When I managed a bowling alley bar, getting laid wasn’t a problem. It wasn’t unusual to get a proposition for after closing time. Something about a bartender (in certain circles) being somewhat of an authority figure. Someone to be looked up to. Such as it is.
I worked at the Bowl for twelve years and quite a few female bartenders and waitresses came and went, both attractive and not so. Although a certain amount of attrition is expected in the service trades, we had a core group of four women who stayed for the bulk of that time.
Key word being ‘bulk’. I managed to get a reputation for hiring … ahem … full-bodied women. One of them, a divorcee we’ll call Bella had been around the county working bars for years, including the only other bowling alley nearby and a restaurant at the local golf course. She knew lots of well-heeled people, and ran a quite successful house-sitting service, getting paid for living in luxurious quarters and never really having to pay rent. If she wasn’t living at an upscale client’s house, she stayed with her mother.
Bella was large but decidedly not fat. She wasn’t soft or flabby, but rather a ‘hard-body’, of a type we don’t imagine when we hear the term. Of Italian extraction, solid as a brick, and pretty much the same shape, Bella was aware of the impression large women could make, and always looked good, wearing deep red lipstick to accentuate her sensuous mouth and compliment a mane of wavy black hair. What Bella had that other women didn’t (and nobody realized) was a sense of adventure only matched by my own fantasies.
There wasn’t much room behind the bar, or in the little storage room in back where the ice machine and walk-in cooler were located. Consequently whenever there were more than one or two people in the employees’ workspace, there’d be lots of touching when crossing paths, creating a tactile sense of close camaraderie .
It was also common for the employees to hug, either in greeting or in sympathy for whatever fuckup or weird scene might occur on any given evening. Kisses went down like handshakes, and we usually thought nothing of it. Until one night, in the back room, Bella and I kissed for real. The softest lips and mouth I’d ever experienced laved and sucked at my tongue, elevating us both to a state of arousal that surprised us. I came away from that kiss with an idea of what might happen to a cock in there, resulting in an obvious hard-on tenting the front of my trousers.
“Wow!” she said, surprised, “Did I just do that?”
Looking down at myself, “Looks genuine to me,” I said. (or something equally lame). I should say now that we’d both been sniffing coke, which for some people can be an aphrodisiac. Coke in itself wasn’t unusual on night shift, but this was the first time (to my knowledge) it had turned sexual. Or maybe I’m just naïve.
“Jesus,” she said. “I haven’t had sex in years. I’d pretty much forgotten about it.”
“Would you care to do something about that?” I said. “I could probably help with that sort of thing.”
She reached to rub the bulge in my pants. “Seems serious. Maybe we should. I’m house-sitting out near the golf course this week. You can follow me over after we get off … if you want.”
“I want,” I said, uncomfortable with my dick so constrained. “How convenient. That’s on my way home.”
What Bella possessed that other women didn’t was a sense of adventure only matched by my own fantasies. That first night, she told me her current client owned numerous sex tapes, and that she’d like to go and watch them together. That hadn’t happened since my twenties when Deep Throat and Devil in Miss Jones came out. We watched the films in a room with a floor-to-ceiling mirror, Bella taking as much pleasure watching herself suck my cock as I was in having the deed performed. At one point, she asked me to do her from behind so she could better see the film.
The homes she looked after were usually quite large, up in the pricey Marin hills, with great views. I remember having sex hanging over a balcony, sex in an outdoor hot tub under redwoods. Watching porn in a private theatre. We fucked in their beds, on their sofas, in their bathrooms, living rooms, roofs, kids rooms with dolls and high school pennants. In their kitchens. On a trampoline. In and on the cars in their garage. Something wonderfully sexy about just fucking or sucking on the spot, wherever you are.
We’d go for weeks without any fooling around, but sooner or later she’d say that she hadn’t worn undies that night or that she’d cut a slit in her panty hose. One time, I told her to go to the ladies room and cut the entire crotch out wide so that her luxurious bush was exposed to the humid air. I reached under to make sure she’d done it. For the entire shift, we’d whisper suggestive things to each other, tempting each other, intimate touching ensuing whenever she went behind the bar. She’d go under her skirt then smear her fingers on my mustache. She’d think up excuses to go into the back room, shooting eye signals and an enticing grin. I’d go in back and find her on her knees.
She’d be soaked. I never knew a woman to get so wet. Or perhaps it was because we’d be in each other’s presence, deep within a hypersexual bubble for hours at a time, driving our combined heat to fever peak. By the time we’d close the place, we’d both be so worked-up, we’d take chances. Fucking her from behind while she washed the ash trays. Hoping nobody from the bowing alley came in. Going in back to find Bella on the ramp to the walk-in, feet apart, blouse rolled up, situating herself at the right level so I could fondle her cunt and suck her tits through a bra that she’d cut the tips of the cups, leaving her succulent mauve nipples exposed and stimulated against the caresses of her blouse. And my lips.
There were several close calls, which only added to the intensity. We didn’t work in a vacuum, so our surreptitious escapades had to conform to the fact that another bartender and three more waitresses were nearby. We’d often wonder what might have happened if one of them came back when we were compromised.
Bella said that she didn’t know what was happening to her. That she’d gone so long without sex, she’d figured it was something she’d never engage in again. She’d never even think about it.
In time, she’d come in and bend down over the pool table, asking me if somebody could possibly see up her skirt. “I feel so vulnerable,” she’d say. “What’s a 42 year-old woman doing running around without underwear? I feel like some slut.”
Perhaps stemming from her abstinence, Bella had about the tightest snatch imaginable. She said my cock was just the right size. Fit her perfectly. I had to agree; she truly was near a perfect fit. And STRONG. Once her powerful orgasmic contractions and flagrant twists of her substantial thighs approached an impossible level of abandon, it felt as though she could rip me out by the roots. An encounter with Bella could be an endurance trial of aches and pains fondly remembered for days.
My experience is that heavier women seem to have extra padding—not only on the outside—but inside as well. I’ve known (in the biblical sense) skinny girls who felt like the Holland Tunnel. If you yodel down there, you’ll hear the echo. :>) (I’ll probably get guff for that.)
The easiest part about the fling with Bella was that to her, fun and sex was all it was. From that first kiss, I told her in no uncertain terms that I was in love with my wife and that our private little thing was just sex. She honored that. The only miscommunication we had was the expense of all the undies and pantyhose we were trashing. Could I please chip in? And I bought the rubbers too. Never a possessive moment for either of us. In fact, when she started going out with a new boyfriend, she credited me with rejuvenating her confidence as a sexual being. I wonder what she taught him. ;>)
Later, Bella married another guy who truly loved her and stayed with her until she passed some years ago.