by Paul Charles
As we turned into Rostrevor Road she interlinked her arm with mine and pulled herself up close to me, just like Susi & Dylan on the sleeve for The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan.
‘I bet you’ve been wondering what I’m wearing under my coat,’ she announced out of nowhere.
‘Mmmm,’ I replied, a man of not too many words, hoping that she would take that as positive response.
‘What do you think I’m wearing?’ she teased.
‘What do I think you’re wearing or what do I hope you’re wearing?’ I asked, joining in the spirit of things.
‘Well, they both may be connected,’ she said. She was staring at the pavement in front of her as if she was deep in thought, another thought, that is, apart from the conversation she was having with me.
Do you ever find yourself doing that? Sometimes both thoughts are connected, as in you are answering a question and at the same time you are answering, your mind is off running, two stages ahead on the same topic. Was she wondering how I was going to react when I eventually found out what she was wearing? Was this thought giving her as much of a thrill as me wondering what she’d been wearing this whole time?
‘That might have been too big a clue; I’d have to guess that you’ve got your tartan miniskirt on.’
‘I like surprises, David – I’ve been roasting myself in this coat for the last three hours to give you a special surprise,’ she said as we arrived at my front door. ‘Hurry up with those keys; I need to see if you enjoy your surprise.’
Inside the flat she wasn’t quite so confident. I liked that though; I liked that she wasn’t so brassy that she was about to perform a strip tease. She shyly took off her duffle coat, knowing my eyes were glued to her every move.
‘Wow!’ was the only word I could find to say. ‘Wow!’ I said again.
She had a black crew neck sweater on and the famous Black Watch tartan pleated miniskirt. The only difference was that she had either taken it up by two inches or, more likely I guessed, she’d hiked the top of it a couple of inches above her belt, the effect being that the malleable tartan material barely covered her bottom. This meant there was about two inches of naked leg visible between the stocking tops and the skirt.
I am not a pervert, I believe, but I was struggling to catch my breath. Yes, I was undergoing a truly breathtaking experience.
‘David, I love it that you’re not crude. That’s why I’ve the confidence to do this. I can see in your eyes how much you’re enjoying your little surprise,’ she said, and then winking at me she added, ‘Maybe there’ll be another surprise later. I love the hunger you have for me, but you never get all rude and crude on me. I couldn’t stand it if you did that… it’s like… it’s clean. Your lust is pure and so, in turn, my lust is more intense.’
She did her twirl and my heart skipped a beat. I mean, it’s not as if her mini was hiding much but seeing her standing there, her magnificent legs proudly supporting her torso, was just such an absolute turn-on as I’d never before experienced. Boys are always looking for that great figure, that’s why we seem to be staring so much. But as far as I’m concerned the perfect figure is a full figure; which means perhaps just two or three stages before falling down the slippery slope to being overweight. Which also means it must be a very hard stage to keep. So what I’m saying is that Jean Simpson must have shown a lot of self-restraint so that I could enjoy a visual feast. It’s like the complete, perfect package: Jean Simpson was the complete, perfect package. Most of us aren’t blessed in the complete, perfect package department: our hips are too wide, or our legs are too short. Perhaps our bottom is too low or our head too large for our body, like someone in the Creation Department upstairs appears to be having a good bit of fun, mixing and matching.
Now, I’m just as guilty as the next person for searching for the perfect figure. But is what I consider to be the perfect figure in fact the perfect figure? Do you see what I mean?
Think of two people now, please. We’re talking ordinary people here – you know, as opposed to actresses or models, because they’re a different trip altogether (and what I’d like to know, is where do they find them all, all those perfect people?). Okay, now one of those two people is to be your idea of the perfect figure; let’s call her Barbara. The second person is to be someone whom you consider, shall we say for the sake of politeness, to have a less than perfect figure. She’s Lesley. Okay? Now, my question is this: Why does Barbara turn you on and Lesley doesn’t? Why do we think, why do I think, that Barbara’s figure is better than Lesley’s? Why does Lesley’s shape not do it for me? And equally, why will another man be turned off by Barbara, but at the same time he’ll gladly run straight to Lesley? Does he think, ‘Barbara is never going to go with me – she can have her choice of any man – but Lesley, well, Lesley will never turn me down because I’m probably the only one who’s going to ask her out’? Is that the issue here, the fear of rejection? Or will he be genuinely turned on by Lesley and not get what all the fuss is over Barbara?
And it’s not just the women, it’s the same for men, too. To me, men are mostly ungainly; for every Paul Newman or Steve McQueen there’s a million of the mismatched rest of us. Stomachs seem to be the issue with men, like you’re either behind the belt, on the belt, pushing the belt, or appearing to be twenty-two months pregnant over the belt. Yet boys of varying shapes seem to find girls who’ll treat them as special.
Why?
I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that question. I don’t know the answers to any of these questions, and that is why they continue to intrigue me.
