Entertaining at Large Ch. 01

My personal life was a different matter. I was still dating: mostly friends of friends. Occasionally I'd get asked out by someone I didn't know, but on the whole all these encounters were, well, unsatisfactory. I found it increasingly difficult to sit through a meal listening to some bloke trying to impress with tales of accountancy, the law or other adventures in middle management. It was not all their fault; I'm sure they too did not plan on being forced to maintain an interested expression in the candlelight whilst their date went on about gear ratios or the ins-and-outs of football tactics.

George the landlord, a blancmange of a man with no discernible qualities save for a slave-like dedication to the study, storage, delivery and consumption of beer, liked me. I was the only one in our group who drank beer and I appreciated his efforts to educate the palates of the neighbourhood with a variety of local brews. I would usually stand at the bar discussing my first pint with him before joining the rest. On all other subjects he was crude and direct.

'What a sight for sore eyes. Those tits make me shiver every time I see them.'

'Don't lie, George, the whole place would be shaking if you did.'

'So when you coming down on a Friday to give us a show?'

'That would be never, George. I'm surprised you get any entertainers at all when you can't even spell what they do.'

Was a typical Wednesday night exchange. Give the man his due though, he was persistent. He had clearly picked up on Wot's inadvertent half-reference to my evening at home and would not let it go. Not that he got any further info from the lads. I had become a sort of honorary male in their eyes. They had started calling me 'Keeper' or 'Goalie', a gender-neutral entry card to matedom.

After a week or two they had stopped looking across at me or apologising when they swore or made some grossly inappropriate comment about women. I didn't know whether to be pleased or not. I did become something of a mother confessor to them as they struggled with the age-old question: "what do women want?"

As the age-old answer is still "not to be treated like shit" these consultations didn't take very long. I once tried explaining to Luke that just agreeing to take his latest flame to a meal and a chick flick on a Tuesday did not mean guaranteed anal intercourse on the Saturday. He didn't get it. So after that I restricted myself to sympathetic smiles and knowing shrugs when the topic came up. They did give me a more realistic insight into the blokes I was dating, though. It reinforced my decision that for the foreseeable future I was getting my kicks on my own terms. Another stab at a long-term relationship could wait.

In fact, the only person who did flirt with me was George. As I mentioned, he liked a girl who knew her beer. I had had a fairly thorough education in that department from my dad. He used to take me down the pub with him every Saturday afternoon to talk racing with his pals. I got to have sips of his drink and, when I was fourteen and therefore old enough in his eyes, the odd half pint of my own. George owned the pub, something of a rarity in these days of corporatism, and was proud of his ale. It was just everything else he was rubbish at.

I had started ribbing him about the Friday "striper's" a few weeks in to our relationship. He was at a loss to see the problem until one of the other regulars pointed it out. The next time I came in he was ready.

'All right, sexy, you win. I've changed the sign. But only because Wot said you'd come and perform.'

'In your dreams, fat boy.'

My laugh changed from polite to genuinely tickled when I glanced at the board: "Stripper's Every Friday". I decided to ignore the feeble attempt to draw Wot into the equation. George might have a reading age of about seven, but he was not stupid and Wot's near slip on my first night at the Crown and Anchor had been filed away.

'Five out of ten, George, five out of ten. Good job none of your punters can read.'

'I give up. Here, you bloody do it.'

He reached behind the till for a duster and a tube of liquid chalk. I thought about arguing, but I was gasping for a pint and so obliged writing "STRIPPERS" in the largest letters I could squeeze in. George handed me a pint of almost black bitter.

'On the house Gypsy Rose. Anyone ever tell you you've got a lovely wrist action?'

'Only every bloke I ever dated. If you ever find yours in the folds of fat, I could give you some tips.'

'Diet starts tomorrow.'

I raised my glass to him. The conversation had gone as far as I was willing to take it. And anyway I was eager to make fun of Luke who had managed to miss an open goal in our latest defeat; an opportunity to savour.

