A hunky artist answers Rosie’s want ad — and fulfills all of her needs.

Some women stop thinking — and others stop speaking — when they encounter a man as ruggedly good looking as the specimen who was standing in front of me. I hit the daily double, though; I neither thought nor spoke as we faced each other. Well, at least I didn’t drool.

“You’re looking for a hot dishwasher?” Jerry asked.

I gazed at him stupidly, almost as if there were an actual question mark hovering over my head. 

He wasn’t a complete stranger to me. Jerry had been in my little eatery from time to time over the past few weeks, sitting at the counter and drawing on a notepad. He’d ordered cups of coffee and always offered me a friendly smile.

The first day he’d shown up, I’d exchanged looks with my friend Amanda, wide-eyed because of his stunning physique. He was the type of guy who didn’t seem to realize his effect on women. His mind always seemed to be elsewhere. He was often paint-splattered, bits of blue on his cheekbone, splashes of tangerine and lemon on his jeans. I’d grown accustomed to his schedule — showing up after lunch but before dinner.

Once I’d even managed to introduce myself under the guise of a concerned owner making sure her customers were satisfied. He correctly guessed my name was Rosie before I mentioned it, but that’s easy since my place is called Rosie’s. When our hands connected, I’d felt sparks between us. The rush of excitement left me tongue-tied, which was no matter because I’d approached him as he was preparing to leave. There hadn’t been any time to fan those magical sparks into flames.

But what was Jerry talking about now?

Oh, that’s right. Amanda had said I needed to hire someone. She had told me, “You wear a chef’s hat, a waitress’s apron, um, a restauranteur’s underpants.”

“Underpants?”

“Whatever. I’m assuming you wear underpants.”

“Boy shorts.” The striped pink ones that day, with a row of delicate pearl buttons down the front. Not that anyone was going to undo them, or even see them. Nobody but me had gotten a glimpse of my panties since I’d opened my small café the year before. I was too busy dealing with all aspects of the business to even think about satisfying my libido.

“You wear all the hats and clothes,” Amanda had continued as she poured herself a cup of my coffee. “And you do everything.”

“But I’ve got you.”

“Well, that’s the thing…”

I looked at her, and the light finally went on. She’s my best friend, and she’d been helping me manage my messy life in between her Master’s studies and what she’d hoped was an acceptance to her chosen doctoral program. She’d pulled an envelope from her bag and showed me the letter that held good news for her — and bad news for me. She was leaving, and I needed to hire help.

“You’re looking for a hot dishwasher?” Jerry repeated a little more emphatically, clearly hoping for a response.

He removed a folded white sheet of paper from his back pocket, spread the flyer out on the counter and pointed to the words. I was staring at his jeans. The dark denim fit him to perfection, and I suddenly experienced a wave of jealousy toward his hand for thrusting so nonchalantly into his pocket. His hand could go wherever it wanted to! I wanted to put my hand in his pocket…but not the back one. Maybe I could reach my fingers into that little useless pocket near the button fly, and stroke…

“Right here,” he said, pointing downward. I dumbly looked at the paper on the counter, at the bold black letters that read: Hot Dishwasher Wanted.

What?!

Amanda had helped me with the flyer. I’d dictated, and she’d typed. Then she’d printed off the sheets and pinned them to bulletin boards at the post office, the library and the university. She had really wanted to set me up before taking off. I appreciated every bit of her help, because I knew I couldn’t do it all on my own. I realized that now.

After “Hot Dishwasher” was a brief description of duties and the address and phone number for my restaurant.

“Oh!” I blushed. “That was supposed to read host and dishwasher,” I said, more to myself than to him. “Host. Not Hot. Host.”

Had Amanda made the typo on purpose, in the hope of finding me not only a new employee but also a new boyfriend?

“What a difference a letter makes,” Jerry said wryly, his voice an easygoing drawl. “An extra “S” changes desert to dessert…crew to screw…hot to host.”

I wanted to screw him and eat him for dessert. I could imagine every luscious lick, my tongue tracing over his lips, then heading lower…

“I wasn’t sure if the ad was for real or not,” he continued in response to my silence, “and I didn’t know if you would think I was hot. I mean, that’s always subjective, isn’t it? What’s hot to one person can be something else to the next.”

Blue eyes. Long dark hair. Partially unbuttoned shirt that let me see a bit of his chest hair. I had fantasized from time to time about Jerry, whenever I found myself in bed with a few wispy moments of consciousness before sleep took me away.

I swallowed and said, “You’re hot. Trust me.”

He grinned. “But am I hot enough to host?”

“You’re hot enough to do anything you want to,” I babbled. And then I caught myself, looked down and blushed.

