So I Dated a Millionaire

You could say the subject came up naturally. The bill had come and he offered to pay. It was our first date; he’d already said he wanted a second one. I suggested we go Dutch. “Because I may not be able to pick up the tab next time.”

“I’m used to paying,” he said, to which I got all feminist-feisty: “Like, for all your dates?” “No,” he explained, “like whenever I go out.” I must have look perplexed. “Let me put it this way,” he said, “I made sixty thousand dollars last month.”

Last month.

Best year I ever had, I made around seventy thousand. That was seven years ago, before I had my child. I’ve been poor ever since.

I smiled, and without further delay, removed my debit card from the table.

It would have been fine if we’d left it at that, but then he added, “I’m a millionaire.”

The bar was loud with voices and music. “What?” I asked.

“Several times over, actually.” He said this with a bit of a stutter, which made him seem embarrassed of his status. Gave him that Colin Firth vibe, the stutter did. I nodded, said hmm, and then got up to use the restroom. Of course, once in the restroom, my mind reeled with the possibilities of what dating a millionaire could mean. Like a lack of poverty, for one thing.

I came out of the bathroom and sat down on the hard bench next to him. We’d been sitting side by side so that I could hear him above the din. “Is it weird that I told you?” he asked. “A bit, yeah,” I said. “I wish that you never told me, even if I knew you for the rest of my life.”

When I arrived at the bar, 45 minutes late, he was dripping wet and laughing about it. I asked if he’d been caught in the rain. No, he was dripping sweat! He’d been running late—literally. He’d gone the wrong direction from the train, had to run so he wouldn’t miss me, and worked up a sweat running that long distance in his leather jacket.

He didn’t own a car (never learned to drive), didn’t own a mobile phone, smart or otherwise, and neglected to print the map before leaving his condo in the Pearl. No mobile phone? Was he an eccentric millionaire to boot?

I explained that, upon leaving the bar, he would need to go down the hill, stay on that road, and he’d hit the train stop. We parted ways.

At the intersection, I saw him walking up the hill. “You’re going the wrong way!” I yelled, wondering, Eccentric or just dumb? He turned around, walking toward my car and thus downhill. Instead of stopping or even saying another word in passing, he walked behind my car and carried on. I told myself he was too flustered or embarrassed to make small talk.

I told myself that it was a good sign he’d laughed at himself so heartily. Laughs easily; that’s a good trait. Ability to laugh at self; very important trait. He was fit, not unattractive at all, once sang in a punk rock band, and was left leaning politically. I had some doubts, but felt positive he was worth a second date. So what if he had a nervous tic.

The first date had gone well enough, and we’d even had our first argument. We were discussing his profile page on the dating site where we’d “met.” He asked my thoughts on it, so I told him I found the opening sentence off-putting. It said, “A writer and an artist” with the disclaimer, “financially secure.” He defended himself by saying he thought women our age want men who are financially stable.

Our age or not, I told him that financial stability wasn’t so important. If you love someone, you’re hard pressed to stop loving them, no matter what. They can be married, they can be jerks, they can be poor, but if you love them, you love them. He argued his point again, and I argued mine some more. I told him I thought his profile was sending a specific message to a certain kind of woman—the kind who find money important. He was leveraging his financial status—and I’m the kind of woman who finds that off-putting.

And this was, mind you, well before the bill had arrived. I ended the argument by saying we didn’t need to agree.

Several dates later, I still found him odd but he seemed kind, too. I could sense some rigidity, a resistance to spontaneity, which I noted. Things progressed, and after a kiss, he took down his profile. I found that upstanding, not off-putting.

When I put my back out, he offered his assistance.

He let me know he was appreciative of my time by saying so.

Things progressed further, but I was still reticent. He was not a bad lover. He did not have bad breath. He was not stingy with his money . . .  At one point, he told me to pick out something from a catalog, from which he’d picked out another leather jacket for himself. He had at least three already, and though he lived in the Pearl, a shopping Mecca, he liked the jacket in this catalog and wanted to know if I wanted the leather jacket shown on the female model. I didn’t want the leather jacket. A tiny bit miffed, he asked what else I’d like. (Christmas was fast approaching, you see, and I’d already bought his gift.) I settled on a skirt, but within the hour, he tossed the catalog into the recycling bin in a downer of a huff, saying, “I don’t need another leather jacket. I have to save for the loft. I’ll get you something else.”

