Overview


Men Seeking Women: Love and Sex On-line is an exciting and original collection of new short fiction by men about men seeking women, and women seeking men in the digital age.

The Internet revolution has altered the look of the traditional relationship. Through e-mail correspondence, chat room chats, and message board postings, the manner in which we meet and mate has ...
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Men Seeking Women: Love and Sex On-Line

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Overview


Men Seeking Women: Love and Sex On-line is an exciting and original collection of new short fiction by men about men seeking women, and women seeking men in the digital age.

The Internet revolution has altered the look of the traditional relationship. Through e-mail correspondence, chat room chats, and message board postings, the manner in which we meet and mate has drastically changed. While the search for love is a timeless one, how and where we look has never been more a sign of the digital times.

Here, ten talented storytellers offer thoroughly contemporary portraits of relationships in the world of new media and high technology in chat rooms, porn sites and other on-line realms. Men Seeking Women is a fresh and unconventional look at the cyber-landscape of love, sex, and companionship.

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Editorial Reviews

Lena Calhoun & The Emotions
Hellish hymns from Amphetamine Heaven...These people are witty and they are grand, they do terrible things and make awful remarks. Ombine is an East Village prima donna, a hoarder of gossip. He is filthy, but he is funny....The characters of "a" represent the bizarre new class, untermenschen's prefigurations of the technological millenium. -- The New York Review of Books
From Barnes & Noble
Re-creates the events of the greatest political scandal of our times to its climax when Nixon resigned from the Presidency. Here is the whole astonishing story of Watergate--with gaps filled in & mysteries solved--as it has never been told before. B&W photos.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780679647171
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 2/20/2001
  • Sold by: Random House
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 208
  • File size: 271 KB

Meet the Author

The contributors are: Po Bronson, author of The First $20 Million Is Always The Hardest; Richard Dooling, author of Brain Storm; Eric Garcia, author of Anonymous Rex; Paul Hond, author of The Baker; Gary Krist, author of Bad Chemistry; David Liss, author of A Conspiracy of Paper; Chris Offutt, author of Out of the Woods; Alexander Parsons, author of Leaving Disneyland; Robert Anthony Siegel, author of All the Money in the World; and Bruce Sterling, author of Distraction.

Biography

Po Bronson is the rare writer that makes no claims to having an extraordinary or controversial history. On his web site, he states, "I'm a regular guy. I don't have much of a particularly unusual story." While some may assume such a description might not be the makings of a person with any stories worth telling, it actually provides the perfect background for a writer such as Bronson. He has made it his mission to relate the stories of his fellow everyday people, and with books such as What Should I Do With My Life? and Why Do I Love These People?, he has proved that ordinary people can lead extraordinary lives.

A prolific writer with a talent well-suited for a variety of genres, Bronson started out dabbling in screenplays, op-eds, TV and radio scripts, performance monologues, and literary reviews, and his first two books were satirical novels. Bombardiers (1995) was a sort of Catch 22 set in the bond-trading business; The First $20 Million Is Always the Hardest: A Silicon Valley Novel, Vol. 4 (1997) a tale about the West Coast tech boom of the late 1990's. With his third book, The Nudist on the Late Shift: And Other Tales of Silicon Valley, he turned his focus away from fiction and toward the true stories of the tech-heads he encountered while working as a writer in Silicon Valley. Hailed by The Village Voice Literary Supplement upon its publication as "the most complete and empathetic portrait of the Valley so far," the breakout bestseller established Bronson as the first author to truly capture the spirit of the high-tech heyday.

In writing What Should I Do With My Life? (2003), Bronson posed that very question to a variety of regular folks all around the globe. The result: a rich and fascinating compendium of inspirational, witty, and insightful personal stories about finding one's direction, vocational and otherwise. The book was a tremendous success, and Bronson had clearly found his niche. Why Do I Love These People? followed in late 2005. This time around, Bronson questioned a multitude of people about illness, resolving familial conflicts, infidelity, prejudice, money problems, abuse, death, and other provocative issues, once again illustrating that one need not be a celebrity to lead a life worth reading about. Among others, Bronson encounters a Southern Baptist in the Ozarks who tracks down the teenage son he had abandoned at birth, a woman who fought for her life and the life of her children while trapped underwater in a Texas river, and a Turkish Muslim who wed a U.S. naval officer -- a union resulting in death threats from her own father.

