Huia Short Stories 10

by Tihema Baker

  ‘But you won’t like what you see! I have man appendages,’ he protested, but seeing the look of irritation on her face, he did as he was told. He had some problems, though, as the inhibition of a natural lengthening and a long lens made it difficult to manoeuvre. He turned away from her scrutiny, bending to slip his clothes off.

  ‘Ho ho, Mr Terris Kiwi,’ she said in an exaggerated French accent, ‘are you the catcher or the pitcher, lover boy?’

  She took another drink.

  ‘Turn around.’

  He was trapped. If he reached for his drink he would reveal what his hands were trying to hide. She knew this and with great deliberation, sipped the last of her drink.

  ‘Hands away!’ She yelled triumphantly, flash flashing.

  He took his chance and grabbed his drink with one hand and her empty glass with the other. Too late, she realised what he had done.

  ‘Now. You know what I’m going to ask you to do.’ He teased her, continuing to sip his drink.

  ‘I must warn you, I know Muay Thai,’ she said uneasily.

  ‘So do I. Coat off and nakedness, please. Tell you what, you can try and beat me while I take photos of you.’

  He knelt and quickly took a battery of photos of her womanhood. She tried to kick him, and he deftly moved out of reach. When he poked his tongue out, she kicked him in the side of the head. Hard. He reacted instinctively, and while she was off balance from the kick, he swept her other leg away. She fell heavily on the soft yak wool mat with a loud thud and gasp.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to!’ He was horrified, offering his hand to pull her up but minimising the sincerity of the gesture by continuing to click photos. She accepted his hand, but there was a determined glint in her eyes that did not look good.

  ‘Look. If we’re going to continue this can you at least put some underpants on? A man with an erection looks silly and it’s distracting me.’ She walked over to the table and poured herself a generous dollop of cognac. She gulped it down while she watched him retrieve his underpants and attempt to put them on. As he was hopping on one leg and struggling to put the other one in, she moved over swiftly and kneed him in the thigh, the impact jiggling her breasts and bringing a grunt of satisfaction from her lips. He fell to his knees and rolled on his side, pausing for a moment and wincing at the pain.

  ‘What’s the story now, big boy? You the pitcher or the catcher? Come on. Do your best!’

  He pulled himself onto the sofa and sat there for a moment, using the blanket there to cover himself.

  ‘Winner take all?’ he asked, subduedly.

  ‘What’s the stakes?’ She was cautious.

  ‘You win, I’ll give you half of Remy’s money. I win, I get to sleep in your bed. No low shots, and whoever draws blood first loses. I don’t need the underpants anymore. Deal?’

  ‘If I win, then I get all the money. Deal?’

  ‘OK, but only if I get to do whatever I want with you if you lose. Deal?’

  She watched him warily as he got up, still holding onto the blanket with one hand. He was obviously in some pain and favouring the leg she had hit.

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘No hard feelings?’

  ‘Nope, you can still stay here.’

  ‘Good.’

  Without warning he pulled the blanket up and stepped forward, flinging it over her head and shoulders and using his right leg to trip her backwards while still holding onto her, softening the fall and pinning her on the ground. She gave a muffled cry and started to struggle vigorously until he pulled enough of the blanket back so she could breathe. Her hair covered her face and she gulped lungfuls of air.

  ‘You bastard. That was not fair.’ She spat at him.

  ‘Before was pleasure my love, this is business. Give up?’

  ‘Never.’

  She started to struggle again and managed to dislodge him and the blanket until he grappled her into a scissor-hold.

  ‘Give up?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. He reached over to his camera and raised it over them and started clicking, going the length of her body and focusing on the private parts.

  ‘Give up?’ he repeated.

  ‘No way,’ she said staunchly.

  He could sense her frustration and anger. She was breathing heavily. The contact meant he would need the underpants again shortly.

  ‘If you don’t give up then, I will use a secret technique that only I know and can only be used once in these situations, and it won’t be pretty. You leave me no choice. Give up?’

  ‘Get fucked,’ she said emphatically.

