Tails of the South Pacific

Madame Hunt bellowed at me, "You are stew-peed. Zeh-row points!"

Madame Hunt (she pronounced her name "Uunt") was my high school French teacher. She was very perceptive: I was stew-peed when it came to French and deserved nil points on my exam.

This was the early 1960's. I lived happily with my family in Hawaii. My father was a businessman and my mother designed expensive fashion accessories with a Polynesian theme. We travelled quite frequently to Tahiti on the one airline that flew from Honolulu to Papeete -- South Pacific Airlines. Everyone called it SPAL.

Folks not familiar with Pacific often assume the islands are gathered in a happy mélange. Hawaii is, in fact, 2,500 miles to the southwest of California, and Tahiti is 2,500 miles to the south of Hawaii. SPAL leased one Super Constellation -- the plane with the distinctive triple tail -- from TWA. The weekly flight departed Honolulu on Friday night and landed on an old WW2 airstrip on a fringe atoll of Bora Bora nine hours later. Passengers transferred to an RAI flying boat for the two-hour flight to Tahiti. The process was reversed on Sunday.

Tahiti was a lovely tropical paradise, population 80,000. It did not yet have an airport. Papeete, the town, was the capital of French Polynesia. My parents knew many people there -- and they hatched a plan to improve my French and give me my first tase of independence.

I turned 18 in May and graduated from high school in early June. Their plan was for me to live in Tahiti for the summer to improve my French before going to college in New York in September. I'd be the house guest of their good friend, Monsieur Dupont, and his family. He was a pleasant Frenchman with a pretty Tahitian wife and two sons. They lived on a ridge overlooking the town, in a house like those on the French Riviera. The main house was surrounded by several free-standing fare (fah-reh) -- thatched houses with concrete floors. I was to stay in one of the fare.

I enthusiastically approved the plan.

My grandparents gave me a blank, leather bound journal at the airport. My grandfather winked at me and told me to keep a diary so that I could remember all that happened. He added that he envied me.

Monsieur Dupont met me at the pier after the flying boat landed and drove me up the ridge in his Citroen. After a pleasant lunch -- mostly poisson cru made from fresh Tahitian fish, coconut milk, and lime juice -- he showed me my fare and gave me the keys to an older 2CV car. I'd seen 2CV's before but had never been inside one. The seats were more like hammocks, and the windscreen wipers were hand-powered from inside. It was grea

My parents' friends scooped me up, and I found everyone was keen to practice their English. I rarely had to try my lousy French.

One night Madame Blanchet -- a big shot with the local tourist authority -- took me to dinner. It was a lovely restaurant overlooking the harbor -- white tablecloths, lots of silverware. When the time came to order dessert I ordered escargot. I had confused escargot with mousse and expected to get a nice chocolate pudding. The waiter politely quizzed me -- but Madame Blanchet waved him away. When dessert arrived she got the pudding, and I got a plate of snails in their shells, cooked in garlic butter. Remember I was 18. I didn't want to admit my mistake so I started eating the snails, only to discover they were delicious.

One afternoon I visited another of my father's friends, Monsieur Nicolas. He was an older gentleman from California and was rich. Very rich. He owned a well-known company that designed and manufactured ladies' swimsuits. His products were used in beauty contests and swim matches, as well as on beaches throughout the world. His modern home was on a gorgeous plot of land on the beach. His company was doing a swimsuit photo shoot -- with the island of Moorea in the background -- and he thought I'd enjoy watching.

There were eight or nine swimsuit models -- creamy skinned girls, Asian ladies, and Polynesian girls with glossy nut-brown skin. The photo "set" was on the beach, with some flash lighting and soft boxes. The photographer picked up his Hasselblad and started shooting. I sat on the grass with my Hinano beer and watched with fascination. Initially everything was orderly: the girls changed from one suit to another behind a modesty screen set up on the beach. As the tempo picked up, a model accidentally knocked over the screen -- and nobody seemed to be bothered to set it back up.

