FOR ANGUS . . . 

Psst - He's a sensitive Dom after all!!!  But you didn't hear that from me.  👄👬👬👬👬👽💖💖😅😅

Dom Vulnerability from the Podcast "The Ascension"

YOU, ME, AND YOU MAKE THREE

This is a draft of an excerpt from the upcoming second in the Glamorgan Progeny series.  Let me know what you think in the comments section.  Thanks for reading!

I was sitting on the wicker chair with a few papers, books, and mobile scattered across the matching coffee table.  It was a damp, early winter day and I could sense the greenhouse’s residents breathing and talking to one another – I am psychically sensitive like that.  I had been working on a drash, a biblical interpretation, to justify critical points in my article for Tikkun magazine.  I am Desmond Mac Innes-Reese, 1^st Viscount of Glamorgan.  Close friends call me Deetz.  I am a rabbi over a small but growing Welsh congregation that was gaining some international statue because of its unapologetically progressive politics.  We were a welcoming space for Jewish misfits ostracized by more traditional settings.

I stood up, stretched, and sighed at my lack of progress in light of the lateness of the day.  The moon was nice though and I found myself missing my husband of six years, Angus Reese, the 12^th Earl of Glamorgan.  He is an MP representing Cardiff in the House of Commons and currently away on diplomatic business.  He's been gone for two weeks.  The Crown often presses him into secret diplomatic service because of his grasps of multiple languages – a big advantage during high stakes negotiations.  He wasn’t due back until tomorrow.  We are quite ‘close’ and I’ve been missing the feel of his body against mine.  If asked, Angus would claim he wasn’t gay but then again, neither am I.

I walked over to the samovar to get some more tea, reckoning on a few more minutes of work before I went to bed.  Sipping at the hot brew, I looked out to the rest of the garden, bits of snow dusting the bushes which surrounded the ancestral estate.  Remodelling of the mansion was nearly over and our entire clan of reprobates had settled throughout it.  We were related by deeds and blood, having saved one another’s lives more times than we cared to remember and in ways 007 wouldn’t have dreamed of.  But that’s another story . . .

I started back to my seat when I felt a rustling behind me.  I turned around and Mr Handsome appeared like someone teleporting from Blake’s 7 Liberator.  More likely he flew our jumbo, private jet.  “Oi!  You’re home early!”  Ah, finally a legitimate excuse to stop working.  And what an excuse Angus was.  He still looked like a model off the cover of an Arthurian romance novel - long-hair, beard, and all.  Whereas he is buff, I’m slight and tight, like Bruce Lee’s brother from another mother.  We both have random Oriental and Welsh tattoos all over our bodies, only I have a tree of life brand that lights up when I get emotional.  Luckily I was no longer in puberty where burning a hole in my shirt was embarrassingly commonplace.  “Things must have gone well, eh?”

“Right,” he said in a low growl.  He came into the light.  I noted how his suit was wrinkled and his hair was untied.  “I’ve crossed three datelines to get to you.”  He looked a bit wild, his grey-green eyes were dark, glaring at me with a smouldering intensity.  He placed his suitcase on a nearby chair unceremoniously and walked to the middle of the room, hands behind his back.  “Come here.”  I looked at him incredulously.  “Now.”

ALL TIED UP

Angus arrived at my suburban Philadelphia flat an hour after my last final and handcuffed me to water pipe above my head, near the sink.  He took the cup of tea I’d prepared for him earlier and inhaled a thirsty man’s a sip.  “Ah, still warm and quite tasty!” he said referring to the cup warmer I’d purchased a few days earlier for just such occasions.  I’m a prized slave because I always think ahead, anticipate his Grace’s needs.  When you grow up the son of a valet, you learn tricks for keeping your master happy.  I provide much better service, in many ways than any of the women Angus ever dated - in and out of the bedroom, the beach, the backroom at The Eagle, or the closet on the fourth floor of the estate – yeah, I said closet.

