The Appeal of the “Bad Boy”

Hella sexy and equally unavailable

I’m not sure what started me thinking about the men in my past. All those dudes I let poke and prod me in unmentionable places. For the most part, nearly all of them could be considered “bad boys.”

Ladies, you know what I’m talking about. Dark. Intense. Sexy as hell. Needs no adornment other than jeans, a white T-shirt and a leather jacket — preferably, black.

I was a late bloomer. At nineteen, I lost my virginity to a 30-year-old guy my girlfriend and I met while we were hitchhiking. He became my “boyfriend,” of sorts.

I won’t go into the gritty details of my deflowering. I’ll just say Pink Floyd was involved. The Dark Side of the Moon album. As with most first times, it was a bust.

This guy — what the fuck was I thinking? He was hot, alright, in a small-town kind of way. And, he had a ridiculous name. Alliteration all over the place. Think: “Bob Bender from Bastrop.” But funnier.

What made him a “bad boy?” Maybe the fact that he was 30, and getting busy with a nineteen-year-old. Whatever. We didn’t last long.

As my sexuality blossomed, so did my desire for a certain type of guy. One who gave me what I needed, but, with an expiration date.

Cinematic bad boys are legion. The epitome, for me, is Ray Liotta in Something Wild. One of his first roles, if not the first, the dude generated some serious heat. Even with pockmarks. Now, that’s hot.

Jeff Daniels was the “good guy,” in this film, albeit, a liar, but Liotta was mmm mmm good.

Marlon Brando was another movie bad boy. In several roles (and in life, actually), but especially, in the iconic film, “The Wild One.”

Maybe “wild” is the common denominator, here. Bad boys are wild. And, often, a little crazy.

Speaking of, there was a guy I was nuts about. I met him in the local watering hole where the man who was to become my husband tended bar.

Dark hair. Green eyes. A great bod. And a mysterious MO. He was a paramedic. At night, he was a member of the security staff for a popular Chicago concert hall. From time to time, he took me with him. I’d bop to the music and get bombed while he tossed rowdy drunks out on their asses.

This particular guy was into other things, too. Dark things. Maybe having to do with drugs. I know he had a gun because I saw it once. Best not to elaborate on that.

He was really smart, too, which only added to his appeal. And sweet, in his way. But, this “relationship” was never going to evolve. I wanted more, but it was never going to happen. He didn’t want a “girlfriend.” So that was it. There was no official breakup. He just drifted away.

It didn’t take me long to get my sea legs back. And when I did, they were wrapped around a 6’4” hunk of a man with black, curly hair, blue eyes, a rakish mustache, and a cute gap between his two front teeth. He had a “black Irish” look to him. As it turned out, he was Irish on his mother’s side, with a Jewish father.

This is the guy who introduced me to the delights of oral sex. With a gusto unmatched by anyone then, or since.

He was also on parole. Yep. The ultimate bad boy. One who’d been to prison. Hot!

This bad boy was different, though. Commitment-shy, he wasn’t. He was nuts about me, with “nuts” being the operative word. More on that, in a minute.

The more I learned about my new paramour, the worse I felt for him. He had a tough upbringing. His mother committed suicide. His father died. And, his two older brothers took off and left him to his own devices. No wonder he landed in prison. As I recall, it was drug-related.

A gifted artist, he made his living as a house painter. Not enough of a living, apparently, as I often caught him rifling my drawers in search of “spare change.” He would also take my car — an orange, Plymouth duster — without my permission. He racked up ticket after ticket.

When I’d finally had enough, things got scary. He would not let me leave him. He’d follow me on dates. Show up at my apartment door when I was inside with another guy (like the aforementioned one with the gun), that sort of thing. In short, he stalked me.

At least until the night when two plainclothes detectives followed him, as he was following me home from the bar. That took the wind out of his sails. Nothing quite says “give it up” like two guys with guns telling you to drop to your knees.

What was my problem? Why couldn’t I go for the really sweet, considerate guys? A couple, especially, stick in my mind. One was a waiter at a Greek restaurant my friends and I would hang at. Of Greek descent, he had a cockney accent as he was raised in the UK.

He was such a gentleman. We went out on one date. One and done. He actually took me dancing. The guy was sweet, considerate — and outta there. I feel terrible as I recall this.

Another sweetheart, with banging good looks and a great personality, brought me live plants from the store he managed. A “dime store” kind of store. Not sexy enough for me. Not “bad” enough.

As I recall this lineup of dicey dudes, one in particular stands out. A bad boy in the body of a 57-year old man.

In my twenties, I moved back home for a while and got a job as a receptionist at a company that published textbooks.

The Vice President was a charming, erudite man with a wicked sense of humor and a swift temper. He was also a New Yorker, and a world-class drinker. What else could I ask for?

He was separated and made it clear that he fancied me. We started meeting for drinks after work and things quickly progressed from there.

Bear in mind: This guy was older than my father.

He introduced me to his closest friends, a married couple, and we hung out all the time. This was different than my other relationships because it actually became a relationship. We were a thing.

God, I was stupid: One night, we were sitting at the bar of a popular rib joint not far from work. And, not far from my parents’ house. A place where my dad regularly picked up food.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. My father was there! Picking up food! And he saw me and the man in question with his arm wrapped around me shoulder.

We stared at each other. Neither one of us said a word, or even gave any indication that we knew each other. I pushed my guy’s arm away.

My father beckoned the bartender and whispered in his ear. I’m sure he was grilling him about us.

If ever I wanted a hole to open up…

Suffice it to say this did not end well. When I got home, my mother was crying. She told me that Dad was out looking for me.

I moved out the next day.

This nightmarish moment, in and of itself, did not kill the relationship. What did: One day, my guy took me to visit his son at the University of Wisconsin.

We were sitting in a restaurant bar in Madison. Sun streamed through the windows. At one point, the light hit my guy in such a way that it stunned me. “Wow,” I thought. “He looks really old.”

Finito.

Thankfully, I grew up and realized that, for me, the perfect combo in a guy was the “good boy,” with just enough of the “bad boy” to light my fire. In a really awesome way.

That guy turned out to be my husband.

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

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