Mira’s first boyfriend was named Tad. He had crazy black eyes, glittering with insanity. He was energetic, bustling, busy – overflowing with a contagious energy that made Mira proud. He dealt drugs, supplying people with ingested happiness and need. He bought her a car and occasionally gave her flowers – acts that Mira now saw as a way to shut her up. A few romantic gestures in a lifetime of cruel ones, and they had fooled her. She had thought she loved Tad and he had tried to keep her. He put her down, took from her, let her take care of him so she felt needed. This was a pattern, which hours with her therapist had helped her to recognize. She needed to feel needed. Needed to feel loved, important, cared for. And bad boys were the ones that let her do that. Bad boys seemed to always have secrets; she never knew what they were going to do next. It was the uncertainty of them that got her blood racing. Which is why she needed to be needed by them, if she wasn’t she would be too uncertain, which made her crazy with lust, so crazy she wondered if this is how they always felt.
Sex with Tad was violent, unyielding. He liked to hurt her, back when she was against being hurt on principle. Maybe if she had given in to that one thing they could have reached an agreement and worked everything else out. But Tad was big and strong and Mira’s refusal only made things worse. He knew Mira didn’t love him. She knew she didn’t love him. The only reason they stayed together was because of his reputation for being bad. But as soon as he started getting his shit together and stopped going out doing drugs she grew edgy, anxious, bored. When he calmed down and was ready to admit he needed her . . . it was then she left among a flurry of violence and crazy outbreaks – scared, guilty and confused.
Not understanding herself and too worried about how other people saw her she moved on to the next boy. A singer in a punk rock band whose ego clouded every chance she had to shine. He didn’t last long but still did damage. After a while she noticed she was staying with him just because he had been the ultimate bad boy. Her lust for him was built on a faded reputation. But his bad boy behavior wasn’t linked to fun things like breaking into churches and baptizing each other or driving down to Baja with nowhere to stay and sleeping in rest stops – some of the best moments of her life. No, his bad boy behavior was all about him, was fucking around behind her back, lying and occasionally snorting cocaine. Even though he never stopped being a bad boy he wasn’t spontaneous, fun, or needy enough for Mira. But before she could leave, he did. Surprised at herself, she didn’t really care.
At this point she should have been dating bad men. But there is a difference between men and boys, and these were perpetual boys. The next one was an ex-junkie. Or so he assured her until her roommate found a syringe under the bathroom sink. In her need and effort to help him she was pulled down with him, swirling deeper and deeper into that place with no air. She would fantasize about his death, exciting herself into a frenzy where she would become convinced that she would come home and find him stiff, a needle poking out of his arm. She drove herself crazy with this ultimate fantasy of not knowing, while he drove himself further into addiction. She was the perfect enabler. Yelling at him to do something while he hid in the bathroom for hours trying to find a vein. Yet she couldn’t let him go, or maybe it was the comfort of the addiction that she craved. Either way, it took almost losing their lives until they reluctantly let each other loose. Although she still clung to him; not knowing where he was made her want him again. They still talked late at night, both scared of the future and afraid to be alone. Each picking up the pieces of their life slowly, two steps forward and one step back, going in tiny circles.
Mira’s parents have tried to enforce something. They joke about the fact that they would be happy with a son-in-law who graduated high school, has never been in jail, and never does drugs. So far Mira has yet to accomplish that. Almost a year of therapy has only helped to reinforce what she has known all along: Mira simply has a fetish for bad boys. But it has gotten so bad that she doesn’t even know where to meet good boys, much less men. The methadone clinic she goes to every day surely isn’t the place, neither are her AA meetings or co-dependency support groups. She doesn’t even know what good boys do.
She avoids people or they avoid her: the circle of money owed is too big to comprehend. She dresses and walks out of her apartment, turning off the CD with its stupid new-age music playing over the sounds of oceans and mountain streams. The only thing the CD is good for is helping her piss, she thinks to herself, irritated. It sure as hell isn’t going to help her find a good man. Not that she thinks she needs one; in fact there are times, more often than not, that she wonders what she will do if she does find a good one. He will probably stifle her, bore her to tears. She will become demanding and out of control. They will end up hating each other. It seems like she can’t fall in love unless it is a completely co-dependent nightmare. Mira’s fear drives her into a heated, sexual frenzy, and she wants to be done with that.
The craving for something comes over her as she walks down Mission Street, the music from the CD stuck in her head. Her body is anxious, aching. The familiar feeling of being uncomfortable in her own skin overpowers her. She needs something – she thinks it could be drugs until she finds herself staring at a boy leaning on the bus stop. He has a faded black eye, a torn leather jacket and an unfiltered cigarette hanging out of his mouth. She reaches up absentmindedly to rub her own shoulder, straining her neck to get a little stretch. She can remember a time not too long ago when she was addicted to exercise, when she had to work out at least once a day so she wouldn’t go insane. Now she is stuck on something easier – a quick fix, a valium, or a fuck with a stranger. She makes a mental note to call the psychiatrist to make an appointment to get on an antidepressant. She has never tried that before but she can’t seem to pull herself out of this black hole and some of those mental magic pills help with addiction. Or so she has heard. Her life feels at odds, she has a good job, is smart and attractive, yet she stands on line every morning with the dregs of society to drink methadone out of a paper cup. She knows she could get off it for good but she can’t seem to let the world of bad boys go.
Yet, it is precisely these early morning visits that prompt Mira to change her relationship style. If it weren’t for the last boyfriend she wouldn’t be here in the first place, although he has taken no responsibility for that. The ageing punk rockers in the clinic are ghosts. Once bad boys in rock bands and disgruntled poets, they are now flickering patterns of light against the concrete walls of the city. This is what happens to young drug addicts, to all of the bad boys: they simply disappear. Once loved and cared for, they become a burden to those around them, or simply forgotten as they fade away into the background of daily life. But for Mira they represent the familiar feelings she identifies as want, need, craving: in short, sex.
But it is the realization that her last boyfriend could end up pushing a shopping cart that has set Mira on her goal to get rid of her bad boy obsession. She never thought that she would be the type of woman to end up with an ex that lives in a cardboard box. And she knew she had to separate herself from him in order to deal with that. She comes from the suburbs and still speaks to her parents once a week to check in. She takes yoga, goes to work, cleans her bathroom. She isn’t the type to throw her life away, although she has come close many times now, each time, on account of a bad boy.
She goes to the park and sits on a bench, watching the different groups of boys: the Mexicans with their hair slicked back and shirts buttoned up to their necks; the black gangstas with big, baggy jeans and starter jackets; the punk rockers with rainbow hair, black leather jackets and worn jeans. Each group united in the economy of the drug trade. They have their own, private financial system. Trade, barter and petty robberies each feature brightly. Mira notices a few girls in each group, the loud mouths slashed with bright, pink lipstick, jackets too big that claim them as belonging to one, if not all, of the boys. The girls that hang out with these boys have to be tough, have to hold their own. They are the bras
siest, most brazen, but they are also the ones that are usually the saddest inside, often they have made the mistake of having children, are walking the line between addiction and mild discomfort, or just wanting to be loved. She is familiar with that girl.
Mira watches the complex play unfold before her. Each group similar in the way they treat each other. Each group occasionally picking on the girl, until she defends herself with insults to the rest of them, before they ignore her again. It reminds Mira of being in high school – some things never change.
As she sits watching, a boy comes over and plops down next to her. Mira feels her heart beat and her stomach churn. He smells like sweat and cigarettes. He is good looking, in that rough, unkempt way that she likes. He wears a faded T-shirt of an obscure punk band, the scars on his arms tell the tale of where he’s been. She bites her lip, promising herself she isn’t going to give in to this one. She has stayed off drugs for a few months now; she can stay off bad boys as well. But fetish isn’t an addiction – one can be broken, she knows that, she’s not so sure about the other.
