Lessons on the field of green felt

The men of my family spoke the language of cars and pool. Ask them about a complex emotional or spiritual matter and they would freeze up, stare at you with cautious eyes and wait for your “trap” to fall. Now talk to them about the .60 over bored pistons and double wound cam that I wanted to install in my 1964 Corvair Spyder? Well we could discuss that all night.

We spoke two common tongues, my family and I, that of engines and of pool. Some of my best memories are of my father, guiding me on a lazy Sunday afternoon, thru some complex part of an engine rebuild. We all raced back then a trio of restored Corvairs. Each one sight to behold, from my father’s tricked out turbo to my own, heavily modified “touring” car, speed and power were the goals and we would talk at great length about the complexities of power vs. speed. Was it better to burn rubber at the light, vs. the value of pulling up from behind, to loose your competitor in the curves as they underestimate the skill of the man behind the wheel? If it had an accelerator pedal, we made love to the idea of what it could become.

Pool? We played pool for hours. It was the only thing we all could do with out wanting to kill or get so drunk that we did not have to deal with the other. Soon as my brother nd I were old enough to hold sticks, we were ushered into that dim, smoky world at every chance. My grandfather learned while working in a CCC camp during the depression, he taught my father and he taught my brother and I.

The green of a pool table, its smoky half light in the back of some unknown bar, will always stand out when I think if them. These men were my heroes, my mentors, my definition of what it meant to be a “man”. My granddad would saunter across the table from me, stetting his Olympia tall boy down just long enough to line up a shot. Fingers, stained yellow for years of nicotine would splay across the green of the table as he guided the queue between two broken and malformed knuckles, the result of keeping the engines of industry running.

Like his father, my father taught me. “Just 25 cents a lesson, son” he would joke as he schooled my arrogant young ass at the find art of pool. My gramps would say, “Show me a man who is good at pool, and I’ll show you a boy with a wasted childhood”. Needless to say, both my father and grandfather were astounding at playing the game. The kind of grace you would expect from a top surgeon or concert cellist, they would display on the felt. Fingers, nimble and splayed, eyes fixed on the ball, hands smooth and effortless in their execution.

This was where they taught me grace, just because you can hit that cue ball hard it does not mean you must. Rather, as I leaned over the table, tongue clasped in my teeth and I concentrated on the invisible lines of geometry that imagined across the table, each one predicting a different arc of my shot, was when they did it. My father did it first, placing a hand on my cocked elbow and holding it firm,
“Just cuz you can it that ball hard, don’t. Use some finesse. If you can’t sink it this round, ease it up nice and close so you can do it later… and confound your opponent.”

From them I learned the art of the “kiss”, to not strike too hard or rely in too many complex angles or bank shots. But rather to ease the ball, dare I say seduce it into falling into place, just millimeters from the edge of the pocket. There it would sit, waiting for me, and turning my opponent’s next shot into a profanity filled mish mash of bumpers and too much “English”

I’ve not played with my father in years, nor my brother, not since that dark day when the fates took him from this world. No, today those who love me put up with me as I saunter around the table, pint in hand, and do not roll their eyes at me when I push my glasses down my nose and prostrate myself upon the table. Hands splayed wide like my grandfathers, save this time the fingers are stained blue from rope dyes, but the knuckles are no less deformed, as I take aim and quip to my opponent, “show me a man who is good at pool…

Family Matters

Posts might be a bit thin this week as I am ass deep in the mother in law. Ah, the mom, now there is something they don’t tell you when you become poly. Over the next two weeks I will be on duty with three moms. For every additional person who calls you “partner” (or lover, or daddy or “my protein powered space heater”) you now have one more mom that needs to be charmed and generally reassured that their child is in fact not conspiring with a serial killer.
Good thing moms tend to like me, call it my special ability I guess.

Thankfully Tambo’s mom, AKA The Mom, is pretty damned awesome. She seems to have taken to our whole non-traditional family structure pretty well. Then again she is the person who pretty much inspired this whole rope company to begin with. She even has gone as far as to bring presents for her “grandchildren”, Alex and Nerdy. Sadly I wish my own family as accepting. Poly is hard for parents to wrap their head around, wanting their children to be safe and well cared, this sort of thing does not really fall into their expectations. My mom, after nearly 4 years still refers to my other partner only as, “that other woman”. My father? Well we have not spoken a civil word in years due to who I choose to love.

So it means a lot to me when I can put on a good showing for a partner’s parent. To help put them at a bit more ease as they put a face to this idea of their child having a non-traditional relationship. That they have someone who, while they might not fit in the traditional definitions of “husband”, “lover” or even “boyfriend”, that they are loved and cherished.

In the meantime, take a read of my sexy friend RedSneaker's account of coming to visit my shop for the first time and getting tied up.

Nostalgia trip.

Longtime readers of this blog will remember that I once worked as a “actor/combatant” and spent many a summer’s day decked out in a full suit of armor performing with a jousting group. While I took my fair share of knocks, ok more than my fair share really – more like 30 stitches to the head in one year alone, I really enjoyed this job. Getting paid to wear a suit of armor and swing a sword while folks cheer you on is a damn fun way to spend a summer. Both Tambo and I were very active in this before the demands of the company forced us to make a hard choice and retire.

Neither Nerdy nor Alex had ever seen this chapter of our life. Sure they had heard plenty of stories and seen the gear, but neither had ever been to a ren fair. So this weekend we all piled into the car and set about correcting this matter.

Fitting into my armor again would be out of the question, not only was it built for me when I was almost 70 pounds heavier, but I was not performing this weekend. Nope, I’m just another patron bringing his family out to see the show. A fact that I rather enjoyed really, I’ve recently made a point to limit the number of events that I vend at and also go as a tourist to support the event, yeah for the reduction of personal stress. Just dress “village casual” and bring plenty of money for ale (well fresh made birch beer actually)

And how was it? Well, Nerdy and Alex both had fun getting decked out in an entirely different form of fetish wear than they are used to and enjoying a day out in the sun. (Admit it, a costume is a costume. Just that the kinksters have better choices in footwear.) Many members of the group are also readers of this blog, so there were some funny moments of cross over. Tambo had a hoot and we both agreed that we were glad to be in the bleachers watching and not out on the field in the hot sun. Ok, so there were a few moments of nostalgic melancholy, the want to pick up a sword again and hear the cheer of the crowds, but that was a chapter of my life that I closed a long time ago. Sure it would be fun to take up again, especially in my new physical condition, but the commitments of time, partners and work just make it impossible.

Alas, it was fun to revisit it even for a weekend. It felt very good to see my old friends and share this chapter of my life with those who are actively shaping this chapter of my life. Thanks for welcoming us all with open, albeit armor covered, arms.