Recently, my ichiban doreichan gave me a child. I met her here in October of 2008. I had been a member of the site since 2002, and I had had up to that point used the site very well, as it had provided me with more than a few creatures to have my way with. Not for me, the complaining of unrequited messages. Perhaps easy for me to say - a handsome, fit, industrious young man, but this post will hereafter avoid discussing the size of my head, when it is the neck and cervix diameters of a certain young lady you’ll find more interesting.
I won’t give her profile; It’s named for a Japanese fruit that can be either sour or sweet depending on how it’s prepared, ripeness, and of course one’s depth of palate.
She was good enough to join me, not just in my pseudo-gorean lifestyle, which I won’t go into here, but in my wider intellectual/philosophical/political development which has literally brought me from warrior through misanthrope, mercenary, travelling salesman with a 5 year layover as a jazz man and finally to patriarch artisan, and part-time warrior. The attendant ovid-morphoses have seen me shuffle to the right, and though I can never count myself in their number, I find myself nonetheless grateful to be among faithful of a certain kind. Indeed I have turned over a molyneux leaf on the matter, and discovered for myself that many who live quietly under constraints self-imposed live freer lives than my many of my comrades in unbelief, who confusing liberty and freedom, want and wont and most damagingly god and good, have mostly jumped into a much tighter yoke than that from which they broke free.
She followed where I led, and it had nothing (or very little) to do with her leash.
There is a band of steel around her throat in our wedding photographs, and, as I’ve written elsewhere here, she has worn such steel continuously for a matter of years - until quite recently. Somewhere around week 30 I removed it from her, and let her wear an incredibly cute (though I read that as flimsy) choker until one month post partum, which is a few weeks away yet.
Her labour was mercifully brief; it was only 7 hours from the breaking of the waters to holding my child. It was intense, however; by far her most intense physical experience, despite my member always putting his best foot forward.
Our doula (in the most Hellenistic of possible senses) is also a slavegirl of mine, though a much more recent addition to our little family. She was there for my wife every step of the way, though for a few intense moments near the end nearly lost a few fingers to some teeth that seemed to take on minds of their own.
Regarding the biting, I insisted my ichiban doreichan do her worst into my leathery hand-edge. She seemed to feel better much more than I felt worse.
A full head of hair was followed swiftly by a full complete set of arms, legs, fingers and toes. I know because I caught him, cut the cord and placed him on his mother’s chest for few minutes before the nurses cleaned him up.
Yes, I said HIM. I have a son. It’s the coin toss that only western men manage to lose magnanimously, and that’s always won with a wink, nod and laudatory praise, as if it was my doing specifically. My friend today told me that a man doesn’t really become a father until he has a daughter. Now, I usually hold a guitar, rather than a shotgun on my front porch, and I can scowl with the best of them, but if my friend is right, I’m prepared to put off being a “real” father for a few more years.
He is Milo, after an ancient champion of wrestling, warfare, geometry and music, in whom I found great inspiration as a young man. Milo of Croton, was much maligned (as a like-named more recent champion of freedom of expression) by people who never met him. Hoyty-toyty, decadent, virtue signalling Romans during the fall who couldn’t bear the thought of a truly masculine champion, reimagined him as a one-dimensional brute whose pride was his downfall. If only their coppers had been polished more frequently…
The title is of course about my baby’s first words. How can that be? Milo is still working on the vowels, and seems to be stuck on the first one for now. Of course his mother, ‘auntie’ and I are doing all we can to rectify that; they sing to him in Japanese and Tagalog, and I read to him in a few languages, among them English. In fact, he gets a Kipling poem each night. Ten points IF you can guess which one.
Still, Milo’s first words are a ways out; he’s only 12 days into this world.
My baby’s first words, though, nearly brought me to tears. After all the ordeal of giving birth for the first time, and needing me to carry her up the stairs to where we sleep, the first words out of my kajira, my ichiban dorei-chan, my first girl’s mouth were not a request, but her customary offer:
I had long suspected, but finally then I knew for sure she was the right woman with whom to make my Milo, and many more.