Uncle Toby's Memoirs

Since I still haven't had time to finish anything new (which is frustrating as I have plenty of ideas in my head), I figured it was time to raid the back catalogue again. This story was first written (and posted elsewhere) in December 2010. This story isn't as accessible as others I have posted here, and it may not go down so well with women readers, as it is written as a memoir of a somewhat narcissistic misogynist. However, I fondly recall enjoying the challenge of finding the perspective and voice of this character.

I just want to clarify that I chose to write this in the form of a memoir (as if written by my very own uncle) simply as a literary device, as this enabled me to better justify a certain style and tone. You will note that I have started at Chapter 6, as I figured this seemed about right to tell a story about the narrator's late teens. Please let me reassure you that, as a Literotica submission, this story is entirely complete as it is. It certainly isn't a teaser for a longer story. I have no interest in writing further chapters.

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I am proud to bring you an excerpt from the forthcoming autobiography of my great uncle, Sir Toby Warner (1937- ). His book is entitled "A Respectable Veneer", and it is a candid account of his life which will shock the many people who know and revere him as a respected surgeon, a community leader, a politician and elder statesman, knighted in 1991 (at the age of 53) for his many contributions to New Zealand society.

Sir Toby's revelations concerning behind the scenes corruption in the Muldoon Government are likely to attract a great deal of attention, as will his involvement in the drug scene and his connections to various crime figures. In comparison, the chapter I have the privilege to share here won't be nearly as scandalous, dealing as it does with early sexual experiences which are inconsequential in the light of today's more liberal morals, although it will still cause some embarrassment to those who were involved.

Regards,

Chris Warner

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CHAPTER 6 - MEDICINE: A WORTHY VOCATION FOR YOUNG MEN?

As already mentioned in Chapter Four, one reaches a time in one's life when one feels entitled to use sentences beginning with the words "young people today..." There is always the risk of being labelled an old fuddy duddy, but one trusts the reader will take the opportunity given here to consider all my sins before choosing which labels to apply.

Young people today have every expectation that they will be able to look at naked bodies, in pictures or video if not actually in the flesh, with the minimum of inconvenience. Furthermore, they find it inconceivable that naked bodies have ever been in short supply. Even those old enough to remember the days before the internet, which has made viewing sexual intercourse so commonplace that still images of naked women have become passé, will scarcely believe there was a time before nudie magazines were sold in every newsagent and corner shop. Tell any young person that Playboy was first published in the USA in 1953, and that it was many years later before copies found their way into the hands of boys in provincial New Zealand, and they will struggle to comprehend such ancient history.

Of course, there is a long history of men being able to access women of easy virtue and/or obtain pornography, but in the 1950s much of this was the dominion of what we referred to as the lower classes. Within the upper classes any hint of impropriety could destroy the career and social standing of any person. Some men wishing to visit a brothel would only do so by first taking the precaution of travelling to another country. For some, even this was too risky. And certainly the girls we consorted with, the ones we knew would make suitable wives while we pursued our respectable careers, were particularly keen to avoid any scandal which might prevent them from marrying into the social class of their fathers.

I saw my first pictures of naked women in 1952, when my 4th form art master took us on an excursion to an art gallery. I refer of course to paintings of naked women - the only pictures that were in any way accessible or acceptable in those times. Mr Abbott blushed as he tried to lecture us on the artistic importance of the nude in art history, but I doubt if any of his listeners was taking him seriously as we stared at the paintings before us. In my mind, not only was I enjoying the vision before my eyes, but I also spent some time considering my envy of the man fortunate enough to spend so many hours in the same room with this naked model while dabbing paint onto the canvas.

At that stage in my adolescence, I had already divided my future career options into two categories: those careers that involved looking at naked women, and those that did not. Clearly I could add "artist" to the very small list under the first heading, but naturally in all other respects it couldn't compete with the career which ultimately claimed me. Becoming a doctor was obviously the most eligible way of combining wealth and social status with my ever-present craving to see naked women in the flesh.

So there we have, far earlier in the chapter than the intelligent reader will have anticipated, a response of sorts to the question posed by the chapter title. Doctors over the centuries have successfully put it about that their primary motivation is altruistic, and that examining naked women is somehow a cross one has to bear. Of course, I do realise that it is very important to the naked women themselves to also believe this, as this belief has always been essential to them overcoming their modesty and seeking the medical assistance they needed. For this reason, I might be reluctant to come clean if it wasn't for the abundant supply of women doctors in modern society. For the record, I can finally admit that my motivations for pursuing a medical career were (in reverse order of importance): respect, money, and the desire to look at naked women.

That tiresome intelligent reader, having noted from the above conclusion that this chapter has reached a somewhat premature climax (a recurrent theme I'm afraid - more on that later), will expect I will now move straight on to Chapter 7. However, I am expecting that the intelligent reader will be outnumbered by the many garden variety readers asking the question "Hey Toby, old chum, how about telling us about other experiences of naked women?" I am so glad you asked, because I have a story which will titillate the many while embarrassing only a few of my contemporaries.

