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From: "a425couple" <a425couple@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Story by Bissell, "Why I Like Bad Girls: An Essay"
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Date: Tue, 04 Aug 2015 13:10:35 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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"a425couple" <a425couple@hotmail.com> wrote in message...
> <amandawinter476@gmail.com> wrote in message...
>> Hello,
>> Would you mind sharing your cache of Richard Bissell stories?
>> Would highly appreciate it!    /A
> 
> I'd suggest you go to:
> http://www.asstr-mirror.org/
> slide down to bottom, click on "enter website"
> Near the bottom on the next page is a spot that says
> "search".  Type in
> "Bissell"  then click on submit.
> 
> When I do the above, I see quite a few choices, ---- 

and I see some I could post, that say,
"You can repost it or archive it"
This is one of them, now & here, reposted in total:
-------------

                     ("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._
                     `6_ 6  )   `-.  (     ).`-.__.`)
                     (_Y_.)'  ._   )  `._ `. ``-..-'
                    _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,'
                   ((('   (((-(((''  ((((
                 K R I S T E N' S    C O L L E C T I O N
  _________________________________________
                  WARNING!
  This text file contains sexually explicit
  material. If you do not wish to read this
  type of literature, or you are under age,
  PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
  _________________________________________




   Scroll down to view text


















--------------------------------------------------------
(C)opyright 1999 by Richard Bissell - This story is 
mine. You can repost it or archive it only if 1) you 
don't change it, 2) my name and this disclaimer remain 
attached, and 3) you aren't making money off it. That 
includes posting it on some slimeball banner farm web 
site. Yes, that means you!
--------------------------------------------------------

Why I Like Bad Girls: An Essay 
by Richard Bissell (2000 address defunct)

***

Whenever we drove anywhere, Allison would invariably 
end up giving me a blowjob while I was driving. From 
her, I discovered the real point of pierced tongues, 
which is not simply ornamentation. (MF, piercings, 
true)

***

Author's Notes: Adults only, no prudes. If you don't 
like sex stories containing teenagers engaging in weird 
perversions, or you can't separate truth from fiction, 
get lost. The author does not advocate or condone 
anything that goes on in this story. 

When Janey asked me to contribute something to the ASSM 
revival promo, I was in the thick of writing Call Girl 
Cheerleaders, and I didn't see how I could possibly 
come up with anything else. Once I finished the first 
draft, however, I remembered her solicitation and wrote 
back asking if it was too late. She said no, so I wrote 
this. This is part story and part essay, and though 
there is some sex in it, it's not particularly 
detailed. 

***

Not so many years ago, I dated a girl who would 
probably set off the metal detectors at LAX. She had --
no lie-- piercings through both eyebrows, her left 
nostril, tongue, lower lip, nipples (one each), navel 
(twice), clitoris, labia (six times), and, last but not 
least, both ears (at least a dozen all together). 

She also had tattoos on her arms, right tit, left 
buttock, and right ankle. While I knew her, I helped 
her get another tat (a rose) put just below her bikini 
line. She kept her pubic area perpetually waxed clean, 
so all of this ornamentation was easily visible. She 
never once wore panties or pantyhose the entire time we 
were dating--apparently they were too uncomfortable 
with all the studs and rings in her crotch. 

This girl's name was Allison, and sex with her was 
sometimes like walking on those orthopedic "massage 
slippers" with the little rubber nubs in the sole--all 
sorts of things were constantly poking and prodding me 
at odd moments. 

I still wonder what it was she saw in me, as I present 
a fairly straitlaced appearance. I have no piercings 
and only one tattoo (gained after a drinking binge in 
college), and I work in about the most non-
counterculture occupation imaginable--I'm a lawyer. We 
met when I drew up a contract for her previous 
boyfriend, a drummer in an anonymous alternative rock 
band. For reasons I could never quite fathom, she 
dropped him like he had the plague and began coming 
after me. 

