Jayne’s World

An older man and a younger woman examine the age difference to find out if it really matters.

As those of you who have read Part 1 and 2 will know this is not a wham bang thank you ma’am sort of story. It’s a slow burner, with regard to describing physical sex between Jayne, a 23-year-old ‘adchick’ and James a 55-year-old retired banker.

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.

Reading the previous parts might add to your appreciation of the couple’s situation, but it’s not essential as I hope this stands alone as an erotic story.

Him,

For whatever reason, I was enjoying myself immensely. Yes, of course my ‘ability’ to pick up an attractive, sexy, young woman was doing wonderful things for my ego, but it wasn’t just that. I mean, an ego is such a fragile thing, isn’t it? There was more, much more.

I was realising that in the short time we’d spent together, I was liking you more and more. Not just liking in a ‘I fancied you and wanted to fuck you sort of way’ but as a person, a woman and a human being. You were than sex on legs, though you were that alright. Why the hell was it? We had nothing in common, did we? Well, there was the odd thing that kept entwining our pasts. Silly little things, perhaps, but they were there. Like Lejaby. I didn’t tell you, of course, but it was the only brand of lingerie that a former girlfriend of mine would ever buy. She was a classy woman too, very classy in fact, just like the lingerie. So classy that she introduced me to the Lejaby brochure, a real, soft-porn’ production and from that the TV and print media ads. I remembered the brand very well and had bought it as presents for subsequent girl-friends. It was so incredibly ironic that you had worked on that brand, perhaps something to discuss in the future, maybe even presents for you, I thought my imagination going into overdrive!

Then there was the advertising. Okay, I didn’t work in the creative department, like Barry. Didn’t even work for an ad agency. But as a Marketing Director, I was the creative ‘brains’ for my company and as a result, I dealt with several major London agencies who produced our above and below the line promotional material and TV ads. Hence, I avidly read Campaign each week and kept a very close eye on trends and movements in advertising.

The TV and radio commercials were particularly interesting, but so were the variety of online and print media ads. The one I recalled more than any other and which had stuck in my mind and something that seemed so appropriate now used the tagline. ‘Growing Old Disgracefully’. Producing a series of magazine ads showing older people doing all the things that had until then been thought of as the ‘province’ of the young was highly stimulating. I wondered if you had written that, but doubted it as it seemed to be a message that would flow from an older person, Barry perhaps?

That headline seemed so apposite to now. Was that what I was doing, I wondered? Was that the attraction here? The fact that, at my age, I was actually pulling a hot, young bird? Pulling? Is that what I was doing? Indeed, is it still called that as it was in my day? Or, at least, trying to pull? The thing was, I wasn’t really sure. I mean, it was ridiculous, wasn’t it? Our age difference meant everything about this unlikely alliance was ridiculous.

And yet?

I glanced across the table at you again. Your eyes looked dreamy. There was definitely a hint of intoxication there. And a tinge of arousal too, no doubt about that. Why? What was it you found sufficiently attractive about me that made your wonderfully erect nipples push against the material of your blouse in such a provocative way?

One part of me felt ashamed of myself. So blatantly asking if you were a natural blonde. I mean, that wasn’t paying you any respect, and I hated that lack of class in other men. Despised it. Yet at the same time, I wanted to take you towards the restrooms and as soon as we were out of sight of the other diners, rip that fucking blouse open and seal my lips around those wonderfully hard, so enticing nipples.

Fuck, here we go again; my erection was attempting to burst its way through the material of my trousers again. How many times was that? Perhaps I should pay a visit to the restrooms and give myself a quick hand job? Take the edge off my arousal? Drive sex from my mind, for a short while at least. But I knew that wouldn’t last so I didn’t go.

Looking over at you again, I realised I didn’t stand a chance. Was that stroke of your hair deliberate? Or the way you idly stroked your bare arm? And that forward and backward motion as you crossed and uncrossed your legs. The look in your eyes with each movement as you stared me down? Geez, when you leant to the side like that, I could see half your right breast and nearly that enticing, strawberry areola.

As much as I tried, I couldn’t quell the effect you were having on me, something I had not experienced before, well by a young chick that is, I almost laughed at how cool I could be when I tried! Yeah right, in your dreams grandad, I though bumping back to earth with a large jolt.

