Sunday Brunch

Sunday Brunch

© cv andrews 2024

I was pissed-off when my manager at the Marriott made me work Sunday brunch. But then completely out of the blue I met this man there. And although he didn't know it, he'd been looking for me. And he's kind, and amazingly thoughtful, and a wonderful lover.

I just never expected that he'd be white.

Yeah, there's some explicit, joyous sex in here. But mainly, this is a romance story...

* * * * *

Stupid Sunday brunch!

I wasn't happy when my assistant manager told me that I had to work Sunday brunch.

Normally I work Mondays and Wednesdays 3 p.m. to 11 and Fridays and Saturdays 4 to 12. Weekend nights are good for tips because they're date nights and the restaurant at the Marriott is a nice place and the food's good. In fact, the past three weeks we've been booked solid from 7:00 to 10:30. But the weeknights are usually pretty good, too, because it's more of a business hotel, so during the week it's generally busy with lots of business people with business expense accounts. Also, the schedule works out okay for my nursing classes at Poly.

But Sunday brunch? The absolute worst - all of us hate it. It's crazy busy, we're constantly clearing tables and setting up for the next group, usually families. And don't get any of us started on the families that come for brunch - the loud-mouthed dads thinking they're big shots because they're taking the family out, the obnoxious kids and the parents who aren't able to control them, or else the parents who don't even try to control their kids. And every week there's always at least one person who gets sick at the table or doesn't make it all the way to the restroom because they over-indulged at the buffet.

Plus, the people who go to Sunday brunch are generally pretty crappy tippers. So you understand why I was pissed when Jeanette, the A-M, told me that this weekend I was working Sunday brunch instead of my usual, profitable, sane Saturday night gig.

The peak rush was winding down by one o'clock when Jerlyn, the hostess, led a single guy to one of the smaller tables in my section. Like I said, by then I wasn't real busy so I went over immediately with the water pitcher and poured a fresh glass for him.

And he looked up at me, and he smiled. And the thing was, it wasn't the usual polite "Hello, Server" smile. This was like a smile of "recognition" - like he'd just seen something that he'd been looking for. I had no way of interpreting it. I was sure I'd never met him before so I just chalked it up to my imagination.

It was a brunch buffet, and he was by himself - no obnoxious family to deal with - so there wasn't a lot of need for me to serve him. I made sure his water was kept full and I managed to hustle him into ordering a mimosa - hey, it's Sunday brunch, right - what's Sunday brunch without a mimosa!

When I came back with his drink we started talking. Like I said, the brunch crowd was mostly gone and if I hadn't been on the clock I would have sat down with him. As it was I was able to stand and talk, and he was real easy to talk to. Turns out he just checked in this morning and was here in San Luis Obispo on business for the next two weeks.

"First, no one calls it 'San Luis Obispo' - it's S-L-O - say it!"

"S - L - O" And that smile again. I couldn't figure it out.

And he asked the usual - if I was going to school (I am - Cal Poly), was I from here (no - Murrieta - "that's downstate"), how long have I worked at the hotel restaurant (11 months now)?

And I was thinking - we're kind of hitting it off, and I'm wondering if he's going to do the usual and hit on me.

That happens. Fairly often. A lot of servers, male and female, get a lot of "invitations" from a lot of customers - males and females. I get my share, I guess. I'm young and OK-looking - sometimes even cute - and I don't wear a ring and I'm usually pretty outgoing. I have a nice smile and I laugh at the customers' jokes, even if they're not very funny or I don't get them.

Oh, yeah. I'm black. Not "African-American." I've never been to Africa and neither have my parents or their parents. I don't identify with Africa and I don't think of anyplace on the African continent as the "motherland." I am okay with Negro. It's just the old Spanish and Portuguese word for black. I figure if it's good enough for the United Negro College Fund it's good enough for me.

Actually, that's not strictly objectively true. My complexion isn't black or even chocolate brown. It's more of a "nut brown," I guess you could call it - like walnut or something. Maybe there's some Middle Eastern - maybe Syrian, or Moroccan - on my mom's side. Anyway, I'd never get mistaken for white. Not that I'd ever want to. Like Popeye the Sailor says, "I yam what I yam." My nose is a little wide, maybe a little flat, and my hair isn't black but it's really dark brown and it's pretty unruly and I've decided that the easiest thing is just to let it grow out in its long curly self.

