A couple of weeks ago, on a grey, overcast Monday, I was running some errands on my lunch hour. I hadn't had time for breakfast that morning, and was absolutely ravenous. I decided to stop off at this funky little cafe in Fremont, a new place called Antonia's Soups, which had just been voted Seattle's best soup and sandwich joint by readers of The Stranger.
Chimes tinkled as I entered the crowded cafe. It smelled like the most delicious delicatessen you've ever visited in your life. The walls were covered with colorful, stylized murals, including one of a nude woman with pendulous breasts, sitting on a riverbank with a huge clay pot between her thighs, stirring a stew with a long ladle she gripped two-handed. In the background, I heard the familiar strains of Thievery Corporation's "Lebanese Blonde."
I ordered at the counter and found a corner table next to the kitchen door. Minutes later, I was devouring a huge, steaming bowl of minestrone, loaded with zucchini, spinach, ground beef, Garbanzo beans, and a host of exotic spices. I couldn't believe how good it tasted and I ate with relish.
As I get older and less inhibited, I'm realizing more and more that all our senses are tied together. The heat that was spreading through my body was giving me energy, enhancing my desire to frig off after lunch. Now, would I do it here in the cafe toilet, using my fingers, leaving the door strategically unlocked so that another woman could walk in on me and gasp at the sight of my fingers urgently angling across my unshaven slit? Or would I just head back to my car, parked on a nearby side street, ease back the driver's seat, pull down my pants, and pull out my ever-ready Mini Vibe, lying back and stroking my breasts as I moaned, putting on an incredible show for passing cyclists and pedestrians?
God, this soup was good.
A warm hand on my shoulder interrupted my reverie. "You seem to be enjoying my minestrone."
I turned my head. There she was. Tall, olive skin, long dark curly hair, a dimple in her right cheek as she smiled down at me. She wore a heavily spattered, red-and-white checkered cotton apron that couldn't conceal the slight curve of her womanly belly or her huge, heavy breasts.
I smiled right back at her. "Did you make this yourself?"
Her hand was still on me, and I felt a ripple of excitement go through me. "I saw you placing your order and told my other cook, 'I'm making this one myself.'"
"Then you must be Antonia."
"That's right," she said. "Welcome to my little place. And who do I have the pleasure of...?"
"I'm Frederika," I said, reaching up with my hand to squeeze hers. She had thicker fingers than average for a woman, and I could tell from her skin that she spent a lot of time gardening as well.
Antonia sat down across from me. Mentally, I tried to guess her age. Based on the thin lines on her forehead, she had to be at least 45, if not older. From the look in her eyes, I could tell that she was coming on to me. That excited me. I love to be desired. And there are always fireworks to be had when two sexually aggressive women who know what they want get together.
"Tell me, Antonia," I said. "Do you share your recipes? I'd love to make this minestrone at home."
She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Well, here's the thing. I've just written my first recipe book for White Sand Publishing."
"Congratulations. Can I get it from you here?"
"Unfortunately, it won't be out till the fall. But I do have an alternative you may be interested in exploring."
"Tell me more."
Antonia brushed her hair back over her ear and put her hands over mine on the table. "Since January, I've been offering cooking lessons on the second Sunday of every month. I come to your house or you come to mine. I provide all the ingredients. You tell me what kind of soups or stews tickle your fancy and I teach you how to cook up something you'll never forget."
"Well, that sounds like a lot of fun, and very educational," I said. I moved my right hand on top of hers, lightly tracing patterns over her fingers. "And how much do you charge for these lessons?"
"For you, it would be fifty dollars for three hours."
"Why, that's a bargain. At that price, I can hardly refuse."
"Shall we meet next Sunday, then, Frederika?"
"Let's say 2 o'clock at your place. My kids will be home on Sunday and I don't want any distractions."
Antonia reached down behind her apron and produced her business card from her deep cleavage. "My phone number and email are listed here. Drop me a line when you've decided what kind of a dish you'd like me to prepare for you."
She clasped my hands again and rose. "It's been a pleasure to meet you, Frederika." She smiled and there was that dimple again.
"Till Sunday, then," I said, looking deep into her eyes.
She returned to the kitchen, her hips swaying slowly as she walked. All of a sudden I became aware again of plates clinking and people talking and cars going by on the Drive, all of which I'd completely tuned out during my intimate conversation with Antonia.
I glanced at the nude woman in the mural again. Suddenly it dawned on me that Antonia was the model.
As soon as I'd paid and left, I jumped back into my car and immediately thrust my Mini Vibe down the front of my pants, pushing my lace underwear inside my completely soaked slit. With my toy buzzing on its highest setting, I climaxed in less than a minute.
The next Sunday, I drove over to Antonia's house. Located in nearby Ballard, it was a lovely two-level character home with a cherry tree in full bloom in the front yard. There was an old red Volkswagen Beetle parked in the driveway.
I rang the doorbell. Seconds later, Antonia answered and stood before me, eye to eye, in all her voluptuous glory. She wore a plain white blouse with four buttons open and the shirt sleeves rolled up. The blouse was tied up just below her navel, revealing her belly, and just, as importantly, revealing to me that she had zero problem with any part of her body. She was wearing a custom-made pair of jeans that really emphasized her wide, curvaceous ass.
"Hello, Frederika," she said with a wide smile. Spontaneously, we gathered each other in for a hug. The sensation of her breasts pressing into mine was incredible.
My nipples were standing out as we touched. I didn't want to send out any mixed messages. I wanted Antonia to be clear that I was here for much more than a cooking lesson. I'd come in a knee-length black silk skirt with diamond-patterned stocking and Italian leather boots, and I was braless underneath my white spaghetti strap top. If I could have come in the nude, I would have.
Antonia invited me inside. As she was about to close the door, a young woman with a long blonde ponytail loped past in pink spandex workout gear. "Hi, Jennifer!" Antonia called. The woman turned her head and waved back with a smile before pulling up and heading into the neighboring house.
As I took off my boots in the foyer, I noticed a four-four-tall ceramic statue of a Middle Eastern goddess next to the staircase.
