All That Jazz

If The Copper Kettle hadn't been so busy that evening, I wouldn't have gone to The Walnut Tree. But The Copper Kettle was busy. Very busy. Every table was taken and there were a dozen or so people loitering just inside the door, waiting (I assumed) for a table to come free. And so I walked across to the other side of the market square and the rather less-busy Walnut Tree.

I not sure why The Copper Kettle always seemed to be busier than The Walnut Tree. It just seemed to be the way that it was. Location, location, perhaps. It was a bit similar with the local pubs. For some reason The Eagle was always busier than The Black Horse. Well... usually. Although back at that time, I wasn't much of a pub-goer. The day in question was my nineteenth birthday. And I was more into coffee bars. Coffee bars were the thing back then. They were certainly the thing in our part of the country.

'Chocolate with a marshmallow?' Wendy asked as she approached my table with her pad and pencil. And then she laughed. 'It's OK. I'm only joking. Double espresso?'

'Umm... yes. Thank you.'

When Wendy returned with my coffee -- and a biscotto on the side -- she said that she thought that I would have been over at The Copper Kettle.

'I did think about it,' I told her. 'But it was jam-packed.'

Wendy nodded knowingly. 'Joanna Jones,' she said.

'Joanna Jones?'

'The Welsh folk singer.'

'There wasn't any sign or anything,' I said. 'The Copper Kettle usually has a blackboard outside if they have a singer.'

'Perhaps they thought that they already had enough people,' Wendy said.

To be honest, I wasn't really into folk singers. I was more of a jazz man. Miles Davis. Gerry Mulligan. Charles Mingus. Not that Miles Davis was ever likely to turn up in our little market town. 'You never have singers in here,' I said. 'Or perhaps you do, but not when I've been here.'

'No. Hector says that people like to drink their tea and coffee in peace.' (Hector owned The Walnut Tree.) 'Or talk to each other without having to shout. And, anyway, if we were going to have entertainment, I'd prefer a bit of jazz,' Wendy said. 'Perhaps a pianist.'

'Yes. I prefer a bit of jazz,' I told her. 'I quite like Peter, Paul and Mary. But I'd prefer Miles Davis. Or Cannonball Adderley.'

Wendy smiled and nodded.

Wendy was older than me. If you had asked me back then, I would probably have said that she was in her mid-thirties. But thinking about it now, I guess she must have been in her mid-forties. 'Have you listened to John Coltrane?' she asked.

I hadn't. Not at that stage.

'He's definitely worth a listen,' Wendy said.

Wendy and I chatted on for a bit, and then I realised that I was the only customer. It was coming up for nine o'clock and everyone else had headed off into the night.

'I think that we may as well put the sign up,' Hector called out from behind the espresso machine. 'An early night perhaps?'

Wendy looked at her watch. 'I expect everyone's over at The Copper Kettle,' she told him. 'I think they have a folk singer tonight. Joanna Jones.' And then she asked me what I was up to next.

'Not much,' I told her. 'Maybe I'll go home and listen to some music. It's my birthday.'

'Your birthday? Oh, you should have said. I could have baked you a cake.' And then she laughed. 'Well, if you hang on for a few minutes, we can walk home together. I think you're just around the corner from me, aren't you?'

'Not sure,' I said. 'I'm in Tailor's Lane. I have a flat above the art supplies shop.'

She nodded. 'Yes. That's just around the corner from me.' I don't know how she knew where I lived. I had only lived in the market town for a few months. She must have seen me coming and going I guess. Everyone seems to know everyone's business in small towns. 'I'll just see if Hector needs a hand to tidy up,' she said.

He didn't. 'No. You toddle off,' he said. 'I can finish up here.'

As Wendy and I strolled off in the direction of home, we talked about Dave Brubeck's new album (well, it was new back then) Time Out. 'I love all the clever things that they do with the different time signatures,' Wendy said. 'Five-four. Four-four. Three-four. Nine-eight....'

'Nine-eight?'

'Yes. Blue Rondo. That's in nine-eight. But with three bars as one-two, one-two, one-two, one-two-three. And then one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three.' Until Wendy pointed this out to me, I hadn't realised. Yes, it was very clever. We were still talking about Time Out and Blue Rondo a la Turk and Take Five and Strange Meadow Lark when we reached Wendy's place. 'If you haven't anything better to do, come in,' Wendy said. 'I'll play you a bit of John Coltrane.'

'Umm... yeah. Why not? I'd like that.'

We went inside and Wendy said that since it was my birthday she should probably make us a couple of special birthday coffees.

'Birthday coffees?'

'Well, Café Royales,' she said. 'But suitably celebratory for a birthday.'

'I don't think I've ever had a Café Royale,' I told her.

Wendy looked at me and smiled. 'Well... you like coffee. I know that much. And I'm hoping that you don't mind a bit of brandy. After that... it's just a matter of a sugar cube and a bit of whipped cream.'

'Sounds fun,' I said.

'Oh, it is,' she assured me. 'But first I need to pee. It's been a busy night. I haven't even had a chance to go to the loo.'

Wendy concocted a couple of Café Royales -- or special birthday coffees as she had called them -- and we took them through to her sitting room. 'Happy birthday,' she said, raising her glass, and then she kissed me in a way that I wasn't at all expecting. (Although it was very nice.) Then she carefully took the John Coltrane record from its sleeve and set it on the turntable to play.

