by Guy Willard
I leaned back against the railings, the better to enjoy my pleasure, strangely intoxicated by the fact that only the metal tube at my back kept me from plunging straight down into the churning waters below and disappearing forever from the face of the earth. It was a quiet night.
As I felt my pleasure mounting, I placed my hands on either side of Brad’s head and gave myself up to a vigorous pumping motion, fucking him hard in the mouth. His glasses slipped off and fell to the deck with a small clatter, but he hung on, determined to ride it out to the end.
Suddenly we were startled by a green flare shooting up into the night sky about a quarter of a mile off the port beam. After a frozen moment of panic, we quickly recovered, and I put my dick back into my pants and zipped up as he scrambled to his feet.
“What the hell was that?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“We’re sunk,” said Brad simply.
Eerily, the green glow continued to hang there, suspended in the middle of the air, an apparition of doom.
“Sunk? What do you mean?”
“We’ve been torpedoed and we’re sinking.”
“I don’t get it.”
He explained. Our task force was out here—along with ships from the Australian, Indonesian, and Taiwanese navies—playing war games. We were divided into two teams, Blue and Gold (the Navy colors), who were fighting mock battles against each other. Everything was deadly serious except for the weapons. For example, if a submarine managed to sneak past a ship’s sonar, it could surface and fire a green flare to signal its successful maneuver. Naturally, if we were in a real war, it would have been able to fire a real torpedo and sink us.
“So that’s what we’re doing out here,” I said. Not being involved with any of the secret activities in Combat Information Center as Brad was, I had very little idea of what was going on in the various divisions of the ship. Military security dictated that anyone without the need to know shouldn’t know, so I didn’t.
“You don’t think we’re farting around out here just to visit liberty ports, do you?” he said.
“No, I guess not.” I looked out to where the flare had probably been shot from but couldn’t see anything. Though I was sure there was panic now in CIC and on the bridge, out here all was quiet, just as it had been before the bizarre interruption. “So we’re at the bottom of the ocean right now,” I mused, a little horrified.
“It happens,” said Brad. “It happens.”
Pagsanjan
In order to get to Pagsanjan, a resort town near Manila which was supposed to be popular with gays, Brad and I decided to hire a jeepney. These colorful vehicles, gaudily decked out in bright paints and flashy chrome, were a distinctive feature of the Philippines and indispensable for travel throughout the islands. Some jeepneys had regular routes through the city like buses, while others could be chartered or hired like taxis. The plainer ones had only bare boards in the back for the passengers to sit on, but most of them were lovingly furbished with cushioned interiors and stereo systems, with speakers under the seats blasting out the latest disco hits from the U.S.
Each jeepney had its own name—Rosalita, Comanchero, the Playboy, etc.—and was an extension of its driver’s personality. The one we’d hired was called Sylvia, which I took as a good omen, as that had been the name of one of my girlfriends in high school.
It was about 60 miles from Manila to Pagsanjan, and for much of the way our route took us along Laguna de Bay, a huge inland lake. The farther away from Metro Manila we got, the more rural the scenery became. Brad and I were stretched out on the cushioned seats and listening to the music, taking hits from the bottles of ice-cold beer we’d purchased at a roadside stand. Soon the driver called back over his shoulder that we were more than halfway there. The jeepney was bouncing around crazily as we made our way up a dirt road toward a village. The branches of the trees overhead formed an unbroken canopy, casting a cool, sun-dappled shadow all around us.
As we entered the village I began clicking away with my camera, not even bothering to leave my seat. The poverty of the place was overwhelming. Most of the people lived in flimsy shacks barely held together by ropes and wire. At one point, we passed, to my dismay, a coffin-maker’s shop. Piled high within, haphazardly, even spilling out onto the road in front of it, were coffins of every size and type, from plain boxes to elaborate caskets with fancy woodwork, gold-painted edges and handles. But what caught my eye was a row of coffins lined up neatly along the road’s edge, none of them more than two or three feet long—intended, no doubt, for little children.
Just past it, a steep incline took us down toward a newly-paved road, and shortly afterwards we were heading into a fairly large town called Santa Cruz. I fell asleep as we entered it, and didn’t wake up until we were almost at our destination.
At first glance Pagsanjan didn’t seem noticeably different from any other resort town in the Philippines, though I did notice more boys than usual. As we drove up the main strip, it felt like a breath of fresh air after the depressing sights back in the village. Both sides of the street were lined with bars and nightclubs, though at this hour of the day they were empty and quiet. Foreign tourists were walking around everywhere, all of them men. I felt a rush of giddy freedom.
We asked the driver to take us to a decent hotel, and he drove us to a place called Tommy’s. It looked all right to me. As I paid the driver, I noticed he seemed a little reluctant to go. If he’d been more attractive, I would have invited him in with us, but he was missing his two front teeth.
Darkness was beginning to fall, and Brad and I were both feeling restless. We checked our cameras and watches in at the front desk, then went out back to an open-air restaurant which had a nice view of the river. There was a pool there but no one was using it.
