Safe and Sane

Time off work, and James had a visit to return. Bag stowed safely, it was a glorious morning to be out on the bike, and on something he'd never admit to being more than a whim, he pulled into the driveway of the house he'd discovered Jason was staying in, spray of gravel as he pulled up and kicked the stand down. Silence sudden as he killed the engine, James pulled off his helmet, and waited to see if the noise would bring Jason out, or if he'd need to go in.

Nothing to do. Technically, James was working. Practically, he'd set all the damn processes going and nothing was going to report back for six hours, which left him restless, and prowling the common room at the club. No one he knew.

One man. Young man, bent over a pad of manuscript paper. James paused, tilted his head, and frowned slightly, reading over the man's shoulder. "You really mean E sharp? Weird fucking key signature."

At last. The final element of Beth's venture was ready to open, the gallery ready to her satisfaction and Jason's, and displaying (after a certain amount of discussion) a selection of pieces created by each of the artists who would later be holding their own show in the gallery.

The cafe was brightly lit against the dull weather outside, and the store was still open downstairs, but the focus for today was on the gallery, the seating area at one end, and the works on display (and sale) there.

Someone in the cafe definitely had a resource of obscure holidays. This Wednesday fell on National Aviation Day, and one of the members of staff had obviously decided it was a good idea to mark it, but hadn't been quite sure how. Several model airplanes sat on top the counter and were suspended from the ceiling, swaying gently in the draft from the AC vents, with no explanation at all.

The original opening of Strokes had been a relatively public affair, open to all. The expansion, opening the store downstairs, was more private. Considering the space available, it had to be - the store was considerably smaller than the cafe upstairs, and there were stricter age restrictions on access. An invitation had gone out to all members of the club, and Beth had also left the details with Danielle in case she was generous enough to invite any of her customers.

The cafe upstairs was still open, of course, and Beth had left Dotty in charge up there after a frenzy of baking to ensure that they'd have enough to feed everyone. Downstairs, Beth held sway.

Counters along the center of the room had glass tops to display various sex toys, and the shelves below held neatly stacked boxes of the same toys displayed above. Should anyone want a closer look - or feel - Beth had prudently kept two of each behind her counter for testing purposes, and a small curtained off area next to the counter for privacy while testing. On top of the counter was a display case holding jewellery and some of the more expensive collars and restraints.

Shelves against one wall held a small selection of books, cards, and novelties along with the more practical supplies - lubes, hygiene, condoms, dams, etc - and a small case on the opposite wall held the library selection, available for people to peruse at their leisure. Tacked on the door was a small poster politely detailing expected behaviour - D/s behavious was, of course, more than acceptable, but no public nudity and no actual sex was to be permitted, or she'd lose her license.

Candles lit the tables upstairs, low electrical lighting set the mood downstairs. Now all she needed was guests, and potential customers.

It had taken a few false starts for Iain to finally leave a message on James' phone, but he was determined and finally got there:

"Hi.. umm.. yeah. This is Iain. From the munch? The guy with the bookstore? I've been thinking a lot about our conversation, and well, I just wondered if you'd like to meet up to talk some more sometime. We could meet at the club or something, the cafe, or meet me at the store after work, whatever's cool with you? I mean, if you want to that is. Anyway, yeah, call me anytime.. umm.. bye."

He closed his eyes as he clicked his cell shut, and leant back against the wall with a soft sigh.

Another Wednesday, nearly August, and thunderstorms outside. Power held - so far - but the cafe was taking no chances. Which meant that instead of lights on inside, each table was lit by a couple of tealights safely protected in the bottom of water glasses, giving the whole place an unusually intimate atmosphere.

Hot drinks would be on offer as long as the power held out, and the owner and staff appeared to be praying for that between each order.

Wednesday again, and another munch night. The cafe was increasingly quiet as layoffs took effect on household finances, and the board behind the counter was scattered with offers.

Quite why anyone would want to buy two coffees and get a third free, or whether it was a good idea for the majority of munch attendees, was anyone's guess.

As promised, he was there early -- a rare thing for him, but he wasn't sure he'd like the consequences all too much if he wasn't prompt. He sat comfortably in the lounge, a drink in one hand that he alternately stared into the depths of and took large swigs from, practically vibrating with nervous excitement, energy coursing through his veins already and he'd yet to even see the man, let alone experience him. Still, he did his best to seem as calm and collected as was possible, splayed out on the sofa carelessly, his tie loosened from work and his jacket discarded over the back of his seat.

