It was an autumn evening in southern England. The air was still quite warm but the light was fading early now. I’d just eaten a salad of lettuce, tuna, penne, and baby clams, which may be my own invention but I’ve been making it for so long I can’t remember where the idea came from. On top of that lot, you just squeeze a lemon and drizzle some olive oil, no need to mix them in advance. And you can add other things if you like: red bell pepper, capers, olives, that sort of thing. But not onions, because that changes everything. If I’m using onion, I dress it in vinegar instead of lemon and it becomes something punchier, more aggressive, and, to me, more masculine. Tonight I was having the feminine version.
There was a knock at the door. When I opened it, there stood a woman I had met a few months earlier when her granddaughter spilt a drink over me at an outdoor café. Mandy and I had got along seriously well and I had spent a glorious evening with her. I had hoped to see her again, but something cropped up and I had to go away for a while. We had exchanged messages for a while, but then she stopped, with no explanation. Now she was standing there looking bashful.
“Mandy,” I said, trying to sound cool. “Come in.”
I got us a glass of wine each and forced myself to keep my hands off her I case this wasn’t what I hoped it was. We made small talk.
“So, what happened?” I said eventually, grasping the nettle. “You stopped messaging me.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s hard to explain. I had such a good time that day that I started getting a bit silly about you, but I know you and me are never gonna… be right. And I had to stop myself. So I stopped the messages. Then I met a guy, and you know how great you made me feel? Well, I never thought it was going to be like that again, but it just was. And this guy, I used to know him and we just picked up where we left off. And we’re together now, like proper together.”
I was suddenly disappointed. I too had felt great that day and although it had only been one day, it felt like more; it felt like the start of something.
“So I wanted to come and explain,” Mandy continued. “Didn’t want you to think bad of me.” I must have leaned towards her, because she flinched and sat back.
“Nothing’s gonna happen,” she said. “I can’t. I promised myself, even though it would be… I just can’t.”
“Okay,” I said. “Well, thank you for letting me know. I’ve thought about you a lot.”
“And I’ve thought about you,” she said, adjusting her bra and shifting in her seat.
“So?” I said, trying to move things along.
“Well, the thing is,” she said hesitantly, “I’ve got this friend. She’s a bit younger than me and a lot more like you; educated and that. Not an old slapper like me.”
I patted her on the knee in admonishment.
“You’re great,” I said, and we both softened a little and thought about just giving in to the feeling.
“Anyway,” she said, shaking her head to bring herself into line. “Jackie Camelot, she’s called. And I thought you and her should meet. What do you reckon?”
I raised my eyebrows.
“No promises or nothing,” Mandy said. “You might not like each other. But I think you will. You haven’t met no one yourself, have you?”
“Nah,” I said. “Had that business to sort out back home and now I’m trying to build the business back up.” It was hard to concentrate because it all came flooding back to me, how smoothly she and I had come together, talking and having sex at the same time, and she was so confident and skillful in bed, and yet kind of naïve. Too innocent for her own good in a way.
“Does she know you’re planning this?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” Mandy replied. “But I told her all about you and I could tell she was interested. She’s divorced – isn’t everybody – and life is passing her by.”
Mandy and I spent the next hour talking and drinking and desperately keeping our hands to ourselves. I had been all over this woman. I had had my cock in her mouth and her cunt, my tongue everywhere including her arse. Behave yourself, man. Act your age. I could tell she was thinking the same but was determined to turn over a new leaf and be good to this man she had decided to be with.
Suddenly she stood up.
“Got to go,” she said. “So here’s her number.” She gave me a business card. Jackie C. Secretarial Services. And Mandy left, careful not to give me the chance of a kiss goodbye.
Five minutes later there was a Whatsapp. “Don’t take nothing 4 granted.”
Then another. “Be nice 2 her.”
And another. “I no u will”
This was a strange turn of events. A bit like “My mate fancies you,” but without the mate’s knowledge. But when I thought about it, it was just a blind date. And that’s if we got that far.
