Billionaire Secrets of a Wanglorious Bastard

by Auld, Alexei

  Then again, maybe this was how he got his start. I mean, I didn’t think he came out of the womb as a pimp daddy, despite the family myths. He needed to learn from someone. I would be her Robin. Or maybe this was like Shaolin temple. I'd start at the bottom and work my way up. Through boning instead of washing dishes.

  Wait a second. She actually wanted me to hook up with other women.

  But what if I just wanted her?

  I mean, I kind of did.

  Could I tap into something that I'd ignored all of my life? Something that my parents tried sheltering me from becoming. Escaping the nerd cocoon and blossoming into Mr. Loverman?

  No, I would prove I could have my cake and eat it too.

  I would embrace who I was. Accept where I came from. And enjoy it.

  Here I stood.

  This was the universe telling me that my place was here. Here, as a mackadocious fuck puppet for the hottest woman I'd ever laid eyes on.

  And who was I to reject the universe?

  60

  I HAD A LITTLE too much fun last night.

  I spent more than I should, drank entirely more than I should, and definitely should not have pulled that trick.

  I was hanging out in the Meat Packing District.

  No joke, that's actually a part of Manhattan.

  It took me a while, but I’d finally tapped my inner grandpa. Not by putting on a Jamaican accent. Just by putting on the clothes in the closet Rita left for me. At first I was uptight and self-conscious. I had to tell myself that this was my life and I deserved it. I looked at photos of my grandpa back in his heyday and noticed one constant theme.

  Chilling.

  Dude just was relaxed. Looked like he was enjoying life. He seemed to like the finer things. Nice clothes, money in his pocket, and the touch of a beautiful woman. I’d finally experienced all three. I felt that Rita and I had exchanged more than body fluids.

  We’d exchanged essence. Or at least, I’d absorbed some of hers. It was like the venom symbiote in Spider-Man. It leeched onto me and made me stronger. The clothes and money gave me game. It reminded me of what my father used to say about Americans.

  “They're trying so hard to do all the things rich people do. Going to the opera. Watching ballet. Engaging in so-called high culture. And that's the problem. Rich people don't give a fuck about culture. They're rich. They can get away with doing whatever they want instead of being all uptight.”

  So that was what I did. I relaxed. Tried enjoying New York. Enjoying my cousin's company. No more going to bars alone with hungry eyes.

  And it worked.

  In fact, the best way to get women was ignoring them.

  Really.

  Not being rude and all, but going to the bar, treating the bartender right, and shooting the shit with Enos. It drew the honeys in. They wanted to know what we were talking about. Why we weren't kicking it to them.

  It appealed to my inner laziness.

  Perfect example: Enos and I were bonding by barhopping. I know I'm a snob. But that's me. I figured out how to navigate college to get the best grades with as little studying as possible. Columbia Law appealed to me for two reasons.

  The first? Tons of honeys in the law school, undergrad, graduate schools, and, fuck, New York in general.

  The second? When I visited Columbia on admitted students day, I heard the same thing: the hardest thing about Columbia Law School was getting into Columbia Law School. It was set up to take care of you once you got in. Apparently it was a pressure cooker back in the day. After a rash of suicides, the school moved away from grades to pass/fail. And everybody passed. The students eventually wanted to be graded again. Dumb-ass move, right? The problem of potential suicides remained, so the school instituted a massive curve.

  And get this: professors weren't allowed to fail anyone.

  It's true. This teaching assistant I hooked up with told me the secret. If a professor wanted to give a grade lower than a C, the professor had to give the student a research assignment.

  What happened if the student didn’t do the research assignment?

  Nothing.

  But the student passed.

  It's like that scandal at Brown years ago when a guy refused to go to classes and some administrators begged him to reconsider. In other places, they would have kicked the guy out. Once I found out that shit, it changed my mind. I mean, why bust my ass if I didn't have to?

