Jayne’s World

For some, age is a barrier, a huge one, a non-starter. Many cannot handle age differences and won’t even try. James and Jayne wondered whether they could? This series of impressions and observations examines what happened when they tried.

Her.

I jumped when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I was walking down Oxford Street in Central London, right outside Selfridges when it happened and when that sort of thing happens it’s usually bad news.

“I’m sorry miss, but I think you may have left these in Boots,” a middle-aged man said to me.

‘Oh fuck’ I said under my breath, immediately knowing what had happened as you handed me a package of photos.

I had been there using one of those big machines to develop some photos and I must have left before the final few came out.

“Oh er, are you sure?” I stammered trying to think of a way to wriggle out of this clearly difficult situation.

You held the photo up, looked at it, then at me, smiled and said.

“There can be absolutely no mistake, it’s you and they are lovely.”

In normal circumstances such a situation wouldn’t be that embarrassing, but as I knew only too well that the photos were of me in some very scantily clad poses, this was highly embarrassing.

“Hmmmm,” I pondered trying to buy time as you ran your gaze up and down me. “I guess not, I suppose it must be me.”

“Without any doubt,” you said grinning quite broadly now “I would recognise………….” You went on pausing before adding “Your golden locks anywhere.” It was a slightly pervy remark, but was said with an innocence yet an authority, an unusual combination of traits in a guy so I didn’t feel threatened. In fact, you looked nice and kind, cuddly was a term that came to mind, but also so did flirty old sod, in a nice way.

You were quite tall, a good five or six inches more than my five feet five. You had, being generous, thinning hair or, as some might term was balding with glasses and had a kind face and a sparkle in your eyes or, was a glint, I wasn’t sure. But to me in my early twenties, it was one that almost said grandad and not daddy. But then so what, you were only returning some photos, albeit sodding sexy ones, you weren’t trying to pull me, or were you? Surely not you must have been at least thirty years older than me. I have always had something of a penchant for older men, but granddads and a thirty plus age difference were probably pushing my boundaries in that area.

However, the way that you paused over what you said about me in the photos using my blonde hair as the key, made me smile. And that’s always a good thing.

“Well not exactly golden,” I said running my hand through my, almost natural, more straw-coloured, shoulder-length hair.

You smiled again. It was a nice, friendly smile, but one that had an underlying something to it, one that suggested that in your time you may well have been something of a player.

“Well close enough to make the phrase worth using and it is a nice phrase,” you sort of rambled on, your gaze again running up and down me. That made me shiver and not, I realised in a rejection sort of way, although possibly it should have done, but more in a way where I enjoyed the flattery and the flirtation.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” I rather unwisely if I wanted to end the conversation, said, realising I didn’t particularly want it to end; was I losing my marbles?

“And your hair is beautifully blonde,” you persisted looking from the photo to my face and back again.

“Thank you.”

“Not at all.”

“And thanks for rescuing my photos,” I said putting my hand out. “May I have them please?”

“Yes of course,” you replied handing them to me.

I went to take them, but you held onto them. I looked at you, our eyes met.

“Flatter an old man and have a drink with me for rescuing them,” you said smiling.

‘Fuck, why did I say that?’ I asked myself when I heard “Yes, ok,” slip past my lips. “But it will need to be a quickie,” I managed to blurt out as a potential excuse to get away soon.

“Oh, that’s fine, quickies are my speciality at my age,” you replied smiling as the sparkle in your eyes changed to a definite glint making me think, ‘quite sexy.’

I smiled back adding a little cheekily. “That’s good then, I like them sometimes.”

“Yes, so do I, but even with a quickie I do have some rules, some standards,” you said rather sternly making wonder what the hell was coming next.

“Really?”

“Yes,” you replied in a rather neutral tone. “I absolutely insist on being introduced before even the quickest of quickies.”

I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. “That’s fine, I’m Jayne or Jayney or Jay for short, I said

“Hello Jayne, I am pleased to meet you, I’m James,” you replied holding your hand out as I was thinking. ‘Why the fuck am I entering into and prolonging the conversation with this old bloke whose clearly only after one thing and that’s the obvious.’

Him

Whatever else I’d been expecting in London, it wasn’t this. My days of picking up women, well young attractive ones were, alas, over some time ago, yet this gorgeous young blonde had quickly accepted my suggestion of a drink together.