  ‘I warned you.’ He started to tickle her. The reaction was immediate. She laughed and protested and thrashed around and still he held her tightly in his grip.

  ‘Give up?’ He tickled her harder.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes, stop, I give up!’ she shrieked frantically.

  He stopped and let her go, and as she rolled out of his grasp and onto her side he couldn’t be sure if she was laughing or crying.

  ‘You bastard. You bastard! No one’s done that to me since I was a little kid.’

  ‘My pleasure, mam’selle.’

  Getting up and, as a precaution, leaping out of her reach, he used the blanket to cover her and keep her warm.

  ‘Don’t catch cold. Fancy a coffee or another cognac?’

  She sat up and wrapped the blanket around her, hair dishevelled.

  ‘Give me a minute. Pass me my drink, please.’

  He passed her the drink and poured himself another one. Most of the bottle was gone. She rested her head on her knees. He moved over to her, pulling her hair from under the blanket and from over her face. She shivered at his touch. He gently traced his finger over her cheek and kissed her lightly.

  ‘We can leave it if you like. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a woman, so it won’t make any difference. I’d prefer a friendship to a feud.’

  She rested her forehead on his and looked into his eyes.

  ‘You know I hate you.’

  ‘Moi? But I’m a very lovable chappie.’

  She stood up abruptly, letting the blanket drop, and grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the staircase.

  ‘Come on. I always keep my word. That’s why I get in so much trouble. If I don’t do it now, I will have you following me round like a sick puppy.’

  She took a long drink and emptied the glass. He grimaced as he put weight onto his injured leg and hurriedly picked up his camera and the cognac.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked concernedly.

  ‘Hate to say it, but you really did hurt me when you kicked me in the leg.’

  ‘You the pitcher or the catcher? I was aiming for your balls.’

  They climbed into the bed together, both self-conscious in the new potential of their nakedness. He was still holding onto his camera.

  ‘One rule – no kissing, no photos and no anal, prison boy.’

  ‘That’s three rules.’

  She kissed him and climbed on top. He couldn’t help himself and came immediately, surprising both of them.

  ‘Well, that was easy,’ she said, triumphant and disappointed at the same time.

  ‘Not so fast, sister. You’ve heard of the Scotsman and the call-girl?’ He moved on top of her, tracking light fingers along her arms and down her breasts to her stomach, then up her legs to her womanhood.

  ‘No, should I have?’ She wriggled under his grasp.

  ‘Scotsman goes to a bordello, chooses the most beautiful girl there and goes up to her room. He asks her how much, and she says 1000 euros. So he gives her the money and starts masturbating in front of her. She says, what the hell are you doing? He says, for that sort of money, you ain’t getting the easy one. That my dear, was the easy one. Plenty more where that came from.’

  And there was. He only broke two of the rules and she had already broken the first.

  He woke the next day to see the sun str
eaming through the windows. His camera was missing, as was Kahla. Climbing down the staircase he saw her with her fur coat on, sitting in front of the projector. Flashing on the screen were his cemetery photos. As was his habit, he had taken the other memory stick out before drifting off the night before. She must have gone through his jeans and found the original one.

  ‘You are very good, you know, Terris,’ she greeted him.

  ‘Why thank you, ma’am,’ he replied, leaning down to kiss her and putting his hand between her legs and up under the fur coat.

  ‘I’m serious, Terris,’ she said, turning her head and pushing away his hand. ‘These photos have a sensitivity that doesn’t match or detract from the subject. Did you spend a lot of time in graveyards?’

  ‘I did at the time, and since, I guess. There’s something to be said about the iconoclasm of graveyards. Broken statues. ‘We shall never forget’ – the words are covered in lichen. It’s another world. The dead can’t kill you, though they have their own way of coming back to haunt you.’

  ‘Do you know much about photography?’

  ‘Yeah, I know a little. Considered becoming a professional before I was arrested. Learnt a bit in prison, Photoshop et cetera, but only at an amateur level.’

