Never again. I’ve quit this time. I’m kicking the habit. I have placed my last personal ad. It is an addiction, I’m convinced, sort of like playing Lotto: each time, I think this will be the one.
I began this venture by answering an ad placed by a tall, shy, middle-aged single black male seeking a lasting relationship with a sincere, affectionate single female, race unimportant. When an SBM social worker appeared in the ads the following week, I decided not to pass him up; a social worker would fit right into my life. When a third promising ad appeared the same week, I began to feel that there were lots of men to choose from. I was on a roll. Number four was much too interesting to pass up; he was an SBM from England, highly educated, and living in my neighborhood.
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But instead of a phone call, I received another letter. He had attempted to dial my number, he told me, but had been unable to complete the call. Wondering if my line had been busy or he’d broken his finger, I read on. I shouldn’t worry, he continued; money meant nothing to him. I was worried–that far exceeded my definition of nonmaterialistic. I was even more worried when he described himself as someone who’d been pushed around, particularly by black women, which didn’t seem a well-reasoned complaint. I moved on to number two.
Number three sent only a nonpublished home number and no personal information. Number four never responded.
Mr. Great ended his letter by assuring me that he was a good lover and writing “Kiss kiss” on the bottom of the page. Respondent number two, exhibiting the same level of maturity, wrote “Run Mailman Run” on the outside of the envelope. Respondent number three was a chef from Michigan who could “burn Baby burn”:
This was followed with a few facts about yin and yang and this summation: “In other words, I like to have fun, play, and treat my fellow humans with respect, honesty, and gentility.”
When I called, I liked him as much on the phone as I had on paper. Whether he liked me was another question. Foolishly I’d chosen to call his home during working hours on a day when I was preoccupied with a family crisis–I’d hoped simply to hear his voice on the answering machine and hadn’t planned what I’d say. Stunned when he answered, I came across like Dull Dora, allowing him to do most of the talking and stumbling over the few words I did say. He’d call me when he returned from an upcoming business trip, he told me. I knew he wouldn’t. He didn’t.
