Sparks Pt. 01

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 rope and leaned her weight in and the pale girl's arms were elevated high up behind her, the girl barely frowned. In fact, as the pull of the ropes began to distort her shape, the ghost of a smile played at the corner of her mouth.

Finally, she had her splayed and displayed, vulnerable and exposed to the hungry eyes. Alexa turned and stood next to the human sculpture, and nodded, with all the gravity of an orchestra conductor taking a bow. The crowd applauded, more politely than I'd have expected, kind of how guys congratulate one another on those manly tv shows that feature wood carving with chainsaws.

The crowd sighed and moved off to the bar, or wherever. I was there for the long haul and got to watch Alexa untrussing the pale girl. This too was intimate to watch, as she leaned in and snaked the ropes through the knots and caught the pale girl's shoulders as she slumped.

The pale girl was unharmed, and after stretching gave Alexa a hug, and glanced over at me, jerking her chin to attract Alexa's attention. Alexa looked over at me, puzzled for a moment, then smiled in recognition. "Hi Mack", she said.

I don't know if you've ever had this happen to you, but for a moment there, I thought about changing my name to meet the hot chick's misconception. But, nah, I hate filling in forms. "Erm, actually it's Zack", I said, as smoothly as I could. "Good to meet you Alexa".

She smiled. "Right, Zack. Good to meet you too. Glad you found the place. Let's get a drink, and you can tell me about yourself."

04: Our First Chat

Pale girl had wondered off to a booth, and Alexa pointed in that direction. "What are you drinking?" she asked as we moved to follow the girl, who had bunny-hopped into a pair of jeans, and was pulling a t-shirt over her head.

"I'll join you in whatever you're having" I told her in my best attempt at suave, desperately trying to kickstart my brain, which was no longer accepting invitations to think about things, and was only one direct question away from dribbling. That earned me a raised eyebrow, and a pointed finger. "Have a seat". She swiveled and headed off towards the bar.

Leaving me with pale girl. Her name was Jill, and once I'd clarified that I was not Mack, she was lovely. Very centered and calm, and quite curious about how Alexa and I had met. "I work in the coffee shop on 2^nd and Vine", I told her, "make the best coffee in a three block radius". "Three blocks?" "Yeah, there's a Columbian place on Main that has a slightly more robust blend". That got me a smile, and I turned the conversation to matters of cordage.

"That was intense", I said. "You seemed to be in a different space from the room, even when it must have been uncomfortable". Way more articulate, I hope you've noticed. "Alexa's amazing", she smiled. "She's earned my trust and shown me so much". I let that digest for a moment. She's tied you up and displayed your near naked body to hungry rednecks. Not really something I wanted to say out loud whilst we were peacing out, but, really!

Anyway, Alexa showed up then, so my libido elbowed my intellect out of the driving seat. She'd bought me a coffee. Seriously, a coffee. Not a fancy one, just a mug of filter coffee, a couple of sugars and a little vessel of half and half. I looked her in the eye to see if she was being ironic, and seriously couldn't read it. Because, beautiful eyes.

She slid into the booth, and I got to be the meat in the sandwich between her and Jill, and I settled back to see if I could find my ducks. Because they weren't even in the pond, let alone lining up. I'd just noticed that Alexa had a dusting of freckles on the top of her cheeks when she looked right at me and asked: "So do you get much action with the old coffee cup call me line?"

I'm not an idiot, current evidence to the contrary. And I'm grown up enough, mostly, usually, to hold down a conversation. "Not so much, to be honest. It's more an ironic action, fishing for a smile, maybe some tip jar action. Everyone's so insulated nowadays, sometimes it's fun to reach out to the tank and tap the glass".

"Oh", she said. "I thought it was because you liked me". Jill lended over me and patted Alexa on the leg "Don't be sad baby". Shit. Shit. Shit. I was trying to figure out how to rearrange the deckchairs (of our Titanic relationship), when I noticed Jill and Alexa were having trouble keeping a straight face. I looked directly at Alexa, and her sad face cracked and she guffawed and squeezed my thigh. Yeah, that happened.

"That's what I figured," Alexa said. "But if we're just disturbing the fish, why put down your real number?". "Ah, well, erm..." It's a good question to be honest. "Well, if they call, maybe some of my insulation gets pulled off too". She looked me in the eyes again and said: "But if you do that, isn't there a danger of sparks?" And both of them fell about laughing again.

