At present, my friend Q. is in my kitchen talking about her standards for her ideal boyfriend, or something to that effect. She's making her list again of all the traits the dude should have. And now I think she's prioritizing the list of traits. This is a reasonably common conversation. She describes her ideal man, and then bemoans the fact that she'll never find him. And then becomes morose -- sort of quiet and mopey -- and flops herself in a chair, looking solemn and pained at the same time. We're just getting to the "bemoaning" part, I think.

"It's a relatively level-headed idea of what I want. My list contains nothing superficial, nothing selfish... Most people don't even KNOW what they want."

I always knew what I wanted.

I just knew I'd never manage to find it. I KNEW that. There was simply no way in the world that anybody would EVER manage to live up to my specifics. Call me picky or whatever, but there was just NO possibility of me finding a person who fits my exact specifications. And my gahd, if I DID find such a person, there wasn't ANY chance he'd have any interest in me...

He'd be tall, I thought. But not too tall. Tall enough to give me a really, really good hug. Short enough to give me a really, really good kiss, without me straining to stand on my tiptoes, and without him getting a stoop in his back.

He'd have dark hair. And blue eyes. And I'd be able to see right to the very bottom of his soul in those eyes.

He'd be very smart. Maybe smarter than me, maybe about the same. He wouldn't be ashamed of being smart, but he wouldn't spend his time pretending to be smarter than me. He would love to debate with me -- not for the sake of winning, but for the fun of debating. He wouldn't make up dumb facts, or soliloquize on and on in an attempt to make himself look more "right" than me. We would respect each other's intelligence. We would learn from each other. He would be my teacher and my student. And neither of us would resent either of those roles.

He would love to read. Like me. And he wouldn't be ashamed of that, either. And we'd be able to read together, and then trade books back and forth. Or read out loud to each other.

He would know how to have fun. That was maybe the most important thing. He wouldn't be a jackass, but he'd take certain risks for the sake of fun. We'd play in thunderstorms and rivers together. He wouldn't be afraid of the lightning, nor would he be afraid of what people would think. We'd jump in piles of leaves together in fall.

He would understand beauty. He would understand how ugly a Wal*mart is. He wouldn't raise his eyebrows at me when he saw my big milk bottle full of broken glass of various colors; he would understand the beauty in that. He would prefer a tree or a beautiful old building over a vacation to Disneyworld. The propaganda would irritate him. He would know that, for the most part, the genuine things of this world are far more lovely than the false ones.

He'd know the same about people.

Between us, nothing would be sacred and we'd talk shit about everything. And at the same time, everything would be sacred, and we'd revere everything.

He'd understand why I like old churches, and rituals, and special ceremonies, and hymns, and love going to midnight masses on Christmas -- and he'd still understand that that doesn't necessarily mean I'm "a believer."

He would get my sense of humor. He would know when I was joking and when I was serious. He would laugh at the right moments. He would be able to lighten a serious moment, but he'd know the line between lightening a moment that needs lightening, and mocking me. He wouldn't have any interest in that. We would tease each other mercilessly, but it wouldn't be mean.

He would know how to kiss me. There are wonderful, attractive, interesting people who don't have the faintest idea how to kiss. He would know how to touch me in all the right ways. And there would be this sort of magic attraction, where a glance would make sparks in the air between us. We would find each other marvelously attractive.

He would be kind of a geek. He'd be into nerdy things like chess, or journalism, or computer programming. Almost certainly something dweeby like role-playing. Except most geeky individuals who are into chess and role-playing and all that crap have basically no conception of how other people think or act. Hence the stereotype of the loser geek-boy who spends years pining over some girl, and socializing only with fellow nerds. I wanted a geeky boy who commanded a certain respect among people, not just dorks. Somebody who could check-mate you with charm. Somebody who understood human nature enough to get by pretty well. Somebody who had the capability of having conversations about things other than CPU's and Klingons. I was always aware that this was a pretty tall order.

He would love words. I imagined that sometimes we'd be having a discussion and I'd call him on his use of some word or another, and he wouldn't say, "you're just arguing semantics now," because he'd have more respect for semantics than to be dismissive. If he wasn't actually interested in reading the dictionary with me, at least he'd understand my interest. He'd at least be willing to open up a medical dictionary and quiz me on what I thought the words might mean. He wouldn't be a writer, at least not like me, because that would drive me crazy -- but he'd understand my drive, and my love for it.

He would have his own artform. Or artforms. He would be capable of really loving what he did. He wouldn't have to do it for money. He would just do it because he loved it and couldn't escape it. It would be a calling. It is easier when someone doesn't need to spend his life searching for his "true calling" or whatever.

He would be loyal. Fiercely loyal.

He would be generous. Not stupid, but generous.

He would be very open-minded on the subject of gender and sexuality. He would be capable of loving and appreciating my body, but he wouldn't freak out if somebody asked if, or insinuated that, he was gay. He'd be willing and able to cook as well as plumb a clogged sink, and it would never occur to him to think of floor-scrubbing as "women's work," or woodworking as "men's work." He wouldn't mind me wearing mostly men's jeans, or sleeping in boxer shorts. And he'd be able to pull off wearing somewhat feminine clothing sometimes, without acting -- or looking -- like a jackass.

If he didn't like my movies or my music, or any of the other tastes I have that most people find kind of unusual, he'd at least watch them, listen to them, or try them out before condemning them.

He'd know the difference between an embellishment and a lie. And he wouldn't lie to me. We would respect each other completely, and trust each other to understand, even ugly truths.

Preferably, he'd be a meat eater. And preferably, we'd like a lot of the same things, so that we could eat meals together a lot.

He'd find everything at least a little bit fascinating. He'd be curious to know a little bit about everything. He'd want to know why ripples in puddles work the way they do. He'd poke at bugs and roll them over to see how many legs they had. He'd be interested in things. He wouldn't be satisfied with simple answers, or bullshit. And he wouldn't be afraid to look for real answers, even if it meant touching slugs, or mixing things that might blow up. Or talking to really scary people just to hear what, exactly, they have to say.

He would understand the appeal of "Unsolved Mysteries" and wouldn't roll his eyes at me for kind of wanting to be a detective or a a ghost-chaser when I was a kid. He'd also do his best to understand my fascination with the postal service.

He'd be kind of crazy. Probably irreparably so. And probably more than a little eccentric -- certainly irreparably so. But in a generally harmless way.

I would be good for him. He would need and want what I had to offer. It wouldn't be one-sided by any stretch of the imagination. He would be able to enjoy me as much as I enjoyed him. Where he had shortcomings, I would have strengths. If he had a problem, I would be able to help. I would be able to uplift him, to let him be himself -- only more so -- and give him things that were useful to him.

We would love each other. We would love each other until it became overwhelming. And we wouldn't become bored with each other. The excitement of loving each other wouldn't fade to convenience. We wouldn't become room-mates. We would grow used to each other, and it still wouldn't diminish the thrill of holding each other in bed, or having long conversations. We would bring each other flowers, or make each other presents, or little surprise things like that, no matter how long we stayed together. And we wouldn't give each other those boring, "have-a-nice-day-honey" pecks on the cheek; we'd always kiss each other like it meant something. It would always mean something. It would be romantic and delightful forever. We would just genuinely love each other.