Whoever came up with the idea of putting these cafes in book stores is all right with me.  I was sitting in the Starbucks cafe at Barnes and Noble, enjoying that rare commodity called idle time.  I’d already selected “The 8^th Confession” by James Patterson and I was happy.  I am always happy when I find something new from one of my authors.  Then again, I am happy whenever I discover a new strong candidate that I can add to my list of authors.  As you can tell, book stores work for me. 

Apparently they work for quite a few people, because every table was currently occupied with people reading books or magazines, and drinking the café beverage of choice.  Patterson and I were engaged in a vanilla latte that I had sweetened to perfection. 

“I don’t suppose you would care to share your table” said a compelling femine voice.  

I actually heard the voice a split second before I saw the owner.  It was a deep voice for a woman, and somehow familiar.  She also hadn’t really asked a question. She’d made a statement and left it to me to refute it. She wanted to be invited rather than ask me if she could sit down.

When I looked up, I recognized her local celebrity features instantly. She had made a minimal attempt to hide behind a pair of dark glasses, but even in casual attire this woman was hard to miss.  She was wearing denim jeans, high heels, and a lacey black blouse. I clearly got the impression that this was someone who had to work hard to dress down. 

What struck me, was how much larger she was in person than she looked on television.  She was touted as one of the truly successful plus-sized women to overcome the stereotypical svelte frame of models and stars on both the small screen and Hollywood.  Looking at her up close, I did not envision someone of Mo’nique’s stature, but she was easily reminiscent of Tocarra Jones, or Queen Latifah’s new figure, or a Jennifer Hudson.  She was quite healthy, buxom, … and beautiful. 

“No, please… have a seat.” I said as I moved my things to make room for her at my table.

“Merci” she said favoring me with that smile I’d seen so often on television. 

“Je vous en prie” I replied with “You’re welcome” in French in the spirit of conversation.  I don’t know what made me do that.  Trying to impress the pretty lady I guess.  

Her face lit up in surprise. “Ah, vous parlez le français!” she said in perfect French as if it were her primary language.  Smiling, she continued to look at me expectantly.

Of course now I was embarrassed, because I had already exhausted my French vocabulary.   The sole exceptions were, “Parlez-vous le francais?” which would have branded me an idiot… and the phrase from the song “Lady Marmalade” (“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?”)   And since I was certainly not prepared to ask her if she wanted to sleep with me tonight…  I had nothin’.

Doing my best to look appropriately sheepish, I apologized.  “No, I’m sorry.  That’s about all of the French I can manage.”  I grinned as I said it, hoping like hell that she would find the whole thing quite charming and grin back.

She didn’t.  Instead, she pouted and looked genuinely disappointed.  “That’s too bad,” she said. “An attractive man who also speaks French is more of an aphrodisiac than I would expect to find at Starbucks.”

I’m pretty sure that I blinked.  Then we laughed comfortably to chase away any possibility of awkwardness that might have crept in. 

With that we introduced each other and shook hands. I admitted that I recognized her but refrained from doing the adoring fan thing.  I don’t do that and I don’t ask for autographs.  I had more than enough to cope with right here.  In minutes I had forgotten the fact that I traditionally did not gravitate toward full-figured women.   But this woman was stunning.  Her most physically arresting attribute was probably her smile.  She had these ultra white, perfect teeth that looked like something from a family dentistry commercial.   Those teeth acted like a beacon that drew your attention to a pair of lips that smoothly alternated between smiling and pouting with remarkable ease.  Oddly enough, she could find several separate opportunities to pout in the course of a five minute conversation and her pout was every bit as compelling as her smile.

She asked me to call her Leah, which was different than the name that most people would associate with that high profile image, but that didn’t matter to me. 

“I don’t usually give my name to strangers, but you don’t look the least bit malevolent to me.”  She cocked her head to the side as she said this… watching my reactions.  “Am I right?  Are you truly as benign as you seem?”

