They were sleek, they were sexy, and they were powerful. Once, when she was walking by a black Ducati, she swore that she came straight into her pants despite the fact that the rider was a fifty-something man with a beer gut and a tattoo. If a man had a bike, then to her, he was instantly more attractive. It was unfortunate, then, that everyone had always classified her as the resident good girl. Ever since she was small, she was known as naïve and innocent. It was as if she had some sort of magical “innocent” power. She walked into the locker room, and the girls stopped talking about their “good times.” She went on a date, and she had three hours of arm’s length walking to enjoy. But little did the world know that Lynette was a bad girl, a very, very bad girl. At the age of thirteen, she had read through, every single sex book in the library. She had hid them underneath her bed when her mother wasn’t looking; that way, her parents who were actually naïve and innocent and didn’t know.
