Chapter 1

I’m a man. A father. A son. A partner and lover. A friend. Weekend athlete. A reader. Aspiring documentary photographer. Business owner. And a service submissive. I never thought id say that as a combination, and I’m not sure when I realized when I became such, but I am marked now. And have passed a threshold, of which there is no return.

6 years ago, my life was a never-ending stress of ‘landing planes’ and meeting deadlines. I was conflicted, frustrated. At home, I was not unhappy, just not happy. I seemed to roll form one situation to another without ever catching my breathe or having the peace of perspective. It was all my own doing, chasing something scripted by a part of me that conformed and made choices on my behalf and which another part was then not heard. I ached for someone to just make it all go away.

Whilst there was much good in me, the reality is, I was lost and not a great guy. Whilst others thought highly of me, I knew better. I just couldn’t face it. Outwardly, my life to others seemed marked by some success and fulfillment. Though, on my own, in a quiet room, I could not sit still. I could not quell the ache that would have me masturbate and finger my gullet, as a placebo for connection. With others I could not just be, listen. Receive others. Somehow, I had to proactively manage situations and say something of value. I couldn’t just be irreverent and okay.

I felt guilty for being out of integrity with the commitments I had made but was not keeping. I felt if I broke my life, to pursue something I could not even define. I was not sure I could survive the consequences let alone the shame and guilt. The years of value swept away, undone. Yet, I could not contain my ache. Mondays were hardest. I stayed in a nether-place, suppressed, putting energy into my cycling, social groups and work.

This was not an overnight situation. I had grown up white and entitled, even though I seemed progressive. I, bias around race, disguised as conversations about class. I was mildly homophobic, and yet no one knew the cocks I had sucked and gagged on in dark, hurried moments. In my twenties, a 3 month girlfriend opened me to a world of kink. At first I rebelled in both shame and disgust. and then somehow months later after she had left, I craved what she put in front of me. Growing up Roman Catholic and in the era of macho, these things gave me shame. And yet I fell upon them like a sword of my own fate. Though, somehow, I always thought I was better. Somehow I always though I could control this.

In vanilla relationships I would hide this part of me, only fort it to come out and sabotage my life. I just couldn’t do it again. I went into some kind of slow, dark container of my own making. I knew I was weak. I just feared letting go to another, and yet I craved that very thing. At a conference in Sandton, I was paired with 3 others in a group exercise. On the surface of it, I seemed to emerge as the leader. Though, she looked at me. In a way that made me look away. And yet look back. It over powered my focus, I forgot my words. My mind raced for a reason to ask her number. Though, I did not.

Chapter 2

At the Hotel that evening, I dreaded going up to my room. I knew the dark would swallow me and I would ache for connection and become so desperate. As I passed the bar getting some extra milk for coffee, I saw her. She saw me.

The French say a glance can be a lifetime affair. Her eyes, her look; it’s a moment I can never forget. It’s a moment that never ended. A nuance of a smile, there I stood looking at her, she at me.

I walked over, awkward but somehow, I knew I could not leave. I knew she could see my wedding band. Like always, I just accepted this would be a greeting, a moment to treasure. “Sit”, she said. I did, my belly a soft snake of warmth.

We spoke. spoke more. She listened as I filled the space. To stave off the drum of desire pulsing through my cognitive faculty. She listened. And then leaned over, ordering us both a drink and said, “You can just sit with me, you don’t need to say anything” I have a twitch that happens when I’m unsettled and beyond myself. It began

“Breathe, just breathe”

And then, “Now do you want to ask me what you really want to ask me?

Chapter 3

Sometime around 4am, I lost my anal virginity to Her. Face down, sighing deeply and saying her name, as her gloved hand touched a part of me that had so longed. I came, spurting over the sheets and my belly. As I slipped from delirium to sleep, I held her hand and asked her not to leave. And she did not.

