One moment I was steering a shopping trolley through a crowded mall - cursing the fact that I had the one with the wobbly wheel ... again - and the next moment she was there, right in front of me; and the other shoppers, the noise and the smells all disappeared and there was only her.
She sat behind a trestle table selling raffle tickets for charity - a Range Rover or $50,000 cash. I have no need of a new car. Even the cash seemed a mere trifle compared to the richness, the ripeness of this woman.
I entered this world a little late to see women like Sophia Loren, Gina Lollobrigida and Simone Signoret routinely sway across the silver screen, but I have admired them in art-house cinema retrospectives and often wondered whether they were merely embodying the fantasies of a bygone era. Voluptuous, bosomy, earthy, oozing sexuality and practically bursting the seams of the costumes that almost covered them, the very essence of all these ladies was distilled in this one woman who sat offering tickets to the hoi polloi of our rather dreary local shopping mall.
It's always the eyes that get me first. She had enormous brown eyes with a heavy-lidded look that hinted at world-weariness. Of course she had a vast quantity of eye-shadow on those lids and her brows had been plucked and pencilled to form two perfect crescents above the expressive brown eyes. And her lips were plump and slightly parted as she tried to catch the eyes of passers-by. Her lipstick had not been applied expertly - perhaps she had recently refreshed it without using a mirror - but it was a vivid red and accentuated the sensuous pout that formed each time yet another shopper avoided her web.
Her hair was just like that of Melina Mercouri in "Never on Sunday" - a riot of improbable blonde with some grey and some dark roots brazenly apparent; all this negligently pulled into a knot from which several strands had easily escaped to frame her rouged cheeks. She wore large hooped ear-rings and many bangles jangled at each wrist. Her blouse was a simple affair; it struggled to contain an ample bosom and the top buttons were undone, revealing an impressive cleavage and the fine lacy border of her brassierre. She wore a name-badge. Her name was Maria.
It sounds absurd, but this exotic creature was not unlike an unmade bed - one redolent of recent sexual trysts and awaiting further encounters. I cannot recall how I came to be at the table and facing her. I have no recollection of persuading that wobbly wheel to veer in her direction. All I can remember is wordlessly indicating that I would like to purchase some tickets. Her smile was both relaxing and teasing at the same time. When she spoke, there was a trace of an Italian accent - not strong, but infinitely Latin and infinitely pleasant.
As I leaned down and closer in order to scrawl my details on the ticket stubs, I could smell her perfume. It was surprisingly subtle and I could also detect a faint trace of garlic mingled with the delicate aroma of womanhood. Though I had handed over my money and received my tickets, I continued to stand and converse with Maria. I know I stood with my legs wide apart and with my trolley parallel to the front of the table as if to form a barrier against other shoppers. As we conversed, I realised that we had somehow slipped into Italian. She slowed her speech down to assist my understanding. At the time, I felt we were whispering, but - considering how noisy a mall can be - I realise now that we must have spoken quite loudly.
I have no idea how we came to have such an intimate conversation. Perhaps one's inhibitions are lowered when other people cannot follow what is being said. Perhaps her inhibitions were lessened by the opportunity to speak in her native tongue, the language in which she thinks. In the course of just a few minutes, I learned that she is "between men" just now - an unfortunate way of putting it, but I knew what she meant. I also learned that she loves to cook and loves to feed her man. She told me that I am too thin and need fattening up. Maria told me that she likes to feed a man so he has lots of energy to romp with her in the bedroom. When I told her I am a widower, she was all sympathy, but that sympathy was still laced with the mannerisms of a natural coquette. I recall a stirring at my groin as I realised that this woman was flirting with me!
I had monopolised Maria long enough. Other people had gathered at her table in quest of tickets. Such effrontery! As I made to leave I expressed a polite hope that we might see each other again one day. I was not really suggesting an assignation - it was more a formal version "see you later, maybe". But Maria said I might hear from her again soon and, when I asked how she would manage that, she waved the ticket stubs at me and said she had my telephone number. I responded that this seemed hardly fair and so she scrawled her own telephone number on the back of one of my tickets. With a smile and a "ciao", I left Maria and her queue of people wanting to win a car or some cash.
