Brian was in his office reading Craigslist during his lunch break. He did that every day. He rarely responded to ads and never posted any of his own, but reading them always made him smile and sometimes even gave him a chuckle. He usually started with "men seeking women." The ads were often pathetic, but sometimes hilarious. Today he saw one that caused him to laugh out loud: "Fat ugly loser seeks supermodel for sex only." The poster was making a joke, and it was funny because it was true. Many of the ads asked for exactly that, although indirectly. Hetero men seemed to want everything, while offering little or nothing in return. Well, except the older men. They often promised financial support to attractive women between the ages of 18 and 25. So it was always a relief to turn to the "men seeking men" or casual encounters m4m, mm4m, or m4mm sections. The bulk wanted what most men, gay or straight, wanted, a blowjob or a hole to fuck, but quite a few were dying to suck a big cock or to be fucked by one, and they were all very upfront about it. Some even provided pictures of their "charms," such as they were. Brian often found himself studying small, dark, and/or out-of-focus pictures of gigantic cocks, nicely rounded asses, and perfectly sculpted torsos, wondering if they were for real.

Brian never read the missed connections section. Those ads were too often sentimental, even in the m4m part. But his executive assistant did. Every morning, as she sipped her coffee and waited for her boss to arrive. Cynthia was a beautiful woman, with an ample bosom, curly dirty blond hair, a killer smile, and a sultry voice. That coupled with her intelligence, her high-paying job, and her weird, but cool personality definitely made her a catch. But she wanted more than a quick fuck with someone who barely gave her a once over before coming onto her like a freight train. She wanted to be swept off of her feet. A little sweetness. Maybe a man who was too shy to approach her directly. A man who gazed at her and wondered what she was like (and not just in bed). So she read the missed connection ads every morning hoping that for one wonderful man she stood out in the sea of anonymous bodies and faces making up New York City. Stood out enough for him to think about her all day and eventually face the humiliation of posting an ad on the off chance she would read it. Sometimes, she'd see a series of ads where men and women would correspond with their missed connections. She always envisioned them settling down together and desperately wished that she would enjoy the same fate.

Every day, Brian would walk by his assistant's desk and ask, "Any word from Prince Charming?" and every day, Cynthia would shake her head glumly. But not this morning. This morning, she'd smiled brightly and said, "Yes, but not my Prince Charming."

Brian had frowned. He could barely bring himself to care about her manhunt, let alone anyone else's. So he had not posed any follow-up questions. Then just as he was about to escape into his office, she'd added, "Yours."

That had gotten Brian's attention. He'd wheeled around and quirked an eyebrow.

Then she'd read, "I saw the face of God on the F train" and had smiled even more brightly. Brian had set his briefcase down and sat on the edge of her desk, though he'd crossed his arms. Cynthia had taken that as a sign that he wanted to hear more, so she'd continued, "Me: 19, 5'9, blond, with blue eyes, a perfectly rounded ass, and a great smile. You: 6'2 or 6'3, chestnut hair, with hazel eyes and bronze skin. You were drinking coffee and reading GQ. I couldn't catch your eye, and I was a little too stunned to approach you when your stop came. If I'm lucky and this actually reaches you, please reply with the color and type of suit you were wearing, so I know it's really you."

Brian had stood and scoffed, "That could be anybody."

Cynthia had looked at him doubtfully. "Someone with your exact height, hair color, and eye color riding the F train and reading GQ? Come on!"

"Well, even if the kid is referring to me, he's a twink and probably a troll. I don't do either."

"Brian, come on. What's the harm in responding?"

"No. No way."

Then he'd disappeared into his office.

"Fuck that," Cynthia had muttered. "Someone around here's gonna get their Prince Charming." Then she'd typed a brief reply (being as succinct as her boss would have been) and sent it on its merry way: "Fawn. Armani."

TBC…