01: Call Me, Maybe
Call me Zack. It's not my name, you're not my friend, this never happened.
Okay, foreplay over, here's the thing. I do not know how to explain this. Maybe, if you pay attention till the end, you will. I'm not holding my breath. Not this time, anyway.
So, it starts in an irrelevant city on the West Coast. I was a barista, working for a chain coffee shop, wondering why folks hadn't caught on to the fact that Seattle's greatest export is rainwater, not coffee. Many people have asked about how great a barista's life is. From my personal experience, there's a brief moment of elation when you get paid, and the rest of it is pretty much process.
If you've ever worked in a consumer oriented business, you'll know it's like working at Seaworld. Sooner or later you start fantasizing about fucking a dolphin. Or a plant. Or the espresso machine. Pro tip: the last one is a really bad idea.
Anyway, reason we're having this conversation is because apparently you're my involuntary therapist and you are willing to help me get over a thing that, frankly, a) I don't think I can, and b) I'm not sure I want to and c) you're not qualified to judge.
Start at the beginning. Well, as covered previously, I'm a barista. I make coffee, for anyone. Yes, a coffee slut. Actually, technically, seeing as how I get paid for providing a service, I'm a coffee whore. Now that I have your attention, I'd like to describe a particular coffee experience that started this whole thing.
This is how it works. You receive a request for coffee, electronically (thankfully. The front of house staff are not people you want to converse with routinely). You make the coffee. You write the name of the victim on the cup, and then you call it out when the frothy confection is up for collection.
If your eyes wander during this process, sometimes you get intrigued.
So that happened. She was shorter than me, well built, showing more leather than usual for the time of day and place of business. Strong upper body and cornrow hair, matching an unusual eye color, somewhere between green and brown. As a professional, I'd assess her skin tone as cafe au lait. Otherwise, nothing much, but okay for a Wednesday.
We're confessing things, right? Well, on slow days, dull days, infrequently, or just because, I have a thing I do. I write on folk's cups. So this time when preparing the double shot regular flat white for Alexa, I wrote a little more than her name. I wrote my name. And my number. And the words "Call me..."
And nothing happened. I called her name, left the coffee on the plinth, turned to resolve a complex espresso issue (no real drama, but you learn early to give your full attention to the equipment in the barista game). When I had idle opportunity, Alexa had decamped with her coffee.
And nothing. Everyone moved on with their lives, my shift came to an end, and I headed out to the library to work on a paper that's so overdue it's probably going to save the world. Well, no. Not even a little. I can't remember what it's about, and I'm the author.
I'm useless at suspense. In my experience, life is one damned thing after another, and today was no exception. So, just to demystify the process, after a lot of time passed, my stomach pointed out that nachos are technically not lunch, and it had been a while since then anyway.
I gathered my things, took a look at my phone and realized it really was a long time since lunch, 6.45 and change, and I'd never taken the fucking thing off silent mode (Hey, library professional here).
There was a missed call from an unknown number. And a message. I slumped back into my seat and my stomach did the other thing it does, rolling and tensing and generally making me feel like a teenager.
Buying time, I checked the message first. An address in a quiet part of town, and a time: 7:45. I'm mildly suspicious by nature and OCD by volition, so I googled the address. Not so much a quiet part of town. More light industrial, warehouses, a Toyota service centre, and, at the exact address given, an "adult club" specializing in shibari. Which at the time I thought was a cuisine, or something.
OCD by V can also be described as procrastination. But occasionally I can get out of my own way. So instead of vanishing into the pool of google, I played the message. A rich, confident voice, also sounding somewhat amused, hit me between the ears.
Mack. I got your message. On my coffee cup. Heh. This is Alexa, in case you wrote your number on everyone's cup today. I do like a forward boy. Let's chat. I'm performing at a club tonight, I'll text you the address. See you there.
Holy shit.
02: At The Club
Luckily my place is not too far from the library. I bolted there, literally running through laundry lists to work out a wardrobe. Petty and vain I know, but first impressions matter, and my excitement was telling me I really
wanted
to impress.
I'm not a slob. Although it could be argued that I have had some slob traits, I look after my clothes, and what you wear whispers who you are to a new audience. And if you've not spoken to someone before, mirroring is always a good move.
