Keeping the Mystery Alive

We took a taxi to the Restaurant and walked in just after 7pm to find Monique sat in the bar, sipping wine and looking like, well, she looked stunning!  Her blonde hair had been pulled back into a pony tail, her skin glowed and she wore a deep red silk dress off the shoulders that hugged her figure and emphasised the body beneath and all of its curves, wow!  I looked non too shabby if I do say so myself dressed as I was in a classic pair of Levi 501’s replete with tears and worn patches.  A white Tuxedo shirt that had tight sharp pleats down the front which I’d bought from International Male on Melrose Ave, LA, when I met Brooke Victoria for a weekend of sex and shopping and nothing more. A black belt with the word Triumph in chrome forming the buckle and my black Crocodile Skin cowboy boots polished to a brilliant shine with silver toecaps.  All in all I was George Michael circa the release of his Faith album.  Mum dressed elegantly in a neat skirt and blouse, with her Turquoise jewellery and her hair curled and set in place with mousse and fixing spray.  She discovered mousse when I started using it to fix my hair back, which I succeeded in doing by laying on my back on the bed, head over the edge so my hair fell away with gravity, the hairdryer going full blast as I pulled my fingers through the hair starting at the front and working back.  I’d then sit up in front of the mirror and with a ball of mousse work through again, teasing each strand into place.  What a tart!

Monique literally jumped off of her bar stool and walked toward us stopping Mum in her tracks, as she grasped her hands and kissed her cheek. Mum responded in kind and Monique giggled as Mum said “What a wonderful greeting Monique”.  I stood beside Mum marvelling at this beautiful woman as she released mum and turned towards me.  She held out her hand which I took in mine and she lent forward to kiss me full on the mouth, again I responded in kind as a sting of arousal chased down my stomach into my groin and set off fluttering butterflies in my midriff.  I slowly pulled away from her lips, so slowly that a small section of our bottom lips stayed together until the movement apart finally released us from one another with a soft “puck” sound.  I noticed I had stopped breathing and sucked in air realising that Monique was doing the same as we locked eyes and smiled together.  The cat had got the cream but the question was, just who was the cat and who was the cream?  I half expected Mum to interrupt this with a discreet “Ahem!” but Mum was much too ladylike and waited whilst we both recovered from a kiss that probably appeared to anyone watching as a greeting between long lost lovers.  The night had barely begun and already my thoughts were charging ahead setting off various synapses, which in turn fired nerve endings, inspiring hormones to flood through my body, which resulted in heightened blood flow to bodily parts eager to grow and fill any space available.

We took seats at the bar and I ordered drinks; Mum wanted only Slimline tonic water a sure sign that she was once again watching her weight, and a refill of wine for Monique, and I had a ‘Dos Equis’ Mexican dark beer.  Monique held my hand in hers as Mum told her of our exciting day at the beach with Monique nodding approvingly upon hearing that I had gone for a long jog on the beach and then playfully scowling and furrowing her brow as Mum told of her worry, as she sat alone and surrounded by the mob.  A waiter arrived at my side saying our table on the patio was available whenever we wanted and after some more chatter about our adventure, we walked through to the garden and I held out her chairs as Mum, then Monique took their seats.  That I should hold their chairs as they sat down may appear as my being ‘Mr Smooth’ but in fact, I was brought up by my parents to do such things as; hold a chair whilst a woman took her seat, offer my seat up on a bus to others less able to stand, hold open doors for others, answer the telephone politely, sit up at the table, mind my P’s and Q’s and generally behave well in company.  It has done me no harm and I instil these behaviours in my children and expect nothing less of them.

The menu was not overloaded with options and I would bet that Mum ordered Fish, (her usual favourite of Breaded Scampi, very likely not on the menu!).  Over dinner with Monique and Mum on either side of me, we laughed and joked about various topics.  Surprisingly, Monique was not too interested in my (George’s) current musical activities beyond that already known and we talked of family, travel all the usual banter at table.  As the night drew on my marvellous mother made motions towards tiredness and we asked if we could take coffee in the bar, along with brandy for Monique and whisky for myself. Mum paid the bill despite protestations from Monique and I wasn’t arguing as the CO-OP Insurance was picking up the tab anyway!  The evening drew on and Monique asked whether we’d like to move on to the Jazz Bar where we’d first met the night before?  Mum looked at me and said with a mischievous glint in her eye that “Thank you, but I am tired and need a good nights sleep after all the sun and excitement I had today”, (Monique of course unaware of Mum’s recent heart attack and need for rest), but happy to hear that I was all for a further extension to the evening.