My thoughts conjured up the Unfaithful movie, the one where Richard Gere fucks Diane Lane in a cubicle in the toilet. Then it jumped to the scene where he takes her doggy style, at the top of the stairs leading to his flat. If anything, I grew another couple of inches at the thought.

‘Want to fuck me, Jayne? Want to go through the back of this restaurant and fuck my brains out? Just like that?’

“Excuse me?” you asked, smiling sweetly.

FUCK! I hadn’t actually said that, had I? “Wh… what?” I mumbled.

“You looked at me as if you were about to ask a question,” you explained, running your fingers through those blonde locks again.

Thank God. The words had run through my brain, not my mouth.

But the way you gave me that Jayne look, your blue eyes staring directly into mine, that twinkling, sexual gaze boring inside me, reaching parts that longed to be reached, I was sure you knew exactly what you were doing. It was a mind fuck, pure and simple.

“Hey, James,” you said, bringing me out of my reverie again.

If anything, those blue eyes upped the pace, promising everything. My cock twitched, reacting to those eyes, in just the same way as it would if you had those soft lips wrapped around it, as it would if it was slowly pushing inside you, your long legs spread wide as you welcomed me inside your buttery sex.

“Hey,” you repeated.

I swallowed deeply as you leant forward. “Sorry,” I mumbled again, trying to regain control of my senses for a moment.

“That’s okay,” you smiled, while the look in your eyes kept up the pressure. “Something’s on your mind. Want to share those thoughts?”

“Want me to?” I asked, looking for a way out.

There wasn’t any. The way you nodded and said, “Of course,” told me that.

I swallowed again. “I was thinking how it would feel to fuck you,” I simply said.

I wasn’t sure what reaction I’d get. A look of shock? A burst of laughter? An embarrassed smile? It was none of those things. That same ‘come-to-bed’ Jaynielook continued to search inside my soul as you nodded, just as if I’d asked if you’d enjoyed the meal.

“Unbelievable,” you replied, a smile breaking out across your lips. It wasn’t just the answer that sent a shiver of excitement through me. Not even the matter-of-fact response, as if fucking you would blow my mind. No, it was the way those eyes said, you never know.

The spell was broken, albeit temporarily, as the waiter brought our coffees. Waiting until he left us alone, you leant across the table again. “Well?”

“Well, what?” I stupidly responded. My erection twitched again. Surely you weren’t suggesting I did?

“You haven’t told me what we’re going to do after dinner!”

Oh, yes. That! Not an easy question to answer. After all, we’d just eaten. You’d made it clear you didn’t enjoy shows. And a nightclub was a naff idea. Shit! That’s when the idea hit me.

“How about?” I began, smiling at you.

Her

I don’t drink red wine very much. That’s not because I don’t like it, for I do. I prefer the taste and the texture as it slips down my throat is usually lovely. No, I tend to choose white for two reasons. Firstly, it doesn’t stain your teeth as red wine and strong coffee can. So, I take the strong coffee, espresso usually, and pass on the red stuff. As white wine seems to me to be weaker, generally, that creates the other reason why I stay away from the Clarets, the Barolo’s and Chiantis; I don’t get pissed as quickly on the Chardonnay, Chablis or white Burgundies as I do on them.

I had forgotten about those reasons today. I often do that with promises, vows or New Year resolutions; it can very useful having a selective memory, not to mention natural, blonde hair as well. I had no idea about my teeth as I sat listening to you and wondering where this almost Kafkaesque, certainly surreal and definitely Freudian encounter was leading. I was, though, quite aware of the second reason regarding my avoidance of red wine. Yes, I felt slightly pissed. And as those woozy feelings somewhat befuddled my head, I wondered if what some say about people being at their most natural when inebriated was true. I wondered that particularly, because I felt so unusually, almost unbelievably and certainly hugely horny. And that just doesn’t happen to me, well not often.

‘He didn’t did he?’

‘Did he say that, are my ears working properly?’

‘He couldn’t have done, but I think he did.’

I was saying those things to myself as we seemed to be staring at each other like two starry eyed teenagers, not like a mature man and a young bird.

I tried using my mind like a computer. Going into storage and retrieving some data so that it may be reviewed again. ‘Yep, that’s what he said,’ the hard drive confirmed.

