Invasion Day in Australia

I live on land stolen from the Darug and Gundungurra Nations. 

I hope Australia confronts its past soon and comes to a treaty with the Aboriginal nations.

That treaty, I know, won’t involve full restitution, the “give it back” option. But it will involve political recognition of Aboriginal voices.

Not “the Aboriginal voice”, since the Aboriginal nations, and the Aboriginal people who are not associated with a nation, are as far as you can get from being a monoculture. 

It’ll involve recognition of certain traditional hunting and gathering rights. And so on. And serious, non-bullshit government-driven moves to reduce the differences in education, health, imprisonment rates and life expectancy.

Do you know that the average lifespan of an Aboriginal Australian is 15 years less than for a non-Aboriginal Australian?

That’s why an Aboriginal Australian can claim the Age Pension from 50, while for non-Aboriginal Australians the age is 66. Ask the average Australian why that is, in a pub, and they’ll probably say it’s because those fucking Abos get all the perks, and so on. 

Anyway, Australia hasn’t even started its first step. In a way, Australia has been very lucky in its image, with its beaches and maybe the GLBTQ Mardi Gras makes the place look more inclusive than it really is.

I remember the horror with which the rest of the world viewed Apartheid-era South Africa. If people looked Australia with a cold eye, they’d think, Fuck, that’s horrifying: some of the conditions here are worse than the apartheid era. I’ve been through places in Australia that looked a lot worse than photos I’ve seen of apartheid-era Soweto.

I’m not an expert. I just know that a nearby country, New Zealand, sorted this out in 1840, with Te Tiriti o Waitangi/Treaty of Waitangi. Which was imperfect in many ways, but it was a crucial start. As a living document it’s being developed all the time to fit with the modern world, and post-colonial ideas of justice.

When the day comes, and there’s some sort of treaty with Aboriginal support, I’ll be proud to become an Australian citizen. 

Until then I can’t join “Team Australia”. It’s just a conscience thing.

I’d like to think that improvement will come when the current racist, incompetent, corrupt shambles currently in government in Australia gets the arse. Which will happen as soon as they have an election, and they can’t put that off much longer.

But the hopes I have for Labor are very, very low and muted. 

Anyway, nobody in their right mind cares whether I join Team Australia or not, I know. It’s just me.

Still… shout out to anyone else in the same position. And muted hopes for a less racist Australia after the election.

Carstairs and bollocks: filed-teeth fellatio in Lesotho

pelicanclubThe other day I dined at the Pelicans Club as Galahad Threepwood’s guest. Gally had left me briefly alone near the entrance, to pay out on a wager he’d taken with Rorke, the butler.

That showed the sporting spirit, but it was how I fell into the hands, or at least the ambit, of the Club Bore. 

The man attracted my attention with a flap of his newspaper and a fixed stare, so I did the polite thing and approached, extending my hand. His name was Carstairs, and in seconds I realised he was not only going to address me but actually tell me anecdotes. But the eye he cast on me was definitely glittering, and there’s no escape from that sort of thing.

His story was interrupted by the vacuum cleaner, which – or who  – was doing lengths of the carpet. Carstairs had taken a seat in the corner that let him monitor all arrivals and departures, but at that stage of the cleaning that meant that every pass of the vacuum cleaner began and ended at this feet. Carstairs simply spoke through the vacuum cleaner’s visitations, neither pausing nor raising his voice, and that and my own wandering attention mean that parts of the story are lost.

Carstairs’ story

Grace Jones in chains, and the 1970s. The Pelican Club is always in about 1928, and Carstairs' story seems to date from abut 1870. Pardon, but your timeslips are showing.

In chains and the 1970s. Pelican Club stories all happen in about 1913, while Carstairs’ story seems to date from about 1870. Pardon, but your timeslips are showing.

“Africa, of course, but one of the lusher parts … downpour, so stayed in a mokhoro … sort of round hut thing … girl chained to the table leg, never got the drift of why … not a stitch on her …  skin gleamed like a grand piano … 

“No, no, don’t mind telling you … nuzzled at my … undid my buttons with her … worried me a bit that she’d filed her teeth … but what can a man do, if a lady … unchained her afterwards … slapped her rump, and that made her frisky … 

“Absolutely true, old bean… not a bed; a sort of cot … collapsed but that didn’t stop us … then the hut fell over … sprawled in the mud …

“Crowd of angry chaps outside … supposed to stay a virgin, apparently … chased after me waving their mulamu … father stuck me to a tree … could see his point of view … hung there for eight days … only when I laughed.”

Gally rescued me at that point, and we went off to the dining room. Gally led the way like a dapper drum-major, but as he marched towards the roast lamb he threw a remark over his shoulder. “Oh, you must’t worry about Carstairs.”

I sighed. “Never been east of Callais in all his life, has he?”  

“Never been east of Soho, old egg.”

Sex in the South Seas 11

I was in the world of Senemelia’s pleasure, my nose and most of my mouth in her cunt, with her thighs braced on my face and her body heaving underneath me. She was making sounds that couldn’t be words, not even in Fijian. I doubted that she knew she was making them. 

But then she stopped. I could feel the tension drain away. I suppose that she’d got distracted at the last moments, since this was new and possibly “dirty”. I slowed right down, and started again.

But Senemelia took a handful of my hair. “Fuck me. Mort – Jaime, please fuck me.”

So I reached for the Gideon Bible where I’d stashed my condoms, slipped one of the things on, and pushed her down, my hands on her shoulders, holding myself over her while I looked down into her eyes. I held eye contact while I slowly pushed my way into her. She was very wet but also a very tight girl, and she winced when I had my cock all the way inside and our bodies pressed together. This awoke stupid cock pride, and also my urge to be cruel in small, measured doses. So I pressed as hard into her as I could manage, and held us there together.

