by Guy Willard
A whole fleet of taxis was lined up just outside the gate, and most of the guys headed straight for them. In the best of spirits, they crammed in, five guys to a cab, everyone friendly with everyone else in a way they’d never been in camp. Rebel yells pierced the air.
“Come on, Gale, let’s go!” My arm was pulled along but I declined. They were going to some hotel where they would get drunk and laid. We’d been told that prostitutes were rife in Diego—at the zoo, in the park, on the street—all waiting for young sailors who’d been cooped up for months without sex.
I asked them the name of their hotel in case I decided to drop in later, but no one had any idea where they were headed. I waved as the taxi screeched away. Everyone seemed in such a hurry.
As for me, after being with 80 guys night and day, I wanted to get away and be alone for a while. That was the greatest luxury I could think of. I walked down the sidewalk still unable to shake off a sense of awe as I gazed at ordinary street sights. Familiar objects like traffic lights and parking meters took on an intense, hallucinatory quality. I wondered how I must look walking down the street.
The new uniform I was wearing now struck me as being conspicuously gaudy out here. In the base I’d been so proud of it, its clean new elegance marking me off as a veteran of boot camp in contrast with the lowly majority in their drab blue work uniforms. But out here it only labeled me as ripe bait for a prowling prostitute. I was struck by how much my mind had been altered during the weeks of training. I’d become a different person. The old me had been displaced or submerged, and a half-familiar stranger now occupied my body.
I ducked into a Denny’s and sat at the counter. The smell of fresh frying bacon and eggs had a delicious richness completely lacking in the bland mess hall fare I was used to. My mouth actually watered. The coffee smelled so much more flavorful. I’d forgotten how real coffee tasted.
I ordered breakfast.
The girl behind the counter smiled at me in a way the dour-faced Navy cooks never had. The quiet dining room with its soft background music was such a contrast to the noisy clatter and hubbub of the mess hall.
As I waited for my food, I wondered how I would spend my day. So much freedom was overwhelming.
The door opened and three high school boys walked in and sat at a table in the corner. They looked as if they’d been partying all night. I was only a year or two older than them, but somehow my weeks of training had put a chasm between these boys and me, my uniform, a world. One of them cast a glance toward me and my heart leaped. He was gorgeous. He brushed his hair back with one hand and resumed his conversation with his friends. His beautiful long hair, after all the shaved heads in boot camp, was a pure delight. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I noted his sleepy-eyed languor, his soft-looking lips, his freckled arms...and wanted to die.
I looked away.
Oh, saltpeter, where are you when I need you?
Someone had said there was a YMCA on Broadway. Supposedly that was where you went if you were looking for some quick sex with a boy. But what if someone in my company saw me there with a “friend” from another company? It might be difficult to explain. After I’d managed to come this far without blowing my cover, why should I risk everything on my next-to-last day?
The truth was, I was paranoid. Months of living with fag-haters had made me more than just fearful. In my heart I had begun to laugh at, even despise those boys in other companies who’d been caught and drummed out of the Navy. Had I really changed that much?
The waitress brought my food and I began to eat. Just as I was biting into my toast, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around. It was one of the guys from my company, a quiet one I couldn’t place for a second.
“Mind if I join you, Bill?” he said.
“Sure.”
My heart sank. I’d hardly ever talked to the guy, and had barely managed to recognize his face just now. A name—Daniels?—seemed to float into my mind.
“What have you got planned for the day?” he asked.
I shrugged, but was thinking: whatever it is, it won’t be with you. I wasn’t about to let him ruin my holiday. Perhaps if I accompanied him for a little while, I could find an excuse to get rid of him.
But he must have read my thoughts. As if purposely trying to foil my plan, he said brightly, “Listen, why don’t we rent a room like the others and get shit-faced drunk?”
I could see that the day was going to turn into a farce as I tried to shake off this unwanted companion who would cling to me all the more stubbornly on that account. Why couldn’t I be left in peace to escape the Navy, at least for a day?
“No,” I replied, “I feel like getting away from crowds for a while. I’ve had it up to here with communal living.” Wouldn’t he get the hint?
“That’s what I mean: just us two.”
I looked at him. For a second, I wondered if he might be flashing me a secret signal. If so, I’d be very surprised. He hadn’t been among any of the possibles I’d marked out. There was nothing about him to indicate that he was anything other than just another hetero.
And then I wondered: Does he suspect me? Had I said or done anything which might have given me away? I chose my next words carefully.
“No, people might think, you know....”
He laughed and pulled out his wallet. “If I was like that, would I be carrying this around?” He showed me a snapshot of his girlfriend.
Anyone that naive would have to be straight, I thought.
“All right,” I said.
Leaving the restaurant, we hailed a taxi and told the driver to head for Broadway. This was the main entertainment strip of San Diego where we’d heard that most sailors went for their fun: bars, pool halls, strip shows, massage parlors, porno theaters. I actually felt a curious fascination with the sleazy atmosphere of the strip. It was part of being a sailor, the ability to blend in with the seamy underside of society.