It was at that point that I realised that to pursue with the ‘George” scenario playing out since we met, either Mum would have to check in to the Biltmore Hotel (not going to happen) or I’d have to think on my feet for a plan by which I could safely deliver mum to the Motel and continue onward with Monique.  All without Monique discovering the deception.  Bugger!  With all thoughts now focused on devising a plan I excused myself and went to the restroom to think.  Try as I might, every idea ended with either discovery or was such an entangled web that failure would be the only outcome.  With Monique driving, why would she not drop Mum at the Biltmore or why would Mum and I get a cab, then another for me to get to the Jazz Bar?  “Bollocks to this” I thought, the game is up!  I washed my hands, checked my appearance in the mirror and walked back to where they were sat in the bar.  Mum was smiling at me and Monique was staring at me, a playful look said something was up.  I sat down and Mum said, “Monique knows you are not George Michael, Jonathan”.  I looked across at Monique who was laughing now and so was Mum.  

I did not know where to look other than dumbfounded.  Monique stopped laughing took my hand and said that she half expected that I was not George and had been happy to play out the ruse until it became incompatible to carry on.  That point had now been reached as mum had realised the difficulty in continuing and had asked whether she could be honest with Monique in my absence?  Monique had said of course so Mum has said, “He’s not really George Michael you know?” to which Monique had replied, “Yes, I know.”  They had then discussed how Monique had rumbled us and MTV had been my undoing, or rather MTV News to be precise.  It had run a segment on George’s current tour of the East Coast and had told how he was currently in Miami where he was playing dates before moving on, or some such thing.  I looked at Monique who smiled as if to say “its ok” and I smiled back.  I suggested we move on then and asked if Monique would mind dropping mum back at the Motel Bilt-more or less?  She laughed and said “of course” so we stood and walked out Monique taking my hand as we walked a few paces behind Mum.  I softly squeezed her hand and we arrived at her car, Mum taking the front seat next to Monique and I got in the back.

At the Motel, Monique waited in the car whilst I let Mum in the room, made her a cup of Tea, put her glass of water by the bed and asked whether there was anything else she wanted?  “No Jonathan, you go now and have a nice time” she said.  I walked to the door and looked back to see her sitting on her bed, taking her tablets.  A pang of guilt shot through me as she looked up and smiled.  I was leaving her alone for the first time since her release from hospital, was it wrong, should I be doing that?  “Go on then” she said, with some emphasis to her voice and I turned and closed the door, locking it behind me.  I sat in Monique’s car and said “Lets go then” false bravado apparent in my voice, as I was worried for Mum and not for what lay ahead for me that night; that I could deal with.  I looked at Monique and she lent into me and kissed me passionately.  We settled into a long searching kiss, exploring with tongues and clashing teeth as our heads turned to get closer to each other.  Neither of us wanted to stop the kiss but breathing became difficult and we parted, took a breath and dived back in.  My worries for Mum started to dissipate as we kissed and I opened my eyes as we were still locked together and looked at her.  I looked at her eyes; closed and relaxed, little nerves twitching on her eyelids.  I closed my eyes again, only to open them seconds later to find her looking at me, we broke apart laughing and said, “wow” simultaneously.

“To the jazz bar then” I said.  “OK”, she replied laughing again and drove out of the car park and down State Street toward the beachside road, turning left and heading out towards Summerland.  Arriving at the bar she parked and we entered to a heady mix of music, smoke, loud voices searching to be heard and the smell of beer.  We looked at each other and turned as one and walked out of the bar, “my place?” she asked.  “Yea, why not” I said, “lead the way”.  Back in her car we kissed again and turning inland drove up hill past groups of townhouses and low level apartment blocks until about half way up, where she turned into a parking space in front of a group of two storey townhouses running parallel to the coast.  She parked and we walked towards the door of one of the apartments my hand in hers until we reached the door.  She let us in, closing and locking the door behind as I stepped into the house and along a corridor past a doorway to a bathroom and into a large open plan room with large patio doors leading to a wooden deck.  

