College Days Ch. 03

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Not too far from my shotgun double on Julia Street was an old-fashioned diner, which catered mostly to the mechanics and dock workers on the nearby wharves: Quick Vic’s, seven to seven, seven days a week, blue plate specials, lots of lard and gallons of coffee. Containerization eventually put the longshoremen out of work and Vic out of business. But during the five and a half years I lived across the River, it was never slow.

I guess you would have called me a regular, though I would go through periods when I seldom went. At other times I ate two meals a day there, depending on my schedule of school or work.

Vic’s was, of course, a bit on the rundown side, with chipped white paint outside, and grease-colored walls inside. Most of the slats on the shutters in front were broken and the glass panes on the French doors were dirty. There really wasn’t much to see out of them anyway. There were no other windows in the restaurant, though there might have been at one time. The dining room was relatively small, with something like eight wooden tables, 20 or so mismatched chairs and a small Formica counter. The kitchen was directly across from the entrance. The air-conditioner made a lot of noise in the summer, but at least it usually worked, which I couldn’t say for mine.

As the story goes, or at least the story I was told, the building was originally a cottage, built just after the Civil War to accommodate some rich French guy’s mistress, safely separated from the wife across the Fleuve.

It seems the neighbors were not really happy about the arrangement, nor were they enthusiastic when an Italian immigrant – damn Dago – opened a grocery in the then abandoned house. The grocery became a bar, the bar became a restaurant, the restaurant became a greasy spoon, and has remained that way ever since, under different owners, mostly Cajuns from Terrebonne Parish.

Vic took care of the kitchen, whence came thunderous screams and curses directed at cooks, dishwashers, waitresses amd/or customers – Vic also took time to yell at his wife who manned the cash register.

The waitresses were uniformly middle-aged and overweight, with varicose veins, bags under their eyes and hair of uncertain color containing a number of lost pencils. Their pinkish uniforms were usually dirty and stained with coffee, gravy and ink in front and oily hand prints in the rear.

My fourth summer on Julia Street, though, there came Frances: 14 or 15, reddish blond and with the required dirty, stained uniform. An embryo single mother of four if there ever was one. She had a pleasant smile and was very nice, but skinny and not really pretty. She would ask me questions about my job writing about sports and about college and such. I guess she was most surprised that I would live in Algiers, seeing as I was from the Lake Pontchartrain area, went to school uptown and worked downtown. I was flattered by the attention. By the next summer we had become friends of a sort.

By then, I was at last working full time at the paper, mostly seven to three, depending on what needed covering and who was on vacation. Afternoon papers always had good hours.

Late in the morning of the last Saturday in June, a rare Saturday off, I went over to Vic’s for a quick sandwich before going to pick up my architect friend, Elizabeth Stern, whom I hadn’t seen since exam week. Frances waited on me in the second booth from the window, and as I was finishing my ham and cheese she came and sat down on the bench facing me.

“I have a ten minute break,” she said, as she lit a cigarette. She seemed too young to smoke, but what do I know? She then went on to explain the unfairness of split shifts. Worse still, she said, the bus to her house took almost 45 minutes of waiting and riding each way, so she would spent half her off time on the bus.

I guess that counts for a crisis for just about anybody, but especially for a teenager.

“Well there’s a park around the corner. Or you could go down to the river and catch the ferry and walk around the French Quarter.”

“No walking. I walk at my job,” she smiled. “And my mother warned me about being alone in places like a park.” She put out her cigarette, and stood up. “Please try to think of bahis firmaları something. I need this job but the split is awful.”

# # #

Elizabeth had just graduated from the five-year architecture program and was now learning about the real word of architecture by working at one of the bigger firms in the city. I still had at least one more year to go in the four-year B.A. program that had already taken me five years, with at least one semester to go – after four years the chemistry department decided I should major in anthropology = three more terms.

Elizabeth and I drove to St. Francisville just for the hell of it. We ate dinner at an old plantation manor and spent the night at a converted college building. Even with the top up on the TR, we were burned fire engine red, and Elizabeth’s long, silky hair was a wreck, scorched and full of river sand.

We made up for lost time and love that night, and the next day we drove back, at least part of the way along the Old River Road. It was cloudy the whole way and ready to rain, which made the drive a bit more comfortable than Saturday’s furnace.

“Why can’t she stay at your place during the day?” Elizabeth offered after I explained the Frances problem.

“Are you trying to get me thrown in jail?”

“But you’re not going to be there when she’s there. And, I doubt if she’s really just fourteen. Law says she must be 16 to work and that was last year. See, seventeen or eighteen.”

“Do you think that makes a difference?”

“I promise to testify at your trial that you were with me.”

