“Sexually, I’m More of a Switzerland”

by David Rose

  Don’t look back in anger,73 try condescension instead. Look sideways with schadenfreude and downward in revulsion. Serial divorcee (F, 53) has you in her sights next with a raft of sarcastic barbs and derisive statements, but a photo sent to box no. 8288 along with a list of trite achievements that I’ll remain aloof and casually disdainful about should make the whole process slightly less painful by confronting the inevitable head on.

  I beg to differ. Box no. 0535.

  Woman, 35. Happily married until husband sponsored an African village goat in her name as a birthday gift. WLTM man to 40 for whom the phrase ‘I’d really like a pair of diamond earrings’ isn’t meant ironically. Box no. 7333.

  Spend your days looking for an alibi? She’s here—35, dark-haired and smoking twenty a day. It won’t save you on divorce lawyers, but it’ll stop you shoplifting. Box no. 8122.

  Lonely? A yearning heart? Passion wasting away? Tell it to someone who gives a damn. Out there/over here US academic woman, unsentimental but strong like an ox. Can break hearts as well as snap chicken necks. WLTM weak, inconsolable man who knows when he’s beat (that’s you, fella). Box no. 0316.

  Rejection is always the hardest part of a relationship. So unless you’re male, 35–40, well-built, intelligent but not intellectually trussed-up like some unendearing Oxbridge bow-tied moneyed ponce who spent their formative years tossing about in Tuscany with an over-flowing allowance from your over-bearing parents who hated you so much they sent you to boarding school, which is where you learned to be ingratiatingly annoying and talk with a disgusting nasal drawl, save yourself the heartache and don’t write to happy woman, 35, at box no. 1117.

  Democracy doesn’t work in a genuinely loving relationship. It creates emotional cholesterol—blocking the arteries of passion with compromise and a fear of upsetting your significant other. So when you eventually complain about me whining, stamping my feet and insisting on getting my own way, really I’m just projecting my love for you and trying to protect the precious thing we have together. Woman, 46. We do things my way, or we don’t do them at all. I’m only thinking of us. Yorks. Box no. 4546.

  I walk the line between indifference and, meh, whatever. If you’re going to write do it quickly. The OC is on in half an hour.74 Woman. Thirties. Box no. 5710.

  Most partners cite the importance of having a loved one who will listen and understand them. I’m here to rubbish this theory. The more you listen to your loved one, the more you will realise they talk crap, whine a lot, and make a lot of unreasonable demands regarding holidays together (since when is a car-ferry better than a plane, since when is a museum tour stop better than drunken evenings talking to oiled-up Italians on a beach?) I’d like to state here and now that anyone responding to this advert and winding up in an emotional (or, even better, purely sexual and frequently tawdry) relationship with me will never be listened to at all. That way we can carry on the pretence of enjoying each other’s company for many an ignorant year. No lawyers. Woman, 38. Box no. 5002.

  Ball-breaking irrational F (52). Very probably just like your mother. Box no. 7911.

  I’m everything you ever wanted in a woman. Assuming you’re into fat 47-year old moody bitches who really don’t enjoy the mornings. Stop talking and pour the bloody marys at box no. 1908.

  “Further evidence of the Banach-Tarski paradox”

  I like bikes. And jam. And emergent French feminist discourse. Funky man, 51. Box no. 0559.

  Labour power has only adopted the subjective conditions of necessary labour-subsistence indispensable for productive labour power. Tell that to a woman hungry for love and a free market economy. Box no. 0121.

  The pin number for my credit card is 1917, my Facebook password is Trotsky, my hotmail secret question is ‘Who replaced Julie Christie in the sequel to A for Andromeda, The Andromeda Breakthrough?’ Camp, revolutionary social networking retro sci-fi geek (M, 43) WLTM similar for evenings dissecting Marx, the finer sub plots of Space: 1999 and the chagrin bag holding lurkers of I Will Go Slightly Out Of My Way To Step On That Crunchy Looking Leaf.75 Wilts. No pervs. Box no. 8630.