  ‘I use Photoshop here. I have contacts in local and overseas galleries where you could exhibit or sell some of this stuff. You could help me here.’

  ‘Here? I’d love that. Can you help me find a place to live around here? Later on this afternoon maybe?’

  ‘I can’t. I’m working this afternoon. I work part-time as a lawyer.’

  ‘You’re a lawyer?’

  ‘Yes. Studied in the States. My father is French and my mother American. I need the money. This place is hard to keep.’

  ‘Tell you what. Why don’t I rent out your room for a week or two until I get my bearings. If it’s all right with you, of course.’

  ‘Maybe. But I must warn you that what happened between us last night was a one-off. It mustn’t happen again, and it won’t. Do you understand? I have a certain standing among the gay women in this community, and I don’t want to lose that. Besides, it’s my bread and butter. I’ll have to tell everyone that you’re gay if you want to stay. Can you handle that?’

  He moved closer behind her.

  ‘Catcher or pitcher?’ he asked.

  She reached behind herself and patted what she thought was his hand, grabbing at the wrist.

  ‘Definitely pitcher, but whatever turns you on, darling.’

  ‘Honey, I didn’t know you cared,’ he replied.

  She felt the wrist begin to enlarge and turned around to see she was holding his penis.

  ‘For God’s sake, Terris! Don’t you think of anything else?’

  ‘You grabbed me! I didn’t touch you,’ he said with mock indignity.

  She stood up and, still holding his manhood, pulled him into the bathroom and turned the shower on.

  ‘This hurts you more than it hurts me,’ she said, pushing him inside, ‘but it’s for both our goods.’ She walked out and closed the door. It was a cold Kaikōura shower that blew no one any good.

  The University of Whakatu

  Horiana Robin

  I grew up in Whakatu in the 1970s and ’80s. Ours was a community built around the largest freezing works in the Southern Hemisphere. In gigantic white letters, the words WHAKATU MEAT WORKS LTD loomed over our neighbourhood and our lives like a heavenly blessing, and we worshipped and sacrificed at the altar of this red brick and steel giant. Day and night the giant belched and farted gases, moisture and organic odours as it gorged itself on cattle and sheep. Its conversations were made of animal bleats and moos, human laughter, shouts and waiata at Christmas. The Whakatu freezing works provided the rhythm to our lives.

  Our house was one of the first built down Ngaruroro Avenue. All of the houses down our street were paid for by Whakatu wages. Our school was about a mile and a half down the road from Whakatu, and we all went to school there. After school we’d hang out in groups, going from house to house along our street, playing and fighting and trying not to get growled at by each other’s parents. It was a safe neighbourhood, where everyone knew each other because they all worked at the Works. The scariest thing for us kids was Mrs Bristowe and her Alaskan husky dogs. She had six of them. Beautiful things, they were, and beautifully terrifying too. The front of Mrs Bristowe’s house caught the noontime sun, and she would sit on her light blue narrow porch guarded by her garden gnomes and a short brick fence while her dogs lay regally around her, because she was the alpha dog. The thing was that, if you forgot to cross the road when you approached Mrs Bristowe’s house, you were in for one hell of a scare that would scar you for life. I should know. Up to the brick fence all six dogs would leap, and the barking of those dogs would send you stumbling onto the road like a crab, and scuttling to the opposite pavement. The dogs would then shut up, pleased with their humiliation of you, or sometimes Mrs Bristowe called them off.

  We were an economically thriving community, with a dairy, a garage, a post office, a well-patronised butcher’s shop and a Credit Union building. Whakatu was also a caring neighbourhood. My parents and others established the first Whakatu Youth Club. The juvenile delinquency of Whakatu at the time surpassed that of communities like Omahu and Camberley. The Whakatu Youth Club provided support and activities – we had many outings as kids. We went swimming a lot, picnicked and played at parks, and visiting Fantasyland was always a favourite. We had some awesome times. As we got older, our parents started organising trips away. We went sightseeing and swimming in Taupō and Rotorua, watched an All Blacks game and the Ngāti Pōneke kapahaka in Wellington, and even got to the Chateau and tobogganed our bums off. We always had plenty of sponsorship and meat from the freezing works for our trips.

