(This is a satirical dating profile from my book, Fake Personal Ads (Or Real Personal Ads for Fake People).)
MEN SEEKING WOMEN
Please, ladies, do not be misinformed about my identity, as it would be inaccurate, if not mean-spirited, to call me a “guy who would rather play with his little choo-choo trains than bed down with a naked, voluptuous, sex-crazed woman who wants to take him around the track a few times.” It is true that I may have a perfect replica of the Union Pacific traveling over the Great Divide, but it is just a hobby that I do on the side when I am not doing anything else, which just happens to be all the time. I am no different from the man whose hobby is dressing up in aerodynamic cycling garb so skin-tight that his genitals stand out in more detail than the bas-relief on the Arch of Galerius while he peddles around with a Lance Armstrong-inspired gang of like-minded people, all of whom treat the road as if it were their private track and, in the process, cause a mile-long traffic jam in their huffing and puffing wake. Sure the bicycle guy is the more in-shape male specimen, but his constant sitting on a wedge cuts off the blood flow to his weenie. In other words, neither of us gets laid, but at least my sexual engine is capable of going choo-choo if only a boxcar of a woman would be willing to form a connection.
It’s not like I don’t have other interests. I possess a formidable knowledge of Russian history and geography, which I just so happened to put to good use when constructing a miniature version of the Trans-Siberian Railway from Moscow to Vladivostok as envisioned by Czar Nicholas II. I am a self-taught electrical engineer who convinced himself that he was not learning Kirchhoff’s First Law so that he could create an original train set, that it was only a coincidence that he went on to design his own Digital Control Command to power an Atlas-Bachmann hybrid for a Santa Fe reenactment in his backyard. My interests are so eclectic that there was a time when I immersed myself in both the art of graffiti and New York Yankee lore, though we should ignore the product of this “research” – i.e., an impressive rendition of a vandal-spray-painted D Train passing outside right field of the famed Bronx landmark. So you see, ladies, I am in no way that Toy Train Set Guy.
For argument’s sake, say I am that guy. What would be so bad about you, a sexy lady, hunkering down with me in my basement as we thrill at the bell and whistle sound of a Lionel – and I am not talking about Lionel Ritchie. Oh to cuddle with you as we watch our scaled facsimile of the Orient Express and imagine ourselves in one of the sleeping cars traveling from Paris to Bucharest – and remember that, unlike the cyclist with the wedge forever wedged in his crotch, I am a fully functional male…who just happens to like model trains.
(Visit my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com)