Mike Subritzky

SAILOR MOON

That Saturday night the moon was so very
close, I felt I could reach out and touch it
through the cabin window of the liberty boat.
We crossed the harbour from ‘Philly’ and
came ashore at Admiralty Steps, heading
for Symonds Street and the Oriental.

Symonds Street was quiet but the Oriental
Ballroom was rocking.

She smiled at me through the crowd and
I was immediately drawn to her. Later she
told me that she was attracted to the blue
collar of my square rig and the crossed
cannons on my sleeve. I on the other hand
was attracted to her flaxen hair and the
shape of her breasts which were contoured
by her white peasant top. We danced as
Herma Kyle sang ‘A Hard Days Night’ and I
was intrigued by the way her nipples
stood out whenever I looked down into her
emerald green eyes. She was beautiful
and although the anti-war set of Auckland
were pointing at us, neither she nor I cared.

Her brother was in the Dutch Marines and
she had never even heard of Vietnam.

We kissed deeply when the last waltz
ended, the sparkle from the revolving
glass orb throwing fragments of light into
the depths of the crowded ballroom.
I couldn’t believe my luck when she
asked me to her flat for a coffee.

We only drank tea on the ship.

The cab fare to her flat in Remuera cost
seven and six, but she paid without
batting an eyelid. it was more than two
days pay for an AB. We entered her flat
and quietly went into her room, her
flatmate was in but was busying herself
with a soldier fresh back from South East
Asia. His battledress jacket was slung
over a kitchen chair and I recognised
the combat ribbons. The coffee was
strong and thick, unlike anything I had
ever tasted and in her heavy accent she
explained it was Dutch.

The coffee was excellent.

I took my jumper and collar off, then
threw the silk and lanyard into my
upturned cap and we pashed for what
seemed like ages. She told me she was
24 which scared the hell out of me as I was
barely 17 and she was old enough to be
someone’s wife. Presently she stood and
said ‘bed’ and I watched as she deliberately
drew her peasant top over her head to
reveal two unshaven and natural underarms,
and a pair of beautifully formed breasts. She
then slid down the mini skirt to reveal her most
intimate self. There was no bikini line, dark
shadows drifted down the inside of both thighs
and as well a dark inverted ‘V’ travelled upwards
to her navel. As tension heightened I reached
for my bell bottoms, popped the dome on my
money belt and withdrew an issue French Letter,
but she lightly stayed my hand.

The condom joined the silk and lanyard.
Presently she knelt above me, the most
natural woman I had ever seen and as our
lips met once more, she moved over me
and our bodies meshed. We kissed long
and slow as she rose and fell above me in
absolute control of her moment of passion.
I didn’t know any Dutch words back then
but I guess that ‘Eien Commen!’ means
‘Eien Commen!’ in anybody’s language.

Orgasms tend to cross the cultural divide.

She woke me at dawn and rang a taxi
while I dressed and then we chatted
about life in Amsterdam until the cab
arrived, and as she kissed me goodbye
she crushed a ten bob note into my hand.
It was only later that morning when we
were steaming out past A Buoy and into
the open sea that I realised that I had
never thought to ask her name, nor
she mine.

Things were different back then, later
they called it a sexual revolution.