Jayne's World Pt. 02

"But of course," I suavely lied. "I love theatreland and this restaurant reminds me so much of you."

"Of me?"

"Certainly," I responded with a huge grin. "Can't you think why?"

"Hmm," you said, glancing around the surroundings.

"Mulling again?" I asked. "That's okay, take your time. My grandad memory may be faltering, but I know you blonde's need a few seconds more than the rest of us."

"Is that right?" you said, pulling a face but giving me a smirk. "Well try and concentrate on something while I work it out."

The suggestion was bad enough, given the thought of flashing knickers that wouldn't leave my mind. But when you arched your back as you sat upright in your chair, the magnificent view of the outline of your breasts pushing against your white blouse, crowned by the twin bullets, was, I swear, almost like studying the Mona Lisa.

Perfection!

"That's a good boy," you cheekily added, as if you were putting on some entertainment to keep me occupied while you worked out what I meant.

As much as I tried to keep my eyes on your face, it was a task impossible to any red-blooded male, though I think I did manage to keep my tongue inside my mouth, if only just.

"Okay, daddy-o," you eventually said. "It reminds you of me because it's so chic?"

I laughed, and you did, too. "Er... strangely... no!"

"Hmm," you said, your eyes darting around again. "Because it's a little bit Bohemian?"

I raised my eyebrows in approval. "Well, getting there, I think."

This time, you rested an arm on your chair as you glanced behind you. "How about, I somehow remind you of French royalty? Josephine perhaps?"

We both laughed again, still sniggering to ourselves when the waiter brought our drinks and handed us menus.

"That's damn close," I said, feeling a little miffed as your eyes seemed glued to the waiter's backside as he walked away.

"Okay, tell me."

"You've finished mulling?"

"Erm, for the moment. But I may be in the mood for more mulling later."

"Fair enough," I said, thinking that I could kill for a quick 'mull' right now. "It's something to do with the waiter you keep eyeing up."

"I wasn't eyeing him up'!"

I raised my eyes to the ceiling before grinning at you again. "Really?"

"Come on," you insisted, ignoring my knowing look. "Tell me."

"Okay," I nodded. "This place always makes me think of French women. That, for some reason, makes, me think of beautiful lingerie. And that brings an image of you in those photo's I rescued from Boots earlier."

"Really?" You asked looking bemused.

I leant forward, resting an elbow on the table as I propped up my face with my hand. "Okay, blue eyes," I continued in my best Humphrey Bogart voice. "Either you were on a modelling shoot, or you're being blackmailed by a gang of international terrorists, Albanian probably, who are using illicit photographs of you in lingerie to get you to carry out some dubious stuff for them."

"Hmm," you laughed. "One of those might be right. And what task do you think they have in mind, if indeed, that thought is correct?"

"That's easy," I replied. "These things always start with a test. Just to see whether you have the abilities they're looking for."

"And the test?

"Quite obvious. They want to see if you can find and seduce an older, sophisticated man. Someone who is so impervious to a woman's charms, it would be almost impossible to corrupt him. Someone who has an iron will which can't be bent by even the sexiest of the fairer sex. Someone who would be immune to anything a normal young woman could offer."

The slow shake of your head told me you were either impressed with my vivid imagination, or thought you were having an assignation with a loonie. I wasn't sure which.

"Okay, blue eyes," my Humphrey Bogart accent continued. "Spill the beans."

Her.

I was enjoying myself. I liked you and found you both interesting and considerate: two traits that rank high on my top of the pops list, I was thinking giggling at the other use of pops and speaking, well thinking of pops, your age and the, what to some, no most, would consider, enormous age gap between us, seemed to be receding, almost as if it didn't matter.

In some ways that was because I though you were pretty 'uncool.' Maybe that was an attraction though. I was so used to dealing with really cool, too clever by half, guys in advertising, the city and the media who had every in phrase and gesture, knew the trendiest places and all the stuff of metroland, that your squareness was, in some ways, refreshing and I was liking that.

