Feb 2nd, 2012
Photo sourced from 4.bp.blogspot.com
Savvy: 36-24-36, 5-foot-7 inches, 37 years, 120lbs, FUN
Unusual: Me – 97, 970 pounds, 9 million 700 thousand dollars
You: 25, 125 pounds
Just kidding. But this is for real. I'm 30-something, seeking a very smart, progressive male for long walks on the seawall and hikes in the mountains. Must like my jokes and Beethoven AND Weird Al.
Send your reply to email@example.com.
Here are some of our favourite, "I Saw Yous" from the Georgia Straight:
Bright Red Knitter
Nov 6th, 2009
At the real estate agency's coffee machine, there was quite the line up.
Chloe, just in from showing a home on Blenheim to an elderly couple with a dog, Annette, fresh in from the gym and looking slightly flushed and still wearing her Lulu Lemon jogging suit, and Priscilla, their boss, all waited for Mr. Berger to finish putting sugar in his coffee.
"What're you doing tonight?" Annette asked Chloe.
"I'm going on a date with a guy from POOF," Chloe said.
"Poof. You mean Plenty of Fish," Annette said.
"I call it POOF," Chloe said.
"I know that site," Annette said.
"Well, I call it POF." Mr. Berger opened a pack of sugar. "Who doesn't know of it?" he said in his silvery voice. "Such bad software. But worth millions. Some guy living in a small apartment in Yaletown made it."
"My married friends don't," Chloe said.
Sep 4th, 2009
What people don't know about Vancouver is that it is hot, hot, hot, triple X hot, but largely online. Hmmmm. Sex, Lies and Lotusland is a fictional blog by a group of writers exploring dating in the city. We will collectively refer to the "author" as Anonymous. If you would like to contribute to this blog, we will protect your privacy. All entries must be fictional, however.
Aug 25th, 2009
Sex, Lies and Lotusland is a fictional blog by Anonymous
The sultry sun, a tempestuous voyeur, laps at the curves of our dewy bodies, spying with its warm touch through the gauzy veil of bone white curtains. Our Istanbul hotel room tastes of honey and sex. Joaquin’s tongue crests my lips, blood surges into the wet crescent of my . . .
Non-existent sex life. Vip. Nada. Zero. Sex has not happened anywhere in the vicinity of my body for nearly four years. I live on a very remote island north of Vancouver. Emphasis on remote. You could go to Paris in about the same amount of time as it takes to get to my island. Women outnumber men about two to one. The lesbian population is thriving. My hetero friends are vibrant, sexy, smart single women in search of a meaningful relationship. Okay, maybe an inconsequential night. The point is it’s a dry season and has nothing to do with global warming. Or does it . . . ?
Since moving here a year and a half ago, I’ve been on one date. It started as dates I vaguely remembered from long ago: a man called me and asked me out for dinner, he picked me up in a car, he took me to a restaurant. We even had a reserved table. I fell into a lulled state of familiarity, which began to slip away when the talk of humanure came up. I didn’t know what it was either. But when the man across the table from you is chewing on his scallops while regaling you in the building plans for an outhouse system to turn human excrement into compost for his vegetable garden, one tends to lose one’s appetite. The rest of the evening involved his trailer sans outhouse, a wide screen TV mounted on the wall in front of his double bed and a Tim Robbins’ movie called “Noise.” In case you don’t know the film, it’s about a man with a compulsion to quiet every car alarm in New York City. As I sat bone straight on that bed watching Robbins’ character shatter windshields with baseball bats and vandalize cars with reckless abandon while my date lay contentedly prone by my side, I realized in that moment the destruction of property was more stimulating than that last few hours of my life. As soon as the DVD ended I asked Mr. Portapotty to take me home.