The living room was sparsely furnished; a couch, some art on the walls, a TV in the corner.  It was open plan as the breakfast bar gave way to the kitchen area and against the wall were stairs fixed with a balustrade leading to a large balcony overlooking the living room.  Monique flicked a light switch and walked past me to the kitchen where she pulled a bottle of wine from the fridge, collected two glasses from a cupboard and came back into the living area and gestured to the couch.  I sat down, propping my back in the corner against large soft cushions and took a glass of wine.

She told me about how she’d been sure I was George Michael the first night we’d met but that she could work out who the older lady was.  So when she came across to where we sat and the lady (mum) had confirmed that I was George, she had believed her, why would a little old lady lie?  Finding out that I was not who I purported to be, (I corrected that and said in fact Mum had said who I was not me), it was then a game to see when and if the ruse would break down.  

“Were you angry” I asked, “yea a little at first, but then I liked your mum, if that’s who she was and thought what would be wrong in meeting up again, but I like you and want to fuck you.  Who cares whether you’re George or not” she replied and my heart started kicking the shit out of my chest wall.

A sandy preface to A Little Night Music

Mum loved espionage as was fast becoming apparent! As we drove back to our Motel I asked why she felt it necessary to confirm to Monique that I was George Michael.  “Well, you look like him and you can sing” was her reply.  “She is very attractive Jonathan, you could do well there”.  Now answer me this, what on earth was a sixty year old woman doing using the phrase, “you could do well there?”  I asked her the same thing. “Well, she is very beautiful, obviously well educated, has her own place and this is a lovely place to live”.  So she marrying me off to a woman we had met only three hours previously and basing her choice on none other than the little known facts to hand.  No, she wasn’t a Jewish Mamma but the inference could be drawn.

For my part, one who was ‘heavily’ Sex driven and relationship ‘lite’, my immediate intention, far different from my mothers of course, was to get inside Monique’s knickers as quickly as possible.   Given that she believed (did she really?) I was George; I expected that to happen with the minimum of fuss and nonsense.  Far from possible marriage, children, settling down in Southern California (I could almost hear Mum’s mind building a tic list of objectives that would result in her having a Granny Annex at her son and daughter-in-laws beachfront home in the sun) and a life envied by many, I was deciding how early the following evening I could drop Mum back at the Motel after dinner.  Would there be a need for coffee post meal?  Would Mum suggest a nightcap at another bar?  Was Mum likely to create a blocker on my amorous pursuit’s saying her health demanded that I bid Monique good evening and take her back to the Motel, tucking her in and lying there dreaming of what if scenarios? Far too much thinking going on for our own good with both our heads filled with plans.  One with plans for the rest of their lifetime, the other, with plans limited to the next night.  With Mum tucked up in bed in one of her Hospital gowns now her ‘go to’ nightwear, I took a chair outside our Motel room and sat on the walkway, glass of Jack Daniels to hand and wondered about the day and night to come.  Eventually I retired as well, far later than normal, with pleasant images flooding my head as I mentally removed Monique’s dress she’d been wearing early that evening.

I awoke the following morning a happy man, our plan for the day ahead was to travel out to Goleta Beach State Park beyond the airport; by the University of California at Santa Barbara (UCSB) campus. The beach forms a spit of sand between the mouth of a river running behind it and to the south and the Pacific Ocean on the other side.   There is space for parking, a café and bar where students would pull up in cars with loud music coming from ghetto blasters and pile onto the beach, playing volley ball or generally fooling around.  Across the estuary the beach resumed but was now backed by cliffs that led towards Santa Barbara.  Most days we’d breakfast on the road, with Mum taking coffee in bed, which I’d make before she rose and showered.  Finding Goleta by accident, we had planned to return and so by eleven am we were parking up and walking towards the sand.  A group of youths, both boys and girls, had parked up by our car and were sat on their car hoods and were fooling around, smoking and shouting, music blaring out.  Mum and I decided we’d wander away down the beach a little and settled on a plot of sand that was interspersed with knots of grass.  Towels positioned, we lay back, Walkman on in my case, Marlboro on the go, National Enquirer and a paper cup of coffee in Mum’s hands.  

Whilst always conscious of my weight, in fact I did very little to manage it and surprisingly maintained a neat and trim thirty inch waist.  Wearing Black Speedo swimming trunks and the Marlboro cigarette stubbed out in an empty cup, I told Mum I was going for a jog and set off towards the end of the spit.  The beach was not busy at all so I was not out to pose for once, and tracked along the waters edge until I reached the mouth of the river.  It was shallow the middle reaching no deeper than my waist, so I waded in crossing swiftly and carried on jogging past the cliffs.

