He was always a light sleeper.

“I like this hotel better than the last, the curtains compliment the carpet. Very few of the rooms we’ve been in have been able to accomplish that.”

Lust attempted to make conversation since she had already woken him up, but he seemed already distracted by the fact that she was completely naked. Engulfed in only the patterns of smoke flowing upward from her cigarette, she poured some rum into a glass.

He grabbed his sketch pad and murmured, “You’d make a great corpse” as he scratched the surface of the paper with his worn out HB pencil.

“You’d make a great man whore. Oh wait, you already are.” she replied as she laid in front of him smirking.

He put down his sketch pad.

“I want a massage, I had to lift a cadaver earlier and I strained my back. Be a doll and get to it.”

She laughed at him and began to put her clothes on.

He grabbed her arm, and held her down firmly.

Her pupils dilated and the hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention.

She nearly wanted him once more.

“You’re the only broad I’ve ever met who needs to be told twice. Does it entertain you when I put you in your place? I believe it does, because you constantly provoke my authority.”

She downed the glass of rum and told him what he needed to hear.

“You creatures, males as they call you, are creatures of habit. You hunt, catch, and devour. Well, I’m the antelope who makes you run your little lion heart twice over. My speed, different from the rest, attracts you. Although you could catch another, much easier to subdue kind of prey, you want the one you can’t have. You are right. I provoke you. I challenge you. And I damn right make you put me in my place because by doing that I remind you that you are the roaring lion, and I am the graceful antelope. Yet sweet confusion, does the question then not arise? Am I the one keeping you in your place or are you putting me in mine? Is the man the head and does the woman turn the neck every which way she pleases, or does the head move the neck only when needed? You can answer that Thursday. We’ll meet back here, I like their curtains.”

She grabbed her holster and slammed the door on her way out.

He looked toward his lab coat and sighed, there were three more days until Thursday.

The Proverbial Asshole

Rare are the girls who like the “nice guys”.

I am a part of the many who enjoy the other spectrum.
To us, the bad boys are more appealing than the rest.

Why is this?

Many men and women have pondered this question and tried to find the origin of this so-called attraction to the deleterious.
I would like to finally bring some clarity to myself and strip this attraction to its core. No pun intended, of course.

First, I will begin with a misconception that men often make between being the attractive bad boy, and being the arrogant asshole.

Challenging Vs. Insulting

Most of my friends know that my taste in men isn’t exactly “bring home to mom” material. But recently, I stepped out of my typical choice and began dating a good guy. Romantic, sweet, and a bit shy. As our first few dates progressed, my friends began to feed him advice. Advice of which included; “Be an asshole, dude! She likes guys who are assholes.”

Oh sweet lord.
When he told me this weeks later I felt my blood pressure rise 10 units.
I decided I had to clarify that there is a difference between being an arrogant asshole and challenging my intellect. There’s a fine line, and I find that men have trouble with this most, because they don’t know what can be stimulating and what becomes just plain rude.

Typically, women who are into these types of men have strong personalities, and therefore need a man with an equally strong personality. This helps to balance things out, because if a woman is for example into intellectual conversations and the man she is with has a more neutral personality, the conversations will not be as challenging as they would be with a man that has a strong character and conviction. This tends to cause problems, because although the two may be attracted on a physical level, the mental attraction is lacking.

Typically when a man tries to be the proverbial asshole, he begins by using insults. This is where a man makes his first mistake and goes from provocative interest, to arrogant prick. He needs to be able to find the balance. He mustn’t insult a girl, but provoke her on an intellectual level.

Yes, males. There is a difference.

If he can master that talent, the women will run to him as bees to honey.

Why?

Because most women don’t even know what they want from a man, so if a man can find the balance between all the different things she wants, he is obviously capable of mastering her desires more than even she is. This, to women, is impressive and makes them instantly attracted.

Nonetheless, he must know exactly when to be the challenging wit filled boyfriend, and when to be the romantic prince every girl dreams of.

