by Guy Willard
For a long time nothing happened. I could feel the blood pounding madly in my ears, making me deaf as well as blind. But then I made out the sound of the ceiling fan cutting the air. It was a little scary not knowing what was going on. The room was so silent that I was beginning to think Rick might have fallen asleep. How silly that would make me look. But then I heard a quivering sigh. He was still awake, anyway.
More long moments passed in silence.
At first I thought I’d imagined it, so I listened again more carefully. There it was again: I was right. Barely audible over the noises from outside was a stealthy creak. I could feel someone’s presence nearby—I almost jumped when a hand touched my shoulder. With the slightest of pressures it guided me up from my cot and over to the bed.
As I cautiously lowered myself onto the mattress, I felt someone else’s weight settle on the other side. Before I could lie down, a hand touched my back and I understood the message without the need for words. I turned onto my stomach, instinctively going into a slight crouch so that my butt stuck up a little.
In the pause that followed, I could clearly smell the sweat from my own armpits, the sexy odor which always reminds me of the boys’ locker room back in high school. Then I felt two hesitant hands brush the cheeks of my butt, as if accidentally. After a moment they returned, a little more boldly this time. Their fingertips damp with nervousness, they seemed to test the firmness of my butt before making tentative caresses.
I didn’t say a thing.
Gently, they pushed my cheeks apart and I felt cool air against my crevice, accompanied by that delicious feeling of vulnerability which comes whenever my anus is exposed. I felt my hips being raised a little bit more, positioned. And then there was the pressure of a solid something against my hole, a pressure which gradually increased until I felt the familiar give. He was wearing a lubricated condom. Despite all his protestations of fidelity, he had come prepared.
Slowly, he began making love to me. Hesitant and unsure of himself at first, he gradually, steadily became more impassioned. The bed began creaking under us.
It had been so long for me that, as with my first time, I initially felt only pain. But then that rapidly gave way to the familiar, long-denied pleasure. My concern now was how to keep that fact to myself, to cloak my own experience and feign discomfort while in fact feeling its exact opposite. Luckily, to his ears, my sighs and groans could be taken either way.
I needn’t have worried, though. He hardly seemed to be paying any attention to me at all. He had firmly gripped the sides of my hips and was giving himself up to his own private delight. The slapping sound of his groin against my backside almost drowned out the creaking of bedsprings below us.
And then suddenly the savage pounding stopped. I felt his fingers clutch me even tighter and the whole bed shuddered as he sobbed out between clenched teeth: “Cindy...oh...Cindy....”
So that was her name. Now I knew.
He shakily disengaged himself and flopped down heavily onto the bed. Not caring what he thought of me now, I stretched myself out facedown and began fucking the mattress hard, just as Rick had fucked me, and within moments, I was biting into the sheets to muffle my own cry of pleasure.
On the bus ride back, neither of us made the least attempt to hide our yawns. Rick’s face looked pale and puffy as if he’d spent a sleepless night, though I knew he’d had a good five hours’ sleep. The only other passenger on the bus was a drunken sailor from another ship who lay stretched out on the back seat sleeping off a night of debauchery. I gazed absent-mindedly out the window at a canal on which houseboats were jammed. Already, floating flower vendors were guiding their crafts toward the tourist landings upstream.
I glanced over at Rick as he gazed seriously out the window. In the cold sobriety of morning, he bore no relation to the impassioned lover of last night. As he’d fucked me, I’d sensed something a little frightening inside him—not just the heedless abandon of sexual pleasure, but something more like desperation, a hopeless attempt to recapture something he’d lost forever.
Whatever it was, it was gone now. The serious young officer was back. I knew he was back as soon as I’d gotten up this morning. He was already awake before me, and completely dressed. My blindfold had slipped off sometime during the night but no mention was made of it. In fact, nothing at all was said about last night—as if it hadn’t happened at all. After I dressed and washed my face at a sink at the end of the hall, we’d eaten breakfast in a restaurant downstairs, then caught a taxi to the bus terminal where we’d boarded the first bus back to Pattaya.
As he noticed me looking at him, he smiled weakly and came over to sit next to me, but not without a backward glance at the sleeping sailor.
“What were you thinking about just now, Bill?”
“Nothing.” I wondered if I dared make a reference to last night.
He must have sensed this, for suddenly he turned serious again and dropped his eyes.
“If you must know, Bill, what happened last night was...completely unplanned...unexpected. It...wouldn’t have happened at all, but for a unique set of circumstances.”
I felt a chill as if the sun had just clouded over.
“I’ll be honest with you,” he went on. “I’ll admit that I’ve occasionally had fantasies about...certain things. And I also suspect that, if truth be known, a lot of men have probably done...those things, too. It’s only natural.”
I remained silent.
“We’ve been on this cruise, what, four months now? And in all that time, believe it or not, I’ve been faithful to...Cindy. Maybe that’s why what happened last night happened. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I regret it. If you want to know the truth, it was a real eye-opener for me. But I’m also saying it’ll never happen again. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, it never happened at all. I...have my career to think about, as I’m sure you do. Far be it from me to lecture you, or to tell you how to live your life. I like to think I have an open mind about these things. But it’s just not for me. Let’s just call it a strange and wonderful dream I—we both—had last night.”
