Queer Ulysses

by Guy Willard

  So it was pitch black when I stepped outside. The contrast with the bright lighting within the ship momentarily blinded me. Sightless, I groped for a handhold and waited until my eyes adjusted to the change. The footing on the deck was precarious, and if I wasn’t careful, I could easily slip overboard, unknown to anybody. (The old-timers in the crew liked to tell newcomers about the last cruise, on which a lookout had fallen overboard on his last watch, almost within sight of Diego.)

  My skin felt clammy and nasty. The change from air conditioning to the warm humidity outside left a damp film on the surface of my skin. In a sense, it was as if I’d stepped from the modern civilized world into a dangerously alien environment. Careful not to lose my footing, I made my way back to the fantail.

  As I passed the paint locker and rounded the corner, I saw the reassuring orange glow of the after lookout’s cigarette. He must have been taking a last hit on it, for he flicked it away. I saw it shoot over the side of the ship, flipping end over end like a pinwheel, before disappearing into the churning water below.

  We hailed each other, and though I couldn’t see his face yet, I recognized his voice. It was only after we’d chatted for a while that I could discern his features. With his headset clamped on and the microphone on his chest—by which he communicated with the phone-talker up on the bridge—he looked like a sound technician in a TV studio.

  When I first came aboard, the corpsman I was supposed to replace was still on the ship—which meant that I had to stand underway watches during the short practice runs we made off Diego. So I knew how lonely it could get back here, especially on a mid-watch. To pass the time you could shoot the breeze with the other lookouts over the phones. But more often, the after lookout took a nap until he was relieved. No one came out onto the weather decks after dark anyway, so he wasn’t likely to get caught. The only person to disturb the dozing watch was his relief—who proceeded to nod out as soon as he took over.

  After a few words with the lookout, I said good-bye and left, upon which he immediately curled up against the bulkhead, making himself comfortable. I moved farther aft and, stooping to feel for the outline of a bitt, sat slowly down upon it. I was waiting for my eyes to get completely adjusted so I’d know that I had some privacy.

  There were all sorts of places aboard where you could beat off. You could try to snatch a quick one in your bunk, one ear cocked for footsteps on the rattling ladder to warn you of someone’s approach. Or you could do it in the forward crew’s head if you didn’t mind the heat from the steam pipes or the suffocating smell of sulfur. If you had a private workspace you could pretend to be working late at night. But if all else failed, you could step outside into a black nothingness which was as good as being safely hidden away inside a closet.

  Even if the sight of Terry’s nude body hadn’t aroused me, I would have had to beat off tonight anyway. Since the age of 12, I’d beaten off at least once a night, but since joining the Navy, I’d had to go days, even weeks, without it. Whenever that happened, my dreams tended to become vivid and real: some young boatswain’s mate might appear in it...or a hard-muscled gunner’s mate...and we’d be somewhere alone together, perhaps in my high school...we’d fight our way out of our clothes and drop down to the mattress...I’d touch his soft hair, press my lips to his hot fevered mouth...feel the firm elasticity of his butt...knead and mold them...tasting the salty curl of his tongue as it brushed my lips and made darting thrusts into my eager mouth. As I slowly nudged him onto his back and parted his thighs, I’d bolt awake in the dark, feeling the clammy gush in my briefs.

  And for long moments afterwards I’d lie awake in my bunk, big-eyed and shivering, scared to death that I might have called out the boy’s name in my sleep. This fear of giving myself away, plus the toll these wet dreams took on my briefs and sheets, was incentive enough for me to beat off regularly.

  I looked back to where the pale wake, tinged with a faint green phosphorescence, churned and hissed away behind the ship. My hair was whipped back by a breeze whose damp salty lick had a musty, sexy smell.

  High above me, the dim aircraft warning light swayed slowly from side to side with the rolling of the ship. It was the only sign of life out here in the vast emptiness, for on this moonless night even the stars were hidden behind a screen of thick clouds.

