On September 1, 2018 a bit of sunshine left this Earth. He was affectionately known by myself and some others in the BDSM community as knight. There may be many across the internet with knight in their usernames, but this is THE knight. Once someone encountered him anywhere, nobody else quite lived up to the name as well.
He was a gentle giant, tall and wide. He was as the same time, fierce and strong…a stubborn son of a brave and wonderful mother so I’m told. She raised a good one. One of the best.
He survived much worse in his lifetime than the “raising of the bar” when Shai and my relationship got serious. I made the mistake of sidelining him because neither he nor I was sure that he could handle a long distance relationship. Yet when I had to spend 6 months back in the U.S. before Shai and I could legally marry, he was there for me and Moon Turtle.
…but my mistakes weren’t done being made. When later, he told me that he really couldn’t handle the long distance, I didn’t fight him about that. When he told me that he’d like to get married and have children someday, I didn’t stand in his way or try to think of alternative plans that wouldn’t require us to separate. I was being Cool Domme, Cool Older Woman, and Cool Friend.
Cool.
Cool.
But that wife and kids thing never happened. He died from complications of diabetes. On my watch, he might have died of a heart attack while exercising. He might have died of asphyxiation during some hardcore sensory deprivation play. He might have died defending me from some cops or klan members, but he would not have died of sugar. Speaking of which…
109.
It’s only an hour since I ate some grief chocolate. I do that now, ever since even though I seldom eat sugar, I popped up low level diabetic a couple of years ago. I have been riding my daughter’s ass about hers. She complains, but she has no idea how things would have been for knight.
Back in 1996, I needed to borrow his car in a hurry, and he hadn’t had time to hide the evidence. The floor of the front passenger side was full of fast food wrappers.
Oh yes, he was punished. There were tears in my eyes when I did it. I was sobbing, “I don’t want you to die…” while I made him clean the car and everything else I could think of with the most tedious military methods, some of which would probably make my Navy boot camp division officers wince at the cruelty.
He had to account for every penny of his paycheck. If $5 was missing, I would make him tell me where it went, because you can get a lot of burger for $5. I made him watch me cook and help with that and the cleaning up so he would understand what I went through to make him healthy meals.
A Domme can do stuff like that. A slave will take it and love her for it.
…but a couple of years after I left, he wasn’t my slave anymore. I was being cool. I was letting him chase his dream.
His fucking stupid Disney dream.
I shouldn’t have been cool. I should have made him come to Israel. He was a computer genius, and we’re in Haifa. Everybody is here…Intel, Google, Microsoft…Worst case he’d commute to Tel Aviv if he needed to. Nobody would judge us. Well, no more than Africans are normally judged here. I wouldn’t be the only African with multiple spouses. Maybe the only female one people knew of, but not the only one by far.
I shouldn’t be selfish. He has blessed the lives of many in the past 18 years who he might not have if I had swept him away to Israel…but if he can have silly dreams, I can have silly dreams too.
Knight’s passage was the final straw. After being cool as men I love go out into the wilderness and endure sometimes monsters, sometimes ambush artists who put them in a cage just to starve them, sometimes the simply clueless who gave up on love and opted for security and basically use them as cash machines and babysitters…this is just the end of my mercy for hypothetical women.
No more being cool for Miss Hypothetical.