Perhaps there was life in the old dog, yet? Geez, the way my ‘pride and joy’ had instantly reared at the sight of her confirmed that fact.

As we walked, I tried to position exactly what it was that was so attractive about this confident young blonde. She looked sexy enough in that white button up the front blouse and short, mid-thigh length, blue denim skirt, no question about that. It wasn’t just the outfit, of course, but the way she wore it. Always more important than the clothes themselves. But a skirt that hardly covered her bottom, a pelmet really. And long, long, long, tanned legs that went right up to her bum, which I knew would be like a perfect, ripe and juicy, but pert and firm peach and a shirt or blouse which I would have bet a lot of my pension on did not have a bra under it, seemed pretty important to me. Fucking hell was I dreaming? Maybe I was dead and this was God’s reward to me for leading a pretty good life. Clothes should suit the woman, not the other way around, some said, whatever that meant. In your case both seemed equally relevant.

I gave you a cheeky smile or, what I hoped you would see as cheeky and not sleezy, as I took your arm and ushered us along the crowded pavement. What was it that appealed so much? Was it the way one or two undone buttons displayed just enough of her cleavage? Or perhaps the fact she wasn’t wearing a bra? I’d always been a sucker for that!

God, the way those nipples pushed against the white material! Two perfect bullets.

Two more buttons were undone at the bottom of her blouse, allowing the ends to float in the light breeze, like butterflies dancing on the smooth skin of her tanned stomach. Christ, how, that brought another reaction.

My second hard-on since we’d met!

The sight of your long legs and the small expanse of flesh above the waistband of your skirt and the image of your body in those photos loomed large in my eyes and memory. God, my erection was aching. Think of something else.

I did. It was your eyes. That was it! Yes, you had a wonderful body, and more importantly, knew how to display it to perfection. But it was your eyes that added the extra dimension. The most beautiful blue, it was the twinkle that suggested that anything was possible that captivated me so much.

Nothing too obvious, of course – this girl wasn’t obvious. But there was a quality in those eyes that made me want to find out more.

“I have an idea,” I told you, the sudden thought hitting the front of my mind. “Come on, this way.”

You hesitated only for a second, and then flashed those eyes as you allowed me to guide you into Soho, along the shops, and down the open stairs to the Crusting Pipe pub set back at one end of a small courtyard.

“Ages since I’ve been here, Jayne ” I told you, pulling out one of the chairs by a small table so that she could sit beside it. “Years in fact. One of my favourite spots in the city.”

“Really?” you responded as I sat beside you. Her smile was definitely mischievous as she glanced around the surroundings. On the face of it, the small courtyard area was undistinguished, with people wandering in and out of the few shops in front of us, and others staring down from the floor above. “And what is it about this part of London that makes it so special?” you asked.

I laughed. “Yes, I know what you mean. But look… and listen,” I said, nodding across to the far corner where a violinist was halfway through a piece of classical music that was familiar, but I couldn’t quite place.

We paused while a waiter from the pub arrived from nowhere. “What would you like?” I asked.

“You choose.”

Interesting! Was it a test? You can tell a lot about a person from what they drink. Or so I’d heard. Personally, I couldn’t tell a bloody thing.

“Any Cloudy Bay?” I asked, smiling as the waiter nodded. “We’ll have a bottle of that, then. Thanks.”

I turned back to you. “When I was working, and visited London regularly, I tried to make time for an hour here, with or without paperwork. There’s a constant flow of performing musicians, each attempting to earn a crust.”

“Must be why they call the pub the Crusting Pipe,” you joked, sitting back as the waiter returned and poured us two glasses before setting the bottle in the middle of the table. Again, those fucking nipples of yours seemed to be leering at me, they were certainly tempting me.

I laughed again. “Maybe. I assume they’re from some music college, practicing their trade. But it can be so peaceful sitting here, watching the world go by, and enjoying the wonderful music. I love it.”

I watched closely as you nodded. It seems those eyes didn’t miss anything. “Yes, I can see the attraction. You like peace and quiet then?”