“Got a cigarette?” the boy asks her, looking at her only out of the corner of his eye. His lack of acknowledgment makes her cunt wet.
Mira huffs in response, yet begins digging around in her purse. She pulls out a battered pack, handing one to the boy and keeping one for herself. The boy pulls out a shiny Zippo and lights her cigarette first. Mira sucks in deeply, afraid to say thank you, afraid to look.
She thinks of a poem given to her by a friend, a poem about ex-boyfriends. She thinks how this boy looks like every one she has ever known. She remembers how lonely she is. She fights the urge to make something up, offer to give him something she has at home, a drink, a bong hit, anything to get him alone. She crosses her legs, tightly. His aura makes her hot.
“What’re you doing?” he asks.
“Nothing. I don’t know,” she says brusquely, wanting to stop the conversation before it gets the best of her. Fighting herself with each breath. “Nothing.”
“Well, ‘Nothing’, what’s your name?” the boy chides.
“Mira,” she says slowly, deciding whether or not to lie but then deciding that it is too small a city, that she will run into this bad boy again, at a club, a bar, on the street. She always does. Once you meet them it’s like they follow you, tagging along like a bad afterthought.
“Figures,” he laughs. “Do you know your name means ‘bitter’ in Hebrew?” She is taken aback. She considers herself a nice person. More than that, she’s blown away that he knows this. A smart bad boy. She swoons, imagining him shoplifting books for her, breaking into museums to take her on private tours. She inhales deeply on her cigarette, a blush running up her cheeks. “It means ‘marvelous’ in Latin,” she tells him, enraptured in their private game, this instant intimacy with a bad boy.
“Marvelously bitter,” he says, laughing harder. She is turned on by his sense of humor, his ability to smile. She recalls reading that laughter actually is the best aphrodisiac; it sets off your dopamine neurotransmitters and really does make you feel good. Before him she had thought her dopamine was shot out.
The boy is still amused with himself and this amuses her.
“Are you Jewish?” she asks.
“No,” he says, “I just like names.”
They are silent for a moment until the boy says, “My name is Max. It means ‘greatest’ in Latin.”
“We both do well in Latin,” she says, trying to be funny, the pulsing in her clit tells her that she has given in already.
The boy cracks a smile and asks if she would like to take a walk. They get up off the bench, their simple movement attracting attention from all three groups of boys. He calls her “Nothing” as they walk; she is touched by the fact that he already has a pet name for her, no matter how degrading.
As darkness falls they end up at her studio, each of them carrying a 40-oz. bottle of beer. Mira thinks back to all the times she has taken home strangers; had great sex with bad boys. She presses her answering machine button and realizes that her ex-boyfriend hasn’t called yet today. She doesn’t care; it’s not him, the ex or the one here now, it’s what they represent.
Max has his arms around her in an instant. He is kissing her neck, his snake tongue rummaging in her ear, his hands everywhere at once. She wants to ask him to slow down but doesn’t, instead she gives in to it, to the way he feels, his warm flesh, his thumping heart. She is sinking, unable to control herself around bad boys.
They fall onto the unmade bed and she wishes she had cleaned up. He pulls off his T-shirt and Mira lightly traces the tattoos that adorn his chest, she tries to imagine how proud they must have been once. He has been in jail, has been addicted to drugs, and he never finished high school. He is everything her parents’ don’t want, and everything she does. Mira gives in to his caresses, his unspoken promises. She can imagine him sitting on her bed, watching TV night after night as she works her boring job, coming home simply because he needs her.
He pulls her closer, as if sensing that she is pulling away, and whispers how beautiful she is. She feels these words as shallow; she hears the lies hanging off his voice. But it is exactly this that fuels her, the uncertainty of truth. She kisses him back. The room heats up and she takes off her own shirt. His fingers deftly unhook her bra, like one who has done this many times, before he leans forward to suck on each tit until she moans. He runs his tongue lightly over each nipple until they spring to attention. His hand is undoing the button of her jeans. She reaches down to help him, to speed up the process. Together they wiggle her free of pants and panties. She is naked on the bed and he is still wearing jeans, socks, and boots.
