by Guy Willard
It turned out to be true. Once I was out in the Fleet, the long lines formed outside sickbay after every liberty port, almost from the moment the ship pulled out. Most of the guys didn’t have anything wrong with them, but they worried about the slightest itching, swelling, red spot, or discharge. It was just nerves, or maybe remorse. Who hasn’t had those post-coital second thoughts?
The first thing I usually asked was: “Did you use a rubber?” And the answer was invariably “No.” In a way I couldn’t blame them. Nothing deadens pleasure more than those unsexy “raincoats” strapped over your dick. But they do protect you from disease, and it was my job to promote their use. “Did you at least wash up immediately afterwards? Or take a good piss?” This is the next best thing in lieu of a rubber because we can’t always be expected, I know, to gracefully strap on a condom in the heat of lovemaking. But it’s surprising how few guys even took this precaution. I got depressed sometimes to realize how little effect my lectures on sexual safety had.
But a corpsman’s job was not without its benefits. Nothing could quite match the sense of power I felt when I called the guys in one by one from the clap line and ordered them in a matter-of-fact voice to strip. (Even officers had to comply, for they too had to line up for sick call just like everyone else.)
So inured had I become to the routine that no one would have guessed at the wild joy which filled my heart as some handsome sailor unzipped and flipped out his dick. And as I handled it carefully to obtain a slide sample of its discharge, I managed to crack the standard jokes to ease his embarrassment.
My job had other duties, too, besides the clap line. I had to make a weekly check of the mess deck for cleanliness or infestation. When necessary, I sprayed it down for bugs. Sanitation in general was my area of responsibility. I made a daily round of the officers’ and crew’s heads to test the water for purity.
One time I was in the forward crew’s head with my clipboard in hand when I noted a repeated sloshing sound coming from the toilet stall area. A quick check assured me that it was caused by a leaky faucet in the cleaning room. As there was only one drain, and the ship was rolling so heavily that the water couldn’t drain immediately, it quickly accumulated, sloshing along the deck until the ship tilted in the right direction. I made a note to tell the chief hull maintenance tech about it: it could pose a safety hazard.
As I watched the puddle of water race across the deck with each roll of the ship, I noticed that it left a slick layer behind which reflected like a mirror. By looking into this mirror I saw that one of the stalls was occupied. Noiselessly, I crept nearer to see who it was.
I was going to accuse him of being seasick when something made me freeze. Reflected faithfully on deck was his arm pumping rhythmically in that familiar jog which all boys learn instinctively. And over the throbbing hum of the ship’s engine I could make out the sound of sighing. Though sailors at sea talk constantly—endlessly—about beating off, this was the first time I’d actually gotten visible proof of it. Excitement gripped me as I watched, dreading the possibility of interruption. My own dick had gone hard almost instantly, and I could feel its stiff nudge in my pants. Soon there was a soft moan, and then the hand’s movement ceased. I slipped forward into the shower area and continued my pretense of testing the water.
The stall door opened, then slammed shut. A boy named Richie came out to the sinks to wash his hands. He was a machinist’s mate whose wavy hair and charming smile I’d always found attractive.
“Hi, Doc.” He ran some water over his hands and peered into the mirror at his reflection.
I nodded, noting the rounded fullness of his butt under the loose Navy dungarees. His hat was stuck casually into a back pocket and dangled freely, making it look as if a short bushy tail sprouted there; he had the appearance of a fabulous demi-human, a mythical woodland faun.
“What are you daydreaming about, Doc? Don’t tell me you’re already drunk on that one beer.”
I came to myself. The ferry was nearing the dock of the British Seamen’s Club, and as the water slapped and sucked against its hull, the ferryman tied us securely to the landing. We got off.
The club itself was drab, similar in detail to U.S. military clubs all over the world. Its design and atmosphere were universal; I could have gone to the same place anywhere. This wasn’t what I’d come to Hong Kong to see. I wanted to lose myself in the myriad streets of this Oriental city. The others were headed straight for the club’s bar, but I asked the shore guard where all the action was, and he pointed out the way to the Wan Chai district nearby.