Bronson characterizes his recent books as "social documentaries," but he doesn't rule out returning to the other genres he's loved. He does, however, credit his recent work with one important feature: "I used to write novels, and maybe I will again one day," he told BN.com in an audio interview, "but I have found that writing these social documentaries is good for me as a person."

Good To Know

Some fun factoids gleaned from our interview with Bronson:

"Well, when I look upon what I've written to the below questions, there's a lot on how I became a writer, but not much on how I came to write the books I have been doing the last six years. I write social documentaries, in which I tell the life stories of ordinary people. I used to write novels, and maybe I will again one day. But I have found that writing these social documentaries is good for me as a person; they make me a better person. I put myself in a position where I need to listen and learn from other people I interview. And even if the books were not successes, I would be a better person just for doing so much listening."

"Okay, I realize now that's now what you were really asking. It sounds like you want personal details -- you want to know me through my lists: my lists of books, films, music, restaurants I eat at, hobbies I enjoy. I'm not sure that's the best way to know the soul of a person, because it kind of suggests that who we are = what we consume. However, I'll answer, by all means. Here we go:

  • What I drive: Toyota Sienna minivan
  • Where I buy clothes: Banana Republic, Mexx, and thrift stores
  • Cell phone brand: Treo 650
  • Kids: Two. My son is 4, my daughter 1
  • Dog: golden retriever, 84 pounds
  • What I cooked for dinner last night: Pork tenderloin in a mustard crème sauce
  • What I'm cooking for dinner tonight: Nachos
  • Where I exercise: in my basement, on the elliptical machine
  • Favorite TV show: House. But I am a huge fan of football, basketball, and baseball. So actually my favorite TV show is Sportscenter
  • I play soccer in the Liga de Latina in San Francisco. I will play until I die
  • Favorite Cities: London, Hong Kong, Paris, Ronda, Verona
  • Parents: Still alive
  • Grandparents: one left. My grandmother. But I knew them all, and had lots of time with all of them
  • Favorite Beach: Todos Santos, Mexico
  • Why a name like "Po": Why not?"
  • Read More Show Less
      1. Hometown:
        San Francisco, California
      1. Date of Birth:
        March 14, 1964
      2. Place of Birth:
        Seattle, Washington
      1. Education:
        B.A., Stanford University, 1986; M.F.A., San Francisco State University, 1995

    Read an Excerpt

    PRISONERS OF THE HEART
    Eric Garcia

    Ann-Marie Moore was finished with the world of men. Her last date had ended when the attorney with whom she’d been set up excused himself from the table, vanished into the café bathroom, and didn’t emerge for three hours. Ann-Marie sat there the entire time, tapping her foot to the beat of the mediocre house band, staring at the double doors with murderous intensity. And when her date finally reappeared, glancing around the restaurant like a five-point buck on the first day of hunting season, he didn’t respond to her calls or whistles. No, he kept on walking, past Ann-Marie, past the table, past the bar, out the front door and into the night. By the time she arrived home at her empty two-bedroom apartment at the end of the evening, her left heel broken, makeup streaked with tears, she realized that, all told, it was the best date she’d had in months.

    She was thirty-five years old, carried six thousand dollars’ worth of credit card debt, and owned two cats, one of which she hadn’t seen in weeks. This, predictably, was the male one. She had never been to Paris, though the prior summer she had spent three miserable days in the sweltering Las Vegas heat, and she could count the number of times she’d been truly drunk on seven fingers. Her mother called her every other day, at 8:00 p.m. precisely, and the first question out of her mouth was always whether or not Ann-Marie had eaten. The next question, of course, was about her love life. Most of the time, Mother was spoon-fed a meal of beautiful lies.

    For Ann-Marie had worked her way through the visible spectrum of males, finding herself deep in love and lust with men of all races and skin tones. Strong arms, strong backs, skinny legs, wide butts, caramel tones, pale faces; a smorgasbord of masculine delights. But one by one, regardless of their physical differences, regardless of their varying professions, hobbies, and personalities, each and every one of them had a single element in common, a collective trait that both identified and grouped them as members of the male gender: They left.

