Huia Short Stories 10 (16 page)

‘Don't be crude.' She toyed with her glass. ‘It's different with women. Women don't need to be at it all the time. Sometimes a hug is enough.'

‘I can do hugs! Can I ask you a question?' As he filled her glass, she tilted it to avoid the cognac spilling. ‘Are you the catcher or the pitcher?' He looked at her expectantly.

‘The catcher or the pitcher? What are you talking about?'

‘Well with men, one gives and one receives.'

‘Oh, is that what you mean? Women do both, give and receive at the same time.'

‘Sure, sure. No woman can do what a man can.'

She was becoming intoxicated and he could see the fire reflected in her eyes, which started to blaze with one of their own.

‘I can do anything a man can do,' she declared.

‘You can't.' He shook his head emphatically.

‘Don't swear! Ask me to do anything apart from anything sexual.'

‘OK. Take your top off.' He had noticed that she was not wearing anything underneath.

She started to retort and then, exasperated, stood and took her top off.

Watching a woman take her top off was one of the wonders of the world, and this was no exception. He watched in awe as her full breasts lifted and then fell as she took the top off and shook her hair so that it concealed her nipples.

‘Now take yours off,' she challenged.

He hadn't expected that, not having thought that far ahead.

‘Go on Mr Toughguy, take it off,' she goaded him.

‘You'll be sorry,' he said, standing up and pulling off his shirt. There was a gasp as she saw some of the scars and tā moko.

‘Oh my God! Where did you get those from?' She came around the table and put cool fingers on the scars on his stomach. He flinched at the touch. It was too nice.

‘Various,' he said, starting to put his top back on again.

‘Leave it off,' she said. ‘Come and sit on the sofa.' She put hers back on and picked up her camera. He grabbed her and, holding her cheeks, kissed her softly on the lips, feeling her weaken and lean against him before pushing him angrily away.

‘Don't do that again.'

‘It was a charity kiss, darling. You looked so sad, I couldn't help myself. Can we put some music on?'

She put on the Joni Mitchell
Blue
album, then changed her mind and put on Leonard Cohen, live in concert, gently swaying to the music and snapping photos of him.

‘Move! Pose! Look mysterious! You look like a gay Jim Morrison.'

‘That's not fair. I'm not used to this.' He unsheathed his own camera and started taking photos like a machine gunner, while pretending to look at his nails and shine them on his jeans.

‘Enough!' she yelled. ‘Some order here!'

‘Tell you what,' he said, ‘drinking game. Whoever takes a picture has to take a drink of cognac. Deal?'

‘Deal. And tell the other one how they want them to pose.'

‘Deal.'

She took a quick drink.

‘What do you want me to do?' he asked.

‘Nothing. That was a practice.'

He took a sip. ‘Take off your top again.' He smiled and took numerous shots as she did so, including of her face, and quickly took another swig. ‘Take off your jeans and undies and put on your fur coat.'

‘That's not fair, it's my turn.'

‘No, the person who drinks first.'

She did as she was told, taking two quick drinks as he took photos.

‘My turn, mister macho man gay happy meal. Take off your trousers and everything else.'

‘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 streaming 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.