Tahitian Nights

Dave Bishop began his amorous adventures with older women when he met Brenda. He now advertises for others. This story is Dave doing his mature best, but this time in Tahiti.

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Hello, I’m Dave Bishop. In a recent story I explained about a situation where my friend Ken allowed me to watch him with a beautiful older woman, Brenda, in the office of his liquor store.

It was after this that I got the idea to advertise and see if I could meet more women in the older age bracket. You may want to read this story (It Pays to Advertise) to get an appreciation of how much I like older women? I have still to write up what happened to the other two women who replied to my ad. I have seen Brenda since then and she was just as good as she was the first time… unbelievable in fact.

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Let me explain what I do for a living:

In my line of work I get to see some of the world’s most beautiful tourist destinations… and I don’t have to spend one cent of my own money doing it. Some people would say “Great life if you can get it,” but the thing that makes it really hard is that every one of these fantastic places I go to is for the purpose of working. Well, most of the time anyway.

I work for a company involved in prospecting for oil and gas. My ‘territory’ covers an enormous area known as ‘the Pacific Basin’ by the firm that employs me. The area I physically have to travel stretches in a rectangle from the West Coast of the United States in the east of the Pacific, right across to Japan in the West. The furthest south western part of the territory goes as far south as Malaysia and Indonesia, then on to Australia and New Zealand. The furthest in the south eastern corner of the rectangle, is Tahiti in French Polynesia. These places, plus everything in between, are my ‘stomping ground’.

More often than not I base myself either in Sydney, Australia or Auckland, New Zealand. They’re both exciting places to live with good weather most of the time. It doesn’t do any harm that they are also renowned for beautiful beaches and a bevy of great looking women.

To be honest, I don’t spend too much of my time in any one place, so I have got used to feeling reasonably comfortable wherever I’m staying. Within hours of landing in a new place I can normally put down my temporary roots and feel at home. After I’ve unpacked my suitcase, had a shower and taken a drive in the inevitable Avis rental car, the places I work in seem very similar. Of course the travel agents, and tourist advertising in general, will never say this, but if you’re in beautiful places primarily to work, then they do tend to often look, or ‘feel’, alike. The language or accents may often differ, but the ‘places’ feel the same if you’re alone and working.

Staying in good hotels is a pre-requisite in my job. I imagine that some people would maybe think that I do this so I can simply tell other people I do it. This isn’t true at all, the real reason for the good hotel rule is simple, I work hard, I play hard, and I need somewhere where I feel safe to live when I’m not working and work when I’m not living… if you know what I mean? I obviously want the comforts of home and ease of communication with my company; this means using any and all forms of modern technology, and you simply don’t get all of this at the el cheapo hotels, it’s a fact!

The good thing about staying in five-star hotels is that you often get to meet some nice people. True, you also get to meet some real all-singing, all-dancing, assholes as well. Some people seem to be under the impression that being rich, or even ‘well-off’ in more realistic terms for many people, is a license to be a pain-in-the-neck to the hotel employees and locals in general. I’ll never know why this is? It’s funny that they’re often the noisy ones in a bar or the ones that complain about the wine or whatever at dinner… Providing they are loud and everyone knows it’s them that is important enough to make all the noise in the first place.

Leaving the assholes to one side for a moment, I’ll make a few observations about the ‘nice people’ that are out there. Unfortunately, for me, many of the people I have had the pleasure of meeting on my travels are happily married and as straight as a die. When I say unfortunately I mean that a single horny man would definitely like to meet some of the women from these couples… from time-to-time at least. However, straight, single, females don’t often travel alone, and I must admit that this is probably the most sensible thing to do in many of the Pacific islands. If a European woman was seen on her own in many of the places I travel to they might as well have a yellow flashing light attached to their head saying to the locals… “Hello, I’m here! Come and get me.” It’s a real shame for the women, but I know what I’m saying is true.

There are many single gay males traveling or living in the islands that would be perfectly happy to share my evenings; but that is the last thing I want, or need. Everyone to his or her own and mine are normally female, and if possible older than myself. I’m 44, fit, reasonable to look at and I have a thing about older women.