Most of the swimsuits were one piece. I watched girls peel them off, like snakes shedding skin, before stepping into the next suit. Once the suit was on, each girl had their own way of adjusting their boobs and flattening the fabric in the crotch. This was a time before boob jobs (or even the thought of boob jobs). I watched the ladies, with different sizes and shapes of breasts, with a big smile on my face and growing erection in my shorts.

Bikinis were photographed last -- first with tops for the modest advertisements, and then without for other countries. At the wrap the girls were all topless -- and I'm sure this wasn't a happy accident. Plates of fresh fruit, poisson cru, and barbequed fish were brought out, along with wine and more Hinano. The crew mingled with the girls, and I happily joined in. My host watched from a sun lounger near his house, smiling.

I chatted with Fiona, a lovely red head from Ireland. She stood next to me, topless, in her green bikini bottom. She wasn't the least bit self-conscious. Her pear-shaped breasts were topped with perfect pink nipples. I tried not to stare at them -- and maintain actual eye contact -- while trying to subtly adjust my shorts to try to conceal my now-throbbing dick. I'm sure she noticed but said nothing.

I was young and inexperienced -- but not a virgin. As Fiona changed in and out of swimsuits earlier in the day I was fascinated by her red bush and freckled skin. I'd had sex with a couple of girls in the dark backseat of my old Datsun. Cunnilingus didn't hold much fascination for me at the time -- I wanted to get on with the fucking before the girls changed their minds. I'm not sure I even knew about giving head. As best I could recall my previous partners had unremarkable black pubic hair: I was only interested in what lay beneath. With Fiona I wanted to explore everything -- and now.

Fiona asked me what I was doing in Tahiti. I explained about Madame Hunt, the fact my parents knew Monsieur Nicolas, and that he'd invited me over for the shoot.

She said the overseas models met up in Honolulu and had flown in on SPAL the previous weekend. They were staying at the house, and she'd met Monsieur Nicolas and had a shower with him the day before.

"A shower?" I asked.

"Sure. Several of us. Haven't you seen it yet?" she replied.

I'd seen lots so far -- and didn't know what Fiona meant. She could see I was confused.

"Come on, I'll show you" she said, and bounded for the house. My erection and I tagged along.

The house was beautifully furnished, with Lester Lanin music playing on what we called a "stereo" in those days. Fiona went down a hallway and into what I learned was the master bathroom. I followed eagerly.

She closed and locked the door.

The room was large and oval shaped. The walls were made from lava rock, and there were many flowering orchid plants growing from pots concealed in the rocks. There were two sets of sinks along one wall, and a chaise lounge on the other. In the center of the room was a large oval platform, almost like a stage. There was a raised edge on the platform and the floor slanted downwards towards a drain. Strands of various small white shells hung from the ceiling and perfectly matched up to the edge of the shower floor. Six or eight heat lamps on the ceiling -- large ones, like spotlights -- faced the shower from all sides. There were skylights on the edges of the room and the fading Tahitian sunlight filled the room with a reddish-gold light.

The swimsuit magnate had built himself the best shower room I'd ever seen.

Fiona twisted a timer switch to turn on the heat lamps and turned a valve that started water flowing from several concealed shower heads in the ceiling. It was raining inside the curtain of shells.

She was out of her green bikini bottom in a flash and headed through the shells into the indoor rain.

"Well, are you coming?" she asked.

I pulled off my Aloha shirt, shorts, and set my cock free. I parted the curtain of shells and felt like I was on stage. I was ready for my performance, and Fiona was ready for hers.

We kissed. Her breasts felt even better than they looked. But I wanted to see the red bush. I went down on my knees for a better look -- warm water running over both of our bodies.

"Lick me," she requested. I obliged.

The first time I'd tasted pussy. It was delicious. I had no idea what to do with my tongue, so I improvised. And Fiona's moaning increased when I licked what I later learned was her clit, so I spent particular attention there. Her pussy didn't taste like the mousse nor escargot -- it had its own saveur d'un vagin.

I'd have licked for hours, but after some minutes the water started to cool. We got out of the shower, and Fiona turned it off. Still wet from the shower she lay on her back on the chez lounge and slowly, so slowly, parted her legs. Her red labia and red bush were irresistible and I was on top of her and in her and fucking her. I was disappointed that I came so quickly.