Senemelia bit her lip, wide-eyed, then grunted. It was an affirmative noise. So I started again to pump her, savouring the sliding of warm, slick, velvet skin, moving very slowly. Then I was ambushed.

dark fuckSenemelia wrapped her legs around my waist and simply began to fuck me, bucking up at me, using my cock hard and fast, at more than twice the speed I’d been moving. So I sped up to join her, and we jolted each other until Senemelia came, with a series of short sighs that broke and fell like notes of a descending scale.

Before she’d recovered I put my hands under her ass and rode her, giving my very best hard and fast fuck. She began to come, again, in about a minute, and I was past any sort of control. I shouted something wordless and triumphant and released into her. 

Then we rested for a bit, puffing like steamtrains and holding each other

We fucked again, and again, until it was getting light. Then I fell asleep.

fiji girlWhen I woke up, about 8AM, she was gone. I vaguely remembered her getting up, a shadowy, twilight girl, about 5AM. She’d had a shower, and whispered something about getting back to her uncle’s place in Raiwaqa before he woke up. She’d kissed me on the cheek, and shut my room door carefully after her. 

I only thought of the questions I wanted to ask once she was gone. Did she have a phone number? What was her address in Raiwaqa? Did she want to see me again?

I thought of going to Raiwaqa and asking round till I found her. But that would be stupid.

A kaivelagi looking for a specific Fijian girl would certainly be noticed, and start scandalised gossip. That wouldn’t do Senemelia any good at all. 

Still, she’d taught me that sex isn’t something completely “natural”. Different cultures have different customs and different styles, not just about who’s allowed to initiate sex and how free women are allowed to be, but also about the details, the actual things people do when they’re fucking or leading up to it. And I learned that just the same, you can always work it out. Sex isn’t completely “natural”, but it partly is, and if we suspend our cultural arrogances we’ll have no trouble enjoying the differences and making them work.

But I had to leave Suva in a few days, and though I went back each of my remaining nights to the club where we’d met, I never saw Senemelia again. 

Sex in the South Seas 6

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

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 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.

Gams of Brixton 2

Anyway, before I’d gone into the Brixton Electric, where the Public Enemy gig was, I’d bought a cocoanut drink from a stall. I’d held up the girl who worked the stall because I can’t figure out British coins. The size of the coin has no connection with its value, and they don’t always have numbers on them to tell you what they’re worth. 

So I’d been a bit flustered and embarrassed because I was being slow while she was busy. I explained that I couldn’t sort the UK coins out at all, and finally just held out a palmful of shrapnel and let her pick out the ones that she liked. 

But when I was in the Electric Brixton, when the lights came up again while Public Enemy’s crew set up, I felt someone poking me from behind. I turned around and it was the girl from the stall, still laughing at me. She said, “‘Ello, you”, in the South London voice.

Her face was shiny-black, her lips were plush and plump and the colour of ripe aubergine (egg-plant, to some people). And because she was laughing, her tongue and throat were shockingly pink, and her teeth blinding white. 

I said, “ye gods, hello!” Because I try not to swear when I’m talking to women, until they’ve said fucking, or fuck’s sake or at least bloody, first. “Cold-drink-selling stall girl! Um, unless that’s not your name..? I’m Jaime. Hey, it’s nice to meet you.” 

“I’m Mollie-o. Hey, Jaime. I didn’t pick you for a Public Enemy fan.”

I looked around. There weren’t many white guys there, come to that. “Well, I’m in Brixton, Public Enemy are in Brixton. I just thought, what can I do? It was meant to be.”

girls of brixtonMollie-o laughed again. She was bouncing. She was wearing a low-cut top, like of lot of Brixton girls. Her breasts were about 35 centimetres from my eyes. They looked firm, dark, warm, and other good things. They wouldn’t keep still.

“You’re being stalked by Public Enemy, eh? Oh la, I should be so lucky.”

“I’m being stalked by Brixton drink-sellers. Believe me, that’s better.”

“Hey, Jaime, you mind if I smoke?”

I did mind, a bit. But I said what a man says when he’s talking to a girl who isn’t a submissive but who is prettier than ciggies are foul. So she lit up. “I couldn’t get over you holding out that handful of change,” she said. “I could have paid for my ticket out of that.”

“Ah, but you wouldn’t have done that. I could tell.”

“Oh, I’m a bad girl, me.” It means something different when a girl who isn’t a submissive says it, but it can’t help but focus my attention.

“Bad girls are the best kind, Mollie-o.”

“Ah la, I am the best kind.” She leaned forward. Her breasts were closer to my nose. 

 And then I remembered a girl back at home. I’d made a promise that I was going to keep my willie out of the girls I met, until I got back to her. So I didn’t say, “you’re clearly the best,” and put my hand on her side, so that her breast pressed against the inside of my wrist, and pull her in for a kiss.

Nor, to take things in a different direction, did I say, “I know a way of turning bad girls into good girls.” 

Instead I only said, “Oh, you sure are.” 

Mollie-o smiled, with brilliant teeth. “I love your accent. It’s … your voice is adorable.” 

I said, “your voice is as cute as puppies.” The puppies came to mind because I wasn’t really thinking about her voice. Her breasts were irresistibly cute, they had a black circle at the tips – though I assumed that Mollio’s nipples wouldn’t actually be cold and wet. And above all, they wouldn’t keep still. “So are you.”

Mollie-o smiled and waited. I wanted to kiss her. It wouldn’t have been hard. I said, “Oh, you are a bad girl. But I’m going to have to go. It’s been lovely to meet you.”

Fortunately Mollie-o knew her value. It was my loss. “Hey, lovely to meet you too, Jaime. You have a good night.”

So there you are. I came to that town while I was spoken for. But I love Brixton.