So, to recap, when I’m traveling I’m often looking for an eligible woman to have dinner with, and possibly more if the circumstances are right for both of us. As I have already mentioned, the final part to my ideal situation is that I prefer the woman to be older. Not so old that she has a walking frame, you understand, but old enough so that there is a high likelihood of experience within. Let’s say late forties to early sixties to put a more accurate guideline on the specification.

In my most recent travels I’ve had a brief liaison in Suva, Fiji with a woman from the Australian High Commission; then a similar fling with an Air New Zealand hostess while working in Tokyo, but nothing at all worth writing home about. The time I spent with Brenda in New Zealand, as I explained in my last story, was one out of the box, so to speak!

Please don’t get me wrong, I don’t actually go to these various places and sit around panting and acting like a dog hunting a bitch in heat, but I do admit to keeping a wary eye on the available ‘talent’. My next job is in Tahiti, so maybe my luck might change?

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I was given the hurried details of the new job, together with a dossier on the technical data, before I left my Auckland office. It sounded like it was going to take me about a week, maybe ten days - tops. A Japanese firm was negotiating to drill for oil off shore from one of the islands in French Polynesia. The local government officials had asked if my company could supply an independent consultant to review the Japanese data. I was to meet with both parties on Monday at 8.00am in their downtown office in Papeete, the capital of Tahiti.

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I arrived in Papeete, on Sunday evening at 6.00pm, local time. The 747-400 made a reasonably good landing in the swirling winds that were buffeting the area. Although the temperature was warm, the rain was really lashing across the runway. Just as it went horizontal the hostess decided this was the best time for the passengers to descend the steep steps that had been wheeled up to the side of the plane as it came to a halt. I was soaked to the skin before I got to the terminal building; rain was running off my clothes as though I’d taken a shower fully dressed.

After clearing customs I went straight to the Avis desk and hired the only car they had left, a left hand drive UK mini clubman, it was at least thirty something years old, complete with a variety of rust spots and fading grey paint. There was even a hole in the driver’s door that I could get my fist into. They didn’t say that this was the air conditioning, but it wouldn’t have surprised me. This car had definitely seen better times. Then, just to make my day, as I was driving to the hotel, a large cockroach ran up the right leg of my trousers and almost got me killed. I spent what seemed like five minutes beating the hell out of my leg until I got a warm squishy feeling running down the back of my calf. I had arrived in yet another tropical paradise.

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The hotel was something else. I had not stayed in this particular hotel before, so the odd sensation when I used the elevator was certainly different. The hotel was said to be the best in Papeete. It clung precariously to a hillside overlooking the ocean. I could see the twinkling lights of Club Med on an island close to the shore. It wasn’t easy to see the lights as a mist appeared when the rain squall went out to sea.

The sun did come back for a few minutes before finally leaving again over the horizon; I then knew why I often loved the places I went to in my job. The sky was alive, as though an unseen hand had struck a match and set fire to the furthest clouds. Another ten minutes and the colour of the sky would change from a dull red glow to a soft blue as the moon came up and bathed everything in a milky white light. The cockroach aside, I was pleased to be in Tahiti again, this certainly was a magnificent place to spend some time… working or not.

When I checked in at reception, at street level, I was told that I would be on the 8th floor. As I hit the number 8 on the wall I was taken completely by surprise as the elevator began to descend. The fifteen floors of the hotel, including the ground floor, at street level, all went down the hill. There was no building above street level, it was all below. I thought, “Well this is something different, and a lot better than the cockroach episode.”

After I unpacked my bag I had a shower and a shave then lay down for a half hour to see if I could get rid of the fuzziness in my head. The long flight from Auckland had been tiring, especially with having to get to the airport so early for security checks.

Two hours later I woke up, slightly confused and hungry. I have what I think are some sensible habits on planes; I try not to sway from them too often. I only eat every other meal that is on offer and I only drink a maximum of two drinks during a flight, no matter the distance. If you over-indulge in either of these you will feel like shit at the other end of your journey. Travel for a living and find out.

