Hey Dollar Bill,
It's obviously my story you're writing about. First, I gotta say -- apt that you named yourself "Dollar Bill" after that douchebag in Billions -- a show that makes fun of men in every episode. Those writers truly know how to show some men can't give up the opportunity for any cage match, no matter how unprepared or outmatched they are.
Second, I just skimmed your story because I stopped when I got the the "handsome millionaire" part, and then my eyes glazed over. Not sure how many Danielle Steele books you've been reading, but newsflash: women aren't pining for handsome millionaires these days, because we're outperforming men on every metric: college, law school, medical school, home ownership. We can't smash the patriarchy anymore because there's nothing to smash, which is no fun, tbh.
Okay, I just forced myself to go to the next paragraph. I'm not "crying myself to sleep" because I have fantastic tits. I realize their power and how they make men's brains short circuit, which apparently happened here because your story is pretty....angry. To be clear, I got into bed with my rescue dog that day and yes, cried, because my friends (who are women, not men - another mistake you made we can ignore for now) communicated that I was somehow being pornographic, overly sexual, slutty, pick whatever adjective of a red-heeled woman (look that up) because I sat on a paddle board one afternoon and had the temerity to share it.
That said, curious why you wouldn't link to my story because you seem to think I've already made enough money off it. This IS an escort publication after all -- where you write about women who make money from their sexiness and sexuality. No? If so ,what pissed you off so much that I made money off it? Why slow my roll? (Teasing: my stats skyrocketed yesterday, probably because of this story, so thank you). Or is that you're afraid I'll become one of those millionaires you think all of us are pining after?
Perhaps you need to read it again and see what it really said: