One Of Our Jeans Is Missing

by Paul Charles

  You know all the rules you learn about girls when you’re growing up? You know, things like if you make them laugh nothing will ever happen between you? But then again, now that I think about that rule, I’m sure Alfie, in the shape of Michael Caine, always said make them laugh and it’s your first foot in the door, so to speak. What were the other rules? Oh yeah, treat ’em mean to keep ’em keen. Then there’s girls who smoke are more inclined to let you cop a feel; never talk to anyone about what you did with a girl – if a girl knows you don’t talk, there’s going to be a better chance of you getting somewhere with them. You know, all those rules? Well, I followed them religiously. And you know what? I never got anywhere with a single one of them! I’m not even sure that I wanted to. The one time I had gotten anywhere with anybody was with Jean Kerr and, as far as I was concerned, all that happened by accident and equally, as far as I’m concerned, I really wish nothing had happened. It was such a non-event… well it kind of put me off it altogether.

  The night in the Toby Jug with Miss Simpson, however, had had the complete opposite effect. Not that anything was going to happen. She was going to marry a boyfriend whom she saw twice a week and they (well, one more than the other) were feverishly saving up for said marriage (not to mention, saving themselves).

  Anyway, I’ve gone off the beaten path a wee bit here, but on consideration, what I’m about to say is actually connected. See, when I was at school in Castlemartin, the word going around was that girls have firm breasts until they have sex, at which point gravity takes over. Once we’d been let into this little secret about how virginity and firm breasts were connected, we’d all run around the town, confidently predicting that so and so wasn’t a virgin based on the pertness of their breasts; mind you to make sure our theory held up we’d usually play safe and point to women who were fifty, married with at least five children. QED.

  The Jean Simpson lying on my floor at that moment was living proof of this little theory. Assuming, of course, she was still a virgin. She’d only said that she’d never slept with her husband-to-be. The assumption, born out to some degree with the aforementioned physical evidence, was that she’d never had sex with anyone else and by virtue of her pledge to her husband, he was the only one in her life she was going to share unchaste knowledge with.

  ‘Remind you a bit of the party, does it?’ Jean said, as she raised her head up a little from the threadbare red carpet to drink.

  ‘I have to ask you something and it’s to do with the party and I’ve been thinking about it ever since…’ I hesitated, knowing that I could break the mood in a split second. But the other wee voice in my head kept reminding me that there was no mood, and there was no need for a mood. This girl, squiffy though she was, was committed to marry another. So what was there to spoil? Spit it out, David!

  ‘Yes? For heaven’s sake what’s the big question you want to ask?’ Jean replied, appearing to grow as impatient as I was with myself.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t help thinking at the party that you and Jean had been in a fight together before. Had you?’

  ‘What, you mean her using her boot as a weapon?’

  ‘And the rest, like her screaming her head off and putting the fear of God into everyone,’ I said, feeling the first twangs of cramp in my leg muscles.

  Jean laughed and kept on laughing.

  ‘I thought you were working up courage to ask me some kind of sexual question,’ she eventually managed to say, looking slightly disappointed. ‘No, David, we’d never been in a fight before. I do think Jean had gone to some self-defence class; she’s always going to some class or other. She keeps saying that what we make of ourselves in these few years is what we’ll be for the rest of our lives, and so we better pack it all in now rather than regret it later on.’

  My legs were growing stiffer by the second. How had Geronimo managed to sit around in this squatting position for hours on end? Jean noticed my awkwardness. I stood up to stretch and after a few seconds of doing so the blood started to flow in my legs again and the numbness disappeared.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘lie down beside me; it’s much more comfortable down here. I love doing this – I used to do it all the time back home in Derby. I used to lie in our back garden, watching the clouds drift by. There’s a big hill behind Jean’s house and we used to climb up there – brilliant, totally brilliant. Come on, closer. I won’t bite. Don’t think you’ll make me nervous either ’cause you won’t, young man. I’m well able for the likes of you.’

  Once again, I did as I was told, only this time I lay beside her – well, there was a six inch canal of red carpet between us. I started to giggle.

  ‘You think that’s funny do you? You think that just because you’re a man and I’m a wee helpless girl that you could overpower me?’

  Pride wasn’t playing any part in this for me. I was happy to let it go; if that’s what she thought, fine with me, but not for her. She had to prove it; she had to prove she was stronger than me.

  Before I could say another word she had rolled over and was sitting on top of my waist, pinning my hands to the floor above my head.

  I looked up at her. She was challenging me with her eyes and bracing herself against my counterattack. I looked down between our two bodies and any thought of a fight disappeared the moment I laid eyes on the vision of Heaven before me. Her miniskirt had ridden up on her hips and I could see her black stocking tops and just the white triangle of her knickers. To me, that’s the biggest turn-on a man can ever see – I’m not greedy, I don’t need everything, just suggestions of what might actually be there, hints of what might happen. That’ll do it for me. Mystery is the magic word in all of this.

  And it was a mystery to me, all of that, and that’s the way I loved it to be. I hated it when it was functional, basic, like it was with Jean Kerr. You know, more like a mechanic under a car hood than two people sharing the most magical moment God created for us. I like it all to come together naturally, in the heat of passion. Well, I thought that’s what I liked, but the truth was I didn’t know – it had never happened, had it. But maybe…?

  Hey come on now, David, you’re getting a bit carried away here, she’s only showing you that she’s not scared of you and that she’s happy to take you on in a wrestling match.

  ‘You’re not giving in that easy are you?’

  I nodded, stealing another glimpse as I did.

  ‘Now you’re just playing, David. You genuinely think you can get out of this position but you’re pretending that you can’t so as not to hurt my feelings.’

  I felt her press her hips down harder onto me, ‘Come on, move me, David, move me if you can.’

  I tentatively pushed up against her, testing her strength. She resisted and pushed back, but firmer this time.

  ‘Ah, some stirrings in the nether regions,’ she said, mocking my feeble movements.

  Her mini had ridden up the whole way now and I’d a clear view of her knickers.

  ‘Don’t let yourself get distracted, David, you’ll lose the fight,’ Jean uttered, gritting her teeth and summoning up all her strength for what she anticipated was going to be my big attack.

  There’s no point in disappointing the girl is there? So I arched my back up against her, hoping to throw her off with the surprise of how high I could go.

  ‘That’s better, a bucking bronco! That’s much better! But still not good enough,’ she said breathlessly, gripping my waist with her thighs and holding on for dear life as she pressed down against me again.

  I remained in the arched position and she took another three attempts at pushing me back down onto the carpet. On the third occasion I think she felt me because that’s when she started to rock on me gently, moving her hips now, backwards and forwards, as well as up and down. She closed her eyes and I thought I heard her purring a little.

  ‘Mmmm,’ she whispered, ‘so you want to fight unfair.’

  Me, I was doing nothing. I just continued to brace myself against her as she gyrat
ed above me, her eyes closed, and I imagined she was back on that hill, watching the clouds pass above her. I started to match her movement: when she pushed, I pushed, when she pulled, I pushed a little bit further. Her head had now dropped down towards me. Her eyes were still closed and she still had my hands pinned to the carpet.

  ‘Oh, is that a little bit more resistance I feel?’ she whispered, as she continued to rock against me. For some of her movements I closed my eyes and enjoyed it, for the other moments I opened my eyes to look at her and her mini, and her pants, and her thighs, and her stocking tops, and I enjoyed it even more.

  Her breathing grew a little heavier and her thrusts seemed to be deeper and getting more and more desperate.

  ‘Oh, I’m going, I’m going,’ she whispered. All the time she kept up this gentle movement. This was different to her standing in front of me at the Toby Jug. That could have been an accident. This couldn’t be an accident. She was pleasuring herself on my body and it was the most amazing thing I’d ever witnessed.

  I grew a little anxious, though. I didn’t think I was going to last much longer. I couldn’t possibly last much longer. I closed my eyes tight; I knew if I caught one more glance of her white knickers, which were now beginning to grow darker where the damp was making them slightly translucent, I’d be gone for definite.

  Her thrusts became more powerful, on and on, building up. I could hear her breathing very clearly now. It was more panting than steady breathing. She bucked against me and held herself there. I gave one final push, took a final glimpse at where our bodies met and she collapsed on top of me, her head falling beside me.

  She lay there for a time, silent except for the beating of her heart, and eventually when she’d got her breath back she whispered in my ear, ‘You got me, David Buchanan. You got me.’

  Now the secret of Jean Simpson’s planned two year celibacy was clearer to me. It appeared I was to be her eunuch. I mean, the great thing about it all was that she wasn’t embarrassed in the slightest about what we had just done. Her exact words were: ‘That was enjoyable, wasn’t it?’ as she smiled and raised her eyebrows.

  We didn’t kiss. She just went to the bathroom and by the time she’d returned, thanks to a quick change, I’d rearranged myself back into a well-known person.

  I had to collect my thoughts on the experience. Yes, it was enjoyable – truth be told, it was the most enjoyable sexual experience of my life to date. I suppose it was surprising, particularly after what had just happened, that of the two of us I was the most sexually experienced. In fact, Jean said she’d never shared what we’d just done with anyone before in her life. She said, and I believed her, that she certainly hadn’t meant for it to happen, it had just happened, naturally. More important, she was glad that it had.

  ‘For as long as we can keep this a secret,’ she said, with a twinkle in her eye, ‘it’ll be just our little secret, and if you can keep it a secret, it’ll be a secret to cherish, I can promise you that.’

  I thought that was a very diplomatic way to put it. Basically, what she was saying was that she wanted me to keep my mouth shut about it, but she suggested it in such a way that the onus was on both of us to keep quiet. Obviously she’d a lot more to lose.

  She started to put her coat on.

  I offered to walk her home.

  ‘Flippin’ sure you’re going to walk me home! If you think I’m wandering the streets of Wimbledon on my own and without any knickers on you’ve got another thing coming, David Buchanan!’

  ‘And when is this other thing coming?’ I said, knowing I was probably chancing my neck.

  She gave me a playful clip along the ear before saying, ‘Well, it must soon be time for us to go and see another group. Maybe we’ll go to the Marquee Club again.’

  I walked her all the way to her door, though we didn’t kiss. Not even a goodnight peck on the cheek.

  Part Two: During.

  Chapter Fifteen.

  If Jean Simpson was the girl from the North Country far, then Mary Skeffington was the sad-eyed lady of the lowlands. Where Miss Simpson, the last time we met, seemed to have an inch to her step – and that might have had something to do with the cold night air – Mary Skeffington seemed to be getting bogged down in a rut over losing John Harrison.

  When I think about that – you know, Jean walking home that night without any underwear on – it brings another thing to mind. Actually, it brings lots of things to mind like, for instance, how difficult it was for me to walk home afterwards, but that’s not what I want to discuss with you at this particular time. What I want to discuss with you is about how you girls go out in the middle of a freezing cold night with next-to-nothing on. Now, lads, I’m not suggesting that we all put our mother’s, sister’s, wife’s or girlfriend’s dress on for this little experiment – a towel will do. Just wrap it around you – you know, like you do when you first come out of the shower… okay, it’s fine to put your underpants on first. Okay so far? Now go out to the back door of your house (I should point out that it is not wise to carry out this experiment on your front doorstep, as you’re sure to garner some funny looks, and maybe even a few weird and unwelcome invitations). When you’re out back, I want you to see how long you can stand there before you start to freeze your whatsits off and have to run back to the heat of your living room. Well, don’t you see? That’s what girls must feel like every night they’re out on the town bare-legged? Or sometimes even bare-bottomed. How do they do that? Why do they do that?

  Anyway, we were talking about how happy Jean Simpson was and how sad Mary Skeffington was. You could say that Mary was in closed-lips mode. You might even say ‘Well, that’s obvious isn’t it? Jean won the boy and Mary lost him.’ But that’s not how I would see it. I’d look at it and say that Mary was now free to decide what she wanted to do with the rest of her life; she’d got a clean slate. Don’t you see, she’d committed to a boy who had subsequently been proven to have a roving eye? Don’t you think it was much better she found that out now before marriage, houses, babies and mortgages complicated matters? He’d have been able to walk free, he’s the man; she’d have had to pick up the pieces and the wains, and keep everything going, and try to get her own emotional life back on track.

  No, she was better off – I genuinely believed that.

  On the other hand, as I saw it, it was actually Miss Simpson who had the problem. And not one, but two at that: the first, John Harrison’s roving eye; the second, much closer to home. Being perfectly frank about it, I’d hate to think that someone I was about to marry was off doing what she’d done with me on Monday last.

  Yes, it might have happened accidentally. But then what about all the little twirls, how do you explain those away? And while we’re on the subject, what about all the subtle flashes? More accidents? Perhaps, but then what about her bump and grind at the Jethro Tull gig? Yes, you could say it was safe sex – very safe sex; nothing happened, if you want to really get down to it. We both gave each other relief. She’d once mentioned solo sex as being a good way to avoid getting too ‘horny’ – her word (I think mine had been ‘frustrated’) – and, in an oblique way, you could possibly describe what we did on Monday night as solo. But solo, successful only by being together. Confused? Well spare a thought for me then; I was right in the middle of this scenario and I hadn’t a clue what was going on.

  But my main point would still have to be: Is what we did on the carpet something you would want to be caught doing behind your future husband’s back? As one of the principals in the act, I’d have to say I’d prefer not to do it anywhere near her future husband’s back, or in front of him. For that matter, anywhere within the same village might still be too close. But I wasn’t exactly about to have a go at her about it, was I? I mention it only as justification as to why I thought Mary should be feeling better.

  Yes, the same Mary who’d said that she thought she might want to be more than good friends. What exactly did that mean? Of course I know what it means, general
ly speaking. But what did it mean in this instance? Did she plan to get it together with me some time in the future? You see, it’s not as clear as you first think. I remember when I was growing up whenever I asked my father for something, anything, he would either say ‘no’ or ‘I’ll think about it’. Now when he said ‘no’, that was obviously the end of the matter, but when he said ‘I’ll think about it’, he actually meant yes. Whenever he’d said those words to me, he’d always meant yes. However, should anyone not have known him and our repartee then they’d be forgiven for thinking that when he said ‘I’ll think about it’ I was wrong to get excited. And when he had thought about it, he could come back with a ‘yes’, but he could equally come back with a ‘no’. Do you see what I’m getting at? It’s all about how people personally use language. I didn’t know Mary Skeffington well enough to know what she really meant when she said that she thought she might want us to be more than just good friends. But I certainly knew what I wanted her to mean.

  Does that surprise you?

  I’m being honest with you. I’m not hedging my bets, so that if and when something happened, I could say ‘You know, I’m glad we got it together.’

  But what about Jean Simpson, I hear you say?

  That was exciting, that was thrilling. But it wasn’t really a relationship now, was it?

  I can also hear your next question. Something along the lines of: So if you get it together with Mary, what happens to Jean? Are you going to be guilty, like you’ve accused Jean of being, by having a proper relationship with a true love and having an improper one with someone else? Great question to be sure but hey, that’s way too complicated for me. I suppose I’d better get on with the story and then you can judge for yourself.

  Mary Skeffington rang me up at work Tuesday after the Monday, if you catch my drift. I had to keep it brief: we’re not encouraged to take personal calls at the office just in case we accidentally let something slip, or in case something is going on in the background which is definitely not meant to be overheard.