When I got fired two years ago for having a blog (gasp!) and concurrently my marriage ended because I had married a douchebag (gulp!), the nights were the worst. The sun had settled, but I had not. My bed was cold and my thoughts unmade.
Without the camaraderie of co-workers and an office to visit every day, days bled together. Why was I trapped in this shit-com of a life?
I felt isolated, lonely, unwanted. One Saturday night, I was doing what all forlorn people do: I read ads on Craiglist. I had no job. I had no lover, but it seemed like CL could offer assistance in both. An immediate panacea. New York is a hard city that only softens when you are in love. After perusing the Help Wanted section—yes, CL, help me please—I decided to plunge right in and place my first dating ad.
I kept it short and simple. “FIRED FOR HAVING A BLOG, NEED A MAN TO TAKE MY MIND OFF OF IT.” That’s it.
I stuck in a picture of me looking bemused. For what took only 60 seconds to write and post, the rest of the night, I was barraged with responses. At the end of a full day, I took down the ad, because my AOL email account would no longer function. Over 350 answers appeared.
I read each one and alternately laughed and recoiled, but suddenly I felt less alone. I always assumed single men would either be on dates or out in bars trying to get some on Saturday nights. I felt I was the only one reading the Sunday Times the minute it was released and excited out of my mind for “America’s Most Wanted.” How comforting to realize that there were literally hundreds of men just as lonely as I was. Some within a two-block radius of me.
I met a few, but ultimately was too deep in a post-firing, post-divorcing depression to really make the most of the response.
At that point, all I really wanted to do was drink bleach from a martini glass, looking as stylish as I could, offing myself right in front of people that couldn’t really see me anyway. How dramatic would that be—me with dark eyeliner running down my face, gasping for air and falling to the floor. How Star 80! I especially thought it hilarious that Clorox had a new lemon scent—sort of like a Cloroxmopolitan with a twist. A Lemon-Drop [Dead] shot. But then I reminded myself that drinking bleach from a martini glass is something Kitty Dukakis would do, and it immediately lost all its allure.
Recently, in a much better mood, I decided to return to CL. Again, short and sweet, the ad simply read: “LOOKING TO DATE A MAN WITH THE SURNAME “KELLY” SO I CAN SOMEDAY BE ‘KELLY KELLY.’” In the body of the ad, I explained, “When I was little, my Irish grandmother who helped raise me, used to say that I had to marry a man with the last name Kelly because I was one of the few that could handle a name like Kelly Kelly. My grandmother has long-since died, but I’d like to take her advice.” Again, I uploaded a picture.
Within seconds I got a flood of e-sponses, many with headshots and no copy. As if their pretty, air-brushed faces would be enough for me to write back. Some, when I didn’t, would send a pissy email, reprimanding me for ignoring them. Many simply sent shirtless pictures of themselves. One went so far as to tell me he had an eight-pack, which in the picture looked way more like a 40-pack.
“I am 5’ 10’ 180 lb. of solid muscle. Very fit and no fat. Eight-pack stomach, broad shoulders, big chest and back. Very sexy. I am VERY clean, Very cultured. Very well traveled. I am an entrepreneur and financier. I work out five times a week. Run as well.”
I learned that men don’t know how to listen or have reading comprehension. Of the nearly 400 responses I got in one day, there were only three actual Mr. Kellys. Further, the age range I listed was 31-45. Tons of men in their 20s responded, as did men old enough to be my grandfather. I also asked for only those living in Manhattan. I got an email from a man in India, 51 years old, looking for a wife. “You sir, are NO Mr. Kelly! Be gone!” I wrote.
Some of the more interesting responses? [Note: typos are NOT mine.]
“Hey what up before I begin let me tell you something about my self I am 43 male Latino born in New York City local. I am a low income work here in the city. The highest grade competed is High School. I am looking for a long term relationships.”
“I am a photographer in NYC and I am doing a project involving sexuality, fantasy, and kink. Follow this link to see some samples/works in progress from the project. Would love to meet you and discuss.”
About 100 offered to change their last name to “Kelly” if I’d go out with them. Yeah, um, right.
Some cut to the chase.
“My last name is Kelly, but I’m only interested in sex at this time.”
Some took the literary approach:
“He smiles at her, and nods hello. She asks him for the time. He makes a joke, something about how he’s been waiting a lifetime. “I’m tired” the woman tells the man, the day has been long. The sun is about to set.They feel like a couple waiting for a train that hasn’t come-in years. And they have been waiting at opposite sides of the platform. Loved what you wrote. Would love to learn more.”
Some thought it best to insult my dead grandmother.
“Granny was a little light in the brains department.”
Some were scary.
“I do admire intelligence and creativity. If you are a woman that is driven by day and submissive after dark then there is much more to discuss. I understand primal desires.”
Some went with humor.
“You’re old enough to marry NYC Police Commissioner Ray Kelly, I think. Signed: Lewis Lewis”
“I always thought Salvador Dali should have married Ali McGraw. Then if they had a daughter they could have named her Dilly. If by chance she opened a delicatessen in India she might call it Dilly Dali’s New Delhi Delli.”
I chose to only meet two, both Mr. Kellys. One stood me up; the other took me to dinner, ran into an older woman he had a drunken fling with and stood belly up to the bar with her during our date, flirting. He walked me home and took THREE calls from her during our 10-minute jaunt. I hate to admit it, but my grandmother may have been wrong.
If I ever get the CL itch again, I’m going to re-read this column. In fact, I might tack it up to the ceiling above my bed to remind me that watching “America’s Most Wanted” every Saturday is a treat compared to what is out there.
Still, if a Mr. Kelly is reading, feel free to contact me.
