I love a strong Black Woman

This is why I love a Black woman.  She takes no shit and gives as much as you can give her.  I used to know this Black woman, back when I was doing Aikido in Chicago.  She wore her hair natural, wild, long, and nappy before it was popular.  She was ridiculously strong - beat my ass all over that dojo mat during the day and ran around the gay clubs with me at night (pulling my white, sorry, drunk ass from being the center of attention within way too many gangbangs).  She finally convinced me that the pain I was harboring was not going to be averted by ruining my liver nor would trauma survivorship come as the result of rectal prolapse.  I miss that gal - I got sober and mistook her rescuing me as love.  The first of many stupid mistakes with love.

I hope I'm not going to get things wrong with Angus.
(Angus, off in a corner, smiles then says, "I won't let you!")

Video Link: "Choose Pussy Over Pain" - A Black Woman's rage against the machine

Musing #8

   

 Since losing his left hand during our first MI-6 adventure, Angus has had a conflictual relationship with his prosthesis that impacts everything in his life, from our sexual relationship to his work in the House of Lords.  This makes sense when you are raised in a world where perfection is accepted as standard and damage of any kind is, as best, minimized or, at worst, ignored – bad things simply don’t happen to the titled.  It isn’t as if anyone, either family or society, said this to him or he grew up with rejection from school mates due to a deformity.  And the prosthesis is so technically advanced, initially you wouldn’t realize it wasn’t his flesh and muscle unless you touched it or he tried to put on a button.  But the zeitgeist of perfection that secures the lies of white male superiority are hard to sustain when your husband has to help you tie your shoes.  Paralympic celebrations and cheery physio-therapy adverts be damned - somedays it’s just easier to succumb to depression’s entreaties.