When we stopped for gas at this store/café/garage/post office I went inside to get a couple of Cokes, leaving Elizabeth, my glasses and my keys in the car. When I went to pay for the gas and soft drinks, there was Elizabeth, watching the station owner making keys.

“I’m having two made: one for your little friend and the other for me.”

“One for you? So you can let the in police while I’m banging a fourteen-year-old.”

“Of course.”

# # #

When I got off work Monday, instead of going for a beer with my co-workers, I went straight to Quick Vic’s.

“I should know better,” I told Frances. “But this should at least give you a safe place to wait for your second shift. You can watch TV or take a nap on the sofa.”

As the summer went on, I paid scrupulous attention to my goings and comings to and from my own house. And I always checked at Vic’s in the evenings to make sure Frances was back at work. My usual days off were Sunday and Monday, as were Frances’.

My worries were pretty much calmed after a few weeks. But soon I started coming home to find my Playboys scattered around the living room, my bed made, pillow cases cleaned, my sweaty dress shirts in the corner and a damp towel in bath.

Then one afternoon, I walked in to find the dishes washed, the sofa cleared of potato chip crumbs, the living room and kitchen clean and my magazines in a neat stack on an end table.

There was a single item on the coffee table: Frances’ driver’s license. It took about two or three minutes to figure it out: She had turned 18 the day before. Guess she wants to be sure I get her a present or something. But I was worried about the “or something.” I should have been.

I walked to the first bedroom and there she was. The bed spread had been turned down, waitress dress, panties and a bra were on the edge of the bed, and lying on her back and peeking out from under the sheets was Frances.

“Surprise,” she said.

Surprised? Shocked may be a better word.

“I really don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stay here, especially like that.”

“You’ve had girls in your bed before. What’s so different about me? Am I all that ugly?”

“But those girls were women,” I replied in my best Dutch Uncle persona. And so as not to be too, too sever, I added flattery: “And, no, you’re not ugly. You are quite attractive, and I’m sure some football captain will take you to the prom.”

“You’re still thinking of me as being fourteen. Now you know better. Your friend Elizabeth was only 18 the first time you went to bed with her (How did she know that?), and you’re not more than twenty-three or twenty-four yourself.”

She kaçak iddaa had put on eye makeup, rouge and dark lipstick for the occasion. She sure as hell didn’t look the homely teen waitress in the dirty uniform. With her makeup and demeanor, she did indeed look her age, but her body was much younger.

Then she threw off the sheets and put her hands behind her head, exposing her small, hand-size tits with pink areolas and stiff erect nipples. Her muff was reddish-blond, and her skin smooth as buttermilk. No blemishes, no scars, no pimples.

I wanted to be angry, but I couldn’t. Still, I didn’t want to get involved with a high school girl, no matter how great she may look in my bed. And she really did look great in my bed.

I doubt if she could read my mind, but as these thoughts were entering my head, she advised: “I’m on the pill, and my boyfriend and I are going to get married next month when he gets back from Mississippi.”

“What does this boyfriend do in Mississippi.”

“He’s a welder at the shipyards.”

Well, that was the excuse I was looking for – personal safety – but it was too late, of course. The only excuse I still had was that I didn’t want to make love to the homely high school waitress at Quick Vic’s. But after another look at who was in the bed even that didn’t hold.

“Shouldn’t you be at work or something?” I asked. My defenses were dwindling.

“This is more important.”

The redoubt has been overrun, the fort sacked. I was going to screw her.

I stood in silence next to the bed. Frances got up on her knees close to me and unbuttoned my shirt. As she began rubbing my chest (I suspect she had read about this in a fuck book.)I leaned down and kissed her. A long, slow, wet kiss filled with passion. And lust, of course.

Despite her bravado, she was obviously nervous.

I removed my jeans and shirts and pushed her down on the mattress. We were now lying together on my bed, and my desire – a real desire – had me moving my hands all over that young body. Her back, her sides, her firm ass and small tits.

I held her hips in my hands as I moved down her body, all the way to her toes. I nibbled on the toes of one foot before ascending her leg with kisses and bites, touching her lips with my forehead, then continuing across her bush, licking, biting and kissing, and down the other leg. I nibbled briefly on the toes before rising to plunge into her muff, quite wet by now. And also quite delicious. I could hear Frances breathing heavily with slight purrs and moans. Her hands were atop my head. As I found her clit with my teeth and began licking and biting and running my tongue across and into her rose. I was sure her welder didn’t know what he was missing.

Presently she pulled on my hair, and I rose, my face and lips sunk into her fleshuntil I was soon biting her neck. I was kinda hoping I would leave a mark. I let my dick run past her pussy and continue up her body, its path marked by a line of cum. I passed myself between her tits, and around her shoulders and neck. She turned her head and dropped her chin to caress my dick between neck and jaw.

