Saturday, December 29, 2018

Understanding the Exodus as a Spiritual Journey | ReformJudaism.org

From the desk of Rabbi Viscount Desmond Mac Innes-Reese
Exodus isn’t a study of Moses’s leadership as much as it is about G-d’s.  The lessons here are tremendous.  The first lesson is that leadership does not mean you do everything yourself.  Moses is going to need his brother, Aaron, to talk for him while he facilitates miracles and Zipporah, his wife, to keep him alive when it is “discovered” he didn’t circumcise his own ½ Jewish son Gershom.  Second, there are many different types of leadership and we should not confuse the role of king, with that of the prophet and that of the priest.  The third early lesson is that leadership requires the appropriate props.  Moses had his magic staff just like Harry Potter had his wand – Expecto Patronum!  The fourth lesson, which it seems G-d has a handle on by the end of the parashah, is that revolution and social change are as much about the changing of the people demanding justice as it is about the changes in the behavior of the unjust.  The pain in the hearts of the oppressed must transition to hope, desperation refocused on securing the future, and their whining concentrated into dedication to the cause of freedom.  This is confirmed in the Haftorah portion that sometimes accompanies this portion, Isaiah 29:22-2,3 where the prophet confirms that redemption comes to the children of Jacob after their fathers (and mothers!) return in faith to Hashem.  It is critical that oppressed peoples not seek the redemption of their enemy over their own hope.  It is not necessary for Pharaoh to change for me to be free.  I don’t need the bigot or the homophobe to accept me and mine but to get out of our way.

Understanding the Exodus as a Spiritual Journey | ReformJudaism.org

Thursday, December 13, 2018

The Paradox of Religious Indifference

The Paradox of Religious Indifference: I am often bewildered by two opposite trends. On the one hand, I hear from people all the time who are on the periphery of the Jewish community, desperate to get closer. There’s the young man...

Tuesday, December 4, 2018

Sunday, December 2, 2018

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Feeling Deep Compassion for the Oppressed

Feeling Deep Compassion for the Oppressed: A particularly moving paragraph that is recited by the entire congregation of pray-ers as part of the Shacharit (morning) services on Mondays and Thursdays, before the Tora is returned to the Ark,...

Wednesday, November 28, 2018

from the desk of the 12th Earl of Glamorgan, Angus Reese

(be kind!  still working on this one - A.G. Davis)

November 24th

     Percy Douglas has been a mate, no associate, since uni.  We met at a bar in Manchester after a particularly nasty long night of pints, shots, and shotty social interactions.  I was with some blokes from the languishing aristocracy surviving like snake necklaces around the necks of the mercantile rich.  My title made them feel special.  I wanted a connection to their fathers, the holders of the family gold.  I would later use those connections to improve my family's fortune, ensuring my great grandchildren will want for nothing.  That's venture capitalism for you.
   
     Percy was an exception and maybe that's why he and I got along, at least initially.  He came from the Mayflower set, folks from America's upper east coast who could trace themselves and their millions as far back to 1650 - he already had enough status.  We hung out over the summer before my 4th year, his 5th.  He really didn't want to go to school as much as he wanted to gain a British accent and suck the breasts of British slappers.  We had multiple group encounters, typically three or four women at a time.  Yeah, a couple of fit blokes dropping a few grand around the bar got the attention of plenty.  Then he got called back home by daddy (he gambled more than I, usually the roulette tables while I was more of a poker man) and our contacts quickly fell into the occasional Facebook update picture.  I hadn't heard from him in over 3 years.

     So you can imagine my surprise when he showed up at my wedding.  I saw Percy shortly before the traditional first dance.  The guests were just finishing dinner.  Deetz had reluctantly gone over to chat with some of his family when I spotted Percy standing in line at the bar.  I didn't remember inviting him but was nevertheless ready to start the full process of explaining my apparent last-minute decision to follow my heart, not just my dick.

     When I came up to him, slapping him on the back customarily, he unexpectedly snarled at me.  "Percy!  So good to see you.  I didn't know you were in town."  Shit, that must of sounded horrid.  Cardiff is not London - folks don't just happen to come here.

    I initially thought my social faux pau caused his reaction.  How wrong can I be? 

    "You didn't tell me you were gay," he slurred, snatching his scotch from the bartender.

    "Most folks come to a wedding to support the couple, not to malign them," I responded, not so much angry but curious.  "I didn't take you for a homophobe."

    "Why didn't you tell me?"

    "Tell you what?"

    He gulped the double shot and shook the glass at the bartender motioning for more.  Then he looked at me like my two heads had two heads.  "Why not me?"

    "Pardon?" 

    "You heard me!" Percy nearly shouted.  "What has he got that I don't?"

     I guided the man away from the bar and some prying ears.  Plus, the music was getting louder, preparing everyone to transition from a dinner party to dance hall.  I didn't want the man to embarrass himself.  "I'm sorry Mate but you have me at a loss."