One last thing for men who respond on CL to remember: If you are going to send a random woman pictures of your cock—I’m not sure what this male compulsion is—please make sure it’s at least 8 inches.
Without the camaraderie of co-workers and an office to visit every day, days bled together. Why was I trapped in this shit-com of a life?
I felt isolated, lonely, unwanted. One Saturday night, I was doing what all forlorn people do: I read ads on Craiglist. I had no job. I had no lover, but it seemed like CL could offer assistance in both. An immediate panacea. New York is a hard city that only softens when you are in love. After perusing the Help Wanted section—yes, CL, help me please—I decided to plunge right in and place my first dating ad.
I kept it short and simple. “FIRED FOR HAVING A BLOG, NEED A MAN TO TAKE MY MIND OFF OF IT.” That’s it.
I stuck in a picture of me looking bemused. For what took only 60 seconds to write and post, the rest of the night, I was barraged with responses. At the end of a full day, I took down the ad, because my AOL email account would no longer function. Over 350 answers appeared.
I read each one and alternately laughed and recoiled, but suddenly I felt less alone. I always assumed single men would either be on dates or out in bars trying to get some on Saturday nights. I felt I was the only one reading the Sunday Times the minute it was released and excited out of my mind for “America’s Most Wanted.” How comforting to realize that there were literally hundreds of men just as lonely as I was. Some within a two-block radius of me.
I met a few, but ultimately was too deep in a post-firing, post-divorcing depression to really make the most of the response.
At that point, all I really wanted to do was drink bleach from a martini glass, looking as stylish as I could, offing myself right in front of people that couldn’t really see me anyway. How dramatic would that be—me with dark eyeliner running down my face, gasping for air and falling to the floor. How Star 80! I especially thought it hilarious that Clorox had a new lemon scent—sort of like a Cloroxmopolitan with a twist. A Lemon-Drop [Dead] shot. But then I reminded myself that drinking bleach from a martini glass is something Kitty Dukakis would do, and it immediately lost all its allure.
Recently, in a much better mood, I decided to return to CL. Again, short and sweet, the ad simply read: “LOOKING TO DATE A MAN WITH THE SURNAME “KELLY” SO I CAN SOMEDAY BE ‘KELLY KELLY.’” In the body of the ad, I explained, “When I was little, my Irish grandmother who helped raise me, used to say that I had to marry a man with the last name Kelly because I was one of the few that could handle a name like Kelly Kelly. My grandmother has long-since died, but I’d like to take her advice.” Again, I uploaded a picture.
Within seconds I got a flood of e-sponses, many with headshots and no copy. As if their pretty, air-brushed faces would be enough for me to write back. Some, when I didn’t, would send a pissy email, reprimanding me for ignoring them. Many simply sent shirtless pictures of themselves. One went so far as to tell me he had an eight-pack, which in the picture looked way more like a 40-pack.
“I am 5’ 10’ 180 lb. of solid muscle. Very fit and no fat. Eight-pack stomach, broad shoulders, big chest and back. Very sexy. I am VERY clean, Very cultured. Very well traveled. I am an entrepreneur and financier. I work out five times a week. Run as well.”
I learned that men don’t know how to listen or have reading comprehension. Of the nearly 400 responses I got in one day, there were only three actual Mr. Kellys. Further, the age range I listed was 31-45. Tons of men in their 20s responded, as did men old enough to be my grandfather. I also asked for only those living in Manhattan. I got an email from a man in India, 51 years old, looking for a wife. “You sir, are NO Mr. Kelly! Be gone!” I wrote.
Some of the more interesting responses? [Note: typos are NOT mine.]
“Hey what up before I begin let me tell you something about my self I am 43 male Latino born in New York City local. I am a low income work here in the city. The highest grade competed is High School. I am looking for a long term relationships.”
“I am a photographer in NYC and I am doing a project involving sexuality, fantasy, and kink. Follow this link to see some samples/works in progress from the project. Would love to meet you and discuss.”
About 100 offered to change their last name to “Kelly” if I’d go out with them. Yeah, um, right.
Some cut to the chase.
“My last name is Kelly, but I’m only interested in sex at this time.”
Some took the literary approach:
“He smiles at her, and nods hello. She asks him for the time. He makes a joke, something about how he’s been waiting a lifetime. “I’m tired” the woman tells the man, the day has been long. The sun is about to set.They feel like a couple waiting for a train that hasn’t come-in years. And they have been waiting at opposite sides of the platform. Loved what you wrote. Would love to learn more.”
Some thought it best to insult my dead grandmother.
“Granny was a little light in the brains department.”
Some were scary.
“I do admire intelligence and creativity. If you are a woman that is driven by day and submissive after dark then there is much more to discuss. I understand primal desires.”
Some went with humor.
“You’re old enough to marry NYC Police Commissioner Ray Kelly, I think. Signed: Lewis Lewis”
“I always thought Salvador Dali should have married Ali McGraw. Then if they had a daughter they could have named her Dilly. If by chance she opened a delicatessen in India she might call it Dilly Dali’s New Delhi Delli.”
I chose to only meet two, both Mr. Kellys. One stood me up; the other took me to dinner, ran into an older woman he had a drunken fling with and stood belly up to the bar with her during our date, flirting. He walked me home and took THREE calls from her during our 10-minute jaunt. I hate to admit it, but my grandmother may have been wrong.
If I ever get the CL itch again, I’m going to re-read this column. In fact, I might tack it up to the ceiling above my bed to remind me that watching “America’s Most Wanted” every Saturday is a treat compared to what is out there.
Still, if a Mr. Kelly is reading, feel free to contact me.
One last thing for men who respond on CL to remember: If you are going to send a random woman pictures of your cock—I’m not sure what this male compulsion is—please make sure it’s at least 8 inches.