The first track was a rendition of My Favourite Things -- with Coltrane playing soprano sax. It was very good. Simple, yet almost endlessly inventive. And apart from introducing me to John Coltrane (and the interesting possibilities of the soprano sax) it also introduced me to the piano playing of McCoy Tyner. Brilliant. As the years went by, I became a big fan of the work of McCoy Tyner. But that's a story for another day. Back to the night of my nineteenth birthday....

After we had listened to all four tracks on the John Coltrane album, Wendy said that we should have another round of Café Royales. (And who was I to disagree?)

'Happy birthday,' she said as she served up the second round of Café Royals, and she kissed me again. This time her tongue seemed to be on a mission to check out my tonsils.

'Gerry Mulligan?' Wendy said.

'Gerry Mulligan? Oh, yes. One of my favourites.'

'And Thelonius Monk?'

'He's pretty good too.'

'Mulligan and Monk together?'

'That would really be something,' I said.

'It is.' And she slipped John Coltrane (and McCoy Tyner) back into their sleeve and placed Mulligan Meets Monk on the turntable. 'We need to sit really close together,' she said. 'So that we can both appreciate the effect of the stereo.' And she patted the space on the couch next to her. 'Don't be shy,' she said. 'It's your birthday. Remember?' How could I forget?

We were only three or four minutes into 'Round Midnight when Wendy reached across, took my spare hand, and placed it in the space between her stocking tops. And she kissed me again. 'You might want to put your drink down,' she said when our lips finally parted. 'Don't want you spilling it.' And she hitched her skirt (which had already ridden up) still higher and spread her legs a little wider.

Oh, well... what the hell? I told myself. This is all new territory to me. Either my hand is going to get a sharp smack or I am on my way to heaven. I eased my hand higher up the valley between Wendy's thighs, and onward to my first surprise: Wendy wasn't wearing any knickers. She must have removed them when she had gone off to the loo. My second surprise was that her pubic hair (and she certainly had rather a lot of it) was so soft. My own pubic hair was almost bristly. But Wendy's was like springy cotton wool. Angel hair.

'OK?' Wendy said.

'OK? Better than OK. Fabulous,' I said. And then I repeated myself: 'Yes. Fabulous.'

'Good,' she said. 'Perhaps if I take my skirt off.' And she stood up, undid her skirt, and then allowed it to drop to the floor. 'And I think we should take off your trousers. Fair's fair, don't you think?'

She had a point. Apart from anything else, even though I have never been particularly over-endowed, things were beginning to get a bit crowded inside my jeans. Perhaps at the age of nineteen I was still growing. Something was certainly growing that night.

'Oh yes. That's better,' Wendy said as she lowered my zip and my cock popped out and headed straight for the horizon. 'Yes. Very nice. And a little pleased to see me, I think. No?'

I laughed. 'It would seem so,' I said. And then I said: 'Do you want me to take my jeans off completely?'

'Oh yes. I think so. I think it would be more fun that way, don't you?'

'Probably,' I said. I sat down, took off my shoes, and then stood up again and lowered my jeans all the way to the floor. 'Better?'

'Perfect,' Wendy said.

'What now?' I asked. 'I think you might have to give me instructions. I'm a bit new to this.'

'I think now I'd like to watch you pleasuring yourself.'

'Pleasuring myself? You mean...?'

'That's exactly what I mean,' she said. And she mimed a little pumping action.

I hesitated for a moment or two. I don't know why. I was already naked from the waist down. And my cock getting stiffer by the minute. And then I said: 'And are you going to...?'

'Give myself a bit of a seeing to? I could do,' Wendy said. 'Would you like me to?'

'I think I would,' I told her.

'Then I shall.'

And so we got started. Although, in reality, I guess we had already started. We had started with the first sip of Café Royale. Or perhaps even before that. Looking back, I now realise that we had probably 'started' the moment that we had left the coffee bar together.

I had never masturbated in front of someone else before. I had done it in front of the mirror in the bathroom. That was a bit of fun. But doing it in front of a reflection of myself wasn't the same as doing it in front of another person. Wanking myself while watching Wendy frigging her wonderful hairy cunt was... well, it was wonderful.

'I love your snatch thatch,' I told her.

Wendy smiled. 'I do have rather a lot, don't I?' she said.

'It suits you,' I told her.

She laughed. 'Just as well,' she said. 'Otherwise I'd have to shave it off like some of those women you see in some magazines.'

'It's very soft,' I said.

'Is yours soft?' she asked.

'Not like yours. Mine is a bit bristly.'

Wendy reached out and gently tested my thatch. 'Mmm... not really,' she said. Then she slipped her hand lower and gently 'weighed' my balls. 'Nice,' she said. And then after a brief pause, she asked if she could have a turn.

'A turn?'

'Yes. A turn with your lovely hard cock. And you can take care of my cunt.'

Oh well... I had told myself that I was either going to get a sharp smack or else I was going to heaven. It seemed that Wendy had decided: I was going to heaven.

It did not take very long to reach the pearly gates that evening. One moment Wendy had taken my cock in hand -- and I was marvelling at the softness of her profuse shock of soft, dark bush and the smooth, slick intricacies of her warm, wet cunt -- and the next I was coating her sexy thatch with my pearly cum.

'Sorry,' I said. 'I tried to hold on, but....'

Wendy smiled. 'That's OK. It's your birthday. And the night is but young. Let me find some more music.'