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The Blue Door

After Salt of the Earth, what really happens at Jayne's house on Saturday afternoons?
My experience with Jayne and Brenda shook me up a bit, I don’t mind telling you. A threesome that turns into a fight? Between two girls? I could imagine it with two macho idiot men; in fact only one of them would have to be a macho idiot to cause trouble, but the women? Sex is supposed to be beautiful, and although it can have its edge of pain and suffering, if that turns you on, surely actual, unplanned violence is out of place.

Yet I was intrigued by what Jayne had said about what went on at her house on Saturday afternoons. The ice cream incident, which was pretty kinky in my book, she seemed to suggest was nothing out of the ordinary.

A few weeks later I decided to check it out. I wouldn’t just go barging in there and take my chances, but would stake the place out and see if it looked appealing. And so it was that I found myself in the back of a van, peering out of the windows like a policeman setting a trap. It was late August and still pretty warm for the UK. I had a stash of Diet Coke and Mars bars – I’d done my research, watching The Sweeney. I arrived at about two o’clock and parked right across the street from Jane’s place. It was a quiet residential area, a row of small, cheap houses with tiny front gardens and narrow paths between them.

I thought she would probably be in The Jamaica, a scruffy, lowlife pub nearby, where she and Brenda met up with sub-hippie, scruffy, complaining young men who smoked dope and worked as labourers. The dope and their private moaning about the government and the police were the total of their anti-establishment activities The juke box had remained unchanged for 20 years or more (this was in the 1990s), with Freebird by Lynyrd Skynrd providing the inspiration for the start of their sessions on pints of lager and the accompaniment to the closing credits, when they downed their large vodkas and staggered into the night.

I sat there in my stuffy lair for an hour before anything happened. A motorbike roared up the road and a mmiddle aged man and woman got off it and shook their long hair after its incarceration in their helmets. Clad in matching denim, they swaggered up the path to the front door, knocked, peered through windows, swore casually and went to sit on a low wall. Half an hour later Jayne and Brenda came rolling up from the direction of the Jamaica, each arm in arm with an oik – technical term for the sort of Jamaica drinker who wasn’t pretending to be ignorant, uneducated and obnoxious, but really was.

Jayne and Brenda greeted the bikers like long-lost friends and the six of them went inside. The biker boy had his hand on Brenda’s arse as they did, while his girlfriend was stroking the ill-fitting jeans of the guy behind her, as if she didn’t know who he was, but what did that matter?

Then two girls arrived, both mid-twenties, long-haired, wearing tight loon pants, both tidy and good looking and delighting in their lack of make-up. One was tall and muscular, the other what is termed ‘petite’. They knocked on the door, were admitted and disappeared into the venue for what had just become a little more attractive to me.

I didn’t have a girlfriend at the time and was a bit lonely. I weighed it up. A lot of oiks and some female ones too. Jayne and probably Brenda would make me welcome, probably, once they had got over the surprise of my uninvited appearance. The two spare girls looked okay, so maybe I could bag one of them. Or both. I had no idea how these things worked.

I drank the last of the Coke and thought “Why not? You can always leave if it doesn’t look good.”

I got out of the van, strode across the road and knocked on the door. After a horrible few seconds one of the Jamaica sub-hippies opened it.

“What?” he said.

“Jayne in?” I asked.

“Stay there,” he said and closed the door in my face. I could hear Fleetwood Mac from inside. Say You Love Me. The door opened and Jayne stood there, smiling broadly.

“What you doing here?” she asked. “You haven’t come to join in, have you?”

I sort of pursed my lips and blew in an'“I don’t know' way.

“Well come in,” she said gallantly. “Wow. Mike. Brenda,” she called out. “Look who’s here.” Brenda came out of the room where the music was and pouted at me.

“Well,” she said in a sultry voice. “Jayne’s posh friend.”

“Bollocks,” I said. “Where’s the booze?”

Brenda took me to the kitchen.

“Toilet?” I said, the Diet Cokes making their presence felt.

“Upstairs,” she said. “But don’t go in the blue door, whatever you do. Jayne’s Mum. Dolores.”

Dolores, I thought. There is only one Dolores around here. And she’s lovely. Manageress of a club in Town. She was the sort of older woman twenty-something men fantasized about. She flirted with all of us, and we found ourselves thinking that it might not just be a great fuck, but we might learn something at the same time.

I parked my drink and went upstairs. The toilet was free but I walked past it and up one stair to the landing. Blue door. That’s what her club was called. I knocked on it and a voice called out “On the landing.” I knocked again and footsteps padded over.

“Yes?” she said as she opened the door. “Oh, hello.” She recognised me.

I just looked at her. “Well?” she said eventually.

“Can I come in?” was all I could manage. She looked at me intently and then glanced up the hallway towards the stairs.

“Okay,” she said, and closed the door behind me quickly. She took up the seat she had been in, at her desk, with sheets of paper all over it. I sat in a small bedroom chair. The style probably has a name: long back, short legs, flowery pattern, a sort of skirt, I don’t know.

“You’re a friend of Jayne’s,” she said enquiringly. “Here for the… Saturday gathering.”

“Not really,” I said.

“Well, you’re here and it’s Saturday afternoon,” Dolores said evenly. “Lots of shaggable girls down there, I imagine.”