Young people today (yes, that phrase again) assume that St Paul's Anglican College has always catered to both boys and girls. However, it has only been that way since 1981. Prior to that it was known as St Paul's Boys College. Slightly less than a mile away, on the site now occupied by one of the more outrageous new bible colleges, was St Hilda's College for Girls, a proud and worthy establishment now consigned to the pages of history. In those days both schools were predominantly boarding schools, with less than one in ten being a day student.

Apart from the art gallery visit already mentioned, I had no further experiences fitting with our theme until the last year of my secondary education. My final year at St Paul's was 1955, and I had the honour of being Head Boy as well as being one of the four house captains. The identities of the other house captains will easily be discovered by those who are motivated to do the research, but I will at least throw a flimsy veil over their identities by referring to them only by their first names. They were Bertrand (Bertie), Peter, and Henry (Harry).

Contact between the schools was minimal. The only time the student bodies were regularly together was for Evensong on Sunday evenings. School rules dictated that all boarders return from home leave early enough on Sunday evening to change back into school uniform and eat a quick tea before marching through town to church. The boys sat to the right of the aisle while St Hilda's sat on the left. Gazing across at the rows of girls was a pleasant consolation for the end of our weekend off, and I actually looked forward to Evensong despite our many objections to going to church, most of us having already attended with our parents in the morning.

In my final year at school, Sunday nights soon became the highlight of my week due to the longstanding tradition of the house captains of both schools sharing supper together following the service. The tradition was originally an invitation to supper at the Vicarage, which was exactly what occurred on our first Sunday evening of the school year. This was our first opportunity to meet our counterparts from St Hilda's. The vicar had each of us introduce ourselves in turn, and I was soon acquainted with Elizabeth (Betty), Victoria (Vicky), Alexandra (Alexa) and Beatrice (Bea). As expected, they were the pick of the crop of the intelligent and accomplished young women churned out by the private college.

Over supper the vicar explained that he was getting too old to be hosting eight teenagers every week, so he let us in on the secret that for several years he had been allowing the house captains to have their supper unsupervised in the Sunday school parlour, which was upstairs in the Sunday school building behind the church. This revelation greatly surprised us and pleased us. Even though the eight of us were all eighteen, we had no experience of being treated like adults. Our parents and teachers still treated us like children. Of course, one must remember that the drinking age was still 21. The age of 18 signified no particular status apart from the ability to go to war.

The vicar took us over to the room we would be using and showed us around. The parlour was a comfortable sitting room with a small kitchenette, and it even had a gramophone for us to play some music. He said he would drop in to see us every now and then. However, and the reader should note this happy circumstance, he advised us to bolt the downstairs door from the inside for security when we were there. There was a bell he could ring if he needed us to let him in.

There was a palpable sense of excitement when the following Sunday arrived. As the most senior pupils we occupied the rearmost pews in church, and there were frequent glances across the aisle. After the service the vicar walked us to the door of the Sunday school building but he didn't come inside, leaving us with a few last-minute instructions on turning out lights and locking up. He again reminded us to bolt the door from the inside to keep ourselves safe. He then took his leave and hurried home. He had no need to set a time limit on our supper. We were all conscious of our school-imposed curfew of 9pm, just under an hour and a half away. Harry had brought a few records with him (jazz), and it seemed natural that one of the girls had brought the supper. Betty produced a plate of biscuits she had baked at home that afternoon. She also made and served the tea while we sat around getting to know each other until the time came for us to begin walking back to our respective schools.

A week passed, and again we found ourselves together separated from the rest of the world, and again I noticed that it was Betty who provided the supper. Now it had not occurred to any of us that the boys would ever take turns bringing supper, but it did strike us as odd that the girls weren't taking turns among themselves. When we raised this with them, we learned that the girls had decided that the loser of the weekly house competition would provide the supper each week.

Just in case an explanation is required, the house competition was the system of points awarded and deducted throughout the week by the teachers. The winning house was announced at Monday assembly, and they were awarded the school pennant in a formal ceremony. I can't for the life of me remember why this was important to us at the time, but strangely it was. Naturally, as house captains, we knew the weekly results prior to the weekend.

Anyway, back to the supper situation, and the circumstance of Betty providing our supper two weeks in a row provoked our own response. In keeping with the competitive nature of their arrangement, we decided that the losing captain of the boys' house competition would assist in making and serving the tea. This may not seem like much, but to put it in context, we were expecting one of our number to act like the butler - or a woman! Either way, we considered it a demeaning role.

Many weeks passed with one of the girls turning up each week with home-baked goodies, and one of the boys putting on a brave face and serving up the tea. We were getting to know each other very well, and like any group of high achievers, there was a fair amount of teasing and rivalry as we shared in the successes and failures of each individual and the houses they led. In addition to the supper duties, we also started to impose other penalties for various failures. At the start this took the nature of silly forfeits such as singing a song. However, over the course of the year, the stakes were gradually raised.

