Billionaire Beast

In the grand scheme of things, my not telling her about my real job is an annoyance, and I can see how it would be somewhat disrespectful, but it’s really not that big a deal. It’s not like we’re close friends or anything.

Then again, I’m starting to get the feeling that it’s something else entirely that’s bothering her.

The good news is that I haven’t been fired yet. The bad news is that Jim’s been avoiding me, too.

Oh well.

Right now, I’m sitting in the parking lot of Yankee Stadium, receiving a nice, relaxing blowjob from Wrigley. I made a joke to her that we were at the wrong field, but she didn’t get it.

At this point, I don’t know if I could really go back to normal sex.

It’s something I fought at first, right up until we got up to the roof of her building. Now, I’m just as much an exhibitionist as she is. Well, I guess that’s not entirely true. I still don’t like actually getting caught.

It happens more than you’d think.

I come, and within five flat seconds, Wrigley is asking, “What time’s the game?”

“I think it already started,” I answer. “Then again, the cheering crowd might have just been a psychosomatic thing.”

“What do you mean?”

She’s a demon in the sack, but she has a real problem with nuance. Given our present location, I was tempted to ask her for a handjob, but I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have gotten that, either.

“Never mind,” I tell her.

I might feel like I was using her if she didn’t make it so abundantly clear on such a frequent basis that the moment feelings are exchanged, she’s changing her phone number and moving to a diffe

rent apartment.

“Take me to dinner,” she tells me.

“Where do you want to go?”

“I heard about this French place called l’Iris—”

“Don’t eat there,” I interrupt. “It’s fucking filthy.”

“How would you know?” she asks, poking me in the ribs.

“I’m the chef there,” I tell her. “Seriously, you have no idea what they do in the kitchen when I’m not around.”

Hey, at least I’m over my fear of telling women what I do.

“I didn’t know you’re a chef,” she says.

“Yeah, actually I—”

“Where would you like to eat, then?” she interrupts.

Apparently, women aren’t nearly as crazy when it comes to the whole chef thing as I thought.

“I really don’t care,” I tell her.

“You really don’t have tickets to the game?” she asks. “You’re such a cheap fuck.”

“Do you mean that figuratively or literally?” I ask.

It’s strange, but I think I’m actually becoming a one-woman man. It’s even stranger that the one woman I’ve decided to keep coming back to is so vehemently opposed to us forming a relationship with any kind of attachment other than pure lust.