Can't see the wood for the sleaze

This post was going to be different. I was going to write about how I ended up meeting and sleeping with my latest Myspace admirer (I'll call him Red). How he text me that day telling me he'd cut his lip shaving and I was worried it would make him even less attractive to me than I already thought. How I travelled all the way to see him still not quite knowing why, and the second he met me at the station I knew I didn't fancy him. How I realised I was so far from home the only thing I could do was persevere and try to get to know him. How we ended up in his tiny loft room in a shared house with dingy carpet and how the only things we had to eat were crisps and grapes. How physically, he was just not attractive to me. His pictures were clearly old as he had gained a lot of weight since then and had neglected to buy new clothes because his shirt was stretched taught across his body, the buttons gaping. How I managed to get pretty drunk and when he finally did make a move to kiss me it was clumsy and unpractised. How when it came to sex he seemed awkward and unsure and when I gave myself an orgasm as he watched, he commented afterwards how he was glad he made me come. I was going to write how, the following morning I was embarrassed when he played me some songs (he's a comedy musician) and just wanted to get back to London.

But in the last few days, my perception of my time with him has changed. The flipside has shone through like pin pricks of sunlight through a straw hat.

When I was on the train on the way down, he sent me an excited text telling me to enjoy the sunbathed fields and watch out for the white horse on the hillside in Wiltshire. When he met me at the station, Red was clutching a small, tissue-paper wrapped bunch of purple iris's which he shyly gave me as he told me I looked spectacular.
As we walked up the hill from the station, he pointed out buildings of interest and told me which artists had lived in which houses and which writers had drunk in which pubs. He bought me real ale and told me all about a children's book he's writing, encouraging an engaging debate on religion and atheism.
Before we went into his house, he stopped to apologise for the state of it, imploring me not to pay attention to the threadbare carpets and lazy student decor, explaining it was his only choice as a struggling writer and poorly-paid journalist.
When Red opened the door to his tiny loft room, it immediately felt like an artist's garret and he beckoned me to the window to show me the view high above the rooftops and out across the fields beyond in the dwindling autumn dusk. When I leaned over the desk to peer out the window, he rested his hand lightly on the small of my back and a gesture that would have felt sleazy and presumptious coming from another man, felt warm and affectionate. The only reason there were just crisps and grapes to eat was because when he asked if he should book us a table for dinner, I stupidly said no and that just snacks would do. When we were settled, he played me episodes of my favourite radio show about which he's writing a book and told me stories about the participants which no one without full cast access would know. He made me laugh. He produced joint after joint and we got stoned together, sitting cross-legged on his bed listening to comedy. When he leaned in to kiss me, it was my fault it was clumsy as I was most of the way through a bottle of red only I had been drinking and I blundered into his approach. He tenderly kissed my skin and seemed to marvel at my body, he gazed at me and stroked my face, smiling as though we were sharing a huge secret. When it was over and we needed to sleep, he fetched me water and tucked the covers around me, spooning me tightly and kissing my neck. I was surprised at how, although physically I didn't fancy him, something must have clicked because every time he kissed my neck or stroked my back, I was instantly wet. I could see he was frustrated at the clumsiness of our liaison and I recognised shyness in his eyes.
Since I've been home we've texted or emailed constantly. He's been so kind about me being ill the last couple of days. He properly thinks about things I tell him and gives me thoughtful, kind responses. He seems to adore me and intellectually and emotionally, I adore him too. Red is like me in so many ways and so unlike the parade of sleaze I've been subjected to this year.

However, my mind is in turmoil. I keep imagining what it would be like to be with him, forgetting for a moment the distance issue. Could I overcome the physical thing? I've been in that situation before and just couldn't and I think this might be marginally worse (back then I used to cry after sex but stayed because I loved who he was). He keeps saying he wants to lose weight so if he did, would it make a difference? I think it would, judging by the cuteness of his Myspace pictures. Plus, how often do we slate men who don't fancy women because they're overweight - am I really that shallow? Am I just idealising this man because he idealises me and basically I just want to be loved, regardless of how pathetic that is? Am I hankering after his meagre lifestyle in his lofty garret because I suddenly feel so vulnerable and lost living in a rough part of South London as opposed to the safe, sloany West (last night I watched out of my bedroom window as, under it, a troop of police searched and questioned a group of teens for drugs and weapons, eventually cuffing and arresting all of them for having PCP and weed - all I could think about was the safety and peace of Red's little hideyhole)?

I don't know how I feel but I know that I wait for his text messages and I crave his emails and if I haven't heard from him for a couple of hours I get twitchy. I can feel myself getting dependent on his presence in my life but is that just because I haven't met anyone else?
L, a guy I went on three dates with back in May and who basically went AWOL after the third, has been back in contact and asked me out again. Is this it? Am I doomed to fall prey to fuckwit guys who pick me up and drop me and treat me like crap, purely because I'm physically attracted to them? Is it time to start looking beyond that and fall in love with what's beneath? Or is that just a load of almost-thirty, Disney-crap desperation nonsense and if so, then where the fuck is the right one? All I know is, it's been a long time since a man's mind really caught my attention without the body to back it up. Rightly or wrongly, this guy is different and I just can't get my head straight. Sometimes I wonder what I'm waiting for.