Pat Wynn Perfect Woman

I don't know if you've ever read those things in

Reader's Digest,

that feature they used to have called "My Most Unforgettable Character", they may still run it, I dunno, never read it any more.

Anyway, I thought about it the other day when someone mentioned during conversation when the topic had moved to our favourite subject, "Whatever happened to Pat Wynn?"

Now if you're of my vintage, with more hair around your old fella than on your head, you'll know immediately who I'm talking about, but you young blokes have probably never heard the name. Shoot, have you bastards missed something!

I came across her – OK, awful pun, I know, but truthful – when I was working in Soho in 1979. I was a very successful photographer – yep, you know the type of pictures I'm talking about. Anyway, I was 30, dark brown eyes, which matched my dark brown voice and I had long, jet-black hair which came almost to my shoulders – yeah, I know, we thought it looked good, didn't we?

I was tall – well, still am – and slim. Nothing massive down there, just over seven inches, uncut, and I knew how to handle it. No, sorry, another terrible pun, I mean I knew what to do with it. Luckily, so did Pat, but I'm getting ahead of my story.

This loft I worked in was a typical Soho loft. Over-priced, rent-wise, too cold in winter and too hot in summer, but it was in a terrific location, just off Wardour Street, close to some great restaurants, good strip clubs and filthy book shops. Haven't lived in London or England for that matter for nearly 25 years – it is still the same?

But the place was well equipped for my purposes. High stud to the ceiling, plenty of leather chairs and couches, tables, equipment – a lot of the pictures involved bondage, whips, you get the picture? And I was a very sought after clickster, mainly for the flesh stuff, but also for more "straight" pictures, too.

The name I worked under was Richard Patterson, you've seen loads of my work if you've seen back numbers of

Mayfair

and

Escort

magazine from that period.

Oh, no one calls me Richard by the way, except "She who must be obeyed" when she's really pissed at me. Everyone calls me Rick.

And I know what you're asking – is it true you got to fuck a lot of nubile little totty in your day, Rick? Well, the hypocrites in the business will all say what they've been programmed to say: no, it's strictly business, can't compromise my reputation or the girl's. Stuff like that.

But I won't give you any of that horse hockey. In my day, course we did. If the lady was turning it up, who would be a cad and decline? Couldn't go round hurting their feelings, could you? I mean, I may be a cunt, but I'm not a cad. You with me?

So anyway, here I am sitting in the little kitchenette we called "The Savoy Grill", sucking on a Lucky Strike – shoot, I used to think I was cool smoking those fuckin' awful things – and sipping a bloody awful instant coffee while doing the

Daily Telegraph

cryptic crossword (I was a gun at 'em, still am) when my gofer comes in with the latest pile of magazines from our little newsagent's down Wardour Street.

Jackie, that was his name, see, dumps a pile of skin mags on the table, says "Here's the latest pussy publications, Rick", in his thick Scottish accent – I wouldn't dare try to copy it here – and helps himself to a Coke.

I'll never forget the date – well, the month, to be more accurate. It was May, 1979, and there, in all its pristine glory was the June issue of

Mayfair

magazine. The tart on the cover wasn't too dusty, either, a dark-haired bimbo, with one knee on a couch and a pair of shiny pants which I think they called "tap pants" – still may do, for all I know.

I picked up

Mayfair

first because I did a lot of work for them and they always paid well and promptly. Believe me, in those days the "promptly" was almost as important as the "well". So I glanced at the spread on the dark-haired lovely, and very tasty too.

But then I got past the centrespread, and the very last woman to feature in the mag was indeed that – a WOMAN!

It was Pat Wynn, and it said she was the wife of a Surrey stockbroker, or some such imaginary twaddle, I dunno, I never believed it, did you? Likes hot chocolate, dogs that don't bite and long walks on the moors. Bollocks! We all know what they like, don't we?

Anyway, it said she was 40, I think, and gave her measurements as 40-26-36, although I reckoned then, still do, that her superstructure was more in the 44-inch range. And don't go on about that figure being meaningless and it's all to do with the width of the lady's back, or crap like that. These jugs were HANDFULS!

So I whistled, or something, and Jackie peered over my shoulder and he whistled too, the filthy little pervert. "Fuck," he said, "what would I give you fuck that!"

And I could see his point. This woman was built and beautiful. She had a shock of fairish red hair on her head, nice hair. She had these bloody big bazookas – all right, sorry, it's so 1960s or '70s, but fuck, this WAS 1979, remember?

