http://ace.mu.nu/archives/173836.php The comments are worth checking out...
The girl one is an actual ad... The guy one is a funneh based on the girl one....
I'm looking for a side-kick, a Sun-Dance, a man who can read my smile from across the room and know what I'm thinking. A best friend, really -- someone who'll try to make me giggle in somber places.
When I nap, he'll cover me with a soft blanket, and he'd break the sound barrier to get to me if I ever call him in distress.
We'd show all of our faces to each other, without fear, craving the magic that happens every time we're in each other's presence. Our conversations outlast any candle, our companionship a source of envy.
Together, we'd be like school children, team-mates, lab partners, lovers of mystery and exploration.
He'll love to be read to and will help me pick out wallpaper. He'll try very hard to remember the important days in my year and prefer unmarked paths to pavement, and a good hike over fame.
He'll be equally at home in a nature preserve, a nightclub, a dingy diner or a ballpark. My ideal man is one who roots out what doesn't belong in him and sees life in the details. He needs solitude from time to time and doesn't desire advantage over others. Wind does funny things to him and he'll know how to teach kindness.
Of course, he'll have "a past", but won't compare me or any other woman to the Ex that was left behind (or the one who broke his heart multiple times!)
He believes in creating miracles. He'll like to share thoughts, desserts, leaves. He strains for good words the way astronomers strain for new stars. He'll giggle intermittently and won't mind if I sometimes leave the dishes until morning. He'll have much to teach me; our chemistry will be palpable; and the good in him will see the good in me...
The guys Ad... lol
I'm looking for a dirty, dirty whore, a real filthy gutter-trollop, a low-self-esteem dork-strumpet who can read my smile from across the room and know what I'm thinking, and which part of her body I'm thinking about doing it to.
A best friend, really -- if by "best friend" you mean "busty fetish-queen whose idea of romance is the most degrading three minutes of sexual debasement imaginable."
When I nap, she'll "do things to me," "down there," and she'l break the sound barrier to get to me if I ever call her in dire need of a second woman when I'm getting it on with a call-girl.
We'd show all of our faces to each other, without fear, except when I need some "me-time," which is pretty much anytime she's not on all fours screeching like a gibbon in heat.
She'll crave the magic that happens every time we're in each other's dirty places.
Our conversations will be terse and chilly and she will answer "Yes, sir" or maybe "I will, Daddy."
Together, we'd be like school children, team-mates, lab partners, lovers of mystery and exploration, and our constant quest will be discover what more we can possibly fit inside her ass.
She'll love to be read Maxim, Cosmo, and Nigella Lawson's cookbooks, always looking for new ways to look hot, give me a better orgasm, and make me something interesting to eat. She'll try very hard to remember the important days in my year, like Humpday, which is, of course, Wednesday, and also every day of the week within three days of Wednesday.
She will prefer unmarked paths to pavement, and a good hike over fame, because I plan to use her as a fetch-dog when I go out squirrel-huntin'.
She'll be equally at home being a totally debased and filthy-sick whore in a nature preserve, a nightclub, a dingy diner or a ballpark or, again, in her ass.
My ideal woman is one who roots out what doesn't belong in her, like her ovaries, and puts in what does belong in her, like my filthy stinking hog and obscenely large silicone implants. (No saline, ladies; my pleasure comes before your health.)
She understands I need solitude from time to time and doesn't mind spending six or eight hours in the closet when I have my buddies over.
She appreciates that wind does funny things to me, and I'm a big fan of my own "wind," and she will be an even bigger fan of my "wind." When I crack out a good one, I expect her to stand up and applaud and exclaim, "Honey, that was so satisfying there must have been genetic material in it!"
Of course, she'll have "a past," probably as an erotic gymnast in some underground Bangkok sexual circus of dubious legality, but won't compare me to all the previous men she's had, nor, especially, to the farm animals, except, of course, to tell me I am better than, say, Walter The Wonder Donkey.
She believes in creating miracles, in my pants.
She won't like to share thoughts, unless it is some new, innovative way to give me pleasure. She will make me lots of desserts, and she has the good sense not to bring dirty rotten tree-leaves into the house like she were some retarded puppy.
Although, bonus points if she actually is retarded. Retards are freaks in the sack. It's always a turn-on when a man reduces a woman beneath the capacity for coherent speech, and this effect is easier to achieve when coherent speech is already a bit of a tricky proposition to begin with.
She strain for new ways to remain completely silent the way astronomers strain for new stars. And speaking of astronomy, she won't mind the fact that my telescope is pointed directly at the sorority house down the street.
She won't giggle, unless I've said something intended to be funny, in which case she'll tell me I'm so funny I make her moist and sometimes spontaneously climax.
She won't mind if I sometimes leave the dishes until morning, or even if I sometimes leave the body of the hobo I strangled last night in the bathtub, until morning. I do expect her, however, to clean all dishes left out until morning, and also hack apart the bodies of dead hobos and hitchhikers and carry them out of the house in garbage bags.
I would prefer it if she had the sense not to ask me, "Do these severed body parts get recycled?"
She'll have have much to teach me, mostly about my dirty, hairy balls.
Our chemistry will be palpable; she will understand and appreciate my hobbies and interests, especially my interest in videotaping the brutal sex sessions I have with her and selling them on the Internet for $9.99 a pop. X-Box games just don't buy themselves, you know.
The good in her will see the good in me, and, furthermore, she will want the good in me constantly poking around inside the good in her, and will love it when I pull the good in me out of the good in her and use the good in me to decorate her like she was a birthday cake.
Also, she should have really big tits.
I know I mentioned the breast-implants, but she should already be pretty huge up there already, because I really don't want those hiddeous strech-marks when I jack her up to a triple-E.
