Don’t we all love beginnings? Remember when you were a kid, those first days of school, when you had the brand new notebook with tons of empty pages, fresh and clean and pristine, and sharpened pencils, points so dangerous you couldn’t press too hard or you’d tear the paper?
Maybe you had a packet of pens, clear barrels with the black ink clearly visible, like a dip stick inside, ready to spell out words and formulas? Or a fresh box of crayons, all the same length and very uniform, before you had broken points and sharpened them, being forced to peel the paper away from the tips of your favorites, the red and black and blue.
There’s something freeing about beginnings, about the blank piece of paper in front of you, all the unwritten words swirling around in your head, waiting for you to reach out and grab them as they flutter by.
One of the things I do sometimes when I am driving is write first lines of books in my head. I always think it would be interesting to be forced to write the rest of it, to finish the story you start. The ones I’ve come up with lately:
“It would probably be better not to ask the cute EMT if he wanted to get coffee sometime, Matilda reflected. She had found, through painful experience, that while having your stomach pumped did impose a certain relationship on two people, it was not the basis for true love.”
“Each day, the fish grew larger and each day she pretended it wasn’t happening. He’d started out cute and small, the only fish like him in the whole pet store. That should have made her suspicious. Lately his eyes had taken to following her around the room and she had taken to sleeping with her bedroom door shut.”
“Waiting in the airport, she checked the time again, disappointed but unsurprised to find it was only three minutes later than the last time she had checked. With a sigh, she turned back to the book she’d brought, and read the same paragraph four times before giving up.”
“The earth was soft and loamy, full of earthworms and grubs. He could smell the dampness and feel it through the knees of his now-ruined jeans. He should have brought a shovel. Even with soft and loamy soil, it was hard to dig a hole big enough with the ice-scraper and a dustpan he’d found in the car. The darkness made it no easier.”
So, given that this is my first post, it’s probably fair to tell you a little about me. If you’re not interested, skip over it, there won’t be a quiz later. Basic facts seem in order.
I was born and raised in western Nevada. It was a tiny town with the distinction of being home to the largest ammunition depot in the world, at the time. One always knew people who’s father or uncle had lost a hand or an arm at work when something that wasn’t supposed to blow up right then did. One boy I went to high school with was killed when he picked up a live blasting cap out in the desert.
My parents were older, my father was born in 1902, my mother in 1913. My father died the same month I turned 2. I don’t remember him at all.
My mother was a substitute teacher. She had a bit of college and had, at one point, big ambitions for who she was and where she was from, but it was the Depression. Banks folded, bad crop years happened, and her education ground to a close. She had enough college, however, to be able to get a certificate to substitute, and that was how she fed us.
I come from a long line of dirt poor. My father died after a long illness without insurance or savings. My mother’s family was Cornish miners, not an aristocratic class.
I have two older brothers, one who lives in Tucson, Mike, and another, Bob, who lives with his wife and daughters and their families in Scotland. We are not a close family. I don’t remember the last time I saw Bob, not for 15 years or so anyway, and I’ve seen Mike once or twice in that time.
I moved to upstate New York when I was 20 to live with my first girlfriend, Fay. I established residency there, and went to college at one of the less-respected State University of New York branches, and graduated with honors in 1984, with a BS in accounting. I worked my way through school.
In 1984, my second and last girlfriend, Beth, and I moved to Louisville, Kentucky. Her family was from the area, she wanted to be closer to them and there was nothing in the city in which we lived, part of the Rust Belt of the 1980’s.
Louisville was supposed to be a stop on the way, but I fell in love with the city and have lived here since, save an ill-considered year in Indianapolis. We bought a house together in 1990 and one or both of us has lived in the house ever since.
Beth and I broke up finally in May of 1997, after two years of trying to avoid that outcome. Unfortunately, I was not gay, just slow on the uptake, obviously. Beth has been clinically diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and that, along with other issues, also made it a very difficult relationship in some ways. She and I are still good friends, though we talk less than we used to. Our live paths don’t run so parallel as they did.
In October of 1997, I founded the Louisville Munch, a gathering for kinky people. I knew I was kinky at 21 when Fay asked me to tie her up and I found it enjoyable. I wanted to explore that, and I wanted people around me who shared my interests. The munch ran with me as the hostess for ten years. In October of 2007, I turned it over to my replacement and then-business partner, Michael. He has hosted it since; this year we will celebrate 15 years.
Also in October of 2007, I married drew. I met drew in January of 2000, at a munch, and he has been in service to me virtually since. The S&M side of kink isn’t particularly his interest, but he is very-service minded, and that works fine for me, too. Neither of us had ever been married before, or ever expected to marry. I was 50 at the time, he was 48.
I have another slave, thomas, who has been mine now for nearly ten years, with a longish pause in the middle. I don’t anticipate any further breaks in our relationship; when I put his collar on him this time, my words to him were, “You had better be very sure this is what you want, because I do not intend to take this collar off you again.”
thomas is originally from Kentucky but moved to Florida about a year ago because his mother was having some health issues and he wanted to be closer. I do not see him nearly as often as I would like, but he is there for now. It won’t always be so.
Shane works for drew, who is a master cabinet maker and general can-do-anything kind of guy. He was in a bad situation about a year and a half ago and needed a place to live, so he moved into my basement. It’s worked well. His official duties fall under the “Sweetie Deux” duties, meaning he does what needs to be done when drew is gone, things I don’t want to do or simply can’t.
He’s also in charge of dealing with any dead things that fall in the pool or that the dogs manage to send to a final reward, mostly voles or mice. His role in that vein is that of “Basement Troll.”
A few months ago I was at a gathering and, after two or three of the femme submissives had been waiting on me, I joked about no one ever saying no to me. Shane piped up that he often said no to me. “Constance says, “Shane, do you mind carrying the laundry up the stairs for me?,” and I say, “No!!!”
In the final cast of recurring characters are Belle, Bess and Reigh, my three Scottish Terriers. Belle is the mother, Bess and Reigh her best male and female pups, born in 2005. Belle turned 10 in December, a reality I prefer to ignore at the moment. They are funny and stubborn and love dirt more than any other creature I have ever known.
All right, so that’s the beginning. I won’t commit to a post a day just now. Some days might be more, some days less. It will all depend, I suppose, on what first lines have appeared in my head that day.