EVENINGS OUT

My secret life as Box 1230 of the personal ads

by C. Richard Williams

Back when I thought I knew a great deal about life (last month), I thought placing an ad in the personals section of the Gay People's Chronicle was something that losers did. So, of course, I placed one. Why hadn't I thought of it before?

I read the personal ads a lot, but I've always been afraid to answer one. What if nobody liked my voice? I've never really learned to deal with rejection. If one guy doesn't like me, the whole world hates me. Okay, so I'm neurotic, my self-esteem is easily bruised. But that's me-neurotic, insecure me.

I noticed that almost everybody who writes a personal ad hates the bar scene. Actually, hate it too, although I go to bars. So, if I hate them so much, why do I go there? For the same reason I go to cocktail parties. I hate cocktail

parties, but I can't ever remember missing

one.

Occasionally, I go to the baths. Nobody in a personal ad ever mentions that, but the last time I was there, I wasn't the only one.

more messages. One was so kinky that I'd have to know you a lot better to even give you a hint of what he wanted to do. Then there was a message from a guy I didn't really like. He talked about how much money he makes and how he has a house in Columbus and one in Santa Fe and how handsome he was. Modesty was not his strength.

Nevertheless, we agreed to meet, but only after he consulted his calendar. I don't know about you, but I usually know what I'm doing on Friday without checking my calendar.

How would we recognize each other? Well, Mr. Bragg (we'll call him) said he was tall, handsome, had salt-and-pepper hair, wore glasses, and would wear Dockers because he didn't have to meet with any of his many clients that particular afternoon. In his message earlier, he had also stated that he was

"witty" and "urbane."

I had mixed feelings while I waited for my tall, handsome, salt-and-pep-

But ah! On the seventh day, a guy actually responded. With trembling fingers, I responded to his suggestion pered, urbane and

that we meet.

Before I wrote my ad for the Chronicle, I read the ads to get into the flavor and style. I didn't want to be cute; that's not me. I also wanted to avoid speculating about the joys of long walks in the woods, since, as a former New Yorker now living in Ohio, I hate woods. Besides, most of the ads I read talked about long walks in the woods, and I wanted to be more original. So I decided to be truthful. Starting with my age, which I hate. I was always about twenty-seven, then one day I wasn't. And in gay society, after twenty-seven you're taken out to that place in Africa where they leave aging relatives to feed the tigers. But, I did state my real age in my ad.

I didn't like having to leave a voice message because I'm basically shy, but that part wasn't so bad. In fact, the time was up before I'd had a chance to really go into compelling detail about what a terrific guy I am. Basically, I said that I read a lot (a slight exaggeration), I go to movies (true), I don't smoke (cigarettes), and I hate promiscuity-in other people. That's truthful, right?

Then I waited for my messages. And waited. A day passed. You're only allowed to call once a day for messages, which is cruel and unusual punishment for a neurotically insecure person like me. Calling every five minutes is, perhaps, extreme. But on the other hand, perhaps not. A week passed, and still no messages.

But ah! On the seventh day, a guy actually responded. With trembling fingers, I responded to his suggestion that we meet.

We decided to meet for dinner at a restaurant where, the last time I was there, the noise level was deafening and the ratio of children to adults was about 100 to 1. But, still, here was a guy, and I didn't have a better idea.

My date was a sweet guy. He told me on the phone that he looked like an English professor, and he did. We had a drink at the bar, we moved to a table, we talked, we ate, we left. Not exactly mind-tingling, penis-raising physical euphoria, but I liked him. I hope we can meet again.

Meanwhile, back at the phone, there were

witty date. I ordered a white wine and soda at six o'clock and waited. Six fifteen came, six fifteen went. I was getting, shall we say, a bit pissed off. Then, six twenty. Six twenty five. Finally, Mr. Bragg arrived.

I would like to tell you that Mr. Bragg was a complete fraud. He wasn't. Mr. Bragg was, indeed, handsome. He looked roughly like James Garner-the way Garner looked ten years ago. He was tall, good-looking, had salt and pepper hair, wore glasses and he was the biggest fucking bore I've ever met in my entire life.

He wanted to know a lot about me. About my life in New York, my past lovers. I asked him to talk about himself. He volunteered that he was born in California, moved to Columbus to marry a girl, married her, divorced her, made a lot of money. His primary interest during the

past fifteen years: Making money.

I asked him what he did during the past fifteen years in addition to making money.

"Why do you ask?” he asked incredulously. "Because I'm curious," I replied.

"I don't discuss matters so personal with someone I've barely met," he sniffed.

Somehow, I just knew Mr. Bragg and I would not be sharing a bed that evening. Or anything else. We have no plans to reconvene.

Which brings us to the present moment. There have been four more calls. One is a guy from New York whom I haven't met yet, but I like his voice. Two sounded interesting, but not for me. And one I accidentally disconnected.

Would I recommend running or responding to a personal ad in the Gay People's Chronicle? Yeah. I would. There are less cool ways to meet guys. It's also possible to get a handle on a guy's personality through a telephone conversation much more than in a person-toperson meeting. For one thing, you're not worried about whether your hair is on straight or your belly is sagging over the beltline. In a telephone conversation, your personality is all that you have going for you. Or your sense of humor, if you have one. If you have neither, well, then maybe the baths aren't a half bad idea.

JUNE 21, 1996

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