When I was a junior in college, I was also employed as a staff writer with an "underground" newspaper. Their articles were usually peppered with words not normally found on the pages of the stuffier Baltimore Sun or now defunct Baltimore News American; words like shit-faced and cocksucker. Example: "So as I was marching up Remington Avenue, holding my "Kill Whitey" sign, some shit-faced, trailer-trash cocksucker threw a brick at my head."
Aside from writing hard-hitting journalistic masterpieces, (Infiltrating the JHU Party Scene: One Woman's Journey into Nerdville), I was also tasked, two mornings a week, with assisting the walk-in customers who wanted to advertise in our little gazette. I believe I was given this job because:
a) the mostly male staffers would rather have chewed their own balls off than do this, and
b) I was the single person sober enough to be responsible for this cash-only enterprise.
All the lonely people (really, where do they all come from?) found their way to my desk. A veritable Ms. Manners among the kinky set, I would offer suggestions on wording their ads just right. After all, I had the sterling reputation of the paper to think of.
"Hmmm, so you are looking for a woman who will drip hot candlewax on your bare chest.," I 'd say to a would-be paramour. "Perhaps," I'd advised, "we can go with this heading. "Are you a woman Seeking Warm Times By Candlelight?"
One fine morning, as absolutely adorable young man came to my desk desiring to place a personal ad seeking a nun who could offer companionship and stern discipline.
Trying to be real cool and unjudgmental and all, I sputtered, "I'm....sorry, but I didn't think nuns, you know....dated."
"It doesn't have to be a real nun," he allowed, looking as if he would bolt for the door any second. "I'll take a woman in a nun costume."
Of course, maybe a real nun would respond to his ad. I've always felt there was something mysterious about nuns. One time when my mother was indisposed, my father got the kids ready for school. He let us eat birthday cake for breakfast. And as soon as I walked into the fourth grade classroom, Sister Alfreda looked and me and knew about the birthday cake. She just knew. Witches all of them, I swear.
I took their money, set up the ads, and never saw any of them again. I've often wondered if these lost souls every found the woman of their dreams. I hope so. It's a cold world out there, folks, and we all need a little love, be it in the form of a candle dripper or role-playing nun, to keep us warm.