“Excuse me waiter,” a hot middle aged woman asks me, “But how do you like a woman to suck your cock?”

Now there’s a question I don’t get everyday.

“I beg your pardon madam?” I say, my voice suddenly getting tight.

“Well, me and the girls are having a little discussion,” the woman titters drunkenly, “They all seem to think they give great head. But I’ll bet most of their husbands wouldn’t agree.”

“Oh Alice, you’re too much,” one of her companions hoots. The table’s an eight top of trophy wives having a girl’s night out, drinking way too much wine.

“Well madam,” I say carefully,” It’s been my experience that all women think they’re good at it when, in fact, very few of them are.”

The woman roars with laughter. “See I told you girls!” she says.

“Now if there aren’t any more Cosmo quiz questions can I take your order?” I deadpan.

The women all dutifully take turns ordering the same dish. Salmon, light on the oil, and no potato. As I’m busy writing down the orders I feel a hand start caressing my inner thigh. Oh boy. It’s Alice.

This really doesn’t happen everyday.

The woman’s hand is hidden behind my apron. Her friends can’t see what’s she’s doing. I notice I’m breathing faster.

By the time it’s the woman’s turn to order, her bosom’s threatening to burst out of her plunging décolletage. Her hand continues its travel northward.

“And you madam,” I ask smiling, “What will you be having?”

“I know what I want,” she says rapaciously.

“I’m afraid it’s not on the menu,” I reply, oh so politely.

“That’s too bad,” she pouts.

“Sorry madam.”

The woman returns her hand to her lap and orders a steak. I guess she’s got a hankering for red meat.

“Thank you ladies,” I say, “Now can I get anyone another cocktail?”

“You didn’t answer my question.” the woman asks breathily.

I knew I shouldn’t have said “cocktail.”

“And what question was that madam?” I ask innocently.

“Oh Alice, leave him alone,” another friend laughs.

The woman leans forward. “How do you like your dick sucked?” she says, deliciously enunciating the syllables in the last word.

I bend down and whisper into the woman’s ear.

“Goddamn!” she says, flustered. I can play that game too darling.

“Now ladies, if that will be all?” I ask.

“Sorry about Alice,” a friend says, “She’s had a little too much to drink.”

“Not a problem,” I say, exiting the table.

But as I head towards the back I hear a woman ask, “So what did he say?”

The answer is swallowed up by the din of a noisy restaurant.

And sorry – I’m not telling.

The ladies finish dinner and leave a gigantic tip. And, tucked into the bill is the woman’s cell phone number. Hmmm.

I take a conference call with my good and bad angels.


I throw the number in the garbage.

The woman’s married. And, judging from the amount of bling she was wearing on her fingers, her husband could pay to have me whacked with the spare change from his couch.

Not worth it. But a fun memory to say the least.

Yet again – thank God for aprons.

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