by Guy Willard
As we neared the hotel, however, our bravado suddenly gave way to shyness. Afraid that the hotel might have a rule limiting the number of persons per room, we decided to cross the lobby separately, the girl and I entering first, with Jim following a little later, pretending to be looking for a friend.
The room itself was small and plain, a little worn-looking but clean. A musty smell pervaded the air, and the disco next door sent its throbbing bass notes vibrating along the wall and floor. A bed, a small table, and a bathroom with a shower and toilet completed the furnishings.
We sat around for a while, joking. Now that we’d made it safely to the room, our attitude became reserved, almost formal.
“Have a seat,” I said to Jim.
He sat down stiffly on the bed, his hands between his knees. He looked nervous.
The girl giggled loudly, breaking the awkward tension. She got to her feet and briskly announced that she was taking a shower. Then she began doffing her clothes right in front of us, folding them neatly and putting them on a shelf under the table. The sight of her walking nude to the bathroom finally thawed us out, and we sheepishly began to undress, feeling ashamed of our inhibition after all the bold talk.
For some reason, we who would never have hesitated to undress before each other aboard the ship now felt strangely shy, for it was not only our nudity we were baring tonight. I was all too aware of the significance of what we were about to do, but wasn’t sure if Jim was.
We went into the bathroom where the girl was already moving about under the weak spray of the nozzle. As I expected, the water was cold—I had yet to find a hot shower in a foreign port—and I merely ducked in and ducked right out, jolted by the cold contact. Jim, however—maybe because he was drunker—seemed exhilarated by the chilling shower. He hugged the girl to himself as she squirmed half-protestingly in his clasp. I looked on, laughing. She broke away from his clumsy embrace into the towel I held open for her.
After we all dried off we walked back to the bed where we sat around once again and bantered a bit. We still felt a little awkward, and no one seemed willing to make the first move, not even Jim who was making no effort to hide his erection.
We lay back on the bed with the girl in the middle, but only stared blankly up at the ceiling, making desultory conversation. It was a play for time and we knew it. Suddenly, during a lull in the talk, the girl reached over and grabbed my hand. Pulling it across herself, she placed it right on Jim’s dick. She certainly knew the significance of our threesome. I quickly drew my hand back—“hey!”—surprised at the sudden move. Then I glanced over at Jim’s face to gauge his reaction. It registered surprise, but not outrage. He probably took it in stride as part of the wild antics we were after. Still, some instinct warned me that he wasn’t yet ready for one-on-one sex with me that night.
The girl realized her mistake and tried to cover up for it. “I’m sorry, I was only joking. Because nothing was happening.”
“Then I’m just gonna have to make it happen,” said Jim, shaking off his inaction. He rolled toward her, half-covering her, and began kissing her. She turned into him and returned his kisses.
Jim, bronzed by exposure to the sun up on the signal bridge where he worked—very often shirtless—had a very sexy body. There was a pale strip around his hips where the sun never reached, and it looked like a pair of white, skin-tight trunks. This sight finally aroused me and I began kissing the girl’s shoulder from behind. She broke away from kissing Jim and turned her lips to me. I pressed mine against hers, where Jim’s mouth had just been. At this, Jim shifted himself down so he could kiss her breasts.
The kisses I was bestowing on the girl were really meant for my buddy just inches away, whose lips I dreamed of kissing. And because this was the closest I had ever come to it (and perhaps ever would), I became more impassioned with the girl than I usually do. And her lips became hot in return—she was getting excited, too, and she wasn’t faking it.
I broke away. At that moment, Jim abruptly stopped kissing her nipples and we all became quiet. Then Jim began pushing her thighs slowly apart. He looked at me.
“Time for some three-way,” he said.
The girl immediately protested. “No.”
“No? What do you mean, no?”
“One at a time. Not together.”
“Why not?”
Jim began to plead with her and I started to lose interest. The girl’s high-pitched nasal voice was beginning to get on my nerves. Jim kept pressing her but she made it clear that she wouldn’t engage in three-way sex under any conditions.
