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Last night, as I Skyped with Mr. Cuyler, I thought that were really only two barriers preventing us from being together: The Atlantic Ocean and the fact he has an 11 year-old daughter.

Fairly big barriers, to be sure.

But as we chatted away, catching up in our underwear (it’s how we normally talk to one another, there’s a healthy degree of lust there) I thought how wonderfully perfect he is. He’s strong but gentle, rough but kind, smart but simple. It made me deeply regret that we was so far away. That I couldn’t crawl into his lap and let him hold me.

And it made me think about long-distance relationships: is it insane to think that they could ever work?

Moreover, could I ever work with him?

We get on so well, we can talk for hours, we adore each other’s bodies. If you think there’s a chance this could be serious, is it so insane to consider going to Florida to see? Typing the words out now, I will admit, it does look pretty insane. But a man like Cuyler sparks something inside of me that the men-children of London just don’t seem to.

As Marina would say, he’s just such a man.

He has that calm attitude. The simple navy self-assurance that can only come from an inner-confidence. He’s strong and muscular, but he’s not parading it around like the boys I know, or have known, in the last three years of London dating. He’s authoritative, he takes control. I want him.

Romance would tell us that love conquers all, that if there’s even a chance he’s “the one” (vile term), then I should head straight over to Heathrow and hop on the first plane. Hop, skip and a flight over the Atlantic later and I’ll be in his arms. Being sensible, I know there’s every chance it wouldn’t work out like that. I might hate the way he eats. He might hate the way I get scared of pressure and need comforted. There’s every chance it could end in a hideous mess of me flying back to London after an impulsive (and very expensive) few days with my tail planted firmly between my legs. You’d hope, at the very leat, that he’d have been between my legs too.

And then what if love won? What if we fell hopelessly in love and he was the man I knew I wanted to marry and live with. He couldn’t move to London and leave his daughter in the States. I couldn’t leave my career and friends in the UK and move to some Floridian backwater.

Nothing matters more than career. When everything else falls apart, when you lose relationships and friends and everything else, your career is what sustains you. It’s one of the few things in life you build entirely and wholly for yourself. It may help other people along the road, it may provide for someone else, depending on the life choices you want. But a career is your impact, your way up the ladder, your way to a better lifestyle than the one you left behind. Even as I write this, I realise more and more how much it means to me. How much I could never leave behind what I’ve build. No matter how much I loved someone, I couldn’t give it up for them. I have so much more to build. so many more avenues I want to explore.

Am I a hopeless romantic for dreaming of him? A silly young creature mooning around falling in love with love? He’s precisely the kind of man I want. The strong alpha-bear who will be authoritative when I need it and cuddle me when I don’t.

I just can’t find his like in London, and it makes me think: Do we hope for better, or is this as good as it gets?

When there’s so much feeling for someone, do we owe it to ourselves to pursue it no matter the cost? Or do we have to be sensible? I find the men of London too boyish, too immature, too selfish and too child-like. But maybe it;s me who needs to grow up too, and accept some things simply cannot be.

Can they?

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