Allison had a habit of calling me up at all hours of 
the night wanting to get together. Often she would be 
drunk and calling me from some party forty miles away, 
and I grew to expect a lot of noise in the background 
whenever I heard from her. Calling *her* was pointless. 
Either she wasn't home, she wasn't answering her phone, 
or the phone company had disconnected her for not 
paying her bill, and all I ever got was her voice mail. 
Sometimes she called me back later; sometimes she 
didn't. 

I can still hear that sultry message in my mind, the 
husky half-drunk half-horny timbre to her voice. "Hey, 
you missed me," it began with a giggle, "are you mad? 
Well, leave a message, and I might make it up to you. 
For bonus points, tell me what you want to do to me "--
another throaty giggle--" The better the message, the 
sooner I call you back. Bye now." When we were first 
going out, I would leave long, pornographic, monologues 
on her voice mail, imagining that I was melting down 
the phone lines. Eventually I figured out that the 
final tease in her message was just that. 

Once she woke me up at three a.m. wanting me to come 
over to her friend's house, and when I got there (a 
grungy apartment in North Hollywood), I found the two 
of them half-asleep in a cloud of marijuana smoke. 

"What happened to the party?" I asked. 

"Oh," she said. "There wasn't really any party. We're 
just horny." 

"We?" I asked. 

They laughed. 

"Yeah, we. We want you to fuck us." 

Getting the point, I did. Allison was bisexual (did I 
mention that?), so they fucked each other as well. I 
had to work the next day, so I couldn't spend the 
night, though they wanted me to. 

Whenever we drove anywhere, Allison would invariably 
end up giving me a blowjob while I was driving. From 
her, I discovered the real point of pierced tongues, 
which is not simply ornamentation. Once (when she 
really got going on me) we were swerving so much that I 
got pulled over. The cop thought I was drunk, but 
Allison blithely informed him that she had been giving 
me head, and that he had interrupted her. That produced 
a stern lecture on public lewdness and reckless 
driving, but eventually he let us go. 

Then there was the time that I made the mistake of 
bringing her to a cocktail party that one of the other 
attorneys at my firm was having (this was when I was 
still trying in vain to domesticate her a little). By 
the end of the night, Allison had a) propositioned the 
(admittedly cute) second wife of the senior partner, b) 
displayed her nipple studs to two of the junior 
associates, and c) convinced me to have sex with her in 
the hall coat closet. Somehow I got us out of there 
without ending my career, but I would be hearing about 
that night for several months afterward at work. 

Did I complain? Hell, no. I was having the time of my 
life. 

The figure of the "Bad Girl" is an iconic one in 
Western society. Though the trendiness thereof has 
ebbed and flowed, one can find examples in every 
generation. These days, Bad Girls are hot, so we have a 
lot of them: Pamela Anderson Lee, Courtney Love, Xena 
(a reformed Bad Girl, but a Bad Girl nonetheless), 
Shannon Doherty, Britney Spears (Bad Girl Lite, but 
still worth mentioning) to name just a few. Every teen 
drama from "Dawson's Creek" to "Sabrina" has at least 
one, even if they aren't overtly presented as 
admirable. 

Other examples abound, from Marilyn Monroe to Jane 
Russell to Bette Davis to Joan Crawford. The whole 
"flapper" trend during the 1920's was just another 
incarnation of the Bad Girl. Though the similarities 
grow more tenuous the further you descend into the 
past, one could probably trace the modern Bad Girl all 
the way back to The Canterbury Tales and beyond. (Who 
is the wife in The Miller's Tale if not an archetypical 
Bad Girl? Tricking an unwanted suitor into kissing your 
behind is pure Bad Girl in my book.) Even the Bible 
gives us a lot of examples, never mind that the Bad 
Girls therein tend to get stoned or turned into pillars 
of salt. 

I have always been attracted to girls like Allison, 
notwithstanding that few of them have wanted anything 
to do with me. Bad Girls tend to want Bad Boys, and I 
don't look like one, even if I like to think that 
there's one hiding inside me. The few Bad Girls I have 
managed to attract tended to see something in me that 
the others couldn't, and our initial connections have 
tended to occur in odd milieus (like my law office). 