    He looked at me incredulously, shook his head again, now held low before sighing.  He eventually admitted, "I suppose it is my fault.  Maybe I should have said something . . . all those times we, we partied together . . ."  He finished the second drink.  "You're right.  How could you know?  I never said anything so why would you even broach it.  But damnit!  All those women!  Dude, how did you do it?"

    "Fuck them?"

    "Yeah!  I mean that was a lot of work to prove you ain't no fag."

    "But, Percy it sounds like your gay."

    He stopped and thought a moment then replied, "I suppose you're right."

    I didn't know what to do, what to say.  A defeatest countenance cloaked his face and tapped at my heart.  "It's a new day.  There is much less stigma.  Look at all the people here tonight.  There is genuine support out there now."

    He looked at his empty shot glass, probably contemplating another drink.  He shook his head yet again.  "I doubt my wife would be so welcoming, let alone my oldest son.  He hopes to run for Senate one day."  He put the glass down and looked at me directly.  "I was in London on business and read about the nuptials.  I have to admit to a few shots before arriving.  I just had to see you.  You look even better than when we were at school."

   I waved over Simms, the estate's butler.  "Simms, please call the car.  Mr. Douglas is returning to his hotel."  Simms nodded at Percy signalling him to follow.  I gave my friend an apologetic look.  "It was good to see you, Percy.  Deetz and I are going out-of-town for a bit but why don't I reach out when we get back."

  He smiled weakly and said, "Deetz is his name?"

  "Desmond.  Deetz's is his nickname."

  "Desmond is a very lucky man."  He shuffled away behind Simms. 

   Shortly thereafter, Deetz came up to me.  "Hey, who was that?"

   "Percy Douglas.  We went to uni together but I haven't seen him in years."  And I would never see him again.  A few months after we returned from our next mission for MI-6's Department of Alien Affairs, a mutual friend posted notice of Percy's death by suicide.

   "Why didn't he stay?  The dancing is about to start."

   "Said he had to get back.  Business and all."  First rule of marriage I think is that complete honesty with your partner has its limits. 

   "Oh well, his loss!  C'mon hubby, our audience awaits."

   I sighed as dancing is one of my favourite activities and the one I am least capable of, or so the love of my life tells me. 
   