“I was thinking how it would feel to fuck you,”

Was I annoyed, hurt, ashamed or pleased? Did I feel insulted, worried, concerned, or scared? Had you abused, demeaned or degraded me? Were you pushing your luck, did you have unattainable aspirations, was it a bloody cheek to try to pull a grand daughter? Were you out of your fucking head asking me such a thing?

I didn’t know the answers. Were there any? How does a girl handle such a situation? It was so far outside of anything that had ever happened to me that I had no previous to call upon.

All I was sure about was that, and I could hardly believe it was the paramount emotion, I was impressed. Yes, fucking impressed because an old guy had told me he was wondering what it would be like to fuck me. No one had ever said that to me before, not surprisingly really. Alright wise guys in clubs had asked smartarse questions out of the blue, like ‘Do you fuck strangers?’ But they didn’t count. This did though. This counted a lot.

I had only once, and that was with an older guy as well, had such a conversation. One where the ‘nitty gritty’ was, mixing metaphors so easily, ‘on the table.’ Where we, well he at least, was saying what he meant and felt. It takes experience, confidence and a certain amount of gravitas to be able to wonder to a young bird what it would feel like to fuck her. It didn’t, as it could so easily have, come across as sounding pervy or sleezy, assumptive or pushy. No, to my, perhaps overly impressionable ears, for I am such a sucker for intelligence, a cogently posed argument employing good English is far more likely to get my knickers down than is a Brad Pittlike face or body. Being told that someone wondered what it would feel like to fuck me, came across as being erotically intellectual, or was intellectually erotic more apt? Fuck knows.

Maybe splitting hairs somewhat, you hadn’t said that you would like to fuck me, or that you had been thinking about fucking me, or how much you would like to fuck me, or how excited the idea of fucking me made you. No, you said that you were wondering how it would FEEL to fuck me. I took that to mean, not the feelings you might get from my tight young cunt muscles grabbing your cock, not the feel of my tits on your chest and not the feel on your hand and fingers from caressing my ‘tits and ass.’ No, I took it to mean how you would feel, really feel. How you would feel emotionally, deep down inside? You could go and buy from a hooker or massage girl the other sexually physical feelings, but not the inner feeling that only you could experience from pulling a young bird, chatting her up and impressing her, me, into letting you fuck her. Or more to the point, and probably more what you wanted, for her to fuck you as you fucked her. Isn’t that what all men really want, to be fucked as they fuck?

Despite the age gap, which certainly earlier in the meal had seemed to vanish, only to come back when you mentioned about what we should do after dinner, was diminishing again now you had broached the topic that is always there when ‘boy meets girl.’

‘How would it feel to fuck me?’ I wondered suddenly thinking ‘How would it feel to be fucked by you? How would your body feel? Would you get fully hard? Would you need help, would you be able to keep it up, and stay hard for how long and when would you be able to do it again? What would your skin feel like to my touch?’

Bloody hell my slightly pissed mind was whirling fast. So fast I couldn’t multi-task sufficiently to think and talk and that’s why I came up with such a pants reply as.

‘Unbelievable.’

I was surprised you didn’t say ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

Instead, as I felt the cotton of my blouse rubbing against what I knew without looking were, my straining nipples, you said. “How about?” And then paused.

It was like those stupid shows on TV when they are eliminating people and they feel that by saying ‘And the couple going home this week are………………………….” and then wait almost a week before announcing it, that they are building the tension. I never feel it when watching Celebrity Get Me Out of Here, but by Christ I did as I looked into your eyes searching for a sign of what might be coming next.

I half felt that you would suggest ‘A nightcap at my hotel’ or maybe going to a bar. A little bit of me thought you would suggest a club and some felt you would continue from ‘How about’ with ‘Us going outside and me fucking you up against a wall in a quiet alleyway.’

With the impatience that at times makes me appear to be childlike as I try to find out what my parents have bought me for a birthday or Christmas present, I couldn’t stop myself. Bending even further forward, forgetting completely that most of my tits might be on view, I grabbed your wrist. Looking right into your eyes I said in, what was probably a, pathetic American accent.

“Okay, blue eyes, spill the beans.”

Him.

I laughed. Not because what you had said was funny. Actually, it was a pretty good Humphrey Bogart impression, especially for someone who hadn’t seen, or even heard of the iconic figure. And the way you said it, through clenched teeth, was so Bogie-like.

