The Bad Boy with a Heart of Gold

✖ Before ✖

What makes a bad boy, a bad boy?

Was it the wicked glint in his eye when he looked at you, like he knew a secret that you'd only be privy to when you succumbed to his charm? Or was it the slow way he bit his lip that made you feel the soft scrape of his teeth as though it were across your own skin? Was it the way he worked the room, so that all you could see was his frame, his hair and those piercing eyes consuming you and setting you ablaze, even as he made you feel like the entire world revolved around you?

And yeah, a good portion of that could be explained with the reasoning that every bad boy in history either had a great body, a great face, or knew how to work what he had to his favor. But legions of smart and capable women had fallen prey to them through history and I refused to believe it was just because of a pretty face.

There had to be something else. Something extra that complemented, or even enhanced, the hot bad boy looks. Something that explained how they could possibly get away with so much.

And then it hit me. It was all seduction.

A bad boy earned his reputation based on seducing everybody around him to get his way.

If he wanted to get out of detention for fighting with other boys in the class, he was not below using the poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks card.

If he wanted to get out of being marked as tardy, he dialed up his charm on the new substitute teacher who had not yet internalized that she was supposed to be staff, and not one of the cool kids. And in doing so he made sure not to slip up that the reason he was late for class was that he'd been making out with a junior girl in the janitor's closet—while the janitor had been cleaning outside.

If he was caught in between two girls, he made sure to let them know he didn't belong to any one of them but that it had been fun. Even after breaking their hearts they still somehow felt like the pieces belonged to him. After all, every respectable bad boy had a dedication in a bathroom stall saying that he was the one to call for a good time.

Every school had a bad boy, the trophy every girl wanted for her shelf and the legend in the flesh that every other boy wanted to emulate. And really, what made them special was their ability to let people think they were that much more than they were.

If I sounded jealous it was because I was.

It wasn't that I wanted to be a bad boy, precisely. First of all, I was pretty sure that I was a standard girl in both orientation and parts, and second it also wasn't like I wanted to break hearts and hymens left or right. The one thing I did envy from bad boys was...

The freedom.

A bad boy could do whatever the heck he wanted and all people would say was, boys will be boys. Or they'd mutter his name with a click of their tongue and a shake of their head. When they got in trouble, it had been so often already that the adults were tired of doling out punishment. They just gave them a pat on the head and told them to do better.

Do what, better? When all a bad boy knew how to do, and very well if I might add, was to get away with his?

The game of life was rigged, though, because the second I was born my fate was sealed. In my family I was the first generation born in the USA, after my parents left Venezuela to follow the American dream with my sister in their arms. They came, they settled and decided that no one would ever be given reason to treat us as inferiors.

And so we had to be perfect.

We spoke perfect English, to the point that my Spanish was lackluster. We learned all there was to learn about the culture, the history, the TV shows. We integrated. We bled red, white and blue. And papa made sure to let my sister and I know that there was no room for error, that it was this way—his way, or no way. That we had to be the perfect family, that we had to have perfect grades and then grow up to support the family business.