I re-entered the normal world then. I could hear the noises; I could smell the donuts and the warm cashew nuts; and I could see the usual crowd of harassed mothers, impatient fathers, whining children and unisex teenagers. As I put my shopping in the car I muttered repeatedly: "She was flirting with me!" I was quite shocked and surprised that this should happen in our pedestrian and utilitarian shopping mall and - I must admit this - I felt absurdly flattered and even a little vain that such an exotic woman should flirt with a harried single Dad who was fetching supplies for his eternally ravenous children.
When I mentioned this encounter to a friend - one whose derring-do I much admire - he suggested that I should give Maria a call. On the spur of the moment, before any second thoughts could set in, I did ring her number and, somewhat to my surprise, I did not have to waste time explaining who was calling.
"Si, si" she said. "I remember you well."
I asked if she would like to go out for a meal with me one night next week and suggested a nice restaurant quite close to where she lives. But she declined that invitation.
"No, no. You come to me and I will cook for you. I have plenty of food. I will fill you up."
It might be because her husky voice made me horny anyway, but there was something so erotic in the way she spoke. Her accent made it sound more like: "I will feel you up" ... and I immediately grew hard just talking on the telephone!
So that's where I'm headed this coming Wednesday evening - to Maria-Letizia's house, about seventy miles north of where I live.
As I write this I am unable even to estimate Maria's age. She could be anywhere between forty-five and sixty, maybe more. Hers is an appeal that transcends age. It even overcomes my usual preference, which is for slender women with long legs and pert breasts that go with bra-less dresses. I have only seen Maria seated at a table, but I suspect she is far shorter than I am - and probably a good deal heavier too!
It is presumptuous, perhaps, for me to be thinking that Maria and I will end up in bed together on Wednesday night, but I have no doubt that she is being similarly presumptuous some seventy miles away. I feel both dread and expectation in equal measure. I envisage myself being engulfed by those formidable breasts. I have already convinced myself that she will have massive thighs and hips and a generous backside too. Yet I still grow erect at the prospect of drowning in this incredibly sensuous and mesmerising woman.
Maria assures me that she is a magnificent cook and I have no reason to doubt her. My only concern is whether I am to be an hors d'oeuvre or the dessert. Perhaps both, in which case I hope we have oysters!
She sat behind a trestle table selling raffle tickets for charity - a Range Rover or $50,000 cash. I have no need of a new car. Even the cash seemed a mere trifle compared to the richness, the ripeness of this woman.
I entered this world a little late to see women like Sophia Loren, Gina Lollobrigida and Simone Signoret routinely sway across the silver screen, but I have admired them in art-house cinema retrospectives and often wondered whether they were merely embodying the fantasies of a bygone era. Voluptuous, bosomy, earthy, oozing sexuality and practically bursting the seams of the costumes that almost covered them, the very essence of all these ladies was distilled in this one woman who sat offering tickets to the hoi polloi of our rather dreary local shopping mall.
It's always the eyes that get me first. She had enormous brown eyes with a heavy-lidded look that hinted at world-weariness. Of course she had a vast quantity of eye-shadow on those lids and her brows had been plucked and pencilled to form two perfect crescents above the expressive brown eyes. And her lips were plump and slightly parted as she tried to catch the eyes of passers-by. Her lipstick had not been applied expertly - perhaps she had recently refreshed it without using a mirror - but it was a vivid red and accentuated the sensuous pout that formed each time yet another shopper avoided her web.
Her hair was just like that of Melina Mercouri in "Never on Sunday" - a riot of improbable blonde with some grey and some dark roots brazenly apparent; all this negligently pulled into a knot from which several strands had easily escaped to frame her rouged cheeks. She wore large hooped ear-rings and many bangles jangled at each wrist. Her blouse was a simple affair; it struggled to contain an ample bosom and the top buttons were undone, revealing an impressive cleavage and the fine lacy border of her brassierre. She wore a name-badge. Her name was Maria.
It sounds absurd, but this exotic creature was not unlike an unmade bed - one redolent of recent sexual trysts and awaiting further encounters. I cannot recall how I came to be at the table and facing her. I have no recollection of persuading that wobbly wheel to veer in her direction. All I can remember is wordlessly indicating that I would like to purchase some tickets. Her smile was both relaxing and teasing at the same time. When she spoke, there was a trace of an Italian accent - not strong, but infinitely Latin and infinitely pleasant.