  I don’t make cereal for anyone else. No Frills76 biophysicist (learn the lingo and win my heart) WLTM dangerous tank-top wearing chemist for nights amongst the Petridishes and breakfast in the allergy lab (F, 35). Box no. 9703.

  World’s worst univocalic personal ad writer.77 Male. 43. Box no. 9711.

  Changes in fashion are only subordinate aspects of change. Trust me—I shop at Primark.78 Off-the-peg feminist, darling of the red-dot sales: one size fits all but make it a delicate wash, and iron on reverse side only. WLTM baggy-fleeced male reader with some knowledge of continental sizes. Box no. 0523.

  This advert is further evidence of the Banach-Tarski paradox.79 Equidecomposable man, 43, currently existing in two subsets of Euclidean space. Cut this ad up and reassemble it into two of exactly the same idiocy. Not quite worked out yet how to talk to a woman without her ‘going to make a phone call’ and subsequently making her escape through the bathroom window. Would appreciate theorems and schematics explaining why. Box no. 6951.

  This advert is my entry to the LRB’s young person essay writing contest. I won’t win it, however, because it is far too clever by half and also because I’m 62. Man, 62. Far too clever by half. Box no. 8887.

  What are the chances? 1 in 216, as Richard de Fournival astutely explained in De vetula, written between 1220 and 1250.80 I don’t expect you to know that, however, because you’re an idiot. Maths professor, 58, not afraid of being absolutely right at box no. 7765.

  I’m not Edith Wharton, but then this isn’t the Riviera. Get real in Brighton with grey bombshell of the amusement arcades (43). Men with passion for Frogger, Donkey Kong and Antonin Artaud write to box no. 9702.81

  I went to university to learn how to write ads like this. Woman, 32. Box no. 4429.

  What you gonna do with all that junk? All that junk inside your trunk?82 I’m gonna get a PhD in Social Sciences and spend Saturday nights alone in Oxted. Desperate woman, 34, all too aware of the misery caused by poor decision-making processes but more than willing to share it with men who don’t have high sexual expectations and enjoy any female company that isn’t their mother (which, I’m guessing, pretty much covers most of the male readership of this magazine). Box no. 8820.

  March 1993. I was the third member of the Ricketts Family on Family Fortunes (related by marriage, now divorced). Name a vegetable you would serve with a Sunday roast. I said Butternut Squash, sliced and gently cooked in olive oil, but the survey of one hundred of Britain’s dullest peasant yokels didn’t. I may not have been able to share a brand new Polo hatchback with the nation’s most barbarous and uncultured family, but I think I made my point. Who’s laughing now, Les Dennis?83 Man, 38, lecturer at UCL. Box no. 2213.

  Apparently the Three Symmedians aren’t a novelty Bosnian folk troupe.84 Rubbish mathematician (M, 37). Box no. 2695.

  Woman keen to get a birthday card from significant other this year (it’s in August, you’ve got plenty of time) WLTM Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz–type man to 50 just to be on the safe side.85 Box no. 5257.

  The Necker cube of personal ads86—are you viewing from above or below? Irritating amateur psychologist (M, 52) seeks woman with brain suitable for home-made experiments. Half-full/half-empty relationship and psychometric tests a-plenty at box no. 5447.

  Not only will this advert win me the woman of my dreams (25, tall, brunette, fun, likes late nights, computer games and Pop Tarts), it also wins me a place at the grownups’ table. Errant son, 18, swapping Dad’s Hustler87 subscription for this crap for the last two years. Box no. 0530.

  These are my skills: I can swim five lengths, I know karate (I used to be a yellow belt), I can roll my eyelids back, I can do an impression of Wally from Crossroads,88 I can run really fast when I’m being chased, I can make awesome tracks on my Casio keyboard, I was in a shop in Croydon once and there was a gap in one of the dressing room curtains and you could see
in and Christine Rowley was inside trying some stuff on and I saw one of her boobs. Man, 38. Senior Philosophy lecturer. Box no. 9920.

