Triple P's particular friend, S, from Vancouver sent him these fine studies of Jane Birkin in a white vest (or tank as we believe North Americans call the garment - as for them a vest is what we would call a waistcoat). Miss Birkin, by this time, had shorn her long, sixties locks in favour of this cute gamine look. You have to be really beautiful to get away with such short hair but, of course, she was. Apart from these ones with a blue background we have found another two, obviously from a different shoot but the same period.
We were thinking that we would be hard pushed to think of any accompanying text to go with this excellent set of pictures, given that we don't know their origin (if anyone does we would be interested to know), other than to mention the fact that we like girls just dressed in vests (or singlets, as the sporty versions are known in the UK). Scarlet Knight recently wrote about the journals she keeps and Triple P was reminded that he used to (still does) do something similar. Not anything as organised or structured as a journal but just accounts of memorable meals, hotels, wines and women. We suppose this started when we were at college and we used to write to our family, friends and girlfriends. This continued into law school, with many of our friends having to put up with our stream of consciousness ramblings written on Weybridge station whilst waiting for our connecting train. Later, we just wrote for our own sake (many of the pieces were too racy to be sent to anyone) as writing has to be practiced and we have always had jobs that involved a fair bit of writing including, over the last dozen years, writing articles for publication. In those days before blogging and, indeed, before personal computers, our scrawled thoughts and recollections just ended up in old file boxes. File boxes, however, that we have now located in our mother's loft, which we are in the ongoing process of clearing out. However, on reading about Scarlett's journals we remembered the fact that we first saw our first naked girl in a vest (if that isn't a contradictory term) in real life in the eighties. We also remembered we wrote about it and wondered whether it was in one of the boxes. Unfortunately, nothing was ordered, pages from different accounts were scattered at random, and it took some time to go through what we estimate was over 1500 sides of notes. Inevitably, the note we were looking for was near the bottom of the pile but there it was. Undated, unfortunately but we know that it was December 1987. Nevertheless, we have a pretty good account of our first girl in a vest although, in truth we remember the incident quite well anyway. So, with apologies to those who just want to look at the pictures of the lovely Jane, here are some recollections from over twenty years ago...
We were thinking that we would be hard pushed to think of any accompanying text to go with this excellent set of pictures, given that we don't know their origin (if anyone does we would be interested to know), other than to mention the fact that we like girls just dressed in vests (or singlets, as the sporty versions are known in the UK). Scarlet Knight recently wrote about the journals she keeps and Triple P was reminded that he used to (still does) do something similar. Not anything as organised or structured as a journal but just accounts of memorable meals, hotels, wines and women. We suppose this started when we were at college and we used to write to our family, friends and girlfriends. This continued into law school, with many of our friends having to put up with our stream of consciousness ramblings written on Weybridge station whilst waiting for our connecting train. Later, we just wrote for our own sake (many of the pieces were too racy to be sent to anyone) as writing has to be practiced and we have always had jobs that involved a fair bit of writing including, over the last dozen years, writing articles for publication. In those days before blogging and, indeed, before personal computers, our scrawled thoughts and recollections just ended up in old file boxes. File boxes, however, that we have now located in our mother's loft, which we are in the ongoing process of clearing out. However, on reading about Scarlett's journals we remembered the fact that we first saw our first naked girl in a vest (if that isn't a contradictory term) in real life in the eighties. We also remembered we wrote about it and wondered whether it was in one of the boxes. Unfortunately, nothing was ordered, pages from different accounts were scattered at random, and it took some time to go through what we estimate was over 1500 sides of notes. Inevitably, the note we were looking for was near the bottom of the pile but there it was. Undated, unfortunately but we know that it was December 1987. Nevertheless, we have a pretty good account of our first girl in a vest although, in truth we remember the incident quite well anyway. So, with apologies to those who just want to look at the pictures of the lovely Jane, here are some recollections from over twenty years ago...
