He has a snarling tiger tattooed across his gasp-worthy biceps. His hair hasn’t seen a shampoo bottle in weeks, and looks like its been chewed by his pet dog (who’s probably called Tarantula). He wears a black leather jacket that’s evidently seen happier times. And zooms about town on a wicked-looking bike.
Of course, he’s irresistible.
What is it about ‘bad boys’ that makes women go weak in the knees?
Logically, why would anyone want to date a man who knocks out people’s teeth as often as your friendly neighbourhood dentist? A man who gate crashes parties and then needs to be carried out horizontally – probably clutching a bottle of rum and singing all the way. A man who is probably as difficult to bring to heel as a puppy who’s just found the cookie jar.
Why do all romantic books and movies feature men who are arrogant, head strong and difficult?
Because men like that are exactly what make romance so interesting.
Nice boys are boring. They get up at 5 a.m. and jog, for heavens sake! That should be enough to put you off them for life! They have important, responsible jobs, like banking. Yawn! And once they manage to tear themselves away from their computers, they probably spend the evenings doing exciting things like Sudoku. Or watching reruns of Desperate Housewives. Or making new friends though Stamp Collecting communities on the Internet.
Life with tattoo man, however, will never be boring. First of all there’s the challenge of keeping him interested, which should apply to all women who ‘like the chase better than the kill.’ Good boys can be taken for granted, while bad boys keep you on your toes.
Then there’s the fact that they surprise you with delightfully impractical ideas: organise a post-party basketball match at 1 a.m. on the way home, or book tickets to Alaska and take off for a month of madness. You don’t always have to listen to them, but an impromptu bike ride at midnight can be unforgettable.
Besides, life with the Muscled One will always feel a safe, in a deliciously unsteady way. Because when one of those letches, who always seem to congregate at discos, tries his lousy lines on you, the Boy’s not going to just frown dissuadingly and complain to the manager. He’ll stand up and plaster the creep, and his friends.
And that’s why biker boys will never be short of girls.
Of course, keeping up with them in the long run can be exhausting. But, for a while at least, go ahead and date that bad boy for a while.
After all, you know the old saying: Good girls go to heaven. Bad girls go everywhere.
Now that it is official that bad boys are cool, I reproduce below the abridged confessions of the original bad boy (the actual ones had to be censored heavily for the sake of children who might come across this space).
I know I’ve been visiting you more off late but the truth is your receptionist makes me go crazy every time I call her to fix up an appointment with you.
Yes, I’ve been seeing her for a while now. That’s given me unlimited access to her diary that has the numbers of all the other flaky chicks who visit you.
Given my obsession with being bad, I’ve dated almost all your patients, within the last few months. To tell you the truth, it doesn’t take much to get these women.
A daily trip to the gym has won me even women twice my age, so much that I completely enjoy the experience. Of gymming, of course.
The tattoo and the leather jacket I got in high school have always complemented each other. With bad girls showing great interest in tattoos, my jacket comes off too often these days.
Being a bad boy has given me the licence to drive miss Daisys, Roses, Jasmines and Lilys, all at the same time, simply because they like the challenge of keeping me interested in them.
While the first few dates used to cost me a beer to get an excuse to drop her home. These days, they invite me over for the free drink, dinner and dessert. Sometimes, it ends with breakfast on the house. Interestingly, I’ve learnt a lot about the kind of furniture they invest in, during these midnight surprise parties I gatecrash into. And my basket-ball games have never gone score-less.
It’s not like I like the street-fights. That’s pretty much for the same logic as why dogs guard their territories fiercely.
I live a dog’s life. And my day comes very often. All a dog needs is a bone. And I don’t mind making a few extra bucks doing Full Montys for the Hens having a night out.
Party animals live by the wild rules of the jungle.
I wouldn’t say I cheat, I’m just commitment-phobic and high on life. I’m just there for the ride.
Besides, it’s not like I promise them a happily-everafter ending. I’ve always been nice to her friends because I know that they are just waiting for the day I break up with her and soon enough, my web gets more Mary Janes than Spidey’s ever found hanging upside down.
With all my lunches and dinners being taken care off, all I spend on is my bike and gym subscription. My roomie sorely misses me because I’ve not gone home in days. That’s also the reason I don’t get a chance to shampoo my hair.
Oh that reminds me, I got to get home to my roomie so that she can give me a Thai massage. But the real reason is I need to check if she’s washed my clothes.
Like chick flicks have demonstrated, it pays to be a bad boy. By the way, change your receptionist dude. I’m getting bored of her. Or let me make this easier for you, I’ll get myself a new shrink who lives next street.
Apparently, she’s 24 and has a young clientele. Heard she likes cats and dogs. Time to get a new pet. Will call her Tarantula. If she’s younger, I think even a simple Pussy-Cat would do.
After all, the new saying goes: When bad girls go through hell, bad boys find heaven.