It had been so long since I’d bantered this way with a man. I had clearly forgotten how to flirt, how to engage in small talk that leads to…well, fucking. All I wanted to do was tear off his clothes and see his naked body. He was talking, though, so I worked hard to tune back in.

“I moved to town a month ago,” he explained. “I have a place, but I need work. Your restaurant is perfect because I live around the corner. I could be here whenever you need me.”

I needed him, all right.

“What have you been doing since you’ve moved to town?” I asked, curious.

He pulled out his notepad — the book I’d seen him draw in while he drank coffee — and he showed me a few sketches: my pies behind glass, one of me in motion, my curls pinned up in a bun, my wide smile.

“He gave me a look, the one that said he was thinking something dirty.”

“You’re an artist?” I asked.

“That’s what the paint tells me,” he said.

“Your paint talks to you?”

“Don’t your ingredients?”

I thought about that. Sometimes, the recipes do whisper to me. They tell me to add a bit more of that or to hold back on the other. I have visions when I walk through the farmer’s market, images of future meals I might make. What if I paired those figs with steak? Or that cheese with melon? I can imagine the flavors even if I’ve never combined them before. Was it the same with him but with hues?

“Yes,” he said, “I’m an artist, but I need some extra work. I landed an inexpensive studio. But I still need to eat.”

When he said eat, he looked at me. I looked right back at him. I told myself to mute my desires, but he was so damn chiseled. He had muscular arms and a blinding smile that unnerved me totally. Staring at him, I felt loose-limbed and unhinged. I would have melted right then, but I had nobody to sponge me up.

“Let’s see how you do tonight washing dishes,” I said, making an executive decision. “That’s what I need help with the most right now.”

“You mean I’m hired?” He looked ecstatic.

“Right this second. Work the dinner shift. If you can hack it, we’ll decide on a schedule.”

“I was lapping at his dick, while he flicked his tongue against my clit.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jerry replied with clear enthusiasm and what sounded to me like a hint of relief.

“Let’s get you started,” I said, heading into the kitchen. Jerry followed close behind.

I handed him an apron, which he tied on before rolling up his sleeves.

We worked well together, even though the kitchen was cramped. He swiveled when I swayed. While I was flipping burgers, he was washing the pans. I’ve never been a dancer, but I recognized we shared a good rhythm. In a space as small as mine, that’s important — getting into the groove. When I had my hands full, he even managed to seat a few people. He was as adept with the washing as he was with winning over the customers. 

Jerry made it through the evening shift, staying until the bitter end — or in our case, until the last crumb of apple brown betty was gone. Once we’d shut the door, flipped the sign to “closed” and drew all the blinds, he pulled up a stool and sat down to say, “So…”

“So?”

“I have a confession. I was pretty sure your flyer was wrong, but I thought I’d play along. But I need to know the company policy on employee dating.”

That caught me off guard. I didn’t have any other employees. Couldn’t he see that? Now that Amanda had moved on, this was a one-woman operation. No excess baggage. Nothing up my sleeves.

“Dating policy?”

He stood and pulled the tie of his apron. The white cotton fluttered to the floor, and then he pulled the tie on mine, making it do the same. Suddenly, I wanted him to tie my wrists with apron strings and fuck me over the counter — to spoon whipped cream on my skin and lick me clean. All those fantasies people have about what restaurants workers do after hours — every last one occurred to me in the few seconds before he stripped my white top off and waited for me to kick off my shiny black clogs and pull down my black-and-white checkered pants. Then I was standing there, hip cocked, in my panties and skimpy bra top.

He gave me a look, the one that said he was thinking something dirty. The one I was probably wearing as well, because my thoughts were dirty, too. He took off his own clothes, and we both stared at one another, drinking each other in.

Hot dishwasher wanted.

That’s what the sign had said. But is that what I’d really wanted? No, I wanted more. I wanted someone I could bounce ideas off of — as well as bounce myself on. I hadn’t thought I was lonely. I mean, how could I be when I was always surrounded by customers ordering meals and vendors dropping off supplies. How could I be unfulfilled when my place was so happy? The stereo playing love songs. The pink shades over the lights cast a soothing, warm glow.

But the truth was I had been lonely, and I learned in a flash that Jerry was the type of man who made me feel at home — even though we weren’t. In no time we were on the counter top, with me on my back and his thick cock poised over my lips while his mouth was a whisper away from my pussy. There was a moment when I think we were both holding our breath. But then we exhaled and surged into motion, like we had done all night, but this time in a more sexy way.

I was lapping at his dick, while he flicked his tongue against my clit. I should have known our night would end that way. Every move we’d made that evening had brought us there. The winks and smiles, the way my heart had beat faster each time he’d said my name — all those pent-up desires came tumbling free.

