Sexless in the City

Sometimes reading romance novels doesn’t quite prepare you for a love life...

For this 30-year-old urbanite, love is always a misadventure: The Harvard Lickwit, Hippie the Groper, the 5% Man, and the Ad Weasel. These and many other men wander in and out of her life — but never her bed.

Friday, May 27, 2005

It only takes a little

When I was a college undergrad, a friend of mine got roped into helping set up a surprise for another guy’s pull-out-all-the-stops first date. Now maybe this was partly because the typical college student tends to be so poor and limited in his options for taking a lady out, but this guy wanted to do it right. (I think he also knew, by then, he wanted her for his wife). So there were flowers, a special dinner at a swank resort, and other touches requiring friends like mine to sneak up there and set things up.

All that probably was unnecessary to some degree, as the lady in question was already quite smitten with her fellow. But still ... a nice gesture that will, for years to come, make for a nice romantic first-date story.

Myself, I’m fonder of the little things. The little moments. Those breaths that make your heart start to ratchet up its kick-rate a little, restore your faith (if that&rsqsuo;s a good thing) that sometimes a date can be lots of fun. Granted, some of my little moments have probably been a little bit contrived on the gentleman’s part — but they were best when they were not.

I remember with the Lickwit, for instance, we had this moment discussing how much we both liked a Ted Hughes poem that they were then using for the “Poetry in Motion” feature on the Subway. Thought-track: Oh my GOD! We’re discussing POetry! How cute! How very cultured! ... How not-quite normal.

Or then, on my first date with the Funny Man, we left a rooftop party to grab some Mexican. Undecided in our choice, we sampled the chicken, which they served to us in a little paper cup with plastic fork. I guess he must have liked me fairly well by then, for he got all Mr. Gentleman on me and had to feed me some of the chicken.

Ah, but who am I kidding? Men just like the chance to put anything inside a woman’s mouth. That’s all it was. And that’s why, too, it didn’t seem that special. It had all the hallmarks of a little moment, yes — the brief slowing-down of time, the hints of intimacy — but it also felt a little premature.

It was much more the real shebang with Hesitator, however. The pseudo-date before the disastrous dance-a-thon began on a Sunday after church. A Sunday when I’d decided to show off my legs for the Captain’s benefit (he showed up with another girl that Sunday). To that end I was wearing a rather appalling but short pink dress that hit about roughly mid-thigh (though I do have longish legs). But instead of getting the Captain’s attention, I wound up getting Hesitator’s.

I’d shocked-n-awed him a few nights before, but parted without a disclosure of my contact information. God must have decided he rated a second chance with me, so brought us together that Sunday. As we were leaving church to go enjoy the spring weather, I had a small matter with my shoe.

A small matter with my new shoes — stacked, wedge-heel Mary Janes so mod two passersby had to stop and admire them. Stop, you see, because I had stopped — perhaps to get something out of my shoe. But on account of my hemline I was hard put to finish the task without also flashing Lex. Avenue. As I wobbled there, trying to make like a pelican and bring the foot to me so I need not bend down to the shoe, Hesitator stepped in.

I’m tellin’ ya’ll, Hesitator or no, there was somethin’ mighty hot about a man’s hand fastening your shoe strap against bare skin. That was a genuine Little Moment. The sort that gives you hope a more dignified and noble interaction between the sexes is still possible.

Then there are those moments of understanding — where someone briefly seems to read your thoughts. A few months ago, a certain lad and I were running errands in and out of his car. I must have sometimes made him tell me what song we were hearing from the radio — as if he had access to the DJ’s playlist. He certainly knew them all.

At one point I was just about to leave the car when another song briefly delayed my exit. This time I didn’t say anything but the way I cocked my head to the right to listen must have clued him in just fine. “Coldplay,” he said. (Fans self.)

And you see — that’s just the sort of saps we women are. First of all, that we remember such things (long after we should have forgotten them), and then that they make us so prone to thump our chests and wistfully go, “Ahhhhhh.” There’s something about those places when another person seems to “get” us — seems to mind-read what it is that makes us smile.

