Queer Ulysses

by Guy Willard

  I couldn’t have cared less....

  The jet screamed to a landing and cut in its retro thrusters; a huge roar filled the night as I shot off into my pants...I’d lost my bet. Though I hadn’t let out a sound, Kyle knew right away that I’d come. His hand lifted away.

  Another jet was winging its way in, and Kyle said: “Still another one. Your next pay check is gonna be a lot smaller than last month’s.”

  I felt the slow creep of wetness trickle down into my bush. My heart was still going fast and I didn’t trust myself to speak. But Kyle did all the talking for me, babbling on and on. I shut his meaningless words out of my mind, engrossed in the moisture spreading down into my crotch. I was sagging heavily against the railings which kept me from falling 20 feet down to the deck below. I still couldn’t believe what had happened just now.

  And then the flow of Kyle’s chatter suddenly stopped. He murmured, almost as an afterthought: “You’re a bad boy, Bill, you know that?”

  “If you tell the others, I’ll kill you.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “I only let you do it because it’s been so long.”

  “I know.”

  But in the dark, his face looked like it was smirking.

  When sailors have been out to sea for any length of time, they begin to sit around with friends and tell “sea stories.” Though ostensibly true, these stories often become so far-fetched that it’s often difficult to sift fact from fantasy.

  And almost everyone seemed to do it. I’d listened for hours to the most outrageous stories imaginable, told by guys I knew to be above reproach in every respect. What was it about being out at sea that encouraged such tales? Perhaps it was the monotonous, endless, changeless days of cruising through blue-on-blue seas, the sun shining above like a hot silver coin in the idiot azure, the perpetual steam bath of the equatorial heat.

  The strange thing is that the listeners don’t mind even when they know they’re being told lies. Either they half-believe them, or they want to believe them. After all, fiction is often much more attractive than reality, especially when reality means being stuck the middle of the ocean.

  The four of us were no exception to the rule. When we didn’t meet up on Paradise Beach, we gathered in Kyle’s workspace, the ship’s office, after working hours.

  Tonight it was just the three of us in the office—Brad, Kyle, and me—because Richie had watch. The talk had drifted, at Kyle’s insistence, to homosexuality in the Navy.

  “Brad,” he said, “do you know any stories about bronc-busting on the high seas?” (“Bronc-busting” was the current Navy slang for homosex.)

  “Sure,” said Brad. “And this is a true story; I heard it from a chief when I was in A-school. He was in San Diego when it happened, on permanent shore patrol duty. It seems there was a seaman aboard one of the ships at Thirty-Second Street who was gay. He was caught one night getting it on with another seaman down in one of the storage lockers aboard ship.

  “Of course they were gonna throw the book at him. But he just said ‘Fuck it.’ That night he went UA and never came back. The Navy looked for him everywhere but couldn’t find him. Seems he’d gone all the way to the East Coast, and after some time had passed, enrolled in one of the colleges back there.

  “He must have been really bright because he graduated with honors and was admitted to law school. Meanwhile, he thought the Navy had forgotten all about him. He graduated from law school and began practicing, started a law firm which thrived, making him rich; bought an apartment in Manhattan, the whole works.

  “I don’t know how the Navy caught up with him, but eventually someone found out that this was the very same seaman who had deserted more than ten years ago. My guess is that a rival lawyer heard the story and put the Navy wise to him.

  “Well, one day an intelligence officer from the Navy walks into his plush office and gives it to him straight. According to the terms of the contract he signed when he joined up, he was still obligated to serve out his term. Our hero was thrown into the brig, tried in a court-martial, and given his sentence: he had to serve out the rest of his enlistment because the contract was still binding. They fined him, too, but he paid it without batting an eyelash.

  “Anyway, here was this guy, 32 years old, a successful New York lawyer, having to put on a uniform again as an E-1. For some reason he didn’t try to fight it. Maybe he knew he had no choice. So there he was, driving to work every day in his Lamborghini Espada, probably with a young seaman in the seat next to him. Spends the day chipping paint and swabbing the deck (while he was making more money back in New York than the captain, even); then drives home at the end of the day to an expensive apartment up in La Jolla. Can you picture it? What a sight that must have been.”

