I had been studying in the library for midterm exams when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I figured it was one of my guy friends who wanted some notes from me. I was wrong.
In college, I was basically a very shy guy who, although I looked like the young Al Pacino, I rarely dated. Just didn't have the guts or confidence to ask girls out, so it was with much surprise that I found that the woman who'd tapped my shoulder was someone I'd seen around and admired.
She was about five and a half feet tall with slender hips and fairly large boobs, but it wasn't her boobs that kept me interested ... it was her madonna-like face and her piercing, pale blue eyes which looked all the more striking because she had long, straight dark brown hair.
We left the library to take a break from our studies and sat on the lawn on a cool autumn afternoon. It turned out that she had been noticing me and wondered why I'd never introduced myself. I owned up to my shyness and she laughed and kissed me on my cheek.
"You're so damned cute," she said. "I figured you had a girlfriend."
"Nope. Haven't had one of those since my sophomore year."
We were both juniors at the time and I found that she wasn't dating anyone either. She was a few years older than I was. As we got to know one another, I found out that she had been married but was now a widow. Not knowing what else to say, I just told her that it sounded like she'd been through a rough patch.
She told me that she was fortunate in that she had a very close family. We both lived in the Bronx and she told me her family owned a very well-known Italian restaurant in a very Italian district. She had been working in the restaurant and going to school to fill her lonely hours. "When Jimmy, my husband died, it was like I lost a piece of me and i just didn't feel like having a social life."
Ooops, I thought to myself, there goes hope down the tubes. Damn! We talked until it started to get dark; I told her I really had to study and she said he had to go to work. We exchanged phone numbers and I promised to keep in touch.
What I hadn't told her, partly because we never discussed sex that afternoon, was that I was still a virgin. I'd gone to a boys-only school and hadn't been in a co- ed setting until I'd gotten to college. Okay, no excuses. It was partly that shyness thing again. It's not that I didn't want to, mind you, but there seemed to be no way for me to meet girls.
I called her the following night. My twenty year old heart thundered in my chest as I dialed the number she'd given me and I misdialed twice before getting it right. There was nothing to worry about, though because things felt as easy to say on the phone as they had been on the campus. She told me she would be closing the restaurant early that Sunday and that I should meet there and that she'd make me a nice Italian meal. How could I refuse?
I happen to love Italian cuisine and looked forward to it with and empty stomach and, I'll admit, a hard cock. At that point in my life, I didn't own a car and neither did any of the members of my family, so I took the subway and two buses, getting to the restaurant about fifteen minutes late. The doors were locked, but I knocked and, even though the lights were out in the dining area, I could see that the lights were still on in the kitchen. I waited a few minutes and Anna came to the door wearing tight black pants and a fairly low cut knit sweater.
Did I say I'm not a boob guy? The moment I saw her, I reassessed my values in that department. Shit... they were even freckled and freckles had always been a thing for me. I could smell wonderful smells coming from the kitchen, but whatever perfume she had on made the smell of the food inconsequential.
We ate in the kitchen and the food was out of this world. I'd honestly never tasted anything like the feast she'd prepared for us. Wedding soup, plates of antipasto, fresh baked bread, cheese plates, some kind of grilled eggplant and roasted peppers on a bed of red wine pasta, tiramisu for dessert and, of course, a nice red wine to go with the meal.
I couldn't believe how full I felt and she felt likewise. I talked about my own love for cooking and told her how excellent the food she cooked was.
"I can't boil water," she said. "My uncle Pete did all the cooking for me. As an Italian wife, I'm hopeless in that area, but I have ways of making up for it."
"Such as?" I inquired as we held hands and walked around the block under the light of street lamps and a half moon.
"Well," she asked, "Are you sure you want to go there," she replied with a giggle.
I felt fortified by my glass and a half of wine, so I nervously answered, "Sure. Why the hell not? We're both adults."
And that was how we started talking about sex. I admitted to my sorrowful state of virginity and she responded that she'd never had a virgin before ... unless extra-virgin olive oil counted, she joked.