I’ve quoted it before, but it’s worth repeating:
The longing for a destiny is nowhere stronger than in our romantic life. All too often forced to share our bed with those who cannot fathom our soul, can we not be forgiven if we believe ourselves fated to stumble one day upon the man or woman of our dreams? Can we not be excused a certain superstitious faith in a creature who will prove the solution to our relentless yearnings? And though our prayers may never be answered, though there may be no end to the dismal cycle of mutual incomprehension, if the heavens should come to take pity on us, then can we really be expected to attribute the encounter with this prince or princess to mere coincidence? Or can we not for once escape rational censure and read it as nothing other than an inevitable part of our romantic destiny?
But of course, the little moment easily read as part of Romantic Destiny often proves to be misleading. Some of the greatest conversations I’ve had with men occurred with strangers I never saw again.

So what’s your favorite Little Moment?

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Wanna good Friday entry?

Then send me your latest romantic quandary, or other question on love, sex and dating. Don’t worry: all readers assigned a pseudonym. Plus, special bonus, while the Sexless prize box holds out ... a fun surprise in the mail for readers whose questions get used! Past prizes include CDs and other goodies.

your favorite recovering narcissist blogger*

*Quite possibly on her way to getting a little more famous. News on this supplied as things get more concrete.

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Not sexy, but funny

Monday, May 23, 2005

Getting to his bottom line

Interesting reading I’ve had this weekend. First I learned on Saturday night that Sherlock Holmes was probably a virgin as well as a coke fiend (though some “Sherlockians”— as the sleuth-geeks are called — think he had a kid with a minor character named Irene).

And then there’s my mail (note the lack of Freudian slips despite my fast from dating :D). “NOTICE OF OUR INTENT” reads the rather ominous letter that’s been marooned on a striped Ikea pillow. It is a collection letter for a book not received. Perhaps my passive response to their bills did not communicate nondelivery of said goods?

In any case, it strikes me it’d be mighty nice if men provided the same sort of missive: “NOTICE OF MY INTENT.” For instance, Saturday night, a half-drunk fellow hap’ly taken said he would walk me to the subway some blocks away. As we neared the familiar awning he leaned in closer as he insisted that our prayers must be quite the same. Here a letter would have been quite helpful:
My intent is to emphasize this point
Instead, despite his taken status I subtly backed away. What if such a letter, by now wrinkled and be-ringed by all the drinks he’d had read:
My intent is to kiss you
He didn’t but as we were parting he called out this closing: “If I didn’t like you so much, I’d be pouring tequila down your throat right now.” I didn’t have a chance to say that trick only works for some folks.

But you see now how this letter idea could really have some potential. Especially for you folks taking lovers in bars. (Anna date a guy she met at Burlesque Bar? Nevah ...)
My intent is to shag you. Once. And then leave.

My intent is to get your number — just as a trophy.

My intent is to use you for attention because I’m lonely.
Maybe all this is unnecessary for those used to dating near-strangers. But in the Jesus Freak wilderness of pseudo-dates and Mr. Flirty Pants, it all can be quite confusing. Just what does it mean when a fellow chats you up some time?
My intent is to use you as the stranger I’m instructed to greet during church today.

My intent is to get your number — just as a trophy.

My intent is to get to know you better.

My intent is to find out if you’re still single.

My intent is to make you make me feel I’m dating but without the commitment.
Well, maybe I just sound bitter. But still ... I’m convinced most male kindness has to do with my left finger and that rumor that I cook. And if he’s ever seen me dance — well, there’s no chance he’s feeling platonic unless he’s blood kin or already married (and not even always then, sigh).

At least, now that I’m not dating, I’ve got a one-template-fits-all intent letter of my own.
I respond to potential husbands. Shall I introduce you to my father?