“Come on, Jim,” I said. “I’m getting tired. Let’s go to sleep.”
“Not till I get a nut, man.”
“Okay, okay, just make it quick.”
I lay on my side and watched as he and the girl began making love. I admired the firm strong lines of his back, the ripple of his muscles in smooth motion, the repeated pucker of his butt as he pumped his hips in a regular rhythm. And the girl responded with unconcealed pleasure, for (as I was to discover), the girls of Subic—unlike prostitutes in many other ports—rarely shammed the joy they got from fucking. Despite her earlier reticence, the proximity of two young sailors had no doubt inflamed her more than she cared to admit.
I turned my attention to the faraway look on Jim’s face. What was he thinking of? Was he even aware of me? Or was he thinking of his friend, Carl, from whom he was separated?
When he was done it was my turn. As I fucked the girl, I didn’t think of her at all, only Jim. I turned to look at him and our eyes met. His face was expressionless...enigmatic. What was he thinking? I’d have given anything to be able to read his mind. Did he know what I was thinking?
Only the strongest willpower in the world kept me from calling out his name at the penultimate moment.
The buzzing of the mosquito sounded like the loudest thing I’d ever heard in my life. It startled me out of a sound sleep. I popped my eyes open and waved it away.
All was silent in the room. Even the throbbing music from the disco next door was stilled. Moonlight peeped through the thin wooden slats of the window and bleached the floor. The air was muggy and close.
I felt a stirring at my side and turned...and was startled to see that Jim was next to me. The last thing I remembered before falling asleep was the sight of him and the girl clinging together in a hug as they drowsed off. She must have gone to the bathroom sometime during the night, for she now lay on the far side of the bed.
Jim turned over in his sleep and, imagining the girl was still next to him, threw his leg over mine, pulled it toward himself and squeezed it between his thighs. I didn’t move a muscle for fear of waking him—and for the pleasure of prolonging this intimate contact.
I could feel the soft tickle of the hairs on his thighs, the tiny blond hairs I so loved. Carefully I glanced down to see his dick, gentle and flaccid in sleep. My own, excited by this delicious proximity, stirred in guilty rebellion, lazily unfolding and nudging its neighbor in a stealthy kiss. The contact caused Jim to stir in his sleep.
I quickly shut my eyes in feigned slumber so that our intimate contact would have the excuse of being caused by the natural movements of sleep. But Jim didn’t wake up. Twisting his body into a taut stretch, he turned his back to me.
For a long time I didn’t dare stir. Instead, I let my eyes roam over Jim’s back, across a red sunburnt stretch which was beginning to peel off in tiny patches here and there, creating a dappled effect. The tiny bumps of his backbone led down to his slim waist, to the firm round butt which seemed to float palely in the night. His legs were tucked up into the fetal position, one heel peeping out shyly below.
What I felt at that moment was not sexual desire so much as a keen romantic ache for this pale shimmering form so unreal in the moonlight. I thought of the fevered sketches I’d drawn in my adolescence of just such a golden boy in just such a position. Back then the boy had been an unattainable dream. Now he was just a kiss away.
&nb
sp; My eyes followed the curves of his body all the way down to his feet, and then up again, along the rounded arc of his calf, up the gentle slope from thigh to hip, then coming to rest upon his butt, where a crescent fissure formed a narrow shadow between a pair of plump fruits graced with fine peach fuzz.
His chest rose and fell softly in the shallow breathing of deep sleep. I raised my head up and leaned over just far enough to gaze upon his relaxed boyish face, so innocent-looking when stripped of the jeering smirk which so often marred its handsomeness. But now I forgot all the near-fights we’d had when I was pushed to the limits of my endurance. I felt only a keen longing within my heart for the gentle promise of that sleeping face.
I slid softly toward him, ready at any moment to shut my eyes in fake sleep. I didn’t stop till we were touching thigh to thigh and I could feel a cool buttock pressing against my dick. Then I relaxed all my muscles till I was nuzzled spoon-fashion against him. I tried not to think of how often I’d dreamed of clasping a boy to me like this. But now that I’d finally accomplished it, it still didn’t seem like enough. Emboldened by the knowledge that I was just an eye-blink away from a safe alibi, I dared yet more.
