Letters From Jane
Dear Lenny and Bekka,
Today after lunch we got in our bathing suits, took a taxi to a touristy beach, and rented Jet-Skis, so we could go exploring the coastline. Neither of us had ever been on a Jet-Ski before, but figured the instincts we'd learned from riding motorcycles would abet us. We both did fine. We found a gorgeous sandy cove, where we stopped to relax. I stripped out of my bathing suit and lay nude in the sand. Vito considered me and said, "Jane, you are beautiful. Were I a younger man, I would renounce La Cosa Nostra, assault my father, and shave my head to spend one night alone with you."
I told him I thought he was gorgeous, and would have been happy to meet him as a younger man. And why had he never married? He said there had always been women in his life, but did not want to put them through the stress and risk being married to him would bring. As he got older and much more wealthy, gold diggers would flock around him. He knew their true intentions, and spurned them. It was too late now. He regretted not having an heir, and often felt lonely in his Bel Air mansion. He brought up the subject again of me moving in with him for my senior year of high school, and I again said no. As much as I love Uncle Vito, my home is with you two.
We came back here to the hotel and showered, then got some dinner and walked the streets for a while. On our flight across the Atlantic, Vito had expressed worry he would get tired out too easily to do all the things he felt like, but he has been fine. I guess all the tennis he plays has given him good endurance. Right now Vito is watching an Italian sitcom on TV. I'm lying nude on the bed. I told Vito that I wished to be free of all clothing at every opportunity, and unless he objected, I would be stripping down the moment we got in our hotel room, wherever we were. He said he would not be bothered, and was flattered I felt that comfortable around him. Would my interest in nudism continue after we had ended our vacation? I told him definitely. I said you two would just have to deal, and so would anyone coming over to visit. I feel liberated and closer to the world naked. He smiled and said he hoped I would be able to indulge myself at every opportunity.
We're going out on a guided water tour tomorrow. I am wearing my bikini, sandals, and nothing else, and to hell what people think. If anyone asks, I will tell them that I feel overdressed, I have more on than I would like. Let them work it out.
Dear Lenny and Bekka,
Right now we're hanging around the Malta airport, waiting for our chartered Gulfstream to take us to Malaga, in Spain.
I can't hide this from you two. Vito and I slept together last night. It just.... happened. We were winding down before bed, and Vito was again regretting his loneliness in Bel Air. I told him I would try to visit much more often, take off for his place on weekends whenever I could. We hugged. As we did, he said, "Jane, I wish we had met forty years ago. I would have made you my princess." I think I was purposely not thinking too hard about my actions. I stepped back, grabbed his hand, and put it on my left boob. He looked surprised, but left his hand there after I let go of it, feeling me. He asked if I really wanted to be with an old fart like him. I told him, "You are not an old fart. You are a beautiful man named Vito Ventimiglia, and I love you. If you will have me, I would like to show you how much I love you, in a very direct way. Will you let me?" He said yes, and um, we went from there. Three times. The Don is in much, much better health than people think.
In between times, he told me it had been twelve years since he had been with a woman, and he had not enjoyed himself very much. One of the gold-digging bitches who was trying to chisel her way into his life was the woman. He had utilized her, seeing just what she was willing to do in order to get a shot at him, and afterwards never returned any of her calls. He felt that any woman who seemed to be interested in him had dollar signs in her eyes, and was deeply cynical about actually finding a mate at his age. He said he felt stupefied that at 78, he had a beautiful, sexy young girl who wished to be with him, and was utterly free of guile. I told him we had shared so many aspects of our lives, why shouldn't we share this one, too? We loved and trusted each other, we would never do anything to hurt the other person, and us having sex was just a demonstration of how much we cared about each other. Then we fucked a third time. I can't lie: he was damn good, all three times. If I'd have met him when he was thirty, I'd probably have told him to make me his sex slave.
This morning we agreed that we wouldn't continue. We're both happy it happened, but our affection for each other is familial, not romantic. To him, I am his adoptive grand-niece. We both satisfied a curiosity we'd had about the other, and were happy with that. He confessed that he had always found me sexy and desirable, but dismissed the ideas from his mind. After all, why would a teenage girl ever be interested in some old geezer? He was sure I would violently spurn him if he'd ever broached the subject. I asked him straight out if he'd ever jacked off while thinking about me. He paused, then said, "Yes. Many times." I told him I was very flattered, and hoped I'd lived up to his fantasies. He said, "My god, you exceeded them. I don't think I have ever had more pleasure in my life. You are a nymph, an angel."