Triple P's appreciation for girls dressed just in a vests (white ones, ideally, but we also like those grey, sporty ones) began with our then girlfriend S. S was a work colleague, which is always tricky, and so our relationship had proceeded rather cautiously. Certainly Triple P was hoping for an escalation from our then "friends outside work" status to something more but S was more tentative. At this point Triple P was going to the gym a lot and doing a lot of running (we ran our first marathon, in London in 3 hours 45 minutes, the following spring) and S, who had joined the same gym (work offered a big discount) decided that she would like to take up running too. She invited us to her flat in trendy Richmond (Mick Jagger was one of its notable inhabitants at the time) one Saturday to take her running in Richmond Park. We hadn't been invited there before, although we often met up at the weekends to visit galleries or go to the cinema. S liked foreign films, especially if they had lots of sex in them, so we saw a fair amount of arty foreign films at the National Film Theatre and such like. The previous night we had been to see Jean-Jacques Beineix's Betty Blue (1986) at a cinema in the Haymarket. Although we knew it had a racy reputation we were, nonetheless, surprised by its opening scene of (very convincing) simulated sex. We could sense S's excitement but sadly, we didn't have the chance to discuss it afterwards, as we usually did, because we could only get into a late showing and needed to get our respective trains home. Anyway, after a rather longer than usual kiss on the concourse at Waterloo station we parted for our different platforms, with her reminding me to turn up the following day for our run.
Her flat was on the top floor of an old house. It was built into the roof so that apart from a dormer window in her bedroom the other windows were all in the roof giving light but no view. It gave it a strange feeling: not claustrophobic, as the main room was large, but you felt cut-off from the world. When it was dark, with the lights off, and all you could see was the night sky it was like being in a Laura Ashley decorated space capsule. It was all a bit 2001: A Space Odyssey. When we arrived at her flat that winter Saturday morning we were somewhat surprised to see her dressed in tight running shorts and a baggy Miami Dolphins tee shirt (she had lived in Florida). Now, up until this point we had only seen her in work clothes (which seemed to be identical to her weekend clothes). Longish full skirts, high collared blouses (more Laura Ashley) and cashmere cardigans. We were aware that she had an impressive bust but weren't prepared for the exceptionally long legs she was displaying. Now S wasn't exactly built like a runner (she was built more like a nineteen fifties Playmate) so we weren't expecting much from her running and therefore started her off very slowly. However, it soon became apparent that whilst she ran slowly she had excellent stamina and didn't want to stop.
We suppose we had covered about five or six miles by the time we had returned to her flat. Now, getting up to Richmond Park from where she lived involved a quite steep hill and by the time we got back home she was complaining that her legs were stiffening up. She disappeared into the bathroom for a shower and reappeared wearing a white towelling bathrobe. Triple P took a shower too and expected her to be dressed when we emerged, as he had changed back into his normal clothes. She was still in her bathrobe, however, and suggested that a massage might ease her legs. Triple P agreed, in the most-off handed way he could manage, but his palms were already tingling with anticipation. S put some music on her stereo; Rachmaninov's 2nd symphony which she thought was the most romantic symphony ever written (rightly). She pulled the (Laura Ashley, inevitably) duvet off her bed and then took off her bathrobe. Underneath she was wearing a white cotton vest. It was much larger than the one Miss Birkin is wearing in these pictures. It covered her bottom but, enticingly, had large arm-holes so that delicious slices of the sides of her breasts were revealed as she moved about. S had the biggest breasts of any girl we had met. She was a 40DD at this point (although she lost some weight and some bust size as she did more running). She was.however, very conscious of them so tried to disguise them as much as possible. She found them quite inconvenient and used to drive her Peugeot GTI with her seat belt draped across her chest but not plugged in properly, much to Triple P's concern, as she found it very uncomfortable.
