Bad Boys

Once in a blue moon, something becomes clear that, when fully illuminated in the light of therapeutic mumbo jumbo, makes you feel damn silly that it hadn't occurred to you for less than $110 an hour. This is one of those things.

The Good Doctor and I have been exploring the fact that I tend to date a particular silhouette. No, really. As long as the silhouette of a man fits the cut-out in my mind, I will follow himmmm...follow him wherever HEEE may gooooo. (Apologies to Little Peggy March...and shame on whoever named her Little Peggy March.) The silhouette, as alluded to in the first entry, is about 6'4", 240 lbs, bald (shaving counts - and is a plus, in case I change my mind), goateed, reflective sun glasses, combat boots....you get the picture. It matters not if both eyes are on the same side of his head, if his nose is missing or if his toes outnumber his teeth. If the silhouette is intact, I'm a goner. This stereotype (complete with swagger and cigarette) is commonly known as The Bad Boy.

My closest friends will attest (I would ask them to swear on a Bible, but most of them don't own one or don't believe in it) that if you were to line up 100 men against a wall: 99 C.P.A.'s and 1 drug-dealing axe murderer, only the axe murderer would catch my eye. They're right, of course. I've proven it in public numerous times. And because the silhouette blinds me to all red flags that a normal person would see, I end up dating the emotional equivalent of an autistic dingo. After 20-some years, it has finally occurred to me....Bad Boys Are Really Bad.
I think on some level I wanted to believe that after a date in leather chaps and boots, my hefty hunk went home, slapped on a toupêe and a cardigan and resumed his quiet life as a librarian and would call about every-other-day just to check in. This does not occur. Bad boys don't call. If you call, that's OK. But if you suggest that it would be OK for them to call, say, once a calendar year, you are an emotional trainwreck unworthy of dating Bad Boys.

Revelation 1(b) about Bad Boys came not in therapy, but in post-therapy re-hash with my friends: Bad Boys will bring wine and roses on the first date if they think it will get them laid after 2 futile years of trying to bag you with a Bad Boy line. I didn't see that one coming. This has no effect whatsoever on the Bad Boy calling plan. Your agility, flexibility, creativity and general willingness to "go there" in the sack will also not change their calling plan. I know this because the last one had "unlimited long distance", which I thought referred to his telephone, but was revealed to be a reference to the space he wished to keep between us when we weren't having above-average coitus at his place.

Bad Boys will say and do anything to nail a conquest. While you're prancing through life trying to approach men and the world as an adult, they're picking off targets like a kid at a carnival booth. And after 20-some years of picking BB's out of your butt, the light finally goes on: "Hey! This isn't fun anymore! I think I'll try therapy!" So for $110 per hour, you pick insults out of your solar plexus instead of buckshot out of your heart...and hopefully the next time we pick better. Hopefully.

(Post Script and Disclaimer: If you happen to fit the above silhouette, do not let this deter you from approaching me with empty promises of phone calls and picking up the tab for dinner. I am not so far along in therapy that I wouldn't say yes. And I could probably still get away with it, since I'm a therapeutic novice and all... My phone number is 555-.....)