I swung round to face you and we clinked glasses. It was impossible to prevent my eyes dropping to those wonderful tits, small but perfectly formed came to mind, as, actually, did the image of them in my mouth. The, possibly hard or, just prominent, nipples were pushing hard against the thin material. You knew that too, sitting back and arching your back for a moment, as if posing for me as you had for the photographer, you had a knowing smile on your face. ‘Was it you being a flirty young bit of stuff or me a dirty old sod?’ I wondered. Smiling I thought ‘probably a bit of both.’

My hard-on returned.

My gaze met those twinkling eyes again and I grinned back, feeling even more comfortable than I’d expected to be. “At times,” I said, answering your question. “Especially after last night, it’s quite a contrast.”

“Last night?” you asked, crossing those to die for, tanned legs and peering at me over the rim of your glass.

I nodded, shifting position to make myself more comfortable. For a second, I wondered how you’d react if I reached down and adjusted my erection. I didn’t of course. I just shuffled a little in my chair.

“It’s what brought me to London,” I replied, picking up the bottle and topping up our glasses. “Brixton, actually.”

“Brixton?” you said with a hint of surprise, leaning forward and resting your elbow on the table.

Damn, don’t stare at those tits, I told myself.

“Now I’m intrigued,” you said, taking a small sip and nodding approvingly at the taste. “What was it in Brixton that appealed?”

“A gig,” I responded, staring into those mischievous eyes. “Alabama 3.”

For a second, those blue eyes clouded over. “I… think… I’ve heard of them…”

“Country acid house,” I explained. “Not really my scene at all. But they’re the best live band in the country. By far. You ever watch The Soprano’s?”

“I’ve seen it.”

“They sang the theme song,” I answered. It was only one song from their vast repertoire, but the easiest way of giving someone a feel for their music. “Woke up one Morning…” I unnecessarily added.

“I got you,” you grinned, brushing back a strand of that silken, blonde hair. “So, country acid house in Brixton, and classical music in Covent Garden?”

“What can I tell you,” I answered with a broad smile. “I’m a man of eclectic tastes!”

“Sounds like it,” you laughed. “And tonight? What’s on the menu? Or are you returning to…..?”

“Yorkshire,” I explained. “No, I’m heading back tomorrow. I thought I’d grab a ticket for a show tonight. Then maybe find a casino afterwards. Just for fun,” I added. “A little poker, perhaps.”

The way you sat back in your chair and studied me sent a little shiver through me. Hard-on number three. Or was it four?

“So,” I quickly said, shifting position on my chair, “tell me about you, Jayne. All I know is that you’re particularly good at leaving rather risqué photos of yourself in Boots,” I laughed adding, “As if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And what I guess is that you’re a photographic model, or do some of that work.”

I didn’t refer specifically to the photos that had fallen from their pack, but my mind was on them. I could see you now in my mind’s eye, in the black stockings, suspender belt, bra, thong, black, shiny, high heels and a sultry smile. God, would this erection ever go away?

“Tell me more?” I asked, quickly draining my glass and reaching for the bottle again.

Her

You were interesting. Interesting, but not conceited. Not pushy or assumptive or self-centred, but interested in things and stuff, me in particular. That appealed, not from an arrogant aspect on my part, more because it made you interesting, thus completing the circle, sort of. You also clearly had an interest in many subjects, country acid house music being amongst the most surprising match between appearance and subject I had come across for some time. To me that is what made older men interesting. And being interesting was my most admired virtue.

So, I sat there in that lovely courtyard drinking wine, listening to classical music and admiring you. Well maybe that was a little strong, let’s say, what, liking you perhaps, being surprised by you certainly, because you were interesting and worldly-wise with a sophistication of thought and a gentle, yet confident manner.

Looks? Age? They hadn’t entered my head. They hadn’t come up on my radar. Why should they, this wasn’t a pick up, was it? That hit me, maybe it was. But did ‘mature gentlemen’ do that sort of thing with twenty-something- year old chicks? It hadn’t occurred to me in Oxford Street, when we walked here or up until now. But you had looked at me in that ‘pick up’ way, that flirtatious way that men of all ages have, that stare at ‘me best bits’ manner, that look of interest at my legs, bum and tits. Ok you were interested, I thought, but to the extent of wanting to pull me? I doubted it.

“Actually, no James, I am not a model,” I replied.

“No?” You said sounding surprised.

“No, I work in advertising, well sort of.”