  I glanced at the lookout once more and saw him curled up on the deck, fast asleep. It was safe, then, to exorcise the fevered image in my mind. But still I hesitated. What if he opened his eyes, or his relief came early? I got to my feet and wandered forward along the portside promenade looking for a safer place.

  After passing briefly through the skin of the ship, I emerged onto the boat deck where the whaleboat was winched up into the davits. Just past the boat was a ladder leading straight up the bulkhead to the O-1 level.

  I climbed this, with the roar of the sea at my back like a vast suction trying to pull me down into it. At the top I quickly scrambled past the chain-link guard line and stepped onto the smooth deck. Up here the darkness was such that I felt like a bodiless wraith wandering through a deserted haunt. My shoulder bumped into something, startling me. I froze in momentary panic: was I going blind? I glanced up at the aircraft warning light glowing like a dying ember high above me.

  Here, at any rate, it would be safe to do anything. No one would be able to see me even if he bumped into me. Crouching back flush against the bulkhead I unzipped my fly.

  But before I could begin, the ship suddenly executed a turn, and when I looked toward the stern of the ship, I had to catch my breath. The ghostly wake stretched off into the murk, and the ship’s rolling made it appear as if it were waving slowly from side to side like a heavy plume of smoke.

  Now the clouds above began to disperse, and the spangled heavens were opening up, revealing the magical beauty of night. The outline of the ship shimmered all around me, truly enchanted. This was the genuine night, the sky as it really was, but which we rarely saw because of city lights.

  Excited by all this beauty so unexpectedly disclosed to me, I gripped my dick tightly with my right hand and began pumping. With the fingers of my other hand I toyed with the curly hairs of my bush, and gently stroked those solitary hairs on my balls which are like little triggers of pleasure. The whole night hissed around me, alive; the sky was full of stars witnessing my solitary act. At my back I felt a deep hum within the ship, the throb of its engines; all around me was the creaking and groaning of the ship itself; and down below was the hiss of water.

  I froze.

  What was that noise? It sounded like a gurgle or a chuckle—definitely a human voice. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a furtive movement in the dark shadows. Someone else was out here.

  In a panic I quickly put my dick back into my pants and zipped up, then waited without moving. My first thought was that I’d been caught, for the shadow was gradually inching its way forward, coming in my direction. It looked huge, though it could have been magnified by my fear. Only one person on board was that big: Chief Russell, the fat, ugly gunner’s chief.

  I watched it slip past the corner of the helo hangar and crouch down in the shadows below the lookout deck. What was going on? If I’d been discovered, wouldn’t he be making his way toward me? I waited with a beating heart, but as more and more time passed, I realized that whoever it was had no idea I was also out here.

  Relieved, I made a move to step out and confront him, but as I did so, the shadow seemed to freeze, then quickly darted away around the corner. Intrigued now, I followed. But when I got to the helo hangar there was no sign of him. He was gone.

  I listened outside the shutter door for a while thinking maybe he’d been trying to eavesdrop on whoever was inside the hangar now. The guys in the aviation detachment, the airedales, often played poker up here after working hours, but there was no one inside now.

  Then where had the voice I’d heard come from?

  I inched cautiously out onto the flight deck. Here there were no projections sti
cking up to stub my toe, so I could walk with a little more confidence. And now that my eyes were completely adjusted to the dark I picked my way easily along the deck. In any case, nets were slung along the sides here so that an unexpected roll of the ship wouldn’t throw some sailor overboard. Out here in the open with nothing to block it, the wind whipped past my ears laden with salt spray. I turned around to go forward again, hunching my shoulders against the steady blast of air.

  Returning to the spot where I’d first seen the mysterious shadow crouching, I looked around to see what I could see. A movement high atop the lookout deck caught my eye. This tiny deck overlooking the helo hangar was rarely used anymore, except as the after lookout station when the seas were too rough to go out onto the fantail. Now there appeared to be a figure on it...two figures, rather, and they seemed to be huddled in a crouch. I knew guys often sneaked outside to enjoy some clandestine pot with a friend or two, and wondered if I’d stumbled onto such a pair.

