Friday, January 15, 2010

Bibiophiliac Bleeds Books, Seeks Same For Mutual Blood Letting

Spring is in the air - or maybe it's just in my step - with the scent of love wafting back from this coming fertility season all the way from Great Britain and the latest personal ads in the London Review of Books.

We provide these as a public service to warm and gladden hearts during this bitter cold snap in the U.S.

As always, response box numbers have been deleted to protect the innocently guilty or guiltily innocent.

As for you, you're an adult and don't need your hand held - unless for long, slow, candle-lit walks backward on the beach at sunset after driving up the coast in my Miata with the top down, a roaring inferno in its built-in fireplace, and vast library of rare volumes on lycanthropy and 320-bottle wine cellar in the back seat. We're talkin' 'bout a serious set o' wheels, baby. Speed off with me; let's burn rubbers.


Summarily ejected from the NLP course entitled ‘How to Build a Better Girlfriend’, thanks to turning up with the Ikea catalogue, allen keys, amyl nitrate, a blowtorch, a blow-up doll, a picture of the Queen Mummy and a gallon of vodka, I find myself standing here with singed eyebrows and my face covered with bits of latex, the fact I am unable to sit perhaps connected with the disappearance of those damn allen keys. Or maybe the blowtorch. Will you be my girlfriend? Drunk, drugged and deluded M, 38, covered in fragments of burnt latex with allen keys stuck up his arse. Or perhaps it's a blowtorch.

I like to push artistic boundaries with all of my work. Except this. With this, I just want to get laid. Artistic man, 39. Would like to get laid.

In my version of The Matrix, love and respect fly around in slow motion detail in lieu of spent bullets and shrapnel. And, instead of sentient machines draining our energy, our body heat powers a system of levers and pulleys I’ve rigged up to gadgets in my kitchen. Every time I experience arousal you’ll automatically be rewarded with a Pop Tart: my way of thanking you for a job well done. M, 46. Both rewarding and ingenious and much friendlier than that Agent Smith character.

There’s not a reader amongst you can resist the uplifting message contained in this advert. Pam, 53. Enjoys scrapbooking. Worship Satan! Satan is your lord! Shropshire.

Write to me and if you don't find me to be a suitable mate I will send you free traffic updates on the hour, every hour for exactly one calendar year (for the Humberside region only). Traffic-broadcasting M, 34 (Humberside).

Suffering from a rare condition known as ‘Cow Legs’, I’m unable to do anything other than meander gently across pastures. Can you find a way to love me still? M, 53. Likes grass and gets all his news feeds from birds and squirrels.

I’m on level two of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. I expect you’re at one. By joining forces, I’ll scale three in no time. You, however, will remain at one. I appreciate your sacrifice. Doughnut?

Writing this ad practically guarantees I’ll lose my membership to the Magic Circle, which didn’t even happen when I conjured a handkerchief from that deaf kid’s ear. Ex-communicated magician, bon-viveur, and – it’s true – soon-to-be your full-time lover, 48.

I enjoy art fashioned from driftwood and burlap, homemade pickle and apple butter. But if you think that makes me a closet sub-dom role play enthusiast, you’re very much mistaken. F, 54. Strictly all about the burlap and the apple butter. Cornwall.

Perchance you’ll read this advert. Perchance you’ll fall in love with me. Man, fifties. Perchance you’ll be a doctor and willing to confront the harrowing spectre of my mother’s extended coccyx.

Your parents probably once told that you would know the day when you found your perfect match and would experience true love for the first time. That day is now, with this ad. Did they mention anything about my court case or my lawyer’s advice to admit liability early on in the proceedings? Ex-yoga instructor (M, 41), taking whatever sign he can get at box no: xx

Looking for a partner, I’m placing an ad in this column. Things are significantly worse than I originally thought. Though clearly not as bad as they are for you, F to 40, who is reading this and thinking of replying. M, 34.

I don’t know about you, but 2009 was a very quiet year in terms of monumental bedroom events. Although it was a great year for both my medical team and my thyroid. Join me, F, 57, and celebrate a 2010 of regular, goiter-free sex.

In the days of the Inquisition, this ad would have been considered blasphemous and its author a dangerous heretic. Today it’s considered inoffensively charming, penned by a scampish wit. I leave you (F to 35) to decide which of these versions paints a cannier truth.

Fourteen years ago I was the bassist for metal-churning granny-frighteners, Deicide. Not really. M, 42: never once a member of Deicide.

I bet my friend £18 I could find a woman here and have sex with her. If you reply and have sex with me, I’ll cut you in at 37%. English Professor, 6

A single word to describe my sexual attributes? Compostable. Man, 46. 

In North Korea, this ad wouldn’t be banned, it would be revered and taught in schools as a palatable and preferable version of Western history. And in many ways, that’s all the truth the children of North Korea need. M, 38.

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