I had been given a mobile phone number as my contact in the French Polynesian local government office. When I phoned the number at 8.45pm the reply I got was a female voice answering in a clipped soft French accent, “Allo, Oui? Madam Voiret.”

“Hello Madam Voiret, this is Dave Bishop from Consolidated Oil and Gas. I was told to make contact with you when I arrived this evening.”

“Ah, yes, Mr Bishop. Welcome to Tahiti. I was expecting you; I hope you had a good journey?

I answered, “Yes thank you, Madam, it was a good flight, and, apart from the rain when we landed everything else was fine.”

“Please Mr Bishop, call me Vivian. We do not stand on too much ceremony here in Tahiti. Tell me, have you eaten?”

“No, I haven’t, would you care to join me for a late supper?”

She said, “Yes that would be nice, what about I meet you at your hotel? They have a good restaurant and it will mean you do not have to drive anywhere.”

“That sounds great. How long will it take you to get here?”

“Oh, maybe twenty minutes maximum,” she said, “So, I’ll meet you in the lobby at say 9.15pm, yes?”

“Yes, that will be fine. I’ll see you then, à bientôt Madam.”

I thought to myself, “I wonder what Madam Vivian Voiret is like? Does the ‘Madam’ signify that she is now married? Does it mean she has been married and is not now married? Or does it mean nothing and you are just being a horny Dave as usual?”

I got dressed, went down to the hotel reception and told them that when Madam Voiret arrived I could be found in the house-bar. I was thirsty after taking on air conditioned air for hours on the plane and then in my room as I slept. I ordered an ice cold draft beer from the beautiful Tahitian woman behind the counter and waited for the arrival of my French contact.

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Someone behind me was saying, “Monsieur Bishop?” I came to my senses and turned to see who had broken my train of thought. I had been staring intently at the girl behind the bar. She was dressed with coconut shells in place of a bra, a wonderful tan and jet-black hair. She had distracted me to the max.

“Yes,” I said, looking at her, a little embarrassed at being miles away. The girl looked puzzled, and I then looked beyond the girl to the corner of the bar and said, “Ah, Madam Voiret, I’m sorry… Vivian?”

“Yes, that’s right,” she said as her hand moved out with an offer to shake my own hand. “I’m pleased to meet you Monsieur Bishop.”

I smiled at the most strikingly beautiful woman I had seen in a long time. “I will call you Vivian, but only if you will call me Dave… Is that a deal? Monsieur Bishop sounds so formal.”

“OK, Dave. It is a deal, as you say.”

Our handshake was brief, but her touch sent a sensation up my arm that was hard to describe. The way she was dressed was simple, yet it showed that she was all woman below her light silk dress. As I offered her a seat next to me at the bar, she seemed to glide the few steps, then float onto the tall bar stool.

As she was taking her seat I tried to quickly assess this woman before me. It was hard to tell her age, her skin was an olive colour; it seemed flawless in the soft light of the bar. I tried to guess her age, but she must have been anywhere from my own age upwards. I was to find out later in the evening that she was 61; and the most youthful looking 61 year old, male or female, that I had ever seen.

It turned out that Vivian was a qualified practicing lawyer, specializing in business law. She worked on sub-contract to the local government office in Papeete, and she had been selected for the job from a long list of equally qualified people, all of whom were originally from Paris. The selection of all Parisians was not unusual, it seems that from Paris to Tahiti, even though it is almost on opposite sides of the planet, is classified as a ‘local’ flight for French nationals traveling on Air France. Most of the French Polynesian judiciary is from Paris, as were most of the other professions represented in these islands.

It didn’t take long for us to be talking like old friends. I had just finished my cold beer when she arrived in the hotel, so we both agreed to a bottle of chilled good French Sauvignon Blanc. As we began to taste the first glass, the waiter advised us that our table was ready. We decided to go straight to the table and the waiter brought the glasses and the bottle, held in a bucket of ice shavings, to the table.