We got off the cab and started walking up the street. Everywhere we looked were young men with short hair and a certain Navy look about them. There would be no getting away from the Navy in this town.
“Wonder where all our guys went,” said Daniels.
“Damn if I know.”
“Hey, what’s this place?”
We were standing before an establishment called The Piccadilly, the pink and white neon lights of its marquee winking on and off even in the daytime. From the look of the posters tacked up beside the door it was obviously a strip joint. The bouncer sitting on a low stool was eyeing us closely. “You boys wanna step inside?”
Daniels looked at me. Like most recruits, we were both under California’s legal drinking age of 21. But we’d been told that if you flashed a Navy ID, they wouldn’t check your birth date very carefully. This was, after all, a Navy town. I reached for my ID but the bouncer just waved us inside.
The place was about half-full. The jukebox was on low, barely audible above the sound of conversation. Apparently we’d come in during a break between shows. We found a table near the back, as the stools at the counter were all taken. No doubt those seats had filled up first because they gave the best views of the strippers.
As soon as Daniels and I sat down, two women came over to join us. The brunette sat next to me, and the blonde next to Daniels.
“Hi, guys. What are your names?”
“This is Daniels, and I’m Gale,” I said.
“Ooh, last names. That sounds so military. I’m Sheila, and she’s Tracy. What ship you off of?”
“Uh, we’re still in boot, actually. We graduate the day after tomorrow.”
“Well, good for you. I’ll bet you’re looking forward to going out to the Fleet, huh?”
“I guess so,” I said.
“What are you drinking?”
“A Budweiser for me, and a—?”
“Coors,” said Daniels. “I’ll take a Coors. I’m from Colorado.”
“Mountain boy, huh? Say, how about drinks for us?”
“Sure
. Get yourselves what you like.”
Tracy went off to get the drinks after taking my twenty-dollar bill.
Meanwhile, the music had started up and a girl had come out from a small wing beside the bar and was dancing atop the counter in a gauzy negligee. The crowd was cheering her on.
“I just finished my number a while ago,” said Sheila, “so I’m still sweating.”
“You’re between dances?”
“Yeah. We get a thirty-minute break.”
Tracy came back with the drinks, and we all raised our glasses and drank. My change was on the tray, and there wasn’t very much. A quick mental calculation told me that the girls’ drinks had cost five dollars each. They both had the same kind of drink, a very clear, non-carbonated drink with ice.
We sat drinking for a while, watching the strippers. Each of the girls danced two numbers, stripping down to a bra and G-string during the first song, then taking it all off during the second, at the end of which she squatted down and opened her thighs before a favored customer. Sometimes when this happened, the man would feel obligated—probably from a sense of masculine pride—to pretend to be uninterested in the sight before him, turning aside to his friend and making a snickering comment.
We ordered another round of drinks, Daniels paying this time. Again, both girls were drinking the same clear beverage.
“Mind if I take a sip of yours?” I asked Sheila.
“Go ahead.”
I took a sip and it was water. “Mmm, light. You must be on a diet.”
“Right. Listen. There’s a little room out back where we can talk more intimately.”
“No thanks. I’ll pass.”
“Your friend looks like he’s willing.”
I looked over at Daniels. He was grinning and fishing into his wallet for more bills. Tracy had her hand on his thigh and was caressing it. I suppressed my urge to groan.
“Hey Daniels, you’re not going, are you?”
“Just for a little talk.” He and Tracy got up. I looked at Sheila, then got up too. We went past the counter, through a doorway beside it to a dim passageway at the back. Daniels and Tracy continued on down the narrow corridor as Sheila pulled me to a stop before a door marked “Employees’ Washroom. Keep Out.” She opened it and steered me inside.
There was just enough room within for a sink and standing space for two. As soon as she shut the door behind her, Sheila’s attitude changed. She became more flat and direct. “All right, let’s see the money up front first.”
“Sure.” I pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. She took it and stuck it down the front of her dress. Then, unceremoniously, she reached for my fly and undid the top buttons, immediately groping inside my briefs. I was soft, of course. Mechanically, she began jiggling it. There was no response.
“What’s the matter, sailor? Aren’t I pretty enough for you?”
“You’re all right.”
“All talk and no action, huh?”
“Why don’t you try sucking it?”
She stopped stroking. “That’ll cost you extra, buster. I’m not sucking that thing for no twenty.”
It wasn’t worth it. I only wished she’d get it over with so I could get out and leave. I thought of Daniels with his girl, hoping that the mental image of his erection would get me hot. It didn’t help. I couldn’t concentrate with this girl here. If I were alone, maybe.
Suddenly she let go of me, almost disgustedly. “Why doncha do it yourself, then? I can’t be doing this all day.”
“Listen, I paid you for it.”
“Fuck you, asshole. You want trouble? I got a friend out there who’s just waiting for me to call him.”
“Never mind.” I buttoned up and went outside, back to the table. Our drinks were still there. I downed mine, then pretended to watch the stripper. She was down on her knees before a customer, and was bending her body way back, shaking her breasts up at the ceiling. Her belly was undulating as if it were moving independently of her. The man calmly smoked his cigarette, his eyes slitted almost shut from the smoke.