Tuesday, November 13, 2018

from the diary of the 12th Earl of Glamorgan, Angus Reese



October 22nd – 2:45 am
This is the second time I’ve had sex with a man.  Well, maybe the third if you count the blowjob tonight in the back of that gay bar.  What was that place called?  And who has full out fucking after being attacked and nearly killed?  Deetz saved my life.  He took on all five of those bodybuilders – who thought I’d be friendly when they saw me in the bathroom - threw them around like a ragdoll in the hands of a rageful three-year-old.  I’ve known this man since childhood and I was typically the one defending him.  But years of reclusive living and martial arts training all over the world has made his muscles tight and his body lean.  He’s lying here next to me in my bed at family’s London townhouse, Churton Place.  And I want to touch him – make sure he’s real, this is real, and if how I’m feeling is real.  Does that make me homosexual or bisexual? 
And what about that blowjob, eh?  You know, I’ve had my fair share of exhibitionistic sexcapades – backs of limos, single-engine planes, even driving on the Autobahn.  They have all been satisfying, thrilling even.  This was different though.  Other times things would end with predictable release and relief.  This time though, it was so amazing, I wasn’t sure it didn’t happen to someone else and I just watched.  I felt vulnerable and powerful all at the same time. 
I insisted on going out tonight.  I lied to Deetz and to myself – saying I wanted a kick, a bit of a laugh.  I told him, I’ve had gay friends, but we’d never been to town together.  Since the first time Deetz and I fucked, a short while ago in his sister’s cottage back home, I was curious, no eager, no hungry to have that orgasm again.  Before this, sexual pleasure was like a slot machine where the house always wins.  Could it be that all the women I’d been with were selfish cows bending over so compliantly because it was what was expected of them?  Some were probably just ignorant, having never thought of what would pleasure them.  And for all their bragging, most blokes are just as sexually blind.  I, however, can’t cower behind such foolishness.  I’ve been schooled.  Mistress told me my mate had to be ‘someone born to serve’, ‘someone who gets pleasure from taking care of me but won’t let me get away with my shit’ and be ‘a check on my power’.  Is the son of my father’s valet my soulmate?
Deetz and I almost didn’t go, between trouble finding a suitable club and his sexy casual outfit that was acting as his body’s psychedelic highlighter.  I think the jeans were thanking him for the privilege of hugging his skin.  Then there was the beige silk shirt that barely contained all his tattoos and the brand on his back that lights up like an electronic menorah when he cums.  Deetz is a Jew with Druid blood whose lips and tongue make you feel like Bella Lugosi’s most willing victim. I get now why five o’clock shadows are so appealing to women.  Not only do they convey potential danger but add a secondary sensation when he kisses my neck.  So, I insisted on going so I didn’t jump him in the middle of the kitchen during dinner with the rest of our investigative crew.
Fast forward to loud beats, low-shelf booze, and brutal porn on the multiple screens.  I asked, no begged him to ‘show me where the fun is’.  He took me to the spot – I remember the name now, The Dungeon.  It was a nearly enclosed part of the alley behind the club, lit with black light bouncing off psychedelic paint swirled haphazardly across the plastered ceiling and concrete floor.  Pipes were erratically secured horizontally and vertically along a maze of walls - a wide, winding passage that smelled like 14-year old yearning.  The plumbing seemed nonsensical until you noted the people and objects chained to people that were secured to those pipes.  “I should have brought my handcuffs,” I think Deetz said.  The live show of men fucking and sucking one another in every position but fully prone all around me wasn’t what made me hard.  It was when Deetz lifted my hands above my head.  “Tie, tie, tie,” I know he said while pushing my wrists against a horizontal post.  I responded like Pavlov’s dog as the command was a familiar one from my time with Mistress.  The best training for a future Dom was to serve as a Sub.  I enjoyed the hell out of those three years. 
Deetz has these weird kinda psychic powers.  He senses your emotions by touching you or something you’ve recently touched.  Pressed against that wall, his hands rubbed up and down my torso like an MRI taking slices of my soul.  He paused at my hips then broke out in a huge grin.  His brown eyes formed ebony balls as he kissed me while undoing my fly.  His lips were playful, lightly pressing then darting away.  He reached past my fly and cupped my balls, rolling them gently in his warm hand.  I lifted up on my toes then came down to give him more of them.  He stopped kissing and closed his eyes, exhaling then leaning back slightly.  Then he opened his eyes and stared at me as if the secrets of the universe had just arrived in his mind like an urgent email.  He squatted, pulled out my cock, and started licking it like I was his favourite flavour Tootsie Pop. 
Psychic powers were the only way he could’ve known that is what I like – that the slow, slick feel of tongue and lips moving up and down my shaft created waves upon waves of tiny orgasms that I don’t get otherwise.  It was fucking death by a million taste buds cuz I could feel every one of his quickly grasping then letting go of micro-sections of my dick’s skin.  At one point, I was so overwhelmed by the sensations, feelings surfacing that I didn’t understand, and I started to ask him to stop.  But instead, the word out of my mouth was, please.  Then he took my entire dick in his mouth and held it there, swimming in juicy, waves of warmth until my thighs stopped quivering.  He wasn’t going to let me cum yet, just set things up.  Then, he pulled back and lonely, cool air made my erection recoil slightly.  I looked down at him, confused as to why he’d stopped.  “Hold on,” he said before diving back in.
His lips massaged my head like he’d spied on me some night while I masturbated.  Deetz let his tongue massage the underbelly while his mouth pulled on it firmly, slowly at first then increasing it until his movements matched the beat of the surrounding music.  It was the spot and configuration with some extra ingredient – he took the time to learn my needs and was enjoying the giving, signs of a true Sub, according to Mistress.  Most people want my company to get access to my wealth, my connections, or just to say they slept with royalty (remember that model and ‘internet sensation’ two years ago?).
I was near the edge but something kept me from just letting go.  Self-doubt began to surface.  This whole thing – this experiment in man-on-man love – the ride I was on seemed ripe for taking other chances.  If I was going to be vulnerable, would he be so also?  I took a chance.  I released one of my hands and placed it on the side of his head.  I looked at him intently, massaging his ear until he looked at me.  “Look at me while I do this to you.”  He inhaled deeply as I pressed his head tight against my crotch and felt him swallow my dick.  One time. Two times.  The third time and I came so hard I nearly collapsed.
I regained my composure and my breath to find him still squatting in front of me, balanced on his heels like a poster child for Southeast Asia’s tourist industry.  He was still looking at me, with a smug smile, while wiping the excess spit and cum from the corners of his mouth.  “Your Grace is satisfied?”
A challenge, eh?  I squeezed his chin and lifted his head back with a slight jerk.  Shaking my exhausted penis at him, I commanded, “You left a spot.  Clean your mess.”
He licked all around my head like a mop hunting for dirt and a pay raise.  He had me aroused again – ah, the blessings of being under 30!  This time though I was directing the show.  When I felt close, I grasped my shaft and pulled it out of his mouth.  He had fallen into some trance and kept his mouth open once I was out.  I dropped my head on his tongue, sticking halfway out of his mouth.  Resting my head there, I reached below and massaged my balls.  I nodded at him and he replaced my hands, his fingers quickly finding the intensity I like.  I came again, this time more quietly, drops of sperm rested on his tongue.  He knew what to do with it once I was done.
Deetz stood up, a bit wobbly but smiling like the cat who finally caught the mouse.  He kissed me in a perfunctory but giddy manner, like someone on their first date – more gratitude and lust than kindness and love.  He seemed pleased with himself – pleased that he had so thoroughly satisfied me?  And in some sick, royalist, man-taking-over-the world-cuz-I’m-ordained-by-the-Almighty-to-do-so, I felt a sense of power that the Roman’s must have had when they overran Gaul.  Deetz Mac Innes has opened, no touched that part of me that I’ve long to share with someone.  It was sexual desire driven by ego, DNA, and White privilege.  If I was bothered by my desires and BDSM predilections it was only that more people didn’t have the freedom I have to indulge similarly.
Standing with my dick in the wind, all I could think of was that I wanted, no needed more.  I was hungrier than ever to see this experiment, no experience, to its natural end – whatever THAT would look like.  Deetz’s gleeful eyes made me think it was time to go home and finish fucking, which we did after the slight detour into self-defence.  But when we finally got there, I tapped that ass.  And by “tapped” I mean Exxon can only dream about that session of drilling production.  Now, Deetz is asleep on his stomach, his brand still shimmering, black embers occasionally popping like watery fireworks against his skin.  His breathing is a quiet, steady hum and his eyes are moving rapidly behind his closed lids.  Is he dreaming?  Is he dreaming about me?
The sleeping man felt the eyes of his lover.  “You okay?” Deetz mumbled while turning over onto his side, his face near Angus’s thigh.
“Yeah, just jotting some things down for my meeting tomorrow,” Angus lied.  He had prepared his notes days ago.  “Go back to sleep.  We’ve gotta be up early.  I’ll need your help in the morning.”
Deetz yawned, “Yes, your Grace,” he said before kissing Angus’s thigh and turning over like the dutiful wife in some 1950’s, middle-aged marriage.
Angus stared at his best friend for some time while, his eyes lingering around the naked man’s edges and curves.  He wondered, if this continued, what would he tell his family?  His associates at the Club would look askance and give him the silent treatment.  Would he have to say something to the King and Queen?  They were his godparents after all.   Angus Reese suddenly felt something mega-rich, white men aren’t supposed to feel.