I started stripping on a regular basis by accident too. One night as I went to close the curtains after getting out of the bath I noticed my elderly neighbour standing in his front room looking up at me. He is a nice old boy. We had always exchanged brief greetings when we went in or out of our houses at the same time. He made sure my bin was rolled back into the garden after collections. When I started cycling he had stopped me to regale me with tales of his younger days, riding the local roads and lanes.

I pretended I had not seen him looking, but stopped short of closing the curtains. Instead I ostentatiously dried myself by rubbing my hands slowly over the thin towel which covered me enjoying the feeling of hardening nipples. I was not exactly sure where my performance was going, but made great play of adjusting the towel, unknotting and knotting it with my side to the panes. When I rubbed the cloth against my warm thighs I slipped my hand inside the folds and kept massaging my skin.

I was getting warm and could feel myself getting aroused. My own sly glances confirmed I still had an audience. Mr Jones, I did not know his first name, had turned off his lounge lights but I could still make out his silhouette in the glow from the street lamps. I turned my back to him and opened the towel fully drawing it back and forwards across my shoulders and then slowly down my back. As I lowered it over my buttocks I let the towel drop and walked towards my bed.

I had been going to get my pyjamas, but looking down at the fleecy garments, decided against it. They are the least sexy items of clothing I own; warm enough admittedly. Instead, I turned back towards the window taking a circuitous route which would have kept most of me out of eye line. When there I pretended to be having problems with the curtains. I stretched and tugged gently at them, all the time keeping most of my naked body hidden behind them. I wondered what Mr J was making of it all. Finally, feeling very much like an old-time burlesque teaser, I walked to the middle of the window and, stretching out a hand to each side, slowly drew the curtains together. When they were fully closed I made a quick curtesy laughing to myself. My pussy was sopping when I slipped my finger between the lips after finally getting under the covers.

After that, Mr Jones and I had a regular date. Sometimes, when I was tired after a long day at work, I might just get undressed and into my nightwear. At others I put on a full show. It felt weird at first, getting dressed in the bathroom only to come out and take all my clothes off again. I built up a collection of old bump and grind numbers on my phone to make the whole thing more sophisticated. Mr Jones was clearly delighted with our unspoken arrangement.

He was invariably at his front gate wishing me a good morning as I wheeled out my bike. Once I came home to find him mowing my front lawn, which became a permanent deal once I 'thanked' him that night with an extra special show. I learned his name was Oswald; that he had been widowed for five years and that he was available for any odd jobs I might need doing around the house. I winked at him before riding away.

Initially I was a little shocked at how much I liked exposing myself to him. My consumption of AA batteries and water-soluable lube went up significantly. I was choosing outfits and particularly underwear with a view to how easy it would be to take them off as much how good they looked on. My post contained regular deliveries from a sex toy and lingerie on-line store.

After each show I would climb into bed. However tired I may have been beforehand sleep seldom came quickly. My hands would stray down to my breasts and pussy. This time my caresses would be softer and more prolonged than my "stage" performances. I discovered I loved pinching my nipples, applying as much pressure as I could before releasing them. The combination of pain with the intensifying excitement and warmth I could generate with the fingers of my other hands as I stroked and circled my clit would often be enough to bring me to a panting climax.

On other nights I would search out my vibrator from among my pillows. It gave me a more prolonged adventure. Sometimes I would find myself taking several minutes stroking the hard black machine as I applied the lube. Images of cocks I had known flooded my mind at these times and sometimes I didn't even switch it on before I had brought myself off with my fingers. The soft buzz the vibrator emitted, even on full power, justified the money I had spent on it.

Mostly I would run the warm tip between the folds of my pussy and over my clitoris before sliding it home. At other times I would slide it straight in, filling my pussy and making myself gasp as it stretched the sensitive walls. The strategically placed probes attached to the main shaft fell against my, by now, erect clit and the soft bud of my anal entrance. My usual practice was to slide it in and out, increasing the speed as I felt my passions rising. Sometimes though I just pressed it home and held it in place to concentrate on the tickling sensation around the entrance to my bottom.

I was washing the sheets as often as I had when Dave and I first started living together in he months leading up to our marriage. Lube stains a lot less than spunk, I found, but still a girl likes clean sheets and I never completely ruled out the prospect of inviting someone home one night.