I ordered some Filipino food which, despite the fact that the pork was a bit too greasy for my taste, I was beginning to like. Brad ordered the usual bland hotel food. By the time we finished eating, darkness had fallen and the main street was coming alive. We headed out to see what we could find.
The strip was crowded with American servicemen, Australian tourists, Japanese businessmen—and young Filipino men and boys strolling around, peering into their faces. Other boys sat on balconies, calling down to the tourists. Still others stood in dimly-lit doorways trying to entice customers into their bars—sometimes even grabbing a prospective customer by the arm and dragging him in by force.
Brad and I managed to elude their persuasions until we came to a bar called the Shangri-La, where a whole group of them surrounded us. Laughing, we allowed ourselves to be led within. It was so crowded inside that we had to squeeze through groups of men to get to a booth. I felt anonymous hands stroke and fondle me several times before we got to our seats. Delightful, melodious laughter surrounded us on all sides. I felt as if I’d been transported to a fantastic garden of delights.
As soon as we sat down, a couple of young boys slipped into the booth with us. Neither of them looked much older than 16, though I knew Filipino boys often look much younger than their age. The one who was cuddling up to me ran his hand along my chin, then leaned against me and whispered into my ear:
“I think I’m in love.”
I laughed. “Come on, you say that to all the guys.”
“No I don’t.” He looked hurt. “You don’t believe me.”
He sighed, then cast his glance toward some other customers at the bar. “Look at them. Would I say it to them?”
I followed his glance. Most of the men there were middle-aged, affluent-looking...and unattractive. I turned back to him.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Bunny.”
“You’re kidding.”
But the look on his face was serious. He had to be telling the truth because I knew that almost all Filipinos sported such playful-sounding nicknames (which at first I’d thought was a “cute” gay affectation.)
“Bunny? That sounds a lot like ‘benny-boy.’” Benny-boy was the F
ilipino slang term for homosexual.
He poked me in the ribs.
“What’s this?” He pointed to a spot just under my chin.
Instinctively I started to look down, but as I did so he brought the crook of his finger twanging against my nose.
“Ow! You little….”
I grabbed him by the wrist and he punched back at me in playful self-defense. We grappled a little; I became overwhelmed by a sense of déjà vu. This kind of horseplay reminded me of when I was Bunny’s age, clowning around with the boys I loved.
Over in the other corner of the curved booth seat I saw Brad giggling and nuzzling his companion. Unknowingly we’d gradually begun to concentrate our attentions exclusively on our companions, to the point of disregarding each other.
“Come on, order me a drink,” Bunny begged me.
“Are you sure you’re old enough to drink?” I teased.
Under the table I felt his hand slide between my thighs but I trapped his wrist with my knees before he could go any farther. Then I tried to slip my own hand onto his thigh but he brushed it away flirtatiously before I could touch anything.
“All right, all right, you can have your drink first.”
Brad’s companion perked up at this and took up the cry for drinks. Bunny took our orders and got up from the table to relay them to the bar.
In the darkness of our booth, shielded from all the other customers in the club, I had the eerie sensation that I was deep inside a cave where none of the rules of the outside world applied.
Pressing close against me on my right-hand side was Brad’s companion, Titi, his voice like a soft moth in the dark as he sat talking to Brad. With his filled-out chest and shoulders, and the faint shadow of a moustache on his upper lip, he was physically much more attractive than Bunny.
Even as he was flirting with Brad I let my hand drop onto his leg. He gave no sign to indicate he felt my touch—he continued talking with Brad. But suddenly I felt his hand snake back and come to rest on my dick. I was hard, of course.
Brad got up to go to the restroom and as soon as he was gone, Titi leaned over to whisper into my ear: “I think I’m in love.”
“With Brad?”
“Dumb-dumb.” He gave my dick a squeeze and I slid my hand down and felt the hardness at his crotch. But we heard steps approaching so we broke apart.
It was Bunny coming back with the drinks. “Where’s Brad?” he asked, looking around.
“In the bathroom.”
“Doing what?” Looking at us mischievously, he ringed his fingers down in front of his crotch and began pumping his hips with a fluid and graceful motion.
We burst out laughing.
When Brad came back, Titi asked pointedly, “What took you so long?”
“I wasn’t gone that long,” he said, then turned to me excitedly. “Hey, you should check out this restroom. The whole wall in front of the urinal is one big mirror.”
“See? What did I tell you?” said Bunny, and we burst out laughing again, much to Brad’s puzzlement.
“Hey, what’s going on, guys?”
“Nothing.”
Just then a boy from another table came over and began speaking rapidly in Tagalog to our companions. They, in turn, listened eagerly and made excited comments. Then they got up.
“We’ll be right back, okay?”
“Sure.”
We watched them go away, and Brad said to me: “Isn’t this place great?”
“Sure beats being underway, doesn’t it?”
“I love it here! I wish we could stay here forever.”
“We can always go UA.”
“Yeah, but how will we survive? Our money won’t last that long, even in the PI.”
“We can always hustle our butts.”
“Come on. Hey, Bill, I wonder if there’s anyone we know in town.”
