He has been with me for years, this tall man, not a gentleman. His skin is fair, I do like a man who can blush, or be flushed with exertion; thinking of his face unmasked in passion. A large man, well, large bloke. Blokes are down to earth, normal, have blokey mates and do blokey things and he anchors me to the world from which I might otherwise drift. He is big, and strong, he makes me feel physically right, not fragile (I am never that) but in proportion to him and to the world.
He makes me feel like I have a place here, I am not 100% sure what that place is, but it is here because of him. He has the key to opportunities, the one that unlocks my spontaneity. I would think, Hey, lets go to the cliffs today and lie on the grass while the seagulls whirl overhead, or We could go to the station and get on the first westbound train, or The pub is open, lets go. And we would do it, I would not make excuses to myself and end up doing nothing but thinking about new things, I would, we would experience them. That was all that mattered, doing things together.
The details of how he translates to this world, my ideal man, are a little sketchy. There is no recipe, like he must call me xx times a day, or we must be married (to each other!) The last man in this world made me feel all of those things. I felt more interesting, more lovable when he was with me. But the real world came calling and just like that he was gone, and Mr Ideal is taking an extended holiday right now.