In that brief instant, I found myself realising that part of your attraction was your penchant for saying little things that made me smile inside. The sort of internal smile that kept a person warm, banished the blues, made life worthwhile. Not that you were aware of that indefinable quality of yours, and that made it even more special. I mean, how many people do you know who give you that inner sense of wellbeing when you’re with them? You did, and how long had I known you?

Yes, lovers probably felt like that, but that was different. There was love involved. With us, the age difference meant that we wouldn’t be proceeding down that route. And even if we had been similar ages we’d only met one another a few short hours ago. No, this was a different feeling. Definitely some sort of chemistry but it was indefinable. One that said, despite the short time we’d spent together, despite the difference in ages, despite the strong probability that our interests would be different, that we were or were becoming soul mates or was I kidding myself again? Probably, but nevertheless I was immensely enjoying your company and really didn’t want it to end.

Okay, I accept there was a physical attraction, on my part at least. It would be unlikely that you’d be sexually attracted to your grandad, wouldn’t it? But sexual magnetism is a transient thing. Or, it is to anyone who has a modicum of intelligence. You can fancy someone, but often, most of their attributes thereafter leave you for dead.

If attraction doesn’t start in my mind, then I walk away from it. Always have. Okay, there has been the odd exception, but they’ve only served as exceptions that prove the rule. With you, I was definitely attracted but then who wouldn’t be? First, by those seductress eyes and then by all your various physical charms, in any order you wanted.

But this was more than that.

I wasn’t enjoying your company because you were attractive. Without sounding boastful, I’d been in the company of so many beautiful women over the years. No, I was enjoying being with Jayne-the-person. Not Jayne the sexy young bird. It was you I liked so much, your personality, what was inside as much as the exterior of Jayne.

Then it hit me with a jolt. It was more a feeling akin to that I felt for my daughter who, I suddenly realised, could well be older than you, than with my older woman conquests. With her I had a great, easy and relaxed relationship, almost a flirty one. We laughed and joked, had little in jokes, we enjoyed being together and apart from the sexual aspect which was so very much stronger and continuous with you than with her where it only occurred occasionally, very rarely in fact, the mood and emotions were frighteningly similar.

“Still with us, are we?” I heard you ask. The question, and the mischievous look on your face, made me smile again. That internal smile.

“You seem wrapped up in your thoughts again,” you continued. “Though after your last answer, I think it would be better if I didn’t ask what they are, don’t you?”

This time we both laughed. For a few moments, we leant forward across the table, not speaking, but smiling contentedly into one another’s eyes. For a second, yours seemed –what, I don’t know, innocent? — but then that bedroom look appeared just as quickly and bingo my pride and joy slowly unfurled and stood to attention again.

If there was some way of bottling that look, I suddenly realised, the world could do without viagra, or any other sexual stimulant. Having problems with your libido, sir, the doctor would comment, not a problem, take this bottle of Jayne-potion and the old pecker will never be an issue again!

“Come on,” you encouraged, your slim young hand sliding across the short distance to allow a finger to run down the back of my hand, drawing a little circle on my skin. “You haven’t stopped talking since we met, surely the cat hasn’t got your tongue now?”

“Never did understand that expression,” I grinned. “But no, I was simply pondering on why it is we get on so well.”

Your eyebrows went up in a perfect arch, even if your Jaynie-expression remained in those wonderful blue eyes. “Really? And the answer is?”

“Well…” I slowly replied, attempting to disguise my attempt at a joke with a serious look on my face. “I think that you probably go for sex appeal, whereas I go for intelligence. So, it’s a perfect fulfillment match.”

For a second — a very brief second — your face changed, but almost immediately, the humour registered. “Cheeky bugger,” you laughed, throwing your head back.

Suddenly, your foot was running up my shin, your hands were pulling your top tight against your breasts, allowing me to see your twin delights with their hard bullets. How I stopped myself reaching out and fondling them I have no idea.

“So,” you continued, raising your eyebrows again, just as suddenly pulling your foot away and sitting forward again. “Being so intelligent, I take it that your body is immune to my charms?”

I nodded, feeling my skin tingle from the impromptu show of sexuality. My hand surreptitiously reached down under the tablecloth to adjust my ‘reaction’.