Bringing my arm up, I slipped my hand around to his front and felt his firm chest against my fingertips. My heart was thudding so loudly in my own chest that it was a wonder Jim wasn’t wakened by it.
Then I froze as he stirred.
But it was only to bring a hand up to close over my caressing one—he still thought it was the girl’s.
I had no other thought now but of prolonging this sweet contact—into forever, if possible. But I keenly felt the evanescence of this happiness clutched so unexpectedly in the sultry Philippine night, in this seedy, musty hotel room. And thus I rode on into the heart of midnight, drifting on my lovely raft.
Morning found me facing the pale green wall with its peeling paint. It took me a moment to recall where I was. The steady sound of snoring behind me had fooled me into thinking I was in the berthing compartment aboard ship. I turned over to see Jim sprawled out across the bed, his space-grabbing posture cramped by the sheet which had wound itself around his middle sometime during the night.
The girl beside him was stirring awake with cooing moans. I felt the tight clutch of a hangover grip my skull. Rolling toward the foot of the bed, I got up, still fighting my queasiness.
The sight of the girl yawning up at me in the harsh glare of morning light quickly brought me down to earth. The phantom vision of the night before seemed to fade away like dew, becoming even more ephemeral. But there was no time for regrets.
I grabbed Jim’s big toe and shook it. “Come on, Jim, reveille. We have to get back to the ship.”
He bolted up halfway, startled into wakeful reality, but then sank slowly back again, mussing up his hair and scratching at his head.
And then my golden boy of the night before let out a loud brassy fart, followed by a satisfied sigh.
Hong Kong
For me the very name of this fabulous Oriental city had always evoked an air of sinful exoticism. Since boyhood, I’d dreamed of exploring its fabled alleyways in search of opium dens and white slavery rings. So now, as our ship pulled into Hong Kong harbor, I stood on the signal bridge and eagerly watched the city come into view, admiring its incomparably haughty skyline. The very air I breathed seemed redolent with a forbidden spice.
Though there was a British naval base here, no docking facilities were available for American ships, so we had to anchor out in the bay amidst a flotilla of ships from all over the globe: passenger liners, luxury cruise ships, tankers, freighters. I looked everywhere for the fabled junks but saw none. However, the shoreline of the northern part of the island was cluttered with sampans and houseboats of every size and shape.
The old-timers aboard had told me that Hong Kong today was nothing like it was in the old days when it was truly the “sin city” of the Far East, and anything could be had for a price...even murder. But these days, except for the availability of heroin, Hong Kong was considered a very straight city. In recent years, it had so cleaned up its image that a sailor on liberty was lucky to get laid. The word was out that there were plenty of topless bars, but very few hookers. In fact it was so bad that I didn’t even have to give my usual talk to the crew about the advisability of using condoms.
Liberty call sounded but I didn’t rush out with the others. I took my time and had a leisurely supper aboard ship before going forward to the compartment to change into civvies for my night on the town.
Jim had duty today, but because Hong Kong wasn’t a “sex” town, he’d made no effort to find somebody to stand his watch...which was fine with me because I was growing a little tired of him.
What had seemed like boyish exuberance at first was beginning to look more and more like mere immaturity. He liked to tell people about our exploits together, and even guys I didn’t know very well would come up to me with smirks on their faces asking for more details. The last thing I wanted was a reputation for decadence, and I knew that if Jim didn’t watch out, he’d get us both into serious trouble.
On our last night in Subic we’d finally managed to find a girl who was willing to go with both of us. Atop a creaking bed in a tiny hotel room lit by a bare bulb, she knelt on her hands and knees between us. I was at her back and Jim was at her face. Separated only by the girl’s smooth swaying back we smiled at each other as we had our simultaneous pleasure with her. At that moment I’d felt closer to Jim than ever before, and was convinced that he understood my feelings for him without the need for words.
