In the USA, Memorial Day pays tribute to all those men and women who have served their country or are on active duty. It is also the day my husband, a former serviceman in the Navy, died of peripheral vascular disease. That was four years ago today, and I was his muscle daddy.
His name was Nagrom Morgan Monceaux (aka Roy Thomas Lee), but that is another story. He was seven years my senior, the same age gap between my Mom and Dad, but he was my boy.
I first met Nagron in Washington, DC, at the Mid-Atlantic Leather Weekend in January 2006. I had travelled eight hours by coach from Boston to meet a hot white guy that I was to spend some time with that weekend.
Within several hours of arriving, at around 7am, it became apparent that this hot man would not show up. My funds were severely limited. I did not have a phone that worked.
I was all alone in an unknown country, and I didn’t know how things worked. Nor did I understand the rules of this “special world” I had ventured into whilst holidaying in Boston.
As the day wore on, I was getting more tired and ravenous. I found a corner shop and bought myself a snack. This wasn’t London or Amsterdam, where Internet cafés can be found on just about every street corner.
I was lost.
I had been hanging about in the foyer of the host hotel all this time. There I noticed an older Black Daddy with a stylish walking stick and a group of slaves and boys following him around.
Soon, he came up to me and said:
“You look lost. Is there something I can help you with?”
“I’m waiting for my friend,” I replied.
“Would you like to call him?” he said, handing me his phone.
I was grateful for the gesture and called the number, but it went straight to voicemail. Since I had no phone, there was no way he could call me back.
Had I checked my emails before setting out from Boston, I would have found out that his car had broken down. I would also have known that I was in the wrong hotel!
In any case, around 5pm, a guy came up to me and invited me to his room for play. I was tired yet went along anyway. Anything was better than being stuck in the lobby. He wanted a muscle daddy, and I tried to get into the spirit of things. But I was too tired and hungry to get in the mood. I stopped and shared my thoughts. He picked up the phone and ordered pizza.
There was a knock on the door, and who should walk into the room? The older black Daddy from the foyer. The first words that came out of his mouth were (I am paraphrasing now):
“Daddy! Daddy! Today I claim you as my Muscle Daddy!”
He had spent half a lifetime looking for a Daddy, he said, and he had found one with “muscles all over his body”.
That was in 2006.
Fast-forward to 2014, and I returned from the UK where I lived all this time to marry him in a ceremony officiated over by an Apache medicine woman and elder, who is also a world-renowned artist and a former International Ms Leather.
Shortly after the wedding night, I found myself with chlamydia. When I confronted him about it, his response was: “It is what it is.”
I decided to myself that he would never get another opportunity to do that to me again. I withdrew and chose celibacy. Throughout our entire relationship, I was his monogamous and celibate muscle daddy. He, of course, could do whatever he wanted. He had a very high sex drive, and I was not going to fulfil that for him.
When he found out that I had taught computing in the UK, he asked me to build him a content management system that would be used to catalogue and manage his art. It took me about three years of learning programming languages such as Java and PHP and database systems such as SQLite and MySQL. Eventually, when it was completed, it took me a further three months to catalogue all the artwork in the house – some 500+ pieces.
This was something I could do – and did – for him, that I felt he needed from me more than mere sex. It was proof that, although I had withdrawn from him, I still loved him. But I am not quite sure he learnt that lesson. I had not fucked-up like his previous partner. I had proven my love for him with action. Did I forget to say he was a possessive man, with all the negative traits that entail?
By this time, Nagrom had been hospitalized with gangrene in his feet. Both legs had been amputated. He had chosen to go into a hospice to spend some time there before deciding he wanted to die at home. I was by his side with a small group of friends on May 31, 2017, when he breathed his last breath.
Early this morning, four years to the day, I got up just before sunrise. I made up a ceremony invoking the power of my spirit upon the ashes and transferred some of it to plastic storage bags for those friends and family who wanted some. Plus, a portion into a smaller, blue cobalt glass urn gifted to us by my Apache minster and her partner. Took some pictures and posted them on Facebook.
Goodbye, my son. Thank you for your service wherever you served, however you served, and whatever your motivations for serving.
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