Its a perfect balance.

And typically when men lean too much towards one spectrum, the relationship either becomes boring, or too overbearing.

Because yes, women are versatile and confused creatures when it comes to what they want.

One day they want a man to challenge them, and the next they want one to worship them.

So in attempting to uncover the origins of this attraction, we must first allow men to understand the difference between being insulting and being challenging.

We do not need a man to be an asshole and tell us we’re fat.

We need a man to challenge us intellectually and allow us to be the strong-witted creatures we truly are.

That’s all.

In Part 2 I will discuss whether or not this attraction can be influenced by the numerous media images of the proverbial asshole that women are exposed to throughout their lives, and decipher if perhaps this can be a contributing factor to a woman’s innate desire to be with the “bad boy” instead of the sweet guy.

To be continued.

We are stagnant.

A stagnant addition of worthless deoxyribose scum.

Mmm, how delicious that does sound.

Cruel, diminishing, misunderstanding, impotently unintelligent relatives of the hair mammal.

Mmm, how true that does sound.

A glimmer of tertiary hope and despair, wrapped in a box of I don’t care.

Viscious female glares, and careless male flares.

Idignant polination, yielding instignation.

Mmm, how ill repented and kill stimpented that does sound.

All in hope that we are found, sitting in a pile of sweet cucumber’s mound.

His lips made her a slave to his desire.

So devious, so confident, and so daring.

The position was hers. Never did she fall into the category of desiring until she met him.

A mind fuck all around, he took her strength and played with it like clay in a sculptors palm.

Her patience for him never ending, it was her suffering that made him ignite.

A youthful brunette she was, at the time, completely drowned with obsession.

Her intelligence resembled his, but never leveled to it fully.

Sitting there, for days she would wait for his reply, a minute passed as if an hour, constant questions, promises unkept, and lifeless breaths.

Her heart once loved.

The light in the hotel room dims, as she opens yet another bottle from the mini bar.

Grand Marnier slides her into the rarely visited memory crematorium.

Perhaps a desire to numb, or perhaps the desire to feel herself back in his arms, either way, her vulnerable side began to show.

Could she keep doing this?

Flashes of all the victims pass through her mind like drops in a rainstorm. 

Could she?

Of course she could.

It was the dear acquaintance of an asshole that pushed her to it in the first place.

She has always preferred ripping male flesh anyway.

The lamp dims to a darkness, and the hotel sheets wrap around her. 

Tomorrow’s mission is a long one indeed.

Dear Lust, a bit of fun perhaps?

Why yes dear, of course. Would be quite the pleasure.

Introduce fierce look in the eye and the convincing innocence of kindness.

Local sports bar of Kingman, the dark wood on the bar catches her eye.

Contemplating the numerous ways in which it was sculpted and perfected.

The human skin can be admired if only looked at from the correct perspective. 

She needs a drink, and a strong one.

Perhaps rum, vodka, or just pure alcohol.

No pretentious thoughts flutter tonight.

She gets up, passes a man, lightly bumping into him as her bra strap falls. 

“Get off of me! Stop! No!”

The attention of other men is risen much like a wild call in the wilderness of savannas.

“What did you do to her, get the fuck off of her.”

A punch is thrown, and the smirk makes its appearance.

To cause mayhem is a small joy that needs to be savored once ever so often.

The tiles now vibrate, not from her high heels, but its origin now from the activity of fighting and punching in unknown direction.

Two men show off their skills as if two dominant males in the jungles of the Amazon.

This is an event to smirk at, to laugh at, to ponder and absorb..

She makes her exit unnoticed, no longer does the presence of the female affect them, they fight in banal force and sheer stupidity.

This is not the end, on her way out she grabs another man by the neck, kissing him passionately she lures him into her car.

He probably thinks that many lovely events will take place, but boy, is he wrong.

Somebody is going to be driving the rest of the way there, because precarious Lust does nor drink, nor drive.

Yes.

We have a new driver.