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Dancing with the Bad Boys
What’s up with this obsession with the guys who can do only wrong?
I have a thing for the bad boys — at least when they’re safely within the realm of fictional content. It’s been a problem for a while, but I think it’s only getting worse with age since I’m still finding myself caught up in the stories that feature tortured men who feel a bit too deeply and who make all the wrong choices in pursuit of their goals. (I’ll be counting Kylo Ren from the Star Wars sequel trilogy on that count; thanks, Disney!)
My fascination began at an early age with a dinner theater rendition of Phantom of the Opera, featuring the disfigured Erik who will stop at nothing to have his music performed by his angel of music — and he’ll do anything to keep her his and his alone.
My young heart (I think I was eight years old) pattered in my chest as I watched Erik cast longing looks Christine’s way despite the fact that she was beautiful, he was not, and she already loved another (the aristocratic Raoul — who I still despise to this day). Looking back, I don’t know if I was moved because I felt the same — unable to be loved in the shell I found myself in — but something resonated right then and there.
And I’ve been on a downward spiral with my love for the “emo bad boy” (yes, I’m being facetious) ever…
