Hot Valley

by James Lear

  Men found many different ways to excuse, explain, or disguise their enjoyment of sex with their fellow men. Some, for instance, would sit around the tent bragging about their women, how they’d met such a one in town, how they had another one back home, a sweet Southern belle who would do anything you asked her to, or a pretty octaroon girl who would meet them down by the river, or the mother of a friend who invited them around to fix the gutters, and so on and so forth. The tales were familiar to us all, but they gave some credibility to the inevitable complaint “God damn it, I’m so horny I could fuck anything that moved” and the rubbing of the crotch. Then cocks would come out, and there would be much laughter and backslapping, often developing into a dick-measuring contest, with the “judge” kneeling between the two erect weapons, holding them together, rubbing them, and eventually sucking them. There were plenty in the camp who were quick to volunteer for these duties, and they were sought-after tentmates.

  There was a great deal of casual contact in the latrines, and around them. We were lucky; we had a medical officer who understood the dangers of diarrhea and dysentery, and ensured that we had new latrine trenches dug outside the perimeter of the circle of tents. We had all heard tales of camps where the latrines or “sinks” were so vile that men ended up pissing and shitting outside, or even in, their tents and spreading disease that way. We had fresh trenches with boards across them, which enabled a man to squat when necessary, and we could wash ourselves in a nearby stream which flowed away from the camp, away from the town. (God help anyone who lived down that way who was using the stream for water!) Often in the latrines one would see men hanging around long after they had finished and cleaned up, idly playing with their dicks until someone came and joined them. From there, it was easy to slip away into the darkness of the woods that backed the camp for a little mutual enjoyment; on warm nights, the dry, leaf-strewn floor of the woods was covered in pairs of lovers.

  The washhouse was another happy hunting ground for those less wary of discovery, and what started off as an innocent offer to help a buddy wash his back often turned into mutual masturbation or more. As the weeks passed, it became common to find men fucking in the washhouse, until Jed Brown put out an order forbidding it on the ground of hygiene. After that, the men went to certain tents that were known, in the language of the camp, as “happy houses.” Needless to say, mine was the happiest of all, though it was a nuisance if you wanted to sleep.

  My favorite memory from Company K’s camp days was given to me by a young man whom I befriended shortly after arrival, a dark-haired, heavyset lad from rural Carroll County who had the reputation of being a simpleton because he couldn’t read. He was, in all other respects, a typical, healthy young farm boy who enjoyed kicking a ball around the yard, climbing and falling out of trees, drinking too much liquor, and singing sentimental songs about mothers. I’d seen him watching me a few times during parade or at meals, and I couldn’t figure out if he despised me for the color of my skin or wanted me to take his cherry; frequently the two things went together. But one night he approached me as I sat on a stool at the entrance to my tent, scribbling in my diary.

  “You always writing, mistuh,” he said, in his drawling accent.

  “Yep. Beats playing cards or getting drunk.”

  “I bet it does.”

  “You want something, son?”

  He looked at me from under his heavy brows. He can’t have been more than 20, but he had the heavy beard growth and the pronounced features of a man ten, 15 years older. I noticed that the vee of his open-necked shirt was filled with thick black hair.

  “The other fellows say I’m stupid because I can’t read and write.”

  “Do they say so?”

  “Yeah, and I guess they’re right.”

  “You don’t seem stupid to me.”

  “Well, I don’t seem stupid to myself when I’m sitting alone and thinking, and when I’m talking about stuff, but when it comes to books and such I guess I’m a dunce.”

  “Maybe you were never taught right.”

  “I was taught all right, with a strap over my hand every time I got a word wrong.”

  “That ain’t no way to teach a child.”

  “How’d you learn to read and write, mistuh?”

  “Does it surprise you, kid?”

  “Where I come from, the niggers don’t go to school.”

  I drew breath to berate him for using a word that had always been offensive to my ears, but changed my mind.