It turned out to be familiar territory. Bar districts all over the Far East have a similar look, though I must say the Wan Chai looked cleaner than most of them. I poked my head into several bars without going in. Whenever I was spotted by guys from my ship, they invited me to join them, but I declined with the excuse that I was looking for someone. I wanted to make a quick tour of the Wan Chai so I could find my way around it in case I got lost.
Tonight I was looking for the gay section of town. I was sure Hong Kong had one, given its former reputation. But even if I found it, whether or not I would go into a gay bar was another thing. I was afraid of running into guys from my own ship, and I knew that a small ship like ours held no secrets for long.
As I continued walking, I soon found myself in a more commercial part of town. Here on the edge of the Wan Chai were fewer and fewer bars, and more hotels and souvenir shops. At this hour, the jewelry stores were just closing up. Sitting outside one of them on a folding chair was a bearded Sikh wearing a turban, a shotgun cradled on his lap. He looked sleepy.
I decided to take a room in one of the hotels and use it as my base of operations, for I intended to search all night if I had to. I wasn’t about to let my liberty go to waste. Even if I didn’t find a gay bar, I still might run across solitary gay sailors on the prowl. A couple of other U.S. ships were in port, and I knew there had to be guys on them who were looking for a little surreptitious adventure just like me.
After having a drink in the hotel bar, I headed out again, making my way back toward the Wan Chai down a different street. Just as I spotted an interesting-looking bar, some noise from down a side street caught my attention. I ran to investigate.
There was a drunken brawl in progress—it looked like four Americans. I recognized three of them as sailors from my ship but didn’t know who the fourth was—probably someone off another ship. Whenever two or more ships are in port together, trouble always breaks out. It’s ridiculous sometimes—guys who are the loudest in denouncing their own ship are invariably the proudest of it whenever they meet someone from another ship. And it seems to be the same throughout the Fleet; willy-nilly, sailors get a sense of pride about their own ship. So when crew members from different ships get rowdy in a bar, it’s like two unstable elements meeting. You can never tell when their pent-up frustrations will spark and explode into violence.
This guy was large and well-built. From the looks of his close-cropped hair, I guessed him to be a Marine. It’s bad enough when sailors from rival ships meet, but when Marines are involved, the traditional antipathy between the two services only adds more fuel to the situation. I wondered what ship he could be off of, as there were no “gator freighters” in port. Perhaps it was the Seventh Fleet flagship, the Oklahoma City.
He now had one of our guys in a headlock and was pummeling the trapped head mercilessly with a huge fist. The poor sailor was writhing around in a vain attempt to get free. Meanwhile his two companions were circling around looking for an opening. One of them spotted me and called out: “Look out, Doc, you’d better keep out of this.” I wasn’t about to get involved in their meaningless fracas.
“What the hell’s going on?” I asked.
The Marine turned to look at me. As he did so, one of the guys jumped him from behind. Tripped up, the Marine went down, bringing the other two down with him. They lunged headlong onto the sidewalk, sprawling out in a tangle of arms and legs. The
third sailor saw this as his chance to jump in; he joined the knot of red faces and flying fists. I heard the thuds of body blows and the slaps of faces being hit. The sight of a bloodied nose made me wince.
The Marine was strong but he was outnumbered. He was like a wounded lion being set upon by a pack of hyenas. I felt guilty about just looking on, not doing anything to stop the fight, and moreover, couldn’t deny the intoxicating thrill that coursed through me at the sight of the violence. Any display of virile strength, especially of male overpowering male through sheer brute force, always gives me a raw atavistic stimulation. And when one of them is as well-built and attractive as this Marine was, I feel a bit of something more. My pants were starting to feel tighter around my crotch.
Suddenly the sound of a whistle pierced the air. The three sailors quickly scrambled away, almost without breaking their rhythm, melting into the night. The Marine rolled over and moaned. The approaching footsteps stopped. To my relief, the shore patrol guards turned out to be a couple of petty officers from my own ship. I recognized Jacobs, an ET, and Bennings, the postal clerk.