    At the end of the day, after the roses and the chocolates and the sweet whispers in bed, Jason and Miguel and Brian and T.J. and Elton and George and the rest of them found an escape clause in their vows of love and took off into the night. Walter flew the coop at high noon, actually, running out the front door with his jacket thrown over his shoulder, as if he were on a train platform and chasing after the 4:09 Southbound for Atlanta.

    So as of Sunday night at 11:34 p.m., Ann-Marie Moore was finished with the world of men, and good riddance to them. After fifteen years of hard dating, her bank account was substantially depleted, her bedframe was cracked in three places, and her self-esteem had found a tight little hole deep down inside some gutter in which to curl up and die. It was enough, and finally, gratefully, it was over.

    On Monday morning, flush with the excitement of a new, untested lifestyle, she treated herself to a bubble bath. Called in late to work, told them she had a spot of flu. She ran the hot water, submerged herself, closed her eyes, and drifted off to a world where men didn’t walk out of restaurants and ignore their dates; where men didn’t act like wild animals, treating women like gristle on the bone; where men were, finally, what all of the fairy tales and romance books said they were supposed to be: Men.

    And for an hour and a half, it was glorious.

    When the phone rang at eleven, she answered it out of habit. Realizing that she was still supposed to be ill, Ann-Marie flopped sideways in the bath, hanging her head off the edge in order to lend her voice the proper amount of nasal stuffiness. “Hello?” she said hoarsely.

    “I found him.”

    Ann-Marie sat up quickly, water splashing onto the bathroom linoleum. “Excuse me?”

    “I found him. I found the man for me.” It was Ellen, always Ellen, three-phone-calls-a-day Ellen, who regularly regaled Ann-Marie with sob stories of her own sordid love life.

    “What man?”

    “Ulysses,” she said proudly, with a hint of grandeur. “He lives upstate.”

    Ann-Marie stood and grabbed for a towel, balancing on her left foot as she tried to lean across the tub. The terry cloth felt good against her bare skin. “You’re being vague, here, Ellen. I’m late for work.”

    “Forget work. Call in sick.”

    “I did already. I took a half day.”

    “Then take a full day. You must get online.”

    Ann-Marie clucked her tongue. Ellen was always full of demands, no matter the situation. She was barely able to start a sentence without some variation of the word must. “Why?”

    “Because I’ve found paradise, darling. We’ve been looking in the wrong places for years. Go online as soon as possible—I’m telling you, that’s where they are.”

    “Who?”

    “The men,” sighed Ellen. “All the luscious men.”

    They were in front of Ellen’s computer forty minutes later, staring at the screen as the old modem dialed up a connection. “So I’m online, just messing around,” Ellen explained, “bouncing from page to page, checking out links, and I hit this amazing site . . .”

    Ann-Marie didn’t own a computer. She hadn’t ever bounced around anywhere, let alone from page to page, and didn’t much care about the whole Internet craze. She thought of it as a sidebar to her life, a state of affairs that, while meaning a great deal to a certain percentage of the population, could just as easily continue its existence parallel to hers, without the two ever crossing.

    But suddenly Ellen was talking about websites and search engines and pen pals and then, as if it were the most logical transition in the world, she was on to men. And she was on to Ulysses.

    “I wrote him first,” she said, “because that’s how the rules work. You read their profiles, you find one of them that you like, and you e-mail him a message.”

    “So there are rules?” Already Ann-Marie was suspicious. If, as she’d decided, she was through with the world of men, then she was through with the world of men, digital or otherwise. Any extra regulations would only complicate matters further.

    But Ellen was already online and typing away, slapping a URL into the location box of her browser. In the time that it took for the page to load, Ann-Marie decided that she would listen to Ellen for five minutes, then stand up from the ergonomically correct desk chair and walk out of the apartment, down to her car, and make it back to work just in time for her boss to bawl her out for missing the morning meetings.