"That's OK," she said in her soft Irish lilt. "Let's just do it again."

Ah! The advantages of being 18. I obliged again. And the third time she insisted that it was her turn as she hopped on top of my cock and rode while playing with her pink nipples.

I learned later that the chez lounge was upholstered with Monsieur Nicholas' swimming suit fabric.

After our lovemaking I put on my shorts and she put on my baggy Aloha shirt -- which barley covered her bum and red bush -- and we left the bathroom. As we walked through the living room I saw Monsieur Nicolas.

"Are you having a good time in Tahiti?" he asked.

Months later I found one of the magazine ads that featured Fiona -- one of the modest versions. I tore out the page and pinned it to the bulletin board in my dorm room. Fiona and I hadn't exchanged addresses -- she led the life of a beautiful model with no shortage of men and their willing erections. But I was sure she'd never find a shower room to match that of Monsieur Nichols.

A few weeks later I was invited to the near-by island of Moorea. My father knew two airline pilots, Jack and Joe, who had built a hotel on the lagoon. I was to be their guest for a few days.

The hotel was little more than a dozen or so fares built near the beach, with a larger fare for meals and socializing. Because of the owners' careers, the hotel was a favorite vacation spot for airline personnel -- primarily stewardesses. In those days flights were not crowded, and airline staff could travel for free (or minimal fares) on any airline.

Joe invited me to their private residence one afternoon -- a larger fare some walk down the white sand beach. He gave me a quick tour -- the best part being the photos on the hallway that led to their two bedrooms. They'd started taking photographs of the ladies who came calling -- initially girls in bathing suits, then topless, then naked, and then fucking. The photos were all 8x10 black and white glossies -- they developed them there in an improvised darkroom. A few were in black frames, but most were not. The modest ones were on the left, and the newer ones on the right. They ran from ceiling to floor.

Joe explained that he and Jack has just intended to take the bathing suit photos to be their private pin-ups. But each girl wanted to one-up the previous girl -- it was the girls who shed their tops, then shed their bottoms, then shed their inhibitions. Joe had the wisdom to purchase a timer for his Leica so that he could set the camera and then dash into frame and into position. And there were some remarkable positions that I was keen to try.

The next day, as I lay on the beach, one of the Tahitian beach boys offered to take guests on a canoe ride across the lagoon. I wanted to go, as did two stewardesses I later learned were from BOAC.

We all held paddles and did our best, but in reality the strong Tahitian lad was our main propulsion. Moorea has a gorgeous lagoon with a unique mountain feature.

The BOAC stewardesses invited me to join them that evening for dinner.

Before the meal we had tropical cocktails on the lanai -- fruity drinks that conceal their alcoholic punch. The dinner was a merry affair with lots of French wine and afterwards I walked them to their fare. They were in their late 20's so I assumed I was just a pleasant diversion and expected a polite peck on the cheek from each -- and a night of jerking off in my fare.

When we got to their door and stood back, one of them said, "Well come on then," and I followed them into their room. They poured glasses of duty-free Scotch. I'd never had Scotch before and it tasted terrible, but I drank one, and then another, with what I hoped was the elan of Joe or Jack.

We all sat on the bed -- the fare had no chairs. They started giggling and giving each other secret signs. They got closer and were soon kissing me, and then removing my clothes. There were hands everywhere -- mine on their now exposed breasts, and theirs on my chest, cock and balls.

And then it happened.

One suddenly had my penis in her mouth. I'd heard about blow jobs but had never seen one, much less had one. And here I was, in a fare near the lagoon, with my cock in a British stewardesses' mouth. She sucked and licked and rubbed -- this was before anyone heard of Deep Throat -- and I obliged with my cum. She and her friend laughed. She spit it out on my belly and gently rubbed it in.