I don't think that I am anything unusual in this 
predilection. The cultural position of the Bad Girl 
presumes some sort of male attraction--it presumes a 
male to be led astray, to be lured away from the Good 
Girls, whether or not the Bad Girl is sincere in her 
attentions to him, which she quite often is not. 
Without a man to attract, the Bad Girl loses much of 
her raison d'etre and becomes nothing but rebellion 
against the status quo, an action largely without 
gender. 

(Note: I am aware that lesbian "bad girls" exist, but 
when such a woman is truly lesbian--and not merely 
bisexual, like my pierced inamorata--she belongs in a 
different category from the women listed above. She is 
not truly a Bad Girl, who derives her central 
definition from playing games with male lust.) 

The attraction of the Bad Girl is that she represents 
an escape from the harness of traditional domesticity. 
The Bad Girl is not interested in what you do for a 
living except as it provides her another means of 
messing up your life. The Bad Girl does not play house 
or care about the pattern of her draperies. Her only 
concern with the thread count of your sheets is whether 
it's dense enough to avoid snagging the rings in her 
nipples when the two of you are engaged in anal sex. 
The Bad Girl may have children (since Bad Girls are 
notoriously irresponsible, even with things like 
contraceptives) but she probably does not much care 
what sort of father you would make for them. 

It is little worth denying that within Modern Man beats 
the heart of a Neanderthal--any married woman can 
attest to this--and the Bad Girl's rebellion against 
traditional female gender roles gets her hooks into 
this inner caveman. The Bad Girl rejects domesticity; 
thus, the caveman is free to indulge his baser desires. 
The Good Girl is repulsed by this; the Bad Girl simply 
doesn't care. She's too busy figuring out where the 
nearest party is. 

Attraction to the Bad Girl is not a rational impulse. 
By any rational measure, my relationship with Allison 
was a disaster. When I finally came out of our six-
month binge of self-indulgence, all I had to show for 
it were three traffic tickets, a dent in my left front 
fender that cost $800 to fix, two maxed-visas, and a 
stern reprimand from my boss (the husband of the woman 
Allison propositioned) about not letting my personal 
life interfere with my job. And Allison continued to 
bug me until I finally got a new phone number. 

Was I better off? Absolutely. Was I happy about it? Not 
by a mile. Several times a month for the next year or 
so, whenever I got drunk, lonely, or horny (thinking, 
for example, about how her tongue stud felt against my 
dick or about the time we fucked, standing up, in the 
mosh pit at a Nirvana concert) I would pick up the 
phone to call her. Once I even did (and got her voice 
mail again), though she never called me back. Even now, 
years later, I still think about her occasionally and 
fantasize about getting back together, no matter how 
much I know that it's both impossible and insane. She 
has a primal hold on my soul that will probably never 
go away--and I am willing to bet that she knows this 
somehow. The real Bad Girls always do--it's part of why 
they are who they are. 

The irony is that Allison might, by now, have become as 
domesticated as I am (though I doubt it). She might be 
married to a doctor and living in the suburbs with a 
minivan and two toddlers. None of that matters. To me, 
she remains the one Bad Girl I managed to really catch 
in ten years of chasing them. 

Though I dated others before and after her, she was 
only one who was really interested in keeping me around 
when she found me in her bed the next morning. She 
remains the icon, the escape from convention, the wild 
woman I never had a prayer of controlling. However much 
I know I was better off for breaking up with her, the 
caveman inside me won't let go of the memories. 

This, I think, is good. All Bad Girls are, however bad 
they may be. One should never be entirely settled in 
one's life, or stagnation soon ensues. Every man needs 
something to reach for, something to remind him of what 
lives across the railroad tracks -- something to keep 
him from feeling completely tamed, even if he really 
is. 

Some men find their escape in taking stupid risks, 
whether it's driving too fast or chasing teenage girls. 
Me, I think about pierced nipples, tongue studs, and 
sex in coat closets. I rather think I'm better off. 

END

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world 
contract HIV every year. You only have one body per 
lifetime, so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 50

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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