You blew it last night. You were so determined to be this alpha male dickhead that you actually just rudely sent me home, without my consent. I’m not a fucking fifteen-year-old kid.”

  “Well-!”

  “And stop calling me kiddo. I hate that word. Let me tell you something else, Rey.”

  “Please do. I mean you’re already on a roll.”

  “I know the real reason you rejected me last night. And it wasn’t because you thought I was drunk.”

  “Oh really? Then WHY?”

  “Because of age discrimination.”

  “What?”

  “You resent my youth. Your ‘thing’ with milfs is actually a prejudice against women your own age and younger than you are. You resent us. That’s why you don’t chase. And why you make all sorts of weird rules about not taking advantage of a woman who likes to drink.”

  “Rules? It’s not a rule.”

  “Anyway, I have nothing more to say to you. I’m tired of wasting my time trying to explain dating behavior to misogynists and ageists like you.”

  I laugh hard, partly in disbelief and partly because this sicko dynamic is actually working. I admit, I’m being played for a change…and I kind of like it.

  “Lyndia!”

  “What?”

  “You’re right. Okay? And yes, for the record, all I thought about last night was taking you right in that limousine. You looked so…HOT. So…so…your pants were so tight…your lips were so…”

  Silence.

  “I…I’m very attracted to you. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I rejected you because…I’m not usually attracted to younger girls. But you…you’re in my mind all the time. And you make me a little crazy. No, a lot crazy! I don’t know what to do with you. I don’t know how to react to you. But dammit, I crave conversation with you.”

  “Well…” she says in a softer and almost faint voice. “Too bad you missed your chance.”

  “Give me another chance,” I say boldly. Recklessly. Feeling inside the same way that my dick feels on the outside. Like just admitting my attraction to her feels so freeing. My whole body shudders thinking about kissing her. Taking advantage of her. Corrupting her just a little bit.

  Maybe it’s because she’s something “new”. The exact opposite of every girl I usually date. A girl I don’t have a lot in common with, but who I really desire. Who I want to get to know intimately…I want to argue with her. I want to talk, I want to fuck. I just want HER.

  “Another chance to what?”

  “I want you,” I say, getting a rush from talking to her the same way I talk to most women. As in, screw the friendship. I want romance. I want this desire in me satiated.

  “Well…that’s too bad,” she says with an evil little chuckle. “I’m not that kind of girl.”

  “What kind of a girl are you?”

  “A good girl.”

  “Then let me get to know you,” I say, a little desperately. The same way I feel, the same way I talk, right before I score with one of my usual groupies. But this time it’s different. This time she’s saying no…with a wink.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I want to do this, I want to…you know, date.”

  “But you don’t date,” she says with a throaty voice, toying with me.

  “I know. I hate dating.” I laugh at the thought. “But I’m willing to go on…you know, a respectable date with you. Because I like you, Lyn.”

  “My name is Lyndia, not Lynn.”

  “SOR-RY!” I spew out, pissed off. Attracted again. Still pissed off. Blood boiling. Damn, she's so good.

  “I don’t know…”

  “I want one date. That’s all. Then, I’ll leave you alone. No questions asked.”

  “Hmmm…” she says thoughtfully. “If I say yes, Rey, I want a real date. A dinner. A movie. Something respectful. And I don’t want you being a crude jerk the whole night. This is not about sex.”

  “I know.”

  “Because I don’t plan on having sex with you. I’m not your type, remember?”

  “Yeah…”

  “But…I will agree to dinner.”

  “Great. We’ll go to Ricardo’s. A great place, they serve Italian…”

  “I don’t like Italian.”

  “No trust me, it’s a great place.”

  “Then have fun going to Ricardo’s by yourself!” she snaps. “Because I don’t like Italian.”

  I crack up laughing again.

  “Go on!” she teases. “Follow up suggestion?”

  “Barney’s Grill? They serve drinks. Steak.”

  “Now you’re talking. See you then, Rey.”

  Her smile, her flirty voice, still torments me even after I hang up the phone. I don’t know if I d
id ANYTHING right in my courtship of Lyndia. But by God, something worked.

  Lyndia

  I’ll be the first to admit, I am confused about what I feel about Rey Ramirez. Maybe that’s the number one thing that men misunderstand about women. We really DON’T know how we feel, most of the time.

