The Blacksmith and the Baker

On the last day of Shibaricon I was asked, “So how do you recharge your mojo?”

As I stood there blinking in the bright mid day sun I realized that this was the first time in 4 days that I had seen the sun. We rolled into the convention on Thursday and I had not stepped foot outside, save for the occasional dash to the car for supplies, in all this time. With a weary stare I looked at the man who asked me the question and sighed. “I need to see my blacksmith and then I need my baker”

I love this job, I love to meet and flirt and sell people rope. I love the feeling I get when someone tells me that they got tied up last night in my rope and they loved it. However after 4 days of high-energy sales, little sleep and too many fun scenes, I’m done. Tapped out and empty, the vessel that is “Monk” is battered and cracked in places. Like a Crusader coming home from too many wars, my armor is battered and near destroyed. The body inside it, tired and in dire need of nourishment.

Dancer’s fists strike my back and shoulders in rapid succession; with every strike I feel the muscles release, draining the stress that has held them in a knot for the past week. Her teeth and nails dig into my flesh and reshape it, sealing the holes and patching up the places where it has become threadbare. It is not until I lay weeping in her arms do I begin to feel whole again. She strokes and holds me as I shake, still empty but now repaired, reshaped and in many places stronger than before, and ready to be re-filled.

The house smells of baking bread as I type this. I’d look in on Tambo’s progress, but I am banished to the couch. To sit here and write, listen to old Pete Townsend, and do nothing more than just enjoy the warmth that is home. She is my center. Tonight a home cooked meal, something hearty and filling, then we will retreat to our large bed and curl up together under the quilts.

Tomorrow I will rise whole, full again with the unstoppable fire to take on the world.

But for now I’ll savor a slice of fresh baked bread and enjoy that tingle between my shoulders where Dancer’s teeth left their mark.