She lay on her back on the bed and asked Triple P to get to work. Triple P knows a come on when he sees one but, nevertheless, she had been so firm in not taking our friendship to the next level that we proceeded with extreme caution as we placed our hands on her leg, just above the knee, and firmly pushed up. S started chatting about Betty Blue, the film we had seen the night before but not, as we might have expected from someone who read English at University, about the tragic storyline of un amour fou but rather her recollection of the sex scenes which she seemed to recall in remarkable clarity. Triple P was simultaneously trying to discuss the film intelligently and working his fingers into her thigh muscles whilst fearing that she would ask him to stop at any second. It came into Triple P's head that as long as we were talking to her then the massage would continue. Triple P is quite good at massage as he had had a previous girlfriend , briefly, named T who had been a physiotherapist and she taught him a lot about it. As our hands slid further up her pale thighs we expected her to push our hand away but, in fact, S responded by slightly parting her legs enabling our hands to massage her inner thighs. Her upper legs were sparsely covered with very pale golden hairs which caught the light from the winter sunshine flooding through her dormer window. We knew that she wasn't a natural blonde but as she opened her thighs we were surprised to discover, as her vest rode up slightly that she was a red-head down below. She was a nice, dark ginger colour; like the ginger marmalade Triple P used to enjoy for breakfast. Triple P has always had a thing about red-heads (of whatever shade) and we remember wondering at the time why on earth a glorious, natural red-head would dye her hair blonde. She must have sensed that her bush was exposed but she did nothing to pull down the hem of her vest or otherwise cover herself. At this point, as our fingers probed her long sartorius muscle (the longest muscle in the human body, of course), our thumb inadvertently brushed against her soft fluff.
We suppose we had covered about five or six miles by the time we had returned to her flat. Now, getting up to Richmond Park from where she lived involved a quite steep hill and by the time we got back home she was complaining that her legs were stiffening up. She disappeared into the bathroom for a shower and reappeared wearing a white towelling bathrobe. Triple P took a shower too and expected her to be dressed when we emerged, as he had changed back into his normal clothes. She was still in her bathrobe, however, and suggested that a massage might ease her legs. Triple P agreed, in the most-off handed way he could manage, but his palms were already tingling with anticipation. S put some music on her stereo; Rachmaninov's 2nd symphony which she thought was the most romantic symphony ever written (rightly). She pulled the (Laura Ashley, inevitably) duvet off her bed and then took off her bathrobe. Underneath she was wearing a white cotton vest. It was much larger than the one Miss Birkin is wearing in these pictures. It covered her bottom but, enticingly, had large arm-holes so that delicious slices of the sides of her breasts were revealed as she moved about. S had the biggest breasts of any girl we had met. She was a 40DD at this point (although she lost some weight and some bust size as she did more running). She was.however, very conscious of them so tried to disguise them as much as possible. She found them quite inconvenient and used to drive her Peugeot GTI with her seat belt draped across her chest but not plugged in properly, much to Triple P's concern, as she found it very uncomfortable.
She lay on her back on the bed and asked Triple P to get to work. Triple P knows a come on when he sees one but, nevertheless, she had been so firm in not taking our friendship to the next level that we proceeded with extreme caution as we placed our hands on her leg, just above the knee, and firmly pushed up. S started chatting about Betty Blue, the film we had seen the night before but not, as we might have expected from someone who read English at University, about the tragic storyline of un amour fou but rather her recollection of the sex scenes which she seemed to recall in remarkable clarity. Triple P was simultaneously trying to discuss the film intelligently and working his fingers into her thigh muscles whilst fearing that she would ask him to stop at any second. It came into Triple P's head that as long as we were talking to her then the massage would continue. Triple P is quite good at massage as he had had a previous girlfriend , briefly, named T who had been a physiotherapist and she taught him a lot about it. As our hands slid further up her pale thighs we expected her to push our hand away but, in fact, S responded by slightly parting her legs enabling our hands to massage her inner thighs. Her upper legs were sparsely covered with very pale golden hairs which caught the light from the winter sunshine flooding through her dormer window. We knew that she wasn't a natural blonde but as she opened her thighs we were surprised to discover, as her vest rode up slightly that she was a red-head down below. She was a nice, dark ginger colour; like the ginger marmalade Triple P used to enjoy for breakfast. Triple P has always had a thing about red-heads (of whatever shade) and we remember wondering at the time why on earth a glorious, natural red-head would dye her hair blonde. She must have sensed that her bush was exposed but she did nothing to pull down the hem of her vest or otherwise cover herself. At this point, as our fingers probed her long sartorius muscle (the longest muscle in the human body, of course), our thumb inadvertently brushed against her soft fluff.
