Date: 2011-12-08 05:00:00+00:00
Publisher: Clam Press

Queer Ulysses

Guy Willard

* * * Clam Press * * *

Boot Camp

It was a strange new country, Boot Camp, a country with its own language and its own set of morals and myths which had nothing to do with the world outside the base. It lay securely cushioned in its nest, doubly removed from reality: Recruit Training Command, within Naval Training Center, within the city of San Diego. Certainly it was the strangest place I’d ever been to in my life. If someone had told me it was all a hallucination, I would have believed him.

Everywhere I looked were young men in regulation blue uniform marching in platoons, squads, even twos and threes. Rarely was a recruit seen walking alone. If he was, he had a furtive look about him, as if expecting to be stopped at any moment to be asked for his traveling papers.

I couldn’t shake the illusion that everyone was putting on a show, acting the part of sailors in training, that it was all a gigantic movie set. The company commanders, whose job it was to push the raw recruits through to graduation, played at being stern disciplinarians (whose masks slipped sometimes to reveal smiling actors.) The recruits, for their part, put on a show of respect for authority, which they turned around to mock at every opportunity.

For the first few weeks I told myself I was crazy to let myself in for this kind of harassment. We were constantly being yelled at and humiliated. This wasn’t quite what I’d expected when I left my hometown to seek a change of scene—and yet I knew this was exactly what I needed. Like many who joined the Navy, I’d run away from something. There was someone I wanted to forget...someone I had to forget.

The training was not physically rigorous—far from it. The stress was mostly psychological, a massive assault to the senses, an introduction to a new way of life and a new way of thinking: the military way. In the process of converting civilians to sailors, they stripped us of our past, our individuality, and our dignity. Broken down to the basic raw material of human beings, we were to be built up from scratch into sailors of the Fleet.

Side by side with guys who’d barely managed to finish high school, I donned the same clothes as everyone else, lived in the same barracks, attended the same classes (in first aid, knot-tying, naval history.) We had our teeth examined, our eyes checked, were taught how to dress, shave, tie our shoes, when and how to salute.

We marched everywhere together in platoons: to class, to the mess hall, to the rifle range. We ceased to exist as individuals and functioned as one unit: the company.

We marched and marched on the asphalt quadrangle nicknamed the “grinder” until our feet were sore—all to build company morale and pride. Men who march together think together. It was almost like the team spirit inculcated in high school.

Day by day I sloughed off my past and much of what I wanted to forget. I almost believed I was becoming another person, a better, more disciplined one. It was working, I thought: by the time I got out I would be completely changed.

But would I ever get out? Time seemed to stand still in that place. We might as well have been in the twilight zone for all the news we had of the outside world. Our company commander was strict: no radios or newspapers were allowed in the barracks. Our only contact with the outside world was through the letters we got at mail call. In this enforced isolation, all kinds of rumors flourished: war had started in the Mid-East, the Russians had shot down a U.S. plane over Alaska. And all kinds of lies were spread about boot camp life.

One day in the mess hall as I was standing in the chow line, the recruit behind me informed me soberly: “They put saltpeter in your food, you know.”

“Saltpeter? What’s that?”

We were inching forward toward the serving counter; the large hall was filled with the dull roar of conversation, the long tables filled with identical-looking recruits all in blue. Their recently shaved hair made their heads look pale and white.

“It’s a chemical that keeps you from getting erections. Haven’t you noticed that you haven’t had a hard-on since you came here? It’s the same with everybody.”

It was true. I hadn’t become aroused once since getting to boot camp. I’d put it down to the shock of a new lifestyle and the daily schedules which kept us so busy that we didn’t even have time to think. But maybe there was indeed something to his explanation, for even after seeing the handsomest boys nude in the showers I’d fallen asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. In fact I rarely even saw the lights go out at ten. And I slept like a log until the lights blazed on at reveille—5:00, 5:30, or 6:00, depending on the day’s schedule.

As far as I knew, I didn’t even dream. All I remembered from the night was a refreshing blackness...which was good, for I’d been having far too many dreams lately. The discipline was good for me. My lack of interest in sex was the sign of a new warrior-like stoicism in me. Or so I thought. If this recruit was telling the truth though, it was only the result of chemicals put in my food.

I forgot the conversation until a few nights later when I was jolted roughly out of a sound sleep. I opened my eyes in the darkness, wondering what had wakened me. The bunk was trembling and rattling almost violently in the silence. For a second I thought it was an earthquake. But then I heard sighs from below and relaxed.

I berthed in the top bunk and my partner below was a boy from Kansas named Harris, a healthy, strapping farm boy with a body tanned by the prairie sun. He had all kinds of stories about working in the oil fields or bailing hay, but though we were bunkmates, we hadn’t become very close. The fault was partly mine—maybe I was a little afraid. At any rate, his best friend was another boy from the Midwest.

No one seemed to be awake in the dark barracks, lit only by the red emergency lights at the far ends. None of the night watches was making his rounds. The bunk began to shake even more furiously as the sighs got louder and the breathing became agitated. Evidently Harris didn’t realize how much his solitary activity was shaking the bunk.

In the silence, the creaking of his mattress sounded like the jingle of a tambourine. He probably thought I was sound asleep, for he went about his business as if he were all alone in the world. For my part I didn’t make a sound, not wanting to disturb his pleasure.

At last I heard a soft moan, and then the shaking ceased and all became quiet. I wanted to stay awake a little longer to hear his stealthy clean-up, but felt myself drifting back to sleep even as I thought this. The day had been a tiring one. We’d marched with our rifles for half the afternoon. Our company commander was seeking a weekly award for excellence in marching, a colorful pennant added to the company flag. Apparently the grueling work-out had had far less effect on the farm boy from Kansas than it had on me...I knew nothing till morning.

As time went on, I too regained my sexual desires, but whether it was due to my culture shock wearing off, or because they’d stopped putting saltpeter in the food, I couldn’t say. At any rate I began to masturbate occasionally in my bunk at night, picturing in my mind some boy I’d seen in the showers. It was like high school all over again.

The fact that my bunkmate below probably knew I was doing it only added to my excitement. I imagined him listening intently in the dark just as I had done. From a tacit understanding of each other’s desire for privacy, neither of us exchanged a word concerning these nocturnal bed-shakings. And I never had the guts to do it simultaneously with him.

There was very little privacy in boot camp. Everything was out in the open. Our privacy had been stripped away from us on the very first day in preparation for life in the Fleet. We were told shipboard life had none.

Even the toilet stalls in the barracks lacked doors. It was bad enough to be forced to defecate in public, but what made matters worse was that our company commander, in his zeal to keep as many toilets clean as possible for the daily inspections, forbid us the use of all but two stalls. This meant that there was a line every morning in front of the two sanctioned toilets. The boy sitting down had to face a line of recruits awaiting their own turns. To ease the awkwardness of the situation, he would talk and joke with the next guys in line, unknowingly assuming an ancient privilege of royalty—that of having courtiers waiting upon him at this most private of functions.

Hence I was treated to the sight of handsome boys, their Navy trousers down around their knees, trying to act nonchalant, with silly, almost apologetic grins on their faces, while below, a lengthening brown tail was snaking out. Often some boy might moan in an exaggeratedly sensual manner—understood to be a joke, of course—to cover up his very real feeling of pleasure: that visceral delight which accompanies the act of defecation. But his pleasure had to be spoofed, for he was scared to face the possibility that his anus might really be used for sexual satisfaction.

During the eleven weeks of training, homosexuality was often talked about, usually in a deprecatory, humorous manner. Of course it was understood that a real fag would get the shit kicked out of him: woe to the boy who accidentally got hard in the shower!

Officially the Navy—to put it mildly—frowned on homosexuality. In our classes on Navy regulations, we were told that anyone caught engaged in homosexual activity would get an immediate discharge, either administratively or through court-martial. The reason given was that homosexuals were a poor security risk, susceptible to blackmail by agents of “unfriendly powers.” But the plain truth was that the Navy, like almost everyone else, hated and feared fags.

It was rumored that this fact was used as an “out” by many boys who couldn’t take the strain of boot camp. They confessed to a false homosexual inclination in order to go home. But I didn’t know whether to believe the rest of the rumor: that you had to go down on your knees to prove it.

It was whispered that certain boys had had private meetings with the company commander or the base chaplain and had never been heard from again. I didn’t know if it was true. In the bustle of boot camp life, it was hard to keep track of all those who came and went, for guys were constantly being sent to other companies or set back a week in their training.

In any case, as far as I could see, there was no homosexual activity in my company. There were two or three guys whom I was sure were gay, and a few others I suspected, but they were evidently keeping a low profile for the same reasons as me. It was said that the Navy clearly spelled out the reason for your discharge in the separation documents. And a copy of the documents was sent home to your parents. That was the last thing I wanted—for my parents to find out I was gay. As a result, I became scared to death of giving myself away with even a look.

Although there was no discernable homosexual activity, there was a lot of what might be called covert homosexual affection. In the absence of girls, friendships between straight boys underwent a change. They became intimate and close to an extent not possible in the outside world, and while it never became sexual, it was surely love in everything but name.

I would often note the way two boys’ heads were bent close together in an intimate talk after supper; or the way they helped each other pass inspections, polishing each other’s rifles, giving each other close shaves so as not to be hit at inspection for a single whisker; or the way they protected and looked out for each other, almost jealously defensive of their exclusive companionship.

As for me, I didn’t dare risk becoming close to another boy. I don’t know why. Perhaps there was a part of me that still hoped the Navy would change me, that my abstinence would make me “normal,” a hopeless dream I’d cherished all through high school. And, like high school again, my thwarted desires got deflected into a dreamy, romantic kind of love. I developed a schoolboy crush on our RPO1, the recruit who was second-in-command of our company, a blond-haired, blue-eyed cowboy from Montana. But it didn’t go beyond an idealized longing which I knew would never be requited.

Mail call was our one vital link with the outside world. Most of the guys, of course, looked forward eagerly to the daily possibility of getting letters from home. As for me, even though I’d convinced myself that I’d successfully severed myself from my recent past, I kept getting letters from people I least expected to hear from. The person who meant most to me had no idea I’d joined the Navy.

“Gale!”

I looked up. We were sitting around the barracks polishing our rifles and RCPO was calling out the names on the envelopes in his hand.

“Letter from your girlfriend,” he said. Then, peering closely at the return address: “No, it ain’t, either. It’s from your boyfriend.”

“Get lost,” I said, snatching my letter from his hand. I glanced at the return address—it was from Brett. My heart went cold inside my chest. I hadn’t written to him.

I found a quiet corner and sat down on the deck to read my letter in private. There was noisy chatter all around me but no one tried to interrupt my reading; this was the one time when we respected one another’s private lives.

At first I could only see the surface of the words, the neat, jaunty, half-print half-script which Brett always used. The meaning they contained was a mystery which I knew would gradually register in my consciousness as soon as I managed to repress the mental snapshots which kept flashing through my mind in a dizzying blur.

After some time, I finally read:

Dear Bill,

Imagine my surprise when your mom told me! Why didn’t you tell anyone? The Navy, of all places! What got into you? Even after you suddenly “disappeared,” I was looking forward to seeing you in the fall, in college. Remember all the plans we made together?

I glanced through the rest of the letter. Perhaps he thought our letters would be opened or something, for he made no mention of the cause of my sudden disappearance from his life. I would have thought it would be the one thing he’d want to ask about. And then my eyes fell upon this line: “We can still be friends, right?”

Those were the very words he’d used back then...the words I’d least wanted to hear. How I hated the word “friend,” which had assumed such heartbreaking connotations for me. We all have our private definitions of hell, and often can’t resist our own torturous need to refine them. Friend: noun, the cruelest word in the English language.

The scene shifts to a suburban lawn late in the evening, where two boys, recently graduated from high school, are sprawled, gazing up at the stars and talking. They have just smoked some pot and are feeling buoyant. One of them, who has been deeply in love with his friend ever since their sophomore year, wonders if this might be the perfect moment. He turns and gazes at his friend’s cheek. As if by chance, the other turns his head too, and their eyes meet. Some soft words are spoken…and thirty seconds later one of them is crying. In fact, he is still crying in his bed the next morning as the sky outside gradually brightens into day.

This was soap opera stuff. For the first time since joining up, I was glad I’d done so. This alternate society I’d entered protected me from the outside world. It enabled me to assume a disguise and play a part. From now on I never wanted to be naked again, because nakedness was vulnerability.

I put the letter back into the envelope and jammed it into my pocket.

Eventually I got so used to boot camp that I half-thought it would go on forever. After the 7th or 8th week it wasn’t so bad. We had the routine down pat and a certain air of confidence hovered about us. We looked with scorn upon the newly arrived recruits who looked so raw and scared and lost. Their marching looked ragged when compared with our own precise, coordinated movements. I actually grew proud of my company.

So it came as a shock to me when the company commander announced one morning that we had less than a week left till graduation. I looked around in wonder at the guys in my company, marveling that I’d made it this far when I was so fearful that some mishap would set me back or get me discharged. Without a hitch in my training schedule, I was fast approaching what had appeared such an unachievable goal in the first days of boot camp. Without even trying, it seemed, I was reaching the long-cherished finish line.

The last days flew by as we busied ourselves with rehearsals for the graduation day parade we were to give in front of parents, friends, and relatives. The whole battalion, whose companies were hitherto competing with one another for weekly awards, was now all working together to put on a good show—for that’s exactly what it was.

Incredibly, all the marching, the drilling, and the inspections from the very first day had been nothing but one long preparation for this one occasion. And the ceremony was open to the general public so that tourists visiting San Diego could enjoy it as part of their sightseeing: it was good publicity for the Navy.

But we recruits were far more excited about the news that we would get liberty in town on the last two days before graduation, half the company on each day. It would be the first time we’d seen the outside world in months.

On liberty morning, those of us who had liberty the first day donned our dress uniforms of which we were so proud. The morning sun shone brightly on the grinder as we streamed toward the gate laughing and joking, not in formation but in scattered groups of 3, 4, 5. We flashed our ID cards happily at the Marine gate guard.

It gave me a strange feeling to be stepping off-base. After being cooped up with blue-uniformed recruits for so long, I felt as if I were gazing upon a strange new land. Civilian clothes looked so dazzlingly exotic that my eyes almost hurt to look at them. I saw little children, women, old people—all the varieties of the human race not represented within the boundaries of RTC. For these people though, it was just another normal day. Incredibly, the world had gone on just as before, even as my whole life was being changed.

The people of San Diego—most of whom were Navy, former Navy, or somehow associated with the Navy—were used to the sight of raw recruits. Recruit: that was how I still thought of myself, for I felt like a brazen imposter in my sailor’s suit.

A whole fleet of taxis was lined up just outside the gate, and most of the guys headed straight for them. In the best of spirits, they crammed in, five guys to a cab, everyone friendly with everyone else in a way they’d never been in camp. Rebel yells pierced the air.

“Come on, Gale, let’s go!” My arm was pulled along but I declined. They were going to some hotel where they would get drunk and laid. We’d been told that prostitutes were rife in Diego—at the zoo, in the park, on the street—all waiting for young sailors who’d been cooped up for months without sex.

I asked them the name of their hotel in case I decided to drop in later, but no one had any idea where they were headed. I waved as the taxi screeched away. Everyone seemed in such a hurry.

As for me, after being with 80 guys night and day, I wanted to get away and be alone for a while. That was the greatest luxury I could think of. I walked down the sidewalk still unable to shake off a sense of awe as I gazed at ordinary street sights. Familiar objects like traffic lights and parking meters took on an intense, hallucinatory quality. I wondered how I must look walking down the street.

The new uniform I was wearing now struck me as being conspicuously gaudy out here. In the base I’d been so proud of it, its clean new elegance marking me off as a veteran of boot camp in contrast with the lowly majority in their drab blue work uniforms. But out here it only labeled me as ripe bait for a prowling prostitute. I was struck by how much my mind had been altered during the weeks of training. I’d become a different person. The old me had been displaced or submerged, and a half-familiar stranger now occupied my body.

I ducked into a Denny’s and sat at the counter. The smell of fresh frying bacon and eggs had a delicious richness completely lacking in the bland mess hall fare I was used to. My mouth actually watered. The coffee smelled so much more flavorful. I’d forgotten how real coffee tasted.

I ordered breakfast.