You're probably way ahead of me here, but I got the feeling that Alexa and Jill were pretty much a couple, and I was also a little grumpy about the teasing. I never claimed to be mature, did I?

05: Second Base

You know what, grumpy is rarely a sustainable mood. I'm not dead, sitting with two of the most interesting women I've met in a long time, and they're teasing me. You should be so lucky. According to the best relationship advice I ever received (my sister, circa ninth grade), teasing means they're interested. Get in the game Zack.

"So, I'm guessing you two don't have an nsa relationship..." I sallied. And was rewarded by big smiles from both of them. (Alexa has a dimple in her right cheek, but not the left). "Actually, I'm too young to be tied down" Jill deadpanned back with a tight grin. "And on that low note..." She leaned over and kissed Alexa on the cheek, "I'm out of here. Call me if you need me for the 10 o'clock show." Alexa held onto her hand for a second and nodded.

And then there were two. Me and the nawashi, a not awful filter coffee and a bottle of water. Two of us were sweating. "So how do these things usually go for you?" Alexa asked. She looked dead serious, but there was a spark of devilry in her eye. "It varies," I rocked my hand back and forth, "Usually it crashes and burns pretty early, sometimes it's fun for a while".

"Well, points for optimism anyway. Tell me something about you". Really? I hate that question. "Erm, I'm a libra, but I don't believe in horoscopes. I thank God every day I was raised an atheist, my favorite color looks better in the dark..." She raised her hand "Okay, too serious too soon. My bad. I'm not good at this kind of thing. Tell you what, what did you think of the bakushi"?

"Well, it's obviously technically challenging, but you made it look easy. There's an interesting dynamic between you and Jill, some of it must hurt her, but she seemed quite serene, and you seemed to be off in your own world completely".

That got me a smile. "Jill's amazing. She's been my bunny for about three years now, and you're right she drifts off into some internal landscape as the bindings take hold. It's pretty zen from both sides".

I sat back and looked at her. Taking inventory, I guess. She seemed to get that, and sat back as if to invite inspection. Now the giddy euphoria of early onset infatuation was dialing back a little, I could have a good gawk. Mind you, she wasn't just sitting passively, there was clearly an inventory being assembled from the other side.

So, to review. Cornrow hair, hazel eyes, coffee complexion. World's most arousing dragon tattoo wrapped about her torso, singlet and jeans. Physically she had a presence, a gravity about her that gave her a kind of authority, and a stillness that I envied. I'm all about coffee, but I gotta say, it doesn't bring serenity.

And the smile was back. The little one that reaches past manners and taps you in the libido. "So hi. I'm Alexa nawashi and apparently barista kidnaper. Although, you did kinda come here voluntarily".

"That I did. Good to meet you. I'm Zack, though Mack's still on the table if that's easier for you..."

"You're not gonna let that go are you." I smiled. "Well, it's the only leverage I've got right now, so..." I paused, reconsidered, then doubled down. "I'm not at all practiced at this, and have history at getting in my own way, so if you don't mind, I'm gonna blurt something..."

This girl had confidence like waitresses have menus. I got extra twinkle on the smile, and an expansive, "go ahead" gesture . "Erm, okay. I really like you. Not sure where this is going, but I'd be happy with whatever's on your mind. And I don't do this, usually, ever, but I'm happy to go with it, if you're into it. Apart from being tied up. That's kinda a hard line".

Of course, as I said the last, I realized that the reason I was here, was to be a rope 'bunny', or whatever she called it. Shit.

But the smile was still there. She leaned in and kissed me. No embrace, just that hand on my thigh, and a gentle kiss with barely parted lips. Months passed, then she leaned back and looked at me. "So. No ropes. Is sex on the table?"

06: Sex Is On The Table

What the... This is not how first dates go. It's supposed to be an early euphoria, filled with intimations of intimacy, and then a slow decline towards disillusionment, where our doughty hero finds his doe-eyed love interest is conflicted and somehow unavailable. "Sex on the table" is not something that fits into this dialogue.

But. There's the world we live in, and the world we want to live in. And yeah, probably the world you want to live in. Write your own fucking story. I'm sure mine has less goats. Or fewer. Whatever. In my world, sex on the table is transcendent.