The Bullion Brothers: Billionaire triplet brothers interracial menage by Tania Beaton
Authors: Tania Beaton
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If I hadn’t gone with Petroc to the art gallery opening that night, I would never have met Crane.
Seven months I wasted with that jerk Petroc. Seven months listening to his rambling twaddle about his blog and about art and basically all about his ego. When we first met, I was his black goddess, I was perfect. He adored every curve and every slope of my luscious body.
‘Maya, you could wear a sack and I’d still fall in love with you.’ He said. Back then. All of my habits were charming and everything that I had to say was something to treasure, something that he really wanted to hear.
Fast forward seven months, and the ideas that I gave him really have helped him to get some credibility for his stupid art blog. My lowly EvilDayJob at Dewar Hackett PR involves some social media work, so I know a few of the tricks. Soon enough, he’s getting invited to SoHo gallery openings and the artists want him to visit their studios.
Now he’s beginning to feel important and he starts thinking that I ought to cover up a bit more, maybe hold back when I’m talking to artists’ agents and dealers, and, do I really need another piece of cake?
At the start, our love life was wonderful, thrilling, unexpected and fresh. Petroc lusted after every part of me, every new situation, and every new possibility. We practically lived our lives in each others’ bedrooms. Lately, what had been lusty, slamming, hot, shouting, drenching wet sex, was now a dry, empty dustbowl. Tumbleweed would have livened it up. Then, last night in the bar, he gave me the ‘we need some space’ speech. FUCKERRRR!
The cracks had been starting to show for a couple of weeks, and at Mi Krac’s opening at the Gush gallery, I saw the writing on the wall. It was my networking that got him the invitation, me tweeting about the fact that his blog piece was quoted in Art & Artists magazine.
Me telling Krac’s agent that Petroc is ‘the go-to blog page for the pulse of the TriBeCa art beat,’ or something equally ridiculous. Actually, the more I put that kind of puff around for him, the more he grew into it, and now he really is the go-to blogger for the pulse of the up and coming TriBeCa art beat. For whatever that’s worth.
I never had an easy time with boys or men, and I’ve been wary since school. At high school you were either called ‘frigid’ or you were called a ‘whore.’ The girls who got a by were the super-popular Miss Perfect cheerleaders, most of whom really did act like whores.
I heard that some of them actually went on to become whores. When guys came up to me, they were usually looking for an easy hookup. One boy, Aaron, he was so cute and I did literally dream about him. He was the biggest in his year and he had shaggy brown hair and sweet, sincere blue eyes.
Well, they looked sincere. Turns out you can’t always tell. He told me all the sweet shit you want to hear and we made out in the back of his daddy’s car. The next morning I overheard him telling his buddies how fat I was and mimicking my voice saying, ‘Oh, Aaron, you’re so big,’ Which I never said.
In the equipment stakes, he was on the smaller side of medium in fact, I just was too devastated to step up and say that to all of his friends, like I know that I should have done.
So Petroc got in under my defences. He shot me a lot of charming lines and – dammit, if he didn’t mean any of that, if it was all just bullshit, why did he pursue me the way that he did? OK, it’s in the past, but the memory of it can still sting.
The minimal, 3 rd floor Gush gallery bustled respectably with lively people who had edgy hair and makeup, dressed mostly in black. The art crowd was out for Mi Krac’s private view, enjoying champagne and canapés and their brittle laughs, and making me feel dowdy and drab.
Little red stickers appeared by a few pieces to indicate that sales had been made and Colm, the gallery owner, was running about, directing
Seven months I wasted with that jerk Petroc. Seven months listening to his rambling twaddle about his blog and about art and basically all about his ego. When we first met, I was his black goddess, I was perfect. He adored every curve and every slope of my luscious body.
‘Maya, you could wear a sack and I’d still fall in love with you.’ He said. Back then. All of my habits were charming and everything that I had to say was something to treasure, something that he really wanted to hear.
Fast forward seven months, and the ideas that I gave him really have helped him to get some credibility for his stupid art blog. My lowly EvilDayJob at Dewar Hackett PR involves some social media work, so I know a few of the tricks. Soon enough, he’s getting invited to SoHo gallery openings and the artists want him to visit their studios.
Now he’s beginning to feel important and he starts thinking that I ought to cover up a bit more, maybe hold back when I’m talking to artists’ agents and dealers, and, do I really need another piece of cake?
At the start, our love life was wonderful, thrilling, unexpected and fresh. Petroc lusted after every part of me, every new situation, and every new possibility. We practically lived our lives in each others’ bedrooms. Lately, what had been lusty, slamming, hot, shouting, drenching wet sex, was now a dry, empty dustbowl. Tumbleweed would have livened it up. Then, last night in the bar, he gave me the ‘we need some space’ speech. FUCKERRRR!
The cracks had been starting to show for a couple of weeks, and at Mi Krac’s opening at the Gush gallery, I saw the writing on the wall. It was my networking that got him the invitation, me tweeting about the fact that his blog piece was quoted in Art & Artists magazine.
Me telling Krac’s agent that Petroc is ‘the go-to blog page for the pulse of the TriBeCa art beat,’ or something equally ridiculous. Actually, the more I put that kind of puff around for him, the more he grew into it, and now he really is the go-to blogger for the pulse of the up and coming TriBeCa art beat. For whatever that’s worth.
I never had an easy time with boys or men, and I’ve been wary since school. At high school you were either called ‘frigid’ or you were called a ‘whore.’ The girls who got a by were the super-popular Miss Perfect cheerleaders, most of whom really did act like whores.
I heard that some of them actually went on to become whores. When guys came up to me, they were usually looking for an easy hookup. One boy, Aaron, he was so cute and I did literally dream about him. He was the biggest in his year and he had shaggy brown hair and sweet, sincere blue eyes.
Well, they looked sincere. Turns out you can’t always tell. He told me all the sweet shit you want to hear and we made out in the back of his daddy’s car. The next morning I overheard him telling his buddies how fat I was and mimicking my voice saying, ‘Oh, Aaron, you’re so big,’ Which I never said.
In the equipment stakes, he was on the smaller side of medium in fact, I just was too devastated to step up and say that to all of his friends, like I know that I should have done.
So Petroc got in under my defences. He shot me a lot of charming lines and – dammit, if he didn’t mean any of that, if it was all just bullshit, why did he pursue me the way that he did? OK, it’s in the past, but the memory of it can still sting.
The minimal, 3 rd floor Gush gallery bustled respectably with lively people who had edgy hair and makeup, dressed mostly in black. The art crowd was out for Mi Krac’s private view, enjoying champagne and canapés and their brittle laughs, and making me feel dowdy and drab.
Little red stickers appeared by a few pieces to indicate that sales had been made and Colm, the gallery owner, was running about, directing
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