Chapter 27: The tale of how I met my wife.

It never seems to fail. Once I get talking to someone for awhile, they always ask the same question.
“So, how long have you and your wife been together?”
To which I reply casually, “oh about 20 years now”
This is usually met with a stunned pause, a few blinks and disbelief.
“No way, you’re like what… 30? 35? What did you do meet in Jr. High?!”
“33 actually and no we met when I was a freshman in high school”

That is right dear readers. I met her when I was a nerdy young freshman, while riding the school bus no less. Ahh, the school bus, or as we used to call it, “The Looser Cruiser”, that dull yellow tool of social order. You remember the rules, stoners sat in the way back cool kids sat middle while the nerds sat in the very front. Your whole social standing was determined by how far back from the driver you sat. Oh and if you got to sit in that extra narrow seat, WAY in the back, you know the one I’m talking about, then you were the most bad ass of them all.

Me? Being the drama nerd that I was, I sat somewhere between the exchange students and the kid who wore the helmet.

One day as I sat on the bus, reading the graffiti on the back of the seat and wondering what halfway house the driver escaped from, she climbed up the bus’s stairs.

Sure I could say something about how the clouds opened up and a singe ray of golden sunlight poured down on her and how a chorus of angels began to sing…or how my jeans became suddenly very tight in the crotch. Simply put, she was amazing. Brilliant, talented and oh my god so beautiful the kind of girl that yearbooks name “most talented” or “Most likely to succeed”. I had seen her before. She was involved in everything, music mostly but she also did honors this and advanced placement that. Rumor had it that she was hand picked to play pro for the symphony next year.

Along with the usual school books and bags, she also lugged her cello. Now for those of you who don’t know it, a cello case is roughly the same size as a small person. Not exactly something that will fit neatly into the overhead compartment or under a seat. Unable to share a seat, she scanned the bus for an open spot for her and her large burden.

As destiny would have it, the seat in front of me was vacant.

Too awe struck to speak; I just sat there and admired her. For a girl so talented and so with it, she gave off an air of sweetness. Un-phased by the trends of the day, she had her own style. Part geek, part art chick yet all the time very centered and very real. As her stop came I managed an awkward “bye”, to which she smiled the kind of smile so warm you wish that you could bask in it like a cat on a summer day. I was smitten.

But how was I, a lowly freshman, ever going to have a chance with such a girl? I needed a plan.

I knew that she only rode the bus home from school, never to school. I knew that she had to take her cello home when ever she did ride the bus. I knew that due to the instrument’s size, she could not share a seat with anyone and had to sit in an open spot. And so I hatched my plan.

Everyday after the final bell rung, I raced down to the busses carry out my plan. Like a grand chess master laying out his pieces, I found the sweet spot. That seat not too far from the front yet always guaranteed to have an open seat in front or behind me. She would have to sit next to me again.

I did this for an entire school year.

It did not always work, some days she stayed late, other days she would find a different spot. But when it did work, oh my, what a great bus ride that was. We started with small talk, compared notes about the play we were both in (her in the orchestra and me in the chorus line), Monty Python, Mtv and so on. Eventually I did not have to dash to find the sweet spot. If she beat me to the bus, I would find her in our usual spot smiling and waiting for me.

It took me another year to build up the courage to ask her on a date, but that is another story.


After nearly 20 years her smile still makes me weak.

I once broke up with a girl over a motorcycle. Not physically OVER a motorcycle, but rather because of one. It really was not even the motorcycle that did it, it was the sidecar. You see, she was terrified of it. Just the thought of it made her panicked. She seemed convinced that if she so much as sat in it while it was parked that she would come to her demise. Riding behind me was not a problem; in fact she would eagerly saddle up behind me and hug close to me. Now if you have ever seen someone pilot a bike with a sidecar you know that it is next to impossible to do while there is a person wrapped around your midsection.

The relationship was doomed for a myriad of other reasons, but this one was the killer for me. As the days got warmer I longed to take out my bike and cruise the back roads, taking in the smells of a warm summer night. I tried baby steps. “Just sit in it while it’s parked in the drive. See how big and comfortable the seat is?” I’d say. Or “let me take you around the block, nice and easy”. I even tried using rewards. “Ride with me to your favorite crab place, my treat”

No dice.

As all doomed relationships do, it all just fell apart in the end. Yes, the bike was a deciding factor for me. It was just a bike I know that, but it was important to me that this was something she enjoyed. If I could not share this pleasure with her, I could not be with her at all.

In hindsight I realize now what was really going on. It was not about the sidecar, it was about trust. Riding in a sidecar is a great way to see the world. You can stretch out and relax while the miles pass under your wheels. You must however trust the pilot. Yes you recline in the steel body of the sidecar, but you give up all control. As the traffic whizzes by you, you must relax and trust the one steering the bike has your best interests at heart and will get you to your destination safely. The pleasure comes at a price and the legal tender exchanged for that pleasure is trust.

She could not let go and place her trust in me. Even in small steps, she would not release her control. For that she will never get to experience the bliss of letting go.

Why dear readers do I tell you this tale? To be honest I am not exactly sure. I just was struck by the urge to tell this tale yesterday. I remember looking down at K in the sidecar and seeing the way she smiled at me as we zoomed along, I knew that whatever may come of all this. I would not be breaking up with her over a motorcycle.

Some thoughts on submission. Now most of the world may thing that when someone carries the title of “submissive” that they are weak. For some reason folks assume that perhaps it is a personality defect or childhood trauma and that is why they lack the where with all to stand up and have a “normal” relationship. Those poor fools, I feel sorry for them.

Submission is a gift, a precious and tremendous gift that only someone strong can give. You cannot give up your power if you have none. Rather, it is the submissive that truly has the power. It is that power that they give their partner… that is the fuel that fires the D/s relationship.

And so this blog beings. Hmm where to start? Much like a film, one has to wonder how to properly introduce the characters and provide the needed backstory. Do you go with the tried and true voice over?
And so it came to pass that in the 4th year of the new age, monk did start his blog. Having shunned the coportate life in order to persue his dreams, the artist, pornograher and rope maker set out upon his journey.

Nah.. too epic. Could prove to be disapointing if the rest of the story is not as exiting. So how about breaking the fourth wall, ala Woody Allen?
Ahem. So here I am, me... yeah that's me in the photo. Wow, your reading about me. You must either be really bored at work or are doing research for a lawsuit against me. Either way, here I am. As you can see, I'm a guy in my mid thirties. White, relativly healthy well as healthy as you can be in this culture. However there is this black spot I just found on my ass, it wasn't there last time I looked.... here see for your self... you think I should...

Oh god. Way too neurotic. I want you to be entertained here, not feel like your my therapist. So scratch that. How about I just start in and you can play catch up?

Deal.

So last night I took T and K out to see the Harvey Danger reunion show. While it was cool to see them live again, I was struck with 2 things. First off, this show was to mark the 10th aniversary of thier first show at the Crocidile. Ya know, I think that show was the LAST time I was at the croc. Second, what is it with bands that breakup, reform and then write new stuff? I mean sure, HD has always writtein very witty and smart lyrics, but the new stuff was all very serious and reather meloncholy. Did they forget that we loved the joyful pop they made when they were first together?

What, are we doomed to all get old and bitter?