Angus Mac Innes-Reese, the 12th Earl of Glamorgan looked like he just walked off the cover of a best-selling romance.  A solid 6’2”, dark brown hair with green eyes, typically dressed in Miami casual with hair tied in man bun, with Druidic symbols tattooed irregularly on his arms, legs, and stomach, Angus was once the most eligible bachelor on four continents.  Rich, titled men are always welcomed on the market.  Mothers threw their daughters at him and, at that time, he was more than willing to drink the milk.  Then I came along and showed him another way.  We'd married little more than three years now.   How did I do that?  What’s the secret of turning a straight guy gay?  He's not gay but then that's another story.

I’m not gay either – the word that fits best is “pansexual” or someone who would love and fuck anything that moves.  Ever since that emotionally unavailable creature society labelled as my father found me in my twin bed with the stable boy and the daughter of a local wealthy banker, I have felt no shame in who I choose to love or screw with.  I left home and secured this moniker while abroad.  I lived in Thailand while studying martial arts and sleeping with Lady Bois.  Before that, I lived in San Francisco with my boyfriend who loved rimming and my blowjobs.  And before that, I travelled between BDSM clubs and events in Chicago with my BFF Toni.  I was drinking heavily then so, though I was madly in love with her, she spent much of that time rescuing me from various forms of violent sexual debauchery.  Now I choose to be married to this person, Angus, and now my label is “Viscount”. 

Not that I’m a bad catch either.  From the neck down, I’m Bruce Lee to Angus’s Cary Grant.  I have a mess of Japanese symbols and words tattooed around my body along with a brand on my back that sparkles whenever I am aroused.  When I was a teen, that damn thing would burn more holes in my school shirts, particularly in Ms. Edwards’ fourth hour – that woman had an ass I still dream about.  From the neck up, my brown hair and topaz eyes are rather nondescript though with my curls growing out, I was looking less mean and more like the cute boy from the local yeshiva, a Jewish religious school.   Angus had me grow out my hair – I’m sure you know why.

Angus leaned against the sink while taking the measure of my flat.  “We could still get you a maid.”  I love how the superrich always talk in third person – as if to pay homage to all the minions who actually do the work.

“I won’t be able to find anything afterwards,” I replied.

“How do you find anything now?” he teased.  Angus took another big sip from his cup, the steam warming him on this wintery day.  He changed the subject and avoided eye contact when he asked, “How bad have the flashbacks been this time?”

“Who knew you could binge-watch trauma!?” I replied.

“How often?  How many?”

I weakly tried to put him off again.  “Less than when I was last home but more often than I would like.”  That’s the bad thing about sharing your life with someone, you can’t stop sharing ‘cause your partner will just keep asking.  “I need to figure out how to do my morning prayers and 15 minutes of mindfulness meditation – I’ll be better organized next term.”
 
He let that slide, sorta.  “Second-year rabbinical student with a bachelor’s in philosophy and physics and a current GPA of,” he glanced at my computer screen on a nearby counter which was to my school profile, “4.3 – please, you’re overworked if you ask me.”  Angus walked to his duffle bag and pulled out something red, black, and shiny.  “But I have the cure for all those bad thoughts, insecurities, and self-recriminations.”  Under the direct light of the efficiency apartment’s kitchen, I recognized the object more readily.

I returned to form.  “You have always said I talk too much, you Grace.”

He fit the ball gag in my mouth and secured the leather belt in the back of my head just above the neck.  “If only this shut off your brain,” he sighed.  “Oi! Such bad behaviour!”  He checked the handcuffs then looked down at my ankles, likely considering whether or not to bind them.  “I’ll do them later,” he mumbled.  “You do understand that your suffering comes from failing to follow my instruction, eh?  These two weeks off from school will be an opportunity for me to boost your training – that ought to quiet those nerves of yours, end those silly nightmares.”