  I went to public schools. When I met kids from elite private schools, I felt insecure.

  Until my cousin who taught at one told me how things worked for the rich. I didn't believe it until I went to undergrad and saw it with my own eyes. I was smoking those fools in classes. But who got the better job offers? Those fucks from private schools. Even with worse grades in college. So I realized it was all about appearance. I dug deeper and found out that law schools didn't give a shit about which professors I had or what classes I took. It was all about the grades. So I dropped out of my honors program and took easy classes. Boosted my GPA and got into top law schools.

  The rest is history.

  61

  “NEVER HEARD BACK from my client. Sexual favors will probably be necessary.”

  That was Natasha. I know and I hear you. Just like Tani, you'd think I should've stayed away.

  But the way I figured, she was down and Stack was gone. Add experience gathering for Rita, and that was a triple scoop of winning.

  Funny thing was, she didn't know she was off limits. And I think that's what fueled her sexual fire after the firm happy hour. It was like a reward for being honest and shit.

  And that chick was pretty wild. She had a massive donk that she tried hiding in a suit jacket, but failed miserably. She loved twerking on top and unleashing incredible cheek control.

  Our second time together, we both got wasted and engaged in the sloppiest drunken sex I'd ever had the pleasure of experiencing.

  I called her. “Enjoyed seeing you again last night and hope you didn't get called out at work today.”

  “I had fun, too, but truth be told, I didn't feel so hot either.”

  “I think it was the fourth shot that did it.”

  “Tell me about it. I went to work three hours late, dizzy and paranoid that someone would notice the vampire mark on my neck.”

  “You hook up with Dracula after I left?”

  She giggled. “Felt a lot better when I learned that the brief I didn't finish is due next week.”

  “So no favors for Grimes?”

  “God, no. I feared being called out for being a tramp who drinks too much.”

  “I'd fuck him up if he said that to you.”

  “My hero. Look, I won't be free until Friday, and you may not call me until Wednesday or Thursday. I suspect this coming week, Grimes will drive me crazy, and the last thing I need is a neck-sucking smartass adding to my anxiety. Have a nice weekend.”

  That night, she called. “The earliest I'll be out of work tonight is 11 p.m. That doesn't leave much time for cocktails, does it?”

  “It depends on how quickly you can drink.”

  “Maybe it depends on how concisely you can talk.”

  We did shots, said nothing, and before hooking up that night, she asked me to be gentle. So we had missionary sex. She just lay there doing abso-fucking-lutely nothing. I had flashbacks to the Billy Bob critique of Angelina Jolie, so I laughed when I should've had my moment of satisfaction. She took it as an orgasm and fell right to sleep. I knew I should've tried to get some head first, but she seemed to be one of those women who didn't mind a dick being anywhere in them but their mouth.

  So I was there. In her bed. And it was hot. She didn't have air conditioning either, so her sweaty-sticky body made me uncomfortable. I tossed her arm off me and she plopped a leg on me. I lobbed that off and she backed her ass on my crotch. I felt her up and she smacked my hand away. I felt up her nice big tits and she whined and flicked my fingers. I got the hint and separated myself. I liked my women to be into
fucking, not unresponsive corpses.

  So I left her alone and lay on my back with a huge boner. I felt like rubbing one off right in her face, but that would be fucked up. Instead, I just stared at the ceiling and tried thinking about other things.

  But she was right next to me sleeping.

  Butt-ass nekkid. The fucking worst kind of tease ever.

  And I felt like I was going crazy from my inability to fall asleep. When I finally did, I had the weirdest dream. I was in a museum and a goddess emerged. She was obliterating everyone in her wake. I grew into a superhero and we did the flesh tango and it was epic. But almost like an episode of Voltron/Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, when I ejaculated in her, she exploded from my super spunk.

  It was so intense, I accidentally woke Natasha up.

  “What's gong on, Rufus?”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing? You kicked me.”

  “I did?”