As I ran I could feel the burn of the sun on the top of my shoulders and enjoyed its warmth.  I have always been more of a summer than winter man and the climate of California was all right by me.  I had developed anyway, through fair means (sunlight) and foul (sunbed) a deep tan by that point and it felt good to be jogging over the sand, the odd piece of wood, some seaweed and a few plastic bottles the only hazards I needed to dodge as I ran along the seas edge.  After a while I stopped and looked back to see that I had travelled further than I'd intended, in fact I had turned along the coast and around the headland losing sight of Goleta Beach altogether.  I tracked back around the headland and back past the cliffs straining my eyes to try and identify Mum against the sand, but failed to pick her out.  She had moved, probably to get some shade.  As I crossed the river and rose up the sand bank I again looked ahead and noted that whilst she was still sat where I had left her, she was sat amongst a large group of people.  

I picked up speed and eventually flopped down on my towel quite exhausted to find her looking slightly alarmed.  “Where did this lot come from then” I said, gesturing towards the large group of people now easily identified as the group we’d seen at the car park, plus assorted others.  “They came over soon after you’d jogged away, I’ve been quite worried Jonathan” she said.  Looking at the group more closely it was primarily made up of Hispanic people, who were talking animatedly, smoking dope and drinking beer.  There were maybe a handful of white American’s amongst them but as a group, their ages ranged from late teens into their thirties so I guessed that they were not necessarily from the University.  Occasionally, one of them would get up and walk back to the cars and return with more beer and I guessed that the afternoon was only going to get louder and more raucous as it progressed, so I said that we’d better pack up, either moving further down the beach towards the university or leaving altogether.

As we packed up, a few shouts came our way along the lines of “Hey, why are you leaving patron” or “Go get me a beer el jefe” the accents and insults were much like the characters in Carlito’s Way, starring Al Pacino!  Ignoring their requests we packed up and wandered, as nonchalantly as possible away from them and up the beach towards the café and the car park.  As we neared the café where we had decided to sit and have a cold drink, a number of other cars swung into the car park, music blaring, beer swilling youths and adults clambering out as soon as they parked up.  I decided that we should hang around for a while to see what would happen and told mum, whereas she was of another mind and would be happy to leave.  It made no difference anyway as no sooner had we swapped ideas, than two Police Cars drove into the car park and four Policemen emerged from them.  Mum wanted to stay now.  

The Police Officers wandered around the cars parked near ours looking in the windows and looking across at the group of people they belonged to.   A number of the group, mostly men but one or two women as well, came from the beach waving their arms, around shouting at the Officers, asking what they wanted, what they were doing, they'd "done nothing!"

The Officers remained calm and spoke quietly out of ear shot, but whatever they were saying seemed to have the desired affect as the shouting subsided and the women stopped dancing frantically around the men which had been happening during the commotion.  The Officers looked in our direction mainly because the man who appeared to be the main speaker for the group had been pointing at the Café, gesticulating with his arms, which in turn had prompted the others to jump around in what appeared to be a war dance.  Once again the Officers spoke and the crowd stopped dancing. Mum was really interested and kept wondering out loud as to what the problem might be?  One of the Police officers walked across to the Café, said “Good afternoon” to those gathered around and asked for the owner.  A woman stepped forward and walked back towards the group someway, before stopping about thirty metres from them.  

They spoke to one another, and then walked across to the main party and wild gesticulations began again, with whoops and screech’s coming from the women.  One of the Officers who had obviously had enough of that, grabbed two women, each by an arm and frogmarched them to the beach, the women appearing as rags dolls being dragged across the car park and sand, where he placed them down on the ground, said something and walked back.  Not one of the men appeared fazed by this and did nothing to stop the Officer or to protest. 

Still more conversation and then the leader said something to one of the other men, who wandered down to the beach, picked up a bag and walked back again.  He opened the bag; a Police Officer looked into it and took out bottles of beer and potato chips, showed them to the lady from the Café, who nodded her head.  The items were placed back into the bag and the bag passed to the lady.  She turned and walked back to the Café muttering to herself as she passed by what was now a substantial crowd gathered under the awning.  The guy who produced the bag turned around and was handcuffed by one of the Police Officers, whilst the others wandered back to the beach except the leader who stood watching his compadre getting arrested.  The Police Officers placed him in the back of a car got in as well and drove around the car park and out onto the road leading to the Airport.