I looked away, but he must have noticed my expression, for he added:
“Don’t take it like that.”
After a moment he went on:
“And another thing. I know we joked a little about the Navy and its sometimes stupid regulations. I’ll admit that there are a lot of things about the Navy which I actively dislike. But it’s also true, I’ve learned, that there are certain things which are inviolable...which must never be violated...because without them, everything would fall apart...they’re like cornerstones, assumptions upon which everything else rests. I...I trust you know what I’m referring to.”
“I think I know what you mean.”
“Good.”
I looked up at him and noted the shadows of palm trees whipping across his face, and realized that we’d emerged onto the beachfront road at Pattaya. Through the open windows of the bus came the briny smell of the sea. Out across the burnished turquoise shimmer of the bay, the haze-gray frigate which was our home looked solidly moored, as if it rested upon a huge concrete slab. The only bits of color on it were the American flag dipping briskly on the jackstaff, and the huge, block-like numerals painted upon the hull.
McDavid turned to me and stiffly held out his hand. As I shook it he repeated: “Last night...didn’t happen, right?”
“Right.”
“And remember. We had a lot of fun as Rick and Bill out of uniform, but now that we’re back to real life, it’s Ensign McDavid and Seaman Gale once again...much as we may dislike it. Okay?”
I nodded, feeling a welling in my throat as I whispered:
“Yes, sir.”
Australia
It wasn’t quite the U.S. and it wasn’t quite the land of my dreams, either. I’d imagined gorgeously bronzed surfer boys in tiny bikinis lounging on white sand beaches. Perhaps it was like that in Sydney, but we weren’t in Sydney. We were in Western Austra
lia, at a small town called Geraldton. Most Navy ships put in at Sydney, on the other side of the continent, or if they came to the west coast, at Perth. But one ship a year put in at Geraldton, and we were the lucky one this year.
The disappointment on board was keen…at first. We looked out upon a sleepy town of some 20,000 people which, in many ways, was like an American town of ten or twenty years ago. Strange unfamiliar-looking cars (though bearing familiar names like Ford) drove on the left-hand side of the road. On the bumpers of many of them were “roo-guards” which protected them from kangaroos; in the outback, these pesky beasts often slammed into a moving car, causing considerable damage.
In the stores, ceiling fans were more in evidence than air conditioners. And everywhere you went there were flies; you had to constantly wave your hand in front of your face to keep them away. In the display window of a meat store, I spotted a long flayed pink tail which I learned was a “roo-tail,” a great delicacy here.
Though I’d never been to England, I imagined Australia as a cross between that country and the U.S. On the playing field next to a school you could watch young boys in shorts playing cricket. And downtown there were “pubs” and “milk bars.” The people’s accent was quite distinctive, and sounded very exotic to our ears. The consensus on board was that it made the girls sound irresistibly sexy, but at the same time, made the guys sound faggoty. I didn’t find the guys faggoty at all. In fact, their rough, rangy appearance made me think of frontier cowboys.
From the very first day in port, the townspeople were so open and friendly that the crew’s initial disappointment quickly turned into delight. A bulletin board was set up on the quarterdeck, and it soon became filled with notices inviting sailors to dinner or tea (and “tea” here meant practically a full meal.) Many activities were organized to bring the townspeople and the sailors together: softball games, picnics, even “roo-hunting” expeditions. And the guys loved it. It was all good, clean, wholesome fun, which was enjoyable for a change. Many of the crew were homesick, and Geraldton was the closest we’d come in a long time to an American-like place. Some of the guys expressed their pleasure at being able to look at some “round-eye pussy” for a change.
In keeping with the good will nature of the port visit, our ship had offered to paint the town orphanage and clear out its playground. One guy was “volunteered” from each division, and I was picked from mine. I didn’t mind it, though. It would only take two days at most (out of the seven we’d be here) and the work itself only lasted from morning to early afternoon. Besides, the town was so small that there really wasn’t that much to do anyway. You could see all the sights in an hour. Some of the guys had headed down to Perth, the nearest big city, but I wanted a chance to enjoy this taste of small town life in Australia, which, after all the foreign ports we’d hit in the Far East, was rather exotic in its own way, perhaps by contrast.
The classroom I was painting smelled so strongly of turpentine and paint that my head swam. I felt as if I’d caught an unseasonable cold.
“Let’s take a break,” said BM1 Cunningham.
“Great.” I dropped my paintbrush into a can of diluted paint thinner and stepped toward the window. Climbing up onto its sill, I let myself down onto the cushiony softness of the ground below. The refreshing breeze outside was a welcome change from the stuffy closeness of the room. My ears still hummed and my head was giddy from breathing in the fumes. I sat down on a paint-spattered piece of canvas where BM1 joined me, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He offered me one; I shook my head.