  We know when we DON’T like something. Like when a nice guy tries to suggest to me that I owe him sex, just because he buys me all sorts of shit. I hate manipulation.

  With someone like Rey, who really needs nothing from me, or from anyone else, I admit to feeling ambivalent. He doesn’t need me…sex is meaningless to him since he gets it for free whenever he wants. But why does that make me more curious?

  Why does he seem more interested in me now that I’ve rejected him? Why did I like him more when he rejected me?

  I don’t know…sometimes I think all these mind games are overrated. Maybe we don’t fuck each other because of logic or even emotion. Maybe all the games we play are just a dance, a prelude, to a decision our bodies have already made. We fuck because we’re attracted to each other. We play these games because we can’t just admit what we are.

  I stare at Rey across the table, sending him a coy look. Not one suggesting sex, because I’ve already decided I don’t want sex with him. I even wore a conservative brown knit sleeveless dress that reaches down to my ankles. No showing skin, no one to impress.

  Or even if I do, I’m not giving him sex because that’s exactly what he wants from me. But I’m not interested in giving him what he wants. I just want to know what makes him tick.

  “Dinner is nice,” he says. “Steak well done.”

  “It’s pretty good,” I reply, in good spirits. To my surprise, Rey hasn’t broken any of my “rules” yet, even the most arbitrary ones. He hasn’t cursed or talked about sex. He hasn’t insulted me, neg-hit me, or done anything passive aggressive. Contrary to his personality, he hasn’t even lectured or tried to argue with me. Mostly he’s just doing what I suppose a guy is supposed to do on a civilized date.

  “I love baseball because that’s what my father taught me and his grandfather taught him. Is it passed down by family? Probably.” He munches another bite, very focused on his food. Intense focus seems to be a characteristic of this man in sport, life, and hobby. “But I really do feel like I bond with my teammates. With the fans. We have a community of friends. It’s bigger than just a game. It’s a culture.”

  I nod, not politely, but curiously. I find myself attracted to him in a brand new way. His heart is showing. His humanity. Buried underneath the party animal, the slugger, the sportsman and the “nice guy” who’s not really so nice once you get to know him. There is a layer underneath all that. A boy who loves baseball.

  I find myself curious about why he loves the sport…what psychologically compels him to it? He mentioned his father but did he bond with family over the ball? Or could it be something genetically predisposed? Ancestral memory perhaps?

  Oh dear. Maybe I’m overthinking this too much. Maybe I should take more joy in the peripherals.

  His body. Lean, muscular. Manly but not ape-like in hair. I can see his chiseled chest and abs through his shirt. He likes showing off his muscles, his arms, particularly. His wavy black hair is intense to look at. Like ink, like a tidal wave. I feel vulnerable when he talks about who he really is as a person. But when I simply stare at him, admiring his body, his voice, his status…I feel desire. Hot, selfish urges.

  I don’t even know how to reconcile both desires. To seduce him or to get to know him. To play with his mind or to peer into his soul. I do know that when he talks, I listen captively. His intellect, his passion for the game is palpable.

  When he’s animated, I wait with baited breath. When he’s angry, about the world or even about me, I shiver in anticipation. What is he like when he’s out of control? When he’s boiling with rage?

  I really don’t know how I feel about his money, his status or his scores of women. Part of me wants to hate him for it. It’s opposite of me, isn’t it? And yet the idea that he takes an interest in me…an obsessive interest is flattering.

  I love the feeling of power that I have over him. Not merely saying no to his whims, but also in denying him the information he wants. He doesn’t want to know me, he wants to categorize me. He wants to think he knows me, so he can write me off as another conquest. But that’s not good enough. Maybe I crave his attention too much to let him get away with that.

  “Are you having fun?” he asks with an all too rare smile, free of deceit and cynicism.

  “Yes. You’ve done surprisingly well on a traditional date.”

  “Amazing, right?” he laughs.

  “I’m surprised you made it through the date without saying one offensive thing.”

  “I know! This whole new PC side of me is interesting, right? It’s like I just stick to subjects I enjoy, and I let everything else goes. It’s very liberating not to complain about all the things I despise about life.”

  “I love optimism. Don’t you?”

  “Of course. Negativity is unbecoming.”

  “What a delightful witticism!” I say in sarcasm, channeling my inner Jane Austen.

