Billionaire Secrets of a Wanglorious Bastard (19 page)

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. And 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.
 

She did too.

I still didn't know anything about her fine ass. I was itching to know. I'd have to ask her.

But I fell asleep.

When I woke up, she wasn't there.

***

It was casual Friday, so I stumbled into work wearing sunglasses, a short-sleeved designer shirt with the collar up, and custom jeans. I felt like a king. I’d reinvented myself. Punk-free. If I showed any signs of weakness, they'd take advantage of it. This was like a prison, according to Enos. And everyone knows when you're in prison, you don't act soft. This was a jungle that I would rule. My kingdom. Say it, live it, do it, and it will come. Just like the honeys. And if that was working for me, why would this nerd kingdom be any different? I'd be the king of the nerds. A fair, honest, and wise king. With plenty of concubines.

As soon as I left the room, someone grabbed me. It was a gaggle of dorks. One patted me on the back. “You have lunch plans?”

“I do?”

“We made reservations at Balthazar and can't go.”

See? They knew I was hungry. The universe heard my vision and put everything in place.

63

I ENDED UP
at a chichi restaurant in SoHo. Late.

I staggered to the hostess and asked for a Krueller lunch party. She pointed at Taylor, who happened to wear a passionfruit-colored suit, and a key-lime tie with a matching splint and bandage. My eyes burned just looking at him. “Damn. I was sleeping until this motherfucker had to be here with his Technicolor Pimp Suit and wake my ass up.”

Taylor blushed and covered his hands with his mouth.

I patted him on the back. “This man here interviewed me wearing a pomegranate suit and kiwi tie. Made me feel all hungry and shit. Back then, I thought I’d seen it all, until today. Look at that suit. Rocking the sorbet. Although I can’t pull off dressing like a dessert, I have to give it up to a brotha that can.” I gave Taylor a pound.
 

Jack, who’d also interviewed me with Taylor, was beet red. “I'm glad you were able to leave your desk and partake in lunch, Rufus.”
 

This was a challenge. Jack, who seemed cool when he interviewed me, was now trying to bust my balls. The lawyers at the table were looking at me to see how I was going to react. And if I didn't show and prove, I'd be done. The first time I met Jack, I didn't go strong, so I'd have to teach him a lesson of who exactly not to fuck with.

I said, “I never went to work. I just woke up for lunch at this fine establishment, thanks to Uncle Krueller.”

“You've been at the firm for how long? Two months? And they're already putting you on all-nighters?”

“The only all-nighters I've been pulling have been in the Meat Packing District. Right, Taylor?”

Taylor looked at his crab hammer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
 

I harrumphed. “Of course you do. The Meat Packing District? Filled with honeys. Drunk, trashy honeys. You walked into a club and got felt up by fine-ass women. That's what I was talking about. And what you so conveniently forgot.” My head throbbed, so I clutched it. “Man, I should've stayed in bed.”

Jack said, “You're joking, right, Rufus? I mean, you didn’t just get out of bed before coming here?”

“No. I went to the gym before coming here.”

Jack almost choked on his foie gras. “Son, I know we try to show you a good time, but you have to do some work to keep your job.”

“That's assuming I want to keep my job.”

“Why else would you be here?”

“I love New York.”

“You have a great opportunity here, why not take advantage?”

I patted Jack's back while gesturing to the waiter. “Get this man a drink.”