“I finally understand topping now,” I said to my spouse.
Lying in bed long after waking up, I was having a slow morning, staring out the window. I was looking at the tall pear tree by the bike shed, in the rain.
“The pears are only reachable on the bottom part of the tree,” I continued. “The whole top of the tree–what’s it good for? Off with it.”
“Make them feel it,” my spouse said. There was an edge to his words.
“Oh my god, you sound like a real dom,” I said. “Scary!”
Then I realized I was talking about topping trees, while he was talking about topping like in bdsm. I started laughing. Yes, misunderstandings are the funniest thing in the world.
I laughed so hard and for so long, imagining my spouse in an intimate moment with the fruit trees in the back yard, hurting them, getting off on hurting them. I laughed so much it sounded like crying. It was that kind of release.
I worried I was alarming the people we live with.
I thought of our beautiful housemate, agile as a mountain goat, up on a ladder, topping a different pear tree at the end of winter–a Bartlett pear. How brutal it seemed.
I looked at that Bartlett pear tree and all the small branches shot up, vertical. Will pears grow there next year, on the second year growth?
A cheat sheet for how different trees respond to pruning would help. Stone fruits are different. But we don’t have peach trees anyway. The plum out front is hopeless. The cherry is only exciting because it’s the first fruit that arrives late spring.
“Make them feel it,” my spouse sent in an email to me, and I laughed again. His topping is beautiful.
The other day in bed, I asked. “Please hit me.” He slapped my face immediately.
I gasped with surprise then specified, “I meant on my ass. My jaw is really sore.”
“Oh, sorry,” he said.
Other times when he’s misunderstood and hit me in ways I wasn’t ready for, I’ve been upset. This time was no big deal.
He hit my ass, and I asked him to caress me sweetly in between harsh impacts. The pleasure and pain got mingled so blissfully.
I’m happy to know he’s still ready to hurt me in creative ways at a moment’s notice, and ready to hurt the pear trees for their pleasure. It’s love in the form of pain-giving.
That part of him that’s happy to hurt me is always alive, waiting for a chance to be expressed. I treasure all of him and wish to nurture all of him.