So, yeah, I get hit on a lot in a place like this. Men who've had one - or three - too many cocktails at the bar, men who are away from home and feeling "frisky." Or maybe just boors, or worse, pigs, who think they're God's gift to women.

Anyhow, I'm wondering if this guy's going to hit on me, maybe with some corny line like "I'll bet you get hit on a lot," when he says that he needs to go up to his room for a call with his boss. I thought, "Well, okay - that was kinda nice, but..."

But then he surprises me. "Look... Carinne -" and I realize that he's looking at my name tag and that we never exchanged names, "I really like talking with you, and I'd really like it if we had more chance to talk. Maybe, when you get off work, we could go somewhere - any place you like - then maybe get something to eat afterward." Then he got this little crooked smile. "Maybe some place where someone else brings you the food?" He ended it like a question.

Almost any other time I would have gracefully but firmly blown off the invitation. But I enjoyed talking with this guy during the lulls in the service. Plus - and I don't know any better way to say this - he gave off good "vibes." I know that sounds like a lame non-explanation, but I somehow got the sense that this guy was - lame again - a "good person."

I thought about it, but only for a few seconds.

"Sure. That'd give me a chance to flush brunch service out of my brain. How would you feel about the beach? It's a nice day and it'll still be warm when we get there. Sure. Meet me at the restaurant entrance about 3:15?

He smiled. "Sounds good - see you at 3:15," and it may have just been my imagination but he sounded like he was really pleased I said yes.

"By the way - I'm Tim."

So I went back to work - by now, mostly clearing tables and setting up for dinner - but it felt like I was gaining energy as the dining room gradually emptied and the end of my shift got closer.

As 3:15 got closer.

By the time I closed-out my POS terminal and got my backpack out of my locker "Tim" was waiting for me at the hostess's podium. And he was holding something.

"I thought t might be cool and windy at the beach so I brought this for you," and held out a bulky lavender-colored cotton knit pullover. But then he got this little look of panic, like he was afraid he'd overstepped. "But only if you want it."

No, he hadn't overstepped.

It's just a short 25-minute drive up Highway 1 to Morro Rock Beach. Amazingly, we found a parking spot right away - I guess a lot of people had already wound up their weekends and headed home. We stuffed my backpack out of sight and locked up his rental car and headed for the beach.

We walked on the beach for maybe 40 minutes, looking at "The Rock," at the surfers and at kids playing tag in the sand, occasionally catching sight of seals or a pair of sea otters, and once we thought we saw a humpback whale farther out, but we were just guessing at that.

We walked beside each other, close but not touching. It would have been very natural for us to hold hands, but we didn't. It wasn't really that cool but I still put on the cotton pullover he brought for me.

And we learned a lot about each other, on the drive and then while we walked on the beach. I learned that he's 33, has an apartment in a suburb near O'Hare Airport in Chicago, and works for a company that plans marketing programs for companies in the consumer products field. And that includes wine, and that's why he's here in the Central Valley right now.

I also learned that he's not married, never has been.

"I was engaged once but it didn't work out. There've been a couple times since then when I thought I was close, but those didn't work out, either. So I've kind of given up on the idea."

And he learned some about me. How I grew up with my family in Murrieta, in the southern part of California but well inland from the coast. And how since junior high school I've wanted to be a nurse, like my mom, but I wanted to go to school away from home - but not too far away - you understand, right?

And that's how I ended up in S-L-O, taking nursing classes at Poly - and waiting tables at the Marriott.

And he learned that I don't have a boyfriend right now. I don't know why I offered that - he hadn't asked. I broke up with a guy two months ago - he seems to think that we'll get back together again, but we won't. Again, I don't know why I told Tim that, either.

It was starting to get cool on the beach and he asked if I'd like to get some dinner, and also if I knew of a nice restaurant nearby. I thought I could find a place I knew of called The Galley. We got in the car and drove a little farther into town while I tried to remember exactly where the restaurant was.