The girl behind the counter smiled at me in a way the dour-faced Navy cooks never had. The quiet dining room with its soft background music was such a contrast to the noisy clatter and hubbub of the mess hall.

As I waited for my food, I wondered how I would spend my day. So much freedom was overwhelming.

The door opened and three high school boys walked in and sat at a table in the corner. They looked as if they’d been partying all night. I was only a year or two older than them, but somehow my weeks of training had put a chasm between these boys and me, my uniform, a world. One of them cast a glance toward me and my heart leaped. He was gorgeous. He brushed his hair back with one hand and resumed his conversation with his friends. His beautiful long hair, after all the shaved heads in boot camp, was a pure delight. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I noted his sleepy-eyed languor, his soft-looking lips, his freckled arms...and wanted to die.

I looked away.

Oh, saltpeter, where are you when I need you?

Someone had said there was a YMCA on Broadway. Supposedly that was where you went if you were looking for some quick sex with a boy. But what if someone in my company saw me there with a “friend” from another company? It might be difficult to explain. After I’d managed to come this far without blowing my cover, why should I risk everything on my next-to-last day?

The truth was, I was paranoid. Months of living with fag-haters had made me more than just fearful. In my heart I had begun to laugh at, even despise those boys in other companies who’d been caught and drummed out of the Navy. Had I really changed that much?

The waitress brought my food and I began to eat. Just as I was biting into my toast, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around. It was one of the guys from my company, a quiet one I couldn’t place for a second.

“Mind if I join you, Bill?” he said.

“Sure.”

My heart sank. I’d hardly ever talked to the guy, and had barely managed to recognize his face just now. A name—Daniels?—seemed to float into my mind.

“What have you got planned for the day?” he asked.

I shrugged, but was thinking: whatever it is, it won’t be with you. I wasn’t about to let him ruin my holiday. Perhaps if I accompanied him for a little while, I could find an excuse to get rid of him.

But he must have read my thoughts. As if purposely trying to foil my plan, he said brightly, “Listen, why don’t we rent a room like the others and get shit-faced drunk?”

I could see that the day was going to turn into a farce as I tried to shake off this unwanted companion who would cling to me all the more stubbornly on that account. Why couldn’t I be left in peace to escape the Navy, at least for a day?

“No,” I replied, “I feel like getting away from crowds for a while. I’ve had it up to here with communal living.” Wouldn’t he get the hint?

“That’s what I mean: just us two.”

I looked at him. For a second, I wondered if he might be flashing me a secret signal. If so, I’d be very surprised. He hadn’t been among any of the possibles I’d marked out. There was nothing about him to indicate that he was anything other than just another hetero.

And then I wondered: Does he suspect me? Had I said or done anything which might have given me away? I chose my next words carefully.

“No, people might think, you know....”

He laughed and pulled out his wallet. “If I was like that, would I be carrying this around?” He showed me a snapshot of his girlfriend.

Anyone that naive would have to be straight, I thought.

“All right,” I said.

Leaving the restaurant, we hailed a taxi and told the driver to head for Broadway. This was the main entertainment strip of San Diego where we’d heard that most sailors went for their fun: bars, pool halls, strip shows, massage parlors, porno theaters. I actually felt a curious fascination with the sleazy atmosphere of the strip. It was part of being a sailor, the ability to blend in with the seamy underside of society.

We got off the cab and started walking up the street. Everywhere we looked were young men with short hair and a certain Navy look about them. There would be no getting away from the Navy in this town.

“Wonder where all our guys went,” said Daniels.

“Damn if I know.”

“Hey, what’s this place?”

We were standing before an establishment called The Piccadilly, the pink and white neon lights of its marquee winking on and off even in the daytime. From the look of the posters tacked up beside the door it was obviously a strip joint. The bouncer sitting on a low stool was eyeing us closely. “You boys wanna step inside?”

Daniels looked at me. Like most recruits, we were both under California’s legal drinking age of 21. But we’d been told that if you flashed a Navy ID, they wouldn’t check your birth date very carefully. This was, after all, a Navy town. I reached for my ID but the bouncer just waved us inside.

The place was about half-full. The jukebox was on low, barely audible above the sound of conversation. Apparently we’d come in during a break between shows. We found a table near the back, as the stools at the counter were all taken. No doubt those seats had filled up first because they gave the best views of the strippers.

As soon as Daniels and I sat down, two women came over to join us. The brunette sat next to me, and the blonde next to Daniels.

“Hi, guys. What are your names?”

“This is Daniels, and I’m Gale,” I said.

“Ooh, last names. That sounds so military. I’m Sheila, and she’s Tracy. What ship you off of?”

“Uh, we’re still in boot, actually. We graduate the day after tomorrow.”

“Well, good for you. I’ll bet you’re looking forward to going out to the Fleet, huh?”

“I guess so,” I said.

“What are you drinking?”

“A Budweiser for me, and a—?”

“Coors,” said Daniels. “I’ll take a Coors. I’m from Colorado.”

“Mountain boy, huh? Say, how about drinks for us?”

“Sure. Get yourselves what you like.”

Tracy went off to get the drinks after taking my twenty-dollar bill.

Meanwhile, the music had started up and a girl had come out from a small wing beside the bar and was dancing atop the counter in a gauzy negligee. The crowd was cheering her on.

“I just finished my number a while ago,” said Sheila, “so I’m still sweating.”

“You’re between dances?”

“Yeah. We get a thirty-minute break.”

Tracy came back with the drinks, and we all raised our glasses and drank. My change was on the tray, and there wasn’t very much. A quick mental calculation told me that the girls’ drinks had cost five dollars each. They both had the same kind of drink, a very clear, non-carbonated drink with ice.

We sat drinking for a while, watching the strippers. Each of the girls danced two numbers, stripping down to a bra and G-string during the first song, then taking it all off during the second, at the end of which she squatted down and opened her thighs before a favored customer. Sometimes when this happened, the man would feel obligated—probably from a sense of masculine pride—to pretend to be uninterested in the sight before him, turning aside to his friend and making a snickering comment.

We ordered another round of drinks, Daniels paying this time. Again, both girls were drinking the same clear beverage.

“Mind if I take a sip of yours?” I asked Sheila.

“Go ahead.”

I took a sip and it was water. “Mmm, light. You must be on a diet.”

“Right. Listen. There’s a little room out back where we can talk more intimately.”

“No thanks. I’ll pass.”

“Your friend looks like he’s willing.”

I looked over at Daniels. He was grinning and fishing into his wallet for more bills. Tracy had her hand on his thigh and was caressing it. I suppressed my urge to groan.

“Hey Daniels, you’re not going, are you?”

“Just for a little talk.” He and Tracy got up. I looked at Sheila, then got up too. We went past the counter, through a doorway beside it to a dim passageway at the back. Daniels and Tracy continued on down the narrow corridor as Sheila pulled me to a stop before a door marked “Employees’ Washroom. Keep Out.” She opened it and steered me inside.

There was just enough room within for a sink and standing space for two. As soon as she shut the door behind her, Sheila’s attitude changed. She became more flat and direct. “All right, let’s see the money up front first.”

“Sure.” I pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. She took it and stuck it down the front of her dress. Then, unceremoniously, she reached for my fly and undid the top buttons, immediately groping inside my briefs. I was soft, of course. Mechanically, she began jiggling it. There was no response.

“What’s the matter, sailor? Aren’t I pretty enough for you?”

“You’re all right.”

“All talk and no action, huh?”

“Why don’t you try sucking it?”

She stopped stroking. “That’ll cost you extra, buster. I’m not sucking that thing for no twenty.”

It wasn’t worth it. I only wished she’d get it over with so I could get out and leave. I thought of Daniels with his girl, hoping that the mental image of his erection would get me hot. It didn’t help. I couldn’t concentrate with this girl here. If I were alone, maybe.

Suddenly she let go of me, almost disgustedly. “Why doncha do it yourself, then? I can’t be doing this all day.”

“Listen, I paid you for it.”

“Fuck you, asshole. You want trouble? I got a friend out there who’s just waiting for me to call him.”

“Never mind.” I buttoned up and went outside, back to the table. Our drinks were still there. I downed mine, then pretended to watch the stripper. She was down on her knees before a customer, and was bending her body way back, shaking her breasts up at the ceiling. Her belly was undulating as if it were moving independently of her. The man calmly smoked his cigarette, his eyes slitted almost shut from the smoke.

Finally Daniels came back. He had a big smile on his face. “How was it for you, Bill?”

“About what I expected.”

“I paid her an extra twenty, but it was worth it. Boy, are we living it up!” He actually seemed to have enjoyed his little escapade. I felt the unbridgeable gap between his simple joy and my disappointment. So this was the fun sailors were supposed to have on liberty. This was what I should expect to “enjoy” for the rest of my hitch. Suddenly my years in the Navy seemed to stretch before me like an eternity.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said.

“Sure.”

A-School

Happy Hour at the EM Club was from five to six, when all mixed drinks were fifty cents each. The drinking age on base was eighteen, so that sailors who were under the legal age in California could still have a drink after work. My barracks roommate Roger and I had great fun trying out all the different cocktails on the menu. It made us feel very grown-up.

We’d finished with classes for the day, and had already eaten at the chow hall and changed into our civvies. Roger was feeling a bit more tense than usual. “I think I’ll try a Singapore Sling today. That sounds real exotic.”

The waitress behind the bar was a regular, and already knew our faces. She was about thirty years old and very friendly. “And you?”

I surveyed the menu posted on the wall behind the bar. During the past week or so, I’d tried virtually everything on it, and had discovered my favorite. “I think I’ll stick to a Tom Collins.”

“Sure.”

The club was almost empty at this early hour. We were the only two at the bar. There was a live band scheduled to play later in the evening, and we could see the musicians setting up their equipment in the dance room next door.

The waitress finished mixing our drinks. We paid for them, picked up the plastic tumblers and raised them toward each other, then took our first sip of the day.

This was nothing like boot camp.

With the start of A-school, I felt I had returned to the real world. Once again I could live my life as a human being, without the harassment and pressures which were a regular part of boot camp life. For me, the biggest advantage was the return of my privacy. I now lived in a dormitory-like room with three others, including Roger.

Our quarters were brand new, and very clean. We had regular beds now instead of double bunks, a big locker for our personal belongings, and closet space in which to hang up our uniforms and civvies. (I’d bought some civilian clothes off-base the first chance I got, and had written home for my mother to send me more.) It was worlds away from the boot camp barracks, which I could still see from the window of our quarters.

Physically, I wasn’t very far removed from the atmosphere of my basic training days. In my daily rounds I could watch recruits marching in formation on the grinder or stacking up their rifles before the chow hall. I was still on the same base—had merely shifted from RTC to NTC—but what a difference this short distance made.

Two days after my little adventure with Daniels in The Piccadilly, all the recruits in our company had been issued orders by the CC, and had scattered to all the corners of the country. Very few of the guys had continued on to A-school here in Diego, as I had. Many had gone to schools located on other bases: Great Lakes, Orlando, or Norfolk. And others—who hadn’t been guaranteed any special training when they’d signed up, or hadn’t qualified for it—had been sent straight to the Fleet as boatswains’ mates...deck apes. I was the only one in my company who had come to hospital corpsman A-school here.

Most recruits normally took two weeks’ leave after boot camp to recover from their ordeal, but I had come straight across the base to check in early, walking the short distance with my seabag over my shoulder and my dress uniform clutched under my arm. This way I would be saving up some leave time from the thirty days a year we got as paid leave. Someday I would be able to use that time to a better purpose.

Though I looked forward to going aboard a ship, I was glad to be afforded this breathing space in which to adjust to my new life. As for my classmates, most of them were a cut above the average sailor in intelligence. Corpsman school required high scores on the aptitude tests we’d all taken upon joining the Navy. Some of my fellow students had even had two years of college experience. In general, I felt much more comfortable with my A-school classmates than I had with my fellow recruits during basic.

Now that we were allowed to grow our hair out a little more—long enough to comb, anyway—I was conscious again of how attractive some of my fellow sailors were. And because the Navy was the only branch of the military which allowed its men to grow beards, some guys were already taking advantage of this rule to try to look as experienced and mature as possible.

The club was beginning to fill up and Roger was looking around.

“See her yet?” I asked, somewhat facetiously.

Roger had a crush on one of our classmates in corpsman school, a Wave named Mona. She usually came to the club with a friend or two at about this time. Like all the enlisted women in the Navy, she had graduated from basic training in Orlando, Florida, and because she’d opted to become a hospital corpsman, had been transferred here to NTC for further schooling. She was among the dozen or so women in our class. Waves seemed to hold a special fascination for the male sailors. Because the ratio of men to women on base was so great, there was fierce competition among the men to try to secure female companionship. Even the lesser attractive Waves found themselves the objects of serious attention from sex-starved young sailors. As Mona was among the prettier ones, Roger probably didn’t stand a chance with her. He was too shy for the aggressive competition necessary to win her.

We’d come here night after night counting the men who went over to her table to ask her to dance. She seemed to bask in all the attention she was getting—attention she would never have gotten out in civilian land. But she was probably well aware of her position, and was trying to get as much mileage as she could out of it. I really couldn’t blame her. In her shoes, I might have done the same thing.

“Hello, sailor.”

We looked around. One of our classmates, Evan, had come up to join us at the counter. “Pull up a stool,” I said. “The fun’s about to start.”

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“We’re waiting for Mona to show up. Tonight’s the night Roger’s going to make his move on her. What with a live band and everything, he’s finally gonna ask her for a dance.”

“Oh? Well, looks like you’re too late. I just saw her heading off-base with a couple of instructors.”

“What?” Roger looked crestfallen. Our instructors were veteran enlisted men in the Navy, mostly chief petty officers, who fought for the plum job of instructing new enlistees. With so many women now joining up, teachers could expect to have a few perks to go with the job.

Evan looked almost grim as he relayed this information. “Yeah. Looks like she’s gonna get her dream sheet choice.”

All of us had filled out dream sheets, listing the places where we wanted to be stationed upon graduation. Few of us would get our first choices, of course, but those who graduated at the top of their class would have a good chance. It amazed me how many of the guys yearned for shore duty instead of a ship. Normally, only men who had put in a lot of sea duty could qualify for assignment to a land base. But because Waves weren’t allowed to serve aboard combat ships, it was a foregone conclusion that they would be stationed ashore somewhere, the only question being which base they would get.

For this, the Waves earned the contempt of many male sailors—for they were taking away from them the coveted shore duty posts, few in number as they already were. On top of that, it was a well-known fact that some Waves slept with their instructors for good grades…and apparently Mona was now among their number. No doubt the temptation to use her sex to procure the duty station of her choice had been too much. If she graduated with the top grades in class, she would be almost guaranteed to get it.

Roger let out a long breath. I felt sorry for him even though I’d been kidding him about his crush on Mona.

“Well, Rog, looks like you really need a drink after that one, huh?”

He looked straight ahead at the bottles lined up against the wall behind the bar, then picked up his drink and downed it. “Yeah. I think I’ll have a double this time.”

“Make that two,” said Evan to the waitress.

“Don’t tell me you have woman problems, too,” I said.

“My only problem is that my woman’s not here with me.”

“Didn’t you see her on leave?”

“Sure. But two weeks flies by just like that.” He snapped his fingers and reached into his pocket to pay for his drink. He was still in uniform. Though Roger and I usually changed into civvies as soon as we came back from the mess hall, some of the others never seemed to change out of their uniforms. “If only I had Debbie here right now, oh.” He brushed his hand lightly over his crotch. “God, I miss her. Just the smell of her letters is enough to get me hard.”

I laughed. “Remember when one of the guys got a letter from his girl with a couple of her pubic hairs taped below her signature? That was hilarious.”

He turned to me. “And you? Do you miss your girlfriend, too?”

Without hesitation I gave the ready answer I’d used since boot camp. “I joined this fucking Navy to forget about her, and that’s just what I plan to do, let’s put it that way.”

He chuckled understandingly. “It’s one of those situations, huh?”

“Yeah. Breaks your fucking heart, right?”

“No, come on. Tell me about it. What’s the story?”

“Oh, I told her I wanted a serious relationship, but she wanted to stay just friends. The same old shit.” I tried to sound world-weary, but the truth was that it felt good to be telling someone about my heartbreak, even in such an elliptical manner.

“That really sucks,” he said sympathetically. “You know, women are strange sometimes.”