  “You sure did.”

  “It was a crazy dream.”

  “What happened in it?”

  I knew I shouldn't tell her. “Just go back to sleep.”

  “Too late for that shit. Tell me.”

  I considered lying, but told her anyway. She looked uninterested.

  “Isn't that the strangest shit you've ever heard?”

  “Sounds like you want to kill me, or at least violently extract me from your life.”

  I put my arm around her. “Come on, babe.”

  She shoved it off. “You resent me for asking you to be gentle. I killed your sexual experience, so you killed me right back. Look, if you don't want it, I'm certain I can find a passionate, equally robust man who does.”

  She turned her back to me. So I kissed her between the shoulder blades. She said, “This was some kind of competition. What are you competing with me for? Or are you competing with another man? Or do you want me to compete with some other woman?”

  “How could it be competition?”

  She sat up. “You're so dumb. I was 'obliterating everyone in my wake'? That pissed you off because you wanted the last word, so you taught me a lesson.”

  I thought she was playing. “For what? Vanilla missionary sex?”

  “What the hell does vanilla missionary sex mean? Don't make fun of white folk on Tolerance Day.”

  “First of all, I think it's pretty presumptuous of you to think you were in the dream. It could've been my ex-ex, who actually had the same hairstyle as the goddess, and kind of looked like her, and in real life only wanted to have missionary sex. Fuck! I think it was her! Perhaps my dream was a farewell to her now that I've found you.” I kissed her forehead. “Dream solved.”

  “Don't you kiss me, you racist fucker.”

  “Look, I didn't say 'Caucasian sex,' I said 'vanilla sex.' It doesn't mean I don't like vanilla. I love vanilla, but sometimes I don't want vanilla. Sometimes I want mint chocolate chip, coconut, or Cherry Garcia. But I still have love for the vanilla, sweetheart.”

  “Sweetheart? You sound vanilla.”

  “You wound me.”

  “I don't believe you have the first clue as to what a goddess looks like, so I'm not convinced the goddess was your ex-girlfriend. But if she was, your dream suggests that she broke your heart, or tried her very best to. Did she?”

  She did.

  “And FYI, stop fucking other women in your dreams. It's starting to piss me off.”

  She turned to her side. I felt like getting my shit and rolling out. I said, “My ex-relationship was mutually assured destruction and, as interesting as the 'dream/nightmare women' sound, being with them in my dreams isn't nearly as pleasurable as being with you in real life.”

  She turned over. “Don't need a pep talk. I know how lucky you are.”

  We spooned and fell asleep. The next morning she said, “My body feels a little better, but not much. Have you thought about how you are going to make this up to me?”

  I went down on her and that was that.

  Because she refused to return the favor.

  What a stingy lover. To receive and enjoy, take without giving? Like I was some fuck boy?

  ***

  Later that day, she sent me a text: “I was just thinking about you. I feel pretty good today, probably 90% healed. Decided you don't have to make the hurt up to me. You're right. I was contributory negligent, and should face my own punishment.”

  I texted back, “What will you do to atone?”

  She texted, “I'm depriving myself of you for at least three weeks. Lenient punishment given that you'd be unavailable to me this week regardless of my negligence.”

  I wrote an email: “Your suspension is definitely too stringent, and nobody prospers from such an iron-fisted decision. It's also scientifically unsound. Your recovery time was a few days. The next time it will be smaller. If you take too much time between our interactions, you'll be back to square one. You might actually be more achy. Just like allergy shots, you need a great deal of exposure to build up a resistance. I'm sure after a while, there will be no aches, just afterglow.”

  “Poor logic, sir. If shorter recovery times are associated with gradual increases in the frequency of fucking, then that suggests less active, athletic, and/or physically stimulating sex associated with gradual increases in frequency. Association between less exciting sex and increased frequency is likely symptomatic of repetitive behavior over a period of time. Reducing frequency is the only way to maintain excitement.