The table was adjacent to a small wall that surrounded the dining room and overlooked the ocean. The scene was like something from a movie set. The moon laid a glittering white track across the ocean from the horizon. Around the hotel exterior was now dark, but bathed in the glow from the restaurant lighting. The rain I had seen a few hours earlier seemed to have disappeared, maybe for the rest of the time I was to reside in Tahiti.

Moments after we sat at our table a harsh slow drumming began somewhere in the hotel grounds, from the volume it was quite close by. The people in the dining room, especially the tourists, peered beyond the small surrounding wall to see what was about to happen. It got faster as the time went by, Vivian and I looked at one another, and it became obvious that she knew what was going to happen, but she wanted me to see it without her trying to explain above the noise of the drums.

Lighter, higher pitched drumming began, above the slow beat of the base level drum. As this worked its way up to a crescendo a line of absolutely beautiful girls began to appear from the direction of the palm tree entrance to the dining room. They all looked to be about the same height and the same age, maybe somewhere around nineteen or twenty. They were all dressed in the traditional hula skirt made from the long flax based grainy grass. Like the girl behind the bar, all of the dancers had two coconut halves held by a thin rope tie in place of a bra. This was the extent of their clothing. A couple of them had grass bracelets around their ankles, plaited with coloured strands of wool.

Their hips swayed hypnotically as they made their way to an area that was obviously a designated stage. There were coloured light creating a hint of mystery on the stage set. The drums then stopped abruptly and the girls formed two lines of five across the stage.

Just as suddenly as they had stopped, the drums began to beat again, this time with a greater urgency. The ten dancers gave a display of Tahitian dancing that can only be described as magical. Their skills were far better than anything I’d seen when working in Honolulu. This was obviously the real McCoy. They all had a light sheen of moisture from their neck to the waistband of their skirts when the drums finally stopped again. Applause rang out from the diners and the people at the bar as the dancers made their way back into the darkness beyond the palm trees again.

Minutes later six of the dancers came back into the darkened area of the stage and the drums set to work once more. The skirts were swaying as they began to be picked out by spot lights being operated from offstage. As the lights went from being spot lights to flood lights, the light went from bright white to a soft shade of blue. It was obvious immediately the lights went above the waistband that the girls had removed their coconut shells and had not replaced them with anything. I looked sideways at Vivian and she smiled in what I thought was rather a shy way, then I turned back to feast my eyes on the spectacle before me. The small well rounded breasts bouncing up and down with the rhythm and the sharp, then soft movements of the dancer’s feet.

What seemed like two minutes later, but was probably closer to five or six minutes, the girls left the stage, to be replaced by a man that looked like Arnold Swartzennegger twirling large bamboo poles that were on fire at both ends. He gave an excellent show of juggling and left the same way as the girls.

The floor show lasted another fifteen minutes and in the applause that followed, the waiters and waitresses began to serve dinner once more.

“Well, that was fantastic,” I said to Vivian.

“Yes I know, they are very good, and I did not want to spoil the show for you by trying to explain everything before it happened. I thought it better that you see for yourself and make up your own mind about how good or bad it was.”

We ate for a few moments in silence after our food was brought to the table. I could not help but reflect on the magnificent bodies on the dancers.

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Apart from obviously being a very intelligent woman, with numerous talents in a business sense, Vivian was also interested in physical fitness. She explained that she trained in a local gymnasium every afternoon from midday until two, “While all of my friends and colleagues are either taking a siesta or are enjoying the island-time lunch.”

She went on to say that she had tried, but could not get used to the totally relaxed behaviour that her colleagues had found so easy to slip into when they arrived from France or New Caledonia. “Some of them have put on 10 or 15 kgs in their first year here in Papeete. They look so unhealthy.” Her French accent left out the ‘h’ in ‘unhealthy’, as well as many other words in our conversation. The accent fascinated me. She smiled with her last words and said, “Oh, I’m sorry to go on Dave, it is obviously of no interest to you that people I know let themselves go.”