Jean Jeanne, let yourself go!

I’d been away for several weeks on holiday in the South of France . Jeanne, my then girlfriend, hadn’t seen me in such a long time. I picked her up in my mustard coloured Morris Marina it had been inherited from my grandfather and was actually my very first car.

Jeanne, came down the stairs wearing a long overcoat and very high heels, made up to the nines. We said goodbye to her mother and father and promised not to be too late home, we only planned to go to the pub after all, what with it being a weekday evening.

Once in the car Jeanne leaned over and gave me a long lingering kiss.

“I missed you” she said “I hope you behaved yourself whilst you were away”.

“Of course I did” I lied, pushing the guilty thoughts of the lovely Norwegian blonde firmly out of my mind “I really missed you too babe”.

“Good, I’ve got a surprise for you later” Jeanne winked at me as she spoke.

“Great” I said “Can I eat it, wear it, or play with it?”

“Maybe all three” she laughed conspiratorially.

“I’ve got a little something for you too” I said “It’s on the back seat”.

She reached over as I started the engine and grabbed the plastic carrier bag that was lying there. I pulled the car out onto the road and started the familiar route towards Windsor town centre from Jeanne’s house.

Jeanne looked eagerly into the bag. “What is it?” she gasped. She pulled out a carton of 200 cigarettes. “Ooooh duty-free fags, thanks babe!” she leaned over and pecked me on the cheek in gratitude.

“The other stuff is for you too”.

She reached back into the bag and pulled out a miniature bottle of Brandy and a small furry toy sea lion. The sea lion bore the legend ‘St. Tropez je t'aime’.

“Aaaah that’s really sweet, thank you babe, you’re spoiling me”. Jeanne leant over again and gave me another kiss on the cheek.

“So what’s my surprise then?” I glanced toward her raising my eyebrows in a quizzical fashion.

“You’ll find out later, won’t you, if I tell you it won’t be a surprise” Jeanne smiled.

We spent the rest of the evening in the Adam and Eve pub, outside in the garden. Jeanne was still wearing her long overcoat and insisted she couldn’t take it off, saying she was too cold, although it was only September and still quite warm out. I told her all about my holiday exploits, taking care to miss any mention of tall, voluptuous Norwegian one-night stands.

Later as our friends began to drift in we chatted excitedly with them and I caught-up on what had been happening locally whilst I’d been away. Topics covered consisted of who was now going out with whom; what fantastic parties I’d missed; who was having the next great party and all that sort of idle chatter. Other people in the pub admired my tan and asked me where I’d been. I was quite enjoying all the attention that not having been around for a while was getting me.

I was driving so I could only have a couple of drinks and I nursed my two pints of refreshingly cold Guinness over the course of the evening until well after the bell for last orders. Before we knew it the landlord was hovering over us pointedly collecting our empty glasses and ushering us towards the exit. Outside the pub we bade farewell to our friends and made our way back to where the car was parked, near to the local rugby club in grounds called the Home Park in the shadow of Windsor Castle.

As we reached the car Jeanne embraced me and we kissed long and hard and then she whispered in my ear “Move the car to the far end of the car-park where it’s dark and I’ll give you your surprise”.

I didn’t need any further encouragement. We jumped into the Marina and I moved it 100 yards further into the car park where there was no lighting, and no other cars. I stopped the car, pulling on the handbrake and turned off the engine and the headlights. “No leave the headlights on!” Jeanne insisted as she leaned over and kissed me again. “Now get out of the car” she murmured seductively in my ear.

We both alighted from the car and Jeanne walked around the front toward the bonnet. She motioned for me to follow her lead and we met in front of the car. She told me to sit on the bonnet as she walked a little further away framed by the headlights. I sat watching her as she turned around slowly facing me.

“Are you ready for your surprise now?” she asked.

“You betcha!” I said eagerly .

Jeanne began to unbutton her coat slowly and sensuously, once all the buttons were undone she suddenly flung it open in the manner of a flasher to reveal that she was wearing nothing but a figure-hugging black lacy basque with black lacy topped stockings and suspenders and absolutely no knickers. She was certainly a sight for sore eyes.

I let out a gasp “Wow!” I exclaimed “Is that all for me?”.

“It’s all yours babe!” Jeanne cooed as she walked back towards me, settling beside me on the bonnet of the Marina.

“You’ve been dressed like that all evening under that overcoat and I didn’t have a clue” I said.

“I know!” she gushed “and it felt soooo sexy in the pub, with nobody knowing but me, It’s got me really worked up. I’m at fever pitch already. I'm wetter than an otter's pocket!”.

