A Place To Draw Blood Laughing

Once upon a time on a summer afternoon, the very first week May and I moved in together, he decided to try and teach me to rollerblade. Between the bumps and the concrete and the massive, amazing bruise the size and shape of a cantaloupe, I did, in fact, learn to do so. But curiously, what I remember about that day is not so much the speed and the bruising, but the distinct absence of D/s. We’d been together what? Three weeks? And yet we were already so far into D/s roles that the absence of them was noticeable, like a change in the air. It wasn’t bad, no. Just different.

Today we rode a winding train out into the Blue Mountains, hiked along the edge of a yellow-gold cliff dropping off into a massive valley, and then took a pitched-steep staircase down and down and down again to the floor of the cool, dark rainforest. Then we caught a cable car back up into the skyline, and, wandering back into the little town, ended up in an amazing cafe, with dark wood walls and no right angles. And as we walked, climbed, and ran, May was small. He was precious, he was my own. Sometimes I can’t figure out if I’m an outdoor-loving-dominant-girlfriend trying to drag my boything along with my adventures, or an out-of-breath adult trying to keep up with an exuberant six-year-old romp.