Maybe a Story from the Early Days?

We (but mostly I) have been writing here and at The Swan's Heart for one heck of a long time. If my math is correct, there are 985 posts between the two places -- counting this one. I've written through times of joy, times of fear, times of anger, times of sorrow, and just about any other kind of time that you can think of. Our family has had some "times" in the years we've been writing here. In the archives of these two blogs there are all sort of bits and pieces -- some serious, some silly, some pedantic, and a few that seem sublime (and which amaze me when I stumble over them again after all this time).

Right now, I feel as if I've run out of words, and out of things to say. Life continues apace, but I am having a difficult time imagining that anyone cares about the mundane day to day business of making it all work in our little world. Each of us is busy in our career lives. There is trash to haul. There are dishes and clothes to wash. There are bills to pay and finances to tend to. Our new dietary regimen and exercise routines are fast becoming "habit," but they take up a chunk of time and energy each day. The kids (who are not kids anymore) and the grandkids are all cruising along living the lives that they are choosing for themselves. The aging parents continue to age, and to encounter all the issues and challenges attendent on "being old," and while we try to support them, we are all reminded that we are just not that far behind them.

But Blogger is a demanding task master. Once a person gets into communicating here, it starts to feel "needful" to keep the conversation going. Not posting something every now and then is a bit like getting together with friends for a meal and then sitting there without a word to offer. Rude --and a bit odd. We watch our statistics enough to know that, when the level of posting drops off (as it has in the last few weeks), the number of daily hits falls precipitously. Before too long, the old blog is tottering along on wobbly legs, barely breathing; not quite dead, but not definitively alive either.

So, the question becomes, what can we write to help resuscitate the social exchange and reassure our friends, acquaintances, and dedicated anonymous detractors that we have not expired? Maybe we could tell a story from the earliest days of our relationship that would amuse and entertain? Perhaps that would enliven things just a bit.

That is the line of reasoning that brings us to the point in our blogging lives where you, dear reader, are about to be subjected to the story of the broken thumb. Fair warning.

In the earliest part of our lives together, we were NOT together. Master and T lived in Cincinnati, and I was living some 1200 miles away in Denver. Ours was, in the beginning, and for a long while, a long distance relationship. We met online, became acquainted on a listserve where we all participated, and eventually came to meet face to face at Ohio Leather Fest. From that first shared weekend, a friendhip blossomed; and that eventually turned to love. After that first weekend event, we spent time together as we could. We traveled back and forth across the country, and shared bits and pieces of time reveling in the joy of time spent in one another's presence.

Once we acknowledged our love for one another, it was a matter of a few short months until we gathered together, all of us, to consider what the future would bring. It was during a holiday visit at the new year that we decided that I'd move from Denver to take up my life here with Master and with T.

When He and I were able to be alone together during that visit, we were crazy to get our hands on one another. Worse than any pair of teenagers, we were hungry for simple physical contact with one another. That's how it came about that, late one winter night, He and I were wrestling around on the living room floor while our respective spouses slept in their rooms down the hall.

In the flickering light of the fireplace; stirred by the promise of a time when we would no longer be separated by so many miles; completely enraptured by one another, we were filled with a lust that belied the years we each bore. For us both, the sexual side of our relationship was completely uncharted territory. Years after His diabetes diagnosis, His ability to function sexually seemed irretrievably compromised, and my experience with marital sex had been such that I did not fully comprehend the capacities of my own body to respond with sexual pleasure.

That night, for the first time, we ventured into some mutual masturbatory sex play (what we probably once would have called "heavy petting"). Lying side by side on the floor, He had me pulled in close. One hand was under the back of my head while His other hand teased and prodded me to a crashing orgasm. In the throes, I bucked and thrashed until finally, I reared up off the floor -- and then flopped back, mashing the back of my rock-hard skull squarely onto the end of His upraised thumb. He yelped and the thumb cracked. Our ardor cooled quickly after that...

It was another day or two and thevisit ended. I flew back to Denver, and we began sorting out the details of my eventual move to Cincinnati. In time, His thumb sort of healed, but it has never ever been "as good as new." Today, years later, the thumb still aches, still pops, still reminds us both of the time when we first came together in joyous intimacy.

swan