Sex in the South Seas 4

So I’ve been tempted by good girls and bad and, for slightly different reasons in each case, I’ve not had sex with those girls in all these islands and villages.

A girl in a bar in Apia poured her bosom more or less into my drink, her nipple nearly impaling itself on the point of the tiny umbrella. She leaned onto my hands instead, and those breasts were beautiful, warm, brown and firm.

So was her arse when she said something cheeky and I whacked it.

I humoured her and bought her a drink, but not the second drink that means the deal is sealed. There was a guy watching her, and therefore me. It was clear that if I spent money on her most of it would go to him.

I have trouble with that. Less high-mindedly, there’s also an ego issue. I’d find it hard to have sex with someone who wasn’t in bed with me because they desired me. It’d just seem awkward.

Most of the women I met on this trip weren’t city girls. They lived with their parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers and sisters and so on in villages near the sea, where I’d hire a fale on the beach. If you even came on to one of the young women, let alone actually had sex with her, then you’d be being a bad and ungracious guest. And these were people who were too generous for me to do anything that would hurt them or piss them off. 

I do have a story to tell about sex in these islands, but it’s from another trip when I spent more time in the cities and towns, such as they are, of the main islands. The customs there are very different from those in the countryside. If you come back in a couple of days I’ll tell that story.

Sex in the South Seas 3

There’s a figure in many Maugham stories, a mad, desperate drunk man wearing a once neat white linen suit, staggering across a palm tree beach with a gin bottle in his hand, sucking at the gin to keep away the malaria and the nightmare laughter that only he can hear.

The linen suit is stained with his sweat, wine spills and that incident a couple of weeks ago that involved his crotch and a cheerful Pacific Island girl.

I’ve been trying to be him. I’m afraid I haven’t managed to achieve it. I liked the idea of going troppo, so I’ve drunk creme de menthe and Midori with pineapple juice and lime in bars that aren’t much more than corrugated iron shacks.

Despite that, my white linen suit is still immaculate and I haven’t had sex with that cheerful, if hypothetical, girl who would foam, or cream, over a crease or two in my trousers if I decided to have her with only the zipper undone.

Blues, those 21st century blues. Are they getting you down?