“Absolutely! No reaction at all. It’s your mind, I’m after,” I weakly managed

The spontaneous burst of laughter from us both resulted in people glancing across at us. The ‘father’ was enjoying his conversation with his ‘daughter’- If only they knew!

“But tell me, purely as a matter of interest. Have you ever made love in a plane?”

“Made love?” you mimicked, with a laugh. “You mean had sex? Joined the mile high club? No, well, not yet.”

I nodded, for a moment imaging where and how you’d accomplish your membership. Then I jerked the thought out of my head. “What about on a ship?”

“Of course,” you laughed. “Who hasn’t?”

“But not one cruising the Thames,” I said in what I hoped was a mysterious way.

“Cruising the Thames?”

“That’s my thought,” I added. “A romantic hour on the Symphony ship, with a glass of champagne while we check out the sights; the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, the London Eye, Tower Bridge, the Tower of London, the Millennium Dome?”

“James,” you interrupted, with a sigh. “You’ve got to be kidding! I’m a Londoner, I know what the sights are. And I’ve seen them all, well most on school trips, but like any real London chick I wouldn’t go anywhere near them as I’d look like a tourist, wouldn’t I?”

“Maybe,” I said. “But this way? On board the Symphony? What do they call it, a floating glass palace? Where’s your sense of adventure, Jayne?”

Actually, I realised that looking at London’s sights from a ship, even one as impressive as I’d been told the Symphony is, was hardly exhibiting a sense of adventure. Though fucking one another on it would be! What the hell had made me preface my suggested rendezvous for the evening with questions about sex on a plane or a ship?

“It won’t take much more than an hour, I shouldn’t think,” I hurriedly went on, before the Jaynie realisation hit home. “Then maybe we could go back to my hotel for a nightcap?”

Her.

So that confirmed it, I thought. He does want to fuck me. Tick that box and get that detail out of the way. But am I going to let him? Certainly not on a fucking, that made me smile, boat on the fucking Thames. Is it a fucking river, I wondered and, indeed is the Symphony a boat where you can arrange a fuck? I doubted that very much. Surely, they don’t have private fucking cabins or, even fucking private cabins; that would make it a floating brothel and dear old Boris, our mayor could never condone that, indulge in it maybe but not condone it for others!

Of course, that was why you had asked about whether I’d had sex on a plane or boat.

“Actually, James, yes I have.”

“What?”

“Had sex cruising the Thames.”

“Really on the Symphony?”

“No on a friend’s father’s boat.”

“I see, was it good?”

“The boat or the sex?” I laughed running my fingertips round the palm of your hand which you had laid flat on the table.

“Both, but particularly the latter,” you smiled back closing your hand and holding mine.

“It was good. Actually, it was part pleasure and………”

“Part, how can sex be part pleasure?” You asked gripping my hand more firmly.

“If, grandad, you didn’t interrupt, you would have heard part pleasure and part business.”

“How, what do you mean?”

“I was at uni and was trying to earn some money.”

“Yes? Go on,” you said lifting my hand upwards from the table, which strained the few buttons done up on my blouse.

“A friend had got me some modelling work.”

“Doing what?”

“Photographic stuff.”

“Photographing what, modelling what?”

I wasn’t sure that I should really tell you about it. I paused for a moment as I looked you right in the eye. I tried smiling with my eyes, smouldering with them even; I probably just looked as if I had a squint.

Quietly I said as I felt one of your fingers stroking the back of my hand. “Me.”

“You?”

“Yes me?”

“What do you mean?”

“I was modelling for the photographer on his boat?”

“Yes, but what were you modelling?”

“I told you, me?”

“Oh, I see, you were posing for him?”

“Yes exactly, lots of girls do it for their boyfriends. It’s quite the rage.”

“What sexy photos?”

I laughed at the phrase. “Yes, daddy, sexy photos. That’s what mobile phones and digicams were invented for isn’t it?”

That made you laugh.

“Stops you having to go to Boots doesn’t it?”

“So, was he your boyfriend?”

“Not before, but I suppose he was after?”

“How come?” You asked squeezing my hand as your knee pressed against mine under the table. I squeezed back with my hand and pressed back with my knee.

“Because,” I said hesitating for a moment and staring even more intently into your eyes as I saw yours flittering from mine to my tits and back. I went on slow and quiet “He found out what it felt like to fuck me James, so I guess he had to become my boyfriend didn’t he?”