“Yeah. My sentiments exactly.”

“You can’t live with them, and you can’t live without them.”

“I hear you.”

Suddenly, I missed Brett terribly. For the longest time, I thought I’d succeeded in forgetting him, what with the culture shock of boot camp, and then studying hard in A-school. But now for some reason, I felt a keen longing to see him again.

“Listen, guys, I just remembered a phone call I have to make.”

They turned to me with knowing looks. Roger grinned. “Looks like you didn’t do a very good job of forgetting her, Bill.”

“I guess not.”

I quickly downed my drink and headed for the main entrance. There were a couple of pay phones next to the cloakroom counter. Stationing myself before one of them, I picked up the receiver and held it in my hand for a moment. Then, before I could change my mind, I dialed.

I stood there listening to the dial tone. It sounded seven times. I had decided to wait for ten rings, then hang up. It was picked up on the eighth ring.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice answered, Brett’s mother.

“Hello?”

“Who is this?” she asked.

“Bill.”

For a moment, my name didn’t seem to register with her. And then she became animated. “Bill! Where are you?”

“I’m on a Navy base in Diego.”

“I can’t believe I’m actually talking to you, Bill. It’s so good to hear from you. Brett told us you’d joined the Navy and we were so surprised.”

“How’s everything going, Mrs. Marshall?”

“Fine.”

“That’s good. Is Brett in?” I almost couldn’t say his name.

“No....” Her reply was slow, too slow. I wondered if Brett had told her about me. What reason had he given her for my sudden disappearance from his life? With a slight laugh, she said, “He’s at the library studying. You know how he is.”

“Yeah. I guess that’ll never change.”

“So. How’s life in the Navy?”

“It’s all right. It’s different, as you can imagine.”

“We think of you all the time. Is there anything you need, anything we can send you? Books? Music?”

“No thanks. I can get just about everything I need. The only thing I can’t get is privacy, but I guess I’ll get used to that.”

“Listen, why don’t you come visit us sometime when you have the chance? We’d be so happy to see you.” Her voice sounded so eager—so eager to end this conversation.

“Sure. I’ll drop in sometime. Tell Brett hello for me, will you?”

“Of course. He’ll be so happy to hear that you called.”

“Thanks. Listen, someone else wants to use this phone. I gotta hang up now.”

“All right. You take care of yourself now, Bill, all right?”

“Sure. I will.” I paused, uncertain of what to say. “Well, good-bye, I guess.”

“Good-bye.”

I hung up.

We learned of our first duty stations on the last day of class. Though our orders wouldn’t officially be handed out to us until after graduation, one of the instructors had given us sneak peeks at them.

As soon as I learned that my ship was a frigate home-ported in San Diego, I rented a car to drive over to Thirty-Second Street to get a look at it.

According to one of the instructors who had a friend onboard, it was scheduled to depart on a WestPac cruise in two months. It had only recently come out of dry-dock, and had in fact just returned from its shakedown cruise.

Thirty-second Street was the home of the Pacific fleet, and wasn’t very far from Naval Training Command. I’d been there once, for fire-fighting class, during boot camp. The base was rather spread out, and had a desolate, empty look to it. Besides the shipyards and warehouses, there was really not much to it.

As I drove along the seemingly endless lines of piers, I was amazed at all the ships I saw: destroyers, troop carriers, supply ships, minesweepers, fleet tugs. Almost every pier had ships docked at it, sometimes two or three deep. And the activity going on all over the place was dizzying: trucks being unloaded, working parties passing supplies hand-to-hand down long chains, platforms slung over the sides of ships with sailors on them busily chipping paint, applying red lead, or slapping haze-gray paint onto the hull.

This was the real Navy: sailors in worn-looking dungarees and faded blue work shirts, their white dixie cup hats perched casually on the backs of their heads, cigarettes dangling out of their mouths, walking with a swagger, many of them unshaven. The working uniforms we wore back at the base for our classes now seemed much too clean by contrast. Though I’d been in the Navy for several months already, and was a bona fide sailor, I knew that no one could be considered a real sailor until he’d served aboard a ship.

I pulled up before a group of sailors at the head of a pier. Though it wasn’t knock-off time yet, many of them were already in civilian clothes and heading toward the gate. I’d called fleet information on base to learn the number of my ship’s berth, and had been told that it was docked at Pier 27, but had no idea where that was. I rolled down my window and asked for directions. One of the sailors pointed over his shoulder and kept walking.

I drove in the direction he’d indicated. Sure enough, I soon saw a sign indicating the pier number, but the jumble of ships docked there was baffling to me. I checked the piece of paper in my hand again to confirm the hull number of my frigate, then searched for it among all the ships. I spotted it, docked outermost in a nest of three. It looked newly painted.

I gazed at it. This would be my home for the next two years or—if I didn’t re-enlist—for the remainder of my hitch. I felt strangely emotional at this first glimpse of it. Though I wouldn’t be able to check in onboard until I had my orders in hand, curiosity had impelled me to come out here to see it beforehand. I looked at the sailors onboard, busy at their various tasks, telling myself that these would be my shipmates, and that I would soon be getting to know them better. I wondered which of them would become my special friend. One thing I knew for sure from all the stories I’d heard about the lack of privacy onboard: I would certainly have to bid farewell to any sex, at least for a while.

At this thought, I felt a sudden panic, as if I’d only now realized that I would be entering a new phase of my Navy career. Compared to the prison-like confinement aboard a ship, my life in A-school seemed like a paradise of freedom. I thought of some of the stories our instructors had told us: about being cooped up on a ship for months on end, getting so seasick in a storm that you couldn’t eat for days, the lack of space and privacy, crazy captains who made life miserable for the crew.

I almost envied Roger, who had gotten orders for a United Nations base at Keflavik, Iceland. He’d put in for shore duty in Europe, but had mixed feelings about what he’d ended up with. The women, of course, had all gotten shore duty, and Mona, not surprisingly, had graduated at the top of the class. Almost all the men had gotten orders for ships, many of them on the East Coast, at Norfolk, the home of the Atlantic fleet.

Our vacation called “A-school” was over now, and we would finally be facing the real Navy. During the latter half of our instruction, we’d been involved in on-the-job training in naval hospitals as well as civilian hospitals in the city. And toward the end, we even had to stand shifts. It had felt like being a real corpsman after all the classroom instructions and practice drills, but we’d been told by the old hands that what we were doing wasn’t real corpsman work, that we were still only playing at it. Only when we were aboard a ship and were part of the crew, with assigned jobs and a specific niche in the order of things, would we qualify. I’d been getting tired of hearing this litany, and was looking forward to going to sea, but this glimpse of the real Navy made me feel once again like a neophyte.

I backed the car into a parking lot and turned around, heading toward the main gate with no particular destination in mind. After a while I found myself driving down Broadway, having come there almost by instinct. I gazed idly at the people walking along the sidewalks, many of them sailors on liberty. How many of them were off the ship I was going to? And then suddenly the name of a certain bookstore came to me. I’d overheard some guys in the barracks mention an adult bookstore where they’d seen “fag magazines.” I had made a mental note of the store’s name and filed it away in the back of my mind, with no particular intention of ever going there. But now, for some reason, I felt the urge.

I parked the car on a side street and headed up to where the place was supposed to be. After a brief search, I found it tucked away in a recessed vestibule, a sign above the door depicting a lewd-looking snake wrapped around a juicy apple out of which he had just taken a big bite.

As I pushed open the glass-paned door, a tiny bell attached to it tinkled. I stepped inside. The store was much cozier than I’d thought, with one short aisle leading straight back, bordered by bookshelves. Lining the shelves were rows and rows of gaudy magazines with titles like Hot Nurse, Teenage Nympho, and Bosom Buddies, wrapped in cellophane. The sight of all the rich, creamy pink flesh on the covers was almost overwhelming. There were no customers in the store as I entered, and the bald, middle-aged proprietor sitting at the back merely shot me a glance before turning his attention back to a tiny television set with its sound turned down low.

I felt very self-conscious. This was the first pornographic bookstore I’d ever entered, and there was something very distasteful about it. The mere fact that I was here signaled that I was looking for something to masturbate to, and my pride rebelled at this. In my mind, porno magazines were for unattractive middle-aged men, or for overweight, pimply boys who couldn’t get any girlfriends.

I continued browsing among the racks without touching any of the magazines. As far as I could see, they were all aimed at heterosexual tastes. I was beginning to wonder if the information I had was wrong.

Just then the bell attached to the door tinkled again as a man entered. He glanced at me with a questioning look, but I turned away pretending to be interested in Sweet Sexteen. He walked straight to the back of the shop and when I looked in his direction again, he was gone. He seemed to have disappeared.

Then I noticed a doorway just behind the proprietor’s chair. There seemed to be another room in a recess farther back. Curious, I continued to browse, all the while moving steadily closer to that mysterious doorway. When I got there, I stepped through it without hesitation.

To my astonishment, unlike the outer room, this one was full of men jamming the narrow aisle. Some of them turned to look at me as I entered, their eyes openly interested. But others were more furtive, their faces discreetly lowered. I continued my pretense that I’d come in here by accident, walking down the aisle for a quick tour of the place, merely glancing at the magazine titles.

They were all aimed at gay men: Stud for Hire, Service Man, Dude Ranch. Some magazines seemed to specialize in men wearing leather, or military uniforms. Others hinted of sadomasochistic delights. Still others featured only men with “uncut” meat—uncircumcised penises. It was like being in a candy store filled with every variety of sweets I’d ever yearned to taste. But then my euphoria was abruptly darkened by a vision of military policemen barging in, sirens wailing, lights flashing, handcuffs clapped onto my wrists...the brig...a dishonorable discharge.

Suddenly one of the men stepped right in front of me, blocking my way. He turned to look at me and his eyes were like holes into his soul, where I could read a blatant hunger, a bottomless abyss of insatiable desire. Out of the corner of my eye I saw two or three others turn their heads toward us. These men seemed to me like zombies, silent, furtive, and forsaken. It was scary.

I stepped around the man and walked toward the doorway to the outer room. But just as I reached the proprietor’s little niche, I grabbed one of the magazines on display nearby and plopped it down onto the counter.

He rang it up without looking at me, almost without taking his eyes off the tiny TV screen. Slipping my purchase into a plain brown paper bag, he accepted my money and handed back the change.

I picked up the bag and walked quickly through the outer room, headed straight for the entrance, emerging onto the street with a feeling of relief. Getting into my car, I started up the engine, put it into gear and sped out of there as if making my escape.

Though I’d bought the magazine, I knew there was no way I could take it back with me to the barracks. I still didn’t know what had prompted me to buy it. With one hand on the steering wheel, I slid it under the car seat, worried that someone I knew might ask me for a lift.

Leaving the downtown behind, I turned north, heading up the coastal highway. When I’d been driving for about twenty minutes, I spotted a large, empty-looking parking lot on a rise overlooking the sea. It apparently belonged to a supermarket which was closed today. I pulled onto it and slowly cruised around until I found a quiet spot facing the sea. There were no other cars parked nearby. I almost had the whole place to myself.

I cut off the engine and listened to the ticking sounds the car made as it cooled down. The muffled roar of waves came up from below. Across the water was Coronado Island, where the naval air station was located.

Reaching down under my seat, I pulled out the paper bag, slipped the magazine out and saw its title for the first time: Hot Shots. There was a photo of a very attractive young man on the cover, his half-open shirt revealing a well-muscled chest. I peeled the cellophane wrapping off the magazine and opened it up at random. At the first photograph I saw, I felt my eyes glaze over. A very good-looking boy, about twenty, was standing outdoors in some western desert. He was completely naked but for a pair of chaps, his body tanned a deep brown all over. Behind him, mesquite was blowing along the ground. He was turned slightly to the side, perhaps so his erection could be seen in profile.

I turned the page. This time he was turned around with his back to the camera, bent over slightly. With both his hands, he was spreading apart his butt cheeks so that his anus could be seen. I felt my stomach go weak. I began flipping through the whole magazine, stopping at pages which caught my eye, erect penises in aching close-up, or young men in pairs, in threes, engaged in orgies of sucking and fucking. Everything was shown in unblushing detail....

My mouth went dry.

Though I’d known such magazines existed, I’d never thought they would be this explicit. Idly I wondered what it would have been like if I could have seen this magazine as a boy. Back then, even my innocent muscle magazines had been enough to excite me to full erection, instantly. If I’d been able to see pictures like these, I might have gone crazy.

Putting the magazine aside, I lifted my hips off the seat and unzipped my fly, then pulled my pants down to my knees. My erection now freed, I picked up the magazine and balanced it on the steering wheel. With one hand on my dick, I eagerly turned the pages with the other.

About a third of the way through Hot Shots, there was a picture of a boy with dark, curly hair. He was lying on a bed, his head turned slightly aside, his eyes closed. One hand was pillowed behind his head so that his underarm hair was exposed. The other hand was down at his dick, idly stroking it. His pose showed off his muscular chest and shoulders to advantage, and with one knee bent and slightly raised, he looked as if he were idling away a dreamy summer afternoon just lying naked on his bed and playing with himself, thinking of nothing in particular, delighting in the feel of his body, of the hardness of the dick in his hand. How often had I done the same thing...back when I was free, a civilian.

I looked around. There were still no other cars nearby. Before me rolled the sea, glints of sunlight flashing off the crests of waves. I reached down and undid the catch below the seat so that I could slide it all the way back, then lowered the seat back so that I could lie down. Holding the magazine up before my face, I began pumping myself idly, just as the boy in the photo was doing. After a moment, I stopped stroking to pull my T-shirt up and bare my chest, and then went right back to it.

This was the most pleasurable thing I’d done since joining the Navy, and it was a little depressing to acknowledge that fact. Still, its rareness made it that much more of a luxury to be enjoyed gratefully. As long as I was able to do this at least, I would survive somehow.

When I thought about it, it seemed like a minor miracle that good-looking boys all over the country were happy to take their clothes off and pose for photographers who then sold those photos to publishers who put those photos into magazines which were then sold in stores to anyone who had the money to buy them…so that lonely guys like me could gaze to our hearts’ content at the naked bodies of sexy young men and dream of the bliss that was denied us.

Glancing out at the sea again, I thought of the ship I’d seen earlier, and imagined myself already aboard it, pulling out to sea and looking back at the receding shore. I actually felt as if I were beginning to drift free. And then I turned my attention back to the naked boy, mentally putting myself in bed with him, turning his butt around so I could fuck him in the ass. I thought of John in the ninth grade, who’d let me fuck him one afternoon in his bedroom, and of Dave, my girlfriend’s older brother, who’d fucked me in his car one night in my junior year. Would I ever have sex with another guy again? The boy in the photograph seemed to be saying yes, yes, of course! And it made me happy to have his support. But as I felt my pleasure trembling on the brink, the trigger ready to shoot, it was Brett’s name I moaned out.

Subic Bay

If you stand on the fantail of a ship and look toward the horizon, you can see what looks like blue cut glass endlessly churning over the edge of the world. And the white frothing wake stretching out behind the ship is inlaid with curved facets of the most exquisite turquoise blue.

I sat upon a bitt and gazed out over the Philippine Sea. A fine salt spray rose like a mist from the sloshing sides of the ship, permeating the deck and coating my face. From above, the tropical sun beat fiercely down, baking my skin. I peeled off my T-shirt. On the flight deck just over my head I could make out the forms of several guys sunbathing in cut-offs. Our captain, who was lenient to the point of indulgence in many other respects, had drawn the line at nude sunbathing.

My first class never got tired of telling me how lucky I was to be stationed aboard such a slack ship for my first duty station just out of A-school. Indeed, when I compared our ship with the others of our homeport, I could see we had an easy life. It all depended on the captain, of course, but small ships were generally more easy-going than big ones. The inevitable comparison was that between a small town and a big city.

A fast frigate such as ours (with a crew of 260) was like a friendly small town where everyone knew each other by first name. But on a carrier, you were lucky if you got to know your berthing mates by face, or even the people in your own workspace. But by the same token, life on a carrier allowed you a certain amount of anonymity, whereas it was difficult to keep a secret aboard a small “tin can” such as ours. All in all, though, I was happy to be stationed aboard a frigate.

I glanced around me. The only other people on deck were two black sailors chatting in the shade of the rocket launcher, whose shadow weaved and swayed with the rolling of the ship. My wristwatch told me I still had 30 minutes left of my lunch break. Taking a last look at the wake, I got up and went back inside the ship.