Angus and I started this form of “play” the night before our wedding when he put my cock in a male chastity harness.  While guests danced to some wedding DJ’s idea of music, he fucked me in a bathroom on the 2nd floor our home in Cardiff, Wales, the Morganwg Estate.  With my dick constrained, I had the best anal orgasm of my life.  Lovely.  Since then our sex play moved into Japanese rope tying, often referred to as kinbaku, I’d found a peaceful relaxation that I heretofore never knew existed.  Kinbaku, or ‘beautiful bondage’, is an aesthetic form of sadomasochism. The goal is to create an eye-pleasing display by the positioning of the body and the construction of the knots.  Although he is rather laid back in most ways, when it comes to money and sex, Angus is Machiavelli if that man had OCD.  He likely had the sex for the whole weekend outlined like an event planner on a tight schedule.  He often said he knew when the binding was right.  “It’s the only time your mind comes close to silence.”  He was right about that.  If he hadn’t married me, I’d hire him to do this – a once a week, a sort of 'Lunch with Rope'.

“It’s chilly in here,” Angus grumbled and went to the thermostat.  The radiators clang as the steam entered them and they pushed out additional heat.  He walked back to me and started methodically undoing my clothes.  Tossing my trousers on the nearby couch, he exclaimed, “Mate!  Going all commando now, are we?”

All I could do was nod my head.  Smiling is difficult when you have a ball gag in your mouth.  I knew he’d be pleased I’d properly dressed dick with the new harness he got me for Yule.  Angus isn’t what anyone would call ‘religious’ but was raised, as were all of us who lived at the estate, to have more than a healthy respect for the old ways.  As the representative of the Glamorgan clan in a mixed marriage, our house had was a strange hodgepodge of Jewish tradition and Druid sensibility.  Chanukah presents meant 150,000 euro donations to 8 different children’s organizations while I got a dick harness for winter solstice.  A win-win for everyone, I thought.

The muscle boy cage had arrived with a note that said, “Prepare for my arrival” with the implicit direction not to touch myself.  He didn’t want me distracted from my finals by masturbating. 

He rubbed his hand up and down my caged unit and moaned in my ear, “Mmm, now what should I do with you?”  He stared at me, biting his lower lip as he does while tracing his finger against the exposed skin between the bars.

I tried not to move, not respond to his lingering touch.  I tried not to move but was being overcome by longing.  I tried not to rub myself against his palm but my waist must not have gotten the text.  I’d only mouth the words ‘I love you’ to Angus three times – at our wedding, once when I thought he was near death, and after a year plus long break up.  It’s just our way, I guess.  Why bother with words when your body doesn’t lie?  And right now my whole body was passing a lie detector test with flying colours.

He abandoned my cock, licked his pointer finger, started playing with my left nipple with a feather-like, circular massage.  He raised one eyebrow before announcing, “Someone on the online group posted an instructional video of a variation on the Kômon Sarashi Shibari technique.” 

I gave an affirming nod.

He offered a hesitant smile as if he was about to break from play.  Angus turned away to retrieve something from his duffle before I could read his expression further.   But I didn’t need my clairsentient powers (yeah, a psychic rabbi – but that’s another story) to know what crossed his mind.  He knew where the line was.  It was agreed upon when we started down this road.  Yet, this limitation continued to be a source of disappointment for him.  When I talked to Toni, who’s a psychologist, she said he probably fears that it is a reflection of my commitment to him in general, that complete surrender here represents me giving myself up fully to the marriage and I’m afraid to do that.  She’s probably right.  She usually is.

Angus laid out his tools on the kitchen alcove like a doctor preparing for surgery.  A bag with three types of restraint apparatus – 1/2-meter-wide of silk rope to affix to my body and ¼-meter-wide harsher hemp rope for my asshole and balls, 5cm wide bondage tape for nipples - safety scissors for quick release, and a special mixture of shea butter with sandalwood, his favorite scent, because he took great pride in keeping my skin pristine.  He stood back a moment to study is wares, a devilish grin creeping across his face.  But he was very contained, no hint of arousal except a thin mist of sweat on his forehead.  A good dom was laser-focused on the needs of the sub and its the dom’s duty to bring freedom and pleasure to his lover.  Angus’s pleasure came from watching me lose my mind in his hands.  We’ve had sessions that lasted nearly 24 hours and he never took his clothes off, never got a hard-on, and only touched me through an application of the rope.  He was taught over four years by one of the best doms in Europe, who happened to also have been my therapist but that too is from another story.