The crowd at the Café dispersed leaving Mum and I along with a few others still sat at the tables.  The owner came out and was asked by someone she obviously knew what had gone on.  It transpired that this group had consistently raided her fridges for beer every time they came down to the beach and she had finally had enough. The Police had threatened to search everyone on the beach for drugs, which had set off the shouting and protestations of innocence.  The lead Police Officer had said that if they produced the items and the thief owned up and came with them, nothing further would happen, which is what took place.  The owner said that the crowd were not necessarily a bad bunch, just that she was sick and tired of losing money on them and that she felt it time to call a halt to their stealing from her.  

Mum spoke up then saying it was disgusting behaviour and that they should be ashamed of themselves. Where were their parents she wanted to know?  Mum calmed down with more coffee; milky coffee or Café Latte as we came to know it ten years later.  Mum said she had been surrounded by them at one point and was preparing to give them a piece of her mind when I came back and extricated her from her predicament.  Lucky for them I thought!  After such an eventful day we packed up, heading back to the Motel and a rest.  

I needed to trim my stubble anyway, as I did not want to scratch Monique’s inner thighs and Mum needed to sleep before dinner.

Fancy meeting you here!

The landscape in and around Santa Barbara varies, from hillside trails for walking and riding that give way to beaches of soft golden sand and the often dramatic waves of the Pacific Ocean.  The beachfront area is neatly landscaped with flowering borders and well kept lawns, stark tall Palms offering minimal shade from the sun and intertwined throughout with cycle paths usually patrolled by skateboarders and roller skate enthusiasts, all dodging the cyclists and walkers.  The diversions from daily routine on offer for the local population included back in 1988, numerous bars and restaurants, cafe’s, and sports facilities, cinemas and shops.  Highway 101 winds its way through town and then southerly along the coast towards LA, until turning inland at Ventura (North Los Angeles).  The Four Seasons Biltmore Hotel, beyond the Zoological Gardens sits amongst private gardens and beachfront.  Further south sits the small town of Summerland.  A small number of bars line the roads running alongside Highway 101 and it was here that Mum and I found ourselves, in the evening following the “Blow-Job” declination.

We’d driven through Summerland earlier that week on one our “journeys of discovery” and Mum had remarked on how nice everything looked along the coast road.  We’d eaten in town and had driven around until we saw a bar offering live music – “jazz”.  We walked in through a heavy oak door and the bar was laid out left to right in front of us.  A fug of cigar and cigarette smoke hung in the air, as a four piece played acoustic guitar, drums, saxophone and double bass away to our left in the corner by the front wall.  The bar itself was low lit and dark, Mahogany tones, both in wood and leather offering comfort to the eye and the behind, as we perched on well padded tall stools at the bar.  To our right and against the front wall, were sofa’s and tables and chairs, a range to seating, only now coming into fashion as customers seek more of a “Lounge” experience.  A well stocked bar offered a large array of liquors and wines, bottled beers and draught American lagers.  A large mirror behind the bottles reflected the bar and the clientele seated at its wide wooden expanse.

The bar was not overly packed; in fact it was easy to move from door to seats at the bar.  To my left beyond Cynthia my Mum, were five or six more customers occupying bar stools, and a few more customers were seated as the bar turned towards the rear wall.  I ordered glasses of wine for us and as this was still 1988, lit up a Marlboro and surveyed my surroundings, chatted with Cynthia and generally relaxed after a curious day.  Once we were some way through our drinks, I continued my survey of the bar and I noticed a rather striking blonde haired woman sat with her back against the rear wall on the last barstool.  I did not look at her beyond the usual “letch” and returned to chatting with Cynthia who was enjoying the Jazz music, which was far from noisy and we talked of all things American.  Cynthia was really becoming a fan of American (California to be precise), the food, the weather, the people, the coast and especially the doctors and hospital.  The only real thing playing on her mind was the need to attended Dr Braniff’s Consultancy to take a treadmill test, whatever that might be?

After maybe an hour, we were interrupted by the Blonde, who at closer inspection (an inspection that was to increase dramatically over the next few days) was strikingly attractive.  Unnoticed by me, which is something in and of its self; a beautiful woman had moved around the bar and had sat next to mum.  She must have been there sometime when she broke into our conversation by way of “I love listening to your accent”.  I glanced up and past mum and took in her beauty, high defined cheekbones, full lips, deep blue eyes and neatly styled blonde hair that sat on her shoulders and framed her face, the light from the bar glancing off her cheeks and creating shadows on necks and against the side of her nose, under her eyebrows.  Her voice was velvety smooth, her accent Californian.  She wore a short thigh high dress, loose fitting from the bust down, and as far as I could ascertain, no bra, her breasts holding their own magnificently against all of gravities exertions; they were a Newtonian delight!