Fear.

Wednesday, September 26, 2018

CONTEST HAS BEEN EXTENDED TO OCTOBER 7TH!!

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Scroll below for a chance to win up to $150 worth of prizes.  

Sorry, it isn't much of a piece of Angus's resources but I am but a humble servant on the Morganwg Estate.  

HAPPY #BIWEEK EVERYONE!

Tuesday, September 11, 2018

FEATURED CONTEST

The Glamorgan Progeny

Want a chance to win $150 in literary prizes?  CLICK HERE and complete my 5-minute survey.  Your name will be put in a raffle where you have a chance to win three prizes:

  • 3rd Prize:  a copy of "The Roswell Discrepancy: a human romance in three parts" (a $15 value)
  • 2nd Prize: a copy of "The Roswell Discrepancy: a human romance in three parts" and an exclusive copy of the new novel (due out in time for the holidays) "Project Iceworm: a human marriage in three parts" (a $30 value)
  • 1st Prize: A Deetz and Angus Snack Pack, featuring items found in the story - a copy of "The Roswell Discrepancy: a human romance in three parts", Deetztini-a martini made with Bombay Saffire gin, one martini glass (Deetz doesn't drink, remember?!), bag of Snyder's Pretzels, rolling papers, a toothbrush, a tube of lube, bottle of sandalwood essential oil, and an original short story exclusive to the winner.

Sunday, September 9, 2018

Chapter 4 of Life Before Project Iceworm


Sorry to take so long getting this to ya'll!  It has been sooo busy at slave driver's office and, well, you know, the rent's due!  Please enjoy.  BTW, keep in mind this is a rough draft!
4.
It’s a ten-hour flight from D.C. to Cardiff.  Angus spent the first two playing daddy to Alpert.  Unbeknownst to me, Angus had texted our personal flight attendant, Daisy, to “clear out anything from the airport stores appropriate to a 3-year old”.  The boy had more fun opening and getting Angus to assembly them than actually playing with them.  Angus didn’t seem to mind, likely he was taking mental notes for our next session of pillow talk – you know, the laundry list of what one isn’t going to do with or to their children.  Maybe if I’d paid attention to his mental wanderings then I wouldn’t be in the pickle I am with him now.  But, that’s another story.

Tuesday, August 14, 2018

Life Before Project Iceworm - mini mission story continued

Chapter 3

They had Natasha locked in a waiting room guarded by two secret service looking blokes – black sunglasses, earpieces and all.   The two outside didn’t give us a glance but the couple inside stood straighter, trigger fingers twitching.  The room was 1980s drab, with faux steel reception seating bolted to the floor through factory #3345 carpeting.  The rows of matching chair clothe must have been discarded from a local DMV.  Entering the room, to my right, cross-legged atop of an innocuous foam cushion was a figure folded over itself, with hands on the back of the neck and fingers tightly knitted together.  The posture was so twisted and seemingly uncomfortable that I could only assume the figure had to be either a ballet dancer or a yogi.  She lifted her face to us as we got closer and I realized it was the latter – that was a face of a Russian ballerina whose depression is so entrenched that she forgot that she could eat normally now.   Her passport likely said she was 35 or 40 but her resting sad face pushed that number to 60 – in Russian years.  But getting even closer, I saw those cool, steely blue eyes, fierce and determined.  She may be frightened, overwhelmed even, but she knew her endgame.  Before we were nearly upon her, a low growl came from between painted red lips, “Where is my son?”