Him.

That’s an interesting premise,” I said, starting to feel out of my depth at the way the conversation had turned. How the hell had we got to this point, I wondered? Still, now that we were here, there was no point in not pursuing my thoughts further. “So, fucking someone means they have to become your boyfriend, does it?”

“You don’t think so?”

“Well, that’s interesting,” I said, unaware that I was repeating myself. “Personally, I’ve never fucked anyone I hadn’t become attached to, in one way or another.”

“For an intelligent man, you don’t half speak bollocks sometimes!”

For a moment, I was taken aback. Then that ability of yours to make me laugh resurfaced.

“Something funny?” you asked with a smile.

“Sorry,” I apologised. “My laughter was part nervousness and partly in appreciation of the way you speak your mind. Yes, you’re right, I suppose, but exactly which part of what I said was bollocks?”

“Personally, I’ve never fucked anyone I hadn’t become attached to, in one way or another,” you repeated, in what seemed like an uncanny mimicking of the way I said it. “What the hell does that mean?” You went on, “Unless of course the attached to is meant literally.”

I pursed my lips as I wondered exactly what it was that I did mean. “It’s obvious,” I began, before realising it wasn’t really. “I mean… oh, fuck… I don’t know what I mean. Maybe it’s just that someone of my age takes the act of fucking…”

“The act of fucking,” you interrupted with what seemed like a frustrated smile. “There you go again.”

I paused, wondering how to regain control of this conversation. How to re-establish the ‘intelligent, man of the world’ reputation that seemed to be in severe danger of slipping away?

“Speak more plainly,” you advised, taking advantage of my temporary silence. “You’ll feel much better!”

It wasn’t just your voice that encouraged me to speak my mind. It was the way your hand squeezed mine, the way your knee pressed so firmly against my knee. I realised that I’d entered unfamiliar territory. Having been out of the dating scene for a while, I was behaving like an adolescent schoolboy.

Out of the dating scene? Shit, you had a point there! I was talking bollocks.

“Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Let me explain what’s going through my mind. If I just wanted sex, I could pop into any phone booth and call any one of the numbers in there. That would take care of the erection that’s been pretty much permanent since we met.”

My pause was more to allow you the opportunity to interrupt, than any doubt about what I was about to say. Your inquisitive eyes told me that no such interruption was likely. For better or worse, I ploughed on.

“I don’t want just sex. That’s cold, impersonal, and apart from briefly satisfying my body’s craving, would leave me disappointed.”

“What do you want, James?” you asked, your hand and knee maintaining their pressure.

“I want the mental stimulation, as well as the physical,” I responded, hoping I wasn’t lapsing into bollock-talk again. I tried to explain. “I want to know what it would really and deeply feel like to have sex with you, Jayne.”

“I told you,” was your immediate response, though this time it felt like some sort of test. “Unbelievable.”

“I know that,” I responded. It was true, I had no doubt of that. But it wasn’t what I meant, or wanted. I needed more. “I’m talking on an emotional as well as a physical level. Sex is sex. But sometimes it can be more. Or less.”

“Hmmm,” you responded. It was the sound of someone who was either deep in thought, or distinctly unimpressed, maybe even bored.

I had the feeling that I should have departed from bollocksville some time ago, and simply attempted to seduce you into my bed. I mean, persuading a young bird into letting me fuck her at my age was impressive enough, wasn’t it?

I realised the answer was no. Or, to be truthful, partly no. Yes, it would be impressive, but I wanted so much more than instant sexual fulfilment. I might be struggling to explain, but I knew exactly, what I meant.

“I understand,” you suddenly said. “You want to take me to your hotel room, fuck my brains out and have me do the same to you, before sending me home before it gets too late.”

“Not quite,” I responded, hoping I wasn’t killing, or hadn’t already killed my chances. I just wasn’t ready to part company with you just yet. “What I want, Jayne, is to take you to my hotel and have you stay with me for the night. I want to experience you, not just sleep with you”

Her.

I sort of understood what you were going on about. It was actually the sentiments that most girls expressed. ‘I don’t fuck just ‘cos he’s good looking, it’s because he wants to know me as person.’ Yeah right! What she means is ‘Please don’t look at me as a slag if I have sex with him on the first date, for it’s not just sex, it’s so much more than that; we are getting to know each other as people, as real human beings! Again, yeah right.