I had started shaking slightly, either from the excitement or the arctic weather seeping through the single pane apartment windows.  Angus studied me again then squinted and decided, “I will leave you uncovered for now.  You have become haughty and need a lesson – your life is cold without my care.” 

I nodded then lowered my eyes.

“Good,” he affirmed.  “Then let’s get started.”  He took the suave and began applying it to my feet.  “I spent these last two weekends at Sensei Yukimura Haruki retreat.” Haruki was a world renown Japanese bondage artist.  We received private training from him when we first started.  Since then Angus had reached out to him whenever he felt stuck in his designs or technique, which coincided, ironically, with ups and downs of our marriage.  Funny thing that.

I closed my eyes.  A moment later, the sound of the paddle against my right butt cheek was more startling than the slap was painful.  “Pay attention!” Angus ordered, like a Black mother in the grocery store with two hungry kids.  He stared at me as a reminder that I didn’t have permission yet to enjoy this and to do so would be considered disrespectful, like premature ejaculation.  After his pause, he squatted down and returned to prep my body.

The suave he applied was creamy, more ointment than lotion.   Its formula also included a warming element that made the cold areas on my body colder, as if the warmth of my left foot came from robbing my right one.  As he moved up to my legs and knees, the previously massaged spots cooled too increasing the heat of upcoming sections but leaving the previous ones feeling abandoned.  “It’s like our weekly Facetime, eh?” he said as he moved up.  He pressed his hands against my inner thighs until I stood shoulder feet length apart, this way avoiding my cock and balls.  “It’s the let down at the end when you hang up after it’s over.  You had been so high, lost before you dialled in the anticipation which makes you drop so much further when it’s all over.”

I miss you too, . . . terribly.

“But it’s good for you too, eh?”  He said as he reached around to work the cream around my ass.  “The longing teaches self-control, does it not?”  He stood up completely as his fingers tapped against the very bottom of my mid-back.  My respiration rate steadily increased.  He leaned into me, letting his fingers move toward my crack, eventually brushing against my hole in a circular motion that would normally have had me swimming in ecstasy.    My heart pounding, he pushed inside while groaning something in French in my ear.  He nibbled on the lobe and I screamed.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t the loud, gasping groan of a toe-curling, ‘little death” that starts in your soul then ripples through your body in all directions.  

TO BE CONTINUED

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 . . ?

Watch this video!

Now go and check out this video.  This shit is amazing!

Happy New Year Fans!

Angus and I deeply appreciate all the love and support we've received from ya'll.  I'm looking forward to my biographer's publication of the next installment, Project Iceworm: a human marriage in three parts, coming in June 2018 - in time for pride celebrations all over the world.  Until then, enjoy this quick video:
Latest Video

Sale has been extended!

Everything you know about Roswell is wrong.  There was a crash from the sky.  There was a government cover-up.  And yes Timmy, there are aliens.  But the truth about Roswell isn’t just in the White House, but runs through Moscow, 10 Downing Street, then lands at Morgannwg, a country estate outside of Cardiff in Wales, and onto the lap of Deetz Mac Innes.  Deetz, a skilled martial artist and clairsentient, would rather be anywhere else but Morgannwg – too many bad memories and unresolved longings.  A phone call from his sister and his father’s murder changes everything and now resolving the discrepancies between official records and double crosses become his central focus – well, those and not falling in love.

Amazon Book Sale Now Until 12/18

Another video post for my biography

‘Who’s the Boss?’

