The Billionaire Bull: A Billionaire and Virgin Romance

by Romi Hart

  I sit down a couple of stools away from her, still trying to process what happened. Was I lame or what? I guess I just wasn’t expecting to see her kitty up close. Does she walk around like that just to intimidate guys? What a tiger she is…dammit, I think she’s winning this player’s war again.

  I let a few minutes pass, stewing in my juices of resentment. She can’t win this game. I have to out-psyche her first. I’m Rey Ramirez, NOBODY intimidates me. Hell, this is my bar! Everyone in here loves me. The world knows my name. It’s time to set things straight once and for all.

  I hop right out of my seat and sit myself next to Lyndia who scowls at me in response. But I hardly notice because I’m already signaling to the bartender to serve us drinks.

  “I’ll have bourbon. My friend Lyndia here with have a cosmo.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Trust me, I know what you want. All twenty-year-olds drink vodka. You have to grow up to appreciate whiskey.”

  “I don’t like cosmos.”

  “Then pick what you want. I’m buying drinks tonight.”

  “Oh really? What makes you think I want a drink from you?”

  “Because you’re probably broke. And because you love alcohol as much as me. And because, I know, despite your pissy face right now, you’re just dying to talk to me again.”

  She laughs. “Really? You sure have a high opinion of yourself, Rey.” She waves to the bartender. “I’ll have a whiskey coke.”

  “Well, well, wise beyond your years.”

  “A lot of people like whiskey. It’s very mainstream.”

  We both take a big gulp. Maybe it's the alcohol talking, well, of course, it's the alcohol talking, but I really do admire Lyndia. At least her spirit, if not her attitude. She’s tough. She doesn’t let men intimidate her. That’s good for something.

  “I really just want to let bygones be bygones.”

  “What are bygones?”

  “You never heard…ah, you know what? No big deal. Just an expression meaning, ‘Let’s start over.’ Let’s be friends.”

  “Hmmm,” she says, almost smiling. “That might take a few more drinks.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Lyndia that’s what I know. But hey, it’s a good night. I’ve got money. You got yourself an open tab.”

  “Score!” she says, gulping down her whiskey coke and signaling for another one.

  “You know for what it’s worth, I really think Reagan is a cool person. I’m sure you’re a good person too. Families you know…”

  Gulp. She takes a gulp.

  “Families depend on each other.”

  “Yeah, we do," seeming to understand the nonsense coming out of my mouth.

  I take another gulp. She follows.

  “You and I are rebels, you know?”

  “Rebels?” she smiles in curiosity.

  “Yeah. It seems like we come from opposite ends of the spectrum. But you know people like you, who want to create new rules for everybody. You’re rebelling against conventions. Because nobody follows rules. But you and I, we’re the revolutionaries. We tell people you know what? Screw convention. Screw your rules. These are MY rules. And that’s what matters. And that’s why they’re scared of us.”

  “So you and I are rebels, like Che Guevara?”

  “Hey, that’s your comparison, not mine. And a totally white girl thing to say, just because our ancestors come from South America.”

  She laughs. It’s not a racial thing. I just can’t think of any other revolutionaries off the top of my head.”

  Another two gulps. She is keeping up with me like a trooper. I admire a woman who can hold her liquor. We are, after all, rebels. We drink like kings, not peasants.

  “Lenin. Marx.”

  “Who else?”

  “Castro. Gandhi. George Washington, you know that one.”

  “Eva Peron?”

  “Sort of…” I say with a wince.

  “Sorry, most of my knowledge of history comes from Broadway musicals.”

  “I gotcha,” I say with a grin.

  “Joan of Arc.“

  “She was an anarchist in my opinion.”

  “How sad that most of the revolutionaries in history are all men. Or at least, the well-known ones.”

  I roll my eyes and start to slur out a response…

  “But you know…you really know a lot about history.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing,” she says, finally giving me a full smile…even though it’s still closed lips. “It’s just a compliment.”

