I was bored at work today, so I called my friend Greta and told her that I was going to write a personal ad for her.
'But I already have a girlfriend,' she whined.
'Yes, but I think you can do better,' I said.
Actually, that wasn't true. Greta's girlfriend is almost human, certainly an improvement over her last lover, who resembled one of the lesser beasts from Greek mythology. But I couldn't write a personal for myself, so Greta would have to sacrifice yet another relationship for the sake of entertaining me.
I once tried posting a personal ad for myself and it turned out to be a bit of a disaster. I described myself with such outrageous adjectives as luscious, feline, and ripe, and listed my hobbies as collecting obscure Cole Porter recordings, shopping for picture hats, and sampling hand lotions. I received dozens of responses, but only from gay men of a certain age who shared my fussy aesthetic and had unusual fascinations with their mothers.
Before I started writing Greta's ad, I felt it necessary to do some research by reading other ads placed by lesbians. I hoped I could learn what lesbians want in a woman through these ads. Although I am a lesbian, it should be apparent to any regular readers of this column (are there any?) that I have absolutely no idea what lesbians want. I have a vague notion that it has something to do with softballs and lite beer, but apart from that, your guess is as good as mine.
The first thing I learned after reading several personal ads is that lesbians have a far better idea of what they don't want than what they do want. Every ad had a list of disqualifiers attached to it. No fats. No jobless. No druggies. No drunks. 'Well,' I said to myself, 'that rules out all my friends.'
The second thing I noticed is that lesbians really like to take long walks along the lake. I looked out my office window at the lakefront expecting to see herds of lesbians scampering along the shore. But all I saw was a few hungry terns and a couple of teen-agers making a graceful transition from recreational to habitual drug use.
The main theme that ran through the ads, though, was a certain quiet desperation. The ads said things like 'teach me how to love again,' and 'love me the way I deserve to be loved.' Generally, it takes me at least two dates before I reveal myself to be clingy, needy, demanding, and insecure. I gave these women credit for laying their cards on the table and putting their future girlfriends on notice that they expected a hell of a lot from them even though they hadn't met them yet.
Finally, I got down to the business of writing Greta's personal. At first I tried to incorporate everything I had learned from the ads—walks on the lake, demands to be loved, harsh judgments—but each version sounded more derivative than the next. So, I decided to be daring and write an ad that reflected Greta's personality and desires. The final version read: Underemployed hophead seeks chubby, drunken non-swimmer who prefers the terror of the city streets to the aggressive loveliness of nature. I'll sleep with anyone (and I have).
Now we just have to sit back and wait for the responses to start pouring in.
