(originally written in June 2011, published on November 6, 2011)
This is not a statement of “things my husband lacks.” Neither is it “things I found in other men,” or making Mr. Right out of bits and pieces of boys that I encountered on the way to where I am. I understand how it might be read like something similar to Oprah’s Secret, or Eat Pray Love bumper-sticker talk, or Alanis Morissette’s “21 Things I Want In a Lover.” Only it isn’t.
It’s a letter of intent to whatever lines of force or flight exist out there, to a person I have yet to meet. It is a vocalization of a personal archetype, which will serve as a reminder at times when I feel faint-hearted. I have worked long and hard on this letter, and must have read it a hundred times before publishing it. Again, I feel dangerously insecure in dishing it out like this, because you never know what’s in your cards, and I might just fail famously. At times when I feel like I am failing, I will need the people on this blog to remind me of my quest.
|John Everett Millais, 'Love'|
He will be an old soul. With feet of Methuselah, legs of a grasshopper, and volcanic rock residing in his eyes. A Renaissance man, his mind as big as the universe. [if you laugh at the word homo in homo universalis, you’re probably not him. No hard feelings]
He will be no stranger to pain, physical or emotional. He will smile all the time, and I will love him the more for it.
Touch will come naturally to him. Warm. Gentle. Instinctive. Measured. Abundant.
There will be a promptness to him, a sense of purpose, loyalty and dedication to service.
His spirituality will be sexual, and his sexuality spiritual. And aesthetic. The line in the right corner of my mouth will match the crow’s feet around his eyes. He will bury his face in my hair, and I will trace the line of his neck with my teeth. Our bodies will be worshiped.
Making out will be his favorite sport, and sleeping in on a Saturday morning, curled up in a ball of tangled limbs while torrential rain beats against the windows, his favorite pastime.
A badass goofball, he will embarrass himself completely for a good prank.
He will be the César Millán to my excited-dominant sprees [sans the electric shocker collars, although I might be into those, too. Ahem]. I will be his big spoon and stick to his back like a slug while we sleep.
I see animals accepting him as one of their own.
I see South Pacific islands, using sea-shells as bugles, coconut-eating crabs strutting sideways as if in a silent pasodoble, and leggy horses tiptoeing the border between sand and sea.
I see speed, and engines, and voyages to far sides of the world.
I will teach him words in different languages and he will repeat them in the most ridiculous American accent. There should be music, too, an Elizabethan dance of the spheres: an impromptu choreography of two celestial bodies that were somehow always orbiting around each other, waiting for the eclipse to ebb.
He will choose to dive deep, even when it’s scary, even when it hurts.
I think I would like to be surprised by what he does for a living. I only want him to be passionate about it, because I will want to feed his passion and let my passion feed off of him.
He won’t take life too seriously. I will take care of that. We will laugh our heads off every single day.
He will be tactile, and verbal, and subtle, and intuitive. We will take turns being student and teacher.
He will aim for absolutes.
It will be an all-consuming, steam-rolling, juggernaut romance that will set the world spinning in the opposite direction. We will go to extremes.
I think I just envisioned the Second Coming. Or Lucifer. Well, Dr. Faustus was always one of my favorite characters, and I never said I wasn’t demanding. And I’m totally worth it, I promise.