“Really but why, oh sorry not my business,” you said leaning forward across the small table.

I leaned forward too. Smiling I said, as I held my almost empty glass in front of my face, “You mean the photos.”

“Well yes, but forgive me for asking.”

“You didn’t did you; I brought it up, didn’t I?” I said holding my glass out as you proffered the near empty bottle. “Yes, thank you.”

“Well yes you did, but I should not have raised it,” you said pouring the last of the wine into my glass forsaking in any yourself, your eyes quite obviously looking down my cleavage. I liked that, the forsaking yourself just about outweighing the looking down my cleavage.

Smiling and looking you in the eye I said, rather cheekily. “Did you raise it James, or did I?”

“Now now, you shouldn’t say such things to old men like me.”

We both laughed.

“Ok Grandad.”

“That’s better, young lady, know your place please,” you smiled.

We both laughed and had yet another glass of wine, from the second bottle that the Aussie waiter seem to deliver by magic.

We talked easily and time seemed to fly. I relaxed quickly, you were the sort of man that enabled me do that, I felt comfortable with you. You had that intelligent, slightly flirty way of talking to, and looking at me, which with many men would be sleazy and pervy, but with some, you included, was stimulating, interesting, challenging and simply fun. I liked it.

Being a creative in advertising and I rarely wear skirts and never suits, I don’t even own one; jeans and tees, shirts or sweaters are more my usual gear. Although it’s a little like riding a bike, you never forget how, but wearing a skirt in many circumstances does feel as though the bike is wobbling and one can almost fall off.

As the third glass slipped down, I was sure I was, inadvertently, putting on a bit of a show. Bending forward, sitting up straight, leaning back or crossing my legs, I must have continually flashed parts of me that others can’t reach; I smiled my slightly tipsy mind incorrectly recalling an old ad.

I felt the need to go to the toilet.

“Excuse me James, I need the loo.”

“Not running off, are you?”

I smiled. “Not at all, why would I?”

“Oh, you never know.”

“Well, I’m not, I can assure you, I won’t be long.”

As I walked across the bar and down the stairs to the cellar toilets, I knew I was slightly pissed. I was thinking that I needed to get out more for I had to admit to getting a real buzz from the stares and the touches as I squeezed my way through the crowded downstairs bars. It was good and I was enjoying myself. Although I did need to pee, I could have held it longer but my eyes were killing me and I needed to exchange my contacts for my glasses. I have terribly eyesight and am trying yet another type of contact lens that like the others doesn’t seem to suit me so I popped on the dark framed specs.

As I made my way back to you, knowing full well that several guys, possibly more than before were eyeing me up, something I have found wearing glasses encourages, fuck knows why but then there you go! I, unusually for me in such circumstance, felt a sense of arousal. That increased as I climbed the narrow stairs knowing that anyone below, and suddenly there were several, would have a straight view right up my skirt which made it and become stronger as I strolled across the bar towards our table. As soon as I turned the corner at the top of the stairs, I saw you looking at me. You smiled and raised your hand. I smiled back and walked towards you holding your gaze, which I noticed a couple of times slid down my body and up again. Your eyes seemed to bore into me.

‘What the hell’s going on with me?’ I thought feeling as if you had undressed me and that I was walking across that bar just in my thong. I was sure that I was accentuating the sway of my hips at the front and the wiggle of my bottom at the rear. ‘What am I trying to do, pick up the entire pub?’ I asked myself as one of my more frequent fantasies, a gang bang, came into my mind.

“See I did come back, didn’t I?” I said sitting down and looking you right in the eye. “Pleased?”

“Yes of course I am, thanks.”

“Look don’t get me wrong,” I started, “And don’t think this is typical of me, but……..” As I said that my mobile rang. “Sorry I have to get this.”

As I took the call, I wondered just what you were thinking?

Him.

I couldn’t stop myself from watching you on the phone. The way your eyes danced as you looked around, not because they were looking at anything in particular, but more as a result of you concentrating on the voice at the other end.

Those eyes were so expressive and I wondered if you knew that. When you looked at me with that twinkle, it was like the old days when sirens lured boats onto the rocks through their seductive charms. Part of me felt like a boat, sailing on the choppy, Jayne seas, heading towards something unexpected but, I wasn’t quite sure what.