Libertine
1st Level Orange Feather
- Joined
- Nov 23, 2001
- Messages
- 2,086
- Points
- 48
In the very early 1980s when I was living in London, I made the acquaintance of a Mauritian-born Frenchwoman in her late 20s, a few years older than I, who used to drink at my local, The Gloucester Arms. She was beautiful- lovely eyes and smile, a head of very long, thick brown hair with a slight wave, about 5'2", slim figure, porcelain skin and the requisite cute accent. She was also very gregarious and hung out with a crowd of people, always in the same corner of the pub. Now and again I was invited to join them, though I was quite shy in those days. Still, I could manage the occasional amusing remark, and of course was most gratified when she'd laugh.
Once when my flatmates were all away for the weekend, I seized this rare opportunity and invited her ‘round to my place; to my surprise she accepted. I cooked a mushroom omelette for us, accompanied by a salad and a few glasses of Gewürztraminer. (Young men, listen to an old goat- always learn to cook one or two dishes very well, one vegetarian, one otherwise, and practise ‘til you get it right and can produce either at a moment’s notice. It’s less expensive than going to a restaurant, and your guest might even offer to be dessert...) Lunch ended, we chatted a fair bit, I moved to kiss her, she dodged in a sinuous and well- practiced fashion, insisted on helping me with the washing-up, left soon thereafter and that was that.
But she remained friendly, and a few months later during a summer heat wave when I happened to be ‘taking the air’ in Regents Park, which was across the street from both her block of flats and mine, I noticed her sunbathing wearing a most diverting and skimpily un-English bikini for those days. And as I silently appreciated the view, she happened to sit up, stretch(!), notice me, and beckon me over.
One doesn’t ignore a summons in that situation, so I honoured the request, finding her slightly, pleasantly tipsy and in a friendly, conversational mood. I sat, we talked, and she offered me a sip of her wine. The sun had gilded her skin, making her even more attractive. The only cosmetic she wore was very red lipstick, which matched the nail varnish on her fingers and toes. Her feet were tiny like the rest of her, well formed with high arches. ‘Do you think my feet are too small?’, she asked. ‘Some people think I look like a toy, or a doll. I don’t like that. Or when they call me ‘Frenchie’.
I gallantly pointed out that her feet were perfect, that I’d never called her ‘Frenchie’, and that I’d never considered her to be a doll except in the complementary sense. She laughed. ‘Perfect feet’, I repeated, and gently touched one of her soles with a leaf. She giggled and pulled her foot away. ‘Torture Chinoise’, she purred in French, then inclined her head and very seriously said, ‘The Chinese used to do that, you know. On the feet.’
‘Really?’, I asked in a purposely naïve tone of voice, lying through my teeth, and hoping she hadn’t noticed my sudden shortness of breath. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Yes, it’s true’, she said solemnly. The she smiled, and said ‘I like being tickled. On the feet and all over’.
I knew she lived alone. I knew I could further this discussion. I was positive with post-adolescent certainty that I could suggest we cool off from the hot sun over a cold drink back at hers. I was working out the best way, the two of us now in her flat, to tell her that sex need not be on the agenda but that satisfying every single one of her tickling fantasies would be a joy and a privilege… all of this raced frantically through my equally fevered mind and groin in about a second.
And the shyness arose like a puritanical, censorious Grim Reaper and I said absolutely nothing. The moment passed and never reoccurred, though I saw and chatted to her many times before moving from that area.
She’d be in her late 60s now.
Once when my flatmates were all away for the weekend, I seized this rare opportunity and invited her ‘round to my place; to my surprise she accepted. I cooked a mushroom omelette for us, accompanied by a salad and a few glasses of Gewürztraminer. (Young men, listen to an old goat- always learn to cook one or two dishes very well, one vegetarian, one otherwise, and practise ‘til you get it right and can produce either at a moment’s notice. It’s less expensive than going to a restaurant, and your guest might even offer to be dessert...) Lunch ended, we chatted a fair bit, I moved to kiss her, she dodged in a sinuous and well- practiced fashion, insisted on helping me with the washing-up, left soon thereafter and that was that.
But she remained friendly, and a few months later during a summer heat wave when I happened to be ‘taking the air’ in Regents Park, which was across the street from both her block of flats and mine, I noticed her sunbathing wearing a most diverting and skimpily un-English bikini for those days. And as I silently appreciated the view, she happened to sit up, stretch(!), notice me, and beckon me over.
One doesn’t ignore a summons in that situation, so I honoured the request, finding her slightly, pleasantly tipsy and in a friendly, conversational mood. I sat, we talked, and she offered me a sip of her wine. The sun had gilded her skin, making her even more attractive. The only cosmetic she wore was very red lipstick, which matched the nail varnish on her fingers and toes. Her feet were tiny like the rest of her, well formed with high arches. ‘Do you think my feet are too small?’, she asked. ‘Some people think I look like a toy, or a doll. I don’t like that. Or when they call me ‘Frenchie’.
I gallantly pointed out that her feet were perfect, that I’d never called her ‘Frenchie’, and that I’d never considered her to be a doll except in the complementary sense. She laughed. ‘Perfect feet’, I repeated, and gently touched one of her soles with a leaf. She giggled and pulled her foot away. ‘Torture Chinoise’, she purred in French, then inclined her head and very seriously said, ‘The Chinese used to do that, you know. On the feet.’
‘Really?’, I asked in a purposely naïve tone of voice, lying through my teeth, and hoping she hadn’t noticed my sudden shortness of breath. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Yes, it’s true’, she said solemnly. The she smiled, and said ‘I like being tickled. On the feet and all over’.
I knew she lived alone. I knew I could further this discussion. I was positive with post-adolescent certainty that I could suggest we cool off from the hot sun over a cold drink back at hers. I was working out the best way, the two of us now in her flat, to tell her that sex need not be on the agenda but that satisfying every single one of her tickling fantasies would be a joy and a privilege… all of this raced frantically through my equally fevered mind and groin in about a second.
And the shyness arose like a puritanical, censorious Grim Reaper and I said absolutely nothing. The moment passed and never reoccurred, though I saw and chatted to her many times before moving from that area.
She’d be in her late 60s now.
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