Not that any of the above troubled me as I sat on my bed-sofa, drinking in the delights of the body known to me as Jean Simpson. In doing her twirl she was exposing her underwear; they were white, as the last time I experienced them, albeit in briefer glances on that particular occasion. Even then, they were perfect – for me that is – and they covered her bum as opposed to being caught up in it. Her stockings, without the benefit of a garter belt, seemed to be defying gravity as they clung to her upper milky-white thighs, a few inches below that curvy overhang that gives the bum its voluptuous shape. I was staring at her in wonderment, at how all her curves seemed to flow together, helping in no small way to create this wonderful creature.
Jean stopped twirling and had her back to me. She leaned forward to undo her boots. The vision reminded me of her boyfriend’s sketch of her. As I’d suspected, he’d managed to capture all of her curves perfectly. She realised what she was doing a second too late and, I think, became a little embarrassed – she didn’t say a word, it was just my instinctual reading of her body language; she visibly tightened up a little. I put it down to the fact that she might have thought she was now being a wee bit crude and hadn’t meant to – she was fine to give me a twirl but she didn’t want to lose her decency. To defuse the situation I very quietly sneaked over to the record player.
‘I just can’t find anything I’d like to play. Have you any requests?’ I said, suggesting that I’d been over there for some time, searching through my album collection. By being there I was (hopefully) suggesting that I’d missed the view I think she felt embarrassed about.
It seemed to have worked because she visibly relaxed and said, ‘I fancy a bit of your blues, would you put on that John Lee Hooker album for me, for us, I mean?’
Hooker worked for me, too; I loved his earthy sound and it could be a brilliant mood setter.
It was.
Her boots now successfully removed, Jean stood two inches shorter on the carpet, moving slowly, sensuously, unconsciously to the blues.
I watched her for a few minutes, realising that my fears of what we were going to do when we got to my flat were unfounded. I’d been thinking, what could we possibly do after our encounter on the red carpet that would come naturally, without any awkwardness. But, in fact, this, this was enough. This was more than enough. She whispered for me to join her in her dance.
Now I’m no great dancer by any stretch of
the imagination. I’m probably too self-conscious by far. Apart from anything else, on a purely selfish level, the closer I was to her the less of her I could see. Equally, however, I didn’t want to lose the mood, so I moved towards her and when I was up close, still about six inches away from her, I fell into the sway of the music. We moved around slowly like that until the end of the song and then when the next song started, a very slow blues number, she moved right into me, so that our bodies were touching and now moving as one and I felt the fullness and comfort of her breasts against my chest. I’d my arms under her arms and around her back, while hers were draped over my shoulders. She rested her head on my right shoulder. What I was missing out on by not being able to look at her, I was more than making up for by the mixture of aromas created by her clean body scents, topped off with a hint of patchouli.
We didn’t kiss, of course. It would have been forced, awkward, probably rejected. In this dance – or whatever it was we were doing and had been doing on the red carpet – she was the leader and I was more than happy to follow her lead. I’d closed my eyes and I was happy to follow her lead blindly.
I was tempted, I will admit, to lower my hands down to her bum, but it might have been interpreted as being crude. Does that seem weird to you? Here we were, dancing close, and although it was more than a dance – I could feel her heart pounding as fast as my own – whatever it was that was working was working because I wasn’t pushing it. I had this feeling that it would only continue to work if I could suppress my animal urges. It would work because she’d continue to feel relaxed and natural and clean enough about following her instincts in this… this journey of discovery… That all probably sounds a wee bit too grand, even a little pompous, but that’s exactly what I felt it was.
However the other view on it was I’d taken a friend to see a band. It was late at night, we’d stopped off at my flat on the way back and put on a record and we were both so moved by the record that we were enjoying a close dance. Nothing more. Yes, my friend was dressed in a very short miniskirt; yes, she had said she’d enjoyed the surprise she had in store for me by wearing the mini; and yes, she’d given me a thrill with her twirl. And yes, both our hearts were beating faster than the engine of The Flying Scotsman on its way home. But still, we were just two friends enjoying a dance. I’m not even sure anything more was needed. This surely was as good as it got.
Or so I thought.
As I’ve said, I was following her lead and when she led us over to the sofa, I followed. Of course, I didn’t realise this until she’d fallen back into the sofa and I’d landed on top of her. It could’ve been an accident; equally, it could’ve been deliberate. Either way it didn’t matter, because that’s where we landed. She continued to hold me around the neck and over my shoulders, her head neatly, perhaps cleverly, tucked away in the nook of my neck.
I made to move to one side to try, I thought, to make her feel more comfortable. But she refused to budge, holding me fast on top of her. We lay like that for a time – it could have been seconds, it could have been longer – but when the next track came on and the Hooker was howling a more upbeat song, she started to pulse her hips, ever so gently, against me. When I was convinced the pulses were not accidental I tuned into them and pushed against her to the same beat. Her hold around my neck tightened a little and very gradually I felt her legs part, both of us still pushing to Hooker’s hypnotic beat. Very shortly I was lying amongst her. She raised her knees on either side of me, to steady me. As she did, I could feel the swish of her nylons against my trousers.
I’d planted my elbows on the sofa so that I could rest my upper torso on them and not crush her. It didn’t seem to matter because her grip around my neck tightened again. She pulled me closer into her and she, in turn, pushed closer into the nook of my neck. Both of us were silent except for our breathing. She was now pushing her hips against me and I was responding, matching her pulse, all the time with Hooker egging us on. I swaggered my hips a little to find a more comfortable position. I felt her softness.
