Bad boys, bad boys...
In my twenties, I dated the rowdy types. Musicians, roadies, bikers, unemployed “writers”, high school dropouts, unemployed small-time criminals, ad infinitum. As much as I wanted to resist and go out with nice boy who would walk me to my front door after a date instead of spending an hour parked down the street trying to get my bra off, I still fell for the hooligans. Good boys never appreciated my ability to hold my liquor, throw a temper tantrum, make a scene, handle my drugs, get into bar fights, or play poker.
That's all in the past now. I'm a changed woman. At some point before I turned 30, I started kicking the bad boys out of my bed at 2 a.m. instead of the other way around. But though I likes my mens with jobs and haircuts now, I've never been able to shake the Pavlovian response I have to the sound of a revving motorcycle engine. Whenever I hear a twin cam engine after midnight, my first thought is, "yay, the sex has arrived." And I can't even count the times I've had near-misses in traffic trying to see what the tall, skinny guy on the Low Rider looked like.
You know how it is though. I'm a typical hypocritical sexist female: I want my guy to be a go-getter in business and in the bedroom. In the kitchen would be nice too. Cooking, I mean. Dinner. For me.