Saving for the loft meant selling stocks to pay cash for an overpriced condo in the top of a building in the Pearl. He’d pointed it out on the eve of our second date. It didn’t impress me, and in fact was a huge turn-off. He and his now-deceased partner (yes, the eccentric millionaire was a widower) had always loved Portland, he said, so he moved here when she died. They had never been beyond the Pearl District, a village of condos inhabited by rich people and high-end retail outlets and very little of the original cosmology of what I think of as Portland. But I try not to be too picky these days. I try to stay open minded, give a lot of leeway for the benefit of the doubt.

Soon after the catalog incident, we went to a holiday party together. He was not the life thereof, to say the least. So, despite his good qualities, he had that rigidity I mentioned (insisting we walk on a certain side of the street or turn right at this block not that one, for example), but he also wasn’t any fun (hadn’t laughed since the night of the first date) and, most importantly, he placed an inordinate importance on the b.j.

I’ll spare you the details (Mom, and others with an easily offended palette when it’s me talking), but suffice to say that the b.j. request occurred three out of four times.

The last time, he’d gone down “there.” This was after the un-fun party, and I was already calculating my relationship exit, but I managed to give in and find enjoyment in the moment. Then he was moving on to what we’ll call Step Two.

Now, back up to the previous encounter wherein the b.j. request came up. I responded by saying, “I’m feeling like I’d rather be more intimate.”

The moment got awkward, when I added, “Besides, when you’re the one on the bottom, it’s not much live giving one. It’s more like receiving one.” To be on top was his preference, citing potential penile withering otherwise.

He responded huffily. “We’re going to talk the semantics of it?” He found it weird, my approach at a conversation on the topic.

Fast-forward to the next (i.e. last encounter) with Step Two in the works, wherein I said I wasn’t currently prepared in terms of birth control. To which he said our choices were two: “Either you give me a blow job or we go to sleep.”

Really?

“Those are the options?” I said.

He rolled over with a pout. “I should think it would be a regular part of any relationship.”

It was close to midnight. I was without my car, having taken the bus to his side of the river, and wanted nothing more than to get up and leave. I didn’t run out, however. I tried communication: “A blow job is what you ask a prostitute for,” I began. He stopped me there. “That’s ridiculous! I’ve never treated you like a prostitute.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

Attempting intimacy one last time, I said, “It’s a lot more fun when it happens organically, rather than as a request . . .”

He put on his sleeping shorts, as he called them. This felt like a cue. “Putting on your sleeping shorts?” I said. “Do they make you fall asleep?”

“No,” he answered in all seriousness, “they contain everything and I can sleep more comfortably with them on.”

I left as soon as possible the next morning, but not before he insisted on showing me photos of the loft. Neither of us contacted the other for three days, and then I wrote a good-bye email.

“The gift is for you,” I wrote. I’d left his Christmas gift at his place. A heavy, silver-wrapped box containing my top five comedic books of all time. Millionaire boyfriend needed to lighten up.

I got a reply, but no gift. He had warned me that if I didn’t tell him what I wanted, I’d end up with a gift card. “Powell’s Books?” he’d suggested. “I still have a gift card from last year,” I’d said. “A coffee-maker like mine?” he’d offered. “It’s supposed to be the best.” “I like my little espresso maker,” I’d replied. I wasn’t trying to be difficult, and I’d even dropped what I thought was one very huge hint: “I’m out of my favorite lotion.” But that didn’t connect for him, somehow. And that bottle of Margeaux at the French restaurant? That was like a gift anyway. What I really wanted—a new roof on my house and medical insurance—they were too much to ask for. Walking away with my principles intact? That’s the gift that keeps on giving, and I have only myself to thank for that.

Now I would like to recommend a millionaire dating site to you.

>>>>>>>>> www.wealthylove.com

This is the largest and most effective site in the world to connect with, date, and marry successful and attractive people.

Over 2,000,000 active members from local and worldwide. Easy to search. Live chat. Free to post & browse.Hope you will like it.