Queer Ulysses

by Guy Willard

  The next day there was very little to clean up. I did the job myself in 40 minutes without even working up a sweat. Stephanie was there the whole time, having driven me to the orphanage in her car. When I was done she offered to drive me back to the ship again, and I accepted. But once we were in the car, she asked me, as if on the spur of the moment, if I would like to drop by her house for a drink.

  Naturally I accepted.

  She lived in a semi-detached house overlooking the beach of the small bay just north of the harbor. The guys onboard had reported that there was nude sunbathing here, but apparently the arrival of the sailors had scared all the bathers away, for the beach was empty now.

  Though I’d already eaten lunch onboard, Stephanie made me a sandwich. I had a beer with it, then another. We were sitting on a veranda with a lovely view of the bay. Beyond the breakwater stretched the Indian Ocean on which, far off, I could see the white crests of tiny waves flickering. We continued drinking and talking until the sun went down, a bright orange glow sitting on the rim of the dark blue horizon. Behind it the sky had turned silver, flattening out into an opaque sheen. Gulls wheeled in the air above us. A light breeze brushed past my ears. It was late November, the start of summer here.

  “Bill, when is your ship leaving?”

  “First thing Monday morning. About nine, I think.”

  “And you’re never coming back?”

  “It’s not scheduled on the cruise.” I looked at her. “Not that I don’t want to. As far as I’m concerned, this is one of the best liberty ports we’ve hit yet. I wish I could stay longer.”

  “So do I. It’s a little sad knowing that you’ll never see someone you just met.”

  “Yeah. But that’s the life of a sailor.”

  She took a sip of her drink. “Is Geraldton anything like your own hometown?”

  “In some ways, yes. But it also feels a little foreign at the same time.” I thought of the desolate scrubland which stretched from just outside Geraldton all the way to the other coast, a flatness for hundreds of miles, a sameness...and flies everywhere. “Believe it or not, Australia is very exotic to me.”

  “And you Yanks are exotic to me.”

  “Have you met many Americans?”

  “Well, the U.S. Navy drops in on us once a year, but you’re really the first American sailor I ever talked to. You see, until last year, I was married.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, it’s the same old story, I suppose. I guess I married too young.”

  “Well, you’re still young enough to have another try.”

  She smiled forlornly. “How old are you, Bill?”

  “Twenty-one,” I said, adding a couple of years to my real age.

  She sat pondering that as I downed my beer. The talk was getting a little too serious for me. I wasn’t ready for any intimate revelations, and being with an older woman made me feel uncomfortable.

  “Do you want another drink?” she asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  I sat there looking out at the sea on which I would soon be sailing. The Indian Ocean leg of our cruise was coming up, our longest at-sea period. Perhaps the only good thing about being out at sea was that it removed you from complicated emotional entanglements which you would rather forget.

  Soon she was back with my beer. The tips of her fingers brushed mine as she handed it to me. And then she said, “Move over,” as she squeezed onto the chair next to me. I barely had time to put my drink down before her lips were on mine, sucking feverishly at my mouth.

  It caught me by surprise, even though I’d heard how passionate older women could be. I let my hand rest lightly on her breast as I returned the kiss. It would be so easy for me to go through with it tonight, and be driven back to the ship by her in the morning for all my shipmates to see. How they would envy me. BM1 would question me about it and word would soon get around that I’d had the best pussy in port. My reputation as a ladies’ man would be sealed, especially if she came to see me off at the pier when the ship left Geraldton.

  Out of habit, my hand had slipped inside her T-shirt and pushed the cups of her bra off her breasts. Under my thumb, her plump nipple was tensed erect. I tugged at it gently. It was all part of a game whose rules I’d learned by heart in order to survive, but none of it gave me the least pleasure anymore.

  She pulled away from the kiss and reached her hand up to touch my forehead. Running her fingers through my hair, she put her lips to my temple, then whispered into my ear: “The bedroom’s just down the hallway.” She nuzzled the cool tip of her nose against my cheek and got up. Stopping at the doorway, she glanced back at me over her shoulder once before disappearing down the hallway.