The ladies were kissing and playing with each other and seemed to almost forget about me. I reminded them I was there by finding the most available of the two pussies and filling it with my again-erect cock. I guess they'd forgotten I was 18 and still capable of rapid-fire orgasms. After a while, and more glasses of Scotch, we fell asleep in a naked huddle with me in the middle. I awoke early -- and spooned the stewardess I'd not fucked the night before. I began to gently slide my growing cock back and forth in her slit, and soon it was dripping wet. In I pushed and heard more giggling. Then pleasant moans.

I have two regrets. One, that I didn't have a camera to take photos to start my own gallery in my own hallway. Two, that I don't remember their names. I'm not sure I ever asked. But I can still visualize their pretty faces and hear their giggles.

And I learned to love Scotch.

Back in Tahiti I was able to see some of the filming of Mutiny on the Bounty -- my father had helped with the logistics of shipping equipment and food from Los Angeles to Papeete. I marveled at all the topless Tahitian women -- all wearing flower leis that were taped to their breasts to avoid nipple shots. I don't think Tahitians wore leis in 1790 -- what would they have used to string them? And they were certainly not modest about their breasts.

My final memory of this great summer of independence was back in my fare at Monsieur Dupont's house.

Like many in Tahiti, I'd taken to wearing a pareau around the house. It's essentially a large rectangle of brightly printed cotton fabric that you wrap around your waist, much like a towel. It was too warm in the fare for a t-shirt or for bed sheets -- I slept on top of the bed most nights in just my pareau.

The door to the fare didn't have a lock. The young Tahitian housekeeper came every morning to sweep the concrete floor and change the towels in the bathroom. She brought a glass of fresh pomplemouse juice. Normally I was awake and greeted her. She spoke no English, and my French, of course, was zeh-row.

One morning I overslept -- no doubt dreaming of Fiona and the BOAC stewardesses. The housekeeper, Atea, came into the room quietly and woke me with her laughing. There I was, lying on the bed, with my pareau held up in the air with a morning erection.

Atea was wearing a red and blue pareau -- large hibiscus flowers against the sky. Women either tied pareau above their breasts, or over one shoulder. Hers was tied over her left shoulder, but not for long. She dropped the cloth -- and all that was beneath was her nut-brown body. I learned that she rubbed kukui nut oil into her skin each day, which made it glow. Her wavy black hair reached to the middle of her back.

The blood in my cock made it glow -- and throb. She had my pareau open in a moment and asked me a one-word question:

"Ma'ue?"

I knew this meant "fuck?" in Tahitian -- and I replied in my best French:

"Oui!"

She was now on top of me. She wasn't one for kissing or foreplay -- she encouraged me to get up on my knees on the bed, and soon was showing me her lovely butt. Her long black hair was draped over her sides.

She inched backward, I inched forward, and my cock was soon inside her. She let out a moan of pleasure, and we fucked like dogs. She didn't remain stationery and let me do all the fucking -- she was wiggling and squirming and pushing back and forth. Atea was into this.

After I came, we lay side by side, looking at the ceiling. We had nothing to say -- we didn't speak a common language. She gently rubbed my cock and it was soon hard. I put my leg over, climbed on top, and penetrated her in the style of the missionaries. I went with slow movements and tried use the head of my penis to stimulate the entrance to her vagina. This seemed to produce the most favorable moans. Without deep thrusts I was able to last longer. Eventually atavistic urges took over and I started to pump away with deep thrusts that quickly bring a satisfying climax.

This became an almost wordless ritual each morning. I can't drink pomplemouse juice without thinking of lovely Atea and her Tahitian hospitality.

I remember her scent -- a mixture of kukui oil, the Tiare Tahiti flower (a variety of gardenia) behind her ear, and the lovely juices between her labia.

At the end of the summer my parents came from Hawaii to fetch me. We had several large dinner parties to thank all those who offered me their hospitality. I learned no French.

I've been back to Tahiti several times since then. It now has an airport built on reclaimed land over a reef, obscuring the view of Moorea. Papeete is now a bustling town, and there are hotels and tourists everywhere.

In my memories it's still the early 1960's. Fiona is posing on the beach as the Hassleblad clicks. The stewardesses are giggling. And Atea, my fragrant Atea, is dropping her pareau.