  “Wow. I’ve never seen this side of you before, so normal and nice.”

  “I am nice!” she laughs. “I’m just assertive. And a lot of guys can’t deal with that.”

  “I can dig it,” I say with a manly nod…feeling the first buzz of the night. Oh yeah, the room is bright. The noise of the crowd is drowning out. I feel nothing but intimacy with the person I'm talking to. And of course, it’s the alcohol talking…but she really is beautiful. I can see some of Reagan in her face. And Reagan is definitely not. But Lyndia is younger…more ferocious. More cerebral. Amazing.

  “I guess I owe you an apology too.”

  “More like ten,” I reply quickly.

  “More like one!”

  “What’s that?”

  “I do actually respect baseball. I used to watch games with my grandfather when I was younger. And I do kind of know who you are.”

  “Really? So you were playing me?”

  “I wasn’t playing you,” she says defensively, taking another drink and waving for another to the bartender. “But I was probably pissy and so I pretended as if I didn’t know who you were.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  “Yeah well still waiting for your apology.”

  “For what, double dipping or-?”

  “No, that was just gross. About disrespecting women.”

  “How do I disrespect women?” I signal for another round, definitely feeling tipsy but actually enjoying the conversation for once. That’s the secret to tolerating Lyndia—get drunk! And I’m almost at the point where her intellectual arguments are fascinating.

  “Because, you see women just for what you can get from them.”

  “Ah, like your retarded article that you wrote for that rag.”

  “That retarded article paid eight hundred dollars, so whatever.”

  “Sure it did. Sensationalist garbage.”

  “And yet your typical male response is to deny everything rather than see the feminist’s point of view.”

  “All men are rapists? Really? If that were true, there wouldn’t be thousands of sick SOBs in jail right now. It’s a crime. And I stand by what I said. I’ve never forced a girl to do anything with me. They come on to me.”

  “After you seduce them. You’re charming, sweet talking, making promises.”

  “I’m making promises I intend to keep!” I say defiantly, but still laughing because of the good whiskey. “I don’t need to promise shit to get a girl into bed. I just need to live up to the promises I make.”

  I pause. Oh fuck it, I’m going to say it.

  “And the only promise I make is that I’m going to make her cum.”

  Lyndia stares me down, probably poker-facing her way through this moment. Where I definitely hit a nerve. She probably doesn’t know if I made her wet or made her furious. Hey, it’s all the same thing for a player.

  “Aside from that, all those women know what I am and what I want. And what we feel for each other is mutual. I don’t want to get married, neither do they. It’s the perfect relationship.”

  “Well…”

  “And I know a young twenty-something hipster like you will never understand. Because you want to get married. Your life is all about idealism.”

  “Fuck no,” she says taking another shot and waving another round. “I don’t want to get married.”

  “Then why take offense at my bachelorhood lifestyle?” I swish the whiskey around. I’m gl
oriously tipsy…but not drunk. It actually takes a hard-drinking SOB like me a lot more than this to get fucked up. But I’m tipsy enough to think Lyndia is looking mighty fine right about now.

  “We are alike in that respect,” she says cautiously. “I consider myself polyamorous.”

  “Polyamorous?” I laugh harder and order another two rounds. I gulp down one whole glass before I look her in the silly face and say…

  “In a normal world, we call that fucking pussy for sport. No need to be ashamed of it, as long as it's consensual. Oh and as long as you make her come twice."

  “See? That’s a sexist way of saying it.”

  “Oh do tell me the respectful way of saying it.”

  “I-”

  “I’m not calling myself polyamorous. That’s a stupid word. Now you tell me the politically correct way of saying what I do.”

  “Your descriptive words are juvenile, Rey. That’s the issue.”

  “Fuck class. Would you rather me say, I have intercourse with vaginas? Is that the PC way of saying it?”

  “The PC term is that you date a lot of women.”

  “But…we don’t date. Not in the technical sense of the word.”

