Uncle Frank, Pauline, Sex, and Me
Copyright© 2024 by Fatbastard
Chapter 36
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 36 - 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
March - April 1963
I went round to Mum ‘n Dad’s after tea next day, to see what Dad might be up for in terms of training. I took some ‘training gear’, though I was most interested in practicing with a mask and foil, but as far as Dad was concerned, training was muscle conditioning for strength and agility, and cardiovascular training for endurance, and then learning to parry until muscle memory established patterns to keep my opponent’s blade (and for foil, particularly the point) away from my body. But after a run with Dad’s stopwatch and clipboard well in evidence, we adjourned to the garage, where he taught me the simple parries quarte to sixte, and sixte to quarte – over and over and bloody over. Eventually my muscles ‘got it’.
We would start with me in sixte, with his blade harmlessly outside mine to my left, and then he would disengage, ducking his point under my blade and attacking my open body to the right of it. I would parry, bringing my blade across my body to the quarte guard, and turning his blade aside to miss my body to the right. Then reverse, starting in quarte, ducking under my blade to attack my body open to the left. Parry to sixte, turning his blade aside to pass my body harmlessly to the left. Rinse and repeat. At least fifty times. By then my muscles seemed to ‘know’ where to place my blade so the he missed by a little rather than making a wide sweeping parry that would take his blade a lot further than necessary, but which was lots slower and easier to evade.
I needed a shower, and I was pleased that I had brought a change of clothes. This was my first shower in my original family home for more than three years, and somehow it seemed okay to spend a little time washing my junk. When I started to stiffen, I somehow found myself wondering whether Greta’s vulva was as neat and petite as the rest of her, and whether she was light enough for me to pick her up and lower her down on my stiffy. It was, she was, and her vagina was tight, hot, very wet, and orgasmically responsive – at least in my imagination. I spurted all over the shower walls. Just like old times!
Mum was a bit worried about me getting overcommitted, but since I already had cricket practice on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, I could go with Dad to Jean-Paul on Tuesdays and Thursday evenings, and train with him on Wednesdays. Dad went along with that idea, at least as a trial. It did mean that I wouldn’t be doing much if any study on those three nights, and since I was working for Frank after school on Mondays and Fridays and all-day Sunday, it was just as well that I was cruising academically and had developed very good study habits. As Pauline reminded me during one of our regular Wednesday nights together – my life was very full!
Dad and me were regulars at Jean-Paul from then on. Gradually, the lunges stopped hurting, the running and endurance conditioning became endurable (though Dad kept ‘upping the ante’ so it was never easy), and I stopped having to think about guard positions and mastered some circular parries, dipping my own point to come up again inside the opponent attacking me on my open side. After a few thousand repetitions, I could parry to clear my own body without conscious effort.
At Jean-Paul, I seemed to get Greta assigned as my ‘coach’ more often than chance would predict. She didn’t come to every club night, but when she did, she usually wound up as my coach. I wasn’t sure whether that was Brian’s doing or Greta’s, but Dad noticed. We were on our way home after a Thursday session just before the Easter break, when he mentioned it.
“You seem to be working with Greta a lot.” It was more than a statement of fact.
“Yeah. I like her and she seems to like me.”
“You’ll learn some attacking moves soon. Guess you’d like to run her through!”
I was gobsmacked. Seventeen and a half years, and that was the first time Dad had made a sexual joke in my hearing, let alone one involving me and what I might want to be up to. I didn’t know what to say, but I felt I had to say something, so I settled for the truth.
“I certainly find her attractive, but being sexy with her is a long way down the track, and for now anyway, it’s coach and learner.”
Dad didn’t let up. “So you have the Miles girl, and the Morrow girl, and you’re hoping to add the Markham girl.” He grinned, and that took the sting away from the next bit. “Penile promiscuity perhaps? Perilously proximal!”
This was a side of Dad I hadn’t seen before. I said so. “I’ve never heard you make those sorts of jokes before.”
Dad kept grinning. “I guess I’m accepting you’re a grown up.” He looked thoughtful as we pulled into his driveway. “I’ve spent a lot of time around men in locker rooms and in uniform, and I’m a realist. I have my own values around sex and fidelity, but young men have always been horny, and now social norms have changed and what I think of as immorality is pretty widely accepted. I know I can’t fight that and I don’t try. Just don’t get anyone pregnant!”