She also wore black stockings held up by a slim garter belt, and had high heels. That combination always makes me hot!

And she was also shown in silky, slinky black satin, and she had a cheeky smile which sort of said "I know what YOU'RE thinking, you naughty boy!" and a pussy which was rather hairy, but fuck, I wanted to muff dive it there and then.

I guess my thoughts must have been like one of those balloons in cartoons, because Jackie read my thoughts in a shot.

"You wanna shoot it, don't you?" he asked, cheekily. "And I don't mean with the fuckin' Hasselblad!"

Little Glaswegian bastard had me there! What wouldn't I have given for a jump on that lush-breasted, full-buttocked, RIPE-looking woman! Just looking at her made me go wobbly at the knees and hard somewhere else!

So I picked up the phone. Now, while I was a very good photographer of the naked, and sometimes-not-so-naked, female form, I was an absolute fucking genius at working a telephone.

I called my contact at

Mayfair

magazine, a woman who booked most of their models, and even took part in the randy bastards' conferences where they decided which pictures they'd use.

She was a nice lady, not my type, but I took her to lunch at a little Chinese joint once a month and made her laugh with pretty banal, filthy stories, and she looked out for ladies on my behalf.

When Camilla and I had got the niceties out of the way, she snapped into business mode.

"Rick, how can I help you?" she asked.

"Pat Wynn," I replied, as casually as I could, which wasn't too fucking casual at all, to tell the truth.

"Oh, going for the more mature woman now, are we?" she mocked me from the other end of the line.

"Camilla, she's fucking gorgeous and I have a shoot in mind for her," I said, trying to rein in my emotions.

"Sure you do, big boy," laughed my magazine contact. "You wanna shoot it right between those massive mammaries, don't you?"

"Camilla," I chided, "please, such disgusting thoughts."

The woman chuckled. She was probably Pat Wynn's age. "She was the oldest woman in any shoot for us for years," she told me. "And know something? I think she was the best in the mag this issue."

"She's the best in the mag, ever," I corrected. "Now, can we do business?"

Camilla said sure we could. "What did you have in mind? Let's see if I can pitch it to Pat."

I was ready for that. "PVC or latex," I said. "An open-breasted, open-crotched playsuit from She An Me, out South Kensington way. Plus PVC bed boots, and a whip. Haughty make-up. The aunty look. 'Aunty's gonna flog you, but first aunty's gonna fuck you', look."

Camilla laughed. "OK, it sounds like something she'll go for. Only I think it's more 'So erect – amazing' than us."

My contact was using the old anagram – and a fucking good one if you ask me – for

Escort

magazine and I tended to agree, but pointed out a younger woman had appeared in

Mayfair

a matter of a few months before in just such an outfit.

"Yeah," Camilla said, "but there was no hint of whips or sadism in that shoot. And anyway, we wouldn't run Pat again for a while. No, it's more an

Escort

spread, I think."

I didn't give a flying fuck, to be honest, all I wanted was Pat Wynn in my studio loft showing me her tits and pussy, and I'd take my chances from there.

"Tell you what I can do," said Camilla, still all business. "I can't give you Pat's number, as you well know, but what I can do is give her yours. And then, if she calls you, well, over to you."

"Camilla, how can I thank you enough?" I laughed. "A Chinese lunch?"

Camilla disagreed. "Fuck no, Rick. This is the Savoy Grill at least – and I don't mean that fucking little hovel you call a kitchen!"

* * *

To say it was like walking on eggshells for me the rest of the week was an understatement. I almost jumped out of my skin every time the fucking phone rang, but it was never the lovely mature madam.

Finally, just as I was about to call it a day on Friday afternoon – Jackie had left around lunchtime for the afternoon express to Glasgow from King's Cross - and I was pondering a quick meal at a Wimpey's and then off to the Nell Gwynne strip club in Dean Street to see if there was anything remotely photographable dancing there that evening, she rang!

"Rick Patterson, photographer of the breast of British," I replied, in my deepest "Why don't you come up and fuck me sometime" tone of voice.

"Pat Wynn," said this honey of a voice, "and if you want 'breast' then I'm the best."

It was a nondescript sort of Home Counties twang, could have been London, Surrey, Berks Bucks or Oxon – even fucking Essex. You name it, I couldn't pick it, but all I knew was it sounded like music to my ears.

I laughed, trying to think of something witty to reply, but all I could do was babble: "I think you're fantastic and I want to photograph you." Talk about banal!