  I stare at Lyndia again, daring her to get upset and throw a hissy fit.

  “So what do I call it? I don’t take her to dinner. I don’t meet her parents. It’s not dating.”

  “Well forgive me, Rey, if I don’t feel the need to swear just to emphasize the chaos of my love life.”

  I sigh and crack up. “You mean the lack of your love life. Most women I know that take offense at swearing are the ones who haven’t been laid since the stone age. No offense though. It’s harder for smarter girls to get laid.”

  “Not really,” she replies quickly. “We’re just pickier is all.”

  “But for the record, and to make sure we’re still on good terms…I will say this. Any guy who would turn you down is an idiot. You’re the catch of a lifetime.”

  I smile slyly, massaging her face with my dark and flirting eyes.

  She smiles and grabs me by the shoulder just as a turn away. “What do you mean by that?”

  “No touching! Personal space.”

  “Oh gimme a break,” she says. “Why do men get so much credit for being rough and tough but the second a woman does the same thing she’s labeled a nutcase?”

  “Get the hell out of here with your feminist talk.”

  “No! You just keep up, big boy. You’re so manly, after all, you should be up for debate.”

  I’m up all right. My cock is hard, not only from a relaxing series of drinks, but also because Lyndia is finally showing herself to be a somewhat normal human being. And the second I actually decide to like a woman, I also decide I want to have sex with her.

  Damn, maybe Lyndia has a point. I have no female friends, at least platonically speaking.

  One thing’s for sure…

  “And I just think that, you know, men ought to be honest about that sort of thing. About you know…the way they see the world.”

  I nod sincerely, trying to pretend as if this goofy girl isn’t drunk off her ass. She’s making less and less sense and yet seems to get friendlier the more wasted she becomes. While I do admire a girl that likes to party, I also have to admit she’s a lightweight when it comes to drinking. I could still drink another three rounds before I even think about stopping.

  But she’s already laughing like a hyena and bouncing in the stool like a freaking rabbit. One thought occurs to me…as I so subtle gaze down at her pretty kitty protruding out of those yoga pants.

  I could probably fuck her right now. Right this second. Her defenses are down, she’s having way too much fun. She’s grabbing my shoulder, letting me know she likes me. Part of me wonders if she would go for it…

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, honey, but you sure look good when you’re saying it.”

  “No really!” she says with a rowdy laugh and a punishing smack on my shoulder. “I’m serious. I’m just saying that all the guys I know…uh…that uh…”

  The juice gets to her and she shakes off her bad memory. Trying her best to act like a civilized young lady and not a drunken fool.

  “You know? The uh…the debate! What I was saying.”

  “Mmm-hmmm. So pretty. Perfectly pouty lips.”

  She laughs again…a boisterous laugh followed by a self-conscious rub to her hair.

  Follow me to the bathroom. Let’s go outside. Let’s dance.

  I’m so tempted to say it. All it will take is one sentence, one sexually charged thought to get her to drop her…well not her panties, but those cock-teasing yoga pants.

  I could do it. It would be so easy and so fun.

  And yet I can’t bring myself to say it.

  Because dammit, she’s drunk. I know it. Half the bar probably knows it.

  Just because she’s oblivious as to why she’s having so much fun doesn’t mean I can play dumb. A man, a real man, owes it to himself to walk away when the playing field isn’t fair.

  What kind of a moral failure would I be if I was so desperate for sex that I used Lyndia’s weakness against her?

  Sex is easy. For me. Hell, for any man who has basic social skills and not a lot of prejudice. Keeping your friends safe…now that’s a challenge.

  “Hey kiddo,” I say, leaving behind a money shot of cash for our bill. “Come with me.”

  “Okay…” she says softly, eyes wide, and probably horny with anticipation.

  She follows me outside, stumbling along the way and grabbing my shoulders to keep her balance.

  “Where are we going?”

  “We’re taking my limo home.”

