Fiction

The Nerve Personals

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 FICTION

 
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NERVE AUTHORS




Self-Loathing Narcissus Seeks Same



You must be exactly 6’2 and three-quarters inches, 42-years-and-238-days-old, 204 pounds, a disbelieving Jewish Southern-Baptist mongrel, a nearsighted fingernail-biter and nose-picker, disconcertingly effeminate yet muscular, cultured, immensely well read, and paralyzed with endearing affectations, not the least of which is your fake British accent, a deep, resonant BBC broadcaster’s voice that came — not from the places in which you have lived (the boondocks of Appalachia, the dairy farms of Republican Wisconsin) — but from the back lots of MGM. You must have written at least one book, a succes d’estime if an economic failure, and have at least three more in the pike. You should be unhappy with your station in life, resentful of other writers’ prosperity, delighted to read the excoriating reviews of acquaintances’ books, dismayed that you never win any literary awards, and full of bitterness about your abject poverty. At the same time, you should be fully aware of the boulder sitting on your shoulder and should be willing at any given moment to flick it off and enjoy your life to the fullest, loving it for the modest pleasures it offers: a loyal, utterly charming boyfriend; smart, hilarious friends; and enough leisure time to cultivate a rich intellectual life. You must feel that the movie The Blair Witch Project was a swindle, that Shakespeare in Love was a detestable bodice ripper, and that Titanic sank to new depths. You must never be able to remember the real name of the singer you call “Anisette Morrisette” but adore the fatuous things she says in interviews. You must consume a fifth of rot-gut Vodka every week and worry yourself to death about whether you are becoming an alcoholic. You must pop too many pills. You must be painfully aware of how poorly and how rapidly you are aging, of how your love handles are sagging and swelling, how your laugh-lines have deepened into unsightly crevices, how your bald spot has become known among your friends as “your flesh-colored yarmulke,” and you must remember with great bitterness the young whippersnapper working at the Gap who asked you incredulously, as you tried to slip unobtrusively into the dressing room, if you were actually going to try on “those!,” a pair of blue jeans with a 28″ waist size. You must have profound doubts about your blow job technique and yet you must be somewhat over-confident about the condition of your ass, two luscious globes that still retain their youthful firmness and vigor. In short, you must hate yourself,hate your career, hate your day-job, hate your appearance, hate your parents, hate your two New Age sisters, hate the writers you meet, detest the editors who force you to come into their offices and hawk your books to them like an encyclopedia salesman, and yet adore every minute, every second, of being alive. — Daniel Harris

****1/2


Filmmaker, 32, seeks leading lady. His previous relationships have been hailed by critics as “a masterful blend of humor, horror, and pathos.” “Spectacular!” cheers dental hygienist Mary Hangbourne. “Riveting!” gushes library administrator Phyllis Wiggs. “An emotional roller coaster!” raves restaurant owner Bella Kaminski. Auditions will be held over the next three weeks. — Chris Wright

WANTED:

Yo. SWF 44 wants a man not ex-husband or ex-boyfriend. No control issues, no unresolved parental dramas, no self-worth shit, no unexamined rage or alcoholism, no ambivalence allowed. No bullshit either. Yeah. And furthermore you gotta talk to me. You also gotta wear a condom all the time and want to call me every fucking day. Sometimes twice a day. You gotta treat me with respect for my time and my integrity. I’m a cowgirl of love. A fucking cowgirl hero of love. You can cover my body with wildflowers sometime. I like making it under the stars. You gotta get naked with me. Really naked. I mean it now. Now that’s sexy, you know? I’m a fucking Ph.D. of love and sex and trust and feelings and sex. Did I say sex? I’m a handful and a mouthful. Ask anybody. I come with good references. I’m a fool for love. I promise to stand outside your window with my hand over my heart and sing “Angels Watchin’ Over Me My Lord” in a cold, driving hailstorm; I’ll wash your feet with my hair. I’ll waltz around Rockefeller Center with you, man. We’ll go so far nobody’s ever been there before if you wanna. If yer game. If you got courage and stamina. You think you’re tough enough to handle me? You wanna go somewhere important? You wanna play ball? If the answer’s yes, I’m yer gal and yer my man. So show me why I should spend a minute of my time with you. — Jan McLaughlin


SAN FRANCISCO:
Have whip. Will travel. Group rates. 90041.


cRazy fOr YoU


Straitjacket man seeks badly adjusted partner for “committed” relationship. I’m looking for a mad mama or loony lady, with a cuckoo-clock cranium and spiraling eyes, for extended sessions of manic meandering, followed by periods of total calm. I’ll know I’ve found you when I hear a radical cackle or a speech in tongues. I’ll be sure that our chemistry is right when I see a wild dance or a ridiculous disrobing. I won’t hesitate to open my soul when I feel a shaky touch or an animal breath. All I’ve ever wanted was to connect with my perfect significant head-case other. Are you schizoid enough to enter the rubber room? Deluded enough to be buckled in? Paranoid enough to be crazy-quilted? No need to go bonkers. Just call me, and I’ll teach you the rules of zip and strap. Cocooning optional. Canvas muffler included. Contact: Rusty Cuffs, at the Funny Farm. — Thaddeus Rutkowski

Mutant Seeks Whatever


Unusual polymorph wishes to meet celebrants of diversity in the postbinary urb. In Genome Facility Mickey — or “home,” as I affectionately refer to it — our motto was: “Change, like money, can be whatever you want it to be.” To us,
transfiguration was the new money, the way money had once been the new sex. Mornings I trade pleasure equities on the commodities exchange. Afternoons I do volunteer counseling for the single-sexed and other discriminated-against minorities. Nights I party. I like the feel of river breezes in my feathers (champagne blond) as I come in for a landing. I like to eat from other people’s plates. I like containment that’s a magnet. I melt during a lava massage. I have had my tail yanked and my hope receptors battered enough times to know that intimacy can damage, and yet existence without it has the confines of a petri dish. My mate should care about refreezing the ice caps, relish excitement that can be postponed and have at least one penis. You should have a fit, athletic bio unit you enjoy and prefer shared time/space sex to beeper-triggered orgasm on a loop. Loving your work in Tantric gardening, inner-child capoeira, and new species design is a plus. I’m open to webbed digits and bionic appliances. If you can intrigue me honestly and with flair — no generic ad copy, please, about loving long walks on bone dust or feeling as comfortable in a tux as in hazardous waste gear — I can direct you to a website with a picture of me. I await you with both hearts aflutter. — Laurie Stone


I know what you’re thinking . .&nbsp. But hey, you’re here too.C. Wright


SSWFST

Single set of white female Siamese twins joined at the skull, who enjoy rock concerts and raising crayfish, seek ambidextrous, bilingual, double-jointed, bipolar male of similar tastes for double-tequila, double-features, double-exposure, double-headers, and double-visions of beauty. We promise no double-faced double-crossing, double-talk, double-dealing, double-dipping, double-whammy, double double toil or trouble, double-barrels or double chins. If you can cavort double-time, the rewards of double-indemnity lie in your future. Lumberjacks, cowboys and 6’6″ Swedish masseurs (no English required) encouraged. — Vicki Hendricks

 

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