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

Rejection, dejection inspected

Friday I lost my long-term temp assignment, bringing to a close my two months as an admin. at Ad Co. Not that this was a complete surprise, mind you. They’d made it known a few weeks before that, alas, I did not make the cut as far as what they wanted in a permanent assistant.

But was this really such a tragedy? On the face of it, sure, I was losing perks like the on-site bar and free-beer parties (of which there were two in my time there). Similarly, getting dumped by the Lickwit gave a definite sting in the ego region. But to wallow in endless self-pity that I’ve been deemed less than worthy is an indulgence in both selfishness and deception. First it puts me and my pride at the center of the universe (never producing wise decisions), and second it overlooks key facts. For instance that my boss might be entitled to seek an assistant happy to stay with him for many years. Or that Lickwit might be better suited by another woman.

And it even overlooks facts concerned with my well-being. Perhaps committing to work for Ad Co. would have cramped my style in other ways or kept me from working on my book (should it ever sell). Perhaps in dating the Lickwit I would’ve missed a far better man. Or take your life: Perhaps that girl who shot you down at the bar would’ve made your life quite miserable. Perhaps without some failure you never would have developed character in certain ways, or had to revive a long-forgotten skill.

Bottom line: because rejection immediately attacks our pride it can distort our vision by bounding the world too tightly — suggesting we’ve been denied the best and the rest are merely dented remainder stock.

Dejection has a similar but converse effect. You get down and depressed about a situation, the self-pity and depression start to cloud your vision. But this time instead of thinking “the best” is that one thing we can’t have, we think that everything we can’t have is better than this — indeed that anything might be better.

Sometimes that’s true, but often that’s also a denial of reality. Take my little brother for instance. A few weeks ago he started to tell me about his forays into internet flirting (which I say because, thankfully, he never made it to face-to-face encounters). The minute I heard of this cockamamie scheme, I burst his bubble. “But bro,” I said, “you’re not even ready for a relationship! You just got back to Texas, you’ve just found work; you’re still settling in.”

But of course he wasn’t thinking that way; he was ... restless (ahem). And in the short term perspective, trying to scratch that itch was the first thing he could possibly think of. Leaving out, perhaps, that one is advised to wash one’s hands before scratching itches when one’s been working on a greasy engine or, say, chopping jalapeno peppers. And perhaps the itch in fact might call for cream instead of scratching, as the scratching might encourage an infection.

In any case, a relationship will clearly complicate his life right now. And as his big sister I felt little need to say this gently. Luckily he conceded I was right on this point. “Well yeah ...” and then he went on to tell how, when talking to a girl he planned to meet he began to realize this. “You know, I really don’t think I’m ready for this” — a pre-emptive “it’s not you, it’s me” kinda spiel.

Even I must concede I’m probably in a similar place right now. But if I focus on my “neediness” the ego-spiking sense of loneliness that sometimes intrudes, things get distorted. Only with a clear head can I acknowledge the instability in my life — indeed the busy-ness. I don’t really have time for a relationship and all it might require. I haven’t figured some key things out yet.

So I’m tasting my rejection and dejection for a moment, then I’m mustering up the courage to face the truth. My life’s not really as bad as my pride would have it, and things might go better (in the long run) for having these temporary fits of pain. Besides, what man ever sought a cocky woman?

Wednesday post in the works

... Fingers flying as you read this. Meanwhile, don’t:
  • Forget that reader queries for advice and thoughts on other problems helps keep this blog less narcissistic. Further incentive to write: I’ve still got a load of give-aways from the dust-collecting Sexless prize box. Mystery gift for every reader question that gets used (limit one per reader).
  • Miss the comment thread on women, beauty and power (it all started with my red shirt).
Back in a bit ...

Monday, May 16, 2005

Sidewalk talk and city-girl smarts

Today’s entry, I fear, may be a little on the short side. You say, I’ve got a biggish interview here shortly, requiring that I get in touch with my “soft-voiced, meek self,” as I told Poster Boy. His advice: “Go submit thyself to whatever male authority figure you find.”* Lucky for me I’ve at least toned down the shock-n-awe.

