Saturday, May 27, 2006
Hey! Share Your Story Here...
Hello, friends. Won't you please share your own bad girl stories with me? I'd love to know about any bad girls you've known, or what qualifies you to be a bad girl yourself. I want to keep this as open-ended as possible, so if there are any men out there who want to share, please do! Just click on the Comment button below and let yourself go.
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6 comments:
I used to have this fantasy, when I was at my baddest, of inviting all the guys I was simultaneously dating, and all the one’s I’d been with before that and all the one’s I was courting, to a party. I’d not show up at all. I’d have someone film the event and watch from afar as all the secrets came out. Maybe I’d find out who I really was. Maybe I’d find out that I wasn’t just one woman afterall. I’d be so loved and so hated all in one evening that maybe then I could rest. Maybe I’d never be horny again. I’d be set free or devastated.
Then, one day, I went to a proofreading office I’d worked at a couple of years before in order to discuss a job. I’d dated the dispatcher and two of the proofreaders. I’d had nice sex with all three, and had not been involved in anything emotionally complicated with any of them as far as I saw it.
As I was good friends with one of the company’s co-founders, I stopped in his office for a chat. I’d already had a brief and only slightly awkward re-union with the alcoholics-anonymous, ex-coke fiend, red-headed roller-blading wanna-be-actor dispatcher at the front desk, and I certainly did not expect anything more serendipitous to occur.
But it did. As I talked to my friend in his office, I heard one of the proofreaderss come in: it was the neurotic curly-haired approach-avoidance guy with the lovely penis. Glad that I wasn’t out there in the reception area, I lengthened my visit with my friend. Then I heard the sensitive-stalled writer-who-had-domination-fantasies come in. The dispatcher had engaged the proofreaders in a conversation apparently. But I’d taken up quite enough of their CEO’s time and I had to leave.
So, out I go, into a miniature version of the party I’d been fantasizing about. Neurotic Curly greeted me with an intimation that he hadn’t heard from me since he’d left a message on my machine inviting me to go camping with him. This caused some raised eyebrows. Sensitive Writer noted that I don’t always answer my messages, not over the long long period he’d known me. The dispatcher started to joke that the “wild” girls don’t schedule their dates. Etc.
I think I stopped fantasizing about the party after that.
Hi from Joyce--here's a bad girl story from one of my friends, who asks to remain anonymous:
When I was around 36 years old, I had a severe outbreak of acne. I went to a dermatologist recommended by my friend, a gay man who didn’t realize that this dermatologist was simply smitten with him. So it turned out that the good doctor was a mean little prick when it came to women.
I mention this because the doctor prescribed a drug which would, he promised, clear up my acne for good. Accutane, in case you’ve never heard of it, does just that. But it has some funky side effects, one of which is that it raises your testosterone level to dangerous levels.
The doctor was kind enough to warn me about this and to suggest a low-choloesterol diet since testoserone can cause the body to retain dangerous cholesterol and can increase the risk of stroke or heart desease.
The doctor also kindly warned me to “avoid sex” since, if I should become pregnant while on this medication (and up to I forget how many years afterware) I woulld give birth to a monster and, being the scary cunt female that I am, I’d SUE him. He made it quite clear that he thought of me and my fellow females as selfish monsterous breeders who were just dying to 1) crank out spawn and 2) sue him.
What the doctor did NOT tell me was that the accutane would make me MAD HORNY!
After I’d begun a very unsavory affair with a gambler who’d picked me up on the N train, I went off on a camping trip to Provincetown with my gay firend, Robert. HE had a great time flirting and hooking up with tan fluffy-haired conch-shell-wearing boys. I chased a cat around the camp in order to have something warm to sleep with.
I was tortured with horniness. Returning from the trip, mad and tired of my right hand pointer finger, I dumped the gambler and went on a dating rampage. Nothing put the fire out.
I had an orgasm on a bus while thinking of the waiter at a local diner.
I was crossing the street one day and there was a magazine in a store window which featured what looked, from a distance, to be a long and lovely pair of legs. Human legs. Flesh. Long and bare. I approached and ogled but part of the cover was overlapped by anther magazine so I had to go into the store in order to see the rest of the picture. When I did, I discovered it was a picture of a child in a lawn chair. That’s when I realized that my vision was being clouded by clitoral attention disorder.
I watched dogs behinds as they walked because I was fixated on their balls.
I drew pictures of grotesque orgies and jerked off to them.
I was jealous of every single inch of flesh that was out there. I knew that they wanted what I wanted.
In my mind I had them all: I weighed the heft of every woman’s breasts. I kissed the man sitting next to me, and the boy with the skateboard and the student with his glasses and his sweating forehead. The girl with the skinny blue sandals, I lifted her long feet in my hands and enjoyed the view up her skirt from her ankles.
I don’t remember how it stopped. It wasn’t sudden enough to measure my relief. But one day, I did realize that there’d been a time when I had lusted after the taught black skin of an eggplant, and that now I saw vegetables as a food group again.
I only had a bad girl in my childhood for about two days. Child of a friend of my father’s. Her family put us up in NYC while we attended my father’s funeral.
That puts my age at about 7. She was only 11. I don’t even remember her name anymore. Last name was McKensey, I think. I don’t even know what their relationship was to my father.
Anyway: she showed me her breasts and we touched tongues and we pricked our fingers and were “blood sisters” and she was really way too interested in me for my tiny comprehension. I was simply overwhelmed. I think I decided, the way I often did, to just stick the whole episode into a box and think a bout it later. But I never did. It never came up for me again.
When I think about it now, I think the girl was a very lonely pre-adolecent and I was an exotic visitor full of promise. She was too excited about the new company to notice that I was practically an infant.
We went to church with napkins pinned to our heads.
I went with her and her sisters to see a movie wayyyy too mature for me: something called “A Swinging Summer” -- I should look it up. I was intrigued for some reason and declared it my favorite movie.
Then we went home and never saw the Makensies again.
umm, I have started an 18th century bad girl blogg, just have to let her out a bit.
Hey :) I've been reading your blog and I think it is a really good idea for a book (or whatever you feel like calling it).
Anyway... I am only 18 years old but I'm learning how to be a Bad Girl. After many years of bullying and guys treating me like crap I decided it was time to take a stand and start screwing everybody around myself.
I've been writing a blog about it, just keeping track of what or who I've been doing.
So.. I hope you have enough time to check it out and maybe be let me know what you think?
http://xbadgirlguidex.blogspot.com/
Thanks :)
Loved readding this thank you
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