I had to admit, though, that as we sat in the oddly named restaurant, I did momentarily wonder what other people were thinking. 'Daughter out with her father, perhaps, maybe even grandfather?' I smiled looking round and seeing that there were only a few tables occupied, but then that was hardly surprising at this 'inbetween time' of five o' clock.

Would anyone in their right mind work out our relationship, I wondered as you were asking about the story behind the photos and putting on a phony American accent?

Surely nobody would think that the middle-aged gentleman would have been in the process of pulling the twenty-something blonde, bird, would they? I mean ten or fifteen, twenty or so at a push, years difference between a bloke and his 'bit of stuff' was ok nowadays, quite usual even, but perhaps thirty or more was taking things to Bernie Ecclestone levels. I almost giggled as I thought of asking if you were a billionaire, for that does seem to change the rules a little on age differences.

As I listened to you, I did for some reason, put on a bit of a show. Nothing that extreme, like undoing yet another button so that my nips would be exposed, or running my foot up your leg and shoving it between them at the top; a little outrageous I might be, but not that much, well not this soon, at least. What I was doing wasn't really acting, it was how I, and most other girls of my age on a pick up or first date carry on, I think. Unconsciously, I leaned forward or sat back in my chair, I crossed and uncrossed my legs and stretched them out in front of me, I ran my hand through my hair, touched my face and idly stroked my bare arm. All those seemingly unthought out gestures that I am sure Freud would understand and explain were all part of sexual foreplay. 'Fuck, is it that?' I thought almost giggling.

Who the hell was it you were trying to imitate, I wondered?"

"Blue eyes?" I asked smiling, "American blue eyes at that?"

"Humphrey Bogart," you said.

"What, he had blue eyes? I can't quite place him and I don't think I have ever seen a colour photo of him."

"No, he played opposite someone he called blue eyes in an old film."

"How long ago?" I asked, not really sure I could place the film star although, I had heard of him.

"Oh forty, fifty years ago, I guess" you told me.

"Shit, my mum wasn't even born then, let alone me."

"Ah well," you said in rather a resigned tone, I thought, as possibly similar thoughts went through your mind as were going through mine. 'An age gap such as that between us can bring so many problems, memories of music, films, fashion, world events and so on.' And that, I conjectured as I tried answering why the restaurant reminded you of me, brought into play the other major consideration with such an age gap. Of course, that was sex, but I put that out of my mind, although the longer we were together, the more convinced I became that this was not a platonic pick up. This was not a lonely guy in town looking simply for company, it was not a meeting of the minds, a coming together of common interests. It was more than that, much more, I was now sure. Every glance, every look, every gesture and most of what you said suggested to me, as clearly as it did when I meet men my own age, that you wanted to fuck me. You explaining in a rather convoluted and totally unbelievable fashion, that the bistro reminded you of lingerie, providing you with the link to ask about those photos, confirmed that to me.

'And how did I feel about that?' I thought as we ordered, steak frites, of course, with a bottle of red wine and crispy French bread. I didn't have an answer.

"I told you I'm in advertising didn't I?"

"What?"

"You asked me to spill the beans," I told you.

"Oh yes."

"Right," I said leaning forward, gesturing for you to do the same. "I'm a copywriter, you know what that is?" I went on as we sat hunched over the table our faces close together.

"Er yes Jayne, I do, I have been around a bit you know, and I was in marketing. And I am not a blonde."

I smiled. "A bit, that's for sure."

"Why have you been peeping, and are you?"

"What?" I queried, now confused, maybe slightly pissed, for the red wine seemed to go straight to my head. 'Still' I thought 'better than going straight to my tits or clit which at times like this seem to be hotwired to each other!'

"You said a bit, about me not being a natural blonde."

"Yes, er no, I meant you've been around a bit," I tried explaining, not sure what the hell we were talking about. "I don't know about the blonde, are you?"

"No, are you?" You asked.

"What?"

You quietened your voice as you let your eyes slide downwards so your glance was inside my blouse. "A natural blonde?"