  I finished my drink and got up to follow her. At the end of the hall, the bedroom door was slightly open, with a dim light showing through the gap. I approached it and pushed the door open, stepping into the room.

  Stephanie was sitting back on her bed, running her hand lightly over the covers, looking incredibly seductive. Her face was slightly flushed, and I realized she’d had to get quite drunk in order to overcome her shyness and seduce me. I sat down next to her and resumed kissing her. Slowly, she leaned back until we were lying down on the bed. Without looking, she reached up and snapped off the bedside lamp.

  The room suddenly seemed to stretch out to the ends of the earth. I could hear the waves on the beach outside.

  Over the years I’d meticulously forged a protective armor about me to conceal my secret double life. That armor was like a fortress protecting the most precious thing within me. But at the same time it was a hard shell encasing and imprisoning my loneliness.

  I used to think that I was truly bisexual, that I could go either way if I chose. Back in high school, I tried to convince myself that boys and girls were equal in my eyes, and all I had to do was concentrate in order to fan my desire. To test this I occasionally masturbated to pictures of naked women. But the orgasms I got then always seemed so mechanical, like mere physiological releases, nothing like the ecstasy I experienced whenever I jacked off to pictures of men. There was no comparison.

  And sex with women was the same: I could go through the necessary motions, but it was just an exercise in futility, because in my mind I always pictured myself with a man. And that wouldn’t be fair to Stephanie.

  She was kissing my neck, running her tongue over a vein trying to excite me.

  “Stephanie, there’s something I should tell you.”

  She stopped. “What’s that?”

  Outside, the sound of the waves had gone on ceaselessly, but I’d barely noticed it.

  “Wait,” she said. “Let me guess. There’s someone else in your life.”

  I stared at her, then shook my head. “No. Not now. Not since…he rejected me.”

  “He?”

  “Brett Larson.”

  “Brett….”

  I nodded.

  “Oh.” She let out her breath, and then said again, more vehemently, “oh!”

  I got up from the bed.

  “God, I can’t believe….” She put her hand to her head. “You don’t look at all….”

  “I am, Stephanie.”

  “Oh God, I feel so—I don’t know—so silly. I suppose I’ve made a fool of myself.”

  “No, not at all. There was no way you could tell.”

  “I guess not. To look at you….” She shook her head.

  “To look at me, what? I seem normal? Like a real man?”

  “Don’t say that, Bill. Surely you don’t think I’m unsympathetic. That is,—”

  “Never mind. I don’t need your sympathy. It’s not as if I’m suffering from a disease or something.”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  The look in her eyes was enough to convince me that she meant what she said. And I knew I would never have confessed to her if I hadn’t known she would accept me. I hadn’t been wrong. “Sorry. I guess I’ve still got a lot of resentment bottled up inside me.”

&nbs
p; “I understand. It’s all right.”

  She was silent for a long time, then said softly, almost to herself, “It’s just that you were the first person I’d met in a long time with whom I’ve been able to feel something. It’s been so hard for me. I know it’s only been a couple of days since we met, but I really thought….”

  “I know. I could sense it. You weren’t just playing around. That’s why I’m so sorry to disappoint you. I just thought it would be more honest to tell you the truth, before things got more serious. I could have gone through with tonight, you know, and lied, because I’m perfectly capable of it. I’ve done it before, many times, and I might do it again if I have to. But I’m getting more and more tired of lying to myself and to the world. Even if there are only a few people I can trust, I would be much happier to tell the truth. And you’re one of the few, Stephanie. You’re the first woman I’ve told this to.”

  “If you want to know the truth, I think a couple of men I used to go with were really gay, too. Only they never told me. Maybe they didn’t trust me enough. I’m glad you told me, Bill. At least this way I don’t get my hopes up unnecessarily.” She smiled wanly.

