It’s late at night. I’ve just been out to see a wonderful, funny and moving film. And I’m sitting in my office, pondering love, life and my perpetually blocked shower drain.
I recently deleted my profile from the dating site I have been using for some time. Not out of a fit of pique, but just out of the realization that it was becoming an unhealthy and unhelpful habit. Many lovely men I have met from that site, quite a few of whom remain friends, with or without benefits. But the lover and soul-mate I seek has yet to be found.
Now I feel like allowing my mind to wander and indulging in some fantasy, in the hope that it might help manifest a suitable companion; or at the very least, give me some clarity.
So what does my Mr Right look like?
He will have brains.
I am greedy for intelligence, both intellectual and emotional. He will be smart, curious, a creative, lateral thinker. He will read voraciously, and yearn to tell me about what he’s reading, and hear about mine. He will speak of books with the same reverence with which other men speak of fish. He will be hungry for conversation, discussion, the exchange of ideas and he will love and respect words.
He will be fierce.
He will love unreservedly, and show courage in his dealings with me and others around him. He will take a plunge. He won’t be scared to make the first move; ask for what he wants; put forth suggestions. He will make time for me and not treat me as an after-thought. His children will come first, then his job, then me. He will be demanding without being controlling, and he will be not frightened off by my moods or prevarications.
He will be funny.
He will make me laugh; he will find me hilarious; he will get that my family dynamic is rooted in humor. Sometimes he will call me just because he needs a laugh. We will banter late into the night, because he will be a night-owl like me. Sometimes we will laugh so hard our sides ache. Sometimes we will be unable to fuck because we’re laughing so much. He will embrace life’s ridiculousness.
He will be sexy.
He will be totally comfortable in his own body. He won’t shave his pubes, or colour his hair, or gaze dejectedly at his pot belly in the mirror. He will accept my body in all its glory and imperfections and expect me to do the same. Sex will be something he enjoys and revels in. He won’t be embarrassed if he can’t get erect. He won’t be apologetic if he comes too soon. He will love pleasing me, and being pleased by me, and get turned on just by being naked and vulnerable with me. When he fucks, he will fuck my whole body. Sometimes will stroke and kiss and take his time. At other times he will have an uncontrollable urge, and just take me there and then. And he won’t fiddle with me as if I’m a machine and he just needs to find the button.
He will be romantic.
He will say beautiful and original things to me at unexpected times. He will show me that he knows and loves me by surprising me with gifts that speak to my passions: a book; some knitting paraphernalia; tickets to a show; a Woody Allen boxed-set. He will sense when I’m overwhelmed, exhausted, depressed, and do something to help: either mop my kitchen floor, or take me out to dinner. And most importantly it will be evident that he does these things because he loves doing them, not just because he thinks they’re the right thing to do. His romanticism will be something he is into, and not just something he presents to me.
He will be laid-back.
He won’t give a rat’s testicle about the state of my house, or the pile of rubbish in the back of my car. His house will probably be a bit disheveled as well, and he won’t be apologetic about it either. He won’t need to make plans weeks in advance, and will be happy to change them at a whim. He will be sensible with money, but not a tight-arse, and will see money as the means to an end, rather than an end in itself. He will love that I sing while I’m cooking and that I dance around the house and that I drive like a “bloke” and swear like a stevedore.
In the end, I want what most people want: someone who sees me; who embraces the whole person and not just the bits they find acceptable; who wants to be seen by me; and who looks at me every day and thinks “how the hell did I get so lucky?”
I know women who have found this, and now have deliriously happy relationships. But they are rare. Like a lottery, the prize is amazing and life-changing, but the chances of winning are minuscule.
But it’s such a lovely fantasy…