Posted 07/00 ____________________________
| |
/)| KRISTEN'S BOOKSHELF |(\
/ )| DIRECTORIES |( \
__( (|____________________________|) )__
((( \ \ > /_) ( \ < / / )))
(\\\ \ \_/ / \ \_/ / ///)
\ / \ /
\ _/ \_ /
/ / \ \
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o o
o The Bookshelf Directories offer a very wide variety of stories. o
o They have been submitted by people from all over the world. Also o
o from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no particular order o
o other than offering them to you in alphabetical directories. o
o o
o All works are copyrighted to the author and may not be used for o
o profit without obtaining the author's permission in advance. o
o o
o Lest we forget!!! This story was produced as adult entertainment o
o and should not be read by minors. o
o o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Why I Like Bad Girls: An Essay (RBissell)(MF, piercings, true)
by Richard Bissell (r_bissell41@my-deja.com)
Date: 02/12/2000
Adults only, no prudes. If you don't like sex stories containing
teenagers engaging in weird perversions, or you can't separate truth
from fiction, get lost. The author does not advocate or condone
anything that goes on in this story.
This story is mine. You can repost it or archive it only if 1) you
don't change it, 2) my name and this disclaimer remain attached, and 3)
you aren't making money off it. That includes posting it on some
slimeball banner farm web site. Yes, that means you!
When Janey asked me to contribute something to the ASSM revival promo, I
was in the thick of writing Call Girl Cheerleaders, and I didn't see how
I could possibly come up with anything else. Once I finished the first
draft, however, I remembered her solicitation and wrote back asking if
it was too late. She said no, so I wrote this. This is part story and
part essay, and though there is some sex in it, it's not particularly
detailed.
Codes: MF, piercings, true
Why I Like Bad Girls: An Essay
(C)opyright 1999 by Richard Bissell
Not so many years ago, I dated a girl who would probably set off the
metal detectors at LAX. She had--no lie-- piercings through both
eyebrows, her left nostril, tongue, lower lip, nipples (one each), navel
(twice), clitoris, labia (six times), and, last but not least, both ears
(at least a dozen all together). She also had tattoos on her arms,
right tit, left buttock, and right ankle. While I knew her, I helped
her get another tat (a rose) put just below her bikini line. She kept
her pubic area perpetually waxed clean, so all of this ornamentation was
easily visible. She never once wore panties or pantyhose the entire
time we were dating--apparently they were too uncomfortable with all the
studs and rings in her crotch.
This girl's name was Allison, and sex with her was sometimes like
walking on those orthopedic "massage slippers" with the little rubber
nubs in the sole--all sorts of things were constantly poking and
prodding me at odd moments.
I still wonder what it was she saw in me, as I present a fairly
straitlaced appearance. I have no piercings and only one tattoo (gained
after a drinking binge in college), and I work in about the most
non-counterculture occupation imaginable--I'm a lawyer. We met when I
drew up a contract for her previous boyfriend, a drummer in an anonymous
alternative rock band. For reasons I could never quite fathom, she
dropped him like he had the plague and began coming after me.
Allison had a habit of calling me up at all hours of the night wanting
to get together. Often she would be drunk and calling me from some
party forty miles away, and I grew to expect a lot of noise in the
background whenever I heard from her. Calling *her* was pointless.
Either she wasn't home, she wasn't answering her phone, or the phone
company had disconnected her for not paying her bill, and all I ever got
was her voice mail. Sometimes she called me back later; sometimes she
didn't.
I can still hear that sultry message in my mind, the husky half-drunk
half-horny timbre to her voice. "Hey, you missed me," it began with a
giggle, "are you mad? Well, leave a message, and I might make it up to
you. For bonus points, tell me what you want to do to me"--another
throaty giggle--"The better the message, the sooner I call you back.
Bye now." When we were first going out, I would leave long,
pornographic, monologues on her voice mail, imagining that I was melting
down the phone lines. Eventually I figured out that the final tease in
her message was just that.
Once she woke me up at three a.m. wanting me to come over to her
friend's house, and when I got there (a grungy apartment in North
Hollywood), I found the two of them half-asleep in a cloud of marijuana
smoke.
"What happened to the party?" I asked.
"Oh," she said. "There wasn't really any party. We're just horny."
"We?" I asked.
They laughed.
"Yeah, we. We want you to fuck us."
Getting the point, I did. Allison was bisexual (did I mention that?),
so they fucked each other as well. I had to work the next day, so I
couldn't spend the night, though they wanted me to.
Whenever we drove anywhere, Allison would invariably end up giving me a
blowjob while I was driving. From her, I discovered the real point of
pierced tongues, which is not simply ornamentation. Once (when she
really got going on me) we were swerving so much that I got pulled over.
The cop thought I was drunk, but Allison blithely informed him that she
had been giving me head, and that he had interrupted her. That produced
a stern lecture on public lewdness and reckless driving, but eventually
he let us go.
Then there was the time that I made the mistake of bringing her to a
cocktail party that one of the other attorneys at my firm was having
(this was when I was still trying in vain to domesticate her a little).
By the end of the night, Allison had a) propositioned the (admittedly
cute) second wife of the senior partner, b) displayed her nipple studs
to two of the junior associates, and c) convinced me to have sex with
her in the hall coat closet. Somehow I got us out of there without
ending my career, but I would be hearing about that night for several
months afterward at work.
