They Call Me Naughty Lola
Personal Ads from the London Review of Books
Love is strange -- wait 'til you see my feet
This ad may not be the best lonely heart in the world, nor its author the best-smelling. That's all I have to say. Man, 37. Box no. 7654.
My finger on the pulse of culture, my ear to the ground of philosophy, my hip in the medical waste bin of Glasgow Royal Infirmary. 14% plastic and counting -- geriatric brainiac and compulsive NHS malingering fool (M, 81), looking for richer, older sex-starved woman on the brink of death to exploit and ruin every replacement operation I've had since 1974. Box no. 7648 (quickly, the clock's ticking, and so is this pacemaker).
7 million is good for me. Most days though I plateau at around 3 million. Any advances? Man with low sperm count (35 -- that's my age) seeks woman in no hurry to see the zygotes divide. Box no. 8385.
Dinner's on me. Gap-toothed F, 32. WLTM man to 35 with permanent supply of Wet Ones. Box no. 7364.
Remember when all this was open fields, and you could go out and leave your door unlocked? Woman, 24. Inherited her mother's unreasonable and utterly unfounded nostalgia (and her father's hirsute back). WLTM barber with fondn ... read full excerpt from: They Call Me Naughty Lola: Personal Ads from the London Review of Books ebook