Bad Boys, Bad Boys

We all know opposites attract, and for good girls everywhere this spells trouble. As a stranger to suspensions and the queen of extra-credit, I have certainly experienced my fair share of such ill-fated infatuations. Whether it is the smell of leather, the unwashed hair, or their cozy relationship with the dean of students, bad boys have always made my knees buckle under and my heart rate rise. Since sophomore year of high school when I fell for a tall senior who brought illicit substances to Saturday night dances, played the guitar (Dylan. Attempts at Dylan.), and seemed never to study, I’ve opted for the rebel over Mr. Right.

There was a second musician: we discussed spirituality over Chinese take-out and watched reruns of “The Simpsons” while analyzing Shakespeare. He wrote existentialist poetry, listened to the Grateful Dead, and taught me to skateboard during our lunch hour. I managed to keep this crush in class by tutoring him before exam period and taking extra notes in math, a positive influence that only went so far: a physics teacher soon caught him shooting construction workers with a B.B. gun and his spring break became a permanent vacation. I tried to shrug it off, directing my attention to the math team and the Spanish club instead.

But a hunky, post-year football player in the trainer’s room soon distracted me from these academic endeavors. He had a public school swagger and a deep-set, brooding stare; we flirted over AIM for weeks (secretly he’s still on my buddy list) and then spent a few afternoons on the bleachers talking about his demanding father, about his difficulty in calculus, and about his disappointment with a losing season. I liked listening to the quarterback let down his guard. But he too had a little run-in with the school authorities involving a Volvo, several cases of beer, and a collision with the main gate. This was quite the feat, really, considering neither cars nor Coors were allowed on campus.

After this clear pattern of suspect attachment followed by sudden abandonment, you’d think for sure I would wise up before college. Hard-working was the new black. It was so clearly the inside that counted. Prim boys were in.

But there has remained something undeniably attractive about the wrong side of town, sleeping late on a Monday, and his puppy dog grin (the one other girls know nothing about). And at Harvard, the bad boys just stand out all the more. I wasn’t the only fairly angelic freshman who fell hopelessly for pot-smoking artist after self-victimizing valium addict after self-absorbed athlete. To this day, my friends are still running back to the same foul-mouthed failures who only text after 2 a.m. and won’t wash their bed-sheets unless we provide the Shout.

Some think it’s simply danger that draws us to these duds, and others claim it’s repressed angst. I’m quite sure, however, that it’s not the hint of rebellion but the hope of rehabilitation that keeps us coming back for more. See, in truth, I don’t really want to mess around with these boys, I want to mother them. I don’t want to stay up late with them, I want to finish their problem sets for them, drape crisp button-downs on them, fold their laundry with them, and throw their old Gatorade bottles away for them. Even when I’m sure it’s been one skipped section or several un-returned phone calls too many, they look lovingly at me (slightly red-eyed from heavy partying) and silently beg, “Save me princess, save me.” We aspiring heroines, we obliging females, we are only too happy to comply.

Speaking of royalty, I’m reminded of a few age-old fairy tales from our childhood—Cinderella and her pumpkin, Snow White and those seven dwarfs, Sleeping Beauty should always wear blue. Who didn’t long for Rapunzel’s long tresses? The moral of these memories: just one slipper, two kisses, three balls, and four brave princes later, these good females were rescued from bad fruit and several very wicked witches.

In spite of the well-justified feminist disgust for these pathetic Disney damsels (has anyone really listened to Snow White’s pre-pubescent vocal tones?), I can’t help feeling nostalgic for a time when a man saved his woman. Before bad boy meant good catch, and before nice guy meant lame date. Before being a good girlfriend entailed editing a badly written thesis. Before bad behavior drew female attention. Before they said opposites attract…?

But there really wasn’t ever such a time, was there? And I don’t foresee any change in the near future either. James Dean and his motorcycle will always rev my engine. I can’t help being attracted to Heathcliffs, Danny Zukos, and Johnny Castles, and I won’t stop gravitating toward the slacker in class who appreciates my study habits and takes advantage of my willing ear.

Despite this penchant for punishment, my relationships are far from doomed. Wrong-doing rebels may still breed danger on the main stage, but we good women can pull the curtain down on our failing Florence Nightingale act. No more selfless nurse for me. No more Sandra Dee meets Mother Mary meets James Bond hussy. I’ll clean my own room, do my own work, and make my own friends, thank you very much, and will probably save my own self while I’m at it. Because I also believe in another famous truism: bad boys will be bad boys.



Victoria B. Ilyinsky ’07 is a romance languages and literatures concentrator in Leverett House. Her column appears on alternate Thursdays.