Mum looked to her left and would have said something along the lines of “thank you, how are you” etc.  The blonde looked across at me and said, “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but are you George Michael?”  I started to speak, I had to correct her misguided assumption, but mum shot back with, “Well, yes he is actually”.  I don’t know where mum plucked up the courage to tell such a blatant lie, but that was nothing considering the backup story she and subsequently I concocted to cement that belief not only in our new friend, but almost anyone else who would ask whether indeed “I was George Michael?” in the days and weeks to come.

“I knew it was you, I saw you from my seat over there” she said pointing to the spot where I’d noticed her sitting when mum and I had first sat down.  “Hello” I said and reached across to shake her hand.  Her fingers held my hand for slightly longer than a normal handshake would require; her eyes held mine throughout until she let go of my hand.  “Can I get you a drink, we were about to order another” I said.  She said yes, so I decided on a bottle of probably Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc, knowing that I had to buy a pricier bottle, in order to not ‘give up the jig’, before the preliminaries were out of the way!

“I’m Monique” she said, Ah! Monique, her name fitted her perfectly.  Within seconds, she had gotten off her bar stool, lifted it around Mum and placed it between Mum and two feet or so from the bar.  I had to shuffle my seat backwards, away from Mum to allow Monique to reach her glass, which by now had moved between mums glass and mine.  This girl was keen I thought, make no mistake, don’t bugger it up!  As she was manoeuvring her seat, Mum cast a glance towards me and cracked a sly smile and patted my leg, as if to say, “over to you son”.  I was still stunned at the audacity shown by mum, where she’d gotten the nerve from and frankly why she would say such a thing?  Later, much later, when regaling friends with the story, she said I was George Michael to see what the girls or indeed waiters, hotel managers and others would say and that it was fun.  Mum was to commit the sin of lying about her son’s true identity again, in a truly audacious way in a few weeks time.

The conversation between Monique, mum and I focused mainly on why Monique should find George Michael sitting in a small bar in Summerland, California, with his Mum?  I proceeded to build upon Mum’s lie, saying that I (George) was touring (as she undoubtedly knew, being a fan!), the East Coast at the time, (George was on the Faith tour).  Moreover, that I, (George) had a few days between shows and had decided to fly my (his) Mum out for some R&R in Santa Barbara.  The Q&A continued and despite obviously not wanting the world to know where George (me) was staying, confirmed that yes, indeed, we (they) were staying at the 5 Star Biltmore Hotel, just around the corner, on the beach.  Definitely not at a 3 Star Motel (due to the pool it was 3 Star) on State Street, in downtown Santa Barbara!  So, a back story was created, Mum began interjecting with snippets of information, such as “He is a lovely man, treating his Mum to such a nice holiday” and “He hasn’t got a girlfriend at the moment you know, all those girls in the videos are models!”  At which Monique shot me a glance that meant unequivocally, “You can have one if you want one, me!”

Whilst many of you may consider the story so far and the rest to follow, to be the words of a big-head (I was I admit back then quite a confident/arrogant sod, not so much nowadays I hope), and no doubting that I am self-assured, I do wish to appear to brag, but given this is an autobiographical account of my life, think that I may as well tell this and all the stories reflecting who I am, as accurately as possible.  

So, I felt that even if Mum and I had denied that I was indeed George Michael, Monique was of a mind that:-

A) She fancied me (George),

B) She was going to have me (George), and finally

C) I was of a mind that I could have successfully chatted my way into her knickers anyway, whether purporting to be a world famous singer or not.  

There, I’ve said it and I stand by it.

The evening progressed, Mum and Monique talking about clothes, shoes, (Mums weakness), travel, holidays, etc and ended with the three of us agreeing to meet for dinner the following evening and Monique had ventured as far as to continually touch my thigh, hold my hand etc, as she made a point during conversation or as she reached for her glass.  There used to be, (it maybe still there) a lovely restaurant on a corner in downtown Santa Barbara (the name slips, sorry), that had a nice garden and terrace tables so we agreed to meet there.  As the evening drew to a close, with mum showing her tiredness, we made our plans and said goodbye until tomorrow. Monique left slightly before us, which was good as she would have wondered why George was driving a hired Chevy Saloon and not a more up-market model or indeed where was his chauffeur?