Sunday, August 5, 2018

A mini mission story

Just like when she was writing The Roswell Discrepancy, my biographer occasionally likes to highlight the stories that don't or won't make it in the books.  This is one that, on a timeline, is between The Roswell Discrepancy and Project Iceworm, which is due out in the fall of 2018.  For those who have read the book and other stories from this site, the first two paragraphs may be redundant but please bare with me as I welcome newbies to the world of the Glamorgan Progeny.

UPDATE: I did some editing to the original portion that was posted and then added another section to the story.  Look for additional sections over the next few weeks.


MINI-MISSION #19

1.
I couldn’t wait to see my husband.  It had been a long, cold semester in this flat – really nothing more than a grad student hovel decorated in masculine minimalistic chic.  But, I cleaned up for tonight and threw up some goofy Christmas lights on Hannah’s, one of my fellow rabbinical students, suggestion.  I told her that I needed to get laid (“laid real good”) and tell him something, something really important.  She giggled then asked if I was pregnant and if so, was it our “terribly hot” Prayer and Interpretation teacher?  No, and . . . well . . ?

Wednesday, July 25, 2018

The Way of Faith: Love as Loyalty | Unit 7 - Rabbi Sacks

BEST LINE EVER - "Faith is the space we make for G-d."
The Way of Faith: Love as Loyalty | Unit 7 - Rabbi Sacks: Overview In this seventh unit we will explore the path to God through Faith, using texts that Rabbi Sacks has … Read more

Saturday, June 16, 2018

Saturday, June 2, 2018

STORY REVEAL - Listen or read a draft of the first chapter of Project Iceworm


Excerpt from Project Iceworm: a human marriage in three parts

OR skip the British robot and 
READ THE DRAFT OF CHAPTER ONE
(this material is copywritten 2018 - A.G. Davis)


Chapter 1
Standing at the front bow looking out from Aunt Nora’s latest £8-million acquisition, The Conspiracy Theory, should have cleared my head.  Instead, the sunless sky and dank Atlantic Ocean secured my foul mood in a depressive rapture no silver lining could relieve.   So when I sensed my husband of more than five years looking for a parka to cover my bare arms, I bristled while feeling riddled with shame.  What the fuck is wrong with me?!  I’m being ungrateful.  He’s a wonderful man

Saturday, April 28, 2018

a notation from my biographer, A.G. Davis


I was weeping by the end of this article and I thought I couldn't weep anymore about that.  Folk tend to look at the brown skin surrounding my Star of David and wonder how I could feel so strongly about this horror, feelings people often say should only come from survivors and their families.  I beg to differ.  I am crying because, as this article points out so cleverly, this is still happening.  We can argue if or how the Holocaust was different from the Rwandan genocide or what is happening to civilians in Syria and Yemen but to the individuals who suffered and are dying now, the shame and pain are all the same - we all bruise blue and bleed red.  And the fact that it keeps happening is a testimony, in mind, that evil comes from humans and humans alone.  That realization brought me back to faith - the belief that G-d built this wonderful home for us and all we do is trash it and abuse others who also call it home. 

The Garden of Eden is here, it never left.  We abandoned it.

Monday, April 2, 2018

Exclusive Excerpt from Upcoming New Novel

Note: This is a second draft, barely ready for my editor.  Please be kind!