 Another interpretation of things by Angus as referenced in The Roswell Discrepancy

(for those of you who recognize the American TV show title, check out the lyrics to the show’s intro song, “Brand New Life” - http://www.metrolyrics.com/whos-the-boss-lyrics-brand-new-life-by-larry-carlton-robert-craft-martin-cohan-and-blake-hunter.html)

Deetz aroused him beyond madness, leading Angus to wonder if a man could be ‘dick whipped’.  Pressed against a painted brick wall, his hands supernaturally tied to some random over-head pipe bulging above him, Angus also wondered if the similarly positioned couples and threesomes around him in Buddies Bar’s Dungeon space felt as dizzy, crazy tormented as he was right now.  His pelvis pushed out, dick just inside Deetz’s mouth, Angus was certain that he would do anything to keep this going – keep it going now, tomorrow, and likely forever.  Angus didn’t want to cum, even right before he did, as much as he wanted to be a Madeline truffle at the back of Deetz’s throat.

New Book Rising

Old Musing # 67

You know your life sucks when your morning hard on makes you depressed. 

TORCHWOOD FANFICTION – Ianto and the New Year’s Eve Snowstorm

I once kneeled in shaking thrill

I chase the memory of it still, of every chill

Chided by that silence of a hush sublime

Blind to the purpose of the brute divine

But you were mine

Staring in the blackness at some distant star

The thrill of knowing how alone we are, unknown we are

To the wild and to the both of us

I confessed the longing I was dreaming of

Some better love, but there's no better love

Beckons above me and there's no better love

That ever has loved me, there's no better love

Darling, feel better love

Feel better love

-    “Better Love” as sung by Hozier

I was lucky to make it back to my flat.  Between revelers and the 35cm of snow that had already fallen, streets were blocked and buses were running an hour behind schedule.  I caught Mrs. Fletcher before she closed up to get a few provisions, thinking I wouldn’t get out for at least a day.  “It’s a right mess, eh Mr. Jones?” she was an always cheery middle-aged lady.  “And they said we’re supposed to get at least another 40 cm more !”  She finished bagging my juice, eggs, shredded cheese, bacon, steak cutlets, and pinto beans and said, “A handsome man like you!  Have some cutie to kiss at the stroke of midnight?”

“Leave him alone, Mother.  Stop being so nosy!” joking nagged her husband as he came in from the back room.  “You’re always trying to couple people.”

“It’s okay, really,” I said trying to at least grin.  “I’ve been working hard since Christmas.  I’m looking forward to some peace and rest for a day or two.”

Mr. Fletcher nodded then thought for a moment before stopping me from turning around.  “Mr. Jones?”  He motioned me back to the counter.  “Hold on a moment.  I think I have something to take the chill off ya.”  He got a ladder and climbed up to a top shelf then came down with a dark green cylinder.  “This ought to make for a nice toast.  Before I married this wonderful woman, I lean on it a time or two.”  He put the Glenlivet in a decorative bag with “Happy New Year!” on the outside and handed it to me.  “You’re a good customer and, If I know people, and I do, you’re a good man.  I’m certain someone right will come along for ya very soon.”  He smiled at me kindly, trying to loan me some of his confidence.  “Enjoy your holiday, even if it is alone.”  He almost made my current misery seem heroic.

Fucking in the Rain by Candlelight

Normally, if I give my husband a good, mind-bending blowjob before telling him difficult news, it eases things and I’m likely to get my way – you know, a spoon full of sugar and all that.  However, I didn’t get a chance this time.  Here I was lying, rather lusciously I might add, in a king size bed, Egyptian cotton sheets carefully framing my tight Bruce Lee fit body, as inviting as any £6000 an hour courtesan could.  But instead of coming into the bedroom of our London townhouse, eyes popping from hunger (we had just been apart for three straight months while I was finishing rabbinical school in America) and mouth-watering (fresh pretzels, his favorite food, steaming on the nightstand next to the bed), he entered in with eyes red from anger and a mouth twisted in disappointment.  He dropped the half-completed application for a doctorate program at my feet so hard, I thought they’d sheared off my toes.  “I’ll be at my club,” he declared before storming out. 