Xmas was on the horizon. You know the sort of thing 'book your party here' notices – even George had one, much to everyone's amusement. Shop windows were beginning to take on a distinctive red and silver hue and every time I turned on my computer ads for presents would pop up all over. I'm the sort of person who likes to get things done early: cards, presents, menu, drinks, tree and decorations. This year was my first year alone. My dad was dead and mum was in sheltered accommodation where they organised a slap up dinner and entertainment which I was definitely not going to attend.

In years past, Dave and I had spent the day at his parents. I doubted I was getting an invitation this year. I was planning on visiting my mum in the morning and then having a little me-time. Maybe a bike ride if it wasn't too cold, but just a simple meal, perhaps a bottle of wine and then vegging in front of the TV. I had subscribed to Netflix to subvert the main broadcasters' plans to fill my head with crap. I had bought the girls I went cycling with a pocket-sized multi-tool and a bottle of hand cream each that was easy. The lads were a different matter. I had never bought for mates before only boyfriends, lovers and, most often, my husband.

I was mulling over what to get them one evening as I wheeled my bike up the path when I was surprised by Mr Jones coming around the corner of my house. Just the man for present buying advice, I thought.

'Susan. Sorry if I disturbed you. I was just mulching your shrubs. You know, protecting the roots against the frost.'

Dave and I had planted the border in the spring. We did it every year and every winter it all died; the bits that hadn't already been eaten by slugs that is.

'That's all right Mr J. Anytime. Listen there's something you can help me with. I need to pick your brains.'

'What is it?'

I had started to shiver in my thin clothes and I needed a shower.

'What are you doing for tea? Would you like to join me? Nothing special, just pasta, but we could chat in comfort. And it would be a thank you for all your work in the garden.'

'That would be lovely. But it's me who should be thanking you, as I think you know. Shall I come back in an hour?'

I nodded and smiled as he retreated. It would be nice, I told myself. He's a good old stick and it would be good to cook for someone. I realised I missed it. I hummed my way through the shower and changed into jeans and a warm work shirt. Fortunately, the contents of my cupboard and fridge were sufficient to back up my impromptu invitation and as the aromas emerged from the bubbling pan I felt quite proud of myself.

The front door bell made me jump. I guessed it was an hour to the minute. I pulled open the door to be greeted by Mr J. He was wearing a suit and tie and holding two bottles of wine, one red, the other white. He looked shy and, for his age, handsome as he stood there.

'Come in out of the cold, Mr J. Gosh you look dapper. I feel quite underdressed.'

I kissed him on the cheek and ushered him down the hall towards the kitchen. I checked the pan and reached down two glasses from the top cupboard. I polished them with a tea towel as my guest stood by the door looking awkward.

'There's a corkscrew in the drawer there. Why don't you open the wine and pour us a glass. You really shouldn't have made such an effort.'

'I'm sorry about this, Susan. It's been years since I've had, well, an invitation. These days I really only have a couple of suits and casual clothes. I thought I'd make an effort.'

'And I shall too. Give me ten minutes to get changed.'

I rushed out of the room with his apologies following behind me. Upstairs, I was zipping myself into my black dress and adjusting my stockings before I remembered what had happened the last time I wore it. I had pulled it from the wardrobe because it was the only one there in dry cleaning wrappers. I smiled at the memory as I pulled on my heels, pretty sure there wasn't going to be a repeat performance.

Mr Jones was stirring my sauce when I got back to the kitchen. He added a sprinkling of herbs and then coloured as he turned and caught me looking at him as he worked.

'Now it's my turn to tell you you should not have bothered changing. I shall have to watch my blood pressure. You look beautiful.'

'Why thank you, kind sir. Are you hungry? I am. Why don't we eat straight away.'

We settled into the meal. I had made a side salad and my own dressing as well as the pasta. We chatted amiably about family; Mr J's sons both lived in London and he saw his grandchildren rarely. There was a low moment when he talked about how much he missed his wife, but brightened again as he described his plans for his own garden, and mine, in the new year. I skated over my own divorce feeling a little guilty at how little I missed Dave. We agreed that looking forward was the best thing.

