Bad Boy (noun)

1. a man who does not conform to approved standards of behavior, especially in a particular sphere of activity.
2. a thing that is regarded as extremely impressive or effective.

I bet somewhere on those dusty streets of whatever old West town he was in, Billy the Kid (the murderous thief outlaw criminal) had some stupid girl smoothing her petticoats and batting her eyes at him, hoping to get his attention. In between escaped hangings and near captures and bank robberies and shoot-outs, there she was, leaning against the post at the General Store, swooning over this dirt-bag thug. And her friends rolled their eyes and groaned when she wrote “Billy” in the dirt with a willow branch, doe-eyed and twisting her hair on her finger, dreaming of being Mrs. Dirt-Bag Thug Outlaw. And eventually, Billy captured her, *ahem* and she cried her eyes out when he rode out of town into the sunset on his stolen horse, shooting his gun over his shoulder, yippin’ and hollerin’ and blazing a trail right into the history books as being a truly awful guy. Poor girl. She wept into her hand-stitched kerchief and walked right past the nice farmer who worked sun up to sundown building and securing his home, holding a bouquet of prairie flowers he gathered for her. He smiled and tipped his hat at her. He cleared his throat and stood as tall as he could. He puffed his chest out a little and said, “Good afternoon. I … I picked these wildflowers for you, and … and I gathered some fresh honey and put it in a brand new glass jar I bought at the mercantile. See? It’s for you … I … Well … how about we have a picnic tomorrow when I’m done with my chores? Maybe you’d like to see my homestead. It’s real nice … and I have a lot of land. I …”  And the stupid girl says, ” … Hhmm? What? Oh … Oh, I don’t know. I’m sort of, actually I’m spoken for.”  The nice farmer says, “What? Who? …Him? You know he ain’t coming back. And he’s an OUTLAW.” The girl says, “You don’t understand him! He’s different. And I can change him! He said he’ll be back and he’ll settle down and marry me.”  The farmer dips his head down to look her right in her eyes and says, ” … you’re kiddin’, right? You ain’t serious. … are you serious?”  The girl says, “Why, yes I am! And he IS coming back. He said so!”  The farmer stares at her for a good long moment, shakes his head, touches his fingertip to the brim of his hat in a courtly gesture, and turns around and walks away, tossing the flowers on the ground. “Good luck,” he mutters.  Meanwhile, her friends are clumped together across the street, watching this. They’re shaking their heads and saying, “What is WRONG with her? She’s turning HIM down?? Is she CRAZY??”  They all turn their heads to watch the farmer stroll away; tall, sexy, lean and muscular, clean shaven, has his act together, brought her a gift and wants to maybe marry her and offer her his resources. Any one of them would have gladly accepted his offer.  They look back at the stupid girl, gazing down the field where Dirt-Bag Outlaw Billy the Kid rode out of town with his stolen money, on his way to spend some of it on a prostitute in the next town he holds up. Be still, my heart. “I’ll wait for you,” she whispers. And she will. Stupid Girl wants the Bad Boy.