But she actually chuckled. "Well," she said, in the sort of voice that sounded like the mouth it came from would suck you off and spit you out in spunk bubbles, "you don't fuck around, do you?"

"Er," I gabbled, "it's just that you sound so wonderful, I guess I'm tongue-tied."

Another chuckle. "You surprise me, Mr Patterson, or may I call you Rick?" she said, in a sort of "Can I sit on your face?" intonation. But before I could plead "Call me Rick, call me Rick!" she had ploughed on.

"For a man who wants to photograph me in slippery, shiny, sexy PVC you most certainly should not be tongue-tied. Now tell me, why a latex shoot? Whips, too, I'm told?"

I coughed, trying to clear my throat. "Er, well, let's see – um, latex. Oh, it's just, I don't know, it's just ..."

Pat Wynn interrupted me, thank fuck!

"It's just so oozingly, cock-hardeningly sexy," she suggested. "It makes naughty boys want to rub their thick, hard cocks against it, feel the coolness, the slippery material, the way it gleams as it clings to a breast-bared mature woman. How's that?"

I stammered. "That's absolutely fuckin' perfect," I admitted.

"Well, why the fuck didn't you say so, Rick?" she laughed. "Now, let's meet and let's get a naughty outfit for me to wear. Where can we go to buy it? She An Me, didn't you tell Camilla?"

I was gobsmacked. Here was this gloriously, bit-titted beauty actually talking to me about shopping for some kinky – well, maybe not so kinky, even for 1979 – latex outfit and suggesting we go there together!

"Er, sure, it's a shop that sells sexy lingerie in the Old Brompton Road, South Kensington, about a two-minute walk from the South Ken tube station," I told her.

Then Pat stopped me. "OK, big boy, let's meet there – outside South Ken tube station, I mean – at 11 tomorrow morning. Can you make it?"

Could I make it? I'd have cancelled a date with Racquel fucking Welch to make it!

"Sure," I said. "I'm tall, long black hair almost down to my shoulders and I'll wear a brown leather jacket and blue jeans."

There was another "I want to sit on your face" chuckle from down the line. "You'll spot me easily enough," she said. "I'll be the one with big tits!"

* * *

I got to the tube station and stood outside the main gate at 10 to 11. I had shampooed my hair, then blow-dried it, so it gleamed. Looked fucking good, even if I say so myself, and no, there's nothing queer about me.

I wore a smart, open-necked white shirt, a brown leather jacket I'd bought at North Shore Leather in San Francisco a couple of years before, blue Levis and what passed for "fuck me" shoes in 1979 – white, with brass buckles. Wouldn't be seen dead in 'em today, of course, but styles change, don't they? That's why they're called "styles" I guess.

It was 11.10am by the Omega Seamaster on my wrist – yes, they were expensive even in 1979 – and I'd just about given up on her, when this fucking vision emerged through the gates, her light, reddish hair blazing, her breasts several inches ahead of her. Oh, OK, six inches ahead of her!

Pat Wynn was wearing a tight white blouse, a black leather jacket, and black leather jeans. Must have cost the earth, even back then.

Without any hesitation at all, she spotted me, marched over, placed her beautiful, blue-eyes close to mine and kissed me on the cheek, not passionately, but not like a fucking sister, either.

"Just like the picture Camilla showed me," the busty beast smiled.

"And you approve?" I asked, slipping an arm between hers and leading her down the Old Brompton Road towards the lingerie shop.

"I like what I see," she smiled. "And you?"

She turned to look at me as she asked the "And you?" and her breasts sort of heaved in her tight-fitting blouse. I thought I'd come on the spot.

"You are so magnificent," I breathed, trying to imprint the moment on my mind forever. "Are they real?" I asked, blatantly looking down at the glorious bristols.

"Fuck, darling," she laughed, the two words loud enough to make other Brompton Road strollers turn and stare, "I've smeared enough cum over 'em down the years to give them added texture, I sure as hell hope so!"

My look must have amused her, because she leaned and whispered into my ear – in her high heels her head was level with mine and I'm 6-1 – that "Cum is great for adding inches, believe me!"

I believed her. If she'd said Arsenal had just won the European Cup – they're still trying, aren't they? – I'd have fucking believed her!

Then we were at the steps leading up to She An Me, at 70 Old Brompton Road. Now, I don't know if the place is still in business, I doubt it, but in 1979 it was THE place to go for kinky, wet-look lingerie, and PVC and latex stuff.

