I was in my early thirties and lived in an apartment in the Richmond District of San Francisco. I worked for Chevron USA and had a fairly responsible job. I have always liked to cook and generally make food from scratch, especially on weekends. The only problem my cooking is that I was inclined to make much larger portions than made sense for me and my two kids. Even today, making chili for two people just isn’t in my repertoire, so I make it for ten, ditto with pasta sauce and stew.
Charlie was an elderly man who lived upstairs from me. I would see him when I got my mail from time to time and we were friendly. I think Charlie was a widower and about eighty years old and a pleasant man. He would always ask me about the kids, bemoan the foggy weather, and make small talk. Nice old guy!
One Saturday, I made a huge pot of homemade chicken soup. I decided there was way too much for me and the kids so I had a great idea. Why not take some of this soup up to Charlie? I found a large jar with a top and filled it to the brim. I wrapped it in a kitchen towel and headed for the stairs up to Charlie’s apartment. When I knocked, he grinned from ear to ear and opened the door wide to admit me. I walked in and put the soup on the counter in the kitchen, rambling a bit about how I had made a huge amount and it was really good and I didn’t want it to go to waste.
Charlie walked up behind me and grabbed one of my breasts with one hand and my ass with his other hand, while putting his mouth on my neck and ear. Oh my God, Charlie! I gently pushed him away not sure if I should scream for help (although I was about twice his size and could easily defend myself against this eighty year old man), cry or laugh. I pretended it hadn’t happened and said, “Enjoy the chicken soup, Charlie!” and quickly got out the front door. That was the last homemade chicken soup Charlie ever got from me!