  He paused, and we heard the sound of guys out in the passageway heading back to their racks after watching the movie.

  “Well, Doc, how about you? You must have heard a few tales.”

  I thought for a moment. “As you guys know, I went to A-school in Diego. After a few weeks of nothing but classes, they assigned us to various hospitals throughout the city for some on-the-job training. This was in addition to classes, mind you, so you can imagine how rough it was.

  “Anyway, one time I was on night duty in Balboa Hospital when this guy—a sailor—was brought into emergency. The intern who checked him in had a big grin on his face, so I asked him what was up. He said, ‘You have to see this to believe it because you wouldn’t believe me if I just told you.’”

  “What was wrong with him?” interrupted Kyle impatiently.

  “He had a wine bottle stuck up his ass.”

  “You’re kidding! How did they bring him in? I’m sure he didn’t walk in like that.”

  “He was on a stretcher—lying on his stomach, of course.”

  “With the bottle sticking out for all the world to see?”

  “No, they had a blanket over him.”

  “And what was his excuse for being caught in such a compromising position?”

  “He said his girlfriend did it. They were fooling around and she did it as a joke.”

  “Some joke. No girl would do a thing like that, I don’t care how weird she is. I’m sure it was his boyfriend.”

  “Maybe he was lonely in the barracks, who knows?”

  “How did they finally get it out?”

  “Search me, I wasn’t there. Probably with calipers, like when you pull a baby out.”

  “I love it. Can you imagine the doctor saying to the patient, ‘Congratulations, it’s a bouncing baby bottle of wine.’”

  “A vintage year, no doubt,” added Brad.

  “I’m sure it had a fine bouquet.”

  “Cut it out, you guys,” I said. “Anyway, how about you, Kyle? Don’t tell us you don’t have a story.”

  “Of course I have a story. I could write a book about all the stuff I’ve seen in the Navy.”

  “Tell us one we haven’t heard before,” put in Brad.

  “All right. I don’t think I ever told you guys about the little adventure I had when we were in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. As you’ll recall, that was our first liberty port on this cruise...way back before I really knew you,” he said to Brad.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “I sure was glad to hit port. The sight of all the blond surfer boys walking around with their bare chests, all bronzed, put me in a daze. It was like a dream.

  “I spent the first day cruising the beaches of Waikiki and just checking out the scene. At night I hit the discos to see what I could find. At one of them I met two young kids sitting at a table and looking bored. I could tell at a glance that they were tourists, and they looked so fresh-faced and innocent that I couldn’t resist walking up to them and starting a conversation. They liked me right off, and soon we were chatting away like old friends.

  “They were both fresh out of high school and had come to Hawaii as a graduation
present from their parents. I told them I was a sailor, and kept them fascinated by the stories I’d heard about foreign ports.

  “In the meantime I kept going up to the bar to get them fresh Mai Tai’s, which they were putting away pretty fast. As the evening wore on, I started to feel convinced that they were both queer. There’s certain jokes I use to test a person’s attitude toward homosexuality, and these boys were responding beautifully.

  “But the weird thing was, neither of them seemed to suspect that the other guy was also gay. It’s happened before: two boys who’d grow up together since childhood have fallen in love with each other, and each of them is scared to death that his buddy might find out.

  “Anyway, we stayed there until closing time, talking and laughing, and when we left, I managed to talk them into letting me stay with them in their hotel room. For a long time we continued to talk in the room, but I could tell they were getting sleepy.

  “One kid finally dropped off to sleep, and I kept the other one awake with my chatter. I knew he was ripe for sexual initiation, and as soon as I was sure his friend was asleep, I made my move.

  “I was right. It didn’t take long to get him to open up. He confessed to being in love with his friend, not even dreaming that his feelings were reciprocated. He made me promise not to tell...which I wouldn’t, of course, because I would probably never see them again after the ship left Pearl.”