The sudden change from outside humidity to air-conditioning made my skin feel clammy. I slipped into my shirt again, for shipboard regs required that we be fully dressed within the skin of the ship. And my division officer was particularly strict in this regard, being one of the few hard-noses onboard.

I weaved my way familiarly through the maze of passageways, down ladders, through hatches. At first the inside of the ship had been bewildering, but I soon got so used to it that by now I probably knew my way around it blindfolded. There were still many nooks and crannies I’d never been to, and probably never would. Certain areas of the ship were restricted to those whose jobs dealt with highly classified weapons, detection devices, etc., and as a hospital corpsman, I had no business in them.

Not many guys were about at this time. I met only two others before I reached operations berthing where my rack was. I made my way down the ladder and into a perpetual twilight broken only by the red night-lights. Out at sea, there were always a number of guys (those who’d had watch the previous night) sleeping in their bunks during the day. I myself worked a regular 8-to-4 job, but like everyone else, I spent a lot of my free time in the compartment. For one thing, there was practically nowhere else to spend it. Also, the constant rolling of the ship was like a cradle endlessly rocking; it put you right to sleep. Unless you kept yourself busy, it was very difficult to stay awake out at sea. In addition, I had my own reasons for wanting to spend my free time in this stuffy compartment.

I kicked off my boondockers and climbed up to my rack, the top one of a triple-tiered bunk crammed into a corner. An almost palpable tang of salty sweat permeated the air as I gazed at the sleeping forms interspersed throughout the cramped rows of bunks. Down here, the air-conditioning unit did very little to alleviate the tropical heat, so most of the guys slept in the nude, or at most, clad only in briefs. And since no one used blankets, I could gaze to my heart’s content upon their nudity. With the sound of sloshing water against the hull just above my head, I feigned a light nap.

There was no privacy in a berthing compartment. If a guy was having a dream of falling, I could see him twitch in response to his fall. If he was having an erotic dream, his hard-on was a visible manifestation of what he was imagining in his sleep. And if he was turned onto his side, the lines scooping out the round form of his butt gave me a foretaste of heaven.

The boy who slept on the top rack opposite mine was Jim Wells. He was sleeping there now, probably just off a watch. Clad only in his briefs, he had one hand thrust down inside them, placed over his genitals as if taking a reassuring hold onto reality in the rocking and churning world he now lived in.

He was my running mate. For some reason he had attached himself to me like a fawning dog. Though I was only a year older than him, and this was my first cruise, he looked up to me, admiring and respecting me as if I were a salty veteran.

For my part, I regarded him as an immature kid who exasperated and delighted me by turns. He’d just turned 18 and had probably lied about his age to get into the Navy. When I asked him about high school, he told me he’d dropped out. This was puzzling, for he was by no means unintelligent.

Jim’s only drawback was his racism, which sometimes drove me to the point of fury. He was from Texas and he never let you forget it. For him, anyone who wasn’t lily-white was a “nigger.” And yet I couldn’t help being drawn to him for he was as fresh-faced and eager as a puppy dog.

Jim sometimes talked about his best friend with whom he’d joined the Navy. To their chagrin, they’d ended up being assigned to opposite coasts despite joining up together under the Navy’s so-called “buddy system.” At first I’d suspected something more than just a hetero friendship, but as I got to know him better, I decided he was basically straight. Perhaps he was in love with his friend and didn’t even know it, for he was a heady mixture of innocence and depravity.

He was always harping upon his fantasies involving orgies (he pronounced it with a hard “g”) and three-way sex. Indeed his very openness about these fantasies (in the fag-hating environment of the Navy) indicated that he probably wasn’t aware of the strong homosexual elements in them. For him it was just an extension of the wild life sailors led on liberty. The free and easy sex offered at ports had confirmed every story he’d heard about a sailor’s life. It allowed him to break loose from all the small town inhibitions he’d been shackled with growing up in Texas.

And now he was eagerly looking forward to our upcoming port visit to Subic Bay, for it was rumored to be the wildest and freest liberty port of all. The whole area outside the naval facilities at Subic (located south of Manila, on Luzon Island) was described by veteran sailors as an adult version of Disneyland, where you could get anything you wanted, in sex, drugs, or whatever.

It was the whatever that interested me.

When we finally got there, everything that I’d heard about Subic turned out to be true. As soon as I stepped out the main gate, my first impression was that I’d landed in the Wild West of my dreams. Saloons and dance halls were packed with colorfully dressed Filipinas who were so numerous that they spilled out onto the streets. Some lined the sidewalks, boldly eyeing the sailors walking by, calling out teasing taunts, grabbing them by the arm and dragging them into a bar. Every sailor in sight had a girl on his arm, or was on his way to see his steady girlfriend.

I found a hotel and rented a room for the night, then went to the restaurant next door and had an early supper. I knew Jim would probably eat on-base before coming out here. He had a distrust of “native” food. Glancing at my watch and seeing I still had an hour to kill before I had to meet him at the main gate, I decided to find a girl.

I entered a disco at random. It was jammed with people dancing, their heads bobbing in time to the pulsating music, the flashing colored lights giving a jerky, stop-motion effect to their movements. As I squeezed my way past the moving bodies to get to the bar, I felt myself being groped several times. Each time I looked around to see who it was, a girl winked at me—even if she was dancing with another sailor.

At the bar I barely had time to order a drink before a girl attached herself to me. She asked all the usual questions: what was my name, what ship was I from, how long would we be in port? Then she begged me to order her a drink. I did so. And then I paid the extra amount of money which would enable her to leave the disco for an hour or two.

We went back to my room.

I had heard that the girls here were wild, but I soon discovered that they had their limits, some of them being surprisingly prudish. Most of them disdained both oral and anal sex, claiming to reserve such acts for their special boyfriends. Apparently most of the sailors were satisfied with run-of-the-mill sex, for the bars in which the girls specialized in oral sex were few and far between, located a little ways off in Subic City, as if they catered to a minority taste.

Afterwards, as we lay in bed talking, I tried to discover if there was a gay area in town. But though she told me there were some transvestite bars, she seemed cagey about giving me any more definite information. Apparently she feared that my questions hinted at a taste she couldn’t satisfy, for she began rubbing her hand over my chest and kissing me, asking me to buy her for the night.

Gently I pushed her away, explaining that I had to meet a friend from the ship. It was Jim I longed to see. Even while I was having sex with her, it was his blond hair and smooth cheeks I was thinking of. The girl made a reply in Tagalog which I made no effort to have her translate. I hurriedly dressed and rushed her downstairs. After an ungraceful parting with her, I headed for the main gate, glancing nervously at my watch. I was afraid of missing Jim. He might get distracted and go off with the first girl who clung to him.

There was a short bridge crossing a stream just in front of the gate. In the water below, little girls were sitting in long native boats calling up to the passing sailors for money. There was always a huge crowd milling about in front of the gate—pimps, drug pushers, sailors. As I shoved my way through, I heard someone swear at me and grab my arm. At first I thought it might be someone trying to steal my watch, but it turned out to be Jim.

He gave me a mock salute. “Seaman Wells, ready to assume watch, sir!”

“Bastard.”

Actually, it was his duty day. Normally, he would have had to stay aboard until the next morning. But he’d managed to find someone who would stand his watch for the night—for a fee, of course. There was a certain group of sailors who eagerly looked forward to the hot liberty ports—not for the fun they envisioned, but for the money they would earn standing someone else’s watches.

“Come on, let’s go!”

We pushed our way down the street, and Jim became the little boy again, letting out a loud rebel yell each time he saw a pretty girl. It was embarrassing—like being with a little kid seeing an R-rated movie for the first time. Apparently his racism didn’t extend to pretty Filipinas, for quite a few of them struck his fancy.

“Will you cut it out, Jim?”

“I can’t help it, man. I’m like to explode. I can’t take it no more.”

“Then here.” I grabbed him by the elbow and propelled him toward a shop window which had caught my eye: “Jennie’s Massage Parlor.” We went inside, and immediately two girls jumped up from a sofa and offered to accommodate us. I shook my head no and pushed Jim toward them, then waited in the lobby while he went upstairs with one of them.

In a little while he came downstairs again with a big grin on his face. As we went outside and made our way toward a bar, he excitedly told me what had happened. He’d been led to a curtained cubicle just barely large enough to hold a bed and a wash stand. They both undressed, and after the briefest of preliminaries, the girl began masturbating him with her hands. But what seemed to excite Jim even more was that the cubicle next door was occupied by another sailor and his girl, and only the width of a flimsy curtain separated them. Jim could hear their murmurs and soft laughter. When he was finished, Jim took his time dressing, just so he could eavesdrop on the other couple. He laughed now as he imitated the sailor’s climactic whimper, but I kept a straight face.

It was becoming obvious to me that Jim had more than a passing interest in the male sex. But I still didn’t know to what extent he acknowledged it to himself, or if he was aware that his seemingly innocent delight in depravity might be an unsuspected inclination toward homosexuality. How far would he be willing to go in his search for ever more daring thrills? He might just go all the way, taking it in stride as a naughty game, just as certain friends of mine had done when we were adolescents. Maybe it was just a matter of loosening his inhibitions.

Gnawed by frustrated longings, I charted a reckless course for the night. We rushed from bar to bar becoming ever more frantic and drunk. As the night advanced and we got rowdier, it wasn’t long before I heard the expected words from him: “Hey, let’s go have us an orgy.”

It was exactly what I wanted, but I was beginning to doubt if there would be any girls willing to lend themselves to such debauchery. Anticipating Jim’s suggestion, I’d already started asking cautiously around, but kept meeting with rebuffs. As I’d discovered earlier, the girls were a lot more conservative than legend had painted them out to be. Still, given the sheer number of girls (no carriers were in port so the advantage was ours: girls outnumbered sailors by far), we were bound to meet with one or two who would acquiesce. And I knew we’d have much better luck as the 12 o’clock curfew came around.

At that time—when all the sailors had to be off the streets—the girls who hadn’t yet latched onto a partner for the night would be getting desperate. The money they could earn from an overnight customer was equivalent, I knew, to half a month’s wages for a normal worker here. So the fear of wasting a night’s wages might lend incentive to some girls to overcome their aversion to our request. Time was on our side.

By 11:30 the streets were rapidly becoming deserted. Shore patrol jeeps were more and more in evidence as we weaved up the emptying sidewalk. I asked every likely girl whether she would be interested in an orgy. By this time, I too was pronouncing it with a hard “g.” Finally, to my relief, we found one who was willing. But our search for a second girl seemed fruitless. There was no choice but to ask the girl if she would be willing to go with both of us. After a hesitation, she nodded, but added that we both had to pay for her. We readily agreed to this. At that, she saucily hooked her arms through each of ours and we boldly sauntered up the street like that to my hotel. It was a tribute to the general lenience of the town that the sight of the three of us walking abreast didn’t provoke any comment. Maybe everyone else was too drunk to notice what we were up to.

As we neared the hotel, however, our bravado suddenly gave way to shyness. Afraid that the hotel might have a rule limiting the number of persons per room, we decided to cross the lobby separately, the girl and I entering first, with Jim following a little later, pretending to be looking for a friend.

The room itself was small and plain, a little worn-looking but clean. A musty smell pervaded the air, and the disco next door sent its throbbing bass notes vibrating along the wall and floor. A bed, a small table, and a bathroom with a shower and toilet completed the furnishings.

We sat around for a while, joking. Now that we’d made it safely to the room, our attitude became reserved, almost formal.

“Have a seat,” I said to Jim.

He sat down stiffly on the bed, his hands between his knees. He looked nervous.

The girl giggled loudly, breaking the awkward tension. She got to her feet and briskly announced that she was taking a shower. Then she began doffing her clothes right in front of us, folding them neatly and putting them on a shelf under the table. The sight of her walking nude to the bathroom finally thawed us out, and we sheepishly began to undress, feeling ashamed of our inhibition after all the bold talk.

For some reason, we who would never have hesitated to undress before each other aboard the ship now felt strangely shy, for it was not only our nudity we were baring tonight. I was all too aware of the significance of what we were about to do, but wasn’t sure if Jim was.

We went into the bathroom where the girl was already moving about under the weak spray of the nozzle. As I expected, the water was cold—I had yet to find a hot shower in a foreign port—and I merely ducked in and ducked right out, jolted by the cold contact. Jim, however—maybe because he was drunker—seemed exhilarated by the chilling shower. He hugged the girl to himself as she squirmed half-protestingly in his clasp. I looked on, laughing. She broke away from his clumsy embrace into the towel I held open for her.

After we all dried off we walked back to the bed where we sat around once again and bantered a bit. We still felt a little awkward, and no one seemed willing to make the first move, not even Jim who was making no effort to hide his erection.

We lay back on the bed with the girl in the middle, but only stared blankly up at the ceiling, making desultory conversation. It was a play for time and we knew it. Suddenly, during a lull in the talk, the girl reached over and grabbed my hand. Pulling it across herself, she placed it right on Jim’s dick. She certainly knew the significance of our threesome. I quickly drew my hand back—“hey!”—surprised at the sudden move. Then I glanced over at Jim’s face to gauge his reaction. It registered surprise, but not outrage. He probably took it in stride as part of the wild antics we were after. Still, some instinct warned me that he wasn’t yet ready for one-on-one sex with me that night.

The girl realized her mistake and tried to cover up for it. “I’m sorry, I was only joking. Because nothing was happening.”

“Then I’m just gonna have to make it happen,” said Jim, shaking off his inaction. He rolled toward her, half-covering her, and began kissing her. She turned into him and returned his kisses.

Jim, bronzed by exposure to the sun up on the signal bridge where he worked—very often shirtless—had a very sexy body. There was a pale strip around his hips where the sun never reached, and it looked like a pair of white, skin-tight trunks. This sight finally aroused me and I began kissing the girl’s shoulder from behind. She broke away from kissing Jim and turned her lips to me. I pressed mine against hers, where Jim’s mouth had just been. At this, Jim shifted himself down so he could kiss her breasts.

The kisses I was bestowing on the girl were really meant for my buddy just inches away, whose lips I dreamed of kissing. And because this was the closest I had ever come to it (and perhaps ever would), I became more impassioned with the girl than I usually do. And her lips became hot in return—she was getting excited, too, and she wasn’t faking it.

I broke away. At that moment, Jim abruptly stopped kissing her nipples and we all became quiet. Then Jim began pushing her thighs slowly apart. He looked at me.

“Time for some three-way,” he said.

The girl immediately protested. “No.”

“No? What do you mean, no?”

“One at a time. Not together.”

“Why not?”

Jim began to plead with her and I started to lose interest. The girl’s high-pitched nasal voice was beginning to get on my nerves. Jim kept pressing her but she made it clear that she wouldn’t engage in three-way sex under any conditions.

“Come on, Jim,” I said. “I’m getting tired. Let’s go to sleep.”

“Not till I get a nut, man.”

“Okay, okay, just make it quick.”

I lay on my side and watched as he and the girl began making love. I admired the firm strong lines of his back, the ripple of his muscles in smooth motion, the repeated pucker of his butt as he pumped his hips in a regular rhythm. And the girl responded with unconcealed pleasure, for (as I was to discover), the girls of Subic—unlike prostitutes in many other ports—rarely shammed the joy they got from fucking. Despite her earlier reticence, the proximity of two young sailors had no doubt inflamed her more than she cared to admit.

I turned my attention to the faraway look on Jim’s face. What was he thinking of? Was he even aware of me? Or was he thinking of his friend, Carl, from whom he was separated?

When he was done it was my turn. As I fucked the girl, I didn’t think of her at all, only Jim. I turned to look at him and our eyes met. His face was expressionless...enigmatic. What was he thinking? I’d have given anything to be able to read his mind. Did he know what I was thinking?

Only the strongest willpower in the world kept me from calling out his name at the penultimate moment.

The buzzing of the mosquito sounded like the loudest thing I’d ever heard in my life. It startled me out of a sound sleep. I popped my eyes open and waved it away.

All was silent in the room. Even the throbbing music from the disco next door was stilled. Moonlight peeped through the thin wooden slats of the window and bleached the floor. The air was muggy and close.

I felt a stirring at my side and turned...and was startled to see that Jim was next to me. The last thing I remembered before falling asleep was the sight of him and the girl clinging together in a hug as they drowsed off. She must have gone to the bathroom sometime during the night, for she now lay on the far side of the bed.