Not that this seems to be diminishing male interest in me. If anything, I suspect that swearing off dating has somehow ratcheted up my mojo in an unexpected way.

So yesterday I make the mistake of slightly overdressing for the day — in terms of the weather that is. It keeps getting cold, and I was headed for a friend’s bridal shower. Unsure of what to wear, I don the stylin’ black pants that helped Lickwit re-fall at the Morrissey show, and a rather shapeless short-sleeved peasant top, worn over sheer red shirt in case it’s cold out.

Of course it’s not, and I spend the rest of the day sweating and wondering if somehow I can take off the long-sleeved under-shirt without flashing strangers and generally making rather a scene. Unsure my skills are better than Jennifer Aniston’s in trying to smoothly slip off her bra in a comic Friends scene, I pass on this idea and choose to sweat it out instead.

Hours into this ordeal, I am finally on my home, hair up in pigtails to cool me off some. Waiting on a subway platform, I decide to squat as is my habit (close to sitting but it doesn’t involve a dirty subway bench and besides, it gives my quads a brief workout). As I settle in, however, I realize my pants sit low enough, I might showing more than I intend. Men on the platform have already been giving me slightly shady looks. So I put a hand back there, just to keep myself well-covered. Soon enough the train comes along and I bring my little “workout” to a close.

Two stops later I exit and start walking along the platform toward the subway gate. I hear this weird whistle halfway between a catcall and some rather tuneless humming. I half look behind me in case I’ve dropped something but see nothing. The whistling continues, but I ignore it. Besides, what catcall would last this long?

I make my through the turnstile. The whistling continues in these intermittent bursts. As I start climbing up the steps, I happen to glance down to the left where the platform view peeps through an opening. The whistling stops and a strange balding chap with a hand-carry gives me a wink. Then later as I hurried through the dim street to my bank I pass another guy on his smoke break outside a Divey dive bar. “That’s a pretty shirt,” he says (though he must be squinting hard).

“Thanks,” I reply.

“You’re welcome.”

A man on the next block gives a faintly hungry look as I hurry past him as well. Is it just that I’m a woman or that it’s me, the sexless spinster with red sleeves? Earlier in the day I saw a man whose shirt read, “Would your BOOBS please stop staring at my EYES?”

Nearly home, I finally reach the bank to run my errand. You see, while dashing off to the bridal brunch, I had a bit of train hell. In the midst of this confusion, I hastily purchase train tickets … making the swipe with my WaMu ATM card. The card for the Washington Mutual bank account that boasts sixteen cents in the balance. As it has for weeks.

“Shit!” (There are no men around to look askance.) Visions of a $30 overdraft descend.

Since the tickets cost $6, this was a Sunday, and I had a $10 in my wallet, I hoped I could simply deposit the cash in time and avoid the massive fee. So on my home I stopped at the nearest bank to give it a go.

But once inside, I realized I had no writing implements. And the bank, though stocked with bright lights, a phone to their service center, and cheery disco Muzak … had no ink in chains.

What to do? I knew I wouldn’t be up that early in the morning. I didn’t feel like another phone fight with the customer service people. This was clearly the best time and place to make my deposit.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is when I hit on reason #594 that it’s great to be a girl. For we have makeup bags and eye-liner pens. And I am now, it can be said, the sort of flighty but resourceful chick forced to write the deposit info with a purple eyeliner pen. Oh yes.

What’s in your wallet?

*A joke, in case “thyself” didn’t tip you off.

Friday, May 13, 2005

Coming this afternoon ...

The Friday post. Apologies for my delay, but work has had a few unexpected hiccups this so far. Such as news that the new permanent assistant (i.e., person they hired to do this job) starts Monday. So nice, the way these corporate HR groups work ...

But fear not. Such rejection-in-kind proves very inspiration for today’s post, as you will see.

Thursday, May 12, 2005

Unshocked not odd?