  I really am enjoying myself tonight, yet still surprisingly not compromising in my decision not to have sex with him. He seems more like a platonic friend tonight, which isn’t a bad thing. The idea of a man suffering through friendship to get to first base still appeals to me. He’s proving himself. He’s actually trying to impress me. I admire a man who knows the value of a good woman.

  “Well, I’ve certainly enjoyed our sexless date, Miss Rouge,” he says, looking dapper and charming in his black suit. “In fact, this may be the one formal date I’ve ever been on.

  “Oh really!” I say merrily. “How interesting that none of your previous paramours ever made you work for it.”

  “Well…such conversation is unbecoming of dinner, isn’t it?”

  I laugh at his sincerity. He even managed to avoid defiling our conversation with unruly talk of sex. He really is charming when he wants to be.

  “Anyway, let’s get out of here. I have to get up early for work tomorrow,” he says with a wink.

  “As do I!” I add. “But…I must say, I hope we can do it again.”

  “Definitely.”

  He scans the bill the waiter handed him and nods. “Two separate checks, please.” he says.

  He smiles at me. “So did we decide on a movie yet?”

  I stare at him. In horror.

  “How dare you.”

  He slowly loses his smile. “What?”

  “Did you just tell the waiter to bring two separate checks?”

  “Yeah?”

  “How dare you! I mean…what the hell, Rey?”

  “What?!”

  “I really thought…wow.” I laugh in bewilderment. The audacity of this man is amazing. “I really thought you were going to get through one civilized date without showing your raging misogyny.”

  “What the fuck?!” he explodes. “What are you talking about?!”

  “You asked ME on a date. Rey!”

  “So what?” he says with a hostile face. “I figured me paying for you was sexist pig behavior. After all, if a man buys a woman a fancy dinner that just means she has to blow him out of guilt, right? Isn’t that what they teach in your man-hating class?”

  “No, you’re wrong! You asked me to go out with you. I said yes. That puts the responsibility of payment on you. If I had asked you, or if we had mutually agreed to go out, then I would have paid my own way.”

  “Oh my God!” he says, avoiding my angry eyes which are now ready to duel. “I see what’s going on here. You’re CHEAP!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re cheap. You’re a miser. You’re an old Jewish woman. You’re a penny pincher, you’re a scammer!”

  “You’re out of line!” I say, getting up from the table in protest. “I will NOT be paying for my dinner tonight. You will. Because even tho
ugh you completely failed as a gentleman, I will hold you to your promise, Rey.”

  “I played your stupid game all night long!” he says, jumping out and standing on his feet. “Enough is enough. I’m tired of women using me for my money! If you date me then you pay your own way. It’s my filtering process. What the hell do I know about dates anyway!”

  “Take me home.”

  “Get yourself an Uber.”

  “NO, you take me home right now. You fulfill your promises like a gentleman.”

  “Oh my God…it’s always something with you!”

  He shakes his head in rebellion, muttering to himself and avoiding my face. Between my angry eyes and his loud overreaction, we’ve certainly caused a scene.

  “Get your ass in the limo. You’re going straight home.”

  “Oh daddy,” I reply in scathing sarcasm. “Does this mean no supper either? I’m going to call child welfare on you!”

  He mumbles curses to himself, at last, being honest about who he is!

  I open the limo door quickly and crawl out of this hellhole. I slam the door shut letting Rey know what I think of him and his weird control issues.

  “Fuck off!” I say.

  “Go inside.”

  I laugh in disbelief. “For real?”

  “Go inside!”

  “Stop trying to control me!”

  “I want you to go inside and shut the door.”

  “Why? So you win this game? Is that it?”

  “Just do what I say.”

  “NO! Get the hell out of here! This is my house. You’re not my father, you’re not my sugar daddy and you’re sure as hell not my boyfriend.”

  “I have no intentions of being your poor pussy whipped boyfriend, kid. Now go inside so I know you’re in there safe and sound.”

  “WHY? Why do you need to see me go in?”

  “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

  “And I don’t owe you one! So go! And get the hell off my property!”

  “For god’s sake!”

  I watch, arms folded, as Rey gets out of the limo, slamming his dress shoes all over the grass—looking like angry dad ready to slam doors all night long.

  The limo driver “Charles” ho-hums and watches in bored disinterest.