A little embarrassed, but nicely so, I ran my hand through my hair, obviously stretching the thin cotton of my blouse, tightly across my tits. I followed your gaze downwards and saw what you were looking at. I quickly put my hand back onto the table, so that the loosened material hid the frighteningly erect lumps of my nipples.

"Cold?" You smiled, making me laugh.

"Be quiet," I jokingly admonished you.

I probably blushed as I tried to work out the least compromising position for me to sit. Leaning forward, my blouse gaping giving you a line of sight straight down onto my tits or, leaning back, emphasising my nipples. 'Why the fuck hadn't I worn a bra' I thought, replying 'Because you never thought you'd get yourself picked up did you, for when does that ever happen? When was the last time?'

"I got co-opted onto a team that was pitching for a big account," I started.

"Yes good, but are you?"

"Am I what?"

"You know."

"I don't, I wouldn't ask if I did."

"A natural blonde," you said, perhaps a little too loudly for I thought a couple at the next table looked up as you said that.

"Oh piss off," I hissed, smiling. "If you must know, the answer is yes with a little help here and there."

I was surprised when you lifted your hand and stroked my hair as you said, this time so quiet that only I would here.

"Where is here and where is there, Jayne? Which is this?"

I was amazed that so soon we were talking about the intimacy of my pubic hair colour. It seemed so natural and easy, a bit like talking about your pussy to your gyno, I thought.

"I really wanted to do well." I said.

"At touching up the blonde bits here and there?"

"No on the new team pitching for the account."

"Ok, go on."

"The account was Lejaby, google it, you might like the sexy stuff."

"What is it?"

"Something that will remind you of Cote Bistro, lingerie, check their website."

"Are you on it?"

"No of course not."

"So how come the photos?" You asked rather pointedly putting your hand on the folder which was on the table beside me.

"Well not wishing to sound too much like a drama queen, I really wanted to understand what the Lejaby brand was all about."

"Sexy undies? Don't you know?"

"Well not really, I have never worn a suspender belt and have hardly ever worn stockings, I don't own a basque or a corset and I had no idea why women buy all those things."

"So you don't wear sexy undies then?"

"Not really, just thongs and bras."

"And sometimes you forget those don't you?" You said looking straight at my boobs.

"No, never."

"What?"

I smiled. "I never forget either, I don't go commando and I choose sometimes not to wear a bra, I don't forget either. I'm a frustrated sixties, hippy woman, bra burner really."

I liked seeing you laugh at my simple jokes.

"For some reason and I had no idea why at the time, they had paired me up with an art director, Barry, who was well into his forties. A nice guy, but a bit of a rarity in creative departments."

"See blondie, you just attract older men."

"Yes, I seem to, don't I?"

"So where did the photos come from?"

I looked you straight in the eye and said. "Barry took them."

"Why?"

"Because we both felt that by me wearing the gear and him seeing me in them, we would gain a much better understanding of the brand."

"And did you?"

"Well, we won the account."

"How?"

"Not sure, but we came up with the simple tag line, 'Underneath.'

"How did that work?"

"We did a series of magazine and newspaper ads, there was no TV or radio budget, using that word."

"How?"

"Using shots of thirty and forty-year-old women mainly in a range of different underwear with the messages. Underneath you can be whatever you desire. Underneath you're not a wife, but a lover. Don't tell him what's underneath. It's your secret what's underneath. That sort of stuff."

"And it worked?"

"It sure did?"

"And with Barry?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, he didn't have to work at finding out what was underneath did he, you showed him. That must have been er, difficult?"

Smiling I replied. "Yes, it had its moments," as my mind went back to him photographing me and how I felt at the time.

I could hardly believe that we had eaten the steak frites and drunk the wine, our third bottle of the afternoon.

"Dessert Jayne?"

"No, I never eat them I have to watch my figure, I'll have an espresso though please."

You ordered that and asked what I would like to do after dinner. I replied that I had no idea and that I would leave it to you, wondering just what you would come back with, hoping against hope that it wouldn't be a club for the idea of dancing with you didn't appeal as visions of David Brent came to mind.