Fucking Matron!

Fucking matron was the national sport at our public school (that’s “private school” for Yanks). It was a rite of passage without which no future Australian captain of industry could hope to attain a Dick Grasso-esque remuneration package.

But final year frolics came first. We'd reached 18 and were ready to rock and roll. We were wizards of wanking . . . masters of mutual masturbation . . . pederasts, catamites, rammers and stuffers and cocksuckers. We were circle jerkers and choo choo train engineers, monkey spankers and jerk jockeys . . . and that was just with the local farm animals. The average time to erection—averaged across the student body—was mere nanoseconds (although they hadn’t actually invented nanoseconds in those times). At any given time dozens of us had boners rubbing the bottoms of our ancient schooldesks; which we alleged had been brought out on the first prison ships as gratings for the flogging of convicts. We averred that on Royal Navy victual ling lists they had been described as “grating, the flogging of convicts for, man’s, one”.

We hollowed out squashes, squeezed Australian hot dogs up our rectums, used butter, lard, baby oil (tastes awful), sunflower oil, safflower oil, corn oil, Vaseline. One miscreant who tried 10:40 motor oil broke out in a horrible rash, giving rise to the rumor that he had syphed the entire local animal husbandry industry . . . and that was just the farmhands.

Anything that didn’t move was fuckable. Anything that moved was welcome to fuck us. Though we struggled manfully with Plutarch’s Lives and Lecky’s French Revolution our hearts were never far from our next ejaculation. The boy who could come five times a day was a mere tyro. Ten times a day and one gained respect (not every day but who’s looking on Sundays).

We were sissy sluts and queers and faggots and gays and nancy boys and that was just the masters . . . who never shrank from seducing any passingly acquiescent boy—those with father hunger or those who were merely homesick and cried for mama.

Public schools are repositories of the spiritually sick, ill, lame and halt. All the rejects from the junior middle ranks of the army and all the vicars who couldn’t hack a Sydney synod meeting ended up in the private school system (that’s public school for Aussies and Brits). The odd Mr. Chips notwithstanding these were ex-Gestapo operatives who had escaped by submarine to Australia after the war . . . or expat Brits banished to the colonies and much beloved of smarmy vicars who thought their accents simply divine compared to the Aussie argot. Too right mate, fair dinkum, who’s a bit crook then.

Yet we all turned out to be moderately heterosexual and even sowed a few wild oats before we got married or shacked up with some tart if we were of an artistic bent. I put this happy outcome down to the Matron Effect. Fucking matron was a quest more terrifying than fighting a cage of lions with a ping-pong paddle. She bucked, she writhed, she bit, she scratched, she slapped, she punched, she moaned, mewled screamed and even—on occasion—farted.

Senior boys with lacerated backs were not ex-denizens of Viet Cong POW camps but Knights of the infirmary Table (one of Matron’s preferred swiving spots). And she was all ours . . . all ours because the masters were so besotted with our fragile beauty that they couldn’t get it up for a mere woman; even a hideously perverted nurse who would have been struck off the register had she ever dared venture into a REAL hospital.

From wanking on stolen panties to late bloomers taking it up the keister for the first time at 18, every lubricious experience of those years was but a junior apprenticeship for the ultimate test; the descent into Matron’s perverted den.

One would espy, of a rainy afternoon, a senior boy begin to gag histrionically in class . . . whereupon the tweed-jacketed master might inquire “ahem . . . what seems to be the trouble Smith Minor,” to which Smith Minor . . . .wrenching each word from its inner bed of pain would moan “I’ve been taken a bit crook Sir,” and then do a fairly reasonable impression of a dry heave . . . to which Tweedy master would respond “oh well then Smith . . . run along to Matron and get something for it.” And get something he would, although usually nothing quite as serious as syphilis (NSU was, however, not an unusual outcome—the junior drip we called it.)

What we didn’t know about sex could have been written entirely on the back of a postage stamp. The only skill we lacked on leaving public school was the ability to make love (that would come later).

Yet, despite our minor sexual peccadilloes with the birds of the air (pubescent girls from the adjacent “school for young ladies” [you didn’t think we’d leave out the schoolgirls now . . . did you really?]}, or the beasts of the field (anyone we thought dismally stupid) and each other in the showers, the dorms, the toilets, the classrooms, the swimming pool, the lawn, the nearby bush, parked cars and buses, the kitchens (where a darling Italian chef would give us loving blowjobs on Sunday afternoons (his record was 27), the school bell tower, any of numerous outbuildings providing support to the large and deviant staff of gardeners, various corners under the seats of the playing fields, in the tall grass, in the shrubbery and more or less any place limited only by the farthest reaches of the imagination . . . actually I’ve forgotten what I was going to say—I became quite aroused for a moment there.

Oh yes . . . despite all these minor sexual peccadilloes we were lovable rouges—quite clever really, in our own way. In fact our favorite riposte to recalcitrant roulettes was “you’re gonna love me so much you won’t be able to put me down.” In fact I tried this line several years later with a naughty Sydney matron over a boozy lunch and within minutes was fucking her merrily in the back seat of my Holden convertible (with the top up of course—it was raining.)

Except, of course, during our annual reunions when we would split into two groups. One group would dress up in black seamed stockings, black garter belts, black French knickers and maids uniforms. We called these the handmaidens to the St. Trinian’s girls. The other group would dress as hearty schoolboys. Then we would all drink heroically . . . fuck, suck, stroke and ram each other for awhile . . . . and then vomit.

But the strain of being captains of industry or even just run-of-the-mill stockbrokers gradually pushed those memories deeper into the recesses of the subconscious and the reunions themselves—during which we tended to go into blackout did little to resurrect them. Indeed the reunions kept the lid on those years by letting the demons out to dance in the moonlight for a moment and curb their restless energies.

However, I digress.

My first contact with Matron came to pass on a sunny spring day, sprinkled with just a rainbow of drizzle now and then. We were in the throes of a rugby game on a field that had not dried out from previous rains. I was playing wing half . . . slithering, sliding, slipping and galumphing down the field with the ball against my belly when I felt an appalling pain in my thigh and went down face first into the slop. I had been kicked brutally in the (insert name of muscle) and lay there writhing while my team mates looked down with growing concern.

I remember being rolled onto a stretcher and carried off to the sweet clutches of matron. After the boys had tumbled me onto bed—not too gently—Matron rolled me on my front—palpated the limb, making cryptic grunts, pulled down my shorts and gave me a jab which put me out until nightfall.

(to be continued)