Some girls and many blokes, mostly older, married ones, make such a big deal of this ‘getting to know the real you’ and ‘experiencing you’ as if it was something so unusual. They make it sound as if it was almost a spiritual experience they were after as opposed to a good shag. They ramp it up to make it sound as though it was something special to them ‘I am different to most men, it’s not your ‘tits and ass’ that excite me, it’s just the nearness of you,’ I want. Can’t they see, can’t you see, I was thinking that it’s not rare, it’s not unusual, it’s not specific to them and it doesn’t make them much different. When you cut through all the bollocks, who are they trying to kid, the fucker, them, or the fuckee, her? Whose conscious are they trying to salve, whose dignity are they trying to uphold?

“Yeah, er right James, it’s all the emotional experience, is it?” I said in a dullish tone of voice.

“Well yes, sort of, I guess you could put it like that; well the physical as well.”

“Right, can’t have one without the other, can you?”

Looking slightly less confident, even a little sheepish you nodded. “No, I guess you can’t.”

“James, don’t you realise that what you have just said about wanting to experience as well as fuck me, is what everyone, in the main, is after? It’s what sex and affection, shagging and liking is all about.”

“Hmmm, but what I mean.”

I interrupted. “What you mean is that you want to appear to be different to a bloke, particularly an older one, who picks up a bird, especially a younger one, and just shags her. Has what will be a one-night stand with her. What you want to be seen as is something different, so you want to ‘experience’ me as well as shag me. Yes?”

“Yes, yes I do.”

“But James what is the big deal in that? It’s what boy meets girl, boy shags girl is all about. It’s nothing new, nothing different, nothing special. It’s called having a good fuck with someone you like and get on well with.”

“Yes, Jayne, I guess you are right,” you said rather resignedly, looking somewhat dejected.

“If, and I stress the if, James, we do shag, I want you to promise that you will cut out all that crap. Take me and have me for what I am and what this is. Promise?”

“Yes, but I am not sure I understand.”

“You probably don’t now and maybe never will.”

“Why not?”

“Because basically, and without being rude, you are old and I am young. You look for reasons, we just look at opportunities; you look for meanings, we look for feelings, if we have good vibes we do it, if not we don’t; we thrive on our intuition, not on facts and analysis; you look and follow rules and structures, we seek and go with gut instinct and how things feel; you read instruction manuals, we just do it and we can work mobile phones and programme Sky plus, your lot can’t,” I finished with a laugh as I ran my fingers up your arm and my toes, out of my shoes up your calf.

“So, what, essentially Jayne, does all that mean?”

“Firstly, James,” I said looking from side to side and removing my hand and foot from you. “I think it means we should go. We have entertained this lot almost as much as I might have done the people having photos developed in Boots, which seems about a week ago.”

You quickly settled the bill. I thought of suggesting I pay my share, but felt that was pointless, for I was sure you wouldn’t let me and, in any case, it made me feel more like a proper pick up letting you pay.

We walked out into Wellington Street in the depths of Covent Garden. It was still warmish, but there was a breeze so I pulled the thin pashmina I always keep in my large, totally impracticable, because you can never find anything, WAGS bag and wrapped that round me.

“Now that’s a shame,” you said.

“What?” I asked.

“Covering that lovely sight up of course, see I forgot the rules.”

I laughed and took hold of your hand.

“Now, now, don’t get carried away. What’s the time?”

“Just after eight thirty.”

“Perfect, just right.”

“What for?”

“For where we are going.”

“And where’s that?”

“You’ll see, come with me.” I said pulling your hand. “By the way, what and where is the hotel where you want me to stay the night with you so you can experience me?” I asked as we stopped outside a building with a large, black door with six or so steps up to it. There was a large bouncer at the top of them.

“Marylebone Road near Baker Street. So, what’s this then?” You asked.

“Just the best and most exclusive lap dancing club in town, come on I’ve got a VIP pass.”

Him.

My mind was whirling.

Everything Jayne said was true. You had the old versus young thing off to a tee. This young bird was wise beyond her tender years, I found myself thinking. But still, she missed my point. And I didn’t know how to explain my point. Not any better than I had tried. So, I chose to do the only thing possible in the circumstances. Forget about trying to make her understand. The reality was, that it was all bollocks to her.