    That’s when the page fully loaded, and there it was, five inches high on the seventeen-inch monitor, glaring out at Ann-Marie in a bright, gaudy, Web-design-in-a-box font, replete with whirling animation: Prisoners4Love.com

    Ann-Marie tried not to laugh. She understood that this was important to Ellen—in the way that everything was important to Ellen—but it was difficult to take seriously. Below the blinking homepage title was a small cartoon prisoner in black-and-white cartoon stripes, peering out from behind small cartoon bars, a small cartoon heart beating in his small cartoon chest. We made mistakes in life, the caption read. Don’t make a mistake in love!

    “Armed robbery, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Ellen.

    “They’re all . . . armed robbers?”

    “No, that’s what Ulysses is in for. Armed robbery. But he was framed.”

    Ann-Marie smiled her best smile—this was her friend, after all—and grabbed her pocketbook. “It’s all fascinating, Ellen,” she said, “but Mr. Saponaro is gonna give me the boot if I don’t get in by two—”

    “Sit, sit,” said Ellen, pulling Ann-Marie back into the seat. “Ten minutes. You must try it for ten minutes, and if you don’t find someone fascinating, you can go.”

    Ann-Marie looked at her watch. If her car started properly and if traffic held up right, she could sacrifice the time and still make it into the office before the two o’clock deadline. Ellen was a kook, but she was a kind kook, and the least Ann-Marie could do was humor her for a while.
    Read More Show Less

    Table of Contents

    Preface
    Acknowledgements
    Table of Dates
    Further Reading
    Timbuctoo 1
    The Idealist 8
    From Poems, Chiefly Lyrical (1830) 9
    Mariana 9
    Supposed Confessions of a Second-Rate Sensitive Mind 11
    Song ['A spirit haunts the year's last hours'] 17
    A Character 18
    The Poet's Mind 19
    Nothing Will Die 20
    All Things Will Die 22
    The Dying Swan 23
    The Kraken 25
    From Poems (1832) 26
    The Lady of Shalott 26
    Mariana in the South 31
    Fatima 34
    Oenone 36
    The Palace of Art 44
    The Hesperides 53
    The Lotos-Eaters 57
    'Hark! the dogs howl!' 63
    'This Nature full of hints and mysteries' 64
    'Over the dark world flies the wind' 64
    Oh! that 'twere possible' 65
    From Poems (1842) 69
    The Epic [Morte d'Arthur] 69
    Morte d'Arthur 70
    The Gardener's Daughter 79
    St Simeon Stylites 88
    Ulysses 94
    Locksley Hall 96
    The Two Voices 104
    'Move eastward, happy earth, and leave' 118
    'Break, break, break' 119
    From Poems (1846) 120
    The Golden Year 120
    From The Princess (1847) 123
    'As thro' the land at eve we went' 123
    'Sweet and low, sweet and low' 123
    'The splendour falls on castle walls' 124
    'Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean' 125
    'Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea' 126
    'Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white' 126
    'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height' 127
    Lines ['Here often, when a child, I lay reclined') 129
    In Memoriam A.H.H. (1850) 130
    From Poems (1851) 225
    Edwin Morris 225
    The Eagle 229
    From Maud, and Other Poems (1855) 231
    Maud 231
    Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington 278
    To the Rev. F.D. Maurice 286
    Will 288
    The Charge of the Light Brigade 289
    From Enoch Arden (1864) 291
    The Grandmother 291
    Tithonus 296
    In the Valley of Cauteretz 298
    On a Mourner 299
    From The Holy Grail and Other Poems (1869) 301
    Northern Farmer, New Style 301
    'Flower in the crannied wall' 304
    Lucretius 304
    From Tiresias and Other Poems (1885) 313
    To E. Fitzgerald 313
    Tiresias 316
    The Ancient Sage 321
    Prefatory Poem to My Brother's Sonnets 329
    'Frater Ave atque Vale' 331
    From Locksley Hall Sixty Years After (1886) 332
    Locksley Hall Sixty Years After 332
    From Demeter and Other Poems (1889) 345
    Demeter and Persephone 345
    Crossing the Bar 349
    Notes 351
    Index of Titles 373
    Index of First Lines 375
    Read More Show Less

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