Finally Daniels came back. He had a big smile on his face. “How was it for you, Bill?”
“About what I expected.”
“I paid her an extra twenty, but it was worth it. Boy, are we living it up!” He actually seemed to have enjoyed his little escapade. I felt the unbridgeable gap between his simple joy and my disappointment. So this was the fun sailors were supposed to have on liberty. This was what I should expect to “enjoy” for the rest of my hitch. Suddenly my years in the Navy seemed to stretch before me like an eternity.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said.
“Sure.”
A-School
Happy Hour at the EM Club was from five to six, when all mixed drinks were fifty cents each. The drinking age on base was eighteen, so that sailors who were under the legal age in California could still have a drink after work. My barracks roommate Roger and I had great fun trying out all the different cocktails on the menu. It made us feel very grown-up.
We’d finished with classes for the day, and had already eaten at the chow hall and changed into our civvies. Roger was feeling a bit more tense than usual. “I think I’ll try a Singapore Sling today. That sounds real exotic.”
The waitress behind the bar was a regular, and already knew our faces. She was about thirty years old and very friendly. “And you?”
I surveyed the menu posted on the wall behind the bar. During the past week or so, I’d tried virtually everything on it, and had discovered my favorite. “I think I’ll stick to a Tom Collins.”
“Sure.”
The club was almost empty at this early hour. We were the only two at the bar. There was a live band scheduled to play later in the evening, and we could see the musicians setting up their equipment in the dance room next door.
The waitress finished mixing our drinks. We paid for them, picked up the plastic tumblers and raised them toward each other, then took our first sip of the day.
This was nothing like boot camp.
With the start of A-school, I felt I had returned to the real world. Once again I could live my life as a human being, without the harassment and pressures which were a regular part of boot camp life. For me, the biggest advantage was the return of my privacy. I now lived in a dormitory-like room with three others, including Roger.
Our quarters were brand new, and very clean. We had regular beds now instead of double bunks, a big locker for our personal belongings, and closet space in which to hang up our uniforms and civvies. (I’d bought some civilian clothes off-base the first chance I got, and had written home for my mother to send me more.) It was worlds away from the boot camp barracks, which I could still see from the window of our quarters.
Physically, I wasn’t very far removed from the atmosphere of my basic training days. In my daily rounds I could watch recruits marching in formation on the grinder or stacking up their rifles before the chow hall. I was still on the same base—had merely shifted from RTC to NTC—but what a difference this short distance made.
Two days after my little adventure with Daniels in The Piccadilly, all the recruits in our company had been issued orders by the CC, and had scattered to all the corners of the country. Very few of the guys had continued on to A-school here in Diego, as I had. Many had gone to schools located on other bases: Great Lakes, Orlando, or Norfolk. And others—who hadn’t been guaranteed any special training when they’d signed up, or hadn’t qualified for it—had been sent straight to the Fleet as boatswains’ mates...deck apes. I was the only one in my company who had come to hospital corpsman A-school here.
Most recruits normally took two weeks’ leave after boot camp to recover from their ordeal, but I had come straight across the base to check in early, walking the short distance with my seabag over my shoulder and my dress uniform clutched under my arm. This way I would be saving up some leave time from the thirty days a year we got as paid leave. Someday I would be able to use that time to a better purpose.
Though I looked forward to going aboard a ship, I was glad to be afforded this breathing space in which to adjust to my new life. As for my classmates, most of them were a cut above the average sailor in intelligence. Corpsman school required high scores on the aptitude tests we’d all taken upon joining the Navy. Some of my fellow students had even had two years of college experience. In general, I felt much more comfortable with my A-school classmates than I had with my fellow recruits during basic.
Now that we were allowed to grow our hair out a little more—long enough to comb, anyway—I was conscious again of how attractive some of my fellow sailors were. And because the Navy was the only branch of the military which allowed its men to grow beards, some guys were already taking advantage of this rule to try to look as experienced and mature as possible.
The club was beginning to fill up and Roger was looking around.
“See her yet?” I asked, somewhat facetiously.
Roger had a crush on one of our classmates in corpsman school, a Wave named Mona. She usually came to the club with a friend or two at about this time. Like all the enlisted women in the Navy, she had graduated from basic training in Orlando, Florida, and because she’d opted to become a hospital corpsman, had been transferred here to NTC for further schooling. She was among the dozen or so women in our class. Waves seemed to hold a special fascination for the male sailors. Because the ratio of men to women on base was so great, there was fierce competition among the men to try to secure female companionship. Even the lesser attractive Waves found themselves the objects of serious attention from sex-starved young sailors. As Mona was among the prettier ones, Roger probably didn’t stand a chance with her. He was too shy for the aggressive competition necessary to win her.
We’d come here night after night counting the men who went over to her table to ask her to dance. She seemed to bask in all the attention she was getting—attention she would never have gotten out in civilian land. But she was probably well aware of her position, and was trying to get as much mileage as she could out of it. I really couldn’t blame her. In her shoes, I might have done the same thing.