From the Guardian:
Swearing is, it would seem, at a peculiar crossroads. Fuck is thoroughly denatured. Crap, bastard, bugger, sod, shit, bullshit and tosser (although strangely not wanker) are used on daytime television and radio. Religious expletives, such as damn, hell and blimey, once as powerful as fuck, are not even thought of as vaguely impolite.
Makes me think I didn’t need to swear off, well, swearing after all. Which is good. After all, a friend’s long-ago post about the un-hotness of a salty tongue unsettled me a little in my hopes of someday finding a Jesus Freak husband.
Friend: ... I listen to how she talks, whether she swears ... [implication: swearing in a woman = bad]
Anna: Aw, shit!
Now if I could just persuade such uptight Christian men that “fuck” doesn’t count as swearing any more, I might be set ...

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Sex and service

... people who do the greatest work in the world are strongly-sexed people who subordinate sex to the ends for which they live. In marriage the sex drive must be channelled into procreation and the giving of pleasure to one’s partner.* Outside of marriage, the sex drive must be sublimated and channelled into creativity in the kingdom of God. Remember — the strongly-sexed can strongly serve.

— Selwyn Hughes, Every Day With Jesus for Friday, July 27, 1984
[as quoted in God is a Matchmaker, Derek Prince]
Reminds me of this video on the Shaker movement a prof used to show. It always cracked me up when the “philosopher” part of the documentary commented on the “remarkable productivity” of those folk. It was like that moment on the Simpsons when Bart gets to say “bitch” because it’s the technically accurate term for the family pet. Here he is, Mr. Academic So-and-so, speaking in measured, expert tones, and he gets to talk about their sex lives, even insinuate the lack thereof might have made them slightly unusual. In their productivity, that is.

Ah, the professorial class ...

*It is for this reason, by the way — the focus upon the other’s pleasure — that Protestants aren’t so hung up on compatibility (of the sexual sort). For Christians having good sex depends on your ability to learn, not how alike your tastes are in the beginning.
God Is a Matchmaker
God Is a Matchmaker

Monday, May 09, 2005

Pottery and Peterson

That was my Saturday. Oscar induced a near-trance state perfect for speed-painting the three mugs shown at left. I was apparently somewhat entrancing myself, to the well-dreaded male half of the store staff. Observing my “contra pasto” (?) stance at one point, he inquired: “Do you dance? I do. And I stand that way sometimes.”

Ah, the famous “Do you dance?” Usually an indicator of interest, that one. Have I told ya’ll the story of the first time someone asked me that? I can’t remember now if I’ve told you of the porn career that wasn’t. I know I’ve teased it, but have I told it? Well it’s a good story, anyway.

So one night not long after buying the famous “I [heart] nerds” T and the even-trashier hot red pants of Bill Murky and Palo Alto tumble fame (both from Charlotte Russe, a store Best Friend in principle disparages), she and I take in some music at ye Honky Tonk.

The tunes are good, so I’m gettin’ down a little. Not in dirty fashion, mind you, but I tend to like my music. Which abandon men apparently infer applies to other things as well ... like the way I need my bread dough, perhaps.

Well, anyway, we call it a night and leave the bar. As we’re crossing the street, some guy catches up with me. He’s apparently followed me out of the back room, out of the bar, onto the street. “Do you dance?”

“Just for fun,” I say.

“Do you act?” By this point things start to sound a little shady. He tells me he’s in “film” and looking to cast some people. He gives me a card that has a weird action-figure-cum-sumo-wrestler sketch on it, and a Hotmail address.

The following day I work up the nerve to call him, just for the hell of it, but Mr. Seize-It Films never calls me back. Suspiciously his name didn’t turn up on Google either.

Ah, well. Porn’s not really my thing any more than Australian brothel blogs are. I’m a retrosexual woman, damnit!

Friday, May 06, 2005

Wowing ’em with tech talk

Now that I’ve sworn off dating, you might expect the man-drama portion of my life to wane significantly. But whether I’m seeking help for laptop or discussing the problems with Camino (a Mac-native browser I’ve lately learned about), my computer seems to thwart that.

