Water's Wet Erotica (Seven Stories: Including Virgin to Vixen Series) (19 page)

His wife
had
recently left him and
my mother had
told me that he was under the weather
because of the breakup
. She had me bring him
comfort food from her kitchen:
casseroles, homemade soup and mom’s
family-
famous lasagna.
I thought it was rather unusual that Mom thought a professional chef needed someone to cook for him.
If I didn’t know any better, I would
have thought
that
M
om
was
trying to dip her
toes
in the neighbor’s
well
, so
to
speak
, but by proxy, meaning, by
me
.

I wondered if Mom had a crush on him, too, and I almost gave myself a headache trying to figure out what Mom was trying to accomplish with all of this food delivered by me to a handsome chef’s house
.
Did Mom have the
hots
for Mr. Griffin?
E
ach time I brought him
a
dinner
that my mom
cooked,
he looked at me distantly,
took the container quickly,
thanked me
politely
and shut the door
firmly
.

I remember
ed
a couple years ago
that
I would spend my Saturday nights peeking through his bedroom window
—which faced mine—
and watch him
make love to his wife.
I
axed her from my fantasy and imagined
that he
was
making love to me. I watched as his mouth devoured her body and his hips danced between her legs with the gracefulness of
a
swan.
I hated the abrupt ending when he would release himself inside of her, and they would fall asleep in each other’s arms.
That was a signal that the night’s entertainment was over.
Sometimes,
while I watched them from the safety of my own bedroom window,
I would put my hand down my panties and rub on my soft pussy.
More than once,
I had
truly
wished it
was
me
who
he desired to spend his nights with. As good as it felt
to touch
myself
,
I was never able to bring myself to the orgasm that so many women talk
ed
about
, even my classmates at lunchtime
.
I felt left out and no amount of trying the vague advice from women’s health web sites could give me the satisfaction that I craved.

My
mother call
ed
my name
from downstairs, which immediately pulled me from my daydreaming
about our hunky chef neighbor
. I was standing at my bedroom window watching Mr. Griffin lug groceries from his trunk to his house
and my mom’s call up the stairs put the kibosh on my voyeurism of my hunky neighbor man
.
He had bought a lot of groceries like he was cooking for an army, instead of for one fit man who lived alone.
It was
getting
dark, and I
had been
about
to throw on my pajamas and watch some television
, my addiction
—until
M
om called
me to come downstairs
.

“What is it
, M
om
?
” I yelled over the banister from the top floor.
“Come on!
Project Runway
is coming on soon!”

“
Just DVR your TV program.
I made a tuna casserole. Will you be a doll and take it over to Mr. Griffin?  I would take it, but your father will be home any second, and he’s gonna be hungry
,
too.”

I sighed
and set up my DVR to save the episode of my TV show
.
Would a professional chef really eat a tuna casserole? What was Mom thinking?
“Fine.
Give me a second to change and I’ll be down.”

I didn’t mind bringing food to Archie, I just hated when he looked through me with those distant eyes
, instead of
at
me
. It was worse when he sent me away from his front door as if I were a child
, with nothing more than a brief thank you and goodbye
. I
knew
I look
ed
like a child, but I
was
anything but a kid.

I decided to throw on a new pair of thong panties and a skimpy skirt that my friend from school let me borrow. I wanted to get his attention and tonight
,
I was going to try harder than usual.
Much harder.
In fact, I was going to try to get him to invite me in. It occurred to me that setting foot on his turf was the first step to…whatever came next. I was dead-set on getting de-
virginized
, and I sure wasn’t going to let any of the dweebs at school touch me. Not that my dad would have stood for it.

I ran a makeup brush over my face and eyes and swiped a tube of red lipstick over my lips. I wondered if my parents would notice my attempt to gain an older man’s attention with my new look.

I grabbed the banister and hopped down the stairs in my flip
-
flop sandals before I reached the bottom. “Okay
,
M
om, where
’s
the food that you want me to take over to Mr.
Griffin?
” I yelled out before I reached the kitchen.

Mom greeted me in the kitchen with a casserole dish and a smile. “Kimmy, Mr.
Griffin
is lonely. He’s a nice man. Why don’t you talk with him and make sure he’s doing okay
?
I would do that
myself
, but you know how jealous your father can be.”

“Okay, M
om. I’ll talk
to him
.
But I don’t know anything about being divorced so I doubt I will be of much help. I will try though.
Just for you.
”

“You’re a peach, sweetheart. He has no children, and I’m sure it will be nice for him to feel some fatherly instincts toward you.”

