Why do good boys like bad girls?

See that? It works both ways. I'm not suggesting we good boys prefer our girls unclean, gassy, or riding choppers. We will tolerate a bit of scruff below the belt as well as repeated use of the F-word, though we prefer it to be creative. No, we're not suggesting you carve your beave beard into an arrow. I was referring to cussing like a football coach.

When I was taking my first stabs at vagina, I preferred the pristine type--rarely visited--attached to Ms. Demure. It was like new construction: there aren't many scars until I move in and leave my mark. This lady was the ideal specimen to expose to family, friends, and coworkers. She'd sit politely and converse innocently as to not adversely affect my standing. Still, when naughtiness is sought, horns don't fit this angel.

Roll forward. I have no time to train a delicious young specimen the fine art of knob gobbling. I prefer to be taught a new method of the pleasurable distribution of my genetic stew. Hence, much as the bad boy is expected to deliver a good deep dicking, the bad girl is expected to be receptive, nay, insistent upon receiving such and will not hesitate to tell me so using gasp-inducing words.

Good girls will sprinkle flowery perfume, wear lacy undies, and giggle when touched.
Bad girls smell of last night's bourbon and weed, forget to wear undies, and grind into the hand that teases.

Good girls will chat bar-side about American Idol while sipping zin and nibbling side salads.
Bad girls will double-fist warm tequila and cold beer, dump hot sauce on everything, and punch you when they laugh.

Good girls want to go to wine tasting events, plays, and art galleries.
Bad girls want to stay home, put on Comedy Central, order Chinese food, and get busy even while mid-eggroll.

Good girls are anxious for you to meet their friends and families.
Bad girls are bored with theirs and would rather go to a firing range than subject you to the monotony of childhood stories.

Good girls ask you to drive slowly with the windows up as to not mess their hair.
Bad girls call you a pussy, push down your right leg, roll down the windows, and flash the slowpokes you pass.

Good girls read the silliness I write, then cringe and ask what left me so jaded.
Bad girls get the joke, say "fuckin' A," and dare me to write about something they inspire by exposing their darkest desires to me.