“What’s going on, Doc?” the latter asked me with a worried look on his face.
I dropped down onto my knees and bent over to examine the Marine. “Just a fight. Three of our guys were beating up on this jarhead.”
“Who were they?”
I looked up. “You don’t think I’m going to tell, do you?”
“Should we call in for help, do you think?”
“No. He’s not hurt that bad. I think I can take care of him. Besides, if there was an official report, our guys could get into trouble. This guy’s so drunk he doesn’t know what happened. He probably won’t even remember it in the morning.”
“What do you think?” Jacobs turned to ask Bennings. Both of them had just made second-class and were still unsure of themselves. They looked helplessly at me, a seaman. The walkie-talkie at Bennings’s waist crackled, signaling more trouble brewing elsewhere, probably. “What a night,” he muttered softly.
“Don’t worry about this guy,” I said. “I’ve got him taken care of. Go ahead and answer that call.”
“Thanks, Doc.” They didn’t need to be told twice. “He’s all yours.”
They took off into the night again and I watched them until they disappeared around a corner. Then I helped the Marine slowly to his feet.
“You all right, bud? Come on, we’ll take care of you.”
Draping the other’s large arm around my neck, I grabbed him around the small of his back and moved him slowly in the direction of my hotel. As I guided his weaving steps, I was becoming giddy from the smell of sweat and alcohol coming off him. He muttered something under his breath about getting back to the ship but I paid no attention as I led him up the front steps and steered him into the lobby. Maybe I was getting drunk from the fumes, but I felt a dreamlike sense of ease as I led him past the startled eyes of the desk clerk and into the elevator. The fact that I was a foreigner here freed me from any inhibition I might have otherwise felt. I could get away with anything because in four days I would be in the middle of the South China Sea.
Somehow I managed to get him up to my fifth-floor room. Once there, I closed the door behind us and eased my patient onto the bed. Then I let out a long sigh and wiped my forehead with the back of my hand.
“We’d better make sure you don’t have any injuries.” He lay passive as I undid his shirt buttons one by one, and when I finally pulled open his shirt I felt my face flush. He was built like a god: solid. My fingers trembled as I touched him, exploring his chest for cuts or broken bones. He was unhurt, but I continued my exploration for much longer than necessary. He didn’t notice anything.
“Nothing wrong here. Turn over.”
With my help he managed to roll over onto his stomach. His shoulders and back were solid muscle. A shallow groove traced the line of his backbone. I massaged his shoulders a little as I asked, “What was that fight about?”
“Bastards,” he murmured. “Motherfucking squids....”
As I’d suspected, it was the old inter-service rivalry. Actually, the Marines were technically only a branch of the Navy, a fact which we never failed to remind them of. In return, they called us squids...which the dictionary defines as “a lower form of marine life.” The mutual antipathy between our services was instilled within us as early as boot camp. In San Diego, the Navy and Marine boot camps are located side by side. My barracks was just across the fence from their cross-country running course. We would often hear the “grunts” running by in neat squads chanting cadence in rhythm. Whenever we had a chance, we threw taunts at them—to which they replied with insults of their own.
To me there was no comparison. Few of the guys in my company could match the manly toughs on the other side of the fence for good looks. Not only were the Marines brawnier, but in general their faces were more attractive. It was almost as if the Corps culled and weeded out its recruits until it had the highest possible number of handsome young men willing to die for their country—for in wartime they were the first to give up their lives. This fact gave them, for me, the haloed sweetness of soon-to-be-martyred saints...which did not, however, detract from their vibrant sexuality. There was no doubt in my mind that they were the sexiest men of any service.