Prayers

Desmond “Deetz” Mac Innes was starting his morning prayers and wondered if Hashem, one of the many names Jews used to describe the supreme being, would mind that he was naked while engaging in such a revertant activity.  I suppose it’s nothing She or He hasn’t seen before, Deetz said to himself.  In his rather bare private room in Churton Place, the London townhouse he shared with his husband and several members of their MI-6 special sections spy crew, Deetz lost himself in many activities – from yoga to Tai Chi, Zen Buddhist meditation to Druidic cleansing rituals, and from reading Spinoza to contemplating the words of Hillel.  After clipping to his tightly curled dark brown hair the beige yarmulke knitted by his younger sister for his 29^th birthday, he had to first rub the front of his scalp where Angus had pulled just a little too hard while fucking him last night – sometimes newbies just lose control of the situation and things get out of hand.   Deetz would talk to him about it later.  For now, the drafty air foretelling of an early winter snow storm made him reconsider nudity and he grabbed the pair of pants and tee shirt lazily draped over an old stuffed chair that would have been less out of place in someone’s 15^th Century castle.

Angus found me a date at a cocktail party Part 2

The Portobello was a charming Notting Hill hotel with charming interiors and an accurate Victorian style.  Many of the ‘rich and famous’ spent time there thus the staff know to turn a blind eye to the comings and goings of their guests, as well who their guests come and go with.  Plus, since some winning Univision band stayed there, all the rooms now had sound reduction equipment.  I could make this woman squeal at the top of her lungs and even the pigeons on the window sill wouldn’t hear her.

Angus finds me a date at a cocktail party - Part 1

“Doesn’t it bother you when he does that?” Whitfield discreetly whispered under the chatter of the surrounding cocktail party guests.

“Does what?” I asked, already knowing to what he was referring.

“Flirts with women like that!” answered my former physics professor turned friend and returning crew member for our most recent MI-6 assignment.  “It’s rather salacious, don’t you think Deetz?  I mean the whole Crown knows you and Angus are married some four years now.  Won’t this give the appearance that there is ‘trouble in paradise’?”

Tad Whitfield, albeit older and certainly smarter than I when it came to science and engineering, was a complete idiot when it came to relationships – in part due to a descriptive diagnosis of Asperger’s – but I relished his concern.  “For Angus, flirting is like Olympic fencing.  And unlike an Errol Flynn movie, nothing real untoward is going to happen.”  I put my glass of water and lemon on a nearby coffee table, only to straighten and to look down at Whitfield’s scrunched up nose. 

Love Comes at the Strangest Moments, Pt 2

    Ciara returned from walking Velvel to find Angus sitting at the Churton Place, the London townhouse, kitchen counter slumped over a cold cup of bad tea dressed in mixed matched workout clothes.  “Slept with my brother again, eh?”  Velvel rounded Angus’s ankles, sniffed the man’s ass, nodded it’s head and pranced off to his crate.

    Angus gave the dog a frown to avoid eye contact with Ciara.  “What of it?” he snapped.

    “Well,” she retorted, taking the mug from his hands and dumping the contents in the nearby sink, “I hope at least my brother’s skills deserve a better morning after welcome than whatever you just put in that cup!”  She shook her head teasingly and retrieved an infuser and some herbs from a sealed container from the overhead cabinet.  She put the kettle on and turned around toward him to affectionately rest her hand on his shoulder.  But before her fingers got close to the top of his brown tee shirt, Angus nearly leaped out of his skin.

    “Aw!” He looked at her like someone afraid of being tickled.

    Initially, she looked at his withdrawn stance – as if he was a man with no skin – with incredulousness.  Then, although she didn’t have the extrasensory skills with humans like Deetz did, she had enough understanding of Angus to realize what had happened.  She squinted at him then said, “He touched you, touched you in a way you don’t know what to do with.  I’m right, aren’t I?”

