Category Archives: Places in the world

Sex in the South Seas 7

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It wasn’t a great room. For one thing, there was a blood spray on the wall, I assume from a hypo. No one had bothered to clean it up. I’d thought it was depressing, but though it was dried and brown I wasn’t game to clean it off either.

I’d borrowed masking tape from the reception desk and covered it with a print of Botticelli’s Primavera I’d cut from a magazine. One day someone would rip that down and be confronted with the blood, and the propinquity of human-created beauty and ugliness. 

lips blackWell, Senemelia was close to me, and she was human beauty. She was about a head shorter than me. Her hair was crinkly, more Melanesian than Polynesian, and cut short so it looked like a cap. Her eyes were large, brown and round, and her nose was snubbed; her mouth was plump, and mauve, though her bottom lip was pink at the centre. The pink area shone, wet from her tongue.

She watched me as closely as I studied her. I hoped she thought I was acceptable. It occurred to me that she could be as uncertain as me, and more so. I kissed that mouth, thinking it looked like a bruised flower.

A dark pansy, maybe.  

She didn’t kiss me back, That is, she opened her mouth and put her arms around me. But although I held the kiss for a long time, she didn’t do any of the things girls and I had done with our tongues when we’re kissing for the first time and we want to make a good impression. I touched just inside her top teeth, experimentally, and she seemed surprised. So that wasn’t a Polynesian custom.

I’d spent time puzzling rather than exciting her. Maybe. Anyway, praise had to be a universal taste. I slipped my hands down inside that spangly skirt again, to enjoy her ass and haul her in tighter. I said, “I love your mouth. It’s beautiful.”

Senemelia smiled, but said nothing. She leaned her forehead forward so it rested against my chin. After a while she chuckled. I said, “What?”

She touched the head of my cock. Skin to skin. I looked down. It’d emerged, erect, and pushed its way partly over my belt, looking like an angry pink fish. I said “Oh.”  

Sex in the South Seas 6

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Senemelia and I walked back to my hotel, holding hands and swapping kisses to keep the walk interesting. She’d break off and walk beside me, not touching, when another woman walked past. A Fijian woman walking with a white man at night will usually be thought of as a sex worker.

Senemelia wasn’t worried that anyone would recognise her, since we were in Toorak and she lived in Raiwaqa, a very outer suburb near the university. Suva’s just big enough to be anonymous in. But she didn’t like feeling like she was being judged.

I was more worried about the lone guys ahead of us who saw us and ducked into alleyways. I’d cross the road so we passed that alley from a distance, and she seemed to feel that was sensible. There wasn’t much lighting, and the streets were pot-holed and littered with traps for the unwary: empty fruit crates, rubbish bins and so on.

While we’re walking, I should explain a bit more about why this could happen although sex, except with a sex worker, is impossible on my current visit. The first thing is that Fiji is probably the least religious of the Pacific Islands. A key reason for that is that Indian workers were brought in, by the British, to harvest cane, especially during the First World War, while a lot of Fijian men were in the army.

In all the other islands there’s only Christianity, and it’s easy to think of it as something natural, that everybody adheres to and that can’t be questioned. But in Fiji, a Christian can look at Hindu temples and know that about half the population follow another religion. And that religion must be false if Christianity is true. But the reasons Hindus have for believing in their religion are much the same as the reasons that Christians have for believing in Christianity. So those reasons can, demonstrably. lead to false religious beliefs.

So choice tends to undercut both religions. The consequence is that there are far fewer churches or temples, per head of population, in Fiji than there are in Samoa, or Tonga. 

Another thing about Fiji is that for reasons I don’t know, women have much more sexual agency than women in the other South Pacific cultures. And they use it. I first went to Fiji when I was seventeen, and I was a very pretty boy indeed. Not that I knew it at the time. It was my first experience of being called over by women who would ask me my name, and where I was from and – the conversation having lasted long enough by now – invite me to fuck them. Singly or in twos.

At the time I had no experience of being desired, so I wasted a lot of time and opportunities by assuming that these women were kidding me. But when I gathered my nerve and had the adventures, I found that they weren’t kidding at all.

The other thing is that the village structure in Fiji is slowly starting to loosen its hold on younger people. Sometimes that’s bad, because young people can leave and find that without adult guidance or much experience of freedom, they finish up addicted and/or involved in crime.  

On the other hand, it means that a girl like Senemelia can leave the parents and go to university, a couple of hundred miles away. So long as she visited from time to time, and didn’t tell them everything that she was up to, she had freedom that she wouldn’t have had a generation or so ago.

Kiss-close-PS-300x208Anyway, we reached the hotel. It’s old, a wooden three-story building in Toorak. There are no lights on, so the receptionist had gone to bed. I had a key to the front door and my room so that didn’t matter. 

Senemelia was wearing her dance skirt, and it was tight and it spangled. So I put my hand under it, and she squirmed in closer to me, because my hand was so cold.

I took her hair and pulled her face up and kissed her. Senemelia closed her eyes, and opened her mouth. 

