Uncle Frank, Pauline, Sex, and Me
Copyright© 2024 by Fatbastard
Chapter 35
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 35 - Coming of Age in 1960s New Zealand. My father's much younger brother guided and mentored me from early adolescence through my teenage years and a series of girlfriends. While each story can stand alone, readers will get most out of this series if they read chronologically starting with Andrea, and progressing through Bronwyn and Robyn to my adventures with Pauline
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft Teenagers Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Farming School Vignettes First Oral Sex Petting
January - February – March 1963
I walked in on a screaming match between Jax and Roger. They were talking (or yelling) past each other, and it took me a few minutes to make any sense at all of what was going on. The short story was that Roger had disappeared for a couple of days without telling Jax, had gone to a party, and had smoked some Marijuana. Jax was unhappy, and Roger was ashamed and defiant in approximately equal parts.
I don’t know how long they had been going, but it was too long for Judith, and while I was trying to get my head around ‘the problem’ from their individual points of view, she emerged from her room unhappy.
“For Chrissakes – either keep it down or take it somewhere else! I’m trying to work!”
Roger wanted to go into Jax’s room, but she wasn’t having any. “I don’t want you in there right now – or maybe ever!” Her voice rose again. “There’s no way I’m hooking up with a Drug Addict!”
Judith had started to go back to her room to get on with whatever ‘work’ their argument had interrupted, but the ‘Drug Addict’ comment got her attention. She turned around. “Smoking Mary Jane at a party doesn’t make him a drug addict!”
Roger rallied. “I had a couple of tokes.” He wrinkled his nose. “And it certainly didn’t do much for me.”
Jax was unimpressed. “One thing leads to another. Flora learned that the hard way!”
I was intrigued. “I thought she was getting pissed?”
“That was at the end. When she was starting running girls, just after the war, there was a little bit of Marijuana. They called it ‘tea’. Then there were government issue amphetamines that had been ‘liberated’ by some of the servicemen. They called them ‘bennies’ and they were bad news, both for Flora and some of her girls. She eventually got off them, but some of the girls didn’t!” Jax stopped and took a breath. Her face fell, and for a moment I thought she was going to cry, but she collected herself and went on. “Flora was okay until the booze got out of control. She warned me very seriously!” She turned to Roger. “If you’re going to use drugs -we’re through!”
He bristled for a few seconds, then thought better of whatever it was he was about to say. He produced what would later be termed a ‘shit eating’ grin. “So if I promise - will you forgive me?”
“If you mean it.”
“I’d rather have you than the odd toke!”
They hugged, and by wordless mutual consent disappeared into Jax’ room. Judith shook her head and went back to her layout, and I reorganized the fridge to accommodate the leg of mutton I had brought up from the Morrows, and then turned in.
The next excitement was the birth of Mary Ellen Kerr on Jan 18th. Emma went into labour around 10pm the previous night, and was delivered by the duty midwife at National Women’s Hospital at 4.54am the following morning, as Frank paced up and down in the waiting area to which fathers were banished in those days. Mother and baby (7lb 6oz) both well, as the Birth Notice in The NZ Herald announced.
Mary Baker came and stayed for a fortnight to support her daughter, and Grandma Kerr delivered meals pretty regularly and took away piles of cloth nappies to wash. Julie and Robyn were right in there too. Everyone said how beautiful the baby was. I couldn’t see it myself, but had the good sense not to say so.
Frank had been working six days a week for quite a while, but went cold turkey to ‘be there’ for Emma. As Emma had got closer to her due date, we had stacked up jobs I could do on my own, and I still had plenty of work. I took the van and tools, and just got on with it while Frank occupied himself with fatherly duties.
By the time Frank returned to full time work, I was back at school, captain of the First XI, and a Prefect (capital P), with status in the school only slightly below God. I could drive to school and park on the premises, and make tea and toast in the Prefect’s study. In return for these privileges, (as the Head put it), I was expected to ‘set an example’, keep my nose clean, keep my grades up, pay attention to the ‘tone’ of the school, and do ‘drive duty’ at 3.30, ensuring that departing pupils wore their school caps, had their socks up and wore their uniforms smartly. I was also expected to teach the newly enrolled third formers (year 9) the School Haka, a traditional ritual war dance adopted without consultation or permission from Maori long before anyone had heard of ‘cultural appropriation’.
Since at that time I was almost completely ignorant about the Maori world, but blissfully unaware of my own ignorance, that posed no difficulty. I could teach the same mispronunciations that I had been taught five years previously, along with the approximations of the various movements and postures, while all of us remained completely ignorant of the meaning of the words we were chanting, and the history of the particular Haka we had ‘stolen’. That was par for the course in New Zealand in those days.
