What’s the first thing you do when you meet a woman – after checking out her vital stats, that is? You put her in column A or B. In column A are the girls you take home to ma, in column B are the babes you want to take, full  stop. Nice girls look good on your arm, naughty girls look good bent over your couch. So the conventional wisdom goes, good girls don’t, bad girls do – anything. But as one who straddles the line (so to speak) between the two, and as someone who likes to keep track of such things, I’m here to say it’s often the good girls who are the kinkiest. Useful information if you play your cards right.

Baddies, who don’t (and can’t) claim the moral high ground, talk a good game, but when you get us alone you will likely find our favorite place for sex is somewhere a TV remote is likely to be set off by somebody’s butt, and the tollgate to the chocolate highway is closed. There are hard scientific data to prove this, or so I have heard, but let’s not get bogged down in technicalities. Let’s just say that in my travels I’ve come across good girls who are anything but. Next time you’re at a club and, like every other guy there, trying to score with the cosmo-swilling, tousled-hair vixen with the nipples straining against her barely there belly shirt, why not take a second look at the mousy girl in the corner sipping a coke, dressed in her mom’s Sunday best and looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. Maybe she’d rather be sitting on your face. To help you better identify these hotties-in-hiding, here are a few tales of, to all appearances, goody two-shoes I have known or heard of. Please note that the names have been changed to protect the naughty.

FAMILY VALUE PACK
As they say about home, there’s no place like it, and it’s where charity begins. So if you’re looking for a hot pity fuck, why not start there? No, not your mom’s, you freak! Someone else’s! All I’m saying is that, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, you might find yourself discovering everything you’ve dreamed of “was right there all the time.” And even some sick shit you hadn’t. For instance, I was surprised recently, when staying over in my friend Keri’s guest room, to open a drawer built under the bed in search of an extra pillow and find instead a black leather strap-on dildo. Keri is, to all appearances, a prototypical soccer mom, a conservative living in an affluent suburb who gave up her law practice to raise her three children. Plus she’s married to Chip, her varsity sweetheart. Who and how did the strap-on fit, so to speak? After the kids were tucked in, were the ghosts the only uglies going bump in the night? Maybe another guest left it there? Or maybe it was a gag gift, a party favor at a holiday open house? Yeah, right, and I have a big black cock. After trying it on and checking myself out in the mirror (man, I can wear one with the best of them), I threw it back in the drawer and went to sleep.

The next day I tried to figure out who really wears the cock in this  family. Towheaded tykes aside, no one was above suspicion. I watched their housekeeper attack the linoleum with a scrubber, and tried to picture her attacking Keri with the same dogged tenacity. True, Margaret is over 60, devoutly religious, and about 90kg, but she is scrappy. Chip (who according to varsity legend, is hung like a cow) is a good, if unlikely, contender, seemingly of the old-school 90-seconds followed-bypassing-out variety. There is Ulla, the Czech au pair. She is young, sweet, has bad skin and is built like a brick shithouse. She is also painfully shy. She would turn beet red and look like she was about to cry any time you asked her the simplest question, as if the attention was more than she could bear. I couldn’t picture her strapping on with gusto. And Keri? As I watched her fussily get her kids ready for school and kiss them good-bye, I couldn’t help wondering where else those pursed lips had been. The reason for my visit was a business meeting, which I went to that morning. I thought I’d kill the afternoon at a gym before my flight out, so I went back to Keri’s to change. The house was refreshingly quiet. I went up to my room and was about to open the door when I heard a raucous, throaty laugh from inside. It took me a few seconds to realize the voice was Keri’s. Where was her usual pinched monotone? When did she become Kathleen Turner Then I heard a high-pitched giggle and a slap, followed by another even higher-pitched giggle, and then there was a deep bass moan. Who the hell was in there and what was going on? It was so wrong but I had to keep listening. I heard the accented voice of Ulla saying, “This is what you like, yes?” And Keri was moaning as if she were being stabbed. “Yes!” and then that booming bass voice echoing, “Christ, yes.” The Cashew was in there too! It was like that Agatha Christie movie Murder on the Orient Express! Who did it? All of them. True, I didn’t hear the housekeeper, but she struck me as the strong, silent type anyway. I finally beat a quick and silent retreat, drove to a mall, bought some workout clothes and hit the gym, my legs feeling like jelly.

