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.