While I was in the shower I worried that we might be uncomfortable around each other now, at least for a little while.... But we haven't been. It's just something we did, as close friends.... Although while I was walking around the suite naked I noticed that he now watches me much more closely, with a smile. Hey, I don't mind being his eye candy. And if he ever does ask me to go to bed with him again, I will happily say yes. It will be something we do for fun, and to show how much we care about the other person. Vito is not going to ask me to marry him, after all, I'm his grand-niece. But I will gladly use my body to make him feel good, if he wants to again. I'm lucky, I got to have sex with one of the most incredibly amazing men on the planet.
We're on the plane now, waiting to take off. Vito is sitting two seats over, listening to a Pavarotti tape and drinking a Coke. His eyes look brighter and more alert than I've ever seen them. He looks ten years younger. God, is my pussy powerful enough to revitalize a man like the Don of the Southern California mafia? Is he just that elated at getting to fuck me? Or are we both quietly pleased about what happened, glad we shared ourselves like that with a close friend? Whatever it is, I know Vito is very, very happy this morning. And I'm happy he's happy. I'm glad I know how to make my Uncle Vito smile.
I am wearing a boy's dress shirt, a skirt, and Chuck Taylors. As soon as we are airborne, they are coming off, so I can feel free, and I don't care what the cabin attendant thinks. It's a ninety minute flight, so Vito will get some time to look at me. I'd asked him, and he said that now we'd fucked he appreciated seeing me naked far more, he could enjoy looking at me as a sexual being, not a little girl. It feels nice to be appreciated.
Dear Lenny and Bekka,
We have spent two days in Malaga, a beautiful city. Now we have rented another Mercedes and are taking the coast route to Toulouse, via Valencia and Barcelona. I will be at the wheel whenever we have a car, Vito considers me an excellent driver, and says with his less than perfect eyesight and slow reflexes I will be the safer one at the wheel. We are in a very modern hotel in Toulouse.
Before we left in the morning, Vito made a suggestion. Where is it written that you must be clothed to drive a car? This is a long drive we're doing today, like twelve hours on the road, so why not make myself as comfortable as possible? When we stop for fuel or a soda, it will be in tiny hamlets, where there will not be enough people around to cause an uproar over my appearance. So as soon as we left the hotel, I pulled off on a side street and got naked at the wheel. We rolled down the windows when we got on the highway, I loved the feeling of the wind on my body. I want to ride the Sportster nude at some point.
We stopped at a small roadside market and gas pump for fuel and a snack. There didn't seem to be people around, so I didn't bother putting my clothes back on. Vito and I went in the market and grabbed a few things, then I went outside to put gas in the Mercedes. A couple people driving past honked, but I didn't seem to be disturbing anyone, fine with me. Inside, the man at the register asked Vito why I was naked. Vito explained that I am most comfortable nude, I was making a very long drive today, so as the driver my comfort was paramount. Vito came out and leaned against the car while I pumped the gas, looking at me. He finally said, "Do I make you uncomfortable when I stare at you? To be frank, now that we have made love, I am thoroughly absorbed by the sight of you nude, I cannot tear my eyes away. The sight of your body brings me joy."
I told him he could look at me naked all he wants, ogle away, just so long as he doesn't start jacking off while I drive. If he got that worked up, he should let me know, and we could pull over someplace secluded where I'd take care of him. He chuckled and said, "Dear girl, I am still recovering from three days ago. For you to work your magic on me again might cause my mind to short circuit, you would be stuck in the car with a geriatric imbecile. No, I take great enjoyment just in looking at your beautiful body next to me."
We got here to Toulouse just before dark. I got out of the car and started pulling my clothes back on, to the amazement of the parking attendant. We dropped our stuff off in our suite and came back down for dinner, we were starving. After we finished eating, Vito continued tutoring me in wine, with the help of the sommelier. I find that I enjoy slightly sweet white wines the most, and am learning what kind of wines go best with particular foods. Don't worry, Boone's Farm is still the best accompaniment for eating at Taco Bell.