I bought a thong there that day and it lasted me through all sorts of sexual escapades well into the 1990s – great products were to be had from She An Me.

Something else I can tell you about the place. They produced a fucking A-grade catalogue. I've still got one that they brought out in around 1975 – wet look, shiny, lingerie, plastic fantastic, all shot on glossy A4. It's bloody brilliant, and the girls!

But that's not all. It was shot by – and I kid you not – that old pervemeister, Helmut Newton, the kinkiest mainstream photographer the world's ever known. The man who was once told by his father: "Helmut my boy, you will finish up in the gutter!"

Helmut fucking Newton, that's who.

So Pat Wynn and I walked up the staircase to the display rooms and found once we were inside that we were the only people there – well, the only people aside from the girl behind the counter named, and I'll never forget it, Wanda. I knew she was Wanda because her name tag said so.

"Hi, how can I help you?" she asked, all cheerful like, putting down what looked like one of those Soho cyclostyled sex books and putting up on her face one of those salesgirl's smiles.

She was pretty, with short, dark hair, big boobs in a tight white T-shirt, a pair of PVC trousers that looked as if they'd been sprayed on and flashing brown eyes.

"You can find a latex playsuit that will fit me so this old pervert here can enjoy himself," said Pat Wynn, totally ignoring the fact that I must have been about 10 years younger than her. The "pervert" I didn't object to.

"You know the kind," said the busty bird, "open-fronted so my boobs can poke through and with a zip from the navel to the small of the back so he can access you-know-what."

"Oh, you mean something he can enjoy without having to take it off you mean?" laughed the kid, who looked to me to be around 18, 19 at the absolute top upper limit.

"Precisely, you've got it," smiled the busty bird with me.

Wanda grinned a cheeky grin and pointed to a copy of

Mayfair

magazine propped up in a perspex display case on the counter. "You mean something like this?"

The magazine was the April, 1979, issue – volume 14, number 4 if you're keeping notes – and showed a pretty, dark-haired woman on the cover in a black latex playsuit, demurely covering her breasts with her arms.

Wanda took it from the display case and opened it to the spread featuring the buxom brunette. I only glanced at the accompanying copy, but one line said something to the effect that "I like this outfit, I can have fun in it without taking it off, if you get my point".

I certainly got her point, because she was showing off her tits and a dark-haired pussy, and so did Pat Wynn. Get the point, I mean.

"That's perfect," she said, smiling at me. "Isn't it just too sweet, Ricky-wicky?"

"Yes, it is," I said, through gritted teeth, "and don't call me Ricky-wicky."

"Now, now," said Wanda, as she walked out to one of the display racks, "no lover's tiffs if you please!"

But instead of picking out the required item of sexy apparel, she walked on past the racks to the door, swung the "Open" sign around so it showed "Closed", drew the drapes on the door's glass panels and walked back to us.

"Don't want to be disturbed if madam's going to model something risque, do we?" said the 20-year-old, cheekily, giving me a knowing wink.

Then she swooped on a rack, produced one black latex playsuit, a pair of black PVC "bed boots" and long black latex gloves.

"If modom will follow me, please," said Wanda, trying to sound like a seller from Fortnum & Masons, instead of a girl in a kinky lingerie shop, and Pat walked away with the kid to a changing room.

"I'll be right back, you lovely old pervert," smiled the big-breasted bitch, "why not shop for something yourself? Latex, PVC, only make sure it's got a zip in the front so you can play with me while you're still wearing it!"

I'd have blushed if I'd been the blushing type, but by now I was getting used to her cheeky line of patter.

Anyway, I'd known her – well, been in her company – for only about 10 minutes, and here I was, already jumping to her beck and call. I was actually searching the "Menswear" racks looking for something. Of course, I knew the way she was egging me on, that we were going to fuck, and I decided that if she wanted me in some sexy little garment, then that's what she'd fucking get!

I chose a black PVC brief – we'd call it a "thong" today, though I don't think the term was around in those days. It was shiny and black, high hipped and narrow over the old fella and it cupped the balls nicely. Not that I knew that at the time, I just looked at the "M" for "medium" size tag, saw it had a zip running from about the middle of the abdomen down to the back of the scrotum, and grabbed it off the rack.

This had taken me about two minutes, and for about two minutes more I checked out some of the huge range of kinky, seductive gear on display, then Wanda was back in the shop.