I didn’t call her immediately. I thought I would let Mandy report back, so she would be expecting it. Should I phone or just send a message? I didn’t know what was the currently-accepted practice. I called her the next afternoon and she sounded happy: breezy and confident. We agreed to meet at eight at a bar on the seafront.
“Long fair hair, red leather jacket,” she said when I asked how I would recognise her. “Sitting in a corner pretending to use my phone.”
So she intended to get there before me. Confident indeed. And indeed, when I arrived on the dot of eight, there she was: biker jacket, tight jeans, long hair cascading.
“Hi,” I said noncommittally.
“Hi,” she replied, and just looked at me, unsure what to do next. I got a drink, a beer, although I usually drink wine.
“So,” I said. “Friend of Mandy’s.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Funny how we say that in English, the apostrophe s thing. It should be a friend of Mandy. I wonder how that started.” As small talk went, this was pretty cerebral. She had an awareness of language.
Jackie had met Mandy through work, doing secretarial work for Mandy’s brother, a joiner.
“We got along pretty well,” she said. “Started to hang out a bit. Then one day we accidentally had sex.”
“You and her brother?”
“Me and Mandy. Don’t look so shocked. This is the 21st century.” She paused and looked at me before continuing. “You’re quite reserved really, aren’t you? She told me that.”
“Depends what you call reserved,” I replied, determined not to be forced into a defensive role. “Hang on, haven’t I seen you before? You’re not a musician, are you?”
She nodded.
“Camel Toe,’ I said. “You’re the drummer and you sing. Jackie Cameltoe”
“You got me,” she said. Camel Toe was an all-girl band who used to play in the Brighton area, doing covers of everything from the Bangles and the Slits to the Runaways and Girlschool. The drummer, and this was she, had impressed me, doing the distinctive cross-over drum part on Going Down To Liverpool and singing at the same time.
“You still play?” I asked.
“Not for five years,” she said. “I got married, had a baby and there wasn’t time for all that.”
Now she was about forty and although her skin had lost its plumpness, its verve, she had become sultry in compensation.
We became engrossed in each other. She told me about her university days, studying English and German, the attempted rockstardom, and how she had ended up doing the bookkeeping and admin thing for small clients because she could do it from home and have flexible hours. My own story was tame in comparison, but she seemed interested and asked questions. You know how flattering that is when somebody wants to know more about you?
She said her son was old enough to look after himself, so she was in no hurry, and we went back to my place. As soon as we were inside, she took off her jacket and sat on the settee with her legs crossed. She was in very good shape. I sat in an armchair.
“Mandy talks a lot, doesn’t she?” Jackie said. “She told me lots of things. Said you were good in bed.”
“Whatever that means,” I interjected. “What’s good for one person can be wrong for another.”
“Yeah, but generally speaking,” she said, “I think it means confident and in control. Of yourself.”
“Okay,” I said. “That describes her too.”
“I know,” Jackie replied with a happy little smile.
“And don’t you mind being recommended like this?” I asked. “Like she was a scout for a football club and you’d been identified as worth a trial.”
“There you go again,” she said. “You’re getting protective of me when I don’t need protecting. I’m fine. And it’s you that’s been recommended. She told me you’re a nice guy and she knows I could do with a bit of fun. She could have done all this on the quiet and just pushed us together without either of us knowing. But that’s not her. She’s upfront about things.”
“She certainly is.”
“So are you going to sit next to me?” Jackie asked. “Or do I have to come over there and sit on your lap?” A switch clicked in my brain and I decided to stop treating her like she was my sister. I sat beside her, put my left arm around her shoulder, and pulled her to me. We kissed tentatively, then gratefully, and I felt her up, my hand manipulating that crotch seam that jeans have, which could tell a tale or two.
“Where’s your bedroom, Stevie?” she asked brightly. I took her through and she undressed down to her underwear. Matching smooth black. That’s a good sign. I think it’s in High Fidelity by Nick Hornby that the narrator talks about that: how after the first time, and certainly after you’ve become a couple, the woman never again gives you the honour of wearing matching bra and knickers. You just get whatever’s clean or goes with the outfit. Jackie lay on my bed looking like a million Euros (this being before Brexit). She was long and lean, fit in the literal sense, with a little of the oak pattern of stretchy pregnancy on her belly, but otherwise much as she must have been at eighteen.
