Looks like he was dipped in glue and pushed around a barbershop floor. Excellent posture, 35.
Me: Brooklyn wiseass, 24, delusions of grandeur and mild egomania. Eager to tell you about his novel and his perfect GRE score. Thinks he’s smarter than anyone. Literary poseur par excellence.
That, or: dancer-while-sober, reader-of Barthes-in-the-subway, empath. Good conversation. Maybe brilliant but learned a long time ago that isn’t really what matters. Wants to help cook dinner and make some art afterwards. Sure you’ll teach me something.
You: highbrow sexpot seeking one-night stand who knows more Proust. Cunning lit-cougar wanting something gorgeous to bring to the salons. Feted ingenue looking for an equal.
Anyone, really, as long as you’re intriguing. And willing to do me the favor I’ll do you: that of looking for the best in someone.
Petite writer (girl) seeks fellow expat (boy). I like intertextuality, the smell of bergamot, early R.E.M. and espresso. Tell me the best thing that ever happened to you and your favorite books.
23-year-old male with his shit semi-put-together looking for a smart and very funny woman (age is an illusion) to be lonely with. Maybe our vague aspirations can meet and become something actually interesting! I act sometimes, write sometimes, and work in public media. Most of my past relationships have been with artists and actors, so maybe I go for that, but maybe it’s interesting if you’re, like, an accountant. I can be super affectionate and then need lots of space for a few hours, so be that way too. I’ve tried online dating, but the tyrannies of choice and mediocrity have worn my patience there.
Looking for someone artistic but not artsy, laugh out loud funny but not lol funny, depressive but short of being depressing. Bonus points if you live above 125th Street in Manhattan.
Reporter, 23. Gay, really cute. Emotional slut. Not political, not religious, not judgmental. Prefer ‘em quiet. Takers?
Me: Mid-twenties, educated and well-read, sweet but a bit awkward, relatively easy on the eyes, loves independent/foreign films, reading, feminism, and attending intellectual events in cities with people like herself (i.e. book clubs, n+1 launch parties).
You: Older (at least late twenties to mid-to-late forties, but I will consider younger), similarly well-educated with a list of favorite books that does not include The Da Vinci Code, kind and accepting, enjoys good conversation, a decent movie, and a hearty meal. Please have your shit together. Am flexible on any of the above, but within reason.
If you think this describes you, contact me and we’ll maybe discuss the most up-and-coming literary journal. Or something.
Where better to go with the longing of your heart than to the wards of Brooklyn’s culturally bedecked matadors of intellect whose issue release parties boom with the music of now, so driving conversation to the cobbled street outside where passing taxis and the occasional drop-in by undercover badge-bearers will set the tempo?
I am a man, of that I am sure, by gender at least, biologically at least, but is that right and how can I be so sure? Do the women who fascinate me not in some way subsume me, do they not live in my mind when no longer in direct proximity and in that way are they not unlike the stuff of fiction, those fancy teasing figments dappled on the page? And is there a woman, could there ever be a woman, just one, whose beauty would enthrall me, whose discernment would spark and instruct and embolden me into being the best man I can be? If I am not already the best man I can be? And who, if I am, would recognize that and let me be as I am? Or will my own vanity reign, an outsized sense of myself fleeing the law of any predictable embrace?
Okay, so maybe you don’t know either. Maybe I will report back in 50 years to let you know how it went. I am 5″8, though, 5″9 in boots, brown hair, indeterminately colored eyes, allergic to cats.
Comely academic lady, 26. Philosopher (yes, really). Successful, charming, Midwestern. Political. Tea over coffee. Boxing over pilates. Prospect over Central. Always warm-hearted, never ham-fisted. Seeking boy 25-40: intellectually curious, employed, optimistic, articulate.
So I might try to pretend that I’m just lonely but otherwise totally normal, but to be totally honest, I’m alone and posting here mostly through my own doing. I’m righteously bad at relationships, clingy and vain, yet utterly terrified of real closeness or intimacy, like seriously crazy. On top of that, I’m incredibly picky. I like to pretend that I’m not and that I’m totally cool with normal guys, but frankly, I probably will only sleep with you if you’re taller than 6’2″ and have a PhD. I’m just that shallow. The only thing that lends me any depth is the fear that people wouldn’t like me if they knew how cruel and judgmental I actually am. On the bright side though I am young and not hideous. I run a lot. 25 years old, 5’9″, 135 lbs, dark hair, light skin. Located in San Francisco. Despite my own Gallic features, I approve of Northern European features and accents even more strongly than advanced degrees.