Jim turned over in his sleep and, imagining the girl was still next to him, threw his leg over mine, pulled it toward himself and squeezed it between his thighs. I didn’t move a muscle for fear of waking him—and for the pleasure of prolonging this intimate contact.

I could feel the soft tickle of the hairs on his thighs, the tiny blond hairs I so loved. Carefully I glanced down to see his dick, gentle and flaccid in sleep. My own, excited by this delicious proximity, stirred in guilty rebellion, lazily unfolding and nudging its neighbor in a stealthy kiss. The contact caused Jim to stir in his sleep.

I quickly shut my eyes in feigned slumber so that our intimate contact would have the excuse of being caused by the natural movements of sleep. But Jim didn’t wake up. Twisting his body into a taut stretch, he turned his back to me.

For a long time I didn’t dare stir. Instead, I let my eyes roam over Jim’s back, across a red sunburnt stretch which was beginning to peel off in tiny patches here and there, creating a dappled effect. The tiny bumps of his backbone led down to his slim waist, to the firm round butt which seemed to float palely in the night. His legs were tucked up into the fetal position, one heel peeping out shyly below.

What I felt at that moment was not sexual desire so much as a keen romantic ache for this pale shimmering form so unreal in the moonlight. I thought of the fevered sketches I’d drawn in my adolescence of just such a golden boy in just such a position. Back then the boy had been an unattainable dream. Now he was just a kiss away.

My eyes followed the curves of his body all the way down to his feet, and then up again, along the rounded arc of his calf, up the gentle slope from thigh to hip, then coming to rest upon his butt, where a crescent fissure formed a narrow shadow between a pair of plump fruits graced with fine peach fuzz.

His chest rose and fell softly in the shallow breathing of deep sleep. I raised my head up and leaned over just far enough to gaze upon his relaxed boyish face, so innocent-looking when stripped of the jeering smirk which so often marred its handsomeness. But now I forgot all the near-fights we’d had when I was pushed to the limits of my endurance. I felt only a keen longing within my heart for the gentle promise of that sleeping face.

I slid softly toward him, ready at any moment to shut my eyes in fake sleep. I didn’t stop till we were touching thigh to thigh and I could feel a cool buttock pressing against my dick. Then I relaxed all my muscles till I was nuzzled spoon-fashion against him. I tried not to think of how often I’d dreamed of clasping a boy to me like this. But now that I’d finally accomplished it, it still didn’t seem like enough. Emboldened by the knowledge that I was just an eye-blink away from a safe alibi, I dared yet more.

Bringing my arm up, I slipped my hand around to his front and felt his firm chest against my fingertips. My heart was thudding so loudly in my own chest that it was a wonder Jim wasn’t wakened by it.

Then I froze as he stirred.

But it was only to bring a hand up to close over my caressing one—he still thought it was the girl’s.

I had no other thought now but of prolonging this sweet contact—into forever, if possible. But I keenly felt the evanescence of this happiness clutched so unexpectedly in the sultry Philippine night, in this seedy, musty hotel room. And thus I rode on into the heart of midnight, drifting on my lovely raft.

Morning found me facing the pale green wall with its peeling paint. It took me a moment to recall where I was. The steady sound of snoring behind me had fooled me into thinking I was in the berthing compartment aboard ship. I turned over to see Jim sprawled out across the bed, his space-grabbing posture cramped by the sheet which had wound itself around his middle sometime during the night.

The girl beside him was stirring awake with cooing moans. I felt the tight clutch of a hangover grip my skull. Rolling toward the foot of the bed, I got up, still fighting my queasiness.

The sight of the girl yawning up at me in the harsh glare of morning light quickly brought me down to earth. The phantom vision of the night before seemed to fade away like dew, becoming even more ephemeral. But there was no time for regrets.

I grabbed Jim’s big toe and shook it. “Come on, Jim, reveille. We have to get back to the ship.”

He bolted up halfway, startled into wakeful reality, but then sank slowly back again, mussing up his hair and scratching at his head.

And then my golden boy of the night before let out a loud brassy fart, followed by a satisfied sigh.

Hong Kong

For me the very name of this fabulous Oriental city had always evoked an air of sinful exoticism. Since boyhood, I’d dreamed of exploring its fabled alleyways in search of opium dens and white slavery rings. So now, as our ship pulled into Hong Kong harbor, I stood on the signal bridge and eagerly watched the city come into view, admiring its incomparably haughty skyline. The very air I breathed seemed redolent with a forbidden spice.

Though there was a British naval base here, no docking facilities were available for American ships, so we had to anchor out in the bay amidst a flotilla of ships from all over the globe: passenger liners, luxury cruise ships, tankers, freighters. I looked everywhere for the fabled junks but saw none. However, the shoreline of the northern part of the island was cluttered with sampans and houseboats of every size and shape.

The old-timers aboard had told me that Hong Kong today was nothing like it was in the old days when it was truly the “sin city” of the Far East, and anything could be had for a price...even murder. But these days, except for the availability of heroin, Hong Kong was considered a very straight city. In recent years, it had so cleaned up its image that a sailor on liberty was lucky to get laid. The word was out that there were plenty of topless bars, but very few hookers. In fact it was so bad that I didn’t even have to give my usual talk to the crew about the advisability of using condoms.

Liberty call sounded but I didn’t rush out with the others. I took my time and had a leisurely supper aboard ship before going forward to the compartment to change into civvies for my night on the town.

Jim had duty today, but because Hong Kong wasn’t a “sex” town, he’d made no effort to find somebody to stand his watch...which was fine with me because I was growing a little tired of him.

What had seemed like boyish exuberance at first was beginning to look more and more like mere immaturity. He liked to tell people about our exploits together, and even guys I didn’t know very well would come up to me with smirks on their faces asking for more details. The last thing I wanted was a reputation for decadence, and I knew that if Jim didn’t watch out, he’d get us both into serious trouble.

On our last night in Subic we’d finally managed to find a girl who was willing to go with both of us. Atop a creaking bed in a tiny hotel room lit by a bare bulb, she knelt on her hands and knees between us. I was at her back and Jim was at her face. Separated only by the girl’s smooth swaying back we smiled at each other as we had our simultaneous pleasure with her. At that moment I’d felt closer to Jim than ever before, and was convinced that he understood my feelings for him without the need for words.

Therefore, when I heard others talking about it the next day, I felt betrayed. Especially disturbing to me was the fact that even Kyle Roberts, our ship’s one blatant homosexual, had heard of our deeds. I couldn’t believe that Jim didn’t have enough sense to keep our adventures secret. In reply to my rebuke, he promised not to blab anymore, but I knew now that I couldn’t trust him to keep his word.

I stopped going up to the signal bridge in my free time to see him.

“The ferry boat leaves in five minutes,” announced the petty officer of the watch over the 1MC.

I hurried up to the quarterdeck. A small chartered ferry made trips half-hourly to the shore and I didn’t want to miss this one. I saluted the OOD and mumbled my request for permission to leave the ship. Then I hurried down the accommodation ladder to where the ferry was banging against the platform at the bottom.

Night was falling and before I stepped into the ferry I gazed at the nightscape before me. Garish neon lights ashore had flowered into bright blossoms in the clear night air, with their reflections twinned on the shivering water like rare tropical plants whose buds, if smoked, promised a heady bliss. The holiday lights of our ship had been strung up by the EMs, but they were nothing compared to the colorful Christmas tree lights of the luxury cruise ship nearby.

Inside the ferry some of the guys were already drinking beer. As I sat down, the ferryman’s wife scooped out another can from a water-filled bucket and handed it to me. I paid for it and popped the top.

“Come on, Doc, let’s see a bottoms up,” shouted one of the guys.

“Fuck you, Mullens.”

“Hey, I’m already on my second beer.”

“You’re kidding.” But I couldn’t resist the challenge. I downed my beer.

“That-a-way, Doc!” They pounded me on my back and cheered. There’s nothing quite like the taste of that first beer on liberty. After several weeks without it, you develop a craving even if you aren’t primarily a beer drinker. (Unlike the Australian navy, in which sailors have a two-beers-a-day ration, the U.S. Navy allows no alcoholic beverages aboard its ships. This does not mean, however, that none gets smuggled aboard.)

At a signal from the OOD above, the ferry cast off and began to chug toward the distant shore.

“Did you bring your rubbers, Doc?” one of the guys asked me.

“Of course. I even have some extra. Here.” I passed some around. We corpsmen have to be prepared for anything. In addition to my supply of rubbers, I also carried a small round tin of Vaseline. For emergency treatment, of course.

The nickname I’d been given by the crew, “Doc,” which I hated, was the one all hospital corpsmen got stuck with whether they liked it or not. And there was nothing I could do about it, either; it was a part of Navy life, just as all redheads were “Red” and all Smiths were “Smitty.” It didn’t matter how many times I reminded my shipmates that my name was Bill Gale. To them I was “Doc,” and that’s all there was to it. Many’s the time I was in a bar when I heard someone say “Hey, Doc!” and turned around, only to realize a corpsman from another ship was being addressed.

When I first joined the Navy I had no intention of being a corpsman. In fact I didn’t even know what I wanted to do. But in boot camp there was a class which explained all the ratings (jobs) available, and we had to choose one, though we weren’t guaranteed of getting it. I didn’t envision myself chipping paint or stoking a boiler; the corpsmen we’d come in contact with in boot camp seemed decent enough to me. And furthermore, the class instructor’s description of the job sold me on it (though he made all the ratings sound good.)

“It’s not such a pussy job as you might think,” he’d said. “The Navy corpsman is a Marine’s best friend out in the field. Wherever a Marine goes, the corpsman follows right behind him. He has to patch up the wounded, take care of the dead. There’s a lot of blood and guts involved. It’s definitely not a job for a pussy. Talk to any Vietnam vet.”

I had romantic visions of patching up a wounded comrade in the heat of battle...a handsome Marine...as I tightened the bandage around his arm, his face lit up with thanks...I knew I’d earned his lifelong friendship.... Alas, it wasn’t until I was in corpsman school that I learned that my job would mainly consist of treating sailors for VD.

It turned out to be true. Once I was out in the Fleet, the long lines formed outside sickbay after every liberty port, almost from the moment the ship pulled out. Most of the guys didn’t have anything wrong with them, but they worried about the slightest itching, swelling, red spot, or discharge. It was just nerves, or maybe remorse. Who hasn’t had those post-coital second thoughts?

The first thing I usually asked was: “Did you use a rubber?” And the answer was invariably “No.” In a way I couldn’t blame them. Nothing deadens pleasure more than those unsexy “raincoats” strapped over your dick. But they do protect you from disease, and it was my job to promote their use. “Did you at least wash up immediately afterwards? Or take a good piss?” This is the next best thing in lieu of a rubber because we can’t always be expected, I know, to gracefully strap on a condom in the heat of lovemaking. But it’s surprising how few guys even took this precaution. I got depressed sometimes to realize how little effect my lectures on sexual safety had.

But a corpsman’s job was not without its benefits. Nothing could quite match the sense of power I felt when I called the guys in one by one from the clap line and ordered them in a matter-of-fact voice to strip. (Even officers had to comply, for they too had to line up for sick call just like everyone else.)

So inured had I become to the routine that no one would have guessed at the wild joy which filled my heart as some handsome sailor unzipped and flipped out his dick. And as I handled it carefully to obtain a slide sample of its discharge, I managed to crack the standard jokes to ease his embarrassment.

My job had other duties, too, besides the clap line. I had to make a weekly check of the mess deck for cleanliness or infestation. When necessary, I sprayed it down for bugs. Sanitation in general was my area of responsibility. I made a daily round of the officers’ and crew’s heads to test the water for purity.

One time I was in the forward crew’s head with my clipboard in hand when I noted a repeated sloshing sound coming from the toilet stall area. A quick check assured me that it was caused by a leaky faucet in the cleaning room. As there was only one drain, and the ship was rolling so heavily that the water couldn’t drain immediately, it quickly accumulated, sloshing along the deck until the ship tilted in the right direction. I made a note to tell the chief hull maintenance tech about it: it could pose a safety hazard.

As I watched the puddle of water race across the deck with each roll of the ship, I noticed that it left a slick layer behind which reflected like a mirror. By looking into this mirror I saw that one of the stalls was occupied. Noiselessly, I crept nearer to see who it was.

I was going to accuse him of being seasick when something made me freeze. Reflected faithfully on deck was his arm pumping rhythmically in that familiar jog which all boys learn instinctively. And over the throbbing hum of the ship’s engine I could make out the sound of sighing. Though sailors at sea talk constantly—endlessly—about beating off, this was the first time I’d actually gotten visible proof of it. Excitement gripped me as I watched, dreading the possibility of interruption. My own dick had gone hard almost instantly, and I could feel its stiff nudge in my pants. Soon there was a soft moan, and then the hand’s movement ceased. I slipped forward into the shower area and continued my pretense of testing the water.

The stall door opened, then slammed shut. A boy named Richie came out to the sinks to wash his hands. He was a machinist’s mate whose wavy hair and charming smile I’d always found attractive.

“Hi, Doc.” He ran some water over his hands and peered into the mirror at his reflection.

I nodded, noting the rounded fullness of his butt under the loose Navy dungarees. His hat was stuck casually into a back pocket and dangled freely, making it look as if a short bushy tail sprouted there; he had the appearance of a fabulous demi-human, a mythical woodland faun.

“What are you daydreaming about, Doc? Don’t tell me you’re already drunk on that one beer.”

I came to myself. The ferry was nearing the dock of the British Seamen’s Club, and as the water slapped and sucked against its hull, the ferryman tied us securely to the landing. We got off.

The club itself was drab, similar in detail to U.S. military clubs all over the world. Its design and atmosphere were universal; I could have gone to the same place anywhere. This wasn’t what I’d come to Hong Kong to see. I wanted to lose myself in the myriad streets of this Oriental city. The others were headed straight for the club’s bar, but I asked the shore guard where all the action was, and he pointed out the way to the Wan Chai district nearby.

It turned out to be familiar territory. Bar districts all over the Far East have a similar look, though I must say the Wan Chai looked cleaner than most of them. I poked my head into several bars without going in. Whenever I was spotted by guys from my ship, they invited me to join them, but I declined with the excuse that I was looking for someone. I wanted to make a quick tour of the Wan Chai so I could find my way around it in case I got lost.

Tonight I was looking for the gay section of town. I was sure Hong Kong had one, given its former reputation. But even if I found it, whether or not I would go into a gay bar was another thing. I was afraid of running into guys from my own ship, and I knew that a small ship like ours held no secrets for long.

As I continued walking, I soon found myself in a more commercial part of town. Here on the edge of the Wan Chai were fewer and fewer bars, and more hotels and souvenir shops. At this hour, the jewelry stores were just closing up. Sitting outside one of them on a folding chair was a bearded Sikh wearing a turban, a shotgun cradled on his lap. He looked sleepy.

I decided to take a room in one of the hotels and use it as my base of operations, for I intended to search all night if I had to. I wasn’t about to let my liberty go to waste. Even if I didn’t find a gay bar, I still might run across solitary gay sailors on the prowl. A couple of other U.S. ships were in port, and I knew there had to be guys on them who were looking for a little surreptitious adventure just like me.

After having a drink in the hotel bar, I headed out again, making my way back toward the Wan Chai down a different street. Just as I spotted an interesting-looking bar, some noise from down a side street caught my attention. I ran to investigate.

There was a drunken brawl in progress—it looked like four Americans. I recognized three of them as sailors from my ship but didn’t know who the fourth was—probably someone off another ship. Whenever two or more ships are in port together, trouble always breaks out. It’s ridiculous sometimes—guys who are the loudest in denouncing their own ship are invariably the proudest of it whenever they meet someone from another ship. And it seems to be the same throughout the Fleet; willy-nilly, sailors get a sense of pride about their own ship. So when crew members from different ships get rowdy in a bar, it’s like two unstable elements meeting. You can never tell when their pent-up frustrations will spark and explode into violence.

This guy was large and well-built. From the looks of his close-cropped hair, I guessed him to be a Marine. It’s bad enough when sailors from rival ships meet, but when Marines are involved, the traditional antipathy between the two services only adds more fuel to the situation. I wondered what ship he could be off of, as there were no “gator freighters” in port. Perhaps it was the Seventh Fleet flagship, the Oklahoma City.