  My dad’s whānau were known as the ‘Royal Family’ at the Works, because apparently if you were one of my whānau and had an interview with ‘Uncle Dave’, you were pretty much guaranteed a job. Starting the very next day, in a lot of cases. Recently, I was at a tangi for one of our Whakatu whānau when one of the speakers talked about the favouritism that had been shown to my whānau at the freezing works. He reckoned that as a young man he had an interview with Uncle Dave one time, and Uncle Dave said to him, ‘What, boy? You’re a Tomoana! Get back to your own freezing works.’

  My parents were also busy sports people. Dad played rugby for Whakatu Works, and both my parents pulled in the Works tug-o-war teams. On Sundays after a rugby game, Whakatu players and supporters would meet up at the Whakatu hall to celebrate their victories with lots of drinking, boasting and raffles. Me, my brother and our cousins would try to steal packets of chicken chips from behind the bar, and we’d go and scoff them at the park. We’d then walk around the block a few times until it got dark, then go back to our place, watch some TV and fall asleep. Mondays were usually absentee days for us kids because our parents were sleeping off their hangovers. Yep, they worked hard and they played even harder.

  Once us kids stayed with our grandmother because the Whakatu men’s and women’s tug-o-war teams were competing at a national tournament in Nelson. Both teams were unbeaten Hawke’s Bay champs. The men’s team remained that way during the tourney, while the women’s team came a devastating second. My mother said that they lost to a team of little Pākehā women because that team had better pulling technique, not better power or stamina. They had the time of their lives in Nelson. Legend had it that they hired a bus to take them on a pub crawl to celebrate the men’s victory. The bus was the loser of this outing – not because of the alcoholic spills and empty bottles rolling on the floor, but because of the strong winners who had managed to pull half the seats of the bus from their bearings. Lucky for them, the bus driver was also their coach, and as the only sober and responsible member of the team he wasted no time in reimbursing the bus company with a heavy cheque from the boys. Another story from that trip concerned the strongest mate in the team, who made the mistak
e of falling into a drunken stupor. When he woke, he found himself bound in ropes and left outside the team’s motel rooms. The boys wouldn’t untie him until they were absolutely sure he couldn’t get out of them by himself and that he wasn’t going to rip them to pieces when he was released.

  We had Christmas parties at the Whakatu hall when we were kids. We’d play games, eat junk food till our teeth ached and receive Christmas presents from a real Santa. These Christmases were supported by the boys and girls of the Whakatu Works, and we excitedly indulged in them. The Works boys and girls had established a Christmas tradition of their own; they’d stop the chains at the Works and sing Christmas carols for an hour or so. We could hear them singing while we played at the park or brought lollies from the shop, or from the open windows of our houses. They were moving moments. One year, Whakatu hosted a very famous entertainer, the legendary Prince Tui Teka. The boys found a pair of white overalls big enough for Tui (well, nearly), some gumboots and a hard hat. Prince Tui walked up and down the chains, lending his voice and his humour to the men. That was a major highlight for many of the workers for years to come.

  When I was growing up, these were my role models. The freezing workers. My whānau was all at the works; they had flash cars, flash clothes, nice houses and holidays. They seemed very settled in their way of life, and although it wasn’t said out loud by the adults around us, it was felt by us kids that the freezing works was to be our destiny also, because what else were we going to do? Who else would pay us that kind of money? ‘You don’t have to stay at school,’ we’d say. ‘Come a get a job at the works! You don’t need qualifications to get on the chain – the sooner you can start, the better. You’ll have a good paying job for life.’ Whakatu wasn’t just a big meat industry or the biggest employer of Māori in the Bay; it was a way of life for its workers. It was a place where men loved and fought each other; it was a place where they socialised and entertained. At Whakatu, men found a brotherhood, a camaraderie that they knew was special. It was a place of acceptance. To many workers, Whakatu was their religion, their marae, their home and their family.