I like assholes.

The thought came clearly in my tequila fog. I was out at dinner with Married Work Guy (We're friends. No hanky panky, honest) and we were splitting a pitcher of margaritas after he had a particularity gnarly work day. Invariably, the conversation always turns to theLoveLife.

"Well, I'm not going to finish this margarita. With this tequila, you're inhibitions are going to be lowered and otherwise I won't be able to say no when you offer to blow me in the parking lot," he says. He smiles afterwards and I know he's not really serious. Okay, he is, but with the smile I can at least see his game.

That's just like MWG, to take his thing for me and turn it around to make it somehow my fault. I like that. Why can't I find someone like that?

And then,

Omigod, I like assholes.

I did, after all, spend five months in bed with a guy who called me a whore at first meeting. He played hot and cold with me and I loved every minute of it.

"MWG, I like assholes."

"I know you do. You like it best when you think you have control, but in reality you never do."

Yeah, pretty much. That's why I pushed the envelope with Kissing Bandit last week. I wanted to see how much control I had and I was disappointed when I found out I had it all.

"Was your dad an asshole?"

"No, he was absent. My mother was a huge one though. I refuse to have much of a relationship with her to this day because of that."

"Well there you go. We often look for partners that have the same qualities as our parents. You equate tearing you down with love. If it's not a battle, you don't think it's real because it's too easy.

"Nothing was ever good enough for my father," he continued, "So I married a woman where nothing I did was good enough for her. But we realized this pattern and we put a positive spin on it where she pushed me until I became a better and better person."

He paused and dipped a chip into the salsa and ate it. "Not bad for clown school?" he asked.

I once made fun of him in a meeting where he said he graduated with honors and I added, "from clown school." RHFDSC laughed.

"Nope," I agreed.

"Your mamma went to clown school."

And I laughed.