Project Iceworm: Part 1 - Lady Nora Makes Trouble

Chapter 1

Chapter 1
Standing at the front bow looking out from Aunt Nora’s latest £8-million acquisition, The Conspiracy Theory, should have cleared my head.  Instead, the sunless sky and dank Atlantic Ocean secured my foul mood in a depressive rapture no silver lining could relieve.   So when I sensed my husband of more than five years looking for a parka to cover my bare arms, I bristled while feeling riddled with shame.  What the fuck is wrong with me?!  I’m being ungrateful.  He’s a wonderful man – I don’t deserve him.  I’m married to my childhood sweetheart, the kindest person on Earth, a damn Peer of the Realm – and did I say he’s rich and now I’m rich too?  And yet, as I visualize then hear each of his steps up the stairs and toward me, Angus’s concern felt like a steel brush against a fresh wound.  Damn, I hope he didn’t see me wince. 
I should have concentrated on Reason #491 why Angus Reese was the best thing to ever happen to me – he was never fully predictable, like right now.  Instead of asking how I felt, he simply stated in his deep Welsh accent, “You know, I’m out of pretzels and a nip of something.” He placed a bowl and a flask at my feet instead of a mackintosh around my shoulders.  I noted with the eyes in the back of my head that he looked at me with his head cocked to the right, the wind whipping around his shoulder length brown hair with his worry only coming through in the dark spot within is emerald eyes.  “Additionally, your sister said I should check your stitches, change your bandages, and put more of that foul ointment on.  I swear she is trying to ruin our sex life!”
Okay, he won’t leave unless I at least turnaround and look at him.  But, if I do that, I can’t continue to wallow in this rage and pain.  There was comfort in rolling around in this muck of self-recriminating madness and I’m a conflicted, complicated man.  A nearly graduated rabbinical student and yet I now understood the thrill of a Catholic monk’s self-flagellation.  I was a survivor of vicious sexual assault during my adolescence who was transformed into a therapy success story.  But right now, I appreciated the thrill a cutter gets with each secret, light dorsal level slice to the underside of the thigh.  Recent events could correctly labeled as a ‘triggering event’ while this current spat with Angus was the nuclear fallout.
“I’ll come down in a minute,” I replied, choosing not to turn and look at him.
While he walked back to whence he came, the wind carried back to me his haughty insinuation, “I will be waiting in the stateroom.”  I gave in and turned around just to see his fine behind disappear in the growing fog around the ship’s deck.  He was going to get his way, he always got his way with me.  Over these years, he’d learned me – a brooding philosopher and social critic who would choose some 15th Century ivory tower over human companionship at every chance.  This was just the worse in a series of mental battles common, it is said, for someone pursuing a contemplative profession.  Barmy thing was, Angus never wavered, never blinked, and never let me completely give into my darkness nor, this time, into my stupidity.
Finally forcing my legs to move, I got to the stairs and made my way toward the galley.  In doing so, I passed our ship’s captain and chief mate, James and Daisy, respectively.  Upon seeing me, they bowed with proper gentility.  I should have considered more fully how the pilot and purser of our private jet were also talented sea persons who ran a glamorously refurbished ice clipper like a traditional 19th Century English country estate. But I didn’t.  Growing up as the son of a valet who served the 11th Earl of Glamorgan on the Morganwg Estate and now married to the Earl’s only child, I was used to the opulence that most people paid good money to salivate over through various versions of “The Real Housewives of Somebody’s Fairytale City”.   As I entered the galley, freshly stocked with food and cookery like a set on a Jamie Oliver show, I only needed to wonder where everything was, not if it was there.
Pretzels and my special dirty martinis were Angus’s particular weaknesses.  Funny this was as I quit drinking nearly ten years ago and the carb levels in one of my pretzels would clash with my austere workout routine that gave me that “Bruce Lee’s white brother from another mother” look.  My husband, however, could eat a pot of pasta with a tub of ice cream and still maintain a six-pack.  I, on the other hand, lived on broths and the best drug for me was pot.  Luckily hubby was still doing venture capital investments, as a ‘side hustle’ (a cute colloquialism I got from my BFF from Chicago), in two Colorado marijuana farms and a dispensary, all of which were considering a merger and a franchising the operation.  I had them breed a brand that was less focused on the “munch” and more on the “chill”. It helped me get out of my head.
My latest creation for my love was a lobster stuffed pretzel with a creamy sriracha sauce.  I had to carefully deep fry this otherwise, I’d overcook the delicate crustaceans.  My martini recipe presents as if James Bond was a blues singer - 60 milliliters of Bombay gin, not the Safire however because of its citrus overtones; 15 milliliters dry, white Vermouth, 5 milliliters teaspoon of jalapeno juice, 10 milliliters of brine, three drops of 3 Crabs Fish Sauce – the Squid brand, if you’re in a pinch.  Shake this with ice; don’t stir.    I did it in a thermos for temperature control but served it in a chilled glass with three fresh green olives.  Two of these and he’s ready for love.  At three, both of us were coming out of things sore, drenched in sweat, with torn 1200 thread Egyptian cotton sheets. 
Although my wounds were healing, carrying a tray was out of the question.  Daisy was kind enough to assist but peeked in the stateroom door before entering fully.  She was one of those quiet, downstairs servants who said nothing and saw everything – I wondered what stories she shared with James and if it helped their relationship.  No such luck this time however as Angus was still dressed in sweat pants and matching gray jersey while seated on the armoire.  “Thank you, Daisy!  Put the tray on that end table,” he said using his Dom tone.  She nodded deferentially then quietly disappeared.  The click of the closing door left me with a choice – try to pretend I was better or put aside my ratchet feelings and get over myself.  The first was a lie that he’d see through and get pissed about while the other was damn near impossible.  Luckily he gave me an out.  “Serve me, now.”