Of all the Marines, the cream were picked for duty aboard admirals’ flagships where they served as chauffeurs, orderlies, and ceremonial guards. It was hard not to imagine that these virile men in their brilliant dress uniforms were chosen exclusively for their attractive looks. In my daydreams I pictured them as a male harem for the lucky admiral. What added fuel to this fantasy was the reported incident of a certain flag officer who was abruptly dismissed from his post because of an alleged affair with one of his men. Who could blame him for giving in to such temptations? I would have traded places any day with one of those puny, white-haired admirals just so I could have these big strong men at my beck and call.
I looked down at the Marine on my bed. He was one of those chosen few. His brawny torso was shaped in the ideal image of masculine beauty. Trying to sound as professional as possible, I said, “What’s your name, Marine?”
“Andrews.”
“Stand up, Andrews.”
He groaned but got shakily to his feet.
“There’s nothing wrong with you but that sore spot under your eye. You’ll have a bruise in the morning, but other than that you have nothing to worry about. Come on, I’ll see if I can find some ice to put on that thing.”
He began to totter and I had to rush to his side and catch him before he fell.
“Goddamn it, Andrews, you’re in no condition to go back to your ship. How many drinks did you have?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Shit, you’d better sleep it off here. What ship you off of?”
“The Okie City.”
“That’s what I thought. When does she leave?”
“Tomorrow morning first thing.”
“When’s liberty expire for you?”
“At six.”
“I’d better put in for a wake-up call. And maybe have room service bring up some ice while I’m at it.” Then, hoping he was too drunk to notice the tenseness in my voice, I added in an even tone, “Come on, take your pants off. We’ll get you to bed.”
To my relief he offered no resistance but immediately began fumbling with his belt. He was beyond caring, only wishing to get some sleep. I had to help him by supporting his weight upon my shoulders. With a pounding heart I slid his pants down to the floor. He was wearing boxer shorts. Nothing looks sexier on a well-built man than boxers; at the same time, nothing looks more ridiculous on an unattractive man.
Andrews looked divine.
Propping up his swaying body with one hand I said sternly, “Come on, what are you waiting for?” And without a pause I rolled down his shorts and helped him onto the bed. Then I stood back and gazed down at him lying there completely nude. He was so huge that he made the doub
le bed look small. I felt a rush of excitement and had to step over to the window. Shakily I managed to wrest it open, then gratefully breathed in some fresh air. It was a relief after all the alcohol fumes and sweat...and a relief from my sexual excitement.
Just below my window was a busy intersection. The noisy honking of taxis floated up to me as I gazed down at the crowded flow of people on the sidewalk. The streets from this height looked so narrow, as if they lay at the bottom of a steep valley. The buildings on either side towered above them. Staring me in the face from the building opposite were storefront signs painted in garish colors, Chinese characters with their English translations beside them. The sky above had faded to a worn-out purple. Far over the harbor I could see rank upon rank of ships anchored out in the bay. Somewhere among them was my own, which I couldn’t spot from where I was. Aboard it was the only claim I had in all this unfamiliar hemisphere: my bunk.
Taking a deep breath I turned around, and without looking toward the bed, picked up the phone for room service. I made a reservation for a wake-up call but hesitated before ordering the ice. He was sleeping so soundly now that I hated to wake him up. The ice might have a jolting effect on him. Besides, what was a little bruise for a titan like him? I decided against the ice and hung up.
Maybe I was still giddy from witnessing the violence earlier, for I’d made no effort to wipe away his sweat. It glistened sexily on his powerful swells of muscle, and the sight reminded me of the muscle magazines I’d secretly collected as a boy. I thought of all the restless nights in my rack, fantasizing about sex, and all my furtive masturbations in the forward crew’s head. I became aware that I was now in a city on the very edge of the Asian continent, in a land so strange to me that anything might happen. Nothing was forbidden. All the familiar rules of behavior were null and void.
I began taking off my clothes.
If he were to wake up and see me, he’d probably kick the shit out of me. But the threat of imminent violence didn’t deter me. In fact I was excited by it. My lust was so explosive that even a bloody beating would only have given me welcome relief. On the other hand, it was quite possible that he’d sleep through the whole thing and never know what happened. So how could I pass up such a delicious opportunity?