“I’m you’re huckleberry.” I said knowing, as soon as I let the words fall from my mouth that unless she’d seen Val Kilmer’s performance as Doc Holliday in that Kevin Costner western, this would have no meaning to her whatsoever.  (Excuse me, but I seem to have left my smooth at home.)  

She didn’t blink.  She merely smiled and said something else about the book store. (I think that's what she said anyway. I was noticing her bra through the see-through blouse.)  Then she excused herself to make a purchase at the café counter.  I watched her ample ass work as she walked over to the counter.  She was reading the large menu display on the big wall behind the counter as she walked… so she was walking slowly.  This gave me time to see the full workings of her body in motion as she walked.  (God bless blue jeans.)  

We forgot all about our reading material when she sat back down.  She told me that she was separated with three children.

“But they are all with their father in Atlanta for the week, so I am an emancipated woman today and I’m feeling puckish.” 

Her pupils dialated as she said the word “puckish” with emphasis and enthusiasm … as if the word alone gave her some added measure of freedom.  I thought about faking it for a moment, because I had no idea what she meant by that.  I might have blinked once. 

Then... secure in my own vocabulary, I inclined toward her a bit and said, “Puckish?”

She grinned even more broadly and exclaimed, perhaps more loudly than she intended to, “ Yesssss… puckish!  Mischievous, devilish… as if I am free and unfettered for the first time in a decade.” 

She’d grown animated as she spoke, attracting the attention of one or two of the people sitting at nearby tables.  As she waved her arms to illustrate her excitement, her bodacious bosom bounced in my face.  If she saw me noticing them she said nothing.   Another cafe patron seemed to recognize her, and she looked over at us several times now that we had her attention. 

Three nights later, she was walking into my condominium with me for the first time.  This was our second date after that first meeting at Barnes and Noble.  The prior night she'd made it clear that she wanted my body.  In her own “puckish” words (grin) she told me that she wanted me to “bang her brains loose.”  She had the most unique way of expressing herself, but by now I was a believer.

I could lay out the pre-sex dialogue for you, but I suspect you want to know what happened.  In short, it was amazing.  The last woman that I’d slept with before Leah was fashion model thin, and she had happily gyrated on top of me through to conclusion.   I could hold her little ass cheeks in both of my hands.  

Leah... tried... to... hurt... me… and it hurt so damn good.  She was soft and cuddly and responsive.  Time an again I just buried my face in those gorgeous mounds of womanhood and shook my head.  

She was also deceptively strong for someone as affectionate and playful as she was.  Each orgasm was accompanied by a flexing of thigh muscles and a shriek of pleasure, and I was never quite sure where I’d end up.  In fact there was one point in which I was literally tumbling off the bed and she reached out and snatched my ass back in place.   All I could do was grin.

The woman was limber. She could bend those lovely big thighs back until she looked like she was bent in half.  And they were lovely thighs too.  Her skin was flawless and there was just so much of it, I found myself getting lost in kissing her everywhere, particularly the backs of her thighs and those broad super soft butt cheeks.  She was glorious.  

Guys… if you were hoping for the play-by-play once again, I offer some advice instead.   The fashion industry has sought to build their own preferred image of beauty for us.  Clearly I had succumbed to it. I was once addicted to the trim and slender figures of petite women with itty bitty waistlines.   I just didn’t know any better.  Leah has cured me of all of that.   Once the “J-Lo butt" was my sole concession to extravagance in the feminine form, but now I can appreciate a meal with a lot more meat on that bone.

Ladies… if you’ve got it, bring it here and we’ll have some fun. 

Sonny Boy Williamson once sang:

Now I don’t want no skinny woman, I want the woman she got a-plenty of, Lord

I don’t want no skinny woman, I want some, a woman with a-plenty a-meat

Now we can roll all night long, an’ this woman, won’t have to stop ‘n eat.    

(Grin)