  “Thanks, Stephanie.”

  “Does anyone else on your ship know about you?”

  “No. I’m afraid of what would happen to me if they ever found out. It’s a little scary.”

  “I can imagine.” And then she shook her head a little sadly. “God, I wish I were a man.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I would turn poof for you in a heartbeat.”

  I laughed. “If you were a man, and looked as good as you do, you can bet I’d have been after you from the moment I saw you.”

  “Do you really think I’m that attractive?”

  “Oh yeah. You’re sexy, and you know it. BM1 had a hard-on for you yesterday while he was watching you. And if I were hetero, we’d be on our third or fourth fuck by now.”

  She laughed, and then grinned mischievously. “Listen, Bill. Just because there’s no possibility of any romantic involvement doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun, does it?”

  “Of course not. In fact, it might be all the more reason to.” I sat down on the bed again. “You don’t think I’d let a little thing like sexual preference keep me from making love with someone I really care about, do you?”

  She flowed into my arms and we kissed again. I could feel that her passion had not abated...had, if anything, increased. Perhaps the fact that she knew I was now irrevocably out of reach had enhanced my desirability. Or the idea of a heterosexual woman making love with a gay man might have stimulated her in a kinky way. At any rate, the way her body was writhing against mine indicated a very real ardor. And I was becoming quite aroused myself.

  Just as I was about to reach up to pull off her T-shirt, she suddenly stopped kissing me and got up. For a moment she just stood there, swaying a little. I realized she might be drunker than I’d thought. She giggled and went over to her dresser. “You know what,” she said. “If I can’t be a man for you, I can at least enhance the illusion....”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, a little alarmed.

  She smiled wickedly and opened a drawer, reached inside to take something out. In the pale light from behind the curtain, I could just make out what she was holding, something long and cylindrical, made of white plastic. She giggled again.

  I felt a delicious flutter in my stomach.

  Indian Ocean

  I really wasn’t looking forward to the Indian Ocean leg of the cruise. It would be the longest underway period since the start of the cruise, with only two liberty ports, Mombassa and the Seychelles, in the whole three months. It would definitely be a test of my endurance—how much could I take without going insane?

  When a ship has been out to sea for more than two weeks, it becomes charged with a sort of vital energy which is almost palpably sexual. An electric aura seems to emanate from every passing sailor on board. Desire becomes something like a virus you can catch by merely breathing. After about two weeks, most of the guys, to save on washing, walk around in their floppy, faded dungarees with nothing on underneath. In the worn, soft crotch of nearly everyone you can see a semi-tumescence caused by the rubbing caress of the denim.

  Eventually no one cares if a guy sports a full erection under his dungarees. Jokes about playing “pocket pool” proliferate. Sailors start to make fairy overtures to each other...as a joke, of course. One guy will say “I’m so horny, all I want is a hole with hair around it,” and his bearded friend will open his mouth wide, pointing into it. You would think by looking at such antics that homosexuality was tolerated, even accepted, but this was far from the case.

  Within the small, tightly-knit community of the frigate, it was virtually impossible to hide anything. Therefore it was fairly common knowledge that three or four of the guys were gay, but to a certain extent there was a tacit acceptance of it. As long as they did their jobs well, there was no active persecution of them beyond the inevitable talk behind their backs, or worse, tactless jokes said in their presence.

  But if any of them were to become too “obvious,” or act outrageously, the command would come down hard on them, making a clean sweep of all the suspected homosexuals. Even without actual proof of homosexuality, the Navy never lacks means by which it gets rid of unwanted personnel. If nothing else, the catch-all Article 15—which gives any commanding officer the right to administer non-judicial punishment whenever he deems fit—is broad enough to cover every offense imaginable.

  I’d already heard a number of stories about the witch-hunts which took place periodically on individual ships throughout the Fleet. It was for this reason that I refused to associate with the known gays on board. Yet, though I felt a little ashamed of my hypocritical attitude, I knew I wasn’t the only one aboard who cowered behind a heterosexual mask for fear of being caught and exposed.