  “They teach you that word, son?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, don’t use it again around me, or I will beat your white ass from here to Mexico. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now come and sit by me.” I pulled up a stool and patted it. He sat obediently, his hands pressed awkwardly between his knees. I turned the page of my notebook and wrote in large, clear letters the word cat.

  “What does that say?”

  He followed the letters with his fingers. “Cat.”

  “Good boy. Now try this.” I wrote again.

  “Cow.”

  “Good. Now this.”

  “Fu-oh, I ain’t never seen that word writ down before!” He laughed, and I nudged him hard in the ribs, and he toppled off his stool.

  “So why do you come to me asking me how I learned to read and write, boy?”

  “Because I figured that a nig—I mean, a black man like you wouldn’t be so quick to judge me, mistuh.”

  “That’s a good enough answer, boy, and I admire your honesty.” That wasn’t all I admired about him; as he sprawled on the ground laughing, red in the face, I had the opportunity to assess his strong legs, chunky ass, and strong torso.

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Howard, sir.”

  “That your Christian name or your family name?”

  “Christian name. Family name is Porter.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Howard Porter. I’m Aaron Johnson.” I wrote our two names, HOWARD and AARON, in my notebook. His finger traced the two As at the beginning of Aaron with a certain amount of wonder.

  “Aaron, like in the Bible? The brother of Moses?”

  “You know your Bible, Howard?”

  “Sure. I love the Bible stories. Aaron made a Golden Calf and the Israelites bowed down before it.”

  “So you’re not stupid, then.”

  “I guess not… I wish you could teach me to read.”

  I could teach you a few tricks, baby, I thought, but reading wouldn’t be at the top of my list. But looking into his trusting, bashful face, so masculine but so boyish, I didn’t have the heart to take advantage of his trusting ways.

  “I’ll do my best. At least I won’t hit you with a strap.”

  “Thanks, mistuh.”

  “Call me Aaron.” And feel the power of my rod, I almost added.

  “Aaron. Are we going to be friends?”

  “Sure. Why not.”

  “Because most of the guys don’t want to be seen with a idiot.”

  “You aren’t an idiot,” I said, hoping that this wasn’t going to be the extent of our conversation.

  “I got a letter today,” Howard said, drawing a small white package from his jacket pocket. “Don’t know what to do with it.”

  “Where’s it from? Home?”

  “My sweetheart, Emily. I know what her handwriting looks like. See? It’s pretty, isn’t it? Look at the way she writes my name, all them curls and such. Almost as pretty as she is.”

  “What’s it say, Howard?”

  “Don’t know. Haven’t opened it.” He dropped it on the ground. “Can’t read it.”

  I picked it up and flicked off a bit of mud that had stuck to the envelope. “You want me to…?”

  Howard’s face lit up. “Would you? I mean, really? I couldn’t ask anyone else, because they’d make up lies and stuff to make a fool of me. They’d say she’d run off and married a circus freak or she’d born me a child or something.
”

  “Did you and her…do things that could make a child?”

  “Sure. The night I left town to join the army. She let me.”

  “How was it?”

  “It was the greatest time of my life,” he said, with a serious expression on his handsome face. “At least I done that once before I die.”

  “Are you sure you want me to read it? It might be bad news.”

  “I’m sure.”

  I opened the envelope and drew out two sheets of fine blue writing paper; it looked so incongruous in the filth and masculine squalor of the camp. It was covered with the same elaborate penmanship that I’d seen on the envelope, and I already had an idea that Howard’s sweetheart was never going to make him a happy man.

  “Dear Howard,” I read.

  “Emily writes that beautifully, don’t she?”

  “Yes, she certainly does. Shall I go on?”

  “Yep.”

  “I hope this letter finds you well. Everything here is much the same, we have had some lovely flowers in the garden and no end of party invitations. I danced at the Mason’s ball with four different partners and everyone said that I was the prettiest girl at the dance.”