As the food came to an end I shooed my guest into the front room while I cleared the dishes into the machine. I carried through the remains of our second bottle of wine with cups, cream and sugar while the percolator did its stuff. I found Mr J scanning my CDs and switched on the gas fire.

'I think the fire makes the room more cosy, don't you? Turn it down if you get too warm.'

'I will, thank you. You have quite a collection here. I have hardly heard of any of them.'

'Yes, sorry about that. Pick one if you find something you like. I do have some older stuff on my phone.'

I retreated back to the kitchen to get the coffee and as an afterthought added the whisky and a couple of glasses to the tray. Perfect hostess, or what? When I got back into the lounge, Mr J was scrutinising the few books I kept on a shelf in the corner, more for show than anything but I had read most of them.

'Didn't find music you liked? I'll see what's on my phone.'

'Anything you like Susan. I'm not much of a fan. By the way, you still haven't told me what it was you wanted a hand with. The reason you invited me?'

I was obviously looking a bit blank when he raised the issue.

'Oh that. I was having such a good time I had quite forgotten.'

I explained my problem with choosing relatively inexpensive presents for the lads. Mr J laughed at the abbreviated, U certificate, version of the tale of how I came to be playing in goal. And at some of the disasters I had witnessed and contributed to from between the posts. He asked a few questions about them and I did not spare their characters as I drew thumbnail sketches.

'They sound like me in my younger days, I'm embarrassed to say.'

'Bit of a lad were you?'

'I had my moments.'

He blushed when I pressed him for more details and fell silent. We were alternating sips of coffee and wine as we sat together on the sofa. I was surprised at how comfortable the silences were when they occurred. I flicked through my phone and clicked the music to play through the speakers. Burlesque jazz filled the room.

'As to your question, the answer is clear. Either socks, or booze, or if you want to be particularly naughty a book on women's football. They sound like they need it.'

I kissed him on the cheek.

'Brilliant. I should have thought of it myself. I just saw some branded socks on my cycling site – they were for Wankers. You know, the US cooked meats firm?'

I smiled shyly whilst my guest processed the information.

'You really are naughty, aren't you? I didn't think ladies used language like that.'

"Ladies don't. But then, to quote the old movie star, "I'm no lady".'

We both smiled and listened to the music for a moment. I was just thinking about shaking my hips to the beat. I was surprised that Mr J was humming along. I smiled at him.

'Penny for them.'

'I was just thinking of the first time I heard this tune.'

He fell silent again. I nudged him with my elbow giggling slightly.

'Come on then, spill the beans. When was it?'

'I'm not sure it's the sort of story I should tell in mixed company, my dear.'

'Come on Mr Jones, not so formal, and we're not in mixed company. It's just you and me.'

'Well the story is a little risqué. Are you sure you don't mind?'

He proceeded to outline his youthful days in the merchant navy visiting ports all around the world.

'Of course we were young and carefree, "insouciant" as the French say. We had a bit of cash in our pockets. You have to remember that there was nothing like strip clubs, or even night clubs, outside London. We went to them whenever we were in port. The first time I heard that song it was played by a saxophonist with a drummer and a double bass player. Would you mind starting it again?'

He fell quiet with a peaceful grin on his face, eyes shut. I leaned to pour a little whisky into the glasses. The wine was long finished.

'And there was this girl, I say girl, she was probably old enough to be my mother, doing a strip on a small stage.'

'Was she beautiful?'

'Ugly as sin. You could see her moustache through the make up. Her breasts were all saggy and she kept her knickers on. But the combination of the music, the lights and of course we weren't used to the booze. Magic.'

He sighed and briefly closed his eyes again before opening them suddenly and sort of shaking himself. He turned to me.

'And what of you, my dear? Are you enjoying your youth to the full? Breaking hearts? You have a beautiful body and a generous character. Your husband was a fool to let you go.'

He spoke in a bright but unemphatic way. I found myself blushing at his reference to my body and was momentarily lost for words.

'Less of the "my dear" if you don't mind, Mr J. Makes you sound like that old lecher from the Flanders and Swann song. My dad played it all the time.'