This is my first attempt at prose... The story is fiction. At least most of it... I think I used all of the words.

That damn meatball motorcyclist cut in front of me like a rooster running from a cockfight. If I hadn’t slammed on my brakes, he’d be worse off than a snowball riding on a roller coaster to hell. But it’s alright. It’s alright. He’s just another bad boy going to town.

A bad boy. Every time I think of bad boys, visions of high school resurrect adolescent memories of heart break, birth control and teen aged angst. Bad boys. The ones’ with more flip flop tales than John Kerry on that day he forgot which special interest group he was addressing. His promises are worth less than a hollow log in a saw dust factory. You gotta love him.

I remember one bad boy experience. Boy, was I stupid, or at least naïve. I ended up tumbling down the riverbank in the tall blue grass. I hit Mr. Bad Boy with my elbow as we fell, giving him a black eye. He had to wear sunglasses for a week. Bad boys, you gotta love em...

One of my bad boys loved to kiss right after I put on my lipstick. He said he liked the taste. A good date with him consisted of a soda pop and a hot dog, topped off by swapping ice cubes and kisses while watching that old waterwheel on the edge of town. One time, we stayed out there all night, just to watch the sunset. Well, we didn’t get much watching done. I think I had stardust on the brain or something… bad boys, you gotta love em...

One bad boy and I hitchhiked to Florence, Oregon, just to see the sand dunes. All we took with us was an ice box full of beer, a bag of stale donut holes and two pop tops that were good for free sodas. Two days later we headed home. It took hours standing at that freeway entrance just to get a ride. Finally a guy in a 1978 Winnebago pulling an old motorboat stopped. Yep, he was a real bad boy. He claimed to be a part of the underground or something, whatever that is. I stayed with him for a week. Bad boys, you gotta love em...

I’ve loved bad boys since my sandbox days. I remember one time pretending that I couldn’t tie my shoelaces. What a great manipulator. My little blue eyed bad boy with the cute eye glasses got on his knees to help me and then he had the nerve to look up my dress… from then on, I always wore my saddle shoes… and you know, for some reason, those laces never would stay tied. After a few good looks, that bad boy proclaimed his love for me with a necklace made of box tops and paperclips. He even gave me my first hickey. It was more like a spider bite than a monkey bite, but I made sure everybody saw it. Bad boys, you gotta love em…

That little bad boy came to my first dance recital wearing a bow tie and a smile. Our group of 6 year old girls had a great time tap dancing and high steeping our way into every parents’ heart. We even did the hokey pokey at the end, to a roaring round of applause. That night, my little bad boy fell in love with our dance teacher. What is it with bad boys and older women? Bad boys, you gotta love em…

These days, I’m a real moneymaker. I spend my time waiting for the first of the month so I can pick up my welfare check at the post office. Too many bad boys’ babies… but I love em…

Well, I’m off like a prom dress. I’ve got a hot date with a serviceman tonight. He’s a sergeant or something like that. When it comes to being a bad boy, I hope he’s a general. If he has a full check book, I’ll ride him like a drum stick on a rim shot, then leave him with an empty heart. Bad boys, you gotta love em.