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Supposedly, every woman wants a bad boy, and I’ve certainly had my share. There was the Irish mafioso in Boston, the Bulgarian mafioso in Spain. The chef who had tattoos instead of feelings. The policeman who boxed instead of cried.
I finally quit bad boys cold turkey after meeting Dan, the boxing policeman with a raging bull body and Elvis-ian sneer. Six months ago, the two of us enjoyed a passionate but hilariously brief time together, rehashing the ins-and-outs of his suckjob childhood and wondering why life, mostly his, was nothing more than an enormous pile of horse droppings.