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Article about girls looking for sex craigslist:
For Women Who Just Want to Bone, May We Suggest Craigslist. There is a particular kind of make-believe woman who floods my inbox every time I post to Craigslist’s 18-plus section, which I’ve been doing more often recently in my search for the actual women who use the site. This fembot of Casual Encounters tells me she’s the discreet, undersexed wife of a cheating husband.
 
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She’s nervous because she’s never done this b4. She wants me to come over while her partner is at work, and usually she wants me to prove with a pic that I’m real. (All the spam emails begin, quite disingenuously, with “I’m real.”) She’s the lowest common denominator, as far as transgressive fantasies go: the female casual sex enthusiast as imagined by a sweaty Skinemax focus group. The real women seeking men on Craigslist, of course, tend to have far more interesting demands and desires—as do most women interested in fucking around with no strings attached. But our current mood, for all the choices facilitated by online dating, isn’t sympathetic to authentic expressions of female raunch. Since the early 2000s, when Craigslist first started listing its demurely named Casual Encounters, the online dating industry has mainstreamed, and along with it agitation over loose morals and the devaluation of romance. In large part, the online dating industry has blossomed by anticipating these criticisms and being everything Craigslist is not: familiar, seamless, neutered of anything but the most coy sex references. Today the industry generates about $2 billion a year, and like everything profitable, it’s refracted endlessly. If you’re a woman looking for a heterosexual tryst the options are overwhelming: For completists and lonely hearts there’s OkCupid, for women who like to be in charge there’s Bumble. There are apps for the illuminati-level rich, dating sites for Trump supporters and conspiracy theorists and gluten-free singles. But what none of these dating sites promise to answer is how a mutual interest in Chemtrails translates into something chemically satisfying. Even Feeld, ostensibly an app for the more casually inclined, by virtue of its 18 possible sexual orientations and neo-Berkeley copy about “being free,” surfaces choices from a likeminded pool. Sounds good These headphones have stunning sound range and quality, up to 15 hours of playtime, can switch between two Bluetooth devices at a time, and look great. Sex is a bizarre and messy business, full of false starts and uncomfortable surprises. The web, as imagined by Silicon Valley’s designers and CEOs, is not. It’s fluid and easy to navigate with a literal wave of the hand, verified and sorted into concentric circles based on preference, taste, and demographic. The concession of online dating and its various Tinders-for-X is that we know what we want in bed the way we know our favorite bands, that the correct alchemy of constraint and choice can lead us directly to the online profile of the best lay (or love) we’ll ever have. Comfort with the idea of ordering sex in the way we order everything else has led us full circle, to apps that look exactly like other apps, but with people who just want to bone —the digital equivalent of the perfect singles club, stocked with only your types, all wearing color-coded T-shirts corresponding to “likes” in bed and out. I have my doubts that this arrangement is the transformative sexual utopia it promised to be. But by using one of the older and most disparaged personals sites on the internet, I have found myself in shockingly agreeable situations with people I would have never even known to look for. If you’re trying to get laid using one of the hundreds of dating apps available, this is what you might do: You’ll sign up using an email address, perhaps connecting your Facebook (for verification) or your Instagram (so a potential suitor is familiar with your brand). You’ll create a digital version of yourself, projecting a careful—or at least self-consciously careless—image of what you think your ideal audience wants to see. You’ll flip through other profiles. When you like one you’ll send an in-app message that’ll in the best of scenarios lead to a text that’ll lead to a date. Or you could visit Craigslist.com, the design of which has barely changed since the ‘90s, and you’ll be greeted by an anarchic jumble of links requesting wildly disparate kinds of companionship. There’s “Hung, just looking for fun in Flushing” or “Seeking BBC to host fwd smoke and smash.” Sometimes it’s “Just wanna chat?” If you post your own ad, be as specific or open-ended as you care to be: You’re working with a blank text box. You can add an image of whatever you like. The timeline on Craigslist is generally “right now,” but a dick pic captioned “wanna fuk” will sit next to an 800-word rundown of a poster’s specific erotic desires, demands, and scheduled availability. In one post out of California recently, a woman writes that she’ll be at the local airport’s terminal A between 9:30 and 10 tomorrow morning, if anyone’s interested in a quick bathroom tryst. On New York’s Upper East Side a man wants to know if any “ladies are into MFM threesomes.” There’s some pretty kinky shit on there—to be clear, this is not for the faint of heart or the prudes. But there’s also quite a bit of run-of-the-mill let’s-just-get-it-in sex.