Did I complain? Hell, no. I was having the time of my life.
The figure of the "Bad Girl" is an iconic one in Western society.
Though the trendiness thereof has ebbed and flowed, one can find
examples in every generation. These days, Bad Girls are hot, so we have
a lot of them: Pamela Anderson Lee, Courtney Love, Xena (a reformed Bad
Girl, but a Bad Girl nonetheless), Shannon Doherty, Britney Spears (Bad
Girl Lite, but still worth mentioning) to name just a few. Every teen
drama from "Dawson's Creek" to "Sabrina" has at least one, even if they
aren't overtly presented as admirable.
Other examples abound, from Marilyn Monroe to Jane Russell to Bette
Davis to Joan Crawford. The whole "flapper" trend during the 1920's was
just another incarnation of the Bad Girl. Though the similarities grow
more tenuous the further you descend into the past, one could probably
trace the modern Bad Girl all the way back to The Canterbury Tales and
beyond. (Who is the wife in The Miller's Tale if not an archetypical
Bad Girl? Tricking an unwanted suitor into kissing your behind is pure
Bad Girl in my book.) Even the Bible gives us a lot of examples, never
mind that the Bad Girls therein tend to get stoned or turned into
pillars of salt.
I have always been attracted to girls like Allison, notwithstanding that
few of them have wanted anything to do with me. Bad Girls tend to want
Bad Boys, and I don't look like one, even if I like to think that
there's one hiding inside me. The few Bad Girls I have managed to
attract tended to see something in me that the others couldn't, and our
initial connections have tended to occur in odd milieus (like my law
office).
I don't think that I am anything unusual in this predilection. The
cultural position of the Bad Girl presumes some sort of male
attraction--it presumes a male to be led astray, to be lured away from
the Good Girls, whether or not the Bad Girl is sincere in her attentions
to him, which she quite often is not. Without a man to attract, the Bad
Girl loses much of her raison d'etre and becomes nothing but rebellion
against the status quo, an action largely without gender.
(Note: I am aware that lesbian "bad girls" exist, but when such a woman
is truly lesbian--and not merely bisexual, like my pierced
inamorata--she belongs in a different category from the women listed
above. She is not truly a Bad Girl, who derives her central definition
from playing games with male lust.)
The attraction of the Bad Girl is that she represents an escape from the
harness of traditional domesticity. The Bad Girl is not interested in
what you do for a living except as it provides her another means of
messing up your life. The Bad Girl does not play house or care about
the pattern of her draperies. Her only concern with the thread count of
your sheets is whether it's dense enough to avoid snagging the rings in
her nipples when the two of you are engaged in anal sex. The Bad Girl
may have children (since Bad Girls are notoriously irresponsible, even
with things like contraceptives) but she probably does not much care
what sort of father you would make for them.
It is little worth denying that within Modern Man beats the heart of a
Neanderthal--any married woman can attest to this--and the Bad Girl's
rebellion against traditional female gender roles gets her hooks into
this inner caveman. The Bad Girl rejects domesticity; thus, the caveman
is free to indulge his baser desires. The Good Girl is repulsed by
this; the Bad Girl simply doesn't care. She's too busy figuring out
where the nearest party is.
Attraction to the Bad Girl is not a rational impulse. By any rational
measure, my relationship with Allison was a disaster. When I finally
came out of our six-month binge of self-indulgence, all I had to show
for it were three traffic tickets, a dent in my left front fender that
cost $800 to fix, two maxed-visas, and a stern reprimand from my boss
(the husband of the woman Allison propositioned) about not letting my
personal life interfere with my job. And Allison continued to bug me
until I finally got a new phone number.
Was I better off? Absolutely. Was I happy about it? Not by a mile.
Several times a month for the next year or so, whenever I got drunk,
lonely, or horny (thinking, for example, about how her tongue stud felt
against my dick or about the time we fucked, standing up, in the mosh
pit at a Nirvana concert) I would pick up the phone to call her. Once I
even did (and got her voice mail again), though she never called me
back. Even now, years later, I still think about her occasionally and
fantasize about getting back together, no matter how much I know that
it's both impossible and insane. She has a primal hold on my soul that
will probably never go away--and I am willing to bet that she knows this
somehow. The real Bad Girls always do--it's part of why they are who
they are.
The irony is that Allison might, by now, have become as domesticated as
I am (though I doubt it). She might be married to a doctor and living
in the suburbs with a minivan and two toddlers. None of that matters.
To me, she remains the one Bad Girl I managed to really catch in ten
years of chasing them. Though I dated others before and after her, she
was only one who was really interested in keeping me around when she
found me in her bed the next morning. She remains the icon, the escape
from convention, the wild woman I never had a prayer of controlling.
However much I know I was better off for breaking up with her, the
caveman inside me won't let go of the memories.
This, I think, is good. All Bad Girls are, however bad they may be.
One should never be entirely settled in one's life, or stagnation soon
ensues. Every man needs something to reach for, something to remind him
of what lives across the railroad tracks--something to keep him from
feeling completely tamed, even if he really is.
Some men find their escape in taking stupid risks, whether it's driving
too fast or chasing teenage girls. Me, I think about pierced nipples,
tongue studs, and sex in coat closets. I rather think I'm better off.
* * *
If you liked this piece, don't be a choad and just move on to the next
thread. Drop me a note and let me know, especially if you want to see
more of it.