by EgmontOriginals©
Ivy stood at the top of the incline leading to the beach. The wrinkled-faced Maori woman with teeth missing smiled an eye-twinkling smile at her.
"He's down there in that shed he calls home," the woman pointed.
Rangi began thinking about the days seventy and more years ago when her grandfather and his men used to take the wool out through the surf in a long and heavily-built eight-oar rowboat called a lighter to a waiting coastal freighter.
The steamer would then proceed to the next bay, then the next bay until there were no more lighters waiting with bales of wool. Then the SS Miranda would back-track heavy-bellied with thousands of baled sheep fleeces to the port at Gisborne for shipping to England or France or Germany.
Young Ivy was on the East Coast of the North Island of New Zealand for a month attempting to have a culturally rewarding vacation.
The 22-year-old was in her final year studying for a master's degree for a career in anthropology.
Her aim was to pull aside the curtain of distrust the proud indigenous people had of the Pakeha (the Maori name for later-arrivals of European stock) and learn about their thoughts and aspirations and their history through intimate conversations.
So far the mission had been virtually fruitless.
She'd decided on New Zealand after looking at the summer temperatures (it was winter in Chicago) of the South Sea Islands, choosing the cooler country of Aotearoa which is the Maori name for New Zealand.
These days of course Maori did not live in their traditional fortified villages and they were so European in their ways that it disappointed her bitterly. She'd come prepared knowing that no full-blood Maori people were left.
She found some Maori people willing to speak to her projected the feeling in general of being down-trodden and even they really didn't know who they were as they had no concept of feeling they belonged despite being the descendants of the indigenous people.
Ivy thought at least they had not been banished to reservations.
In contrast, some of the contemporaries of those unfortunates who had the feeling of being adrift in society, had obtained university degrees or tertiary education and held top jobs in New Zealand and overseas;
Further it appeared most of the nation seemed to be proud of men and women of Maori descent who were household names in sport, particularly of games midway between gridiron and soccer called rugby and a variation called rugby league, while the women starred in a game called netball which was much like basketball.
Disappointed that she'd not found a pa (Maori village) permanently inhabited by Maori and finding that conversation with groups in bars and on the beaches would begin about things Maori but would soon drift into modern day topics ranging from politics to fashion. She'd been surprised to have being questioned about American politics and overseas military policy and even stock market performance as all this was taking her away from her desired study focus,
Ivy decided to go 'bush'. That's local idiom to go out into the wilds.
She headed for a tiny coastal settlement where sitting on a seat outside tearooms in a building formerly a Post Office, she found Rangi.
Rangi was a mine of information and they had a rewarding conversation. Ivy wondered if she could talk to some young people and that request was met by Rangi with tears in her eyes, saying, "All the young people have gone to the cities or gone overseas."
Then her eyes brightened and she said, "Oh, there's Peter, down on the beach in that shed."
Ivy now approached the tin shed to visit a Maori lad with the Anglicised name of Peter.
The long rusty building running lengthways in the direction of the beach just below it.
Ivy called out 'Hi' and gasped as she came to the front of the shed, which was open.
Under the shade of some thin-trunked trees lay a well-built young man, aged maybe twenty-five, with his hands behind his head. He was nude, completely. His penis actually lay on his lower belly, stiff!
Ivy turned to retreat in embarrassment when a voice called, "We're not open."
Halting nervously, Ivy half-turned to attempt to give him some privacy. He'd said 'we' and so where was the other person or persons? She failed to see anyone else.
In a bound the fellow was on his feet and Ivy coloured as the penis approached her, now jutting upwards about sixty degrees and bobbing about.
Ivy occasionally bobbed her head on male erection but this really was the first time she's seen one bobbing unaided – certainly outside of a bedroom.
With utter embarrassment she heard the fellow say – "Hello there, my face is up here."
Ivy's eyes flicked up from six and a half inches of thick, bobbing meat to a bearded face and merry and absolutely blue eyes like Rangi whereas weren't Maori supposed to have brown eyes?
Yes, merry; he was laughing at her.
If this guy was Maori she was...was...a lesbian!