We found The Galley and a place to park. We walked in without a reservation and got a table within five minutes.

A bowl of rockfish chowder, one of lobster bisque, we split an order of crab cakes. A glass of white wine for me, iced tea for Tim.

The restaurant was emptying out so we didn't feel bad about lingering at our table a little longer. Tim asked, and I said I'd enjoy a Drambuie. He stuck with another cup of coffee, saying that he still had to get us both back home safely.

As we got close to the Marriott he asked me where he should take me.

In fact, my 10 year old Corolla was still parked in the hotel lot where I left it when I drove in to work 13 hours ago.

But without even thinking I said, "Could we go to your place?"

He seemed surprised. But then he smiled, that smile again. He parked his rental in an open slot, walked around the car and opened the door for me, locked the car, and we went in and took the elevator to 3. He led me to his room - 314 - and unlocked the door.

Once we were inside he didn't try to grab me and shove me against the wall. He didn't try to kiss me - which I wouldn't have minded, mind you. Instead he led me over to the couch - he explained that the hotel had upgraded him to a modest suite-type room - and asked if I'd like something to drink. This being California, of course the hotel had placed a complimentary bottle of wine in the room.

"Is syrah OK?"

He came back with our wine, but instead of sitting on the couch with me, he sat in the other chair, across from me so we could look at each other when we talked.

Which wasn't long.

"I've got to apologize, Tim. I think with all the ocean air and our wonderful dinner - and the Drambuie, and this really nice syrah - I'm having trouble keeping my eyes open."

He didn't seem the least bit insulted. Instead, he smiled - that smile again.

"No need to apologize. You had a full day's work before we even started on part two. Why don't you take off your shoes and stretch out on the couch? I'll read while you rest. As long as you want - not a problem."

I'd had such a great time with Tim and I really didn't want to be rude, but he no sooner said the words than I was kicking off my Asics gel-soles that I'd been wearing since 6:30 this morning and stretching out on the couch.

"Wait a minute." He got up and came back from the bedroom seconds later with a pillow. I lifted my head enough for him to slip the pillow in under me. I think I remember lights being dimmed as I started to sink into this easy, lovely sleep.

Also, I think I might have felt a kiss on my forehead, but I'm not sure.

I woke up. The wall clock showed five 'til ten. Tim was still sitting in the armchair, right where he was when I fell asleep. I went to sit up and found that he'd put a light blanket over me to shield me from the air conditioning.

"Like something to drink?"

I kind-of croaked, "Yeah - yes, please." He went to the fridge in the little kitchen and got a can of some kind of sparkling water and poured it into a glass. He kneeled down beside the couch and held it out for me. He'd even found a large drinking straw so I could drink while I was still lying down.

And I think that's when I knew: He's the one.

I'm almost 22 and people say I'm reasonably good-looking, so I've dated a lot of guys, most of them black - or black-ish - but also a few white. I've probably had sex with an "average number " of guys - a long-term boyfriend, some shorter-term relationships, even a couple one-night hookups. And all of them were... OK. I enjoyed the sex, and I was lucky - none of the guys ever abused me or got creepy and began stalking me afterward. All in all, it - they - were... OK.

But I knew as soon as I saw the straw in that glass of LaCroix, I knew: this is the one.

I set the glass down on the end table. I stood up, took his hand, and led us into his bedroom.

I - we - didn't turn on the lamp- we could see okay by the light coming in from the hotel courtyard. I stopped and turned to face him, then just stood there. He put his arms around me and held me, firmly but not tight,. He leaned down and kissed my lips. It was a good kiss - the kind that made me think, "This is a man who knows how a woman wants to be treated."

I stepped back and started unbuttoning my white Banana Republic oxford shirt. The same shirt I'd worn all through my brunch shift. The same shirt I was wearing when Tim asked my name. The same shirt I've been wearing all the time since then.

Tim watched as I unfastened my tan slacks and let them fall to the carpet, leaving me standing there in just my blue cotton boy-short panties. No bra - I'm not very big on top so I can go to work without one and still not be "inappropriate."

And Tim just looked. But somehow I could see the... the appreciation in his eyes, like "Yeah, this is the way a woman should look."

