From afar, bad boys look real good to me. That’s always been my thing.

Why, I wonder. Why darkness? I must be a masochist, right?

I’ve decided it’s the murderous rage in me. At dad. At my puke husband. For making a fool of me in the same casual breath as they do the worst things to me that I can think of.

A bad man, who was into me, were one into me, would have no problem wrapping each of them around a pole and sticking their head in their ass. A bad boy could not care less that either existed. What’s a pencil-neck to a giant, ripped, street-fighting predator of a man (tats and beard optional)? But if I were to whisper their crimes into his ear, I am sure he would enjoy the diversion and the chance to knock the calluses off his knuckles with their face.

 

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