  “And?” Brad’s eyes were gleaming.

  “Well, let’s say I satisfied his long-suppressed desire for his friend...by using me as a substitute. He was scared to death the whole time that his buddy might wake up and catch us at it—a fear which, I confess, I didn’t share.

  “After we finished, he fell asleep right away. As for me, sleep was out of the question. The sight of the other guy sleeping in his briefs kept my dick hard. When I was sure the first kid was asleep, I crept over to the other boy’s bed and shook him awake. It took a long time to get him up; he was a heavy sleeper.

  “I told him I couldn’t get to sleep and would appreciate it if he’d keep me company. He didn’t mind at all—he was still quite drunk from all the cocktails he’d put away. It wasn’t difficult to turn the subject to sex, and using pretty much the same tactics I’d used with the first boy, I managed to get his confession, too.

  “I could tell by the nervous way he kept glancing at his sleeping buddy that he was just as eager for his own initiation. Before long I was on top of him, my hand covering his mouth to stifle his groans so that the other kid wouldn’t be awakened by them.

  “The next morning, we all woke up, innocent as lambs, saying how well we’d slept. And I went back to the ship and never saw them again. Sometimes I wonder if they’ve managed to open up with each other by now. It was only a matter of time, really, after they lost their virginity. And if I served as a catalyst for it in any way, my little trick served a useful purpose after all. It’s just too bad that their inhibitions kept us from having a lovely little threesome.”

  A roll of the ship caused a pencil lodged in a shipboard manual to come clattering down to the edge of the desk where Kyle scooped it into his hand and replaced it as he’d been doing all through his recital. I re-crossed my legs. Without even looking at me, Kyle began chanting softly, as if to himself: “Bill’s got a hard-on, Bill’s got a hard-on.”

  I didn’t even try to deny it.

  It was past taps and everyone in the berthing compartment was asleep. Without making a sound, I slipped out of my rack and got into my clothes. I had a date with Brad tonight up on Paradise Beach.

  There was no one in the lounge as I crossed it to get to the port passageway; all was silent. But as I rushed down the portside “alley” to get to the ladder leading up to the flying bridge, I almost slammed into Senior Chief Russell just outside the radio shack.

  “Sorry, Chief.”

  “What’s the big hurry, Doc?”

  “Nothing.”

  He gripped my arm and peered at me suspiciously. “What are you doing up at this time of night, anyway? You HCs don’t pull any night watches.”

  I shook myself free.

  “Going out for a walk? Stargazing, perhaps?” He leered at me.

  “Yeah,” I said, more abruptly than I’d intended, then immediately regretted it. “Just wanna catch up on some work, that’s all.”

  “Like hell you are. You corpsmen don’t do enough work to catch up on.” He turned away to head back to the chiefs’ quarters. Gratefully, I continued on.

  Up on the flying bridge, I paused. Within the darkened bridge I could see the sleepy-looking figures of the OOD, the BMOOW, and the QMs gliding like silent ghosts at their midnight tasks. I hurried on past the signal bridge, the mack, the main deck, then scurried up the ladder to Paradise.

  Brad was sitting up there in the dark waiting for me, his form barely discernible. Behind him, bobbing near the horizon like a lost firefly, gleamed the aircraft warning light of the supply ship which was following us.

  “Hey, Brad, what’s up?”

  “Hey, Doc.”

  I sat down next to him and together we gazed aft. A brighter light began blinking just above the horizon. It was the supply ship flashing signals out into the night.

  For a long time Brad and I said nothing. Usually we would smoke a joint or two to get loosened up, or to overcome our anxiety. And then Brad would casually drop his hand onto my lap as the signal to begin.

  It had only been a matter of time before we’d all opened up about our homosexuality. One evening up here on Paradise Beach, when the four of us were present, Kyle had said, “Everyone who’s queer, raise his hand.” His own shot up, and he looked around at us. First Brad, then I, slowly put up our hands. Last of all, Richie sheepishly raised his.

