Tired, aching feet. Needing massaging. That's the worst aspect of my job - waiting tables in an inner city café. Latte, cappuccino, short black, long black, macchiato, flat white....Turkish bread, bagels, long rolls, sesame seed rolls, white sliced..... From 10.30 am to 7 pm most days. Good days with tips, bad days when a customer does a runner. But the worst is the feet!
And the best? The one day when I got to do some research. Action research, that is. I'm writing the Great Australian Lesbian Bodice-Ripper (or is that clit-licker?). The best day happened one day last summer.
I suppose I'd better explain my waiting technique. This is the one reserved for when the Gaydar starts beeping off the screen. It used to be "Serve from the right, clear from the left", but now it's tables jam-packed together, and do the best you can. Somedays, just sometimes, getting up close to gorgeous women makes the nipples firm and the jeans wet.
This day, in walked a tall, good-looking woman. She plonked her backpack down at one of the outside tables, slipping the straps off her muscular shoulders. Her singlet top barely covered her braless, firm and rounded breasts. Cut-off jeans shorts, long athletic legs (immediately thinking about them wrapped around my neck!). She wore a single clear glass earring in one ear, a row of studs and gold sleepers in the other. Tousled, untidy short hair framed an open, smiling face. This gal's hair was curling around the nape, 2 inches all over. Seen better days, perhaps (like 8 weeks ago?).
She sat down next to her pack, facing towards the door, and half-turned to the street.
My nipples pointed out through my T-shirt. My face felt flushed. I smiled and asked her what I could get her. "Latte and raisin toast" she replied, returning my smile.. Aha - a breakfaster - looked like she's just arrived on the train at the central station around the corner.
I retreated inside and thought this through. Not in the habit of picking up customers. Not even sure she was a dyke. Gawd. Lust swamped me. I was throbbing...that inexplicable electricity of pure desire took hold.
Decided to try the Look Straight Into Her Eyes technique. I took out her coffee first..Shit. She had taken out a book..didn't even look up. Absorbed. A minute later I returned with the food. She had placed the book face-down, spine-up on the table. "Death by the Riverside" by J.M. Redman! One of my favourite dyke authors. "Now, now, say something NOW". For the first time I was caught for word. "Good book?" I stumbled.
"Oh, yeah" she replied, in a slow drawl. She then picked up the book and began to read again, holding the book in her left hand as she picked up a slice of toast in her right.
I retreated inside and took up a position where I could admire her, well, admire is a bit mild...slaver, drool and fantasise would be more accurate! I wanted to slide my hand up her thigh and slip it into one leg of those sexy shorts. I could imagine her wet bush and pulsating clit (I could feel my own!). I wanted to touch her nipples through her singlet, tweaking and rubbing them till she pushed my face onto them, pulling the top down to expose them fully. My tongue would flick and lick those brown, hard nipples...rolling them, scaping my stud over them, depressing them firmly....pushing them inwards, then sucking them out loooooong and gently nibbling the back of them.
I imagined her smooth toned ass...me pinching her buttocks and probing her hole...gently(at first) pulling her buttocks apart and pushing them together...
I looked up with a start and saw her looking for her purse. Plate and glass empty...ready to go. I sauntered coolly (oh yeah?) outside. "Ready for your bill?" She nodded assent, and I wrote the total on the order pad, tore it off and placed it on the table. As I did, my hand brushed, barely, against her arm. The hairs stood out on BOTH our arms.
"Er..." she started. "I couldn't help noticing your hair".
My hand immediately jumped to my head, brushing my palm across its spiky bristles. Here I have to explain that I have a bit, well, let's be honest here, a BIG fetish for short short, barely-there hair. Dykes with buzz cuts, flattops, crew cuts, little boy cuts with short back and sides...But you knew that already! You didn't? Oh, well, I get it shaved every 2 weeks, sometimes more, if there's a lover around into holding the clippers. Number One buzz, with a wisp of fringe at the front. And, I like my lovers the same.
"I've been on the road a few weeks," she said, "and I REALLY need a haircut." Yes, I thought, you do (for me). "Can you tell me where you get yours done?"
"Oh, sure," I said, and gave her directions to my butchgal cutter's shop. I opened my mouth to talk some more, maybe ask where she was from, where she was going to, when she said "Thanks," put the money down on the table, smiled, stood up, shrugged on her backpack and said, "Bye."
Oh, yeah, that's right, you great stud dyke...let one slip away. I was so tempted to run after her, but the café was filling and my attention was sought by a large party of office girls and guys at the next table. Young men in suits, girls in tight pastel suits, or black, skirts riding high on thighs, long STRAIGHT hair falling over their eyes, or permed. Probably a lipstick D amongst that lot, but who could tell?
