The Chef's Tour

She was convinced the anchovy paste convinced him.

She had sauteed shallots, garlic, and the paste in a bit of olive oil and a tab of butter before she added grape tomatoes, artichokes, capers and finally the tuna. After a white wine reduction she tossed it all with some angel hair pasta and served her impromptu supper to the bartender.

Initially, she'd thought he might be gay. He did, after all, work in a gay bar. Close cropped hair, stylish glasses, a physically fit frame that suggested he spent more than a few days a week in a gym and a tendency to actually listen suggested he was not your typical straight guy. Plus, she had at least ten years on him and still, he was paying very close attention to everything she said.

The event that had brought them to each other's attention was yet another cocktail party kicking off yet another fundraising gala that required still more table sales and silent auctions. She was supporting a friend who had to be there because the organization for which she worked would benefit if the gala was truly successful. Since the friend was buying the $3 well drinks and there were tasty -- though not exactly gourmet -- cheeses and crackers to enjoy, she certainly wasn't sacrificing much but a few hours of her time.

When she realized the guy serving her vodka and tonics might actually be one of the few straight men in the room, the sacrifice seemed neglible.

They spent the first hour -- in between his drink pours -- discussing education. He was exploring an alternative certification program that would allow him to teach in a middle school classroom. She knew of at least two people who had explored and successfully engaged the program and were now happily in front of students. He connected that they were somehow connecting.

The second hour's conversational path wandered around and about the topic of sexuality. They were, after all, surrounded by gay men and women so it wasn't too off the wall that the topic might come up. She had just been asked if she were gay by a one-drink-over-the-limit lesbian who guessed that indeed she wasn't.

"Don't give off the vibe, huh?" she'd asked her assessor.

"Your shoes give you away," she noted pointing to the open toe heels.

"Point taken," she'd responded, noting that the majority of footwear in the room was practical and/or closed toed.

When she relayed the conversation to her friend and the listening-in bartender, they discussed the viability of the "spectrum" theory -- that most of us fall in the spectrum between 100% gay and 100% hetero.

He didn't offer up where he fell but she did catch his wandering focus toward her breasts -- which she had carefully orchestrated to be in their full glory by virtue of the dress she'd chosen and the seat she'd taken at the bar which allowed for maximum breast pumpage if she leaned forward in just the right way.

The two hour commitment was coming to a close when he suggested that her knowledge of the teaching gig he was exploring was worthy of further conversation and noted that he'd be leaving his bartending gig 15 minutes after the event concluded.

"Want to delve into this a bit further, huh?" she asked. "Well, how about over supper?"

"My treat," he said. "After all, you are sharing your expertise."

"I am at that but my expertise extends well beyond the classroom so I think you should . . . " she grabbed a cocktail napkin and wrote her address and her phone number on it . . . "call me when you're close and I'll tell you how to transverse the obstacle course that is my complex parking lot before I feed you a delectable dinner guaranteed to produce teacheresque brain cells. . . . Unlesss, of course, you're allergic to tuna."

"No allergies. And I'll be there in 45 minutes top."

She walked to her car with her friend and they laughed at the idea that she might have just snagged a hottie at a gay bar.

She contemplated the possibility that he wouldn't show. But something within her knew she'd made the connect.

So with a bottle of wine chilling and the ingredients prepped she waited.

But not for long.

He entered her apartment with just the right amount of admiration for her numerous artworks. She directed him to the barstool that would enable him to watch while she completed the sauteeing. Wine poured, she resisted the urge to mention that the tables had now been turned.

He appreciated her taste in whites. She sliced some havarti and offered him smoked almonds and crackers to supplement the mild flavor of the cheese.

As she cooked, she noticed that he had a wide range of interests. A military background had secured him numerous cross cultural experiences. Returning to school in his late 20s had offered him a generational perspective often lacking in most college freshmen. And bartending in a gay bar in a major metropolitan city ... well ... he had lots of stories to tell.

What she noticed most, though, was his willingness to let the conversation flow, asking questions of her, allowing her stories to prompt his own.

By the time the pasta was before him, they were into their second bottle of wine and confident that the conversation would not end soon.