After our long drive today, we're just going to spend an hour or so in the hotel bar, then crash. We will explore Toulouse tomorrow. Vito says he remembers the city as an Impressionist painting come to life, a lovely place that is overlooked by tourists. Oh, in case you're wondering, Vito and I are sleeping in separate beds, we only spent the one night together. He says he is comforted that I am in the next room, and does not feel lonely at night. He has slept alone for decades, the poor guy. I have told him that I will not pursue him romantically or sexually, I am content with our relationship as it is. If he wants to join me in my bed, for any reason, that is his prerogative, and he is welcome. He told me this afternoon that he feels a bit conflicted. Part of him still sees me as a young girl, his ersatz grand-niece. But now he also sees me as a woman, and an attractive one. He isn't sure which one he prefers next to him when we walk down the street. I told him to just think of me as Jane, that chick who lives with Lenny and Bekka, and leave it at that. I said I lost my innocence at age twelve, and am in the bad habit of speaking my mind, so still considering me a young girl would not be accurate. To me he is not a grandfather or grand-uncle figure, a relation, nor is he the subject of any romantic wishing on my part. He's just Vito, and I'm glad he's my friend. He kissed my cheek and said he feels blessed I am part of his life, being with me is one pleasant surprise after another.
I realized something: me and Vito are comfortable enough around each other that we can pass long periods of time in a car together in silence, not feeling an urge to fill the silence with talk. After we get home, I want to start spending more weekends in Bel Air. It's just as well he is retiring as the Don, I know our friendship is certainly the subject of gossip, which would only be worse if he was still in control of everything. Okay, yeah, I'm a teenage girl with blue hair who likes hanging around a 78 year old mob boss, and he likes hanging around me. Fuck what other people think! I love being around this graceful, genteel man who still kisses my hand in greeting every morning. He says he loves my strong will, my intelligence, and my lust for life, that being around the energy I have gives him more energy. He says he has never met a woman like me in his life, especially such a young woman, and enjoys being in the presence of someone as unique as me, is glad we are close. He says I have added years to his life. Wow.
Okay, Vito is done watching the news. Time to put on clothes (boo!) and go to the bar. We're asked all the time what our relationship is. Vito says from now on, he is going to tell people that I appeared in his garden one day, nude, and I had no memory of my past life, I was a blank slate. And that it is my natural hair color. I arrived from a different astral plane, fully formed. And now we are friends. That's all.
Dear Lenny and Bekka,
We're in Saint Nazaire, a town on the Bay of Biscay. It is beautiful here, I thought places like this only existed as Hollywood sets. The water is clear and warm and blue. I could stay here forever.
Toulouse was awesome. It is a beautiful city that is bereft of all tourist smarm, which we like. As odd of a couple me and Vito might be, we still don't look like tourists, and we try to avoid behaving like them. Vito has a decent enough grasp of French to communicate, and there seems to be more multilingual people there, which includes English. I've noticed something strange. I sort of noticed it this whole time, but it finally struck me. We will meet locals wherever we are, and in response to our language and my accent, they'll say, "So, you are Americans?" in a slightly tired way. We will say yes, we are from California..... And people's attitudes totally change. "Oh, you are Californians! Welcome!" In Italy, Spain, and France (and Malta) people seem to feel that the United States and California are two different places, and everybody loves California. Americans, not so much. Shit, maybe they're right. Culturally, California and Florida are light years apart, and that's probably true with most of the other states. People act like California is a separate country, and a fun one. I won't lie, I exaggerated my novice surfing skills when talking to some people, because I could tell it would make them so happy. Yes, everyone in California surfs. To get to work in the mornings.
We are going to have a pastoral time during our few days in Saint Nazaire, exploring the coastline and the surrounding farmland in the Mercedes. I was a little surprised when Vito said we would not be visiting Paris. He does not like the place. "Paris is populated by the rude and reeks of stale urine," he said when I asked. "You have seen pictures of the Eiffel Tower, yes? Seeing it in person will not make a difference, it looks the same either way. Perhaps Paris was a magical place in the past. Now it is just another large city, with no more genuine charm than Anaheim or Burbank. And I will not subject you to Parisian men, who would attempt to fuck a sewing machine, if the sewing machine was dressed in leotards and didn't cost too much to get drunk. The French are dismissed as the snotty assholes of Europe, and Parisians are the reason why. We shall visit Le Mans, and Reims, lovely small cities. Paris will be someplace we will navigate through on the highway."