So. Alexa was kinda muscles and leather. Easy. White T, little black dress (sorry, leather jacket), and tight worn Levis. Just time for a shower and some manscaping (better to 'scape and not need it than not and wish you had), then Uber and out.
Sitting in the back of the obligatory Prius, I found myself wondering what had me all roiled up. And don't get me wrong, I'm no lightweight. Nothing really long term or terribly exclusive, but I've been up to bat a few times. No home runs, but no shut-outs either.
Maybe it's my background. We'll get there eventually if you want to stick around, but I'm a big believer in holding out for the real thing, second best is second rate kind of thing. And my libido and inner mongrel were giggling and running around the bushes like caffeinated toddlers.
When we got there, daylight had pretty much clocked off for the day. The place was dark, the sign was hand painted and the building looked as though it had been disparaged, if not outright condemned. Totally my kind of place.
Show time.
After farewelling my new lifelong friend and five star buddy, I paused to gather and looked around the parking lot. For a light industrial area, there were a lot of old pine trees around, and the woodland notes were reinforced by the scattering of pickups and utility vehicles.
A slightly discordant hum came from the Harleys and muscle bikes lined up by the door, but my metrosexual heart decided that the vibe wasn't
too
Deliverance. Anyway, faint heart never wins fair lady, so I took a deep breath and headed in.
To the freaking heart of darkness. Seriously, even though it was getting dark outside, it was impossible to see anything inside the place. There was a spotlit area in the middle of the cavern, and what looked like a bar in the far corner, but not enough available light to make out any details.
"You a virgin?" Remember Fat Gandalf from Deadpool? Exactly that guy. Greasy leathers, grimy T-shirt, way more adipose tissue than quota even for a big guy. And he'd sneaked up on me. Luckily I'd teleported away from him on reflex (yeah, yeah, or flinched like a little girl), so could weigh up the fight or flight pros and ex-cons.
"I like to think of that as a non-binary, sliding scale kind of thing. And I don't like to get into it on a first date". See. Metrosexual as fuck, that's me.
"You must be Mack."
Huh?
He turned to the room and shouted "Alexa, your plus one is here."
"I'm busy."
Fat Gandalf turned back to me and shrugged. "She's busy. Bar's over there."
It was. I got a soda and propped an elbow whilst casing the joint.
03: Here Be Dragons
Well, it was definitely dark. Mostly wood (no surprise, most buildings hereabouts are), high ceilings and very directional lighting. I could see one area near the center where a female form was occupied with another female form.
My stomach told me it was Alexa. Truth be told, I'd been working off a first impression, a glimpse caught at the coffee shop. I'd put her down as okay for a Wednesday, but as I made my way over I broadened that definition to include any weekday. And the weekend. And definitely the holidays.
Depending on your degree of sophistication (and looking at you in those socks, I don't want to over pitch here), you may share my then ignorance about shibari. Sure, go google it. I'll wait. There you go. Knots. Suspension. What google doesn't really get into is how intimate it is. How it's about trust, and surrender.
Alexa had shed her jacket, and was stripped down to a black tank top and jeans, and old school motorcycle boots. Absent sleeves and most of the back, she was showing a full body tattoo, Japanese at first look, all sinuous dragons and popping eyes. I was getting a fine view as she was paying zero attention to anything other than the girl suspended before her.
Who was near naked. White skin and blonde hair, and a skinny pair of briefs. A pale shadow for me, but athletic and well endowed if you're interested. She was about four feet in the air, suspended from a frame that appeared to connect to the ceiling (hey, barista here). From various rings, carabiners held ropes that were variously restricting and, somewhat, displaying the blonde to an appreciative audience of variations on Fat Gandalf.
Okay, and some regular folks too, but there was a low key intensity to the place, a certain glazed nature to the staring eyes that I wasn't comfortable with. For all that, the lighting, the suspended girl and the busy fingers of Alexa as she maneuvered that pale body was compelling.
You need to experience it. If I just lay out the events and arrangements, it's going to sound creepy and I'm going to feel like I need a shower. Maybe if I just tell you about the girl's face you'll get an idea. She was serene. Even when Alexa pulled on
this