And so, I dropped down and fucked her, plunging into her very tight and very well lubricated pussy. I had expected her to be tight, teenager tight, and, yes, this was high school tight – as tight as Loretta Baudoin was in my fantasies when we were high school sophomores. In a sense it was much like fucking Loretta, only this time it was real. (By the time we were seniors, Loretta was fucking everybody in school but me.)

Anyway, I was in absolute heaven as I pushed my way in, due in no small part to Frances’ calls for more and more, and her purrs and moans, and her shaking and her arched back.

When she had built her passion toward a wonderful climax, I stroked faster and harder until we erupted together in an orgasmic tremblor, my lava exploding into and over her quaking young body.

I remained inside her as my dick flagged, then withdrew and pulled the sheets over us. We lay there, my arm around her shoulders and her head on my chest. It was time to feel guilty.

Did Frances know what she was getting into with me? What she was doing. Was she really 18 or kaçak bahis pretending to be?

The remorse didn’t last long though. Frances was soon massaging my dick until I was revived. She moved down, under the sheets to suck me. (This was not her first blow job, she had plenty of practice.) With minutes I was up and ready, so to speak.

She climbed atop me and put me in my place. I watched as I slid inside her and disappeared. She sat there, anticipation on her face. Then she began to ride. Up and down and back and forth and side to side and down and back and up and side and forth. She grabbed her small tits and leaned back as far as she could go. It was a most exciting and beautiful sight: my cock disappearing into her and reappearing again and again as she works her way toward climax.

But it was a personal carnal feast for her. I could enjoy myself if I wanted to, but this moment was for her. It was as if I was there only for my dick, a live dildo.

For a second there, she seemed to slip, lose her balance briefly. I put my hands on her hips to try to set up a rhythm. Frances was having none of that. She brushed my hands awau. It was still her body and her dick. So, after a few minutes, I sat back and enjoyed the exhibition. Gawd, she looked so young, with her small tits and boney shoulders. But her hips and ass were those of a woman. And she rocked me like a woman.

Soon she became we again, and she gasped a few times before beginning to move up and down, quicker and quicker, stronger and stronger. She leaned over and kissed me, full tongue you might say, before rising and jumping up and down on my dick. She shook and began calling out, “Oh my god.. oh my god.” She leaned down to hold my hands to the mattress, and nearly screamed in my ear: “FUUUUCK… FUUUUCK.”

At that point I could no longer keep my cool, and I exploded inside my woman/child. I had almost forgotten what it was like to do someone this young, this naïve, who learned to make love from a fuck book.

I held her for a minute, as I had done before. That’s what I assumed she needed. We went together into the shower, where I gave her a shampoo – did her welder ever do this? There was a tingling sensation all over my body when feeling the strands of her lush hair between my fingers, and the soft curves of her slim body through the wash cloth as I soaped her. Her small tits and tiny ass seemed to fit into my hands. As I reached down to wash her muff and lips, she placed her hands on my shoulders tenderly.

She grabbed the bottle of shampoo and motioned for me to kneel so that she could wash my hair. My pride prevented me from obliging. I had washed her hair to gratify her and me, not as quid pro quo. But I was not so proud as to stop her from washing my body. But the bath was more sensuous than sensual, and our only kisses were light and almost romantic – which actually made me feel even more guilty about fucking her.

In the same vein, we dried each other off before getting dressed.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For making love to me,” she said, adding, “My fiancé is the only man I ever went to bed with. I wanted to see what other men were like before I got married.” (Naïve?)

“Oh, so I was a test, something like a chemistry exam. Did I pass?”

“Well, yes and no. If I was gonna sleep with anyone it was going to be you. In fact, since last summer, I have been thinking about you at night when I was alone in bed. I was jealous of those girls you kept bring to your apartment. I wanted to be one of them. So, when I saw my chance I took it. I’m glad I did. I passed my test. You, you were as wonderful as you are in my imagination. (For what that’s worth.)

My ego thus stroked, I offered: “At least let me give you a ride home.”

“No. My parents wouldn’t understand if they saw a strange man drive me to the house.”

“Or worse, they would understand.”

Well, I walked her to the taxi stand at the ferry landing, gave a cabbie $10 to take her home, and walked back to my place on Julia Street. I grabbed a beer from the fridge, and a jar of peanut butter and some crackers from the pantry, and sat down to watch the nightly Star Trek rerun.

Epilogue: A week later Frances stopped appearing at Vic’s – Vic said she had quit – and the first week of August I received an invitation to “the marriage of Frances Jane Fontana to Michael Jacques Chardy …” I didn’t go but the idea was nice.

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