He now had one of our guys in a headlock and was pummeling the trapped head mercilessly with a huge fist. The poor sailor was writhing around in a vain attempt to get free. Meanwhile his two companions were circling around looking for an opening. One of them spotted me and called out: “Look out, Doc, you’d better keep out of this.” I wasn’t about to get involved in their meaningless fracas.

“What the hell’s going on?” I asked.

The Marine turned to look at me. As he did so, one of the guys jumped him from behind. Tripped up, the Marine went down, bringing the other two down with him. They lunged headlong onto the sidewalk, sprawling out in a tangle of arms and legs. The third sailor saw this as his chance to jump in; he joined the knot of red faces and flying fists. I heard the thuds of body blows and the slaps of faces being hit. The sight of a bloodied nose made me wince.

The Marine was strong but he was outnumbered. He was like a wounded lion being set upon by a pack of hyenas. I felt guilty about just looking on, not doing anything to stop the fight, and moreover, couldn’t deny the intoxicating thrill that coursed through me at the sight of the violence. Any display of virile strength, especially of male overpowering male through sheer brute force, always gives me a raw atavistic stimulation. And when one of them is as well-built and attractive as this Marine was, I feel a bit of something more. My pants were starting to feel tighter around my crotch.

Suddenly the sound of a whistle pierced the air. The three sailors quickly scrambled away, almost without breaking their rhythm, melting into the night. The Marine rolled over and moaned. The approaching footsteps stopped. To my relief, the shore patrol guards turned out to be a couple of petty officers from my own ship. I recognized Jacobs, an ET, and Bennings, the postal clerk.

“What’s going on, Doc?” the latter asked me with a worried look on his face.

I dropped down onto my knees and bent over to examine the Marine. “Just a fight. Three of our guys were beating up on this jarhead.”

“Who were they?”

I looked up. “You don’t think I’m going to tell, do you?”

“Should we call in for help, do you think?”

“No. He’s not hurt that bad. I think I can take care of him. Besides, if there was an official report, our guys could get into trouble. This guy’s so drunk he doesn’t know what happened. He probably won’t even remember it in the morning.”

“What do you think?” Jacobs turned to ask Bennings. Both of them had just made second-class and were still unsure of themselves. They looked helplessly at me, a seaman. The walkie-talkie at Bennings’s waist crackled, signaling more trouble brewing elsewhere, probably. “What a night,” he muttered softly.

“Don’t worry about this guy,” I said. “I’ve got him taken care of. Go ahead and answer that call.”

“Thanks, Doc.” They didn’t need to be told twice. “He’s all yours.”

They took off into the night again and I watched them until they disappeared around a corner. Then I helped the Marine slowly to his feet.

“You all right, bud? Come on, we’ll take care of you.”

Draping the other’s large arm around my neck, I grabbed him around the small of his back and moved him slowly in the direction of my hotel. As I guided his weaving steps, I was becoming giddy from the smell of sweat and alcohol coming off him. He muttered something under his breath about getting back to the ship but I paid no attention as I led him up the front steps and steered him into the lobby. Maybe I was getting drunk from the fumes, but I felt a dreamlike sense of ease as I led him past the startled eyes of the desk clerk and into the elevator. The fact that I was a foreigner here freed me from any inhibition I might have otherwise felt. I could get away with anything because in four days I would be in the middle of the South China Sea.

Somehow I managed to get him up to my fifth-floor room. Once there, I closed the door behind us and eased my patient onto the bed. Then I let out a long sigh and wiped my forehead with the back of my hand.

“We’d better make sure you don’t have any injuries.” He lay passive as I undid his shirt buttons one by one, and when I finally pulled open his shirt I felt my face flush. He was built like a god: solid. My fingers trembled as I touched him, exploring his chest for cuts or broken bones. He was unhurt, but I continued my exploration for much longer than necessary. He didn’t notice anything.

“Nothing wrong here. Turn over.”

With my help he managed to roll over onto his stomach. His shoulders and back were solid muscle. A shallow groove traced the line of his backbone. I massaged his shoulders a little as I asked, “What was that fight about?”

“Bastards,” he murmured. “Motherfucking squids....”

As I’d suspected, it was the old inter-service rivalry. Actually, the Marines were technically only a branch of the Navy, a fact which we never failed to remind them of. In return, they called us squids...which the dictionary defines as “a lower form of marine life.” The mutual antipathy between our services was instilled within us as early as boot camp. In San Diego, the Navy and Marine boot camps are located side by side. My barracks was just across the fence from their cross-country running course. We would often hear the “grunts” running by in neat squads chanting cadence in rhythm. Whenever we had a chance, we threw taunts at them—to which they replied with insults of their own.

To me there was no comparison. Few of the guys in my company could match the manly toughs on the other side of the fence for good looks. Not only were the Marines brawnier, but in general their faces were more attractive. It was almost as if the Corps culled and weeded out its recruits until it had the highest possible number of handsome young men willing to die for their country—for in wartime they were the first to give up their lives. This fact gave them, for me, the haloed sweetness of soon-to-be-martyred saints...which did not, however, detract from their vibrant sexuality. There was no doubt in my mind that they were the sexiest men of any service.

Of all the Marines, the cream were picked for duty aboard admirals’ flagships where they served as chauffeurs, orderlies, and ceremonial guards. It was hard not to imagine that these virile men in their brilliant dress uniforms were chosen exclusively for their attractive looks. In my daydreams I pictured them as a male harem for the lucky admiral. What added fuel to this fantasy was the reported incident of a certain flag officer who was abruptly dismissed from his post because of an alleged affair with one of his men. Who could blame him for giving in to such temptations? I would have traded places any day with one of those puny, white-haired admirals just so I could have these big strong men at my beck and call.

I looked down at the Marine on my bed. He was one of those chosen few. His brawny torso was shaped in the ideal image of masculine beauty. Trying to sound as professional as possible, I said, “What’s your name, Marine?”

“Andrews.”

“Stand up, Andrews.”

He groaned but got shakily to his feet.

“There’s nothing wrong with you but that sore spot under your eye. You’ll have a bruise in the morning, but other than that you have nothing to worry about. Come on, I’ll see if I can find some ice to put on that thing.”

He began to totter and I had to rush to his side and catch him before he fell.

“Goddamn it, Andrews, you’re in no condition to go back to your ship. How many drinks did you have?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Shit, you’d better sleep it off here. What ship you off of?”

“The Okie City.”

“That’s what I thought. When does she leave?”

“Tomorrow morning first thing.”

“When’s liberty expire for you?”

“At six.”

“I’d better put in for a wake-up call. And maybe have room service bring up some ice while I’m at it.” Then, hoping he was too drunk to notice the tenseness in my voice, I added in an even tone, “Come on, take your pants off. We’ll get you to bed.”

To my relief he offered no resistance but immediately began fumbling with his belt. He was beyond caring, only wishing to get some sleep. I had to help him by supporting his weight upon my shoulders. With a pounding heart I slid his pants down to the floor. He was wearing boxer shorts. Nothing looks sexier on a well-built man than boxers; at the same time, nothing looks more ridiculous on an unattractive man.

Andrews looked divine.

Propping up his swaying body with one hand I said sternly, “Come on, what are you waiting for?” And without a pause I rolled down his shorts and helped him onto the bed. Then I stood back and gazed down at him lying there completely nude. He was so huge that he made the double bed look small. I felt a rush of excitement and had to step over to the window. Shakily I managed to wrest it open, then gratefully breathed in some fresh air. It was a relief after all the alcohol fumes and sweat...and a relief from my sexual excitement.

Just below my window was a busy intersection. The noisy honking of taxis floated up to me as I gazed down at the crowded flow of people on the sidewalk. The streets from this height looked so narrow, as if they lay at the bottom of a steep valley. The buildings on either side towered above them. Staring me in the face from the building opposite were storefront signs painted in garish colors, Chinese characters with their English translations beside them. The sky above had faded to a worn-out purple. Far over the harbor I could see rank upon rank of ships anchored out in the bay. Somewhere among them was my own, which I couldn’t spot from where I was. Aboard it was the only claim I had in all this unfamiliar hemisphere: my bunk.

Taking a deep breath I turned around, and without looking toward the bed, picked up the phone for room service. I made a reservation for a wake-up call but hesitated before ordering the ice. He was sleeping so soundly now that I hated to wake him up. The ice might have a jolting effect on him. Besides, what was a little bruise for a titan like him? I decided against the ice and hung up.

Maybe I was still giddy from witnessing the violence earlier, for I’d made no effort to wipe away his sweat. It glistened sexily on his powerful swells of muscle, and the sight reminded me of the muscle magazines I’d secretly collected as a boy. I thought of all the restless nights in my rack, fantasizing about sex, and all my furtive masturbations in the forward crew’s head. I became aware that I was now in a city on the very edge of the Asian continent, in a land so strange to me that anything might happen. Nothing was forbidden. All the familiar rules of behavior were null and void.

I began taking off my clothes.

If he were to wake up and see me, he’d probably kick the shit out of me. But the threat of imminent violence didn’t deter me. In fact I was excited by it. My lust was so explosive that even a bloody beating would only have given me welcome relief. On the other hand, it was quite possible that he’d sleep through the whole thing and never know what happened. So how could I pass up such a delicious opportunity?

Desire emboldened me to a reckless degree.

I turned the lights out and cautiously slipped into bed next to him. He was turned onto his side now so I touched him lightly on the shoulder to test his wakefulness.

No response.

My nerves were tingling as I lowered my lips to his skin. It had a salty taste. Reassured by the sound of his light snoring, I used my tongue to trace delicate arabesques on the surface of his back.

Still no reaction. I wondered if he was out cold. If so, I could take my time and enjoy myself without worrying. My head felt light. Desire combined with danger is a heady combination. At that moment I didn’t care if I was killed. My lust had blotted out every other thought from my mind.

Gently I eased him onto his back and slipped over the side of the bed so I could kneel on the floor and bend over him. I traced my kisses down his chest, over his stomach which rose and fell like a wave in time with his breathing. Nestled in the bushy patch of his pubic hair was his limp penis, dwarfed by his massive body. I lowered my face over it, breathing in its spermy smell.

Ever since I first saw the gigantic figure of Andrews towering over my shipmates, I’d felt the instinctive thrill of wanting to drop onto my knees before him, to pay him the tribute due to a natural monarch. And now I longed to be crushed and squeezed in his massive arms, to press my face against his chest and give myself up to his savage thrusts.

I lowered my face until I was within kissing distance of his dick.

He didn’t know it, but he was about to have a good dream.

Curling my tongue under his balls, I lifted them away from their sticky contact with the thighs. I felt his dick stir but continued to toy with his balls, rolling their softness around with my lips and putting them into my mouth one at a time. Then I used the crook of my finger to lift them up so my tongue could wriggle under them, tracing a route along the prickly perineum where I caught a briny tang and a musky, spicy aroma. There could be no mistake now: he was coming erect. I felt the hardness of his growing dick slide past my chin and caught it in my fingers, letting it blossom against my cheek. When it was fully erect I kissed the side of the shaft and flattened my tongue against the underside of its length.

I wanted to make it last as long as I could. Gripping the shaft in my hand, I pushed the moist tip of the head against my upper lip, then moved it around and around my mouth without putting it in.

Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. I took the head into my mouth and savored its salty tang. My tongue played with its moist hotness for a while before I let the dick slide in all the way to the back of my mouth. It felt like a dream come true.

I had the feeling that wings were sprouting, unfurling at my shoulder blades. With their aid I was about to leap into the night with feverish abandon, sailing over a bottomless abyss, freed from every restraint.

I was about to suck him off in earnest when the breath suddenly left my body. I gasped. The back of my head flashed in pain and my whole back was tingling.

I was lying on the floor looking up at a furious, wide-awake Marine.

“You filthy little faggot.” He spat out the words like venom, and I could all but feel the spray of spit from the violent explosions of those F’s.

At that instant I knew I would die. I thought of home, I thought of my childhood.

Andrews towered above me, a glowering wrathful god, a statue suddenly come to life, back from the dead. The threat of imminent violence sent a flurry of chills through me. His fists were balled, ready to smash into my face. The neon lights from outside the window were turning his body orange, then green, then blue.

“Goddamn faggot. I oughta kick the shit out of you.”

His face showed his disgust. I knew he loathed the very sight of me, cringing before him like a sickeningly repulsive insect.

My body was tensed from head to toe, waiting for the blow which would free me.

It never came.

He began dressing. Only the awkward way he fumbled with his jeans as he put them on betrayed the fact that he was still quite drunk. He yanked savagely at his belt to tighten it, then buckled it up. As he slipped into his shirt and put on his socks and shoes, I crumpled back weakly against the wall and closed my eyes, drained of everything.

The door slammed shut, and in the sudden silence after, I heard for the first time the familiar harbor sounds: a foghorn, the chugging of fishing boats putting out to sea...and from somewhere nearby, the delicate tinkle of a wind-chime.

Tokyo

I was someplace in the heart of Tokyo, in a whirlwind of tumult and pandemonium. The name of the train station meant nothing to me; it was several stops past Tokyo Station, and I’d gotten out to try to get my bearings. I wandered around slightly dazed, gazing at all the people around me who seemed to be in such a hurry to get someplace. This was going to be much harder than I’d expected.

I’d come up here from Yokosuka Naval Station—located on a peninsula south of the capital—where my ship was tied up for four days. Luckily I didn’t have duty this weekend so I’d taken advantage of that fact to look for some fun. I’d gone straight out the main gate and asked around for directions to Tokyo because I knew that that was where everything would be happening. Also, I wanted to get as far away from the ship as I could; I needed a change of air.

But now that I’d finally gotten here, I was left without the faintest idea of where I was going. I’d started out with the vague intention of going to an entertainment district called Shinjuku, but now I was completely lost.

I found myself being jostled as I moved with the crowd, feeling like a piece of driftwood being pulled from an eddy into a rushing stream. Bewildered, I let myself float along, following a large group of people up some steps and onto another platform. Apparently this was a major trunk line for commuters. It was just my luck that my arrival had coincided with the chaotic evening rush hour. Everyone looked in such a hurry that I hesitated to ask for directions, and I couldn’t quite work up the nerve to ask one of the busy-looking station employees.

What to my unaccustomed eyes was absolute chaos gradually assumed some semblance of order. I saw that people were lined up in neat rows at the places where, presumably, the doors of the arriving trains would stop. Quite as if I knew what I was doing, I joined the tail end of one of these. As a foreigner, I stood out a head taller than everyone else there. Most of the commuters appeared to be businessmen dressed in an almost uniform gray or dark blue. I felt conspicuous in my jeans and T-shirt.

Some kind of announcement was made over the loudspeakers and I heard the rumble of an approaching train. The line of people stirred as the train slowed to a halt. I couldn’t believe how crowded it was. Passengers were pressed against the glass of the doors as if they might burst it open from sheer pressure. When the doors slid open, they tumbled out and flowed down the nearby stairs like a torrential river of bodies. Meanwhile, the waiting passengers had parted to either side of the doors and were waiting for their chance to flow into the half-emptied car. Stationed along the length of the platform were uniformed attendants whose job, I discovered, was to push and shove the boarding passengers from behind so that as many people as possible could be crammed into the car before the doors slid shut again.

Inside, the bodies were pressed against each other literally like sardines in a can, but despite the crowdedness, the people were taking the ordeal calmly. Of course they were used to such a crush—for them it was an everyday thing.

But for me it was something quite new, and I felt claustrophobic. The only saving grace was that I towered above most of the people; at least I could breathe some fresh air.

The train lurched to a start and the sea of heads swayed as people shifted to maintain their balance. Once the train was underway, they maneuvered to positions which allowed them to regain some semblance of human dignity. Newspapers and magazines inched up to cover faces which retreated behind spontaneous walls of anonymous privacy.

When I got my bearings, I found that I was pressed tightly against a schoolboy in a black uniform with double rows of shiny silver buttons down the front. He was clutching his leather satchel against his chest to keep it from getting crushed in the throng. From where I stood, I could clearly see the shaven hairs on the back of his neck, a tiny black mole, and a vein pulsing. Down below, I could feel the rounded curve of his firm butt imprinted against my pelvis. The phrase “nut-to-butt” floated into my mind and I couldn’t help smiling. In boot camp, the phrase had been shouted at the recruits lined up for chow outside the mess hall as an order to close up ranks. But it had never resulted in a literal nut-to-butt situation like the one I was in now.