“I’m very careful – and getting together with Greta Markham is a nice idea, but just an idea at the moment.”
It stayed ‘just an idea’ until the weekend after Easter. Jean-Paul hosted a Provincial Tournament on the Saturday. People from the other Auckland clubs came, along with a couple of guys from Tauranga, and a woman from Hamilton. I was playing cricket, and my skills weren’t up to tournament competition anyway, even at junior level. But I was invited to the after-tournament party in the evening. So was Dad, but he just laughed.
“Wouldn’t want to cramp your style.”
One of the ‘Presidents Grade’ members (the very old buggers at Jean-Paul) had what they called a ‘lifestyle block’ at Albany on the North Shore. Most people buying small and uneconomic parcels of land wanted to keep a few animals and live out their fantasy of a rural idyll. This particular parcel had been bought as an investment.
Many years later, a three story shopping mall, event centre, and arena would be built on this land, but in 1963, there was a semi-abandoned orchard, a farmhouse with some outbuildings, and a barn. There was a table for food and booze set up inside the barn, and the party was outside around a fire on which some people were burning sausages and strips of meat. There were hay bales to sit on, and a record player and speaker were cranked up so the Ronettes could invite all and sundry to ‘Be My Baby’ on repeat!
When I arrived, Greta was sitting on a bale, deeply engaged in conversation with a guy who looked to be in his early twenties. I approached circumspectly, pulling up a bale to sit on the side. I fairly quickly sussed that the guy’s name was John, and that Greta liked him but there wasn’t any history. They were talking fencing, and I tried to listen and learn. Greta had finished second in Women’s Foil, behind the woman from Hamilton, and John had made the finals in Sabre and Epee. They were bitching about the electrical equipment. I didn’t get it and said so. Greta was pleased to explain.
“In foil tournaments, you wear a larmay jacket, with metal threads woven into it, and you pull a retractable wire attached to it and to your foil as you move up and gown the peest. Each foil has a button at the tip that acts as a switch, and when you make contact with your opponent’s jacket it completes a circuit and a light goes on. But you’re a long way from that just yet.”
I Hmmed, and Greta and John morphed their discussion to the performance of one particular judge who (they both thought) had made some bad rulings. I didn’t understand that either, but didn’t enquire. They both had empty glasses, and I offered to get them drinks. Greta asked for orange juice, but John refused, producing a hip flask from which he refilled his glass. I got Greta’s juice, and mindful of my experience with wine the previous year, stuck to juice myself.
That was good, because John had evidently been getting stuck in to the Southern Comfort in the flask for quite a while. He wasn’t noticeably drunk when I arrived, but half an hour later, his intake seemed to hit him and he went from at least appearing sober to being very obviously pissed in a very short time indeed.
He said he didn’t feel well and was going to find some hay bales in the barn to lie down on. Greta was relatively sympathetic until he pushed his luck and suggested she come and lie down with him. Then she wrinkled her nose and lost interest completely. I wasn’t too unhappy about that, and Greta and I sat together by the slowly dying fire with some more juice. She was interested in why I wanted to fence, and fascinated by my dad’s background. She thought he had probably been very good and had had lots of potential to develop further when he had quit more than fifteen years ago.
I was keen to move the conversation to more personal things, and I had picked up from somewhere that Greta had just started training as a nurse. She was certainly keen to tell me about that, and a question about whether bullying was still rife produced a torrent of words and a catch in her voice. It was semi-dark, but I suspected that Greta’s eyes were pretty close to overflowing. I reached out and took her hand.
“That’s awful! To be spoken to like that doesn’t help anyone learn. Do you think the matron actually believes she does that for the good of the patients?”
“That’s what she says, and there’s also an element of ‘that’s how I was treated and I survived’!”
“It’s really hard to change a whole culture, but it sounds like Nursing really needs to change.”
“Some of the young Doctors are a pain too. They seem to think that just because they’re Doctors they’re God’s gift to every female around. They act as if the Nurses are supposed to provide sex for them – like the Japs and their ‘comfort women’.”
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