As I leaned down and closer in order to scrawl my details on the ticket stubs, I could smell her perfume. It was surprisingly subtle and I could also detect a faint trace of garlic mingled with the delicate aroma of womanhood. Though I had handed over my money and received my tickets, I continued to stand and converse with Maria. I know I stood with my legs wide apart and with my trolley parallel to the front of the table as if to form a barrier against other shoppers. As we conversed, I realised that we had somehow slipped into Italian. She slowed her speech down to assist my understanding. At the time, I felt we were whispering, but - considering how noisy a mall can be - I realise now that we must have spoken quite loudly.
I have no idea how we came to have such an intimate conversation. Perhaps one's inhibitions are lowered when other people cannot follow what is being said. Perhaps her inhibitions were lessened by the opportunity to speak in her native tongue, the language in which she thinks. In the course of just a few minutes, I learned that she is "between men" just now - an unfortunate way of putting it, but I knew what she meant. I also learned that she loves to cook and loves to feed her man. She told me that I am too thin and need fattening up. Maria told me that she likes to feed a man so he has lots of energy to romp with her in the bedroom. When I told her I am a widower, she was all sympathy, but that sympathy was still laced with the mannerisms of a natural coquette. I recall a stirring at my groin as I realised that this woman was flirting with me!
I had monopolised Maria long enough. Other people had gathered at her table in quest of tickets. Such effrontery! As I made to leave I expressed a polite hope that we might see each other again one day. I was not really suggesting an assignation - it was more a formal version "see you later, maybe". But Maria said I might hear from her again soon and, when I asked how she would manage that, she waved the ticket stubs at me and said she had my telephone number. I responded that this seemed hardly fair and so she scrawled her own telephone number on the back of one of my tickets. With a smile and a "ciao", I left Maria and her queue of people wanting to win a car or some cash.
I re-entered the normal world then. I could hear the noises; I could smell the donuts and the warm cashew nuts; and I could see the usual crowd of harassed mothers, impatient fathers, whining children and unisex teenagers. As I put my shopping in the car I muttered repeatedly: "She was flirting with me!" I was quite shocked and surprised that this should happen in our pedestrian and utilitarian shopping mall and - I must admit this - I felt absurdly flattered and even a little vain that such an exotic woman should flirt with a harried single Dad who was fetching supplies for his eternally ravenous children.
When I mentioned this encounter to a friend - one whose derring-do I much admire - he suggested that I should give Maria a call. On the spur of the moment, before any second thoughts could set in, I did ring her number and, somewhat to my surprise, I did not have to waste time explaining who was calling.
"Si, si" she said. "I remember you well."
I asked if she would like to go out for a meal with me one night next week and suggested a nice restaurant quite close to where she lives. But she declined that invitation.
"No, no. You come to me and I will cook for you. I have plenty of food. I will fill you up."
It might be because her husky voice made me horny anyway, but there was something so erotic in the way she spoke. Her accent made it sound more like: "I will feel you up" ... and I immediately grew hard just talking on the telephone!
So that's where I'm headed this coming Wednesday evening - to Maria-Letizia's house, about seventy miles north of where I live.
As I write this I am unable even to estimate Maria's age. She could be anywhere between forty-five and sixty, maybe more. Hers is an appeal that transcends age. It even overcomes my usual preference, which is for slender women with long legs and pert breasts that go with bra-less dresses. I have only seen Maria seated at a table, but I suspect she is far shorter than I am - and probably a good deal heavier too!
It is presumptuous, perhaps, for me to be thinking that Maria and I will end up in bed together on Wednesday night, but I have no doubt that she is being similarly presumptuous some seventy miles away. I feel both dread and expectation in equal measure. I envisage myself being engulfed by those formidable breasts. I have already convinced myself that she will have massive thighs and hips and a generous backside too. Yet I still grow erect at the prospect of drowning in this incredibly sensuous and mesmerising woman.
Maria assures me that she is a magnificent cook and I have no reason to doubt her. My only concern is whether I am to be an hors d'oeuvre or the dessert. Perhaps both, in which case I hope we have oysters!