Maybe it was the faceless, impersonal environment, or maybe it was the knowledge that I’d never ride this train again. Or maybe it was the reckless feeling of release I got whenever I was in a foreign country. Whatever the reason, I now made no effort to hide the evidence of my excitement fattening hard against the boy.

To my surprise, he gave no indication that anything was amiss. Perhaps he was used to accidents like this, unavoidable in the pressing intimacy forced upon commuters. It must happen quite often—how could it be helped? Finding an excuse in the gentle sway of the train and the movement of the people behind me, I began to rock surreptitiously back and forth. The boy’s ears reddened, and a flush spread down his neck. I knew that he knew, so I stopped, a little afraid. But the boy made no movement, not even to turn around in irritation. I could feel the heat of his neck against my cheek. Perhaps he didn’t mind it? I resumed my furtive rocking, feeling dizzy from excitement and the close air of the crowded car.

The train slowed suddenly and I saw that we were already pulling into another station. We slowed to a stop and the doors slid open. Heads milled and the tumultuous exit began. To my chagrin, the boy joined the flow. As he moved out with the crowd, I turned away so he couldn’t look back and see me.

For a moment the car was half-empty and I saw the seats lining the side of the car, but the incoming crowd poured in and I was jostled unceremoniously almost all the way to the end of the car where a sliding door led to the next car. I heard the rubber-lined doors slam shut. This time I found myself pressed against a middle-aged woman who kept twisting her head and half-turning around with a suspicious look on her face. She had no reason to be irritated at what wasn’t a tribute to her, but to the departed boy. This time it was my turn to be embarrassed. The next time the train pulled into a station, I took advantage of the general evacuation to shift my position away from the woman.

I started to wonder how much longer I should stay aboard the train. To tell the truth, I was beginning to enjoy the experience of riding in a packed train. Since I had no definite plans anyway, I thought I might as well stay where I was for a while, at least until the novelty wore off. I gazed out absent-mindedly at the sea of roofs, shops, apartment buildings jammed helter-skelter every-which-way as far as the eye could see, a vast sea of humanity. So this is Tokyo, I thought, one of the largest metropolises in the world. I felt cramped, suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of helplessness, completely lost in this strange land. Toward the horizon, the sun was beginning to tint the gray haze a pinkish orange, and the sight filled my heart with homesickness for a land halfway around the world.

It was then that I felt the brush of a hand against mine. Though my first thought was that it had been accidental, I perked up. I decided to wait a while to see if it would be repeated. Sure enough, like a fisherman who feels a faint nibble on his bait, I felt the hand brush against me again, this time along my thigh. I gave no indication that I felt it, though I surreptitiously searched the faces around me wondering who it could be. All I saw were rows of impassive faces, even after the exploratory brushes emboldened into an unmistakable groping.

I still had no idea who it was, for every time I looked down, the groping stopped, and the hand disappeared. I glanced around at the people near me. Some were reading newspapers or the ads posted on the walls; others had their eyes closed as they took catnaps standing up.

It became like a child’s game: Find the Groper. Standing to my right was a rather unattractive middle-aged businessman who was staring absently at a wall advertisement opposite. Was he the one? At my angry questioning glance, he quickly feigned a sudden sleepiness, closing his eyes. I had to smile at the comical shift. I pointedly moved away from him.

By now the sky outside was darkening and the train windows had turned into dim mirrors in which I could see myself reflected. Over to my left was a rather attractive boy with longish hair, wearing an American-style football jersey. He must have noticed I was staring at him for he glanced up and our eyes met for a brief moment before he glanced away.

Was he the groper? But there was another person standing between us. I pretended to ignore him until I felt the brush of a hand against the front of my jeans. By now I was sure it was him.

I waited for his next move with my eyes on the reflecting glass. It didn’t take long for him to go into action, and this time there was no mistaking it. I saw him actually reach around behind the other passenger’s back in order to get at me. His boldness amazed me, for we were standing right in front of the seated passengers. I glanced down at them, but they all, without exception, had their eyes closed, their heads nodding drowsily as they napped at the end of a hard day’s work.

Apparently the boy was used to the situation, for his explorations soon became quite audacious and frenzied. Though I allowed myself to be caressed, I was scared to death that one of the passengers might suddenly wake up and see the action. At the same time, I knew it was this very fear which enhanced my pleasure and heightened my excitement, for I was swelling up hard at the boy’s skilled coaxing. His fingers teased and stroked my erection over my jeans. It was the complete impersonality of the caresses, added to their boldly public nature, which was driving me crazy. I tightened my grip on my passenger strap.

Suddenly a blur of faces was swimming by outside the window. We were pulling into the next station. The hand disappeared as the train slowed to a stop. The doors slammed open and people began surging out. It was a major station. I spotted the boy’s maroon and white football jersey among the leaving passengers. Without hesitating, I joined the exiting crowd, slipping out the door just as a surge of new passengers piled in.

A river of human bodies was flowing down a wide stairway; at the corridor below, it split to the left and right. I pushed my way down to the corridor where I hurriedly scouted about. My eyes easily caught sight of the football jersey disappearing into the crowd toward the right. I raced past people, never taking my eyes off the boy in front of me. He was just exiting a ticket gate through which the commuters were funneling out, two by two. It was there that I was brought up short: an impassive station employee sat there overlooking a rain of used tickets which he occasionally scooped into a box at his knees, one eye on the blurring rush of train passes held out for his split-second perusal. I knew I had only paid the fare to Tokyo station, but hoped the confusion here would allow me to slip through. If I took the time to pay up the difference, I might lose sight of my prey.

Without slowing down, I dropped my ticket casually onto the counter and walked through. I felt a hand grasp my T-shirt. It was the ticket-taker, of course. He glanced at me, then at the ticket, trying to explain something. Meanwhile, the people continued to flow past me, jolting me in the narrow space. Feeling panicked, I began explaining rapidly, waving my arms around to make my point. I prayed it would work. Finally, with a look of exasperation, the station employee shook his head and waved me through, saying in English: “Okay, okay.”

Relieved, I dashed out into the street, just in time to see the boy turn and disappear behind a vending machine on the corner. Apparently he had no idea he was being followed. I tailed him down a shopping street lined with storefronts, where multi-colored streamers hung down from lampposts and telephone poles. My ears caught the exotic sound of wooden clogs scraping along the pavement, immediately drowned out by the loud blare of pop music from a record shop. All around me I heard the sound of a completely alien language, and wondered how strange I must look to these people, a foreigner dodging down these streets. I’d seen very few foreigners once I’d left the vicinity of the Navy base, and none since getting off at Tokyo station.

There seemed to be no system at all to the maze-like network of narrow streets and alleyways through which we were threading. Not once did my quarry look around. He was evidently intent on reaching his destination.

Finally he turned aside before a wooden two-story building just across from a railroad overpass. I stopped and half-hid behind a telephone pole to watch him ascend a narrow metal stairway which led to the doorway of one of the upper rooms. To the right of the door was a small washing machine. Apparently the boy had led me to his home. I saw him take a key out of his pocket, open the door and enter.

Now that I’d gotten this far I suddenly felt an incredible sense of letdown. I’d followed him on an impulse, perhaps half-hoping to be led to a gay bar. But he’d only been on his way home. For a moment I felt angry at having my prey slip back into the camouflaging cover of his own society. But then I realized how unreasonable I was being. The boy hadn’t the faintest idea that he was being followed by the stranger he’d fondled on the train.

Now what? I gazed at the shut door and felt at a complete loss for what to do. I probably couldn’t even find my way back to the station, much less the gay district of Tokyo. I was lost, all alone in this huge megalopolis, and the boy was really the only person I knew—to stretch the definition of that word—in this whole city. If nothing else, perhaps he could tell me where the gay district was. I really had nothing to lose.

With a boldness born of desperation, I ascended the steps. At the top, I went to his door and stood before it for a moment, then knocked.

Someone called out in Japanese and a thought shot through my head: What if he doesn’t live alone? But I knocked again.

The window to the right of the door slid open. In it was the boy’s face, and his expression was a strange mixture of puzzlement and guilty recognition. For my part, I couldn’t think of anything to say, so we just stared at one another for a moment.

I could see he was leaning against a sink, undecided, wondering what to do. He disappeared for a second, then the door opened. He was standing to one side, backed away to make room for me to pass, and making hesitant gestures of welcome.

Tentatively I stepped in. He greeted me with a questioning look in his eyes as if we’d never met—as he’d greet any stranger. Feeling silly, I held out my hand.

We shook hands and introduced ourselves. I pointed to myself and told him my name. He did the same, saying, “Kiyoshi.”

I saw his glance go to my feet, but I knew without his telling me that I had to remove my shoes before I entered. We’d been shown an educational film on board the ship before hitting Japan. I slipped off my shoes and he showed me into his tiny room.

I saw at a glance that he lived alone. His room was much too small to be shared. In fact, the whole apartment was not much bigger than a small bedroom back home. My glance took in the straw-matted floor I’d seen in movies, the closet with its sliding paper doors. Kiyoshi placed a couple of flat cushions on the floor on opposite sides of a small table, and we sat down facing each other.

Never had I felt so awkward. True, I’d brought the situation upon myself. If we’d been in the States, I knew I could have handled it with a little more finesse. But this was totally different. I was dealing with someone who was from an alien culture and had a completely different way of thinking.

As I looked at him, (he seemed unable yet to look at me straight,) I began to wonder if this shy boy could even be the same person who’d fondled me so boldly on the train. The only common point between them was the maroon and white jersey, and, come to think of it, there might have been other boys who were wearing a similar jersey…. I felt my heart contract. Could it be possible that I’d made a mistake? After all, I’d only seen a reflection in the window of a crowded train. It could have been anyone. In which case, Kiyoshi had every right to wonder what the hell a strange foreigner was doing here in his room.

Putting that thought out of my mind, I started a conversation. Maybe I could find out what was going on.

“Can you speak English?” I said, enunciating my words clearly.

Kiyoshi made violent gestures of denial.

“Great,” I muttered, getting a little angry with myself. A look of perplexed amusement crossed the other’s face, and I decided I’d been the victim of a grotesque mistake. Either that, or this boy was playing a sadistic joke on me. Suddenly I felt like leaving.

He must have seen the exasperation on my face, for he made a gesture with his hand of drinking from a glass. I checked my impulse to leave and nodded. He got up and went to his toy-sized refrigerator, returning with a bottle of beer and two glasses.

This is more like it, I thought.

He filled both glasses, and we clinked glasses and drank. As the initial awkwardness wore off, we began making halting conversation in sign language. To my chagrin, my search for adventure had apparently turned into nothing more than a pleasant chitchat.

I had to admit, though, that Kiyoshi was a decent guy and a thoughtful host to boot, making the most of a strange situation. As the beer started to take effect, his reticence gradually wore off and I discovered he knew a lot more English than he’d initially let on. And now that I wasn’t looking at him sexually, I was more struck by his open-mindedness and good nature. What would an American have done in his situation? If this had been happening to someone else, I would have laughed at the misunderstanding.

He told me he attended a university in Tokyo—much to my surprise, for I’d thought him much younger, perhaps even in high school.

I replied by telling him I planned to go to college after I got out of the Navy.

He looked surprised, then in halting English continued, “Bill? You like rock music?”

“Yes, of course.”

He got up and revealed his collection of LPs neatly stacked in the closet. The stereo was ensconced there, too, the speakers flush with the jamb, making the most of limited space. Handling his records carefully, as if they were treasures, he let me examine them. I recognized many of the album covers from back home, and was struck anew at the universal appeal of American pop music. Hearing all these familiar songs on Kiyoshi’s stereo really brought the fact home for the first time.

As we listened, we relaxed some more, taking sips from our glasses, bobbing our heads in time to the music. When Kiyoshi got up to get another bottle, I noticed how unsteady he seemed. And he’d begun talking louder and laughing much more, too; was he so unused to drinking? Or was it that he was faking it a little, acting drunker than he really was? In any case, I found myself also getting more lightheaded and talkative, either from sympathetic reaction, or a subconscious desire to play along with his game.

I was starting to enjoy myself. What the hell, I thought. Even if I’d made a mistake about him, I was still going to have a good time.

I stole a glance at his body. As slender as he was, he definitely had a well-muscled body with a balance that had been pared down to the bare minimum. I’d seen far too many of the guys aboard ship, even the younger boys, getting overweight from lack of exercise. Kiyoshi’s body contrasted quite favorably with theirs; I tried to imagine what was beneath his tight, American-made jeans.

“Do you play sports, Kiyoshi?”

He nodded. “Baseball.” He made motions of swinging a bat. It was so child-like I had to smile. Besides the fact that he looked so much younger than his years, there was an element of innocent purity about him which I rarely found in American boys, who generally like to act tougher than they really are. Charmed and delighted, I wondered if all Japanese boys were like Kiyoshi.

“You look strong,” I told him.

He looked puzzled, so I flexed my biceps and pointed to his.

“Oh, no.” He fanned his hand before his face in a gesture of denial. “Not strong.”

Then he pointed to my arms. “Bill is strong.”

I laughed, now truly feeling the effects of the alcohol. Never one to be shy, I peeled off my shirt and flexed again.

Kiyoshi came forward on his knees and, without the slightest sexual intent (it was more a child-like curiosity than anything else,) put a hand on my biceps, rubbing them, then squeezing. He nodded, smiling.

Innocent as the touch was, I became excited. I saw his eyes flicker down to my chest and away. Neither of us had noticed it, but the record had ended and the room was now silent. Emboldened—before I had time to think about what I was saying—I asked mischievously: “Do you like sex?”

His reaction was unexpected. He laughed. In fact he laughed so hard he actually rolled onto his back, then sat up again. Smothering his giggles, he nodded and said, “Yes. I like.”

Caught up in the mood of the moment, I rubbed a hand suggestively over my crotch, exaggerating the motion for effect. At this, Kiyoshi cracked up even more, and when he could finally control himself, I saw that he had laughed so hard he had tears in his eyes. Then his own face turned mischievous as he thrust his hand toward me, clenched in a fist. A thumb peeped out suggestively between the index and middle fingers. This time the obscene gesture made me laugh.

Still unsure if my meaning had been understood or not, I got up to my feet and went to the window, whisked the curtains shut. When I turned around, I found that he’d gone to the door.

He locked it.

I felt a curious relief, mixed with a sense of wonder.

He crossed over to the stereo to put another record on, turning the volume down as he did so. It was a recent disco hit, a 30-minute non-stop song with a suggestive beat.

Then he reached up to the hanging light fixture and tugged at the thin cord, switching the room’s lighting from a bright fluorescence to the faint glow of a tiny yellow bulb. In the dimness, the odor of the straw matting seemed to fill up the close room, a not unpleasant smell. Now he pushed the small table to a far corner before returning to the open closet and tumbling out bedding mattresses from the top compartment. With practiced motions he spread out the soft, thick mattresses in the middle of the room, straightening them neatly. Then, still squatting, he turned to look at me, his dark eyes shining.

I’d been watching his preparations with a feeling of dreamlike disbelief, and now that the moment had come, I saw that I had to initiate the action. In the stillness, a train thundered across the nearby overpass as if urging me on. I began undoing my pants and saw Kiyoshi follow suit a moment later, as if he’d been waiting for the signal to begin.

Wordlessly we both stripped down to our shorts, though Kiyoshi kept his jersey on. I thought perhaps he might be ashamed that his chest was so much smaller than mine. What interested me much more was the bulge I detected under his briefs, a burgeoning excitement barely held in check. I’d heard that Oriental boys had much smaller dicks than Americans, but I could already tell that I wasn’t about to be disappointed in that respect.

Knowing he wouldn’t undress completely until I did so, I rolled down my briefs, exposing my own brazen state of arousal. For a moment we faced each other uncertainly. Then, seeing he was still hesitant, I stepped over to him and began tugging at his briefs.

He backed away shyly, quickly slipping out of them himself, dropping down to his knees as he did so. I did the same, kneeling before him so that we faced each other on the bedding, each gazing down at the other’s dick, like children, fascinated by the mirror-like double display of our erections. I’d been right: Kiyoshi’s dick was only slightly smaller than mine, perhaps about six inches long.