  We knew we weren’t the only ones on the ship who were queer, but we could sympathize with those who were determined to keep their homosexuality secret even from the other gays onboard. After all, Richie and I remained closeted. During the day we rarely consorted with the other two, only sneaking up here after dark for secret trysts with them. And Kyle and Brad accepted our need for camouflage. They understood only too well the risks of being even a suspected homosexual in the Navy.

  Kyle and Brad had first learned about each other in Subic Bay, during our first liberty there. In a town where there were so many available women, they had been conspicuous for their lack of female companionship. They’d started drinking together and found they liked each other’s company. Soon, as it neared curfew, they hurried to find a hotel room for the night.

  Kyle had always known he was gay and had joined the Navy knowing he was taking a risk. But he was determined to have all the fun he could. When he first came on board, he suspected a few of his shipmates were gay, but didn’t make any moves. Brad was one of the guys he suspected, and he’d had his eye on him. After their night in Subic, they became the best of friends. For a while they were very romantically involved, sneaking up to Paradise Beach—which they’d discovered was rarely visited by anyone at night—for secret trysts when the ship was out at sea.

  Brad had been relatively inexperienced when he met Kyle. He’d always known that he liked boys, but had had only one sexual experience, with a Boy Scoutmaster, before joining the Navy. In fact, he’d joined up with the hope that the masculine environment of the military would “cure” him. It didn’t. His friendship with Kyle taught him, finally, that gay sex was the only kind of sex he would ever want.

  During our ship’s stay in Australia, Brad had had duty the first day so Kyle had gone ahead to Perth to wait for him there. That night, Kyle had run into Richie at a disco, and one thing had led to another. They ended up spending the night together.

  Richie was still very unsure of his sexual orientation. In high school he had received overtures from several gay classmates, and had responded to some. But he was also romantically involved with girls. He learned, though, that he enjoyed sex with boys much more. So, though he was still deeply closeted, he’d sent out tenta
tive feelers from the start of the cruise to try to discover if there were others like him. His invitation to me to visit Bugis Street with him had been one such. At the time, he’d been fooled into thinking I was straight. Later, in Perth, he’d run into Kyle, whom he’d been avoiding until then as an obvious gay who might compromise his own secret. But being so far away from the ship, he’d felt it was safe enough to feign drunkenness and get invited to Kyle’s room.

  Richie’s introduction into Kyle and Brad’s twosome had been very welcome. He had come along just when the two boys’ romantic passion had started to cool. Brad quickly became infatuated with Richie, who enjoyed having sex by turns with both friends.

  My own appearance on the scene was a bit more problematic. After that little incident with Kyle while watching flight ops, he’d told the others I was gay-friendly. But they all thought I was strictly trade, out looking for thrills. It was only after Brad had made his own advances toward me—and I’d responded to them—that everything became much more open. Soon I was, like Richie, making dates to meet Kyle or Brad, or sometimes both of them together, up on Paradise Beach.

  If I’d had my way, I would have liked to see Richie on my own, and I strongly suspected this feeling was reciprocated. But for some reason, we never made an exclusive date. Perhaps he feared, like me, that we would fall in love with each other and alienate the other two, breaking up the cozy four-way friendship and taking on the added burden of keeping our romance hidden from the rest of the crew.

  “Stay like that, Bill. Don’t move.”

  I realized that I’d stood up to rest my back against the railings. Brad, still sitting on the deck, slid over next to me and put his arm around my hips, then reached his hand up to unzip my fly. In a moment he had my dick out and was stroking it.

  As he bent his head down, I kept looking around to make sure we were safe. I remembered the time I’d spied upon Brad and Kyle up here. In the darkness I felt a warmth cap my glans, then creep down over my shaft. Glancing down, I noted Brad’s glasses glinting in the starlight as he began bobbing his head. He used his lips and tongue with passionate abandon. I liked his style of sucking much more than Kyle’s. Though Brad might be a little clumsy, he put his heart into it, unlike Kyle, whose smooth skill—a little too smooth, really—was like the flawless performance of someone delighting in his own mastery of technique.