I think back long ago about the summer after I graduated high school, fondly; actually, much more than fondly. I had just turned eighteen and was college bound to the school of my choice. I had a feeling of accomplishment as well as excitement of what lay ahead. It was also the summer I started on a magical journey. But I am getting way ahead of myself, I must go back and give you the context and tell you how it all happened.
Nothing pleases me more, even as I approach my dotage than the sight of a pretty woman. A beautiful self-assured woman for me is spell binding. Unfortunately, now, like when I was in high school, I am ill- suited to do more than look and enjoy. In this way, there is, in life a certain cruel symmetry. In high school, I was constantly preoccupied with girls, letting my imagination run wild without any idea about how to realize my imaginings. Now, I know what to do, but being married and nearly sapped of my male vitality; well such is life.
I was told at the time, and not only by my Mother, that I was a very attractive boy. I had a slim, strong body as a result of high school cross country and track. My dark wavy hair was worn longish as was the style at the time, and my face had delicate angles. My older cousin, Angela, called me a "pretty boy," which sort of confused me. Guys weren't pretty weren't, were they?
My sex life during high school was, I suppose, typical. Relationships with girls at that age, and during that time can be best described as some weird combination of social science and biology experiments. The one serious girlfriend I had was all for teasing and fondling but was unaware of the effect she had on me and would have been incapable of following through even if she had had any awareness. My "big chance" as it was, is funny to recall now even though, then it was anything but. It all came to a head, literally, when one night in a parked car I had managed Lizzie's; that was her name, bra off and was playing and sucking on her large boobs when I grabbed her hand and put it on the front of my pants. She returned my bold initiative with a look of terror on her face. Undeterred, I continued and unzipped and placed her hand on my swollen cock and started to move her hand up and down in the same way I would jerk off.
Lizzie taking the hint and now more fascinated than terrified, started to stroke faster and harder and cooing in my ear "ooh so hard."
Well her boobs were swaying in front of my eyes and the cum rising from my balls went from zero to sixty in about three seconds.
"Lizzie", I panted, "stop, I am going to ..."
I never got the last word out of my mouth before I exploded. In an instant, Lizzie's look went to disgust.
"How could you she cried, what a mess, ifyou got your spunk on my blouse my Mom will kill me" and so on.
Thus, in the course of about ten minutes she went from terror, to fascination, to anticipation to disgust and disappointment, a perfect Freudian nightmare, and a normal high school tryst. What made it worse was on Monday at School, I saw her whispering to her girlfriends and giggling and looking over their shoulders at me before giggling more. In short, as I ended up my high school career, I was confused about girls, and confused about myself: what was I supposed to do when my balls are blue, I have pair of tits in my face and my cock is being stroked? And yes, at the time of my graduation, I was still a certified virgin.
Part 2
During the spring of my senior year, I had backed my way, into a job working weekends and some nights at a local restaurant washing dishes and bussing tables. A friend of a friend asked me to fill in for him one Friday night because of a hot date or something. The restaurant was eponymously named "Jeanette's". Jeanette was the co-owner, manager and chef. She owned the restaurant with her husband who worked in some sort of engineering consulting business and came by only on occasion to check on things. I wasn't aware at first but later came to learn Jeanette's was known as the best restaurant for miles around. Jeanette herself was trained as a chef in her home country, France. To get to the point though, Jeanette, was the most exotic, interesting, unpredictable and beautiful woman this naïve boy had ever met. She could not have been more than in her late--twenties, however she handled herself with such self--assurance, I took her for older. She was statuesque, with light brown hair, wide set, blue "CFM" eyes and a body, which at the end of evening when unshielded by her white chef's jacket one could see, was simply magnificent or as Jeanette might say, "magnifique". She also possessed a fiery Gallic temper which was most often expressed in French which left all of us worker bees terrified and confused about what to do or say to mollify Mme. Jeanette. One thing for sure though, she knew what she was doing. Nothing escaped her notice. She was, during the height of a Saturday rush a flurry of deliberate activity and the food she prepared was nothing short of works of art. Jeanette's was a small restaurant and in the smaller, hot kitchen there was only three people working, a dishwasher, an assistant or sous chef and Jeanette. Working in close hot quarters, aided and abetted my infatuation with Jeanette with consequent effect. Thank goodness for the long apron I wore.
Oh, what happened to the friend of my friend? This is classic Jeanette. I show up on the appointed Friday, introduce myself to Jeanette and explain I am filling in for my friend who had a commitment that he had to keep. Jeanette, did not say a word for a moment and then swore, at least I think she did because what she said was in French.
"Hmm, she continued in English, commitment eh. Trying to get his miserable, tiny deek into some girl's pussy, merde."
It took me a second to realize that "deek" was dick in French accented English. This, for a teen age boy, was very funny, but I was too scared to laugh.
Jeanette then stuck out her chin, looked down her nose, and asked, "tell me, you plan to go to college?"
"Yes, I stammered, I start in September."