Therefore, when I heard others talking about it the next day, I felt betrayed. Especially disturbing to me was the fact that even Kyle Roberts, our ship’s one blatant homosexual, had heard of our deeds. I couldn’t believe that Jim didn’t have enough sense to keep our adventures secret. In reply to my rebuke, he promised not to blab anymore, but I knew now that I couldn’t trust him to keep his word.
I stopped going up to the signal bridge in my free time to see him.
“The ferry boat leaves in five minutes,” announced the petty officer of the watch over the 1MC.
I hurried up to the quarterdeck. A small chartered ferry made trips half-hourly to the shore and I didn’t want to miss this one. I saluted the OOD and mumbled my request for permission to leave the ship. Then I hurried down the accommodation ladder to where the ferry was banging against the platform at the bottom.
Night was falling and before I stepped into the ferry I gazed at the nightscape before me. Garish neon lights ashore had flowered into bright blossoms in the clear night air, with their reflections twinned on the shivering water like rare tropical plants whose buds, if smoked, promised a heady bliss. The holiday lights of our ship had been strung up by the EMs, but they were nothing compared to the colorful Christmas tree lights of the luxury cruise ship nearby.
Inside the ferry some of the guys were already drinking beer. As I sat down, the ferryman’s wife scooped out another can from a water-filled bucket and handed it to me. I paid for it and popped the top.
“Come on, Doc, let’s see a bottoms up,” shouted one of the guys.
“Fuck you, Mullens.”
“Hey, I’m already on my second beer.”
“You’re kidding.” But I couldn’t resist the challenge. I downed my beer.
“That-a-way, Doc!” They pounded me on my back and cheered. There’s nothing quite like the taste of that first beer on liberty. After several weeks without it, you develop a craving even if you aren’t primarily a beer drinker. (Unlike the Australian navy, in which sailors have a two-beers-a-day ration, the U.S. Navy allows no alcoholic beverages aboard its ships. This does not mean, however, that none gets smuggled aboard.)
At a signal from the OOD above, the ferry cast off and began to chug toward the distant shore.
“Did you bring your rubbers, Doc?” one of the guys asked me.
“Of course. I even have some extra. Here.” I passed some around. We c
orpsmen have to be prepared for anything. In addition to my supply of rubbers, I also carried a small round tin of Vaseline. For emergency treatment, of course.
The nickname I’d been given by the crew, “Doc,” which I hated, was the one all hospital corpsmen got stuck with whether they liked it or not. And there was nothing I could do about it, either; it was a part of Navy life, just as all redheads were “Red” and all Smiths were “Smitty.” It didn’t matter how many times I reminded my shipmates that my name was Bill Gale. To them I was “Doc,” and that’s all there was to it. Many’s the time I was in a bar when I heard someone say “Hey, Doc!” and turned around, only to realize a corpsman from another ship was being addressed.
When I first joined the Navy I had no intention of being a corpsman. In fact I didn’t even know what I wanted to do. But in boot camp there was a class which explained all the ratings (jobs) available, and we had to choose one, though we weren’t guaranteed of getting it. I didn’t envision myself chipping paint or stoking a boiler; the corpsmen we’d come in contact with in boot camp seemed decent enough to me. And furthermore, the class instructor’s description of the job sold me on it (though he made all the ratings sound good.)
“It’s not such a pussy job as you might think,” he’d said. “The Navy corpsman is a Marine’s best friend out in the field. Wherever a Marine goes, the corpsman follows right behind him. He has to patch up the wounded, take care of the dead. There’s a lot of blood and guts involved. It’s definitely not a job for a pussy. Talk to any Vietnam vet.”
I had romantic visions of patching up a wounded comrade in the heat of battle...a handsome Marine...as I tightened the bandage around his arm, his face lit up with thanks...I knew I’d earned his lifelong friendship.... Alas, it wasn’t until I was in corpsman school that I learned that my job would mainly consist of treating sailors for VD.