John was, not to put too fine a point on it, drunk off his ass. He also reeked of sex -- a complicated mix of come, latex and lube.

He'd walked away from his conversation with Went with the vague idea that if he was going to be called a whore, and treated like one, he may as well act like one. There was a wild sort of desperation that fueled his actions. The need to find *something* to grab onto and pull himself back to center. Sex and alcohol and pain and a frenzy of activity that hadn't -- couldn't -- make him actually believe that he was more than fury and sound. Couldn't make him feel like a person instead of figment of someone else's imagination, brought to life just to bleed out on the stage of an empty house.

He *hurt*. He'd hit the breaking point, and he hadn't just broken, he'd shattered into a thousand sharp edged pieces. It was dramatic, it was melodramatic, but it was John. He felt with his whole heart, and he'd made a life of his drama.

He ended up on his porch at 3 a.m. Jack was barking inside but otherwise the house was dark and silent and he could not make himself go in. Besides, his keys were apparently not in his pants. At least he still had his pants, aand his phone The first number that popped up was James', so he called it -- just hit send. "I need you to help me break into my house. I lost my keys."

Then he hung up again, buried his face in his arms and waited on either James to come or the sun to rise.

John spotted James and approached with an extra cup of coffee and a smile. "Hey. Think you can spare a few minutes for an old... whatever?"

A while since James had been back to the club. Business elsewhere, lack of time to play. Still, all work and no play was a proverb that still drove James' life, even if the play had changed, and that brought him back once the project milestone had been met, reaching behind the bar for a cold beer and surveying the room

A slow smile curved his lips as he recognized one particular inhabitant, currently with his back to James. He snapped the top off his beer, and strolled over, stopping just out of reach. "Now, I do believe I owe you a kick to the floor."

At least, and for starters.

Wednesday. Munch night at the cafe. Coffee, cakes, and kinksters gathered together.

Wednesday again, and a happier Wednesday than the previous one. The weather seemed to have warmed up especially for the inauguration, and the evening was mild enough that the cafe had tables set outside for more than just the smokers. A general air of celebration lingered from the previous day, and the cafe owner had decided to celebrate by offering free upgrades to larger sizes of coffee, or free muffins with the smallest ones.

Sugar and caffeine highs all around.

James didn't really do Christmas. Christmas was for families, and Christians, and people who did all that social shit. He wasn't one of them.

Which was why Boxing Day found him in the quietness of the club common room, with a mug of very strong coffee, going through network diagrams and making notes, until he felt eyes on him, and looked up.

At a kid. Definitely a kid.

His eyes narrowed. "How'd you get in here?"

Geoff sat down beside James by the bar, put a pizza on the counter and scooted it towards James. "This was clearly meant for you. I thought the pizza place just got the order wrong, but no, there's a cosmic rightness to it. Bon appeite."

It was a pineapple pizza.

Geoff was leaning against the bar at the club, sucking on a piece of pineapple of a tooth pick and eying his not yet touched drink suspiciously. He offered it to James. "Does that smell like sangria to you?"

Friday night in Sal's was always a busy night. This Friday was a touch busier than most, because there was no chance in hell Lin was playing a set on his own when Carl was in town, and if Carl was playing, Lin was going to move heaven and earth to get him a good crowd. Didn't take much, a word here and there in the right ears, spread around the bar, the club, onwards and through.

It meant that Friday night was busier than most, but the crowd was in a damn fine mood. Mellow and easy, celebrating the end of the week with a couple of beers, a couple fingers of Jack, or just a couple of guys down one end of the room, playing guitars and singing together like their voices had shaped the songs together from their birth.

For some of the songs, that much was even true.

Wednesday night again. Fall past, and winter setting in with a vengeance. The outside tables had been cleared away, and the cafe was doing a brisk trade in hot chocolate, hot soup, and hot tea.

Only one problem.

The coffee maker was broken.

For one night only (because the repair man had been threatened, on pain of pain, to get the damn thing up and running again before opening time the next morning) the cafe was a coffee-free zone, and the staff were already looking stressed.

Jason was spattered with mud from head to toe and it made his grin that much whiter in comparison as he entered the club. Dropping his bag in front of the bar, he circled around to grab a bottle of water and heard rather than saw someone come up. Still bent over with his head in the fridge, he asked, "Can I get you something while I'm down here?"