  But something about these two struck me as being different, and my body instinctively went taut. I decided to have a closer look. My skin prickled as I crept around the corner to where a pair of huge, barrel-shaped rubber fenders were tied to the bulkhead. In port they were dangled over the ship’s side to keep us from bumping into the pier or a neighboring ship when we tied up alongside one. Carefully I climbed onto one of them, my damp hands clutching a projection atop the tool locker next to them. This new vantage point didn’t bring me any closer, but it did provide me with a better angle.

  And then my heart felt as if a cold hand had suddenly clutched it.

  Against the backdrop of stars I clearly saw the silhouette of one sailor leaning back against the guard-rails, and another crouched before him on his knees. But it was impossible to tell what was going on. Was it only my imagination? Or was one guy giving the other a blow job?

  No, my mind was playing tricks on me...I was probably imagining it. Still, I had to make sure. I climbed down from the fender and made my way amidships. But I must have been too excited, for my foot tripped against a swab someone had failed to put away. It fell to the deck with a loud clatter. I froze, half ready to flee in panic. Looking up, I saw the shadow of one of the guys against the sky, standing at the railings looking down at me.

  “Who’s there?” he whispered.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I said feebly. Then to cover for my blunder I began nonchalantly climbing up the ladder to him. As I did so, his companion poked his head out and then withdrew it. When I was halfway up the ladder I heard the first voice say to the other: “It’s okay, it’s only Doc.” As I stepped onto the lookout deck, I saw the orange glow of a cigarette emerge from behind a cupped hand, and smelled the distinctive odor of marijuana.

  “Doc’s cool,” said the second guy. “Right?”

  “Cool” was the euphemism for anyone who got high, or at least didn’t report it when he discovered it going on. Aboard our ship, practically the whole crew was cool except for the officers, the chiefs, and certain first classes.

  “What are you guys doing up here,” I said, “...without inviting me?”

  They laughed in relief.

  I’d recognized them both immediately by their voices: Kyle Roberts, a yeoman, and Brad Trinkle, a sonar tech. They were two of the “obvious” gays onboard. Despite my calm banter, my stomach was churning at the thought that my initial suspicion might have been correct.

  I accepted the proffered joint and took a deep, throat-tickling hit off it. Feeling my lungs tighten with the smoke’s caress, I passed the joint back, fighting my urge to cough. I was still amazed at how quickly they’d covered up, how well prepared they’d been to hide their tracks.

  “So, what brings you out here, Doc, at this time of night?” asked Brad, stifling a cough. I wondered if he was trying to insinuate something.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Just wanted to see the stars.”

  “A likely excuse.”

  “What else do people do in the dark?” I returned.

  “Search me.” He was slightly stocky, with intelligent-looking eyes behind thick-lensed glasses. There was nothing about him to suggest the queer except perhaps for a certain languid element in his personality. But his known association with Kyle branded him as one.

  Kyle had never made a secret of his inclinations. He was the stereotypical sissy. The fact that he worked in the ship’s office and could type over 80 words a minute, and the mincing way he wiggled his butt when he walked, made him an inviting target for cruel gibes. Normally I loathed these effeminate types as much as the heteros did, but tonight my feelings were all mixed up.

  Brad passed the joint to me again, and I thought of mentioning the furtive shadow I’d seen below, but something held me back. Perhaps I was afraid it would scare them. On the other hand, they might have known about it already. I’d heard that sometimes a couple of gays will “perform” for a third friend who observes them from a hidden vantage point, allowing him the thrill of playing voyeur.

  I took another hit and passed the joint on. Already I could feel a warm expansive feeling coil through me as the marijuana took effect. With the almost telepathic clairvoyance sometimes granted by the drug, I sensed Kyle’s nervousness. Did he suspect that I knew? My palms felt wet as I wondered how much I should try to cover up, or to reveal.

  “Do you two come out here a lot?” I asked.

  Brad shrugged. “Depends on what you mean by ‘a lot.’ Whenever there’s a lousy movie on below we usually come out here.”

  “Then it must be quite often.”

  Kyle laughed. “Those EMs only pick T-and-A movies to show: plenty of tits and asses.”

