Which pill will Belle swallow? (photo courtesy Creative Commons, Flickr/bluewinx15)

I never thought I'd be saying this, but I stopped calling my last date because he had too much money.  Well, I guess that's not really true. I stopped calling him because he and his (too much) money made me too uncomfortable.

I was taught that if you want something, earn it, so letting a man pay for everything just doesn't sit right with me. I'm not opposed to a man taking me out to a first date and a couple after that if he's trying to make an impression or be a gentlemen but going further than that is really not necessary.  If you have a lot of money, good for you, but don't flaunt it and expect me to be impressed.

I met Mr. S at the W Hotel in Westwood. It was a Friday night after a very long week and all I wanted was vodka and a chance to relax. I wasn't expecting or trying to meet anyone, but he saw me at the bar and wouldn't let up.  At first, he wasn't flashy at all. He actually tricked me into thinking he was normal. He told me he had just turned 40, wore a plain black crew neck T-shirt, a pair of faded, True Religion jeans and black loafers.

After two hours with him, the cracks in his armor of normalcy started to show. He told me about studying at Princeton then going to Harvard for law school. After being a lawyer for a couple years he switched careers to buying companies.  That's right. When I asked him what he did for a living he casually answered "I buy companies." Then he pulled out an enormous money clip and offered to buy me a drink.  I politely declined and he acted like I had punched him in the stomach.  "Wow, usually people just let me buy them things," he said, surprised.

Around 1 a.m. I made up an excuse to leave.  He offered to drive me to my car a couple blocks away but no creep meters went off in my head so I let him.  We waited at the valet outside for a couple minutes before a shiny black two-door pulled up.  I let him open the door for me and hopped inside. We drove the three blocks to my car in silence. He seemed really disappointed for some reason.

"Uh, do you like my car?" he asked, sounding really worried. I looked around the car, having no idea what kind it was or anything more about it other than it was black.

"Yeah, I guess," I replied.

"It's an Aston Martin, the one that was at the car show last year." Great, I had no idea what he was talking about or why he thought I would care.

I spotted my car up ahead, dodged his good night kiss and jumped out.  He stopped me before I could run away and asked for my number.  I contemplated giving him fake digits, but then I felt bad for being too judgmental about his money clip and his car complex so I gave him my real one.

He texted me before I got home to tell me how much fun he had talking with me. He was going to stay at his apartment in New York - on the Upper West Side of course - for a week to sign some contracts but said he wanted to see me as soon as he got back.  He texted me all week, with at least five texts a day telling me about his trip.  While he was gone I did a little recon work, Googled Mr. S and found that he is actually 49, not 40. I felt turned off at the fact that he lied about his age, but also bad for him for feeling the need to lie at all. I dismissed him at first as being too flashy, then wondered whether he was just so insecure he felt the need to use money to compensate. It sucked that he lied but I was making too many judgments without giving him a real chance, so when he asked me to dinner the night after he got back into L.A. I said yes.

We met at the Brentwood Restaurant and Lounge. The restaurant was dimly lit and pretty full for a Wednesday night. I arrived first and got a booth in the corner. He showed up 10 minutes late, blaming his weekly basketball game.

When the waiter came by to take our drink order Mr. S ignored me and asked for a wine recommendation. He ordered one of the most expensive bottles on the menu then paired it with a hamburger and fries. A full 30 minutes went by and I did't get a word in. He talked about the islands he rents for vacations and birthdays with his Princeton boys, his many cars, companies, his ranch, horses, New York apartment and two houses in L.A. For some reason he thought it would be a good idea to respond to my eyes glazing over with a couple pictures of the new mansion he just purchased in Bel Air. He brought out his iPhone and flipped through 20 pictures, making sure to explain each room in detail.
 
"So there's 14 bedrooms," he said, then waited for a reaction.

"Well, how many people are going to be living there with you?" I asked.

"Just me," he responded, like it was a completely legitimate response.

"Why would anyone need 14 bedrooms?" I asked.

He looked a little disappointed, then told me he he bought the house because he could afford it, not because he needed it.

I got the feeling that he finally noticed the date wasn't going well. He started drinking heavily and literally could not stop talking about money.  It was like he had word vomit and every other word out of his mouth was million, grand or car. The more he drank, the more I wondered how he was going to get home.

When he finished eating I told him I had a big story to work on and needed to get up early - the excuse I fall back on when I want to get the hell out of somewhere. When we got outside he told the valet to get his car but to park it for the night and that he would be back to pick it up tomorrow.

"Do you mind driving me home?" he asked.  Great. Was he that desperate for me to see his house?

The valet pulled up with a huge black mercedes and handed Mr. S the keys. He made sure I noticed that it wasn't the same car he drove the first time we met.

"Oh, that's just one of my other cars," he said without looking me in the face. He then walked across the street to my car and got in.

He kept trying to put his hand on my thigh and I kept removing it. I got the feeling he was pretending to be more drunk than he actually was but I'll never know. I lied and told him I didn't do anything below the equator on a first date and that if he put his hand on my thigh again I'd have to cut it off.

I drove through a maze of amazingly beautiful houses in Bel Air before arriving at what I thought Mr. S's house. Apparently he thought it would be fun to show me the house he just bought instead of telling me where his actual house was.

"You should come in and see my new kitchen," he said. "I want you to come over all the time and cook me dinner." I was so annoyed that he didn't take me to his actual house, where I could get rid of him, that I didn't respond.

I kept driving past his new mansion and told him that I really needed to get home. He assured me that his actual home wasn't far. We literally drove three blocks and we were at his house. I don't really see the point in purchasing a house three blocks away from your old house but Mr. S apparently thought it was a genius idea.

Large bronze Terracotta Warrior Army replica statues stood on both sides of the entryway. I had to drive down the driveway and all the way into the property to get anywhere near the front door to drop him off.

He invited me in, trying to tempt me with a tour of his 9 bedrooms. With his little detour and attempts at stalling it was already close to one in the morning. I left, unable to help thinking about all the women who actually date people for their money. I know women who would have followed him in and done anything for him.

I guess I could ignore the self-esteem issues and endless flaunting if I wanted to never worry about money ever again. I could just picture a life of endless dinner parties, jewelry and shopping sprees, but it wouldn't really be much of a life. I absolutely need to work. I would die if I had nothing to do all day, and I only like-and feel comfortable shopping with-my own money. I'd be rich with Mr. S but I wouldn't be me. I never returned any of his phone calls or texts after our date. I'll take great sex with someone I actually like over a life of luxury any day.