As soon as Monique had left, after lingering kisses to each cheek, the journey between which, she gently brushed her lips against mine, Mum turned and said “She’s lovely Jonathan, I think she likes you”, with a naughty glint in her eye.  Mum could be many things; she loved to laugh, loved intrigue and a challenge, moreover I discovered that she could be very duplicitous, almost conniving and I was going to be the pawn in her tricky game.  I was going to have to maintain a charade long after I had tucked mum up for the night, if as I planned, I played my cards right and ended up exploring more of California and Summerland’s beautiful scenery.

A Shakespeare wrote, “All the worlds as stage, and everyman must play his part”.  I was to play two roles over the next few days, simultaneously, all very Shakespearean!

Definitely "NOT" the Job I was after

After a lazy time sat with the Ranch Hands and cowboys, Mum and I got into the car and drove back through the Lake side camping area, toward the exit.  Mum asked me to stop the car and once again got out and wandered down toward Lake Cachuma.  I followed and she seated herself on a large boulder and looked again at the Santa Ynez Mountains in the background.

“When I die, I want my ashes scattered here in the lake” she said, without a hint of irony, given the events of the last month.  I looked at her; she smiled at me and said, “As well as a bit in Spain, a bit in Alderney (her birthplace and from where she had been evacuated during the Second World War), a bit in Leicester and a bit in Norwich with your Dad”.  “You’re only small mum, are you sure there’s enough to go round?  

That’s quite a journey for someone” I said, “I can see a competition for seats on that trip from Mark and Helen, Richard and Julian”.  “Well, I am just telling you, that’s what I want” and with that, she stood and walked back to the car, as if a decree had been made that was to be followed without question.  Almost medieval in a way, like a task for a Knight, a journey was to take place in the future that would result in the Queens ashes being spread across her lands, foreign and domestic.  I wondered who would be footing the bill for that lot, as I walked behind her to the car.

Onwards then to Solvang and we sped through the Wine country towards a small town, dedicated to Denmark and all things Smorgasbord!  As well as shops selling everything Danish, there was a Fortune Teller, numerous Cafes and Restaurants invariably called Pedersen’s, Andersen’s or Helga’s, and wide sidewalks with quaint hand painted benches beneath arbors covered in flowers.  Mum loved it.  

We went into a cafe and looking at the menu filled with numerous delicacies, ordered salt beef sandwiches, pickles and coffee.  The menu offered a Smorgasbord, as did most eateries and we walked over to look at the display of cooked cold meats, salami, sausage, cheese, salads, pickles and breads laid out under glass and chilled in a continuing fight against the heat of the Californian Summer, that burst in through the doorway every time someone came in.  The air-conditioning whirring away above our heads and sending a chill blast of cold air down into mum’s coffee cup, eliciting a “tut” and a “tsk” every few minutes as her coffee rapidly lost its heat.

The menu was ripe for my 'famous' impersonation of English spoken with a Danish accent, which Mark had laughed at so much, I thought he was going to have an asthma attack and which I am sure inspired a small but definitely audible but odourless 'fart' from mum.  With tears rolling down her face, she tried to eat her way through her sandwich but eventually had to tell me to “shut up Jonathan!” in order to be able to finish her meal.  Besides, we (me) were drawing strange looks from the customers and staff.

Solvang offers among its delights, rides around town in a horse drawn carriage and we paid the fee and took our seats for a twenty minute tour around the more notable buildings and what most likely would have been a detailed history from the driver.  His Danish accent was far better than mine, but given that I kept asking questions in my best” Daneglish”, he soon got irritated (pissed off actually) and asked if I was “trying to annoy him”.  

That he asked it in a straight American Accent, without a hint of Danish to be heard, made me lose it, and he sulked (silently) all the way back to the stand.  So now I had mum annoyed at me for ruining her ride and a tour guide/carriage driver, threatening to drop me for taking the piss out of him.  The fact that his accent was as put on as mine was lost on him.  I walked off as mum apologised to him and left a tip.  After an ear bashing from mum, and an apology from me, we drove back to Santa Barbara and our Motel. 