  “...Which wouldn’t interest you at all, would they?” I said.

  “Of course not,” he replied, then added slyly: “I prefer movies with more intellectual content.”

  “And you?” I turned to Brad.

  But he wasn’t about to reveal himself.

  Did either of them suspect that I was gay, too? Or were they just playing it safe until they were more sure? I felt an excited tension ripple through me as I tried to picture what had been going on up here while I was below. Was that a whiff of semen I caught on the breeze? I shut my eyes.

  Play along: toy with them; I knew my secret was safe. They had no way of knowing about me, though I knew all about them. I was in charge; everything rested upon my pretended ignorance about them.

  I took another hit.

  Kyle was over his nervousness now and was nodding calmly to some private inner rhythm. Brad didn’t seem to be in a hurry either. Were they both waiting for me to go away so they could continue what I’d interrupted?

  All it would take was a single confession from me—“I am one of you”—and we could open up completely. But those simple words were so hard to bring out; they coiled down along my intestines, tickling the lining of my stomach. I blew them out of me with the smoke and they escaped into the night breeze.

  Still, I knew in my heart that I really yearned to let my secret out. Confessing to Stephanie had felt so liberating...and had been the prelude to some of the kinkiest, most enjoyable sex I’d ever experienced with anyone, man or woman. But a lifetime of repression and paranoia was holding me back now. Aboard this ship, it wouldn’t be quite the same thing as confessing to someone whom I would probably never see again. These were my shipmates, after all, and this was my own world, a world in which I was a prisoner because of my conditioning. I couldn’t shatter my long-held pose in an instant, no matter how much I wished to.

  My throat felt harsh. I stood up to stretch, and the languid pull of my muscles felt satisfyingly sexual. All around our calm little island stretched the vaster calm of the IO, mother of seas, belly of the world. For me this nightscape was like something out of an Arabian Nights reverie. This ocean, whose waters lapped the ancient shores of India, Ceylon, Madagascar; kissed the sands of Arabia and the Abyssinian coast, had always held a fascination for me. Its breezes evoked the perfumed languor of an Oriental harem,
the drugged repose of a sultan’s brothel.

  Somewhere ahead of us was the task force with whom we were to rendezvous within the next few days. The three of us on this tiny deck were like travelers camped on the borders of an unknown country, our caravan halted at this oasis in the middle of a huge desert of shining silver sea.

  I looked at Kyle and felt an odd affection for him. Much as I despised his girlishness, he was just as much an outsider as me. The rest of the crew were our common enemies. He looked up suddenly and our eyes met. His giggle was swallowed up by the black mystery of the night.

  My heart was pounding hard because I felt on the verge of revealing myself.

  Just then we heard steps on the deck below. Kyle was at the railing in a flash.

  “It’s okay, it’s Richie,” he said.

  The sound of steps came up the ladder and I saw the face of Richie Walker, the machinist’s mate, emerge. He looked a little shocked at my presence but quickly recovered. Obviously these three were regulars up here. Then it hit me: perhaps he was the mysterious shadow I’d seen below.

  He grinned as he accepted a newly-lit joint. “So you guys are already at it, eh?”

  Of the three of them, he was by far the most sexually desirable. Well-built and athletic, he was just my type. Most of the guys in the engineering divisions tended to be big. Working down in the “hole”—the inferno where the ship’s engines and boilers were—they needed big strong arms to turn the wheels and levers which kept us going. They were often grimy-looking from contact with all the grease and oil, and their filthy green overalls set them apart from the rest of us. In fact they seldom mingled with the guys from other divisions. We called them, derogatorily, “snipes,” as though they were a subterranean species of gnomes who rarely came aboveground for fresh air. But Richie, I’d noticed, kept himself clean and attractive. He’d caught my eye from the start, and we’d gone out on the town together a couple of times. I remembered how he’d invited me to Bugis Street to see the transvestites. Other than that, there’d been nothing to lead me to suspect he might be gay. Now that I had some more definite hope, I felt a physical excitement stir me.