He was in charge of our little work force here. I was painting the classroom while two others were painting the hallway. The rest of the guys were clearing the playground of tree stumps, helping to install swings and a merry-go-round. Right now everyone was knocked off, sprawled out on the grass, smoking cigarettes in the shade.
“How much more have we got to do?” I asked.
“Just finish up this room, then there’s a small hall closet and we’re done.”
“Thank God. I don’t think I could take much more of this.”
“Aren’t you glad you aren’t a boatswain’s mate? Then you could have fun painting the hull all day.”
“Cut the crap, BM1.”
He got up and poked his head into the window. “Not bad, not bad. You know, you’d make a pretty good BM, Doc, if you put your mind to it. Ever think about changing your rating?”
“No thanks. I’m happy as an HM.”
“Where’d you learn to paint like that?”
“I used to paint houses back home during the summer.”
“Back in the days when you actually had to work for a living instead of just handing out rubbers.”
“Get out of here.”
He sat smoking for a while in silence. Then suddenly he nudged me in the ribs.
“Check this out,” he said in a low voice.
I followed his gaze and saw an attractive woman in her late 20s stooping down to talk to the other guys across the playground. She was carrying a tray and handing around paper cups. I recognized Stephanie, one of the coordinators of this project. Though she worked at the hospital as a nurse, she sometimes volunteered to help out at the orphanage in her free time.
When she was finished talking with the others, she came over to us.
“Would you fellows like some tea, too?” she asked.
“Sure.” I shielded my eyes from the sun so I could look up at her as I reached for my cup.
“How are you coming along here?”
“Just fine,” answered BM1 for me. “We should be done in an hour or so.”
“Lovely.” She smiled at us. I noticed the shy way her eyes met mine then darted away. There was something endearing about her nervous awkwardness as she glanced at me in my paint-splattered T-shirt and cut-off shorts.
We finished drinking our tea, handed back our cups and thanked her. As she hurried away with the tray, BM1 gazed after her with a look of approval, then turned to me.
“You lucky bastard,” he said. “I think she has the hots for you.”
“Bullshit. You’re imagining it.”
“No. I saw the way she looked at you.” He lowered his voice and continued with a sensuous leer. “Why don’t you go for it?”
“Actually, she’s not really my type.”
“Don’t give me that crap. How long have we been out to sea? When was the last time you had any, huh? Nobody’s that picky. You’re young...unattached. What have you got to lose?”
“Well, for one thing, she’s a bit too old for me. She’s practically thirty.”
“So what? When I was your age, I didn’t let that stop me. Hell, I’d go for her myself...if I was still single.”
I glanced down archly at his crotch. “Then you must be thinking about your wife right now.”
He cuffed me playfully on the side of the head. “Get back to work, seaman.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
Stephanie came by again later when the work was done. As she leaned in at the window and peered around at the walls, she exclaimed, “It looks great! You boys do good work.”
“Make sure you leave that window open all night, if possible,” said BM1, “so that the room can air out properly. And try not to go into it too much for a few days—especially not the kids. The fumes can still give them headaches for a while yet.”
“All right.”
“If you want, one of us can come by tomorrow and clean up a little...take the paper off and straighten the place up a bit.”
“That would be great.”
“Bill, why don’t you drop by? I’m sure you can handle it by yourself.”
“By myself?”
“Sure. It’ll only take one guy to do the job.”
“All right,” I muttered.
Stephanie turned to me. “How about if I pick you up at the ship?”
“Fine.”
“Then I’ll see you at—?”
“Uh, how about one?”
“S
uper.”
As she walked out of earshot I said, “Why’d you do that, BM1?”
“Don’t be so damned proud. I’m happy to do you the favor. You’re not gonna pass it up, are you?”
I looked at the gloating expression on his face—almost as if he himself were the lucky one—and realized he was exhilarated at the prospect awaiting me.
The delight was all his.
He called out to the others to knock off, and we all headed toward the pick-up truck which had been lent to us by the town to serve as the ship’s duty vehicle. I sat up front in the cab with BM1 while the others sprawled in the truck bed. Once we were on the road, BM1 nudged me in the ribs again.
“Boy, I wish I was in your shoes.”
“Well, then, why don’t you drop by tomorrow? I’m serious. Just tell her I couldn’t make it.”
“Are you crazy?” He turned to me in disbelief. Then, to my surprise, he who’d bragged so often about all the women he’d laid, said to me with a straight face: “It’s different when you’re married, Gale. I’m not like those guys who can cheat on their wives.” Although he had a half-apologetic look on his face as he said this, I knew he really meant it. I thought of Ensign McDavid and his fiancée, and wondered if I myself could ever wind up in a relationship which would make me feel guilty every time I lusted after a handsome stranger. But I was known onboard to be single and unattached, and a fervent liberty hound to boot, so it would look strange for me to pass up this chance for some “free pussy.”
So I was caught in a trap. If I tried to wriggle out of it, there might be some doubt cast upon my “heterosexuality,” and that was the last thing I wanted. And of course BM1 would want to know from me later how it went. To disappoint him would be almost an insult to him...tantamount to withholding my sexual favors from him.