The following morning was a beautifully hot, Californian summer’s day and so we decided to relax by the Motel pool.  This actually required that I go to the supermarket to get fruit, definitely Peaches and Oranges,  fruit juice, pastries, potato chips, National Enquirer and other “gossip” papers and magazines for mum and a copy of Rolling Stone for me (I had to keep abreast of the music scene, as all budding rocks stars do!).  By late morning we were laid out beside the pool, or rather mum was, as I threw myself endlessly into the pool and posed as much as possible in front of the girls who were starting to come out from their rooms and seek a sun bed beside the pool.

By now my hair, styled as closely as possible as to George Michael had his, was almost bleach blonde on top, swept back and close cropped into the neck.  Topped off with my brand new Rayban Aviators and black Speedo trunks, I figured I could almost pass for George, except for the fact that I am pretty sure he’d be staying somewhere other than a Motel on Main Street, and launching himself into the pool in vain attempts to impress women. (Although you never know!)

After lunch beside the pool I was becoming quite tired; the exertions and posing were wearing me out and I said to mum, (who would never waste the chance of a tan) that I was going back to the room for a rest.  I picked up my gear, slipped on my Espadrilles and wandered through the gardens around the pool, across the car park, past the laundry room where the Ice machine was and to our room in the middle of the single storey block.  All doors faced the car park and I wedged the door open, so I could see across to the pool (an eye always on mum) and lay face down on my bed, facing the door, reading my magazine.

About fifteen minutes later, a shadow passed in front of the open door and I looked up to see a guy aged mid-twenties, tall, slim and dressed in t-shirt and trunks holding an ice bucket.  “Can you tell me where the Ice Machine is” he asked, “yea, straight down the walkway to the corner; it’s in the Laundry room” I replied.  “Thanks” he said and wandered off.  Five minutes later he was back again, holding a full ice bucket and leaning on the door frame.  I looked up again and he smiled and said “Got it” brandishing the ice bucket in front of him, “great” I said and focused back on my Rolling Stone.

“Do you want a blow job?” he asked.  I looked up at him again and said with the manliest voice I could muster, (which probably came out like a squeak) “Erm, er, no thanks, I think I’m alright as it goes”.  Now I figured that that refusal on my part was polite but firm enough and clear enough.  I had thanked him for his (kind?) offer, but had declined, given that I had no desire to succumb to being noshed off by a tall, smooth, albeit brave, gay American male.

“Are you sure?” he said, “my boyfriend and I were watching you over by the pool and I told him I wanted to give you a blow job.  He said I should be careful, in case I get punched, but you look like a nice guy and I want to give you a blow job, so please, can I give you a blow job?”

“No, thanks” I said, “I really don’t want a blow job at all; I am fine as it is”.  So for a second time, I had politely declined his invitation to fellatio, “bye”, I added by way of closing, again smiling nicely so as not to cause offence.  

“Do you have a nice cock?”  What was it with this guy?  I nearly said ‘that’s for me to know and for you to find out mate' but didn’t; instead falling back on that age old but powerful statement that delivers a clear, unequivocal response, leaving those on the receiving end under no doubt as to the state of play. “Fuck off”.

He looked at me; I was no longer smiling; paused for a second and walked away.  I lay there wondering if I looked as if I was open to such offers, decided I did not and returned to my Rolling Stone.  “It’s just that it took a lot of guts to ask you and I am pretty sure you will enjoy it” he said.  I sat up on the bed, facing him once more.  He was stood there with the same eager to please look on his face that my previous refusals had failed to wipe off.

I stood up, walked up to the doorway and slowly shut the door in his face.  I walked over to the kettle, made myself a coffee and turned on MTV, to watch some videos and take my mind off recent events.  Just as I settled down, I heard a muffled knock on the door.  Deciding I had had enough of being polite, I pulled open the door and said “look mate, fuck off, I do not want a blow job, so fuck off will ya!”  

Mum, with a startled look on her face walked past me into the room, put her bag on her bed and went into the bathroom.  I shut the door, turned around and sat on the bed drinking my coffee and watching MTV.  Mum said nothing until she came from having her shower, 

I told her the first part of the story and she said, “but you’re not gay are you Jonathan? What made him think you were gay?”  I looked at myself in the mirror, bleach blonde hair, tight t-shirt, fit, muscles in the right places, Speedo swimmers and Rayban’s.  “I have no idea Mum, no idea”.  

Never mind the fact that George Michael had not yet ‘come out’!