So Tuesday afternoon, to my great excitement, a small white cardboard box arrived for me, containing the key to true high-speed: a 512 RAM card for my iBook. The following day, I schlepped Baby in for the local techs to perform the swap. All seemed well until I went home restarted the laptop, and watched it freeze seconds into the process. Various attempts at restarting failed to produce the magic “chime” that sounds when the system powers up. (Is it me, or are there certain parallels here to reviving a doomed relationship?)

Panicked at the prospect of a night without my laptop (as if I don’t get enough monitor face-time during the day), I considered my options. True, there were a few Mac techs I knew … but calling in their help was a dicey deal. Impatience shortly trumped any qualms however, and I marched over to my daybook to flip back to the post-it with Mac Tech’s cell phone. Sure enough, still there. Swallowing my reluctance at the zeal this might produce, I rang him up.

“Mac Tech? It’s Anna. From work.”

He sounded quite cheerful to hear from me. I stuck with a business-like tone (letting some helpless-female leak through) and explained how my laptop wouldn’t start. He immediately suspected the new RAM but was with a client and unable to say more. “I’ll be in at 8 tomorrow,” he reported helpfully. Damn. Restraining a sigh (I would not get up till 8 that day, it turned out), I thanked him and hung up.

Tapping my foot impatiently, I brooded over my options. I had by no means yet exhausted my list of techies. There was yet the West Coast “office.” And I really wanted web access for the evening.

Deciding on a compromise, I text-messaged Poster Boy:
Hey … Anna here. Having wee laptop problem. :( Can I call for a phone consult, or should I suck it up and wait to query our techs tomorrow? It won’t start.
Two minutes later, my phone rang. A responsive man is such a lovely thing … (fans self). Explaining the situation, I asked for a diagnosis.

“It’s probably bad RAM.”

“Is there anything I can do? I have the old RAM. Can I switch it out myself?” I changed my own brake pads, damnit. I’m not afraid to venture into hardware repairs!


“Do I need any special equipment? What about static?”

No, no. All should be smooth and well within my skill range. All I had to do was “touch metal” (apparently this had something to do with grounding?).

Alas, he neglected to tell me that size might be an issue. Specifically the size of my tools vis-à-vis those pesky laptop screws. No matter how many things I tried, there was nothing that would undo those tightly screwed screws with their heads so small. Faced with defeat at last, I resigned myself to an evening offline and made lemonade.

The following night, my tech woes spiced up the cocktail-hour chit-chat at an office Cinco de Mayo party in the in-house bar. These parties always create an interesting scene, in that you have countless young, single, hip, attractive coworkers milling in a small, contained space with (sometimes-free) booze and music involved. I’m just sayin’.

It was after all at just such a party I first met the Mac Tech. One Friday night the post-work happy hour lead to a nearly 3-hour conversation with a liberal Jewish guy who now reads my other blog during down time and frequently stops by to say hi. He seems eager for further talk.

Then there was the guy last night, a longish-haired MFA hipster who kept denying his inner nerd though admiring the passion with which I compared browser options and talked of my commitment to the Apple brand (no doubt, a Mac marketer’s dream). Then I told him about the words my last name rhymed with, one of which is a semi-construction term.

“I know the thing you’re talking about, but I don’t think that’s the word for it,” he said. Then his face lighted up. “The dictionary!”

You see, another quirk of Ad Co.’s in-house bar is a massive, ancient dictionary thicker than my arm that stands on a wooden podium like the whole thing was cribbed from a library. Inwardly gloating at our nerdiness, while no doubt basking in a strange unacknowledged romanticism to this moment, we flipped through the pages to the Js. Sure enough. I was right.

But when he raved how “intelligence is so hot,” I swiftly remembered an awaiting phone call to make. Which was the truth. Later I felt a bit guilty at possibly cutting him off abruptly, but I just felt weird. I mean, while it’s true I’m only a temp here, we are co-workers. And I’ve sworn off dating.

