The Freegan: Meet volunteering at the local Food Not Bombs chapter. An avid dumpster diver, he only eats food that is organic and vegan—and free, of course. Insists on having sex in public places. Might actually be homeless.
The Earth Skills Man: Always stops to pick up roadkill, which he processes in his basement and turns into home-smoked deer sausage and leather sex toys (available on E-bay). For a first anniversary gift, expect a set of your very own handcrafted leather whips.
The Kirtan Singer: Bartends at a vegan café/kava bar where you share the last gluten-free snickerdoodle. Always smells of frankincense, which he burns constantly (his way of promoting world peace). The deal breaker: he doesn’t believe in physical touch. Says that staring into each other’s eyes for hours is enough; “soul sex”, he calls it.
The Naturalist: Meet at an inversion workshop at the co-operatively owned yoga studio. Things he is not fond of: shoes, showers, shaved vaginas. Things he is quite fond of: coconut oil as toothpaste, sunscreen, lube, etc.
The Back-to-the-Lander: Sleeps in a tent in his backyard. Forages for wild foods in city parks and roadside medians; crafts romantic dinners from invasive species, e.g. deep-fried tomato hornworms and kudzu stew. Has no Facebook, Instagram, or cell phone, for that matter. Break up with him when the absence of cute text messages and online stalking opportunities becomes too much to bear.
The Stoner: Works as a receptionist at the local nudist colony, but somehow doesn’t have enough money to treat dates for pizza. Reason for break-up: he decides to hitch-hike to California to trim bud on his cousin’s weed “farm”.
The Wanderer: Carries all of his earthly belongings in faded messenger bags strapped to his bicycle. And yet, from the depths of his backpack, he procures a jar of bath bubbles and a small container of Kamasutra lover’s body paint (flavor: chocolate), both of which he will leave behind when he takes off a week later—although not without the half-empty box of condoms you bought.
The Barista: Spends his shift writing poems on napkins between making skinny chai lattes. Enough said.
The Rasta: The sexiest djembe player at the drum circle. Has seashells woven into his dreads but won’t eat girls out because it’s against his religion (blow jobs are fine). Hates it when anyone listens to commercial radio or watches television (“brain poison”), but plays video games for six hours a day. Can’t check out at the grocery store without calling the cashier an accomplice in the rise of Babylon.
The Wannabe Native American: Goes by the name of Eagle Heart. Legal name: Clayton Connor. Meet at a sweat lodge ceremony, but break up when his spirit guides tell him that you were mortal enemies in a past life.