Now that’s just weird
, I thought to myself.  Did my mom want me to pretend I was his daughter or did she want me to approach him like a grown woman? I
knew
I look
ed
young, but would his fatherly instincts come out or would his manly desires be aroused?

Heck, I hardly knew the guy
,
so I wasn’t sure what to expect.
All I knew was, I already had a dad who often told me what to do and I sure as heck didn’t need another one who had the same agenda:
to make me toe some invisible line.
Foggettaboutit
!

I knocked on Archie’s door several times until he decided to open it for me. When he finally did, I
smiled and handed him the casserole dish through the half-open screen door
. “This is from my mom. She wanted to feed you again tonight.
It’s only a tuna casserole. I don’t know what Mom is thinking. I mean, you’re a chef and all. I’m sure you eat much fancier stuff than canned tuna, celery, and elbow macaroni in a
Cheez
Whiz sauce.
”

“
T
hank you
,
sweetheart,” he said to me.
“You’d be surprised at what I eat. Anyway, it’s the thought that counts and I’m sure she went to a lot of trouble for me. Please tell your mom thank you for me.
Again
.”

I cringed at the sound of his fatherly voice toward me. But I also noticed a lighter pep in his voice. Archie actually seemed happy. After I had noticed his voice, I noticed the heavenly smell of food drifting from inside his house.
“
Hey, hey!
Something smells
really
good in there
,
”
I hinted. I draped myself over the doorjamb, which kept the screen door from shutting all the way. The door rested against my shoulder. I hoped that my body language would send a message. I tried to channel the super sexiness of Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, and Katy Perry.

“
Well,
I felt good today and decided to make a special meal tonight.”
His eyes looked interested.

“Having company
tonight
?” I felt bold enough to ask.
I gave my hair just a bit of a toss.
Subtle.

He chuckled
at my clumsy attempts to get in his house.
“Not unless you’d like to come in and taste my newest recipe.”

I felt
my heart start to pound
against my chest.
Did he just ask me to come in and share dinner with him?
For a moment, I stood there with my mouth open like a fool
in high school
. Finally, I found my
adult
voice
and my company manners
. “
Thank you.
I would like that
very much
, Mr.
Griffin
.”

He opened the screen
door wider
for me. “Don’t call me Mr.
Griffin
. Please call me Archie. I’m about ready to ask you to be a food critic
but
I don’t want this to feel like a formal
taste
test.”

“I do watch The Cooking Channel,” I admitted. “Not that my mom would let me play in her domain, the kitchen. Marinating and cooking a better cut of pot roast and potatoes for Sunday dinners is her idea of fancy cuisine.”

He laughed, but not unkindly. “What is your favorite show on the Cooking Channel?” he challenged me.

“
Two Fat Ladies
,” I said. “British cooking shows are such a hoot, but especially these two. They ride to their gigs on that old motorcycle with the sidecar and then they pick at each other while they whip up some rib-sticking English feast for hungry fox hunters and the like. I’m all torn up that BBC
can’t make any more episodes. I cried when I found out that Jennifer died of cancer.”

“Impressive,” he said. “That you watch that.”
And
then
he let me in.

I smiled at him as I
sashayed
into his small
, tidy
home
as I had seen other girls do when they wanted to get the attention of boys at school
. I had never been inside his house, and I was mesmerized by the gothic artwork on his walls. I didn’t figure him for the dark, gothic type.

I struggled to think of something mature to say about his art. What would my art teacher say? I tried to remember cute phrases from my art appreciation class. “These paintings are so
noir
.
Yet so
avant
garde
.
”

“My goodness.
Thank you.” He looked pleased. I had no real idea of what I had said. But I had made him smile. I smiled back. Now I really had his attention.

“Are you the artist?” I asked.

“Yes. Painting’s my hobby and my relaxation from being a chef.”

“What an interesting contrast—cooking and painting,” I said. “Yet, they go together in the way that they allow you to express your inner self by creating something original.”

“Thank you so much. Do you cook or make art?”

“I don’t cook. My mom claims the kitchen as her territory. But that’s okay. My passion is pottery and other clay arts like
sculpture,” I said truthfully. “It’s my relaxation from being a…a student.”

“Why do you like clay?” he asked.

I paused a moment. “I’ve thought about this a lot as I considered art careers. I like touching my medium directly. The sweep of a brush across a canvas doesn’t do it for me—there’s too much space between me and my medium—although I can certainly appreciate the effort and skill that it takes to draw with a brush. I have painted in watercolors and it was
kind
of fun. But the feel of cool, wet clay under my fingers, and molding it into shapes—nothing compares to that tactile sensation, that satisfaction of creating three-dimensional art with my hands jammed right in my malleable medium and squeezing.”