Am I Attracted to the Bad Boys...Or Are They Attracted to Me?

You know, I have to ponder this question as I come off the night that just happened.

Wait, back up back up back up.

EVG called me in the middle of the day on Thursday "to find out how the shelves are working out." By god, I wish he would cut it out. Then he told me *they* were having houseguests this weekend. Speaking in code for "no playing around" but then he said "I'll give you a call next week." NO NO NO NO NO NO NO. Today I had a long conversation with my friend Alisa who very lovingly and without judgement offered that the reason I wall myself off from him is precisely because he is UNAVAILABLE. Ri-yeet? Subconsciously AND consciously, I know that it's dangerous to proceed past a certain limit, particularly since I've spent the last 3 months recovering from not being a priority in someone's life, trying to make myself a priority in my own. (Then she gave me a verbal whup in the ass for having sex without a condom.)

So last night, I decided I was staying out of the East Village altogether, safest thing for me to do, period. punto. end of story.

Trekked up to the old 'hood, Hell's Kitchen for a haircut with Roni, which by the way rocks and Roni, you are a STAR! Even better, I didn't have to pay for it. More than offset by the sixty bucks I spent on hair products as we left the salon, I'd say. And to anyone out there who may be listening, go see Roni at David Ryan Salon. Amazing person, gorgeous and sexy to boot.

We did our usual and went to Kodama afterward for sushi, and both of us overindulged a little on sake, which for me, has the effect of not making me drunk so much as mellowly high. I become very, yo, dude, it's all good, when I drink sake...I am suffused with well-being while at the same time my fingers are swelling from soy sauce into little link sausages.

Off to Smith's, where there is now a Friday night 70's oldies jam, with Roni sitting in on a few songs. She called her friend JP, a guy who is, um, connected in some way. He shows up with his friend N, and they proceed to whip out rolls of twenties and ply us with beers. They are fun and funny, and the interesting thing is that the people around us seem to sense that these aren't people to mess with.

Now, one of my greatest tricks to keep from answering questions about myself is to pepper a new person with questions -- keep him talking about himself. People loooove to talk about themselves, and I love to get them talking. However, I also have a sixth sense about some people -- that it is better to take them strictly at face value and don't ask too many questions. As my mother, a very wise woman, once said to me, "Some things it's better not to know." These types of people will volunteer information on a need-to-know basis. At the root of it, I'm naive but not stupid, so I don't ask any questions that will make people have to lie to me. Better that the question is just never asked.

During our conversation, which is actually pretty innocuous, N looks straight into my eyes.

"You like bad boys, don't you?"

I'm telling you, some animals just have a sixth sense. I think I'm the lame gazelle, the one the predators are coldly eyeing, waiting for me to fall behind the group so they can fall on me in a pack and drag me squealing into the dust. Cut to the aftermath shot, with the lions lying around looking bored with bloodied muzzles, all but belching as my carcass draws flies.

I stepped outside to smoke. Standing next to the bouncer were three boyz-in-the-hood gangsta types. With his flat-brimmed blue baseball cap tilted just so, one of them stepped over to me. He was actually kind of pretty, in a sinister sort of way. I noticed the blue teardrop tattoo next to his left eye.

"Ay, mami," he said in a surprisingly soft voice, which made him just a little more menacing. "Where you from?" (That f-ing question, AGAIN!).

I pointed at the ground between my feet. "Right here."

"Who you hangin' wit' tonight? You wit' your man?"

"I'm with a couple of fellows and a friend," I stammered. Yes, I said "fellows" in a sentence. Who the hell says "fellows"? WASP motherfuckers say "fellows." Not me. But I guess I do, because I just did.

I glanced at the bouncer, an enormous bald-headed man, who gave me the slightest shake of the head. I saw a warning in his eyes and then he glared at the three homies.

"Um. I have to go back inside," I said, stubbing out my cig with a twist of my foot.

"Ay, mami, you sure you don't wanna hang wit' me?"

"Have a good evening!" I dashed back into the bar.

When it was time for JP and his friend to leave, JP backed us up, and turned to me.

"How you girls gettin' home? I don't want you takin' the subway. Take a car. You and Roni." There was a sort of menacing chivalry to it (honor among thieves?) as he peeled off a couple of bills from the wad and gave me his best stern Paulie Walnuts look. I thanked him gratefully, hugged him goodbye (noticing in the process that the leather of his jacket was like buttah. Italian kid, for SURE, so soft it should have been gloves.) and they left.

Now, back to the subject at hand.

What is it about me and the Danger Boys? My first Danger Boy was Rocky. He stalked me for months at the gym, waiting for his opening, then he came in for the kill, nearly killing me in the process. Now there is EVG, then these guys last night who seem to get something off of me.

I keep asking myself the question -- what is it about me that makes the Danger Boys want to draw near? Do they sense that I am vulnerable? And what is it about the Danger Boys that is attractive to me? That's pretty clear -- I'm a girl who was raised a Catholic. Everything that we were told is "bad" becomes irresistable to us. John Bota in high school -- the baddest of the bad, but also the hottest of the hot. He wore cowboy boots and sometimes a cowboy hat. We eye-fucked each other every time we ever passed in the hallway, but never once did a word pass between us.

Now, don't confuse this with the poseurific "bad boys" who you know are big phonies because in conversation they will shrug sort of self-consciously and say, "What can I say? I'm a bad boy." Or the super-straight white-collar types who love to brag about how "I used to be a bad boy, but the little woman here straightened me out." Now hear this, all reformed frat boys, prep school boys, etc., etc., etc: Just because you smoked dope, maybe dealt a little on the side to your friends, got real drunk all the time, and maybe were arrested for DUI, owned a motorcycle -- that does not make you a bad boy. (ref: James Frey) That makes you a garden-variety white american male. I know, no one wants to hear that. But I'm here to poke holes in your belief system, fellas.

The real bad boys, the ones who hold such a fascination for me, they're the ones who don't talk about it at all. It comes out in conversation in tiny little hints. The things that make you want to put your hand up and say, "okay, you've told me enough!" The odd, unprofessional tattoo that could only have been acquired in prison. The oblique references to past places and things.

What is their dark glamour? And I don't mean the type of glamour that most people think of. I mean glamour, as in magic spell. Because that is what happens to me when I am around them. I am mesmerized and intoxicated with whatever smoky whiff they are giving off from their souls.

Perhaps they are seeking light from me, and I complement it by reaching for darkness. Maybe i am yin to their yang.

I don't know yet.

Will have to sit with it some more.