We kissed passionately for a short while, fondling and groping each other and then I took off her overcoat completely and spread it carefully over the bonnet of the car. Jeanne needed no further direction from me as to what to do next. She lay back on top of her coat, spread-eagled on the bonnet of my car. I loosened my belt and drank in the glorious sight before me. It was enough to arouse genuine passion in any man, but for this lucky twenty year old it unleashed an unbridled and urgent desire. My trousers and underwear quickly around my ankles I grasped Jeanne around both stocking clad thighs and pulled her swiftly toward me.

It was several minutes later that I noticed the reflection of headlights lit up in the foliage of the trees ahead. At first, abandoned in the throes of an all encompassing and passionate embrace, it didn’t really register. Then the noise of a car engine grew louder and my higher brain functions kicked in, detaching me from the overwhelming feelings of lust and pure animal desire which had swamped my lizard brain. But it wasn’t until the familiar sight of flashing blue lights started that the real higher reasoning took over and I managed to disengage from my partner and hurriedly pull up my trousers, whilst somehow in the same moment, running around to the driver’s side door of my car. Jeanne had also realized that we were no longer alone and struggling to pull her coat back on was also making her way to the passenger door and the safety and comfort of the car interior. We both jumped in simultaneously and shut the doors. Sitting bolt upright totally startled, desperately adjusting our clothing; still panting hard from our physical efforts and the subsequent adrenaline rush of being disturbed whilst in the act.

We were lit up by the headlights approaching slowly from the passenger side of the car and a rhythmic flash of blue light. I sat stock still as the police car pulled up gradually alongside us.

The policeman sitting in the passenger seat of the police car now next to me lowered his window and motioned for me to do the same. I complied and was greeted by the smirking faces of two officers.

“Evening!” said the first officer.

“Good evening officer!” I countered.

“So what’s going on here then, as if we didn’t know” the officer sniggered sarcastically. Both policemen were finding it hard to keep a straight face and were obviously enjoying our discomfort and embarrassment.

The policeman in the driver’s seat lifted his torch and shone it directly into Jeanne’s face, now bright red with embarrassment, and then slowly down her now firmly buttoned coat. “Evening love” he grinned.

The first policeman looked sternly at me, “We’ve had a complaint” he said.

“Have you officer” I said politely.

“Yes” he confirmed “We have!” He continued “You do realize that this is 'Crown Estate' land?”

“No actually I didn’t” I lied.

“Well, it is, and Her Majesty doesn’t really appreciate that sort of…um…‘goings-on’ in her back garden”.

“Oh I’m sorry!” I bleated pathetically “I didn’t realize”.

“However, as you’ve both given us a good laugh and we’ve got something interesting to talk about in the canteen for a change, we’ll let you off with a warning this time”.

“Thank you officer” I nodded.

“Now get on your way, and try to choose somewhere a little less…um… conspicuous next time” he gestured towards the castle which filled the view behind us.

“Ok, we will” I nodded again submissively, as I started the engine and put the car in gear. “Thank you and goodnight then officers”.

“….and make certain the way ahead is clear before you pull out!” The officer shouted after me. I could hear their roars of laughter as I drove slowly away.

I pulled out onto the main road with the police car following behind us at a distance and turned to Jeanne “I think we just made their evening!” I sighed with relief.

“…..and I was just trying to make yours!” Jeanne snorted “That’s three for the price of one! Not bad!!”

Recollections...

When I was eighteen I hitch-hiked alone from London to Port Grimaud (near to St. Tropez) in France. It was 1983, Punk was officially dead and the New Romantics were already in their death throes. I thought I looked so cool in my tan moccasins (no socks); faded blue denim dungarees (rolled up 3 inches above the ankle); light brown leather jerkin (no shirt); loosely knotted red neckerchief and navy blue beret (at a jaunty angle, of course!). Dexy's Midnight Runners were 'where it was at' for me that summer. The Celtic Soul Brothers were on the rise... ever so briefly anyway!

Why Port Grimaud? I'd been there a couple of years previously with a friend and his family and thoroughly enjoyed myself. So it was a safe, familiar and certain destination. I'd never hitch-hiked before and in those days it wasn't even thought of as a dangerous way to travel. Having walked the mile to the nearest motorway junction. I found it relatively easy to get my first lift, waving a tattered piece of corrugated cardboard with the legend DOVER scrawled in thick black marker.

Three uneventful lifts later, and before I knew it, I'd left the comforting familiarity of Blighty behind and I was a foot passenger on a ferry to Boulogne and looking forward to my journey, the whole of France stretched out before me. It felt like a rite of passage, and in many ways I think it was. I was learning to be independent, breaking away from my mother’s apron strings. I stood proudly on the deck surveying the coastline ahead, squinting in the bright sunshine contemplating the adventures that may lay ahead of me, and puffing contentedly on a fat 'roll-up' made from Old Holborn tobacco.