"I am a researcher for my university studies. Rangi suggested I should visit you. I think she knows you."
"She ought to, she'd my grandmother."
"Grandmother?
If Rangi was his blood grandmother rather and had acquired the relationship through tribal adoption, which was practised by some, then he had Maori ancestry.
Ivy was delighted and she smile showed it.
"That's better, you're smiling. I thought you were shocked and about to faint, not having seen a big and powerful bared dick before."
Big?
Ivy could tell him about big, but wisely she diverted.
"Good afternoon, I am Ivy Klein." She held out her hand, eyeing him.
Peter grinned and said, "You can touch my dick, you don't have to wait for permission."
Ivy hastily withdrew her hand and looked at his penis, which by now was hanging almost normally.
"I apologise Ivy. Down here alone I have my humorous thoughts and playing with my dick to keep me focused."
Ivy coloured again.
The guy was openly admitting he masturbated. Ivy thought OMG if only Maori elders had been this forthcoming in talking to her about history and customs. Forthcoming or forth-Cumming as the case might be. She began to giggle at the implied pun.
"Is there something funny?" asked Peter, glancing down at his flaccid penis and then wiping a hand through his beard. "Have I got some of my lunch caught in my bush?"
Peter was referring to his short-cropped beard of course, but Ivy had never heard a beard called a bush. She had a bush, and the thought sent her into laughter.
His blue eyes were enquiring so Ivy just had to explain herself: "You have a beard, I have a bush," she choked.
Peter bellowed a deep laugh and took her hand and led her toward the side lean-to which comprised and extension of the main roofline but the material was clear plastic.
This extension was supported a couple of metres beyond, attached to a beam made of a log weathered bone-white by sea, sand, surf and sun before being salvaged from the beach and resting on two sturdy posts of recent origin of sawn posts.
"Do you want coffee, tea, fruit juice or a beer, Yank?"
"A larger please. How did you guess I was from the States?"
Peter just grinned and said he only one type of beer because this was not a hotel – bitter beer. But he could lighten it with lemonade.
"Whatever," called Ivy to his retreating back, wishing he'd put some clothes on.
Peter returned with a pint receptacle he called 'a handle' containing his dark beer and another with a lightened version and two huge pieces of dark fruit cake on a plate. He was wearing a pair of tattered shorts.
"Dick show is over," he grinned, and catching her grin he added, "For now."
Rather than feel uneasy, Ivy allowed the thought of what he'd just said to drift a message languidly towards her lower belly. Her first impressions were favourable: he was quite a character, actually not at all threatening.
The next remark almost blew her away.
"This is the first time grandma has sent me down a fuckable woman. Usually they are Tiki Tour people, mostly old dames but invariably wanting to fuck me through hard horse-trading."
Ivy buried her mouth into her beer and was amazed how refreshed and zizzy it tasted.
She rarely drank beer, aware that its legacy would ring around tummy, hips and ass. Why was he talking like this: no one had ever described her as being fuckable – how on earth could he tell that? Millions of other women were blue eyed with blonde hair and firm breasts, even much larger than hers. And boasting about elderly women interested in him sexually?
"Through hard horse-trading?"
"I have prices, which of course are negotiable, but these dried up bitches think they can beat me down for a pittance."
"You mean undercut your price."
"Yeah, rip me off."
"But what prices are you talking about?"
"Didn't grandma tell you?"
Ivy shook her head and was told Peter painted.
"You mean you're an artist?" she said in astonishment.
Peter looked at her sympathetically and held back his retort.
"Come."
Or did he mean cum? Ivy giggled.
"You giggle a lot," said Peter, this time putting his arm around her waist, with the fingers stretching up a little to obviously check out what kind of bra was under her shirt.
A burst of excitement swept through her and she was glad she was wearing her beautiful new lilac half-bra she'd purchased in Auckland. It showed her flesh to great advantage.
They walked into the shed and the walls were lined with paintings, incredibly good paintings.
One side the line-up was beach scenes, the other wall were modernistic paintings and for a moment Ivy thought they represented the female vulva until realising some were abstracts of shells, seaweed and actual molluscs which in real life actually have a vulva look to them, didn't they?