“You know all about it, then?” I said, slightly surprised.

“I could hardly avoid knowing,” she said, looking at the desk. “Could I?”

“But you don’t…” I began.

“Mind? Why should I mind? They’re all grownups.”

“Join in,” I said.

“Michael,” she said, looking at me. “Give me a bit of credit. The intellectual level isn’t exactly… Well, it’s not fucking Cambridge down there, is it?” I had sometimes wondered what she was really like behind the mature femme fatale image. I was now seeing her as a middle-class girl with a good education who had adopted the hippie lifestyle and rejected the pretension of her roots. Got mixed up with a bum, got pregnant, let little Jayne grow up with her father’s style rather than her own.

“I don’t think they’re interested in discussing anything but the price of cannabis,” I said.

“Do you fancy a smoke?” she said brightly.

“Yeah,” I said. “Why not?”

She opened a desk drawer and took out a small porcelain jewellery box, in which was a large lump of dark brown resin. She took a pouch of rolling tobacco, took some cigarette papers from it, stuck three together – two parallel and one across the top and spread tobacco on this new sheet of paper. She lit a disposable lighter and burned the corner of the lump, filling the air with the sweet, pungent aroma that promised good stuff, and crumbled some into the tobacco, then rolled it up and twisted the blunt end. Tearing a strip off an old cigarette packet, she rolled up a roach about an inch long and slid it into the opening. Exactly how I did it. Tearing off the twist at the end, she lit the joint and took a long, slow lungful, held it for 10 seconds and let it out, then did it again and passed the joint to me.

We both moved onto the settee and Dolores put on a CD of Aretha Franklin’s hits. She was a good ten years older than me, but she talked about things I was interested in, about travelling to Morocco and seeing Jimi Hendrix at the Isle of Wight festival at the end of the 1960's. She had been at university, but dropped out after a year and had moved around a lot, taking in the whole spectrum of hippie activities, from squatting in London to living with a band on a farm in northern France. And then she had come home and opened a health food shop, met an art student, got married, got pregnant, he left her and she lost interest in life in general. Eventually she had started working in bars, then running them and finally opened the Blue Door as a kind of pub/disco, aimed at a more discerning and slightly older crowd than usual. And now she had cancer – she didn't say where.

I told her my life story, which was a good deal less interesting than hers, but she listened and asked questions. By then we were on Joni Mitchell’s Hejira album and she was singing along. “I’ve got a blue motel room with a blue bedspread, I’ve got the blues inside and outside my head.” We were also on our third joint and had got through half a bottle of white wine. We could hear noises from downstairs and people clomping up and down, but no one had knocked on the blue door where Jayne’s mother was, because, I presumed, you just didn’t. She was cool, but you didn’t abuse her hospitality.

This room had a bedroom attached. It was Dolores’s private quarters, taking advantage of a large extension at the back of the house. She had an en-suite bathroom and we were blissfully self-contained. We were also simply blissful, having a beautiful afternoon, regardless of what was happening in the rest of the house, or indeed the rest of the world.

Dolores broke into song again. “Will you still love me, when I get back to town?”

She put her hand on my knee. “Ah, Joni,” she sighed. “She’s become a bit of a cliché, but she’s the best.”

I put my hand on top of hers and our heads swiveled towards each other.

“She’s great,” I agreed. “And so are you.”

We kissed and we lolled in our warm, idyllic atmosphere. Cannabis can have that effect, but it wasn’t just that.

“Do you know what I would like,” she said softly. “I’m going to put that song on again and I would like you to lick me while I sing it.” She stood up and did what she had to do to the CD player. She was wearing a long, loose Laura Ashley dress and she hitched it up as she sat down. She was wearing no underwear. She lay diagonally on the settee with one foot on it and the other on the floor, her head back as she sang. “I’ve got a blue motel room…”

I stood up, removed my shirt and knelt between her legs. Her light brown pubic hair was neatly trimmed and her skin was pale and soft.

“Will you still love me, when I get baaa aaah God that’s nice,” she sang and said as my tongue entered her and licked her tenderly up and down. She was delicious, but it occurred to me, not for the first time, that the physical side of oral sex was secondary to the emotional one. The pleasure, the privilege of being in that position, the gift of this woman’s precious vagina, was what made the whole thing so heavenly.

“Let me suck you,” she whispered, and we stood up and swapped positions. She helped me to remove my clothes, including my socks, and knelt with her arms on my thighs as she took me gently in her mouth and loved my penis. I put my hands on her head, softly, not guiding, but simply wanting to touch her. She really knew what she was doing, and carried on for several minutes before saying “Let’s go in the bedroom.”

Dolores pulled the dress over her head – no bra to contend with – and knelt on the bed. I got behind her and slid easily into her silky hole and we moved smoothly, slinkily, not in time with the music but with our own primitive rhythm, gradually increasing the pace but never frantic, and she began to moan.

“Michael, I’m cumming. Can you cum too?”

I had been holding back for a while by that time, so I said, “Cum and I’ll be there with you.”

We writhed together in ecstasy and collapsed in a heap. Dolores had put the music on repeat and she and Joni Mitchell sang, “It’s funny how these old feelings hang around. You think they’re gone, no, no, they just go underground. Will you still love me when I get back to L.A. town?”

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