What Kind of Person Gets Turned On by a Billionaire?

Obscene wealth, sociopathic men, and yet—romance genre best sellers and fawning coverage of the Bezos wedding. Let's talk about it.

Are you seriously not repulsed by the Bezos-Sánchez wedding?

No, really. This is an actual question. Because I’ve been trying to understand whether I’m the last person alive who saw that Vogue cover of Lauren in her wedding gown and thought, "This is what the end of empire looks like, plus lip implants."

Forget that I went to high school with Lauren Sánchez Bezos (I wish I could). Forget that her new husband is also from our hometown of Albuquerque, and that his stepfather, like my dad, was a Pedro Pan unaccompanied Cuban minor in the 1960s (I wish I could). Forget, too, that while they are drowning in diamonds, I am penniless and struggling to make my car payment this month (I wish I could).

Oprah pulled up to the wedding smiling like she was at a Pema Chodron brunch for the spiritually enlightened, not a billionaire cosplay of Versailles where everyone ignored the sharp, distant scrape-chorus of blades sharpening on guillotines on every continent. Meanwhile, people in this country are rationing insulin, and Lauren is wearing her dress on a $500 million yacht in Italy on the cover of Vogue whilst also receiving a laughable environmental warrior award from Eva Fucking Longoria.

So I ask again: what kind of person sees that and swoons? More to the point—what kind of person gets turned on by this Bezos type of man?

Because someone clearly does. Not me. Shudder.

But if publishing industry sales statistics are any indication, a lot of other someones.

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If everyone hates billionaires, why is “billionaire romance” a, well, billion-dollar genre?

According to Pew Research, only 12% of Democrats think billionaires are good for the country. More than half think they’re Satan. And Gen Z? Fully done with the depraved fuckers. They’re the "eat the rich" generation, right?

So, please explain it to me like I’m four years old: Why is the billionaire romance genre booming? Romance sales as a whole are more than $1.4 billion annually, and print romance sales are growing faster than any other genre. But after the sadistic success of Fifty Shades, billionaire romance took off like Elon Musk's ego (and, notably, NOT like his many exploding failed rocket launches.)

We’re talking about titles like The Fine Print, Twisted Love, and The Billionaire’s Baby Bargain by authors like Ana Huang, Lauren Asher, and T.L. Swan—stories where emotionally unavailable men with six-packs and six homes finally learn to love...you. (Barf.)

It's not just the books, either. BookTok, Bookstagram, and BookTube are all littered with thirst traps and fantasy casting for these emotionally bankrupt billionaires.

And me? I feel insane because I COULD NOT HATE THIS MORE.

So, me being me, I will try to understand this phenomenon, sociologically.

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Let’s be honest. It’s not about money. It’s about monsters.

I’ve been writing novels for 25 years. I know a trend when I see one. And this one isn't about wealth. It’s about power. The real fantasy isn’t the Gulfstream jet or the Manhattan penthouse. It’s being chosen by the apex predator who decides, against all odds, not to eat you. In this regard, it’s similar to the Twilight novels, and how they were not popular because Edward was a vampire, but because Edward was an ethical vampire who controlled his murderous urges in order to protect The Girl.

Literary scholar Jeffrey Weinstock says that monsters in fiction often represent the cultural "other" — the scary thing we secretly want to touch us. A 2003 master’s thesis at UNC Chapel Hill on vampire romance found that readers crave stories where dangerous supernatural beings are “redeemed" through human connection. In other words: it’s hot when the monster puts down the fangs for you.

That’s what billionaire romance is: a modern vampire story. He’s dead inside. But you? You bring him to life.

But let’s not get it twisted. This is pure capitalist propaganda, too. Because if it were only about Giving The Ladies What They Want, we’d have a whole Mangione sub-genre of romance, too.

And we don’t.

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Remember Luigi Mangione? America’s accidental sex symbol?

The guy who allegedly assassinated a UnitedHealthcare CEO and then went viral for it? TikTok couldn’t get enough. Women (and men) were thirsting in the comments. Etsy stores were printing t-shirts. People were writing fanfiction. It was Robin Hood, but with better cheekbones.

The New Yorker published a whole essay about him. YouGov polls showed that nearly half of adults under 35 viewed him favorably. Favorably. An alleged assassin.

So yeah. There’s a pattern here. When the system is rigged, and the rich keep getting richer, some people start fantasizing about justice with a jawline. It’s not about ethics. It’s about catharsis.

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So where’s the Robin Hood romance? Where’s the book about the guy who burns down hedge funds and then makes you tea?

That book doesn’t exist. At least, not in the mainstream. And there’s a reason for that.

Publishing is an oligarchy now. Penguin Random House? Owned by Bertelsmann. HarperCollins? News Corp. Simon & Schuster? Absorbed by the same monolith. The big five publishers are basically five different hands on the same wallet.

You think they're gonna publish a romance novel about a guy who taxes billionaires and blows up yachts? Not in this economy. It’s bad synergy.

Look at how they’re treating Zohran Mamdani, the new democratic socialist mayor of NYC. The DNC and corporate media are acting like he walked in wearing a hammer and sickle Speedo. Never mind that he just won the most populous city in the country—with more people than 24 states. Never mind that the actual voters chose him. The media says he’s "too inexperienced," "too radical," and my personal favorite, "not realistic."

Translation: he doesn’t make billionaires feel safe.

To that I say: GOOD.

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Even when we get the revolution, we’re not allowed to make it sexy.

I went looking for a real-life romantic revolution. I found Evocation, Aleida March’s memoir about loving Che Guevara. I wanted sparks and softness. I got tactical maneuvers and troop movement. It read like a field manual with feelings.

So I’m writing the book I want to read. A Robin Hood romance. A man with dirt under his nails, fire in his belly, and a deep respect for mutual aid. He doesn’t own a yacht. He’s torching one—for you. I’ll have to self-pub this one, obvz.

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Final question: would you read it?

Would you read a romance about someone who tears down the capitalist world for love, then helps you do the dishes? Someone who burns a hedge fund to the ground and says, "You hungry, baby? I got your organic community garden-grown gazpacho right here, boo."

Tell me what you think. Who’s your revolutionary dreamboat? Luigi? Che? That quiet dude from the co-op with the scar and the soul of a poet? Or Jeff Fucking Bezos?

Let’s build the Robin Hood romance genre ourselves. I’ll bring the torch. You bring the marshmallows. It will not be sold on Amazon.