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'Til Death Do Us Tart
I’m dating
“Mr. Paper Perfect.” Theoretically, he’s everything
I’ve dreamed of -- loving, handsome, intelligent and faithful, with
a job being held for him at a prominent law firm. He wants to marry me
when he graduates from law school next year. I do love him. However, he
has a pretty rigid religious background. He’s straight-laced; I’m
wild. He was a virgin until recently. He flips out about my sexual past
and is very judgmental about my wild streak. Also, something’s missing
-- I’m not sure what. I’m 99% fulfilled. Is it unrealistic
to want 100%? --Missing Peace A
lifetime walking on the “Girls Gone Wild” side
can have a high price -- starting at around $20,000: the cost of surgery
for repetitive stress injuries from constantly pulling up your top and
exposing your breasts for the video camera. That’s why even bad
girls need a vacation now and then -- like this side trip you’ve
taken into “respectability.” At the moment, it probably seems
no biggie to kick off your four-inch heels and trade in dresses you remove
with a paint scraper for the paper-perfect man. It’s actually a
great way to extend the life span of your imported Agent Provocateur lingerie
-- putting it in storage and putting yourself on the waiting list for
a burqa by Burberry and a chastity belt by Louis Vuitton.
Of course, there’s more to making this relationship work than trading
tart-wear for a little fundamentalist chic. If, for example, you wear
the strumpet suits I took the liberty of shellacking onto you in the previous
paragraph, it’s probably because they suit who you are -- a lifelong
strumpet. Can’t people change? Sure -- their hair, their toothpaste,
a five-dollar bill. But, can you transform, overnight, into Marian The
Librarian? Probably not. Not unless you wake up one morning, independent
of the influence of your favorite zealot, desperate to make the transition
from “Born To Be Wild” to “born-again virgin.” Maybe you’re
tempted to go for “security” -- a word that also comes after
“maximum” on the outside of a lot of prisons. It’s a
serious thing you’re considering -- trading in what you are for
what you’re supposed to want. Maybe it’ll work. Maybe you
can lock the hussy in you in a closet. Sooner or later, though, it’s
bound to get its long, tacky talons around a nail file (or maybe a steel
spike from a leather bra you tossed in there with the rest of your nasty
lingerie), and dig its way back into your life. Then what? Do you inform
Mr. Theoretically Perfect that you need a sabbatical from the “Girls
Gone Respectable” video series -- the lifelong contract for you
to get videotaped buttoning the top button of your flannel nightgown,
drinking warm milk, and reading children’s books to the cat?
Keep in
mind that he’s a guy who really wanted a girl who’s been squeezing
a penny between her knees for the last 20-some years. Then you tottered
into his life. Don’t think for a minute that he accepts who you
are or where you’ve been -- he probably just does his best to block
out all the nudity. Can you live with this? Should you? Time will tell,
which is why you shouldn’t be making big decisions according to
anybody else’s timetable -- his or the law school calendar. Take
all the time you need to figure out who you are and what it takes to make
you happy -- and whether it’s really a guy whose dream girl is one
who runs around blurting out stuff like “Nothing comes between me
and my big white granny panties.”
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