Apparently my brush-off didn’t strike him as rude, though; this morning he sent a follow-up email.

Start with a laugh

Wow. This via Blogfather: an Eminem-style preacher man who raves that his “baby got book.” Not that I entirely endorse, but pretty funny wherever you stand.

Thursday, May 05, 2005


“What’s worse, crack or viagra?”

Coming soon... the long-awaited Wednesday post! (Meant to write it last night, but computer troubles intervened; in Poster Boy vs. the Mac Tech, there were no clear winners, but PB gets props for better customer service and less presumption of ignorance.)

Meanwhile, check out this funny site. The best are the sex- and dating-related ones (link via Grand Theft Blogger).

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

While I string you along ...

Check out some recent pics I took. Cheers for aging-rockstar hair, baby!

And for more on sex differences, see this funny and faintly disturbing piece on boys (, so you have to view a brief ad to see the whole thing).

“Real” blogging coming later today, but it’s a busy day in the office.

Monday, May 02, 2005

Mr. Persistent

Based on my vast experience with passivity, I woulda thought it’d work this time. Last month Mr. Real Australian Brothel followed up on his initial query to clarify whether I’d like to link back to their blog in a full-fledged swap operation. My response? Silence. I figured that should communicate sufficient vagueness on the matter. Maybe he’d just link to me anyway. Wasn’t bad enough I’d shared the real link with Harvard Lickwit, providing what he claimed was a whole weekend’s worth of entertainment?

But no, Mr. Real Australian Brothel ain’t a slacker about his job. He’s a stickler for details, that one! Probably has a little spreadsheet with all his possible blog-link partners and their status. Anna Broadway: not yet replied.

He must be convinced I’m a hot commodity. Perhaps he’s caught wind of the book project I’m hoping to find a buyer for. In any case, he wrote me again this morning:

Did you want to put up a link back to us also ?

Mr. Real Australian Brothel
Content Manager
So alas, I must out my prejudices.
Sorry, Mr. Real Australian Brothel, I kinda object to your line of business. Hence I don’t plan to help direct my readers to you. But good luck anyway, I guess.
Or there’s always the cop-out approach. Predicated on the notion we’ a Real Professional Blog here:
Sorry, Mr. Real Australian Brothel. I regret to inform this blog’s policy prohibits promoting commercial entities whose operation is not legal in the host country for said site.
That sounds sufficiently officious and passive, no? Maybe he’ll still feel inclined to link back to me anyway.

If I let him down gently:
Sorry, Mr. Real Australian Brothel. I regret to say readership of this blog is so negligible (and so strongly female) I doubt I’d provide you any marketing of significance.
It occurs to me these brush-off methods may have parallels to dealing with a date or potential partner you’re not into.
  • Candidly biased: Sorry, I don’t like you that way.
  • Officious cop-out: It’s against my religion to, uh, date. Men. Who like me first.
And finally,
  • Self-deprecation: I don’t think I’d make a good girlfriend anyway. I’d probably be a real trainwreck.
On the bright side, I may have found a match for Mr. Real Australian Brothel, a.k.a. Ms. Persistent. Just now she too sent a follow-up email. Offering me a second chance to subscribe to the glossy Loft, “The first lifestyle magazine specifically created for men of style, with incomparable editorial quality, photography and design. Within its pages, one can experience the works of world-renowned writers, the planet’s most beautiful women and exotic destinations, as well as the latest fashions, must-haves and trends.” Perhaps she infers from my street address that I’m one of the Slope’s many same-sex households.

After all, Jeff Sharlet thinks such arrangements present an unacknowledged ideal for many Christians (that is to say, our menfolk). Not sure I’m buyin’ that theory, though - or buying shoes on my lunch break, as a new San Francisco fan speculated.

Lattes, however, are always in fashion. Especially when you’re sleep-deprived.