Sex, dreams and denim jeans

If you live your twenties in bars, carrying sleeping pills in your bag next to gum and writing columns on roaring music, you always get to like bad boys. That’s me, you and a bunch of everyone we know.

Boys in the bands, photographers, artists with no soul, writers.
In their presence you become this version of a groupie desperately trying to hold it together while browsing their sentences for attention. You feel so ignored but somehow important, like a rockstar girlfriend or hangaround that is there because she’s definitely good looking and caught their eyes.

They fucking love the hunt, don’t they. Intangible girls, shy stupid giggly girls, girls with no heart and full of manners. Girls who are hard to get and hard to get in bed with.  Just too much attention in their direction and you’re off the map.
They’re the breed that makes you act looney – you and a load of other girls out there.

Ignorance makes them handsome, together with the jaded look with a cigarette stuck to the corner of their mouth and a trashed t shirt under a pennyblack sweater. You love their clothes, you’d do them on stage and then steal the outfit. You’d rather freeze your ass off in high heels and a leather dress than be caught red handed in something unflattering at 3 am.

You drink what they drink and never refuse a coffee.
You light another cigarette hoping this will hide the shaking.
These are the only guys you fall in love with. Because they are more sexy and more adventurous and you have to fight for them and you might get hurt which is thrilling and vicious. Except maybe if their voice turns pussy like on stage despite  how good the song may sound. Except definitely if the next best thing (aka bullshit) that comes out of their mouth screams high on speed or if their awesomeness aura is only made of dandruff.

My take on this – if there’s an explanation rooted in psychoanalysis you should  hunt it down for it and grab it from where it’s stuck cause being hooked exclusively on the wrong type of guys is so 1960s minus the heroin chic glamour.

L’AIR DU TEMPS series 2

photos Das Sasha
location thanks to Papiota
Plase LIKE Ruffles for Breakfast




  1. Cristina

    I was so fucking stuck in the same bullshit story as well – ‘bad boys’ with awfully handsome faces and highly attractive (for me, that means skinny and sort of worn out – by too much cigarettes, alcohol and first base drugs) bodies, with messy clothes, hair and, sometimes, beards; with either extremely little amount of brain or consciousness left, or with an intriguing wit and rough intelligence; always playing by the rules of the ‘good guy – bad guy routine’ = he’s a bad one out there, where everyone’s watching, but in privacy, he actually gets kind of soft and has a way with flattering words – which makes you instantly fall for him, against your will and despite your full awareness of what’s coming next (and you don’t need no magic bowl to guess it) – humiliation and fucking tears. And the memory of an awful lot of good sex.

    • Cosmic Audrey

      I think there’s a fine line where bad boys ends and losers starts.
      You know, like those who are truly fucking good looking but they’d do a brilliant service if they kept their mouths shut. Pe principiul “Vorba aia, mai taci din gura”.
      And the sex, it doesn’t always turn out what it seemed. I know

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