I awoke with her warm against me, moist between us. her musk thick, her voice dusky. I held her hoping she would not leave. and she did not.

We spoke and spoke more. We showered together and I made coffee. We moved about each other in silence and I thought perhaps this would be a sweet episode I would cherish and eventually ache from as the cold reality of life in Cape Town hit me.

She asked what time my flight was. Where I stayed. Did I want to see her again. She knew the answer. But I knew I also had to own it. I understood somehow that this was important.

I began to retreat into my shell, knowing I somehow needed to maintain, and transition and forget this moment. Forget her. Put this all back in the box. Let this be the lifetime that it was.

At a point, I dropped my chin, and my eyes went reflectively inward, it just all, was sinking in. She kissed me. her lips warm and fluid, melding into mine. and I couldn’t let her go. I couldn’t.

I brought my weight above her, as she slipped under me knowingly, goading-ly; her eyes fixated on to me, into me. I entered her, thicker than I ever remember being in past years. To the hilt, her moist caked into mine.

In my marriage, I had for years cum prematurely. I had made peace with it and accepted my position and fate. Yet here, with her, I found equilibrium. Cohered, as one. Her thighs wrapped me into her warm nest. I bore down my weight with intensity, stroke upon stroke, knowing I would cum deep in her, with care. I wanted to leave me in her, even if it remained only a spiritual silver chord that remained.

I came, our eyes still in union, still dancing with no words, but knowing.

I knew then, this could not end. I could not end this. Should not end it.

Chapter 4

But, it did end, ...…and we went our separate ways, back to our lives.
Went home. A sparkle in my eye, calm in my belly.

Till it sunk in that I was an on boat leaving a beautiful shore, without the ability to make it go back. Or rather, I had the ability, but was too fearful or conflicted to row the oars and reverse direction. On such a moment would I blow up my life?
Each day that shore became more distant, till I feared I could not see her face anymore.

3 weeks passed
And then I reached out. I needed to see Her

Chapter 5

We spoke, by phone. The warm honey of her voice found a place in my fractured soul.

I found myself secretly aching for a future I felt inadequate for; so, displaced from my current trajectory. I told myself these were simply just fantasy and projections. Projections I certainly had no right to place upon her. Even though she was the flint that lit our fire.

Nevertheless, we spoke. For I could not but do so, such was her silver chord into my belly. Truth is, if she had asked, I’d have eaten from her hand; she was the lock, and I was the key.

One evening after a deep conversation by phone with her, I could not sleep. When eventually I was able to, I must have humped as she came to me in my dreams. Even though ultimately, I was sub to her, in these dreams, my assertive masculinity held and mounted her; made love to her in way that left tender spots and light bruises. As we met each other through our eyes, I came deep within her warm swollen folds, seeding her with intent. As one coalesced being, we fell asleep.

I dreamt that she called me in the morning to tell me she was still leaking from our coitus. I said both thank you, and I’ll do it again. and again. And throughout this I had a knowing that I was still tethered by her, led by her, belonging to her, in service to her. As such as I walked beside her, I gave my trust and core to her to mould me into a better man.

By conversation, we shared things we value. The way we see life. I was touched that she sat with and saw me and reflected things back to me. I struggled to have faith in this, to trust it.
As it was habitual with me then, I looked inward and felt less that I could not offer her the things she deserves. Not just the material ones, for I knew she has her own life, profession and money, she wasn’t looking for mine. But more than this, the energy, future and fullness of what she needed from a man. I felt in time she would see my insecurities and flaws in such a way that she we would lose respect for me, and I would be no better than other men who wished to be met by her deep river.

After 4 weeks, she asked me to come back to Johannesburg. She asked me to make certain commitments. She made her intent clear. She shared her end game. The ‘whole nine yards’, she said.

It meant a lot to me that she said that, owned it, and told me. It felt normal and at the same time it freaked me out and saddened me. My fear was that at my age, having kids again was something I was not sure I could manage. and then I found myself once again thinking, slow down, you may not even like each other.