  “They got that right,” Howard said. “She’s the prettiest girl in the world.”

  “Howard, if you keep interrupting I won’t be able to read you the rest of the letter.”

  “Sorry, Aaron. I’ll keep quiet.”

  He composed himself into a thoughtful posture, and I continued.

  “Mama and Papa have been visiting all over the county and Papa has done some wonderful business deals so we shall have new dresses and shoes and maybe even a new pony. I am so looking forward to Thanksgiving and Christmas and all the parties that we shall have where I can show them off.”

  This did not sound like the letter that a real sweetheart would have written, and I began to wonder if Emily had simply dallied with Howard—who, after all, was physically impressive—and was now about to drop him. I hesitated to read on, and Howard glanced up at me.

  I continued, “Well, I see that I have covered nearly two sheets of paper and Papa says that we must limit the amount we write so I shall close now. It remains only to say that I hope you did not misinterpret the friendship I showed toward you in those last weeks you were at home, when I took pity on you and allowed intimacies that no gentleman would ever have taken advantage of.”

  I was having some difficulty following this, and glanced over at Howard. He was scowling and staring at the ground.

  “Please do not try to contact me again, as I am engaged to be married and I would not like any complications to arise. Yours truly, Emily Willison.”

  A tear dropped from Howard’s eye and splashed on his boot.

  “I’m sorry, Howard. I really am,” I said.

  “Oh, it’s all right,” he said, wiping his eye with his sleeve. “I always knew she was too good for me.”

  “She’s no good, Howard. She’s treated you—”

  “Don’t say that!” he shouted, and scrambled to his feet. “You don’t know her. She’s an angel.”

  I let him stomp around for a minute, then he returned and sat beside me—a little closer this time.

  “I guess I knew that this would happen. Her such a fine young lady and me just a—”

  “There’s nothing wrong with you, son. You’re a good man, a strong man. Look at this letter,” I said, picking it up again. “She shows no real concern for you. She doesn’t care that you’ve gone to war; you might as well have gone on a picnic for all that she’s bothered. She’s only interested in showing off her new finery, and bragging about how many men she’s danced with, while you’re risking your life to protect the likes of her and her family.”

  I was warming to my theme, and suddenly noticed that Howard was leaning against me, resting his head on my shoulder and silently crying. I put an arm around him and held him close.

  “What am I going to do now? She was the only friend I had.”

  “She’s not worthy of you.”

  “Now I’m on my own.”

  “Nonsense. Look around you! The camp is full of fine fellows; all of them would be honored to be your friend.”

  “They ain’t. They call me a fool.”

  “Well I don’t call you a fool. As far as I’m concerned, you’re one of the best men I’ve met. And if you want, you can pick up your kit and you can move yourself right in here beside me.

  “You’re just saying that.”

  In answer, I kissed the top of his head, just where the dark hair parted at the crown. He looked up at me, puzzled.

  “Why would you be so kind to me?”

  “Because someone was kind to me once, when I needed a friend.” I was thinking of Jack Edgerton when I said this; I hadn’t thought of him for weeks. Had he really been a friend? Had I been a friend to him? I would have to think about that later.

  “You’re a good man, Aaron Johnson.” He looked directly into my eyes, and his lips parted. It was too much to resist, and I kissed him, caressing his stubbly face with my fingertips. Someone whistled from nearby, and I heard ribald laughter, but I didn’t care; I was only interested in comforting Howard, and if this was the way he wanted it…

  Of course, I’d been hard in my pants ever since he sat down beside me; the thought of helping this handsome, serious young man with his reading, and of breaking the news that he’d been jilted by a heartless girl, was most appealing to my lower nature, as it put him so completely in my power. Now, however, I wasn’t just interested in skewering his hairy white butt on my cock. I wanted to do that, of course—but I also wanted our relations to mean something, to impress upon Howard the fact that I really cared for him, rather than just the pleasure that could be had from various conjunctions of our sexual organs.

