Graham Thompson - A Perfect Sexual Match

By the time I was twenty years of age, I really wanted desperately to become a Broadway actress, but, instead, like a lot of other girls, I became a fulltime waitress and worked the tourist tables at Emilio's down in the Village.

Then I got to be lucky and was living with a nice guy, a good-looking young actor name Ronald McKay, and he and I had been acting in the theatre since going to high school, you know, doing scenes, making the rounds, reading for parts we never got.

We often stayed up all night reading for off-Broadway plays never produced, and we sent out pictures, or we tried to call would-be agents, or we'd just spend the day talking with other actors and generally being with people who were involved in getting our names spread around.

Going to acting classes and sending out my resume and spending carfare making my rounds every morning, I finally got a bit part in an independent movie being filmed in 16mm by a young woman at NYU's film school, and this was a very small part, and from the money I earned I had to work at waitressing only part-time.

It was during this period in Emilio's terrace cafe that I eventually met Richard, whom the other waitresses called 'the light of my life'.

I used to walk from Ronald's and my tiny apartment everyday from the lower Eastside, and once at work, I have a nice section in the Cafe out on the front terrace, which was Sixth Avenue then, and often I would see this very nice older man alone and drinking rum and coke, maybe just looking around at the street, or maybe sometimes over at us, sometimes at me.

You could certainly say that Richard was older than I was, say in his fifties, which definitely was not my style, because I was only twenty, and although my few girl friends always told me that I had a great figure, a curvy body, with gorgeous full breasts and nice long legs under my jeans, I never was at a loss attracting men.

But, in this case, I found out that one just didn't show off one's qualities to this man, this Richard, but often I would smile at him, and he would return it.

He had a nice face and he was quite strong, had great, wonderful eyes and a full head of hair which he kept nicely trimmed.

I thought of myself then as being more than just cute. I had this youthful and marvelous body, and I had a most pleasant face, a very nice complexion, kissable lips, and my eyes were a shade of blue with yellow specks.

And here I was, living with this live-in lover, or whatever the hell you'd call him, so I wasn't looking around, or even playing around, although hardly a day passed in that cafe that less then thirty men didn't offer their pricks to me, or rub my breasts in passing, or make hot sexy comments.

So I was living with Ronald and taking care of his cats and his sleepy dog and shopping for his frozen suppers and cooking things for one, and this took a lot of my time.

I should tell you right here that where sex and fucking was concerned, I would say that Ronald was your typical ordinary every day kind of fool. Sex didn't mean very much.

Maybe he would kiss my breasts once in a very great while, or he'd play with my pussy with his fingers, and let's say that was about all.

But when he did have a minute or two and his prick was hard, he wanted to fuck, that's what he did; he'd slip his dry hard cock into my pussy, jazz it around, make lots of noises, then instantly come.

I can still see him. He'd raise up, take one last look at my hopeful face and then he'd roll over and go to sleep. I never had an orgasm with Ronald and he never once asked if I did.

For example, when I thought I looked nice, Ronald never told me how nice I looked, and he never ever went shopping with me, or commented on my new clothing, or my selection of heels, or looked at me in my underwear, or for that matter, in the nude.

When I was naked that summer, Ronald might ask, "aren't you chilly?" which I thought was rather silly.

He was an absolute disgrace in bed and I knew he couldn't care less about me sexually, but then I didn't care. Ronald McKay was determined to be a movie star and he worked at it overtime. And me, I was his number one fan.

Then one day it happened. At Emilio's. I was waitressing out on the terrace, and it was an Indian summer day with a chill in the air, and I had my tight cashmere sweater on which did more than reveal my breasts. It formed each one so sweetly, you could see the curvy side and my nipples sticking through.

In fact, the neckline when I leaned over exposed more than one half of my tittles, and I'm sure you could see down to my bare nipples. I never wore a brassiere or panties and everybody knew this. The guys there used to kid me all day, running their fingers down my spine or over my back.

When his waitress was gone, this was a young gal named Susy, Richard waved me over to his table. This was the first time he called me, and I remember the day because the bright afternoon sunshine was lighting up the table and sparkling on the glass wear. It was very close to Halloween.

"Hi ya," he said, and smiled up at me.

"Hi, get you something?"

"Yes, how about Barcardi and coke?"

"With lemon?"

"No, just plain"

I saw him looking down my sweater, teasing over my ripe breasts, then caressing my thighs and lower legs, my bottom, and I could see that he liked this. Maybe this was the first time he'd ever seen me.

Yes, something in his look startled me. His eyes were shining, and when I got up close to him, I saw how terrifically good-looking he was. All at once I was hungry to look at his crotch, but I didn't. I don't remember if I imagined his prick or his balls, but I must have thought about them.

Gee, I said to myself, I was falling in love with his hair, with his wide forehead, his clean-shaven looks, and especially what I couldn't see: meaning his prick and his balls, his ass.

I felt happy suddenly. I hurried inside the restaurant, extremely conscious of his eyes burning into my backside. I could feel his eyes twisting all over my buttocks, trying to see if I had any panties on, so keeping my eyes on him, I ordered his drink and from my position at the bar I kept watching him.

I saw him uncross, then cross his legs, and when I saw him rub his hand carefully over a lump growing on his upper thigh, my heart plopped!

He was feeling his prick which was hardening. I could actually see his prick stiffening.

Making sure no one saw me, I slipped my fingers down between my thighs and felt my pussy, and then looking through the window at him, maybe only a dozen yards away, I slipped my whole hand down inside my jeans and felt the tiny hairs of my pussy and then my naked pussylips.

I pinched my clitoris and felt wicked and stunned.

The lips of my pussy were soaking wet and I knew that Richard had gotten to it. I knew that here was a man I could respond to, and I'll tell you why I think I did.

When I came from my hometown to New York to make it rich, I really never had a true father, so here I was, off on my own, so to speak. I mean, I never had the benefits of full-time parents or anyone I could really talk to, or anybody looking over me. I did have a mother but she was off doing other things which I won't mention here.

My father lived in the Midwest and I hadn't seen him in years. I didn't miss my father, because I'd grown up along without him, instead with stepfathers who'd drink whisky by the quart and mess around, you know what I mean, and so maybe in a way Richard was my "father".

You know, as I think back, I felt really comfortable looking at Richard, as if I alone knew what he was thinking, that maybe him and me, we could move in with each other, and he'd become my new lover, my new Daddy, the man in my life. The best thing of all, he'd throw me naked in the air and catch me, spread my thighs wide open, glare at my nakedness, fuck my cunt silly, eat my pussy all night.