  The Schrödinger’s cat of personal ads.89 Box no. 3611.

  The original C&A man.90 One day polyester will return, and then I will rule you all. Princess in peachy nylon twist needed to sit beside throne of lecturer in comparative studies, 37, London. Box no. 7997.

  An inspired calligrapher can create pages of beauty using stick ink, quill, brush, pick-axe, buzz saw, or even strawberry jam. Pangrams91 of delight, but the worst sex you’ve ever had with dumpy kibitzer (M, 41) jingling as exchequer overflows at box no. 9791.

  This personal advert completely debunks Hooke’s Law of elasticity.92 This, and other laws of physics turned upside down (did you know light doesn’t travel in waves, but in packs?) by amateur dentist (M, 38). Box no. 7267.

  I was born to write this advert. Biologist M, 43. 15 years spent researching necrotizing fasciitis (fasciitis necroticans)93 would really, really, really like a girlfriend. Box no. 7543.

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  0110011101100101 and must have keen knowledge of binary systems.94 Box no. 2318.

  Easily-distracted cytogeneticist (F, 53) seeks anyone capable of enacting quinacrine banding during their turn at charades. Is it a book? A film? A song? No—it’s a mitotic inhibitor being added to a cell culture.95 Please hold me. Box no. 6838.

  Subscribed for the crossword. And the funnies. Sorely disappointed LRB reader (F, 36), yet to get one laugh out of Perry Anderson, or a workable anagram out of Slavoj Žižek.96 WLTM dumbed-down man to 45 who starts at the personals and then gives up. Box no. 1010.

  My Weltanschauung97 informs me there are plenty of losers in this column but very few winners. It also tells me there is possibly one dentist and a smithy, neither of whom are me. I’m a lecturer in media studies. But if you are the dentist or smithy, or if you’re friends with either of them, why not write? M, 47. Mancs. Box no. 0221.

  Latka Gravas of the Humanities concourse (male, 31): real-time bathos, basic knowledge of spanners, and a finely-tuned slapstick instinct. A.J.P. Taylor will never read the same again.98 Box no. 0531.

  Sorry is not the hardest word—auscultatory is. And bouzouki. Lexicographical gymnast (retired, M, 40), WLTM woman willing to easily concede defeat at Scrabble.99 Berks. Box no. 0917.

  English lecturer, 44. Modelling himself on The Fonz in an entirely non-ironic way since 1979.100 Box no. 5222.

  “The Skomorokh of Gender Confusion”

  If you don’t believe an evening in my company will be entertaining enough, just come and spend fifteen minutes with me and my personal wizard. Gaze in amazement as the archimage alters your perception of reality and awakens you to a world of many colours and sensations. Gurgle in delight as his top hat becomes a haven for the creatures of the Secret Forest. Bark in disgust as his linking rings become entangled in his hidden trouser compartment. M, 54, Tamworth. No time wasters. Box no. 7388.

  Stop with all the small talk. I’ve a full tub of margarine and a set of Yahtzee dice with your name on them. The Jenga’s at my place, but first, Newsnight. Man, 47. Box no. 1119.

  I am the only piece of eye-candy appearing in this column. You are the only comely dentist. Are we fools to think it could ever work? Maths-obsessed cross-dressing M in Manolo Blahniks and Prada A-lines seeks health-food fascist and mismatched Oxfam disaster to 50 for long division, bursts of real fruit flavour and evenings worrying about the sugar-content of M&S101 slightly soileds. No barristers. Box no. 8631.

  If I wear a mask, will you call me Batman? Just asking. Box no. 0558.

  Former Miss World102 sought by trainee old perv (76). Box no. 6440.

  Leave me alone with your father for an evening and by the end of the night we’ll have gotten drunk together, have nicknames for each other and be scheduling in a football game. Give me the weekend and we’ll be lovers. Man in denial, 35, determined to bring everyone you know out of the closet before crawling into it himself and nailing the door shut from the inside. Box no. 7509.