Getting lifts once on French soil proved to be difficult. I managed to get a ride toward Paris from Boulogne fairly quickly with an English couple on holiday, but soon realised it wasn't going to be as easy as I thought. After Paris and heading south it became much harder, the time I would have to wait between journeys became longer and longer and I would find myself doing much more hiking than hitching. I'd already met a few other hitch-hikers along the way, of differing nationalities, and many told me that France was by far the most difficult country in Europe to 'faire de l'auto-stop' (hitch-hike).

I soon found out that just being English was a liability in France. I'd get offered lifts by people and we'd start driving along, all smiles and polite questions, then they'd ask me where I was from. The answer to this question often changed the atmosphere completely. Once I confirmed that I was 'Anglais' (English) my ride would often suddenly come prematurely to an end, "this is as far as I'm going" they'd explain apologetically giving me the Gallic shrug. Then I'd end up stuck in the middle of nowhere, trying to get my next ride.

It was after one of these occasions when I found myself stuck in a lonely spot for many hours. The road was bordered on both sides by maize fields, I'd been walking all morning and the scenery hadn't changed. Cars had appeared once every 15 minutes if I was lucky, and were usually going in the wrong direction. I'd been singing to myself out loud to keep my spirits up and as the day ground monotonously on I'd started talking to myself too. I had the distinct impression that I might be going slightly mad. One thing was for sure I had to get away from this place, back to somewhere that had a busier road and much more frequent traffic.

The blue Mercedes that pulled up came as both a surprise and a relief, I was a little dubious at first because I'd noticed this very same car driving past me going the other way not 5 minutes before. The single male occupant got out and motioned for me to put my heavy kitbag into the boot, which I did before opening the passenger door and slipping into the shiny tan leather seat. My initial concerns quickly set aside in the knowledge that I'd soon be escaping this godforsaken backwater.

We set off driving at a leisurely pace, whilst I answered the usual questions. I'd decided to tell people I was Irish, which is partly true because almost half of my antecedents actually were. But this seemed to get a much better reception from the French than when I said I was English, my lifts lasted longer and the atmosphere was always much more cordial.

The driver was Middle-Eastern in appearance, maybe Algerian or Moroccan and he spoke French with a very strong guttural accent, to the point where I found it difficult to understand him. He was fortyish and of average build and when he smiled I could see the flash of several gold teeth, glistening in the late afternoon sun.

He asked me where I was eventually headed to and when I told him St. Tropez he offered to drive me all the way there, even though we were still several hundred kilometers away. I said it was kind of him to offer but that it must be well out of his way and a lift to the next town would be more than generous enough. 'It's not a problem for me' he said and took his hand off the gear stick to pat my knee, whilst he again smiled his Aladdin’s cave smile. Of course I was still young and relatively innocent; I quickly dismissed the doubts arising in my mind. He's just being friendly, I convinced myself, and it’s probably just a cultural thing.

After a while he turned the radio on, Arabic music drifted from the speakers and we drove on for several kilometers. I looked out of the window at the French scenery rolling by, villages, churches, and cornfields. Then he softly patted my knee again, I looked down just as he grabbed my left wrist and pulled it toward his lap. I glanced over to where he was pulling my wrist and saw that he'd undone his trousers and unzipped his flies. The sight that greeted me was his erect penis poking through the cloth of his trousers and he was desperately trying to put my hand on it. I pulled my hand away quickly. What are you doing I exclaimed in broken and very surprised French. He spluttered, whilst readjusting his clothing, about how he thought that if he would be kind enough to take me to St. Tropez then the least I could do was comply with his wishes. 'No way!' I said suddenly realising at that precise moment that what he'd actually been proposing earlier; and what I'd misunderstood due to his thick accent and just nodded politely in agreement; was evidently "a ride for a ride".

'Stop the car!' I screamed 'I want to get out'. We pulled over to the side of the road and I went to open the door. Then I realised that my bag was in the boot and if I got out the guy would most likely just drive off taking all my belongings with him. 'Get my bag first' I yelled somewhat panic stricken. The guy turned off the engine got out of his seat and, still adjusting his trousers, opened the boot. I ran around the back and hauled my kitbag out. The guy just shrugged, got back in the Merc and drove away leaving me at the side of the road kitbag in hand, breathing hard with my heart racing. 'Welcome to France!' I thought 'Welcome to bloody France...'