Oh! One thing that hasn't been exaggerated is just how awesome French chocolate is, it makes Hershey's taste like roofing tar in comparison. I'm buying, like, twenty pounds of different kinds and mailing it home, so watch for it. I am also developing a taste for Chardonnay, as wine is ubiquitous as a beverage in France. At least they don't insist on serving it at breakfast. Vito and me can both hold our booze, but are still alarmed at the rate people will put wine away. In French restaurants, they do not serve wine by the glass. If you want wine, you're getting a whole damn bottle. It is perfectly acceptable to put the cork back in a half-drunk bottle and take it with you, but once you open a bottle, you find yourself topping off your glass, not really paying attention to how much you're chugging down. I'm curious as to what France's cultural attitude towards drunk driving is.
We are not in a hotel, we are in a villa overlooking the ocean. The street leading to it was precisely one Mercedes wide, it took me three minutes of forward/reverse and spinning the wheel to get turned around. Saint Nazaire is steep but compact, so we can walk to restaurants and markets. The villa is high enough up the hill that I can go anywhere, indoors or outdoors, without scandalizing the neighbors with my lack of clothing. Having your entire body caressed by a warm Mediterranean breeze is an incomparable feeling, so I will stand on the top balcony of this place, motionless, and imagine I could float up on the breeze like a kite. The floating nude girl of Saint Nazaire. I would become a local legend, like Sasquatch. I would be known for impish pranks, such as challenging the local fishermen to drinking contests, and appearing in the bedrooms of teenage boys late at night, explaining that I will tell them a dirty story in exchange for a sandwich.
Okay, I need to stop writing now. I'm on my fifth glass of wine and will only get sillier.
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Back from dinner. Vito is still out, he is at the tavern next to the restaurant happily playing cribbage with the locals.
Saint Nazaire has a punk scene, all four of them. They hang around a local market, drinking an ass-kicker of a beer called Trois Monts and playing the same Black Flag tape over and over, through a boom box that is held together with twine. Mercifully, all four speak some English, otherwise we would have been communicating with each other like we were all Harpo Marx. It was another case where they all got much friendlier as soon as I said I was from California. "Wow.... You meet Henry Rollins? You meet Jello Biafra? You surf?" We hung out together for about ninety minutes, me buying them cigarettes and more Trois Monts. They were enthralled when I explained our hot rods to them, especially the Cutlass (France is another country full of pipsqueak cars), and that I routinely drive on freeways in Los Angeles, and haven't been killed doing so. They explained there were sometimes hardcore shows in the city of Nantes, about twenty-five miles away, but nobody had a car, so that meant having to hitchhike, and the highway was deserted after ten at night. They had all slept in Nantes bus shelters on more than one occasion after a show.
I had to explain to them just how big California is. All four figured it must be wonderful: if there were no punk rock shows in San Diego on any given night, I could just get in my big fast car and drive to Los Angeles or San Francisco to see a show in one of those places. They were dismayed to learn San Francisco is ten hours away from where I live, and even LA is a two hour trip. Oh well.... I'm in California! Something interesting and fun will happen spontaneously at any moment! I decided, after hearing the song "Depression" for the twelfth time, that I would donate my cassette box to them. It's all homemade tapes, so I can just re-record what I give them. If Vito and I go into Nantes, I am locating an electronics store and buying them a new boom box, too. When I was leaving, they said they hoped to see me again, yes? I said yes. They intimated they were easy to find. If they weren't hanging around the store, they would be at the tourist pier, posing for photos with the tourists for a two Franc "donation." They seemed very happy with my presence, and not just because I bought them smokes and beer. However temporarily, the population of punks in Saint Nazaire had gone up by 20%. And she is from California! Three of the four were guys, and all three hung on my every word when I explained that I am a nudist, and If I had my way I would be talking to them naked right now, it did not bother me if people saw me nude.
I could read the thoughts of the three guys, and all three were thinking the same thing. Here is a blue-haired punk girl, seventeen. She has the money and generosity to buy cigarettes and drinks for near strangers. She drives a giant V8 hot rod. She owns a surfboard. And she removes all her clothes at every opportunity, including while driving. California must truly be nirvana.
I just heard Vito come in. Another letter soon.