I sat across from the therapist after I finished explaining my “problem”, whom I swore I would never need, with my head hanging, my fingers knotted together and tears brimming, not yet spilled. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Stop it. For God’s sake, Shannon. Knock it off. This was not the first man to do this to me, but this was the one that, somehow, gutted me. This one was the proverbial straw. Stop it. Get it together. I lifted my head, raised my eyebrows, cleared my throat and smiled a tight-lipped smile. Brave Shannon. He sat there with his legs crossed, head tilted down, looking at me from over the top of his glasses. They were expensive glasses. Gucci. Very nice. Who cares. Pay attention, Shannon. Listen to him. “Shannon, you know,” and he sighed deeply, shaking his head and removing his glasses. “I, uh … you are the woman that comes in here and makes me hurt. I am not supposed to hurt for a patient, it’s … distracting. But, alas, I am human, and I feel very sorry for you.” Ouch, Doc. He gently placed his yellow paper tablet on the coffee table between us and laid his pen down next to it. His chocolate brown corduroy trousers were a little too short and I saw his matching socks and his burgundy leather shoes with the thin laces. He uncrossed his legs and leaned over, placing both elbows on his knees. He laced his fingers together. He exhaled and nodded his head. “Are you willing to listen to what I have to say? Can you allow yourself to at least let it in? Because I know that you will not accept it, because you are not ready.  But I want you to at least hear it.”  “Wow. How long do I have?” I joked. “And will I ever play the violin again?”  He didn’t smile or acknowledge my move to dodge this squarely aimed bullet. And I felt that. He was very serious. “Shannon, please listen to me and my many years of experience with human behavior. Will you allow me to tell you what I think … what I am certain of?” I blinked a few times, feeling my heart grow heavier and heavier. “Yes,” I whispered. “Shannon, behavior like you described … this ‘cheating’, as you put it, several different women, yeah, ‘no big deal, they mean nothing, it’s a guy thing’ … until this last one pulled him away from you, uh … is not a ‘sometimes’ event. He wasn’t going through something, he wasn’t ‘trying to find himself’ as you think; this was not not a hiccup in an ordinarily faithful man.  This is his lifestyle.  This is who he is.  This is how he is wired.  He lies to you with the greatest of ease, because it is what he is used to doing, and he is used to it working.  Because it does.”  I was frozen.  “You see … he isn’t a bad guy.  He sounds like a very warm and kind person with a deep capacity to love.  And I think he cares very, very deeply for you. Oddly, he was lying to preserve you the hurt of the truth. See, he wants you in his life, so he lied to keep you there, so you would stay.  You know, a ‘what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her’ sort of thing.  See?  But he also wanted her, too.  Very much. Enough to also lie to her. Enough to keep both of you in the dark, with him at the wheel. What a quandary.  What a terrible spot, for all involved.  And when you found out, he chose her, and he’s gone.” My tears streaked down my face, but I refused to cry.  I didn’t make one expression, one move.  Handing me a tissue, he continued.  “He’ll be back, though.  And when he returns, he will feel like he wants to make a go with you, but you will never be the only woman in his life.  It is not what he wants.  Thus, you will never hear the whole truth from him.  And, now that you know what’s been happening, he will very simply re-route himself so you cannot find out.  He’ll get a secret phone, new email, wear different shoes to change his print.  You will not find out the next time.  The next time. And the next and the next.  This is his lifestyle.  Do you understand?”  Barely in an audible voice, I said, ” … so…”   “So,” he finished, “You are wasting your time and your life if you think he will be different for you. He clearly wants you, but he doesn’t want ONLY you.  Shannon, hear me again: this wasn’t an anomaly, this is his lifestyle, and you found out.”  I said, “I love him,” and he replied, “He doesn’t want your love.  He wants to play. He is not a bad man, but he is not the man for you. You are wasting your time.”

Red Pill, dose no. 16, age 37.

I rose to my feet, thanked him from the bottom of my heart and shook his hand. He placed both of his hands over mine and smiled softly, finishing that handshake with a gentle pat. I never returned.

I met John during a phase in my life, when I honest-to-God SWORE I would never ever want the company of another man. I had been dumped, again, very unceremoniously, casually even. And that was it. That was enough. I called it a day and decided it was time for a cat. And an afghan for my lap. But, then John showed up out of nowhere. So, I handled John with great trepidation and treated him as casually as I had always been treated. I shrugged when he said he’d call. But he did call. I shrugged when he said he’d see me later. But he did see me later. I shrugged when he said, “I’m working late, I’m still on the job site,” (yeah, sure) “but why don’t you come here and hang out with me while I finish?” He really was working late, and I did go hang out. And over a short period of time, this strange man-rehabilitation so to speak, began to heal me. Little by little, I began to relax. He kept his word. He meant what he said. And he was consistent. And he was nice and funny and tall and handsome and I was falling. Hard.

But, John is an Alpha. A L P H A. He plumes his feathers, too. He flexes, he dominates, he controls, and while I swore on everything I ever loved that I would NEVER date someone like that again, here I am. We argue and he puts me in my place. (I love it.) Sometimes, he gets in a mood and “ignores me” and I sulk. (but guess what? I love it.) WHY do I love it? Because it’s a challenge. Because he feels like a Bad Boy. Because, like the stupid girl with Billy the Kid, when a woman encounters a man who dismisses her, it is rewarding to win him. His attention is validation to our attractiveness. We feel like we have won the unattainable man. Because we have. Bad Boys are all Bad Boys according to our definition. Tattoos to power suits; it’s all attitude that we are drawn to. We cannot help it. And for a man, it’s confidence. It’s the “bitch” they like. Why? Because she is the Bad Girl who decides who SHE wants, and he wants to win her for his ego. Two scorpions in a circle.

On the Red Pill forum, I read the following comment from a man, and brace yourself, this is going to hurt: “If a woman gets pumped and dumped, it’s her own fault, because she wasn’t relationship worthy to the man she chose to sleep with. She should have either had a better game, or picked an easier target … ” and he finishes with this: “Being pumped and dumped just meant you were good enough to lay, but not a keeper. Just like being friendzoned meant you were good enough to hang with, but not good enough to screw. …sleep with a hot guy, you better bring your A game, because you’re competing not only with all the women he’s been banging, but all the women he might in the future. If you don’t want to take the risk, bang a Beta.”

There’s your Red Pill … and a Tylenol. And a bag of ice. Good Lord. Could this really be accurate…?

To be continued …