I was not so approving.

"Aren't you a bit overdressed?"

Smiling at my fashion critique, he grabbed the hem of his pullover sweater and peeled it off over his head.

And now I got my first look.

Average build. Totally normal. Trim. Not muscular. No six-pack abs. Not even a two-pack. Just... trim.

Then I thought - "He does have cute nipples, though. I can't wait to play with them, feel them pressing against my chest." Not now, though.

I smiled, to show him that I appreciated, too.

I was wondering how we would play it from here - him shirtless but with his slacks still on and firmly in place, me there in just my panties.

I didn't have to worry. He stepped up to me and put his fingers carefully under the waistband of my panties and peeled them over my hips and down my legs and I stepped out of them - rather daintily, I thought.

Now what?

Again, nothing to worry about. He reached over with one hand and grabbed the bedspread and the covers and pulled them so they were almost completely turned-down, then took me by my shoulders and guided me back onto the bed. He put his hands between my knees and gently spread my legs...

... and kneeled down and began making love to my pussy.

And I mean that. First he kissed me there, all around, almost like we were making out. Except that it was my lower lips that were being kissed. He kissed my pussy hair - I don't shave there 'cause it gets bristly quickly, but it's naturally soft so I just keep it trimmed. He nuzzled his nose in it, like he just liked the soft feel of it.

And he kissed around - the crease where my legs join my body, then right on the lips - mine are kind of large - I think of them as being "plump" - and dark-colored. He ran his soft lips over mine, again, like he just liked the feeling - liked how they felt under his lips.

And I'm thinking, "This is the most unusual... the most unusual I've ever had." And I knew that I wanted to touch him - to be in contact with the man who was loving my pussy so well. I reached down and put my hands on his head, and I didn't force his head down against my pussy - that would come later - but I ran my fingers through his hair so that I could be touching him while he was touching me.

He used his thumbs, very gently, to spread my outer lips so he could kiss the delicate flesh inside. Again, he wasn't "eating" me - he was kissing me, so wonderfully, so tenderly...

... that I came.

My climax surprised me. He was only kissing me with his lips, and he hadn't gone anywhere near my clitoris, but I came. I'd try and figure that out later. But all the time it was happening I knew - I've never been loved like this in my life, maybe never would again Unless...

He let me enjoy my climax, resting his cheek against my pussy. When I finally came down from my climax he started using his tongue. Again, he used his thumbs to spread my outer lips, then poked the tip of his tongue inside me. I knew that it was coming but I still jerked when I felt that first touch.

He withdrew his tongue a little and began running it over the soft fleshy inner lips, lingering over each millimeter of the sensitive flesh, occasionally pushing his tongue inside me, and it seemed like he went in a little farther each time. And again, I had to be in contact with him, my fingers in his hair, stroking his scalp.

And then - finally! - he let his tongue wander up, to my little Magic Bump. At first he just "touched" it. Yes, that's all - just touched it.

And that's when I came the second time. Not violent, not bucking my hips off the bed. Just three quick jerks - and then the sweet release, all the tension draining away.

Again, he seemed to know just how long to wait for me before going back. And this time he was truly lavishing all his attention on my clit. He ran his tongue over it, then around, then put his lips around it and stayed like that, until he sucked - hard - and then released it and went back to gentle, soothing licking.

I wondered if he was going to eat me to another climax, but just before that could happen he backed off. He put one more kiss on my pussy, then stood up. He unbuckled his belt and stepped out of his slacks, and in the light coming into the room I could seen him standing there in his briefs. I couldn't tell what color they were, but in the light I could see that there was an eager bulge in the front.

He hooked his thumbs inside the elastic waist and pushed them down over his hips and to the carpet. While he was doing this I turned in the bed so that now I was laying "normally" - lengthwise. Tim came over and kneeled on the bed next to me. He bent down and kissed me, oh-so-gently, and I realized that that was only our second "regular" kiss, and now he's moving down the bed and between my open legs.

He smiled. I smiled and touched my fingertips to his cheek, then reached down and took his cock between my thumb and forefinger and guided him to my pussy, and I nodded. He leaned forward, and Tim's cock entered me for the very first time.