From: an3752@anon.penet.fi
Subject: HetWM iso Bi*F for email & more
Organization: Anonymous contact service
X-Anonymously-To: alt.personals.ads
Date: Wed, 23 Dec 1992 22:28:35 GMT

X-Anon-To:  alt.personals.ads
     
     So here's the story:  I'm forty-five, white, degreed in 
     English lit and working lo these past nine years writing 
     software for one of the big companies.  I spin fantasies, 
     dark and light, for a few hours every morning, and my 
     first novel will be published in a bit over a year.  I'm 
     quirky, erudite without a hint of stuffiness, childlike 
     and never gruff, sedentary but into seriously _thinking_ 
     about long walks and eventually taking them, a lover of 
     books, music, and film, a cat fancier but not a fanatic, 
     bearded, bespectacled, a smidge beyond the sleek-bellied 
     thinness of my twenties but with only the slightest hint 
     of impending pudge, and that tide _will_ be held back.  I 
     neither smoke nor drug, but I had some very pleasurable 
     experiences with entheotropic substances twenty years ago 
     (mescaline, psilocybin, acid, and the milder hash and pot) 
     and would love to see these mindfreers destigmatized real 
     soon now so that Huxleyesque mind-voyages might once more
     safely be taken.
                 
     Now you must be told that I am what most people would call 
     "married."  Legally this is true.  But I have never bought 
     into the term, find it in fact odious, and regret having 
     done it.  In brief, I agreed to it because we wanted to 
     have children and it would be easier on the grandparents.  
     (Rule 1:  _Never_ do anything whose sole motivation is to 
     please your parents.)  At the time, both of us agreed it 
     would be an open marriage, no different from the living-
     together we'd done before.  Over the years, she grew less 
     daring and I grew more.  When I tried to make theory non-
     theoretical, she became nervous, clung to me solely, and 
     thereby lost what she thought she was clinging to.  Why do 
     I continue then, why does it persist?  There is a reason I 
     won't go into now, but it has to do with our two wonderful 
     daughters.  (Rule 2:  Get married only if not doing so is 
     as unnatural as deciding not to take your next breath.)
                 
     I have harbored the growing conviction, as polyamory makes 
     itself clearly known as my love philosophy of choice, that 
     the right lover for me is a bisexual woman, one who shares 
     a mutually enriching life with me, but at the same time is 
     open to either one additional female lover of exceptional 
     quality, or to a series of satisfying short-term embraces 
     with other women in a threesome or moresome which proves 
     always awesomely satisfying to all parties concerned.  Now 
     I realize that this is fantastical, but I believe that one 
     ought to have fantastical goals, that having them is more 
     likely to bring about reasonable approximations of the odd 
     and wonderful end one wishes, than not having them.  And 
     I'd like to think that there exist exceptional women who 
     feel similarly if not precisely so.  Note, please, that 
     though much of the above has of necessity concentrated on 
     the sexual, love and affection and friendship and meeting-
     on-many-planes all take precedence over a splendid healthy 
     hearty bout of bodylust, which latter is of course one of
     life's joys.
                 
     You will be . . . .  Ah yes, the section where I describe 
     you.  I must confess you're indescribable.  Your age in 
     years is not as important as the maturity of your mind and 
     the healthy wingspan of your imagination and the zeal and 
     passion with which you love yourself and those lucky souls 
     you adore, both physically and otherwise.  You more than 
     likely do not take tobacco in any form.  Your drinking, if 
     you drink, is limited to rare tastes of wine or beer.  You 
     are clean and orderly in things that matter, and all over 
     the map in things that don't.  You are probably petite and 
     if so, you probably think your breasts are too small, but 
     they are, I assure you, exactly the right size.  There's a 
     slight chance you are "model-perfect" but likely not, as it 
     takes a _very_ special woman to be barraged by the desires 
     such a curse and such curves bring; all things come to her 
     without effort, and therefore she feels little need, never 
     having learned, to give.  You love the person first, the 
     body second--but you also give the body proper devotion.  
     You love receiving physical attention, but possibly, as I 
     do, you love giving such attention more, the dispensing of 
     pleasure to a lover triphammering incredible neurons in 
     your brain.  You love, in roughly equal measure, to give 
     and receive the delights of lip and tongue, and you find 
     much delight in taking a loved one all the way with your 
     mouth.  You can't quite understand how people can be so 
     excitable about baubles, yet so passionless when it comes 
     to things of importance.  Seeing no contradiction (since 
     there _is_ none), you simultaneously take the world dead 
     seriously and with a constant temptation--often yielded 
     to--to make light of it.  This happens not because you're 
     frivolous but because you understand the absurdity and owe 
     it to the mother tongue to anarchize it (and its pretense 
     at logic) to the max.
                 
     That's about it.  Serious replies only, please.  What with 
     the holidays keeping me from email between 12/24 and 1/4, 
     I may not reply right away, but be assured I'll respond in 
     some measure to any woman who sends me her thoughts.  And 
     I'll be hoping for the beginning, perhaps fumbled, perhaps 
     tentative, of at least one incredible adventure in getting
     to know another sympatico human being.
                 
     Yours in the spin of electrons,
     An open scribbler
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