“If they are, I don’t wanna see ’em. I’m enjoying myself too much.”
“Hmm. Say, what would you do if the captain walked in here right now?”
“Wow. What could I do? Invite him to our table?”
“Wouldn’t it be neat if the captain was gay?”
“I’d wanna be his cabin boy, that’s for sure.”
“Who wouldn’t? Hey, do you think any of our officers are gay? I suspect Mr. McDavid myself.”
“Oh he’s not gay,” I said quickly. “But I’ll tell you who is, though.”
“Who?”
“Senior Chief Russell.”
“Oh, I know. He’s been making eyes at me ever since I came onboard. Not that I’d ever go for a fat slob like that.”
“Would you go for him if he was your chief?”
“Not even if he was the captain.”
“That’s odd. I always thought you had a soft spot for Chief Rusty.”
“Do you want a black eye?”
“No, a brown one.”
He laughed; “brown-eye” was Aussie slang for butthole.
Bunny and Titi finally came back from wherever they’d been, and we resumed our playful banter, Brad and I concentrating once again on our respective partners.
My head was swimming as we headed back to the hotel, Brad and I with Bunny between us. I’d drunk quite a bit, and Bunny’s antics had made me laugh so hard I’d spilled my drink on the table countless times.
Somewhere along the way Brad had said good-bye to Titi but I didn’t have the heart to let Bunny go. Though we’d never come right out and said it, Brad and I had come up here with the intention of having some real sex—something more relaxed than the hurried, paranoid couplings up on Paradise Beach.
But that was before I’d met Bunny.
I’d never slept with a Filipino boy before. We had about 25 Filipinos aboard our ship, most of them in supply division. But they tended to keep to themselves a lot. At chow they sat at the same table every day, and though they could speak English fluently, they used Tagalog when they spoke among themselves. The other sailors resented what they viewed as the Filipinos’ aloofness, but it seemed to me that it was they who had ostracized the Filipinos.
There was a certain long-lashed disbursing clerk whom I was very interested in. His rather thick black hair was always combed immaculately back from his forehead, and shone with a healthy glow. Despite my small talk and other efforts to become his friend, he only smiled and didn’t invite further intimacy.
Now that I finally had a chance to sleep with a Filipino boy, I knew I couldn’t pass it up. And I wouldn’t be satisfied with a three-way sex scene, either. I wanted Bunny all to myself.
While I was thinking this, Brad suddenly darted down an alleyway to take a piss. As soon as he was out of earshot, Bunny whispered: “I don’t like him. I like you better.” Obviously he sensed how things were turning out.
“So what do you want me to do, get rid of him?”
He nodded with a straight face.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
It was exactly what I wanted, too. But I didn’t enjoy the prospect of having to break the news to Brad. I knew how he’d feel because I’d been on the receiving end myself whenever Richie wanted to be alone with Brad or Kyle. I hated those vague excuses he came up with to get rid of me. If only he’d come right out and said it, I would have understood. I wouldn’t have liked it, but I would have understood. At any rate, it would have been a lot better than those sneaky subterfuges which left such a bitter taste in my mouth.
So I decided on the spur of the moment, emboldened by the alcohol, to come right out with the truth to Brad, much as it might hurt him. I told Bunny to walk on ahead, then went over to meet Brad as he came out of the alley.
“Hey, Brad, I hate to do this to you….”
“What’s up, Bill?”
I saw by the look in his eyes that he sensed something already.
“I wonder if….”
“What?”
“I want to be alone with Bunny tonight.”
The look which crossed his face pained my heart. But wha
t made it worse was that he immediately put on a cheerful smile, even though I knew he was breaking up inside.
“Sure. I understand. I was thinking of going back to find Titi anyway. He seemed to have the hots for me. We’ll find ourselves another hotel room.”
“Thanks, Brad. You’re a real pal.”
“Come on. We came here to have a good time, didn’t we? Let’s live it up.”
He turned around and headed back toward the Shangri-La. The sight of his back as he walked away made me feel like crying. I wished I didn’t have a conscience; life would be so much easier then.
Once we were in the room, Bunny asked me right away: “Do you smoke marijuana?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll go get some.”
I really didn’t feel like getting high tonight, but the thought of what I’d done to Brad made me want to forget everything.
After Bunny stepped out the door I sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled down my sock. Tucked inside, neatly folded up, were several twenty-dollar bills. No experienced traveler in the PI would even think of carrying his wallet with him. The extreme poverty of the country made pick-pocketing a viable occupation.
Especially vulnerable were those of us who ventured into gay bars, where a fondle or squeeze was often a search for a hidden wallet. (It was only because Brad and I had taken the necessary precautions that we could enjoy the promiscuous fondling in the Shangri-La.) When a customer in a gay bar finds his wallet missing, he is often reluctant to report it to the police, because he would have to explain where he’d been when it had happened.
I pulled the wad of bills out of my sock and slid it between the mattress and the box springs. The only reason I’d brought so much money with me was that Brad and I planned to do some shopping in Manila before returning to Subic.