By the time he'd commented on the rich layering of flavors (thanks in part to the aforementioned anchovy paste), she'd began to wonder if his lips would taste as good as the sorbet she was planning on serving as a dessert.

She didn't have to wait until post-mango freshness.

"You're talents are obvious on many levels," he said as he raised his glass in both a toast and salute to her. "I look forward to examining them further as the night wears on."

And he leaned in for a kiss that tasted of the tartness of the dish and the sweetness of possibilities.

She hesitated for only a moment before placing her hand on his thigh.

"Would you like dessert now . . . or later?" she asked, squeezing slightly and moving her hand a half inch upward.

"I think . . . dessert can take many forms," and he cupped his hand behind her neck, massaged momentarily, and then brought her close for yet another kiss.

"And I think ... " she breathed deeply, trying to find the words that would express exactly what she wanted to happen in the next 45 minutes to an hour or so ... "you're right."

She stood and took his free hand into her own. She raised the fingers to her lips and kissed each softly before selecting the index finger for preferential treatment.

Sucking first on the tip, she took in just a bit more and stopped. Smiling, she led him to her bedroom.

The moon was shining bright enough into her window that no further mood lighting was required. She casually punched the stereo and music softly flooded the room. She pulled him bedside, turned to face him, and looked into his eyes.

"I'm not apologizing, but I am acknowledging, that I am a few years your senior and thus . . . "

He hushed her. "And thus . . . nothing. You are who I choose to be with. You."

She let the nagging doubts go.

She wondered if he would be the agressor. She was delighted that everything was mutual. She tugged at his shirt tail. He lifted her dress over her head. She unbuckled his belt. He looked longingly at her breasts.

"Kisses?" she teased.

He bent forward and lifted her right breast to his mouth. His tongue teased and tasted her nipple. She reached behind and took off her bra. He cupped both breasts in both hands and alternated between the two.

She let the pleasure set in.

Then she took to her bed. And removed the rest of her clothes. He followed.

Momentarily at a loss, she simply took him in. He had at least half a foot on her. His muscles were defined -- perhaps once well defined. Now, they suggested fitness and an appreciation for lazy afternoons. He wasn't tanned but he was perfectly haired. She liked a bit of chest hair but wanted it to have its boundaries. Not a sign of back hair in sight. His dark curls repeated themselves around his more than adequate cock . . . which was growing in appreciation of the situation.

She smiled and placed her hand on his ass. Squeezing, she kneaded her way around his thigh and took the growing penis in hand.

He smiled and positioned himself slightly above her. Clasping his hands on each breast, he pulled slightly on each nipple.

She reciprocated by tugging and squeezing before lightly kissing his tip.

Looking up for his reaction, she admired his admiration. She let the kiss linger longer before taking him in inch by inch. Her tongue provided the pressure, criss-crossing the shaft at rapid fire pace, teasing each cell before changing pace entirely and taking him in with a dive of sorts, deep throating him once, twice and three times.

He moaned.

She grabbed his chest and pinched his nipples -- hard. He almost whimpered. And then he moaned again.

He regrouped. He rose. He slipped inside her while toying with her clit. It was her turn to moan.

He slipped in and out, in and out, in and out and increased in speed.

She clutched his butt cheeks and inserted her fingers into his crack. She searched for an entry point and eureka!

His eyes opened wide. But he didn't caution her. She proceeded.

As did he.

She mimicked his moves in and out. She wished for the growth of her own digits in order to please him more. She substituted width and length with speed and creativity. She wondered if he were feeling a portion of the intensity she was experiencing. She didn't wonder long.

"If you keep that up," he labored to locate the words, "I'm going to come any moment."

"I'm counting on it," she said, knowing her own propensity to reciprocate in multiple spasms once his juices were exploding within her.

He came hard. She came harder.

They clutched each other with sweat-drenched urgency. Then relaxed.

She waited before pulling away and laying beside him. Then she placed her hand slightly above the raised hairs on his chest. They almost tickled her palm. She traced his body with the hairs as her guide -- not touching but close enough to suggest something mounting within.

He breathed in deeply. She smiled, knowing that he was recovering faster than most. She had plans that would test his stamina. Plans that included much more than a few moments of anal anxiety. She knew he had at least another couple of hours in him. She started working on the menu.