I pulled my t-shirt over my head, slipped out of my jeans, and gave her a big show of my erection as I removed my underpants. Women watch you anyway, so there’s no need to be bashful about it, and Jackie’s forthright attitude told me she would appreciate a real-life porn show. I joined her on the bed and she co-operated as I unhooked her bra, then lifted herself to help me dispense with her knickers. Her pubes were shaven into what might have been a clover shape. It’s probably not the easiest area to get arty with.
“Sixty-nine,” she said. “Me on top.” She got into position, her lovely pussy presented to my eager lips, tongue, and nose as she lifted my cock and put it in her mouth. I haven’t often had a sixty-nine this way; it’s usually me hunting for game between her protective legs while my donger flaps around, waiting to be arrested. But Jackie knew what she was doing. If women talk to each other as frankly as people say they do, she must have heard from Mandy that I was an equal-opportunity lover, happy to let the woman be in charge sometimes. In gay terms, the word would be versatile.
I had never had a cock up my arse and it wasn’t something I was desperate to try, but if an experienced and respectful woman such as Jackie, or Mandy, of course, wanted to do me with a strap-on, I would probably let her. It’s a question of confidence in who you are. All is fair in love and sex. What happens between the sheets stays between the sheets. That’s the theory, anyway. But I knew that if Jackie and I did anything really noteworthy, Mandy would hear about it. And the poor girl would want to try it herself, but she was locked into this monogamous relationship of her own volition. How complicated life is.
I’m thinking this now, but I wasn’t thinking it then, because this lovely woman was grinding herself into my face, her wonderful juices all over my nose and cheekbones. I had been trying at first to ride her crotch from underneath, before I saw the thing to do was let her do it all. She was clearly loving being the donor of this unusually brazen gift. It’s like when you’re fucking a woman and she’s on top. You can try to contribute, maybe just try to make your erection extra hard, but it’s her gig and she’s up there to be in control of her own destiny.
Young women having sex with young men often complain about getting a mouthful of cum when they don’t want it, but as both parties get older, that’s probably not going to happen unless she wants it to happen, and Jackie was very happy sucking my dick and deriving whatever pleasure it is she and her global sisters get from it. Suddenly she stopped and sat up straight, adjusting her stance so her crack was over my mouth.
“Would Sir like a fudge slice?” she said. “I hear it’s your favourite.” I slapped her thigh for being cheeky, but gave her a big lick right up the middle by way of apology.
“That’s fucking lovely,” I said. “But can you get on your knees and let me drive for a moment?”
“Sure,” she said, as if I’d just suggested changing the channel on the TV. In a flash, she was kneeling and presenting her delicious rump to me. When I got into my rhythm in that position, she spoke again.
“Mmm, it is your specialty, isn’t it? God…” I don’t know why women call the name of the Lord so much when they’re in the throes of passion, powerless to resist a man determined to bring them to orgasm, but it’s flattering, I suppose. Jackie came with a wordless grinding, shivering and slithering.
I knelt up behind her and masturbated as she watched me in the oversized mirror on the wall, which had been there when I moved in and I had initially thought rather tacky, before discovering how much women liked it. She groaned with a strange, animal release as my spunk spurted into her crack.
I allowed her to enjoy the sensation and myself to calm down a little before wiping her arse with a tissue, and we lay together.
“There will be a short intermission,” I said.
“I’ve got to go, anyway,” she said, kissing me on the nose. “Oooh! Where have you been?” She paused thoughtfully. “So, tomorrow?” she asked. “My place? Or do you want to let me know in the morning?”
“Tomorrow definitely,” I replied. “I can’t wait.”
“There’s something else Mandy told me,” she said. “And I’ve got a nice little back garden, very secluded, with a little lawn that could do with watering. Why don’t you come round for tea?”