The ‘drive duty’ was easier. We were only eighteen years from WWII, and most of our parents had either served or spent time around people in uniform. School uniforms were effectively universal in New Zealand High Schools at that time, so most kids had no trouble in accepting that a uniform was the way things were, and that it had to be worn properly. The ones that didn’t tended to be the slackers and troublemakers who did not ‘fit’ too well with the school’s values in any case, and I had no trouble accepting that it was now my job to ‘police’ them to preserve the good name of the school.
Cricket was different again. Mr Smythe gave me lotsa freedom to manage the team on the field, and now took on much more an ‘advisory’ role. I appreciated the recognition that I had more knowledge and better judgement that Ross Orchard had shown last year and stepped up to take full responsibility, knowing I had Smythe’s backing. And managing the team was easy. Bartlett was still young for a fast bowler, and still tired easily, but he was now even quicker than he had been the previous year. I used him in four over spells, and he was fast enough to trouble the best batsmen in the competition, even in good conditions for batting. On worn pitches, he was lethal, and regularly took five, and six wicket bags. My own performance with both the bat and the ball, was steady rather than spectacular, but we were winning almost all our games.
I was continuing to have a nice time with Pauline. She was coming to my bed routinely after her AYD rehearsals on Wednesdays, and often also spent a Tuesday or Thursday night as well. I talked with her about some of my Tantric research, and I sometimes managed to get out of my head for long enough to feel some energy in my pelvis, but I don’t think it was ever mutual in the way it was with Sandra.
I worked for Frank on Mondays and Fridays after school, and all day on Sundays. Money was tight, but I managed to keep my finances in the black most weeks and my savings shrank only slowly. The kitty at the flat was expanded to include Roger, when he gave up his own place and formally moved in with Jax, so that helped, and Judith had no problem increasing her contribution as the summer season at Waitomo gradually waned and Tony spent more and more time with her. That helped too.
I kept thinking that some venison would be nice, and wondering about a predawn drive up to the South Head of the Kaipara to hunt fallow. I was bothered about the prospect of running across some Defence Force personnel, remembering the disaster that had befallen Frank’s mate when he was ‘captured’ by Special Forces in the course of an exercise. But the prospect of hopping over the fence, shooting a deer, and being home in time for cricket with a boot full of venison remained attractive. Pauline was keen, and was willing to give AYD a miss one Saturday morning.
“If you get captured and ‘disappeared’, I can bring the car back and try to arrange a ransom. We won’t be able to raise much, but if we can’t make it we’ll give you a really lovely memorial service!”
“You think you’re so funny! I might just break under interrogation and expose you as a Russian spy!”
“Mata Hari Miles?”
We set a 3am alarm, and dawn found us parked on the edge of the Defence Department land at South Kaipara Head, smooching as we waited for ‘shooting light’. After ten minutes or so, I climbed the fence and moved as quietly as I could into the pine plantation the Government had established on the peninsula as part of their efforts to bring the country out of the great depression of the early thirties. As Frank had taught me, I moved slowly upwind, about 50m into the plantation, paying most attention to the native vegetation regrowing along the forest edge.
I saw a deer almost immediately. It was a young Fallow stag, sporting the single flattened spikes of its first year antlers. My bullet took it in the base of the neck, and it dropped where it stood. Up until that point, the expedition had been cruisy, and the prospect of discovery and the downstream consequences of that had seemed remote. The boom of my P14 changed all that.
Paranoia arrived bigtime. The sound of my shot had alerted the ‘Red Forces’, exercising to repel an incursion by ‘Blue Forces’ and they had deployed a patrol who were even now approaching silently ... Shit! There was a part of me that realised my brain was telling me a story. It was just a shame that part wasn’t in charge of the sick feeling in my stomach, the sweat glands all over my body, and the rate my heart was beating. My pulse had ramped up a bit as soon as I saw the deer, but it was nothing in comparison with what it started to do when the sound of my rifle started my brain constructing awful stories.
I was on the edge of panic, and briefly considered abandoning the deer and bolting for the safety of the fence and the road. It was only the prospect of explaining myself to Pauline (and inevitably later to everyone else), that brought me back to reality. But the experience wasn’t pleasant. I collected myself and picked my way through the undergrowth to where my kill lay thirty odd yards away. There were already a few blowflies buzzing around the exit wound in the side of the stag’s neck, and I gave them somewhere more substantial to lay their eggs by slitting the belly from the base of the deer’s penis forward to the breastbone. I was careful not to nick the guts, and managed to pull them out before rolling my sleeves up further, and cutting away the diaphragm to get to the heart and lungs. I couldn’t complete that job until I managed to get the animal’s head off, but then everything came completely away and I dragged the carcass away from the guts and flies towards the fence. I got about halfway there before stopping to cut the legs off at the hocks.
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