  I send a text to my personal chauffeur who should be only a few blocks away. Our relationship is simple. I get drunk at any moment, he knows when he gets the text to come get me. And I pay him so much money he can take the whole month off.

  “Ohhh a limo.”

  “Is that all right with you?” I say with a sly smile. “Or does that offend some fringe group of millennials somewhere that some rich SOBs still drive limousines?”

  “I’m okay with it! But I can’t speak for all millennials.”

  She chatters on about stupid shit and I nod graciously, playing along. She’s definitely drunk and way too happy, probably thinking I’m going to take her home to my mansion and have sex with her for a whole whopping five minutes…

  Right before she falls asleep in mid-thrust.

  Charles my chauffeur drives up in the limo. I signal to him and wait for him to pull up. I open the door for my guest and help her inside.

  “Ohhh that is so awesome! I’ve never ridden in a limo before.”

  “No kidding. They don’t have limos where you work?”

  She giggles madly. “No, not at the bank! It’s a minimum wage job. At least, until I can start my dream job.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Being president of course.”

  “Ah, good goal. Start small.”

  “Exactly.”

  I giggle along with her as we relax in our seats. She snuggles closer to me, probably figuring that I need a little “Help” in making the first move. Naah, doll face. When I make a move there’s no mistaking it. I’m just trying to get your little muppet ass home safely tonight.

  She giggles shyly as she moves her face closer to mine. She hums and makes sure her breath (smelling like a whiff of whiskey heaven) hits my neck.

  I look away with a smirk on my face. She comes in closer again and I raise my eyebrow at her.

  She giggles softly and I sigh…in discomfort.

  She touches my shoulder…hands getting closer to my chest. I flinch…

  “Lyndia, can I just say something? Like total honesty?”

  “Sure…” she coos making intense eye contact with me.

  “Even if you were the last woman on the face of the planet and I was ordered by aliens to procreate with you for the very survival of the human speci
es? I would still say no. I would choose death over making love to your hipster dork body.”

  Her eyes fume and I struggle not to laugh.

  “You’re an asshole!” she says, backing away and sighing in disgust.

  Ah good, the angry drunk Lyndia finally comes out.

  “Who asked you, anyway?” she snaps back. “I don’t want your high mileage junk on me anyway. Probably slept with more skanks than you’ve hit home runs.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Fuck off. Just let me off here.”

  “Nope.”

  “No? Where are you taking me?” Her eyes light up in a fit of paranoia. “Oh my God are you going to kill me? Are you doing a Dexter thing?”

  “Nah, I’m not going to hurt the future president. I’m taking you home.”

  “You don’t even know where I live.”

  “Actually I do. I texted my driver your address. He researched your name and residence before he came.”

  “What if I don’t want to go?!”

  “You do. And you’re going to do as you’re told. Because being a drunken jackass in public puts you in danger.”

  “Oh really? Oh really?!”

  “Really. Not all men are as chivalrous as I am.”

  “What the fuck ever! I do what I want! I’m just going to go back to the bar as soon as you drop me off.”

  “Yeah right,” I wheeze. “You’re going to storm inside and collapse on the bed. Right after you puke up all my money’s worth.”

  “You are the most disgusting man I’ve ever met!”

  “Yeah, I am,” I say with a happy smile. “Why do you only try to score with gross, disgusting men?”

  “I was NOT trying to score with you,” she replies. “I was just being nice. And as usual, you had to be an asshole.”

  “No argument there. But hey, I was just being honest. You were throwing yourself at me and I just wasn’t feeling the attraction.”

  “Oh right, because I’m just not milfy enough for you?”

  “Yeah, that's it. No wrinkles, no sagging breasts. No t-shirt and jeans. Totally not attracted."

  “Whatever,” she pouts, almost like her feelings are hurt.

  “You have the perfect body. A perfect mind. You’re beautiful and ambitious. You’re fearless. Amazing in every respect.”

  She stares at me and listens in interest.