  I suspected there was quite a bit of secret homosexual activity on board. Who knew what went on in the many out-of-the-way compartments and storage lockers located throughout the ship like secret cells in a vast hive? Any number of them might be used for a quick, furtive encounter. As for me, I wanted to play it safe. There were other ways I could get my satisfaction.

  A Navy ship out at sea is a boy-watcher’s paradise. The intimacy of living at close quarters with so many men is stimulating enough, but to wander through the ship and casually chat with boys in various stages of undress is like a dream come true. The only disadvantage is the torture of not being able to feast your eyes on every lovely detail, as you can with a magazine picture. You have to act nonchalant and cool, and avoid looking directly at what you most want to see.

  My favorite stakeout was the forward crew’s lounge, located just aft of 1st and 2nd division berthing. The boys in those divisions had to pass through the lounge in order to get to the showers, and just after knock-off there was an almost constant stream of them, some with towels draped around their middles, others completely nude, with a towel slung negligently over a shoulder.

  Tonight, as usual, I was sitting in the lounge ostensibly watching a videotape of a months-old sit-com on the TV screen…when, of course, the real show was going on all around me. Boys on their way to the showers would slow down and stop to watch something on the screen; and as they leaned against the bulkhead, some of them unconsciously toyed with themselves, casually fondling their own dicks. Others sat down on the chairs, completely nude, next to their uniformed shipmates. It was at times like this that I felt compensated for all the misery I had to put up with in the Navy.

  A young gunner’s mate halted right next to where I sat. As I glanced up, I noted the coiled dragon tattooed on his forearm. Obviously fascinated by what was on TV, he just stood there gaping at the screen. From where I sat, his genitals were mere inches from my eyes, and from under the rim of my hat I darted furtive glances at them. I could even smell their faint perfume waft my way. Nestled in his blond bush, his dick with its clean pink head jiggled o
ccasionally as he laughed. He reached down and scratched under his balls, causing them to lift enticingly.

  I couldn’t take any more of this; I got up from my seat.

  “Why don’t you sit down, Terry?” I said to him. “You’re obviously enjoying this show a lot more than I am. I’m going up to sickbay.”

  “Gee, thanks, Doc.” With a smile he took my seat, then immediately turned his attention back to the screen.

  I took another quick glance down at his crotch, then left the lounge.

  I had to beat off so badly I could have screamed.

  I made my way down the long passageway leading back to the mess deck, and when I got there, the hatch was dogged tight: a movie was in progress. Opening the hatch, I stepped into the darkened room and quickly closed the hatch behind me.

  On-screen, a car chase was going on, and with each car crash, the guys watching in the dark whooped loudly. The scenes of southern California—out here in the Indian Ocean—were like unreal mirages, reminiscent of Australia in a way. After the briefest glance around, I went up the ladder leading to the passageway outside sickbay.

  Here it was brightly lit, and as I approached the sickbay door, I saw immediately that it was unlocked...which meant that my first class was inside, either working late or playing cards with his buddies. Many of the crew used their workspaces for relaxing after hours, for there were very few other places onboard where you could spend your free time.

  Not even bothering to look in, I went farther on, past the ship’s store and the post office, both closed for the night of course, then turned left at the end of the passageway toward the double set of doors leading outside. The inside door was painted black on its outer side, as was the entire space between it and the outside hatch, so that no light would escape when someone opened the hatch to go outside at night.

  Condition Zebra was set every day at sunset. This meant that throughout the ship, all the hatches leading out to the weather decks were dogged down tight so no light could escape. Up on the bridge the lights were shut off, with the exception of the small reading lights by which the quartermasters plotted the ship’s course. Ideally, the only thing you could see of our ship at night—besides a darker darkness moving on the water—was the tiny dim aircraft warning light high atop the mack. There were absolutely no other lights on the weather decks.