He sucked on my clit until behind my shut eyes I saw glittery gilded sparks, flickers of neon light. I was parched from my lack of pleasure. I had been cruising on empty, running on fumes, and I hadn’t even realized it. When you’re hungry, you make yourself food. If you’re thirsty, you pour a drink. I’d been lust-starved, and somehow I’d forgotten to take care of that primal need. Jerry was my oasis, and I took from him what I needed, sucking his cock and making him groan against my slit as I worked him as hard as he worked me.

Jerry’s thick, dark hair tickled my thighs as his five-o’clock shadow rasped against my tender skin. He used his teeth perfectly, nipping my cunt-flesh before using his tongue to lap at my clit. I shoved my pussy hard against his face, wanting more of everything. I didn’t have the ability to hold back. I’d waited too long for this kind of satisfaction.

Jerry anchored me in place with his big hands on the swell of my hips, and he nuzzled his face against my entire slit before bringing his tongue back into play. I told him I was coming a second before I did. I let him know I couldn’t stop myself. He didn’t slow down. He kept right at me with his tongue flicking and licking my clit until I shattered, so decimated that I lay back on the chilled counter and sighed.

After that, Jerry was the one who put us into motion, setting the table for our next course, so to speak. He stood me up and had me bend across the counter before sliding his spit-slickened dick between my thighs. He moved so slowly, letting my lust simmer, but soon I was boiling over. I couldn’t believe he had such self-control. I wanted to race to dessert — I wanted the fireworks finale, all at once. But Jerry wouldn’t be rushed and worked me at his own pace.

With every beautiful thrust of his dick, he took me higher. I was staring at the pies behind the glass, the whipped toppings, the glazed cherries perched on cakes. I could see myself in the reflection of the glass, could see him behind me, and I felt whipped myself. Light and airy inside. He stirred me with his dick and then plunged inside me once more. When I was right on the edge, he started talking.

“You keep up a solid façade.”

“What do you mean?” I asked breathlessly.

“He drove his cock hard inside me, and I wrapped my thighs around him.”

“You act as if you can do everything yourself, don’t you? But everyone can use a hand now and then.” At these words, he brought one of his beneath my body and tweaked my clit with his fingertips, and then he began stroking me in time with his thrusts. Everything was coming together in exactly the right way.

“What else do you want?” Jerry suddenly asked, surprising me out of my pleasure-induced haze. “You wanted a hot dishwasher. What else? What else do you need?”

His sketchbook was open on the counter. I saw the picture he’d drawn of my face. Then he flipped the page for me, and I saw what we were doing now, the two of us fantasy fucking. In the drawing, he was behind me, while I was a hot mess of tumbling curls and parted lips. That’s what I looked like in my head. Well stirred. Drizzled.

So he’d fantasized as I’d fantasized He’d wanted what I did.

“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me exactly what you need.”

I wanted to be astride him. I wanted to push him down on the tiles and climb aboard his powerful pole. As soon as I uttered the words, he settled back on the cool checkered floor and told me to ride him. I did, impaling myself on his glossy rod, and began to pump myself up and down. He cradled my breasts in his hands, his thumbs flicking against my erect nipples. I ground my pussy against him, gaining the contact I required to take myself where I needed to go. He let me find my groove, and then he joined in, rubbing my clit with his thumb — rubbing softly, now that I’d already climaxed once. He seemed to understand I needed a lighter touch until I was ready, really ready, for the next burst of pleasure.

We were wired together in the most intimate fashion. He gripped me and flipped us once more. I was on my back while he was poised above me. He drove his cock hard inside me, and I wrapped my thighs around him and pulled him in deeper. When he came, he took me with him, finding that pure rhythm that brought us both to our peaks.

Breathless, we lay back together, side by side. He wrapped one arm around me and held me to him. If I’d been honest when Amanda had asked me what I’d needed, I would have written:

Hot Dishwasher Wanted: for fucking after-hours and sex on the sly — for fulfilling desires…so many desires, with whipped cream and a cherry on top. All the cherries, glistening and dipped in syrup…

Yeah, that was definitely something I needed.

My phone rang, and I had a horrible realization: “Amanda put those signs all over town!”

Jerry laughed as I answered the line, naked. He seemed to appreciate that I put on a professional voice as I said, “Rosie’s. How can I help you?” Nobody would be able to guess that I was standing in my restaurant entirely nude as slippery sex juices coated my thighs.

Jerry used his discarded apron as a pillow, getting comfortable while he watched me listen to the caller’s story. It was someone querying about the job and taking the time to kindly let me know I had a typo in the flyer.

“The position’s been filled,” I said, smiling at Jerry.

“Let me fill it again,” Jerry whispered as I hung up the phone.

And that’s when I knew I’d found exactly who I’d been looking for all this time.

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