Suddenly, she rolled onto her stomach and Triple P thought that he had gone too far and was about to be kicked out of her bedroom. But no, she lifted her hips slightly and pulled her vest up to reveal her bottom. S had a wonderful posterior; fully rounded with that nice sharp curve between gluteus maximus and upper thigh insertion (Triple P studied anatomy as part of his art course at school) with two cute dimples above it. Now, of course, on what was supposedly a leg massage there is no reason to reveal your bottom but we couldn't resist such a pert invitation and was soon gently kneading her rear, The more we massaged her the more she spread her thighs until we could not only see her lightly fleeced pussy but we could quite distinctively smell it too. We gently pushed her cheeks apart to the extent that we could see her rosy anus but still the expected protestations failed to materialise. We remember wondering what to do next and in the end just risked planting a kiss on her pliant bottom. She didn't seem to mind so we followed up with another and another until she rolled onto her back and offered us her ginger pussy...
We were, we have to say, somewhat surprised at the sudden passion shown by S, as she had been so diffident about any sort of romantic relationship previously, but it was later explained by her as a combination of having been nervous about moving on after a nasty break-up with her previous boyfriend and her concern about carrying on with someone she sat opposite at work all day. Oddly, we found out when we admitted it to them some weeks later, our work colleagues had assumed that we had been carrying on for months anyway!
When we eventually emerged from bed some three hours later we were both ravenously hungry, having run six miles and not had any lunch. She made me put her bathrobe on (fortunately it was on the large side) and she put back on her white cotton vest. Triple P had removed this earlier, sliding his hands up her body to push it over her head and revealing her, frankly, rather awe inspiring breasts.
She went to make some sandwiches. We stood in her tiny kitchen as she bustled about and became fascinated by her vest. If she bent down or stretched up to reach something from a cupboard there was always an enjoyable flash. Psychologically, it turned out, she felt comfortable in the vest as it covered up her top half but revealed her legs, of which she was (justifiably) proud. Apart from their size there was nothing odd about her breasts: they were the same size, they had matching nipples, they didn't droop. There was, in short, nothing wrong with them in any of the areas that can make some women self-conscious. They were, in fact, really rather perfect with large rosy areolae and flat, button-like nipples that she liked having licked into perky prominence. But when she pottered about her flat (or, later on, Triple P's flat), she preferred to keep them covered and she kept them covered in an assortment of vests or singlets. Triple P, therefore, not only appreciated the peek-a-boo aspects of the garment but it became very closely associated in his mind with sex with S as is Rachmaninov's 2nd Symphony, come to that (as we did).
When we commented on how much we liked the look she promptly went out and bought some more little vests, including some of the short versions like Miss Birkin is modelling here. S was quite happy to reveal her ginger pussy and voluptuous bottom to us but liked to keep her bust covered, unless we were actually engaged in what she referred to as "having a pash".
Since the days of S we have enjoyed a number of young ladies who look good in just a vest; S from Vancouver and B from Germany being foremost amongst them. It takes a certain insouciance to carry off the look well, as Miss Birkin perfectly demonstrates here. I'm sure there will be more Venuses in vests to come we just need to seek some out...