“Yes, your lordship.”  I was an inflamed but coddled Sub tied by a slave contract stapled to a ketubah, a Jewish marriage pledge, to a hungry, attentive Dom who I now wished would beat me and leave me maimed. Who knew BDSM could be therapeutic?
I poured his drink and served him, as instructed.  “Stand there until I am finished,” he added.
I held attention before him for what felt like an hour but was actually 20 minutes.  He finally finished his first pretzel and drink then pointed to the bed, waving for me to sit down.  He got the medical box my sister, Ciara - a large animal veterinarian and talented herbalist - made up for me after my hospital discharge and sat down next to me.  Putting Florence Nightingale to shame, Angus carefully removed the old bandages covering my numerous sets of stitches and applied the wretched smelling homemade cream.  I tolerated it because she swore would improve my physical recovery and trusted it because she was the best healer in Cardiff.  My body would probably have hurt less had I not insisted on discharging myself prematurely and refusing the Vicodin when offered.  But Angus’s hands were gentle and he watched closely for any grimace or cringe. 
“Wait here,” he said after applying the fresh bandages around my torso.  He ducked down and opened the drawer of the captain’s bed and removed one of our asanawa, hemp rope used in traditional Japanese Kinbaku or “tight binding”.  “Assume position,” he said plainly.  He stretched the ends of the 4mm rope to check for imperfections.  We had picked up this “habit” while vacationing in Japan before I started school. This form of BDSM infused itself into our role-playing.  The practical philosophy behind this ancient art was that the binding would evolve with the relationship.  But due to fact that studies were in America, we were often apart for months at a time and thus we were still in the early stages of adaptation.  And, it takes years for a ‘rigger’, who is usually the Dom, to learn the various rope techniques.
“Yes, your lordship,” I answered while turning around, locking each of my hands by the crook of the opposite elbow.
He assessed my positioning and once mentally establishing a satisfactory design, started applying a modified Ushiro Takatekote, or “bound hands behind the back.  “My ties will be on your wrists alone.  Your wounds reopening would not please me.”
“Thank you, your lordship.”  Angus crossed the rope over my thumbs twice then stretched them back, forming overlying intersections of rope at each wrist and working inward toward the elbow until he reached mid-way, tugging occasionally to reduce slacking.  Counterintuitively, I felt better with each twist and tie. Perhaps counterintuitive for most abuse survivors and particularly since he and I were fighting, somehow this ritual always settled the both of us.
He turned me around, his lips offering that smile of satisfaction for a job well-done. My head dropped as I felt ashamed of my earlier foolish protestations but he lifted my chin and kissed my forehead.  “I have neglected you.  I should have done this some time ago.”  I kicked off my shoes while he positioned himself on the bed.  He reached out to help me lay down with my head on his lap.  “I have one of those classic movies you love cued up,” he whispered while caressing reddish brown freshly growing curls on my head since my latest injuries.  “Alfie,” he said before he grabbed the remote for the 72”, 4K curved flat screen tellie hanging across the room.
“Jude Law?” I impertinently asked even after the 5.1 Dolby surround sound opened the story.
Angus tugged harshly at my braided tungsten slave necklace, “Are you challenging me?”
“No, your lordship.”
I felt him smile with satisfaction.  “1966, Michael Cane and Shelly Winters, directed by Lewis Gilbert who also directed three 007 movies.”  He went back to petting me and noted my heavy respiration.  “Do your relaxation breaths.  Let it go, at least for now.”
He was right, of course.  I began the an opt done routine – short, deep breath in then and extended breath out.  I did this over and over until tears swell then fell from my eyes.  When they soaked through his pant leg, he stroked my cheek.  “Thank you, your lordship,” I said.
He sighed, stuffing his natural inclination to fix things. “Let’s let it go for now and solve this little mystery of Aunt Nora’s, okay?”  Just as she had done in years past, Lady Nora was calling on us to chase some mystery on behalf of Her Majesty’s government.
“Right,” I answered.  The film’s story opened and I let the scenes flow by me.  Next I knew, I had closed my eyes, having fallen into a good sleep - restful for the first time in quite a while. 
When I woke up, the movie was over and Angus was clicking away on his mobile.  I sat up and before he could put the device down, I could see that he was reading emails.  He removed my binding.  “Katherine gave birth the other day.  Twins this time,” he said trying to present as nonchalant while wrapping and placing the rope in its particular place in the drawer with the rest of our customized sex toy collection.  “The Covington’s are due in September.”  Then, he sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly broody and wistful.
I’d swear my husband had a biological clock that rivaled a 40-year-old unmarried Evangelical Christian woman.  “Well, modern science does wonders nowadays,” I responded, sitting up and reaching for a towel to wipe my mouth.  “Maybe I can be fitted with some artificial uterus or something.”
My light-heartedness wasn’t received well.  “You wouldn’t survive the first trimester.”
I sighed.  Evidently, I’d dropped the argument as soon as the rope hit my flesh while his angst continued.  “Mate,” I countered, “I told you when we got engaged, I love kids.  I’m done with school now.  We can have as many as you like – the idea of being a stay-at-home-dad works fine for me.”
“That’s just it.  We can’t have any kids, not together at least.” 
“Is that what’s bothering you?  Think that dropping a few dollops in my ass or down my throat is wasting good sperm?  Been married to me a handful of years and you’re already going all Orthodox Haredi on me, eh?”  I shifted my position so I was sitting next to him.  He was leaning forward, balancing himself on his elbows a top of his knees.  “Trust me, I think you’ve got a bunch more left from where they came from!” I finished.
