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Cleverly disguised as an SUV-driving suburban soccer mom, my hair French braided and tied back in a grosgrain ribbon, I go through my properly professional day concealing the deep, wide naughty streak lurking just beneath my surface. And when that naughty little girl begs for liberation, only a Bad Boy will do.

A Bad Boy perfectly complements my need for naughty. I become a Stevie Nicks lyric, "Give to me your leather. Take from me my lace." Ah, sweet surrendernot to the man but to my own desires. A Bad Boy lives in a simple, pretty much binary worldwant it or don't, now or later, on or off, this or thatone thing at a time. In that binary world, things go predictably, sequentially. Boy and girl drink and dance. Boy and girl play and hang out. Boy and girl drink just a little more. Play for higher stakes. Maybe get lucky. No matter what happens, be naughty and have fun. My Bad Boy lives by one simple rule, makes all his decisions according to one simple principle. "If it ain't got the fun factor, it ain't got [doo-doo]." Carefully measured doses of naughty set-free the fun, flirting with the risk, maybe even tasting a little of the risk, but never venturing into real jeopardy. If it ain't fun, then why're ya doin' it? And if it stops being fun, then we're done. Up and get serious on me, we're finished.

A Bad Boy liberates me from my everyday responsibilities, the business of caring for everyone everywhere. Naturally, a Bad Boy's attraction comes from his apparent strength; if I'm the one riding shotgunor more properly "sitting bitch," if I'm the star of his team and the trophy in his case, he'll use his strength to take care of me. Think of it. I mean, really let it sink in. Someone taking care of me! Bulge those brawny biceps, baby; show me what ya got. First, though, I have to prove that I can take care of myself, thank you very much. Once I've drawn-out my territory, the equivalent of peeing around the bush, then I willingly can surrender myself to Bad Boy's care.

I take great pride in my "teasing" skills; when I've crossed the line between propriety and naughtiness, I count "teasing" as negotiation or barter. Relieved of my work-a-day burdens, I can play just like a Bad Boy, making outrageous promises I have no intention of fulfilling, telling all kinds of great stories for the sake of making an impression without any concern for truthnone whatsoever. And, just in case Bad Boy finally calls my bluff, I feel absolutely confident I can deliver on the best

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