Their kissing is intense and she lets herself go deeper into it. His fingers move down to her pussy and begin to rub her clit. This always makes her happy. She loves to be touched there. Bad boys always know what to do. She moans and raises her hips in encouragement. He moves faster, harder. She bucks and grinds beneath him. Two fingers are now moving at lightning speed over her clit, she breathes harder, whispers for him not to stop, keep going, I’m almost there, and she is, almost there, teetering on the edge. He moves one hand into her, her pussy wet and dripping, his fingers moving upward, outward, as if he really knows where the G-spot is. His other hand contains the two fingers that dance rapidly on her clit and that’s all she needs. She digs her nails into him and swallows his hand with her orgasm. Her thighs tighten around his hips, her head falls back and her cry fills the room.
He quickly pulls out a condom, ripping the tinfoil package with his teeth. She likes the fact that he has condoms on him, thinking he probably fucks a lot. He pulls down his jeans until they rest around his knees. His cock is hard and thick. She’s glad he can get it up, she knows too many bad boys that can’t anymore. There is a fine line between bad and useless. He slides the condom over his dick and quickly pushes it inside her. She is so tight she gasps.
He moves against her, pushing in deeper, harder. She clings to him, pulling him closer with both hands. He fills her up, his face scrunched in a mixture of concentration and ecstasy. She closes her eyes and lets herself go, hoping for one more orgasm. He thrusts in and out, groaning with each movement, you . . . feel . . . so . . . good . . . She blushes, moans back, her hands reach behind her for the bedposts. He notices and moves one hand to hold her wrist, tight, the way she likes it, and she likes how he knows this. He pushes deeper as she yells, her cunt again spasming. He feels this around his cock and can control it no longer. He gives one final, massive thrust and seems to hang right above her, his feet turning, eyes squished, as one tiny bead of sweat drips, landing smack between her breasts. He falls over on her, his legs still trapped in his jeans. She lies there, staring over his shoulder at the water stain on the ceiling. She counts to ten, as his body grows heavy, wondering if he has suddenly fallen asleep.
“Hey,” she whispers, nudging him with her elbow. “Hey, get up!”
Max doesn’t move. Mira is trapped be
neath him. She groans, get . . . up . . . as she pushes him to the side and slides out from under him. He remains face down on the bed, his white, pimpled ass shining; his legs still stuck between his jeans.
She shakes him harder but he doesn’t move. “Fuck. Get the fuck up. Quit freaking me out,” she cries. She grabs her bathrobe off the back of the chair and swats him hard across the ass. For a split second she wishes he had spanked her, like a bad girl.
She pinches his earlobes, something she had read in an OD pamphlet at the free clinic. She pulls his head up by his hair. His face is turning blue.
“Fuck!” she screams, suddenly afraid. This fucking bad boy, this good for nothing asshole, this stranger, has died in her apartment. She doesn’t even know his last name. She crosses the room in hurried steps and dials 911.
“This guy, this guy, he’s in my house, he’s dead,” she pants. She is panicking, afraid. Did she kill him? What will they do to her? Will she be in trouble?
“Is he dead or dying?” the operator asks.
“I think he’s dead,” Mira said. “I think so but I’m not sure.”
The operator tries to calm her down. Mira rattles off her address and the few details she knows. She is wondering whether she should pull up his pants when the operator on the other end tells her not to touch anything.
She gets off the phone to wait for the paramedics. She wonders if they will send the OD combo – the short fire truck and the ambulance. The operator asked her if he was on drugs. Mira said she didn’t know; that she didn’t really know him at all.
Mira gets up and tiptoes over to him, half expecting him to jump up laughing. She thinks of how pissed she’ll be if he does, but she expects him to be an asshole. She pushes him again, he still doesn’t move. His body is getting cold; way different than it was just moments before. She thinks this is like a bad urban legend, she is now one of those women that kill men by sex. She wonders if this is a crime.
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