  We lay back on the ground, our feet still sticking out of the tent, but our upper bodies concealed by canvas as far as the knee. At first he seemed stunned by my kisses, and lay passively in my arms—but then, quite suddenly, he began to return them, his tongue pressing into my mouth, his lips devouring mine. His fingers delved into my hair, into my shirt. I grabbed him by the ass and drew our groins together; when he felt our hard cocks making contact he jerked and gasped.

  “I never knew it could be like this.”

  “You mean with another man?”

  “Oh, no… I seen what goes on around the camp, and once or twice I let them, you know, play with my thing.”

  He wasn’t a virgin, then.

  “But I never heard about kissing and holding and…loving and such.”

  “How does it feel?”

  Again, that serious, thoughtful expression.

  “Pretty good.”

  That was all the encouragement I needed, and I started to undress him. As each item of clothing came off, his body was revealed as even more magnificent than I had imagined; he was a young man used to physical labor, a stranger to vanity, whose hard, dense, hairy body was made for pleasure. I could not help pitying Miss Emily Willison, who had forfeited her chance of a lifetime of making love to Howard Porter.

  Finally I had him naked, his hard cock pointing straight up to his belly button, resting on a dense mat of hair. Black hair covered his body from the neckline downward, forming whorls over his nipples, tapering into a line down his stomach, then fanning out again over his groin and thighs. I could not resist, and I dived into one armpit, kissing and licking as I went. Howard’s hips bucked, so I grabbed his thick cock and squeezed. He stuck his fingers into my hair and held on as my mouth explored his chest, his stomach, then further down…

  “I want to feel your skin,” he said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Stand up.”

  I stood, and he undressed me as a valet undresses his master before bedtime. He unfastened my shirt, drew it over my head, and laid it neatly on the chair. He undid my belt, unbuttoned my fly, peeled down my pants. I kicked off my boots and allowed him to pull my pants over my feet; now I was
as naked as him. He was kneeling, I was standing, and there was only one obvious course of events.

  It happened. He kissed the tip of my cock, looking up at me for permission. I smiled, caressed his faced, and drew him toward me.

  Howard Porter learned how to suck cock that day, how to take it without gagging and how to adjust his pace to suit me. He learned how to lie back and receive it as well, and, despite his initial aversion, he learned to enjoy the feeling of a tongue and a finger or two up his ass. I kept him going for as long as I could, but it was obvious that the boy needed to come—and I cradled him in my arms, kissing him passionately while I jerked his stiff cock to a messy climax. I don’t think he’d come in a while; there was enough there to repopulate the Commonwealth of Virginia.

  He took a while to come around from the slumber he’d fallen into—but he didn’t run away as I’d feared he might. Instead he resumed sucking my cock, and by the time I was ready to come, he too was hard again.

  “Go and get your things,” I told him. “You’re staying with me from now on.”

  He dressed reluctantly and kissed me for so long that I thought I’d never get him out. And tonight, Howard Porter, you’re going to learn to take more than a finger up that hairy little ass of yours, I thought, as I watched him walking across the camp. He had a spring in his step.

  With Howard as my companion, life in Company K was even sweeter than before. But, of course, it all came to an end soon enough. Captain Chester came into my tent one day with tears in his eyes and announced that Company K, and indeed the whole of the 4th Virginia Cavalry, was going into battle.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I don’t know. South.” He was pale, his hands were shaking. He fumbled as he lit one of his foul cigars.

  “Are you frightened, Captain Chester?”

  “Frightened, boy? Not on your life.” His voice cracked a little, and he would not look me in the eye, but I admired his bravado.

  Howard was lying naked on my blanket, picking twigs and blades of grass from his densely matted chest. (I’d just taken him for a “stroll” in the woods.) “I’m not frightened,” Howard said. “I joined up to fight. What else is war about?”