 

Sex in the South Seas 5

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Her name was Senimelia. She was a veterinary sciences student at the University of the South Pacific in Suva, and she worked during the day at her uncle’s laundry business. I danced with her in a nightclub, because she probably wasn’t the prettiest girl in the room, but she was certainly the sexiest.

There was a band playing ancient British blooze, Cream, Blues Incorporated, John Mayall and so on. The bass player was Maori and the other three were Hawaiian. Including the show-off, twiddling guitarist, who kept reproducing Eric Clapton’s favourite solo. That’s the one that goes diddle iddle diddle iddle diddle iddle up and down scales forever.

But Senimelia had hips that were apparently set on ball-bearings. She was a much better dancer than me. Though all women are, as far as I know.

She was wearing a white singlet, so that when she swing to the left or right, an area of brown roundness would partly escape from the gap under her arm.

Her nipples were hard enough to suggest that she liked me in ways that I liked her, and they – the nipples, I mean – wrote fascinating, moving circles under the cotton.

Eventually I suggested that we go home – I had a hotel room that night, because I was in a city – and take this dance to bed. She frowned, not following me.

“I want to fuck you,” I said, keeping it simple.

She looked shocked for a split second, Then she raised her head, and breathed an “Ohhhh” of comprehension. “Oh. Well, that’s good, Mr …”

“Mortimer. But call me Jaime.” I’d already said that, but I wasn’t offended that she d forgotten. We d been focussed on non-verbal things.

“Because I’m so going to fuck you.” She had a nice smile. Especially when delivering good news.

Sex in the South Seas 3

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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?

A Dubrovnik whore as a metaphor for Balkan politics 2

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So a sex worker walks into a bar in Dubrovnik. It’s after mid-night. She’s tired – everything about her body language says she’s tired, though she does the slut walk with real conviction. She’s pretty, in the classic short black skirt that shows her stocking tops. She needs, or at least wants, one more customer for the night. 

There were three men in the bar, not counting the bar staff. I was one of them, and she pretty much ignored me because I was eating. I’d been dragged out on a fishing trip, and I went for the sailing, but I don’t actually like fish. So I was starving when I finally got back. But a man having dinner is not a good bet for a quick pick-up. I was going to want to finish my goulash. 

Or maybe she just has standards. Anyway, she decided in a second’s glance that I wasn’t going to be a customer. She was right. 

That left two guys. They were young, they were fit, and they had haircuts that made me think they were possibly in the military. Or just some kind of gang. Anyway, they noticed the woman, and that she was selling sex, and they were both interested. 

At that point there could easily have been a mostly happy ending. The first one to whip out a credit card or a wodge of cash, and smile at the woman, would get to take her to his room, or to her place if the Hotel Imperial made it hard to take sex workers into your room.

The second guy would miss out, unless they liked two guys/one woman threesomes, but he could ask her if she had a friend and colleague, or just stay up a little later and wave her over when she was leaving.  

But instead things got competitive, politely at first. One guy waved at the other guy, meaning, “You go, because I renounce my claim in a grand gesture of generosity.” 

Now that would mean that the man who was waved at would get the girl, but that he would owe the other fellow, and be revealed as a less grand and generous man. So he waved back, meaning, “No, you go.” 

They kept this going for a while. Then the girl got bored, so she sat between them, giving them a show of leg to remind them that there are better things they could be doing with their time. She got half out of her chair to kiss one guy’s cheek while wiggling her ass at the other, and then turned and kissed the other guy’s cheek. 

croatiaSo the argument resumed, but now there were no more shows of generosity. They both wanted the girl. They shouted at each other, saying presumably insulting and threatening things in Croation or Bosnian or Serbian. Then one of them pushed the other. The other guy pushed back. Then they started throwing punches.

The woman got up and distracted them by leaning forward so they could stare down her blouse. The fight stopped. She made some suggestion, which was also in a language I didn’t understand, but it was probably sensible. (Maybe, “Gentlemen, I’m flattered. I can take you both, at once or serially. If it’s to be serially, why don’t you decide who goes first by flipping a coin?”) 

Anyway, things calmed down a little, because the men sat down, glaring at each other, and they only exchanged insults at a lowish shout. The whore waited patiently. 

taxiwhoreThe guys wound each other up and they stood up again. Once more, they started pushing and throwing punches. At that point the sex worker, who’d wasted over an hour of her time with these two, pulled out her phone and called a taxi. 

She left. But the two guys didn’t even notice. They were still fighting.

I finished my goulash and ordered a rakija, a really good one that’s based on distilled mistletoe. It was nearly two in the morning, now. The bar staff didn’t interrupt the fight, and I couldn’t blame them. It’s like breaking up a dog-fight; the human is likely to get bitten. Anyway, the guys were assholes, and I don’t think anyone else in that room minded if they hurt or injured each other. 

They were still going twenty minutes later. That was my cut-off point. It had been comedy, but I was getting tired and bored. I went to bed. 

No-one of the three got what they wanted. The girl got no money, and wasted over an hour of after midnight time when she plainly needed the sleep. Neither guy got laid. But at least they’d wake up in the morning with lots of new bruises. 

That’s another one of those parable things.