“You don’t get it.”
“Incorrect, I appreciate that there are biological barriers to having children who share both of our genetics but what I don’t get is why you put so much stock in it when there are thousands of children who need the kind of home life we can provide and there are entire national economies based on surrogacy.”
He gave me a dirty look. “Both sound horrible.”
Shit, I hate when he moralizes things like some 60s American television melodrama that needs a resolution in 48.2 minutes so it can advertise Pall Malls.  I never win when he gets like this.  It’s like that time he couldn’t decide between starting a farm to raise food for the estate because it was ecologically progressive or promote the locally sourced farmers in the surrounding area.  I didn’t push him to convert to Judaism because I was afraid he’d start reading Talmud, 1st century biblical commentary, and I’d lose him amidst arguments between Hillel and Shammai.
I smiled at him, though, my handsome man with his scrunched-up nose, irritated eyes, and furrowed brow.  I touched his shoulder so I could better read his heart and found that proper hereditary parenthood wasn’t the only thing bothering him – actually, it wasn’t the most important.
“Up deck, you were having a flashback,” he finally said.  “You haven’t had one of those in years, since before the wedding.”  He sat up and I feared his face would be awash with disgust as his intonation suddenly lacked its usual cheery fluctuations.  He noticed my apprehension when he looked back at me.  “Don’t look for trouble,” he added while rubbing the palm of his prosthetic hand.  I’m worried, that’s all.  Maybe we should’ve stopped back in London before going on this investigation.  You could have talked to Marge, let you have a few more sessions before we headed here.”
Suddenly, a different kind of worry accumulated in my throat.   “I’m so sorry.  I had no idea this would haunt me like this,” I said, trying to clear the lie, sitting like leftover bile against my tonsils, from strangling me.  “I’m not used to losing a fight.”  From young adulthood, I had studied many different martial arts and had done some amateur bouts – many thought I would do mixed martial arts, MMA, professionally but instead I got called back home when Angus’s father and my dad were murdered.  It was during that escapade that Angus lost his left hand.
“Deetz,” Angus asked, readjusting himself on the bed to lean against the headboard.  In an irritated voice, he stated, “You never told me what happened.  I get a message from Ciara to ‘come to Jerusalem immediately’ as you were ‘being taken to hospital’.  She said you’d been attacked by some gang, hit your head badly but that was all she knew.  By the time I got there, they had you in an induced coma so your brain would shrink back to normal – they weren’t certain if you’d be, well, be yourself again.  The coppers were all over it but no one would tell me much – some national security bullshit.  When you did wake and I started throwing my British government credentials around to get some answers, you waved me off, demanding I’d not make a fuss.  All this,” he shook his head, “All this time and I’ve never known all of what happened.  It’s like the abuse shit all-over again.  You’re supposed to tell me stuff like this!”
He was offended and rightfully so. “I’m sorry.  The hospital is in an Orthodox area and I was unconscious.  They had my emergency contact list from the Institute but wouldn’t have understood, accepted that you would be my primary contact, so they called Ciara.  They would only recognize her as my legitimate next of kin.”  I reached over and poured him another drink from the thermos, more for me than him.  He took it but barely drank before returning the glass back to the nightstand.  I sighed heavily and plopped up against the headboard.  “The police’s initial assumption was that the attack was an act of terrorism and you know the Israelis view any kind of Arab-on-Jew violence like it’s the precursor to the next Intifada.  Inserting your status didn’t help either as Israelis are notoriously protective of their sovereignty.” I took his origin hand and kissed his palm with tearful sincerity.  I tried to put words to what happened and why it bothered me so.  It wasn’t like some random robbery or East End gang’s roughabout.  These men saw killing me as a holy act that would halt decades of cultural eradication.  It was differently dehumanizing than the sexual abuse I experienced as a teen but familiar all the same.  Maybe Angus was right about talking to Marge.  “I can tell you now, if you’d like.”
Angus grabbed his craft basket from the drawer under the bed next to the sex toy compartment. He settled next to me and attended to my story like someone listening to BBC radio program during the War. After the amputation resulting from our encounter five years ago with a Russian xenophobic hell bent on creating Putin’s master race, a physio-therapist suggested Angus take up crocheting to improve dexterity, fine motor skills, and coordination between the two hands.  Initially, he didn’t take to it, later admitting that it “wasn’t masculine enough”.  But I convinced him to rethink his heterosexism and do it privately.  Since that time, he seemed to find the activity soothing and had completed some nice throws for our homes in London and Cardiff as well as winter hats for my sister’s kids. I noticed that his new project was taking on the shape of a baby outfit.    

“The last I saw you was after we were with Toni,” Angus said, defining the starting point.  He gave my story ample attention without eye contact as he worked each hook, tug, and loop.  He offered little more than the occasional nod or “ah”.  And as I talked, I realized three things.  One, how unworthy I thought I was to be a parent – something I was desperately trying to keep from Angus.  Two, how much danger I’d unconsciously exposed myself to during my entire time I was on internship in Israel.   And three, how complicated my relationship with Toni really was.  Once I was done telling him the story, I sheepishly admitted, “I am nothing if not a complex man.”

*************
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