The nature of our get-togethers changed the week Bertie's house was punished because three of its third-formers had been caught cheating in a test. Naturally the rest of us teasingly maintained that the corruption went right to the top, and we demanded that Bertie be held personally accountable. There was much debate over his punishment until Vicky surprised us all by suggesting that Bertie should serve the supper shirtless "like a savage". There was a moment's stunned silence before the other girls started giggling and adding their approval of the punishment. While I had no particular interest in seeing Bertie topless, I was nonetheless excited by the situation, as this was the first hint we had that the girls weren't entirely pure and incorruptible. The girls won the point, and Bertie was blushing furiously as he removed his shirt and served the tea. The girls didn't stop giggling until after we parted to return to school.

There was an undercurrent of tension the following Sunday evening, but nothing untoward happened. I was the losing house captain, but there was no suggestion that I should lose my shirt. However, the following week I was the loser again following a dismal showing by my house, and it was Bea who looked to the others with a wicked smile and suggested I should serve them topless. While the idea was naturally embarrassing, I was again excited by the situation and I probably didn't put up nearly enough of a fight before giving in and taking off my shirt.

As I was serving the tea, I did wonder out loud why the losing girl (Vicky) wasn't being punished like I was. This was neatly deflected by the girls, who laughed and accused me of being a bad sport. However, the other boys seized on the opportunity and didn't let the subject die. It transpired that during the coming week St Hilda's was having its athletic sports day, which was one of the high points of the competition between the houses. We began arguing that extra importance should be attached to the results of this, with the losing girl facing a punishment consistent with the punishment I was serving.

The ensuing debate was fierce but good-natured and the outcome was a victory of sorts. Since the girls' uniform consisted of a dress with a buttoned bodice to the waist, there was much discussion about a fair punishment. In the end it was agreed that the losing girl would undo these buttons while still otherwise wearing the dress, while the losing boy would "continue to go shirtless as normal". This shifting of the goal posts didn't escape our attention, with the topless boy now being the norm rather than the exception, but we didn't dare quibble about the agreement. Catching a glimpse of a bra was far better than we had dreamed of.

The results of the St Hilda's sports day had not reached us by the time we went home for the weekend. As we walked to church on Sunday evening there was much whispered speculation as to who might have been the losing house captain, and whether or not they might follow through on the arrangement to serve supper with their uniform unbuttoned to the waist. As it happened, we learned the identity of the loser partway through the service. During the notices the vicar congratulated the winning house, with mentions for second and third. The fourth place-getter was obviously the house not mentioned - the house captained by Alexa. Out of the four girls, Alexa was the quietest and most reserved. As we four boys looked across at the senior girls' pew, Alexa stared straight ahead with an embarrassed look on her face. We remained nervous about whether or not our hopes would be crushed.

As we arrived at our meeting place, the girls huddled together in the corner conducting a lengthy whispered conference. Alexa was obviously requiring some encouragement, but the other girls had taken on themselves the responsibility for the honour of their sex to provide the encouragement. They finally stopped whispering and turned to face us, with Vicky, Betty and Bea providing a wall behind which Alexa was sheltering. They glared at us and reminded us that there was more than one losing house captain in the room. Of course, in our excitement we had forgotten. We turned on Peter, the loser among the boys, and demanded his shirt be removed pronto. Poor Peter was the shyest of the boys, the least equipped to remove his shirt in a room with four girls, but he was as conscious as the rest of us that nothing should get in the way of viewing Alexa's bra. His hands were shaking so much that undoing his buttons proved to be a considerable challenge.

Peter was soon topless, and to his credit he then went about preparing the cups and saucers for our supper, doing his part to create an atmosphere of normality. For Bertie, Harry & I there was no such attempt. We simply sat in our chairs and stared at Alexa as she too appeared to be fumbling with buttons as she stayed hidden behind the others. Then, as if by some prearranged signal, the three girls moved away and sat down, leaving Alexa revealed to our gaze.

At the risk of over-elaborating the context in which we found ourselves, if your knowledge of 1950s morality is derived solely from the degree of "scandal" you observed when it was thought Rizzo might be pregnant in the movie Grease, then you don't really have an idea of our situation attending private schools in provincial New Zealand. If word got out about any of our activities so far, it would have resulted in immediate expulsion for all concerned. The loss of reputation would have limited future career and relationship options, particularly for the girls. The only thing that we had going for us in this situation was that gentlemanly behaviour was still extremely important. To bring dishonour to the girls by failing to keep this secret would bring the worst possible damage to our reputations. The girls knew they were entitled to a level of trust that is unthinkable today.

Having attempted to raise the narrative tension with the last paragraph, I now have to admit that the notion of Alexa being "revealed to our gaze" was a distinct anti-climax. While the front of her dress was unbuttoned to the waist, its style meant that it barely gaped at all. The opening revealed only an inch or two of her white cotton bra. I am sure that beforehand we had all intended to avoid staring openly, but it was difficult to avert our eyes as we hoped for glimpses of more. Throughout the evening I was rewarded with only two brief glimpses of the full roundness of a bra cup.

As I walked back to school with the other boys, we each compared our experiences of what we had seen. These glimpses of a bra were the high point in all our sexual experiences of women. I had had an erection all evening. My theological knowledge of the sin of Onanism had provided some degree of restraint up to this time, but that evening I could not help but indulge, and this generally signaled the time in my life when I conceded that I was not cut out for such a high degree of piety.