  Further, you assume I wasn't sleeping with another man prior to our weekend together, and that I won't sleep with other men during my three-week deprivation of you. What is the basis of these assumptions?”

  A threat? On top of a lazy lay? I was done, so I didn't return her email. Instead, I got together with a cute consultant I met at tapas joint in the Bowery. We had oysters, foie gras, and a nice bottle of Shiraz before going to her place and doing all the things that Natasha wasn't down with. I realized my phone was off. When I turned it on, I saw an onslaught of messages.

  From Natasha:

  - “Haven't made any decisions about tonight. I want to be persuaded to spend my evening with you.”

  - “I'm sorry for the drama. I often think this is God's way of punishing me for having premarital sex.”

  - “I can't believe that I didn't tell you about a dream I had. A lot of various positions were executed. Oh, and the man I was with wasn't you. He was an exceptionally attractive lawyer running for some kind of political office. Tall, dark, and handsome type. Reminded me of Idris Elba. Hmm, I had a sex dream the night before I met you. Maybe it's time to satisfy Idris' persistent requests to meet me.”

  - “Check out the performance appraisal about you. I didn't realize you were getting freaky with my girlfriend. That earns me an extra day. When are you free to pay up?”

  The “performance appraisal” said, “Rufus is a keeper and the boy can FUCK!! HOLLA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

  - “I'd like a cocktail. Someplace nearby.”

  - “Do you want to attempt a do-over so soon? My medicine has me a little off. God knows what I might say, and now that you've educated me on what mean is, I'm not sure I want to risk getting kicked out of your life again.”

  And the final one: “Just got notice I'm moving on. To our London office this evening. Meet me?”

  That was five hours before read it.

  The consultant started giving me head, and I didn't want to be rude, so I turned my phone off as I got off.

  62

  I SAW SOME velvet-roped affair that was turning people away. It turned me on, so I walked straight to the guy with the list, nodded, and walked past with Enos.

  It was a birthday party. Cash bar.

  Me and Enos took a spot at the bar. I whipped out a stack of bills and spread them on the counter.

  “Why are you doing that, Rufus?”

  “To let the bartender know we're here, and we're not going anywhere.”

  Sure enough, the bartender came by and took the money. An
d we drank well.

  I could have sworn I saw Taylor there. Soon as I did, he disappeared in the crowd.

  At some point, we saw the birthday girl.

  Tall, skinny, blonde. Not really my thing, but sat next to me. We were practically back to back. I ignored her, and she didn't like it, because she passive-aggressively flirted by accidental contact.

  Accidentally flipping her hair in my face.

  Accidentally elbowing me in the ribs.

  Accidentally head-butting the back of my head from laughing too hard.

  By the time she left, she was kissing her girlfriends goodbye.

  I said, “What? No kiss for me?”

  And she planted a big, sloppy, wet one.

  It was nice.

  She squinted and growled before leaving.

  I went back to my conversation with Enos.

  Another one of her friends was leaving. Kissing her girlfriends goodbye.

  I said, “What? No kiss for me?”

  And she planted one that was even wetter, with tongue.

  It was nice.

  This happened with the rest of that crew, until all five of them had left.

  By the time I left with Enos, a limo beeped outside.

  It was the birthday girl. Butt-ass nekkid with her friends.

  “What? No kiss for me?”

  I turned to Enos. “See you tomorrow.” And got in. I did feel a little bad.

  The birthday girl was all right.

  When I got home in the morning, there was a remote control on the bed.

  I pressed it and the bookshelf opened and the elevator awaited.

  It was programmed for the tenth floor.

  The doors opened and there was Rita. Sprawled on the bed.

  “Wash yourself.” She pointed at a shower in the corner of the room. Clear glass. No curtain. She watched every drop. Every stroke of the towel.

  “Come.”

  I joined her on the bed, and after breaking a sweat that made the showering pointless, I did.