In my mind’s eye I was trying to imagine the view of our hips working against each other. I could see and feel the whiteness of her pants. I imagined how soft the skin of her thighs felt. I could feel more and more of her bare skin against the fabric of my trousers as her stockings worked their way down to her knees. No matter how strong the temptation was to free up my hands and feel this beautiful skin I continued to let her lead this dance. I was happy to let her lead this dance.
I could hear her purr ever so softly now. Her rising to the beat gained a bit more desperation now and I matched it. She was moving her hips in a circular movement, as well as up and down. The more she did this, the more she purred.
Jean Simpson was holding on to me for grim life. As well as tightening her grip around my neck, she’d also caught up a bunch of my t-shirt in her right fist. Her purring was definitely audible now, and she added a few ‘aghs’ and ‘oohs’ to her repertoire, and her breathing was heavier now. I pretty soon realised that mine was as well. Then she wrapped her legs around me and pumped her hips even harder. On and on she pushed, on and on to Hooker’s beat. I knew I was going to listen to this record with different ears next time; that was, of course, if I could ever bear to listen to this record again if Jean Simpson wasn’t there.
‘Oh!’ she panted, now nearly breaking my neck her grip was so tight, and I was convinced she was going to rip the t-shirt from my back so fierce and frantic was her grasping for more material. She held the ‘oh’ out for about ten seconds and then gasped, ‘Oh… David Buchanan you got me again. You got me!’
This whole thing of Jean’s about me getting her: what exactly was I getting? What does it mean to be got? Why do we try to be got? Why do we need to be got? Why do some people never need to be got? With Jean there was never any hidden agenda, she wanted to have an orgasm. There was nothing deviant about it; she just wanted some good, clean sex without, of course, having full sex. As you know, I wasn’t objecting – it was also a new toy for me, not to mention my entire generation. I think the thing we were enjoying the most at the beginning of this so-called sexual revolution was that we were using sex not as a currency or as a weapon, but as pleasure source we could dip into as often as we wanted. It had transformed from being a seldom-performed body function merely for procreation. In fact, one of our biggest discoveries of the sixties was that a by-product of the act of continuing mankind was the pleasuring of the human body. I think we actually believed that, you know, that in the sixties we discovered that fact. Obviously the secret had been discovered since the beginning of mankind (literally), the only problem being that no one seemed anxious enough to pass the secret on down the line.
Jean kept rising and falling to our beat until about fifteen or so seconds later she got me as well. She got me good.
When she felt me tighten against her she rose to me and held that position, clinging to me tightly with one hand and patting my head affectionately with the other. We lay together for a couple of minutes. Then she manoeuvred both of us onto our sides until we were looking at each other. Both our faces were flush and dripping with sweat. She smiled and brushed the hair back from my face. It seemed appropriate that I do the same, so I did.
‘That’s twice you’ve got me, you naughty boy,’ she whispered. ‘That was just absolutely delicious. I knew you’d know how to do this.’
I thought that the reality was that she’d got herself twice. I hadn’t a clue what to do apart from push against her and, well, just be there. However, I wasn’t about to admit this to her.
‘You should have been where I was,’ was all I could find to say, my heart now returning to its regular beat.
‘I was, dear boy, I was,’ she replied in a half whisper as she continued to brush the sweat-soaked hair back from my brow. In a way this gesture was the most intimate she’d shown me thus far.
I stopped stroking her face and started to fondle her ear. Jean Simpson seemed to enjoy this because she started purr
ing again. We lay like that for about ten minutes, to the end of the record in fact. Then she said: ‘You didn’t guess my surprise. Not really.’
‘I thought I had?’
‘Not quite,’ she said, disentangling herself and leaping up from the sofa, which I suppose had really become a bed again. She ran across to her duffle coat, held it up and searched through the pockets. Eventually she pulled out a little piece of snow-white cloth, which I assumed might be a handkerchief.
Surely she hadn’t bought me a handkerchief as a present?
I have to be honest and say I was just about to cringe slightly in embarrassment when she opened up the white cloth to reveal a fresh pair of pants.
‘I thought something like this might happen this evening, so I came prepared. However, if you’d known I’d brought these with me it would have ruined the surprise!’
I suppose there was a bit of logic there, and perhaps even a bit of a clue as to what was now going on between me and Jean Simpson.
Chapter Eighteen.
The following day was Thursday, and I’d received a call from Mary Skeffington at work, wanting to know could we possibly meet up again that night. She’d wanted to return the favour and cook me a meal. This favour returning could go on forever!
‘Come around about eight,’ she said, before I’d a chance to risk my luck by even considering it.
I arrived at exactly eight o’clock with a bottle of white wine, and she greeted me at the door with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.
She was wearing a cream off-the-shoulder satin blouse, supported only by two spaghetti straps. She had on a loose-fitting, knee-length, floral skirt that flowed with the contours of her body as she moved barefoot around the room. It suddenly dawned on me how tall she was; I was wearing shoes and we were eye-to-eye.