"Good Jeanette said sternly, since you are a smart college boy, you can get to work immediately. The aprons are in a closet by the back door, dishes are behind me on the shelves. I never, never want to ask you for clean dishes. Glass and tableware are stationed in the back of the dining room, ask Laura to show you. I assume, College Boy, since you have, what do they call it, Yankee ingenuity you can figure out how to use the dishwasher and remember, take out the garbage when it is full and don't spill it. And one more thing, she continued, when you see my cooking area getting messy, start cleaning, wash pans and pots, you understand. I can't create art in a mess."
She then walked over very close to me and since she was taller I had to look up to meet her eyes. Her breasts were just about touching me and I could smell her perfume, a musky, spicy scent. She said nothing now, just held me in her gaze for and what seemed like a long time and then reached behind me and gave me a hard swat on my ass.
"Get to work" she whispered. At that moment, I just about creamed my pants.
At the end of the night as I was cleaning the floors and Jeanette was getting ready to close up.
She came over to me and said, "see you tomorrow night College Boy."
"Tomorrow night I questioned, I was just filling in for my friend."
Jeanette with a smirk replied, "I hope your friend had some luck tonight, though I expect he is at home now pulling on his deek, hoping Mama doesn't open the bathroom door, because you are better. So, I see you tomorrow at 4:00, yes College Boy?"
"Yes, I replied as calmly as I could, trying to hide my excitement and by the way my name is Michael."
Jeanette paused a moment and again fixed me with her gaze which I would come to know very well. Without her chef's jacket, I could see the deep swell of her breasts, and the outline of her firm round and perfectly proportioned ass. I couldn't help staring, and unlike my old pal Lizzie, she knew exactly the effect she was having.
Softly, Jeanette said, "bonne nuit, College Boy." And with that, she turned and left.
Part 3
I finished my cleaning after Jeanette left, and locked the back door as instructed. I went home exhausted not only from the actual physical effort of the evening but also from the emotional tension. It was after midnight when I finally fell into bed and exhausted as I was, I found I could not get to sleep, the proximate cause of my insomnia being a rock- hard boner. I got out of bed and tip-toed down the hallway to the bathroom. Apparently, my friend's friend would not be the only one who would be stroking his deek, tonight, while hoping his Mama wouldn't darken the doorway. With visons of Jeanette's tits and ass in my mind, I ejaculated in jet stream of cum, over-shooting the tissue in my hand and making a sticky mess on the tiled floor.
"Merde, I said under my breath." Oh, Jesus Christ, now I am cursing like her and I don't even know what I am saying. So, there I was with my pajamas still around my ankles, on my hands and knees cleaning cum off the floor. If Jeanette could see me now, wouldn't she be impressed?
The next thing I recall is waking in my bed the next morning at 10:00, much later than my usual time. While my high school track career was over, I was still in the habit of getting up early for a morning run. I was faced though with a uniquely male dilemma. I again was rock hard and also had a full bladder. It is near impossible to jerk off while you have to pee and you can't pee when you are fully tumescent. Jeanette was in my head; both heads evidently even when I was dead asleep. My inability to exert any self-control over my dick was becoming a real nuisance. What to do? Ok, think of something else, like going to church, or the old fat lady who works the counter at the local variety store, anything other than her, and after a short time, I was able to deflate enough to pee. Now, before anything else popped up, I got going on my run and came home and took a cold shower. I had heard that cold showers work; they don't.
My big break in my budding culinary education came a couple of weeks later. I arrived for work on a Friday afternoon, and the kitchen was empty; no Jeanette and no Luis, one of the sous chefs who was expected in to prep for dinner service. I then heard Jeanette's voice coming from out front. It sounded like she was on the phone. As I started setting up, she came back to the kitchen in a particularly foul mood which for Jeanette is really foul.
"College Boy she barked, I must ask you a question? When you are in this kitchen do you pay attention to anything that is going on or do you just day dream about which waitress you would fuck, if by chance one of them lost their minds and offered you the opportunity?"
The truthful answer was that I day dreamed about the chance Jeanette would lose her mind. Sometimes, however, and contrary to advice that teachers and preachers give you, lying is the best course of action. Actually, I only half lied because I did watch what Jeanette did. As I said before, watching her work was like watching a great artist; ok, a max babe artist.
I replied as earnestly as I could, "Jeanette, I try hard to pay attention and learn."
"Well very good then, Jeanette quickly replied, because those waitresses aren't going to go crazy and I need you to step up. My lazy sous- chef tells me he is too sick to work tonight and I can't find my other sous -- chef. All our tables are booked starting at 5:30, straight through. Congratulations College Boy, you are now sous chef; I've called in the other dishwasher."
Jeanette was a whirlwind of activity that evening and a continuous fountain of curses, orders and instructions.
"No, idiot, she spat, you are just hacking at my carrots, you don't know how to julienne, and you told me you pay attention, mon Dieu, what did I do to deserve this."
And, so it went through the evening, "I told you paprika not pepper; look at how you plated this filet and look at mine. Yours looks like nourriture pour chien. Do you know what that means? Of course not, Americans only speak one language, bad English; it means dog food College Boy!"