Look What You've Done to Me

My girl in Detroit rights sweet Torchwood fanfiction.  You can catch her stuff at A03 under the name "HippyChick1964".  Enjoy!

Chapter 1

Hope they never end this song

This could take us all night long

I looked at the moon and I felt blue

Then I looked again and I saw you

-          “Look What You’ve Done to Me” as sung by Boz Scaggs

“That’s what I love about Torchwood,” Ianto said sarcastically nodding his head, as he and the others dutifully followed Jack’s instructions to conduct the “retcon” clean-up of Gwen’s wedding reception.  “By day, chasing the scum of the universe.  Come the night, you’re the wedding fairy.”  While Owen swept up the last alien remnants and Toshiko prepared then place party favors before each guest – Jack’s idea of leaving them thinking that they’d passed out due to too much champagne – Ianto took care of the caterers and their crew.  Although it was a wedding, a typically festive occasion or, at least with some booze, a tolerable one, but Ianto Jones was irritated.

No, actually he was jealous.  Ianto’s eyes didn’t miss the way Jack looked at Gwen while they danced together.  Ianto’s ears, as he had very good hearing, heard how Jack convinced Gwen that she was making the best choice, to the sadness of both of them.  And Ianto’s heart did not miss Jack’s reluctance to let go of Gwen when Ianto got enough guts to cut in.  Knowing that you were someone’s second choice, after pizza, was painful, even if he wasn’t in love.

Musing #7865

Angus was right, of course - as usual.  “I’ve never seen such sadness and longing in someone’s face as I did you while you masturbated into that screen.”  He sighed deeply then sucked in cleansing air. Letting it out slowly, he continued, “Mate.  All you had to do was ask, tell me and I will be here, come like I have now.  I will always come, we can always be here for one another.  But, I need you to ask, tell me. I don’t have powers like you.  I can’t read your mind.  I need you to give me your thoughts.  I won’t assume them again.”  Have you ever noticed how the truth hurts more when it comes from someone you know loves you?

Okay, here’s the background.  I am a seminary student at a school in Wyncote, Pennsylvania, about 10 miles north of central Philadelphia, U.S.A.  Why is a Welsh Jew studying in America instead of Europe?  It is a long story, having to do with my sister Ciara’s connection to the leader of this small but powerful progressive Jewish denomination – one that stems from the idea that evolved from its spiritual leader, Rabbi Mordechai Kaplan, that “the past has a vote, not a veto”.  Although Reconstructionists have roots in the States, its welcoming, egalitarian theological approach that believes "[i]nnovation need not entail the destruction of tradition; on the contrary, change is an important part of keeping a tradition alive, as it has been throughout Jewish history.  As the world changes faster, Judaism must be reconstructed ever more quickly if its wisdom is to continue to guide us."*  It spoke to me as I tried to return to faith, feeling blessed that I had found the love of my life – the 12th Earl of Glamorgan, Angus Reese.

Musing #45 – What is Angus thinking?

Angus looked for a late-night solace in the Morganwg estate’s kitchen.  A commoner would find looking for a snack there was like trying to find a healthy fixing in a mall food court.  But Angus grew up in Morganwg, knew the redesigned 19th Century cupboards and cold storage places like an archeologist in Giza.  And he was looking for something familiar, cozy, and comfortable because he was about to do something new, strange, and frightening.  He was about to marry his BFF - a man from his childhood - and Angus Reese, the 12th Earl of Glamorgan was not gay.

Ciara Mac Innes – the sister of his betrothed - was the familiar with the kitchen as well, as she was a ward to the Earl’s great aunt, Lady Nora.  Finding Ciara busily moving about in the kitchen offered Angus the familiar part – she was always there or at her cottage, Redrow, not far from the estate, just past the Druidic gardens where he and her brother played as children and talked into the late night as young teens.  “What has you up this late?” she asked, not startled by his presence.  “I was about to put the kettle on.”