My business and life were crashing. everything seemed to be quickening, and somehow in painful slow motion. I felt, like my life had become small and limited, operating off an ever-reducing patch of choice. Inexorably I was locked into a prison of my own making, falling off an edge with no wings. Or so I believed.

So, in the cold morning light of a November day, I did what I believed I must. What I hated to do. I broke it off in what felt like they greyest letter I had ever written. I posted it before I could stop myself. I took ages to stand up from my laptop after clicking send.

For several days I was numb. I became sad and angry. Detached. To be the one that cuts out your own heart to save others, is not heroic. Rather, a part of you dies, if not all. The viscera take time to numb into a keloid, from which there is no return.

For a year, I got on with life. I even tried to enjoy it. I leaned in. Set new goals and focused on a new direction. 99% of my day looked forward, with acceptance somehow. A life that would end finally accepting the finite remains of my fate. And make the best of it. Yet each day I’d look at the profile, and for a brief moment and feel, how much I missed someone I didn’t yet know.

Chapter 6

I still cannot explain it in words. I had come to Johburg for work, the first time in nearly a year to the day.
I was based in Bryanston, not my favorite place. Beyond the casino, its traffic, broken pavements and faceless people are covered in a layer of bland. At night it’s a contrast of dark spaces suitable for mugging, and neon that sucks the cash out of an economically desperate population.

I’d just had the kind of day where I went beyond my glass prison. Said things my normally diplomacy would not allow. I arrived at the hotel and thought, fuck it. Fuck it.

And so, I messaged. I just messaged her. I knew it was likely futile. She was probably with someone. Better. Happy. She was not the kind of person to suffer a fool, certainly not twice. I felt the pain of knowing I had maybe missed the most beautiful person of my life. Assuming failure, I switched in CNN.

Chapter 7

It’s been 6 years and a bit since that night
I sit in the kitchen, sipping my coffee. Its early, just after 6am. Inside, she sleeps peacefully. The first light of this Spring morning filters through the oak blinds. It’s quiet, save the chatter of birds outside. The mornings are a time I have to reflect, to take in the moment. Train. Set myself up for the day.

I reflect on a journey which I would never have envisaged, nor predicted. Nor known was possible. If it were only up to me, I doubt it would have happened.

We now share a bed and a life. We have built a home, Traveled. I still run and cycle. We holiday in a lush part of the country with family. In many ways our live is routine and peaceful. Private.

But at the beginning, and for quite some time my life was a cluster-fuck. More than that actually. Everything blew up in ways I could not mitigate or control. I still regret so many of my past choices. Integrity matters to me, but I had put myself in a position of not making courageous choices or at least asking for what I needed. Hindsight is 2020, and it’s not worth of a pat on the back.

These past years since, have required my humility, acceptance and trust.
I came to understand that I can be on my knees, plugged, gagging on her strap on and that at the same time, I can also be her rock; hold her on sad days and bear my weight into her. That labels are just labels, what matters is the trust and love between two people who are willing to explore their bond rather than societies, one that they live up to.

We are in many ways a couple of contrasts. In age, In culture and background. A Latin man and a Zulu woman. Politically different though in social justice we agree. We still hold hands in the mall. She has my trust and I’ve given her decision making in several areas of my life. We speak on many things. A good night for us is at home, on the couch, reading our novels. A good day is a top hill in Mpumalanga, breathing in the moist rich air of her ancestors. For her birthday, I took a spit-roasting from a black gay couple and she watched on. After we made love till early morning. 9 Months later little Tumi Grace was born. To us these contrasts are harmony and peace.

I made peace with my own fuck-ups. With the fact this this will all end someday. And that till then I just need enjoy what I have now and not keep living with the weight of my past. It will not help me or them. our story is not yet finished. But if a few years can define a life, then this has been it....