Just go with the flow.

As for the lap dancing club, that thought made me laugh. There I had been a little earlier, attempting to second guess a woman and come up with a romantic venue for the evening! Yet your suggestion was not just a lap dancing club, but the most exclusive lap dancing club in town!!

I should have known better than to try and second-guess a woman, especially one as perceptive as you. I found myself thinking that whoever wrote ‘Men from Mars, Women from Venus’ had got the basics exactly right.

So, where the fuck did all this leave me? Being dragged by the hand up the six or so steps, past the bouncer and through the large, black door. So, we had a VIP pass?

I’d been to a few lap dancing clubs before, all with ‘the lads’ of course. Though curiously, I’d never had a private dance. The girls in Leeds, Preston and Liverpool all had one thing in common. Well, two actually. Very good bodies, and being very good at what they did.

But the three clubs were soulless, despite the baying hordes that were ‘appreciating’ the girls’ efforts. Maybe this place would be different? I mean, if it were as exclusive as you were indicating, perhaps it would reach the parts that the North of England clubs couldn’t reach?

My thoughts flickered to the movie, Showgirls. Universally panned, but any movie starring Gina Gerson would do for me. And then there was the lap dance that Elizabeth Berkley performed. Now that was a lap dance!!

It also occurred to me as I stared around the grand interior, that there was one other difference with this place compared to the Northern clubs. Here there were women in the audience. Well, there had to be, didn’t there, if Jayne had brought me in there.

Hmmm. Did that mean…?

“Tell me,” You said, tugging my arm.

“Tell you what?” I responded, turning to see that amused Jayne-look staring at me.

“Your hotel, daddy,” you told me, raising your eyes to the ceiling. “The venue for the proposed great seduction. For your spiritual enlightenment. For your emotional experience. Where you want to experience me, and fuck me! Where is it?”

Very funny, I thought. For a second, I almost gave you my best ‘don’t-fuck-with-me’ look, but decided it would be a waste of time. This wasn’t a girl, or a situation, that I was going to be in control of, so why try?

What was it I’d told myself earlier? Just go with the flow!

“The Landmark,” I said.

“Really?”

I nodded. “Yes. My favourite. But please don’t tell me that you’ve had any modelling experiences there,” I said, hoping to disguise the feeling of whatever I was feeling in my voice.”But,” I continued before you could respond, “It’s the four-poster bed and mirrors on all the walls that attract me.”

Your blue eyes did a double take, knowing I wasn’t telling the truth, but maybe wondering a fraction.

“Ever watched yourself having sex?” I asked, the words spilling out before I could stop them.

You didn’t need to answer. Those blue eyes said, of course, hasn’t everyone?

“Okay, no four poster or mirrors,” I conceded, wondering when, where, with whom, how many times and probably half a dozen other things. One thing was for sure, I’d never met anyone quite like you before.

“But they’re still great rooms.” I lamely added, glancing around. Time to change the subject. “Anyway, enough of where I go to for spiritual release, tell me what the form is here. I assume we’ll enjoy a nice drink and some entertainment before I arrange for you to have your private dance?”

Her.

“Don’t be daft, guests can’t dance,” I replied as we followed the shapely, black hostess to the VIP area at the back of the club.

This was raised up with a bar on a sort of balcony so that the ‘VIPs’ could look out on the less fortunate and preen. Myrla, our hostess, took our drinks order, and we found a booth away from the balcony. These could hold up to eight punters and each had its own small stage, which was really an extension of the table, the banquette running almost all the way round the table; yes, you got nearly 360-degree views of the girls! Each booth also had a little controls console, which closed the curtains around the booth, opened them to the main stage and turned on a small TV screen.

“Well not here, maybe later as part of your experience with me,” I smiled flopping down on the deep, red leather almost circular settee.

“Really?”

“Who knows, gramps?” I smiled back actually now really beginning to enjoy myself.

Was it perverse I was asking myself as I saw you sort of squirming as I more and more wrested control of the situation away from you? It was strange, but then maybe it wasn’t and it was just that I was half, or more, pissed, but I liked that, and that wasn’t really like me at all. Generally, with a new bloke who is a potential lover, I’m fairly meek and tend to follow his lead as really, I had with you earlier on. Now though, for some reason I wanted to lead and control; what a mixed up, silly little bitch I can be sometimes.