Liberal Woman Seeks Sissy Boy


(This is a satirical dating profile from my book, Fake Personal Ads (Or Real Personal Ads for Fake People).)


First, I am a WOMAN, not a girl, or a chick, or a babe. When was the last time a WOMAN wearing a dowdy dress and galoshes was called a babe, or even a member of the fairer sex? This means that I only find humor where no one else finds it, for instance in foreign art-house movies. I am the person in the theatre breaking the oppressive silence with forced and inappropriate laughter when, say, a character named Abu discovers his sister mistaking the Ramayana for the Koran. In my opinion – and let it be established up front that I have more opinions than an uneducated Fox News pundit — to laugh at fart jokes is tantamount to being a puppet in a male-dominant society bent on electing a one-week-old fetus as President of the United States. I love all people of color, though, in my high-end neighborhood, the only time I actually meet one is when I pat one on the head after he or she has cleaned my apartment filled wall to wall with portraits of Beatrice Webb, Simone de Bouvier and Kanye West, the latter to impress people with my condescending taste for urban culture, though, if his rap music were played at full volume by my next-door neighbor, I would call the police.

My ideal man WILL never say anything nice about a registered Republican, even one who doesn’t have a nuclear warhead in his basement aimed at Nancy Pelosi; WILL forever walk with rounded shoulders in anticipation of me humiliating him in public if he commits the mistake of saying “Mankind” instead of “Humankind;” WILL cook for me and do the dishes afterward while wearing an apron on which are printed the words “I am a Stupid Man – Just Ask My Brilliant Wife;” and WILL live a green lifestyle that includes recycling his own spit.

He must be able to maintain an erection while checking down a long list of libido-crushing protocols while using correct feminist language. Below are examples of two such steps:

You should say: “May I now touch your breast to both arouse you and to check for cancerous lumps?” You should NOT say: “I’m gonna maul your heaving flesh orbs.”

You should say: “May I press one finger, not two, against your clitoris to promote vagina lubrication and to also help prevent yeast infection?” You should NOT say, “I’m gonna jam three of my butcher-sized fingers up your soaking wet gash.”

Of course there are forty-six more protocols you must follow during our beautiful and spontaneous love-making sessions, but these you can learn in the manual I will coerce you into reading called Respect Your Lover by Not Cumming!

So I will await your e-mails…and wait…and wait…

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