I waited until I was sure the kids were back from school and went to get my things and say goodbye. Everything was sitcom-perfect: the kids playing noisily and fighting while Ulla tried to maintain order. Dad trying to read his paper in peace, Mom making dinner. But they weren’t fooling me. I made my goodbyes, searching their faces in vain for a trace of the passion I’d overheard that afternoon. Keri was perfectly pleasant and cordial. Chip welcomed me back anytime with the almost-requisite amount of sincerity. Ulla turned tomato red when I said, “It was nice to meet you.”

THE GIRL MOST LIKELY TO…
You know her. Sure you do. You see her now in the face of some dazzlingly beautiful pearl-wearing prep, her cashmere sweater set encaging a pert set of knockers that make you weep, and you shudder, remembering all those horny nights when you chased her in vain. The Girl Most Likely to Give You Blue Balls. But perhaps you had her all wrong. Looking back, all I wanted was to fit in and be exactly like everyone else. And there was no one else I wanted to be more exactly like than Susie Solomon – a preppy goddess who looked like she had wandered off the set of Happy Days. She was everything I was not. Her blue Fair Isle sweater matched her blue velvet headband, which matched her sparkling shiksa-blue eyes. Her LL Bean moccasins were spotless. Her face was Ivory fresh, her hair Breck shiny and perfectly straight, every strand in place. She had a meltingly sweet smile, and her teeth were so white and diamond brilliant they could have cut through rock. Underlying her sweetness was a no-nonsense practicality, a steely self possession.

In the decadent world of the Eighties, she was a decidedly old-fashioned girl, and proud of it. While my friends and I, insecure and eager for any kind of experience, tended to chase after lads Sadie Hawkins-style, with an aggressive “rassle you for a lip lock, lover boy” mentality, Susie kept throngs of hopelessly horny boys in check with a polite but strict discipline that would have made a prison matron proud. “You have to set limits right off the bat,” she advised me with her characteristic cool practicality. “I told Phil if he thought he was going to get to second base with me, he had another thing coming,” she confided after a date with the cutest guy in our class. Incredibly, her apparent refusal to give up anything seemed to add fuel to his fire, and he asked her out again and again. I was in awe of her powers. So when Tom, a stud whom even older girls threw themselves at with kamikaze abandon, asked Susie out, it felt inevitable. Every guy, it seemed, was helpless against her sweet and maddening old-school allure. They went out that Friday night. On Saturday I waited breathlessly and jealously to hear the details of their dream date. But when I called, I was disappointed to learn from the housekeeper that Susie had just gone away for the weekend “to ride her pony.” That night eight girlfriends and I wangled an invitation to a party, where I watched in amazement as Susie’s Tom made a beeline towards me. “God, I went out with that Susie Solomon last night. What a freak,” he began in a conspiratorial whisper. “I go to pick her up, right? Her folks are out, so we go to her room. We start fooling around. We’re  making out for, like, two minutes, when she takes off her pants and says, ‘You can do anything to me that you want. Except anal sex, because I have a spastic colon.’ “

He burst into a surprisingly high-pitched giggle, his cherubic face turning as red as the devil’s. If it wasn’t for the authentic ring of no-nonsense practicality so typical of Susie, I never would have believed him. My world was rocked. So, in fact, she had never played hard to get and was actually as overeager and easy as the rest of us. More so! Geez! “Anal sex” and “spastic colon” were not exactly regular phrases in my vocabulary. Actually, I had never heard of either. And on the first date?  After a few minutes? Without the guy even asking? Gee, that kind of made  Susie sort of, well, a slut! Tom left me to repeat his tale to the rest of the partygoers. And so a  legend was born: Susie Spastic Colon. She never lived it down. And I never got over it. So next time you pass by an ice princess, in a case of sour grapes stemming from your earlier days, turn around. You might be surprised.

PRACTICAL PAULA
You might also want to take a second look at those gals who turned you off because they seemed to be goody-goody will less pawns of overinvolved parents: Stepford chicks. Take my friend Paula, whose parents were either lovingly protective or Nazi assholes, depending on how you looked at it. Paula, like Susie, was a practical girl. She figured out early on that if she obeyed her parents to the letter and kept them happy, she could do exactly as she pleased. Throughout high school she complied with their draconian 10:30pm curfew, never coming in even a minute late. She eschewed steady boyfriends, who, they said, might “distract her.” If she went on a date, she brought the guy in to meet her parents. She called when they got to wherever they were going, and called again when they were leaving. As her parents insisted, she always had the boy take her home in a taxi and cheerfully waved to her parents, who were watching from their fifth floor window of a New York City apartment, upon her arrival. But Paula had needs, too. So, she compensated by transforming those cab rides into her own traveling Motel 6, where she could experiment with boys. By her last year of high school she had graduated from heavy make-out sessions to performing expert blow jobs as the yellow cab sped through Central Park. She used a technique that, with a lot of practice, let her control when he climaxed, timing it so that the lucky guy would  come just as the cab rounded to the corner to Lexington and home, where they’d brightly wave to her folks in the window.