You may wonder who Joaquin is, the man I mentioned at the beginning of this post. Well, he’s part of my unlived life. Sort of like a grown up imaginary friend. Let me explain. I finished a workshop last month dealing with transition. One of the exercises was to explore an unlived part of ourselves, a part that when it’s expressed in someone else makes us sigh, makes us want, makes us wish that it could be ours. For some it’s an archetype buried deep inside, for others maybe it’s new work, a new relationship, a piece long neglected and set on the shelf of our heart. For all of us it represents a new way of being. What came up for me was a deep seated, baseball bat heart shattering longing to travel. The part of me that has always wanted to explore and feel, to dive into the places I’ve read about, the places others have lived and loved.
Jul 6th, 2009
This is part of a serialized fictional group blog about dating in Vancouver.
“Miss Kitka seeks Batman,” Estelle, at the computer, read out loud as she typed her opening line into the appropriate box on the intimate section of Yummylife. Behind her, Karla and Alice made out on the couch. “Estelle that’s great,” Alice said, her words muffled by a kiss.
Alice thought the best of everyone. Estelle waited for Karla to speak the truth.
“Do better,” Karla said, then kissed Alice again.
"You guys," Estelle said, and shook her head. Why did her gay friends get along so well and always seem to have so much fun, Estelle thought, feeling annoyed by the whole idea that queers might have cornered the happiness market. Estelle sighed and deleted Miss Kitka. She closed her eyes and the images of happy couples advertised on the Yummylife site faded to be replaced by scenes from the marriage she had left in the outskirts of Lytton nine months before: the Toronto businessman turned cowboy husband, determined to forge a life from the bitter dust in the Fraser canyon.
Jun 28th, 2009
Fiction by Anonymous of The Vancouver Observer
The Zen-inspired fountain bubbled down the wall. The plants offered a leafy backdrop for the silent attractive woman behind the bamboo desk. It smelled like lemongrass and earth.
As weird as it sounds, she had been thinking about this for the past week: the “new patient” form. This woman was recommended to her by Alice’s friend. “God, how long has it been since I’ve surveyed a therapist?” she wondered as she sat down with the clipboard.
NAME: Sibyl Hunter. OCCUPATION: Painter/Artist. AGE: 37. GENDER:
Jun 22nd, 2009
Fiction by Anonymous of The Vancouver Observer
Sibyl felt curious hearing her name with so much heat. Sibuhhhl, she whispered in her ear. It landed inside her. “...she’s calling me. Like a doorbell rung on my soul’s home. I ran to answer her. Open. Hi. Yes.” She entered with her eyes intent on rousing instinct and desire.
Jun 15th, 2009
Fiction by Anonymous of the Vancouver Observer.
Alive, red, soft. Wrapped in a perfect summer dress, she floated by. Another short red dress distracted me, another soft, sweet body. Twenty somethings, thirty somethings, and all ages above and below.
They were out to play today, to feel happy, to be in the sun – kissed by the energy and attention and distraction all around them. Gawkers, revelers, moms and dads, boyfriends, bodies, hippies, healers, dogs, children and beautiful women.
“You’re gagging for it, aren’t you?”
Feb 2nd, 2009
Photo sourced from freedatingsitesforwomen.com
“Demi Moore seeks hot young lover to take away her post-marriage virginity,” Estelle wrote and hit send. But all through the day she wondered, "Who would respond to such an ad?"
When she finished putting her three boys to bed in their respective sleeping bags in her room, she dragged herself wearily into the tiny living room to find out. She pushed aside the print-outs of the many unfinished versions of her resume and opened the laptop. All those years in Lytton, what had she done? A six year gap in her employment history. What she had done was pour all her energy into changing the man she had married. She had poured her soul into the possibility of his backwards metamorphisis into a hottie. But he had clung to the belief that a businessman could become a small town rancher, stay out drinking every night, gain a pound a month, become evil-mouthed and wild, and his wife would wear nothing but an apron and patent leather high heels and greet him at the door with a highball and a tray of gourmet appies when he came in at 4 a.m.