  The eyes said ‘take me, I’m yours’: the thighs said ‘pre-operative; and it’s a long waiting list’. Why doth thou mock me, oh ye Gods? M, 42. Box no. 0216.

  A night with me is like a night at the Playboy Mansion.103 Tony (48), Bridgend. Box no. 3339.

  The Harlequin of Doubt has visited me more than once. Often he is accompanied by the Jester of Shame. Either of these, however, is preferable to the Skomorokh of Gender Confusion, who comes whenever mother leaves me alone in the house. Divorced chemist, M, 53. Box no. 7789.

  Some men can only be loved by their own mother. Not me, I’ve got Mr Snugly Panda. Male, 36, and Mr Snugly Panda, also 36. Box no. 9912.

  I’m still Jenny from the block.104 Which is odd because yesterday I was Keith from the allotment. Keith from the allotment, 49. You can call me Jenny. Box no. 6411.

  Three years ago I’d have doubted that I’d ever have the guts to place a lonely-heart advertising for an attractive, intelligent man to 54. But then three years ago I was wearing work-site boots and doubted that I’d ever go through with the breast enhancement surgery and oestrogen injections. My confidence as a woman grows daily, but my taste in footwear is still determinedly health and safety conscious at box no. 8911.

  I have 39 years of magical experiences behind me. Gay epicurean land registrar and flamenco dancer (M). Box no. 6825.

  I’d like to thank all the women of the LRB who have taken the time to read this advert by making love to you all. Honestly, it’s the least I could do. Extremely grateful gentleman (76, but my tiny Elvis still works). Box no. 4311.

  38 years of non-stop sitting and snacking may have taken their toll on my waistline, arteries and kidney functions, but this libido is as active as it ever was (think John Holmes in a mu’umu’u).105 Man. Leicester. A bit clammy but all smiles and busy, busy hands at box no. 8121.

  A sexual renaissance compels me (tupinaire enthusiast, M, 56) to write this advert. Box no. 1710.

  If there really was a god, Adam Phillips106 would arrive and tell me these fantasies are healthy reactions to years spent in a cold, unforgiving and cruel marriage. Though I’m not sure mother would see it quite the same way. Is it too much, too soon? Hello? Box no. 2221.

  Apparently BBW is not a type of post-doctoral qualification.107 Eight-stone male dufus (42) seeks urgent help with redefining most of his life’s assumptions. Box no. 5311.

  Women to 35—you’re all invited to the party in my pants. It’s bring your own bottle and, please, remember to remove your shoes before you step on the carpet—mum’s just had it cleaned. Stupid man, 33. Box no. 7010.

  9.30 Night of a Thousand Shows; 10.15 BBC News; 10.30 Have I Got 2001 News for You; 11.15 It’s Your New Year’s Eve Party; 12.20am Are You Being Serv
ed?; 12.21 Insane Tantric Sex Bent Backwards Over a Decade’s Worth of National Geographic. Finally, a New Year’s Eve worth staying up for. Bolton night-school teacher (M, 38, likes cocoa before, after, and—if you’re lucky—during). Athletic women, please, write to box no. 9118.

  You’re so vain. I bet you think this ad is about you. Don’t you? Don’t you? You couldn’t be more wrong. Unless you’re a Carly Simon–loving nutcase with a collection of wide-brimmed floppy hats, espadrilles and every flavour of herbal tea stocked by Holland and Barrett. Simple man, 43, with simple tastes.108 Box no. 7651.

  Don’t listen to your inner voice in matters of the heart! Especially if your inner voice tells you to check his outgoing message box for evidence of a wife or ask why he always needs to be on the last train to Stafford instead of just staying the night. It’s a simple rule, but it’s a rule that will give us many happy—if somewhat opprobrious—experiences together. Man, 38. Not in the slightest bit married. Remember that. Box no. 4329.