These were the acts of a girl driven by raging hormones, ingenuity and seen-it-all cabbies. But even after she grew up and got her own apartment and a life away from her folks, she couldn’t leave her taxi lust behind. The act of hailing a taxi was erotically charged. Something about the squeaking seats, the jerking motion, the danger of being discovered by the cabbie and the urgency of getting off before it was time to get off brought her back to those many stolen orgasms of yesteryear. One day she had to go to a business meeting across town with a male co-worker. She found the guy attractive but made a rule of not getting involved with people from work. But when his leg brushed against her thigh in the cab, reflex took over. She frantically unbuckled his belt and blew him, controlling her movements like a pro (I guess it’s like riding a bicycle), bringing him to a rocking orgasm just as they approached the park’s exit. The grateful co-worker had five blocks to compose himself. They went to the meeting and Paula, ever practical, never spoke of it again. So next time you’re turned off by some chick who’s still living under the thumb of Mom and Dad, why don’t you get over it, be a gent and offer to take her home. May I suggest you spring for a cab?

BACK-DOOR CATHOLIC
You may have heard this, but I swear it’s true. This devout Catholic schoolgirl went to college, where she went out with a different guy every  night, while supposedly remaining pure. It turns out she was having anal sex with about 10 different guys but she felt great about it because, as she patiently explained to her girlfriends, her virginity was still intact.

TOMBOY PUSSY
So what if she wears no makeup, dresses like a homeboy and could probably beat the crap out of you on the rugby field. Put your pride aside and think twice next time you pass over that plain-Jane jock. If she gives 110 percent to her team, she may do the same for you. Matt had been going out with Nancy since their first year. Though she wasn’t your typical beauty – approaching two meters tall, largeboned, with size 9 calloused and beat-up boats – Matt was crazy for her. Normally shy, she was an aggressive dynamo on the field, where she captained the women’s varsity hockey team. But she was also fiercely loyal and devoted to her man. For Valentine’s Day their third year, Nancy wanted to do something special to show Matt she did indeed have a girly wild side. So Matt walked into his room after class and found Nancy waiting for him, naked and spread-eagled on his bed, the soft glow from the Lava lamp revealing her normally bushy bush shaved into the shape of a hairy heart. Boy, was Matt surprised. In fact, he was shocked, and kinda grossed out at the topiary confronting him. Where was his tomboy? But not wanting to hurt her feelings, he put a brave face on it as he put his face into it, and gamely brought her to orgasm.

Two weeks later he made her promise never to do it again. But Matt ended up marrying Nancy. Any gal who would go to those lengths to please him was a keeper. Remember, this was in the Eighties, before pussy-shaving became a common part of a gal’s pre-date ritual. Now little girls practice on rainbow snatch Barbie.

SO SARI
Are you frightened off by foreign gals, thinking your cultural differences are so vast that if you shake her hand her brother will start some trouble? Well, tread gingerly and with respect, but for Buddha’s sake, don’t turn tail and flee. Those labyrinthine codes of conduct may lead you straight into the heart of the maze. My friend Tim told me about a raucous party he was at with his funloving buddy Steve. Steve met Magwa, a regal Indian beauty. He was intrigued, but Tim’s girlfriend warned Steve that Magwa was a traditional girl, and not to mess with her. Magwa was indeed reserved, clad in a modest sari, and seemed totally out of place in the rowdy post collegiate atmosphere. Steve tried his best moves on her, but Magwa appeared baffled and  alarmed by his come-ons. Nevertheless, before she left around midnight, she slipped Steve her cell phone number. Steve, astonished, asked Tim, “Do you think I should call her?” Tim said, “I don’t know what it’ll get you, but why not?” So Steve called Magwa, who, much to his surprise, agreed to meet him that night back at his apartment. When she showed up around two, the first thing Magwa did was sternly warn Steve that although she would spend the night, she would not let him sleep with her. Bewildered, and afraid to frighten her off, Steve readily agreed.

Half an hour later she was naked on top of him, gyrating like a stripper. “I don’t know,” Steve bemusedly related to Tim. “I may not be sleeping with Magwa, but I’m fucking her!” So remember, in your never-ending quest for tail, not to overlook the much-maligned goody-goodys. They are good. And they are waiting for you.

by Amanda Green

Published in Playboy South Africa October 2013