Heather
So it happened. My very first downgrade as a newly single woman. Last night, after hours of agonizing, I un-starred one of my contacts on my smartphone, thus moving him into the faceless masses of my general contacts file. With one tap of my finger he transitioned from my “Top Twenty Favorite Contacts” (i.e. Friends and People I Want Naked) to a general list inhabited by my second cousin Edna’s kids and the pizza delivery guy.
Strike that. Pizza guy is thirteenth on my favorites.
I didn’t do it lightly. In fact, I may have cried afterwards while curled up in the fetal position clutching a hard copy of our entire email correspondence.
The worst part was that I KNEW it was going to happen. I could have written out the saga of our flirtation from beginning to end, hitting all the high and low notes with perfect accuracy. Even as he texted me the most delicious suggestions of what he was going to do to my ass as we verbally dueled each other into a mutually orgasmic state, that nagging voice in my head warned me not to proceed any further.
He was brain candy, and nothing gets me hotter than a man who appreciates my brain and my ass with great vocabulary.
I sent a text to Nikki right away, tears falling on her hot, tiny avatar:
Me: I’m such a dork. I fall for the charming-intelligent-jock types every fucking time. I know it won’t work going into the flirtation. My past is littered with these jackasses that break my heart. WHY DON’T I EVER LISTEN?
Nikki: That doesn’t make you a dork.
Me: I really liked him. We had so much fun.
Nikki: Look, we all have a type.
Me: (I’m feeling somewhat mollified but still crying.) What’s yours?
Nikki: Mine is the bad boy type. The darker the soul, the more attractive he is.
Me: Oooo…shiny.
Nikki: Of course I always end up getting fucked. Literally and figuratively speaking.
She’s right. There’s something about these types that allow them to breeze past our defenses and insinuate themselves deep in our minds and panties. Our type works on us just like kryptonite on Superman. They come into range and suddenly we’re crippled, unable to fight even when we know it will end badly.
Mr. Kryptonite is in my general contacts, but he hasn’t been forgotten. Not by a long shot. That’s the problem with the kryptonite types. I tell myself that I don’t care if he doesn’t text me for days, and I know he won’t call. (Stop staring at your phone, Heather!) But the moment he does…I’m there. I can’t tell him to kiss my grits despite all the stern pep talks I tell myself when I’m alone in bed, staring at the ceiling in my Fortress of Solitude. If I was smart I would have deleted his information and removed his fine kryptonite ass from tempting me.
If I was smart and had more willpower than a gnat.
——————
Nikki
It’s true. The bad boys are my kryptonite. The smooth talkers who tell me everything I want to hear as if they are reading my thoughts and have the mind fuck down to an art. Regardless of age, they know that telling me I have a great sense of humor far outweighs telling me I have a great ass. Which I do, by the way. It’s the ones whose tattoos are covered by starched dress shirts and pleated pants, the ones that I know are going to fuck me six ways from Sunday, leave me with a bright red ass and streaks of mascara staining my damp cheeks.
In reality, on the outside they rarely look like bad boys. They look like IT guys, sales reps, financial geniuses, or even radiologists. But on the inside, it’s the unwavering confidence, the subtle cockiness and the overall alpha attitude that seeps from their pores drawing me in like a fly to honey, rendering me powerless against them. Next thing I know, I’ve willingly opened the door for them to rip off of my panties and stuff their cock down my throat before I can say, “oh my, what big balls you have.”
I know they’re bad for me, but it doesn’t matter. Inevitably, their stripes show and I end up telling them to fuck off knowing they’ll have me on my knees again, because the fucking is just that good. And I don’t hate myself afterwards because for some inexplicable reason, I feel like I’ve won. They give me what I like, what I want. They’re the only type that can satisfy my wicked cravings.
Every type has a downfall, and the bad boy types are the worst. Fortunately for me, I don’t form emotional connections easily with them. I’m just not wired that way. On the rarest occasion it happens though, because I am human. I don’t always easily accept it or readily admit it, but when the kryptonite manages to scale my walls and invade my personal space, I’m guarded and I defend my heart from injury with what I use best: sarcasm.
I’ve always been told I have the ability to fuck like a man. Take that for what it’s worth, but it works for me.
And my bad boys, apparently.