There are some things done the same way the world over. The language of touch and desire needs no interpreter. In fact, the more intimate an act is, the more universal it is. The musky odor of desire filled the close room, overpowering everything else. It was the same smell I’d encountered so often in my friends’ bedrooms back home.

I rubbed his stomach lightly before slipping my hand up under the football jersey which he still hadn’t removed. When I tried to take it off for him, I met with resistance. I thought of a young girl ashamed of her tiny breasts; I didn’t insist.

We dropped down onto the bedding and I began stroking his dick and rubbing his chest over his jersey. It was only when I’d brought him to the point of excitement at which clothes become a hindrance, when the body begs for skin-to-skin contact, that I peeled the obstructing jersey up.

Then I saw why Kiyoshi had been so shy.

An ugly white scar curved up the left side of his chest, ending at a point just below the nipple. I felt a cold wind blow through me. Feeling a mixture of revulsion and pity, I traced the pale line with my index finger. Kiyoshi kept his face turned to the wall, his chest flushing livid and goose-bumping because his secret shame was now exposed to my eyes.

It was a pity that such an ugly gash should mar an otherwise beautiful body. I knew that in Kiyoshi’s eyes, the scar made him a freak. Because of it, he was unable to undress before others or go to the beach or pool. And it was impossible for him to indulge in the supreme joy of an attractive boy—that of showing off his body to others.

I asked him, as gently as I could, how he’d gotten the injury. With what English he knew, and using his hands, his face, his eyes, he described the childhood accident to me, until I could see it vividly in my mind: the bus stop, the crosswalk, the white car which had seemed so far away, so safely distant. I felt a wave of tender pain engulf me, and bent down to kiss the scar, running my tongue delicately up its length.

I felt Kiyoshi shiver.

I did it again, this time letting my tongue linger.

I heard him moan.

The most intimate act between two people, I thought, is not sex, but the sharing of each other’s uglinesses.

I played my tongue over a chocolate-colored nipple and pinched it softly between my lips. Beneath me, Kiyoshi began to writhe and groan. When I shivered my tongue over the flayed white scar again, he cried out. I felt a moist warmth sprinkle against my chin—again, again, and again...and then, like soft grateful kisses, trickle gently down my neck.

We parted at the station in the pale early morning. As my train pulled away, Kiyoshi gave a little bow and I found myself bowing back. We waved.

In my heart I felt a great happiness. Never in my life had I enjoyed so much uninterrupted sex with another boy. Between the two of us, we’d had ten orgasms—five each—and would have had even more if we hadn’t fallen asleep, exhausted, in each other’s arms. The knowledge that we might never see each other again had certainly lent a fervor to our lovemaking, but I’d felt no regrets at parting from him at the station. And somehow I sensed he felt the same. If I had any regrets, it was that Kiyoshi seemed completely happy with just kissing, mutual masturbation, and oral sex. I would have liked a little more variety, but I certainly wasn’t complaining. Now I finally felt like I’d enjoyed a true sailor’s liberty.

As the scenery outside gave way to bleak factories, I looked about me. Already, despite the early hour, the train was beginning to fill up. I found myself pressed farther and farther toward the center of the car despite my wish to remain near the door so that I could see outside. Kiyoshi had told me what station to get off at and I needed to be able to read the station signboards, which were written in English and Japanese.

At one large station, the incoming crowd caused me to accidentally bump into someone behind me. I turned around to apologize and came face to face with a pretty schoolgirl dressed in a sailor-suit uniform. She smiled uncertainly at my apology, then covered her mouth to muffle the shy giggles which shook her body.

A sudden roar filled the air, drowning out my thoughts. The train was crossing a bridge which spanned a dirty, weed-choked stream. I couldn’t remember crossing it the night before.

Taipei

The dead cat floating in the harbor bobbed gently in the wake of a passing fishing boat. Slick and bloated, it turned and spun lazily in a wide arc, nudging against a freighter moored nearby. A sailor standing watch on the quarterdeck finished eating his apple and chucked the core out into the water, where it plunked under, then re-surfaced, already covered with a thin slime.

From the park overlooking Keelung harbor, my ship looked as small as a toy. Spring had come to Taiwan and the cherry trees all around me were in full bloom. Their pale pink blossoms shimmered like snow on every branch. From the bench I was sitting on, the haze gray frigate looked as if it were floating in the midst of this dazzling springtime vision.

I was the only sailor in the park. The others, I supposed, were in the bars downtown, or in hotel rooms with their girls. No wonder local people despised sailors. We never failed to live up to our sordid reputation. I felt ashamed that my short haircut would make me immediately identifiable as an American sailor.

Getting up from my bench, I began strolling through the park. In a hollow area behind a low hill I came upon a group of young boys playing baseball. I watched them for a while, thinking back to my own childhood and the friends I’d once played with. It seemed so long ago now.

As I rounded a curve in the path I caught sight of a high school boy sitting on a bench reading a book. His light gray uniform contrasted fetchingly with the shower of pinkish white petals all around him. I felt a pang in my heart, knowing that this lovely vision would imprint itself forever in my mind. At the same time, I knew that this boy would become just another of those charming strangers glimpsed in passing, whom I was destined never to get to know better...and for whom I’d pine in romantic retrospect.

I debated whether or not to approach him, for I knew that high school boys in the Orient love to practice their English with an American. If I was lucky it could lead to something more. But even as I hesitated, a girl in a dark blue uniform approached and called out to him with a smile. And the boy smiled back in recognition...he’d probably been waiting for her.

Ruefully I continued my walk. Beneath the stretched turquoise sky, a sweet springtime melancholia flooded my soul. I thought of Kiyoshi and wished now that I’d gotten his address. (What had deterred me was my worry that the nosy postal clerk, Bennings, would wonder why I was getting letters from Japan.) Lately I was finding myself more and more attracted to Oriental boys. I used to find them too delicate for my taste, but now their slender builds and graceful movements seemed very sexy to me.

I roamed restlessly through the park, peering anxiously into the face of every attractive boy who passed...and felt a stab of loneliness when my silent plea went unanswered. Self-pity, perhaps, mixed with a feeling of homesickness, made me yearn for those innocent days before I’d joined the Navy, before Brett’s rejection of me had set me adrift in the wide world.

Trying to shake my funk, I hurried my steps. Set among a stand of trees was a squat concrete building of some kind. As I neared it, I saw that it was a public restroom. I thought of the ones in the parks back home which blossomed at night into meeting places for lonely homosexuals. Might not this one serve the same purpose?

The stale smells of urine and wet cigarette butts greeted me when I stepped inside. No one else was around so I made a quick check of the urinals and stalls, looking for any graffiti which might give me hope. (There are certain universal symbols which are unmistakable.) But, other than some Chinese characters which I couldn’t read, I saw none. The only way to find out for sure was to come back here tonight and see for myself. The thought of doing so excited me. I stepped outside again.

From the unseen harbor, a departing freighter hooted three times. The honk of a tugboat answered it, and its sound echoed across the whole city—the most mournful sound in the whole world.

Suddenly I didn’t want to sleep alone in my bunk tonight.

I began descending a long flight of stone steps which led down to the street below. Before my eyes stretched the whole panorama of a large Oriental city. And within that marvelous city I knew I could probably find anything I desired, as long as I knew how to look for it.

The street was a busy, honking hive of activity. I spotted a taxi on the other side and raised my arm. To my surprise, another cab I hadn’t even noticed screeched to a halt just in front of me, the driver’s face pressed to the window in inquiry. I nodded and got in back.

When the driver peered around at me, I hesitated for a moment. Then, with the recklessness which only comes to you when you’re in a foreign country, I said boldly: “Take me to a gay bar.”

The driver looked puzzled.

“A gay bar,” I repeated slowly.

“Geibah?”

“Yes. A homosexual bar.”

“Homosess bah?”

“Yes. Homosex…two men.” I held up two fingers. “Two men…sex.”

He tilted his head in perplexity as if confronted by an unfathomable mystery. For a split second I thought he might not know that two men could actually have sex with each other. Then I remembered the Chinese erotic classics I’d read.

Meanwhile the cab was obstructing the flow of traffic and the other cars were oozing past us with much bleating of horns.

“Here, look,” I said. Feeling a little foolish, I held out my hands and clenched them into fists. With my right index finger I simulated a penis coming to erection. Then with my left hand I did the same. I brought them together, capping off my pantomime with the explanation: “Gay bar. Homo bar.”

The driver scratched his head and looked at me closely. Evidently he was convinced he had a dangerous customer on his hands. Leaning over his seat back, he glanced down at my feet, no doubt searching for any weapons I might have concealed. I had the feeling he wanted to get rid of me. But then I spotted the pencil he had lodged behind his ear. Feeling pressured, I grabbed it and pointed to a piece of paper on the front seat. As soon as he handed it to me, I rapidly sketched a picture of two nude men embracing, then held it up for his perusal. “Gay bar,” I repeated.

He began to nod vigorously. “Ah, yah! Yah! I know. Gei-bah. I take you Taipei.”

Relieved but wary, I asked, “How much?”

“Ten dollar.”

“Sounds good to me.”

I sat back in relief, exhausted.

The driver dropped his baseball cap over the meter and slapped the shifter into gear, and the cab leaped out into the flow of traffic. Nodding and chuckling, happy now that the problem had been solved, he turned around to look at me without even slowing down. “You go gei-bah?”

I nodded, my terrified eyes glued to the traffic ahead.

He turned forward again but continued to examine me in the rear view mirror. When he smiled, the silver inlays in his teeth gleamed. But his smile was completely friendly.

He held up his wrist and tapped at his wristwatch, saying something rapidly in Chinese. I leaned forward, wondering if he meant to raise the fare. I knew it was a 50-minute ride into the capital city.

But now he tried to explain something in English. I understood that he had to make a stop at his home before leaving Keelung.

He veered out of our lane and, to my alarm, calmly maneuvered down the opposite lane (whose traffic was halted a block in front of us by a red light.) Just before the light changed and the line of waiting cars (already honking their horns in anticipation) could charge out, he whipped the cab down a narrow side alley.

Before I knew what was happening, we emerged onto what looked like a spacious schoolyard. Jungle gyms, seesaws, slides whipped past us. We didn’t even slow down. Children, still playing, jumped out of our way to the left and right.

Then we turned into another lane lined on both sides by small apartment buildings. As we pulled to a skidding halt, the driver jumped out, shouting something at me over his shoulder. Still puzzled, I stepped shakily out and looked around.

The driver was talking with a woman who was taking down some washing from a drying pole. She stared curiously at me as she listened.

The driver waved to me. “My wife,” he said, smiling.

I gave a little bow and smiled in return to her greeting.

She turned to her husband again and continued their conversation, in the course of which I caught the word, “homo.” The woman peered at me again and smiled—but though there was no malice in it, I felt a little miffed.

I pointed to myself and said, “Yes, I’m a homo,” as if I were introducing myself. “How do you do?”

“Homo?”

“Yes, homo. As in queer. Fairy. Faggot. Fruit loop. Delighted to meet you, my dear.” I held out my hand with the wrist limp, as if I were dangling a purse from it.

Giggling, she grasped it uncertainly, turning to her husband and repeating, “Homo? Homo?” Then she turned back to me again and pumped my hand vigorously before letting go.

I pantomimed a curtsey and batted my eyelashes. For some reason I felt an exhilarating release.

“Out of the closets and into the streets!” I fluted. “You don’t know how long I’ve been wanting to say that!”

Her face crinkled in delight as she brought her sleeve up to her face to hide her laughter.

I was sure she didn’t know what I was babbling about. Something had triggered my hilarity and I felt impelled by some deep inner need to let it all out. Adopting all the stereotypical gay mannerisms, I began lisping and giggling as I talked with myself. But mixed in with my clowning was a bittersweet feeling of hurt, for I realized I was acting out the degrading fate of so many homosexuals whose role it was to play the clown for the straight world’s entertainment. As long as we kept them laughing, they wouldn’t see the real tears behind our smiles. But once they saw any weakness they’d close in for the kill.

I got back into the car; the driver danced around to his side and slipped into his seat. With a final wave to his wife, he shifted the gear into reverse and backed the car up. As we pulled away, I waved to his wife and blew her kisses, and continued to do so until she disappeared from view. She never stopped waving and smiling.

I sank back into the seat cushions. What a strange country, I thought.

We got to Taipei about 50 minutes later, via the expressway. After the pandemonium of downtown traffic, the highway was relatively relaxing. I knew the Navy had provided a shuttle bus to take sailors to the capital city, but I didn’t mind paying for the luxury of having a cab to myself.

We headed toward an off-ramp and descended once again into the world of snarled traffic and heart-stopping stunts by daredevil drivers. After cruising around for 20 minutes or so we pulled up in front of a row of bars in a narrow alleyway. One of the bars was a little larger, more garish-looking than its neighbors, and it was the one the driver excitedly pointed out to me.

“Gei-bah,” he said proudly.

“Yes, thank you.” I counted out the fare and left a tip. The driver was very happy at this, for tips are very rare in the Orient. I watched him back the car up and disappear around a corner, giving me a last vigorous wave of his hand.

Evening was falling and neon lights were coming on here and there, giving off their distinctive metallic fizzing sound. I glanced up at the lavender cowboy hat which advertised this bar, the “Far West Club.” Though the name gave me a moment of misgiving, I stepped inside.

It was dark within. A discreet screen of potted palms prevented me from seeing at a glance what sort of place it was. I stepped in a little farther and saw immediately that it was a place which catered exclusively to foreigners. In the gloom I could pick them out sitting singly or in pairs. Most of them looked like affluent, middle-aged businessmen. I’d come to the wrong place. My intention had been to find a bar where I could meet a Chinese boy. The only Chinese in this place, besides the bartender, were a couple of young boys chatting with an older man.

Of course there was no way the driver could have known what I wanted. To him gay bars were probably all the same. Since I was already inside, I decided to have a drink before setting out to see what I could find on my own.

As I walked up to the bar, I felt every eye in the place on me. Obviously I stood out as the only young foreigner there. As casually as I could, I ordered a Tom Collins. There was no need for anyone to know that this was my first-ever visit to a gay bar. The bartender was very handsome, and he smiled at me as he mixed my drink and set it down before me. I started to relax. Unfortunately, the drink turned out to be sickly sweet. It was so hard to get a decent cocktail in the Orient.

I glanced into the mirror behind the bar as I sipped my drink. A heavyset man in the corner was eyeing me steadily. I tried to signal my disinterest by flicking my eyes away with a bored look but it had no effect. I could tell out of the corner of my eye that he hadn’t left off staring at me.

To my annoyance, he got up from his booth seat and made his way toward the counter.

“May I?” he asked as he slid onto the stool next to mine.

I felt like getting up and leaving, but I just nodded, feeling trapped.

He wasn’t an American—that much was obvious from his accent. I tried to recall where I’d heard that accent before but couldn’t quite place it. As I sought an excuse to make my escape, I examined him.

He was quite drunk. His gray suit jacket gaped open, and the knot of his tie had been loosened. The smell of alcohol emanating from him seemed like a permanent aura, and something about him indicated an at-home ease with the besotted state. There were puffy bags under his eyes and rolls of flesh bulged over his collar. Yet from the sensuous look in his heavy-lidded eyes, I could easily imagine that he’d once been quite handsome.

“Are you an American?” he asked in a raspy voice. He spoke English carefully and precisely as people do when they master it as a second language.

“Yes.”

“Oh?” He looked delighted. “An airman?”

I knew there was a large Air Force base in Taipei so it was only natural that he’d taken me for an airman. I nodded.

“What’s your job?” he asked.

“I’m a dental tech. And you?”

“A businessman.” He said it as if he were slightly sorry that he couldn’t offer a more romantic line of business.

The ceiling fans clipped the air above our heads, and stale disco music crooned from the wall speakers. The two Chinese boys were dancing together while their companion looked on. I turned back to my own companion and met the stare which had never left me. His eyes gleamed with a steely hardness which was almost cruel. I felt a twinge of uneasiness.

“So where are you from?” I asked, to shake his stare.

“Czechoslovakia.”

So he was from Eastern Europe. And then it hit me: his accent had sounded Russian. “What brings you to Taiwan?”

“I’m on the advisory board of a shipbuilding firm here.”

“A Czechoslovakian company?”

“No, it’s actually owned by certain interests in Taiwan and India.”

“Oh.” I knew that international business often involved Byzantine methods of operation, but something about the way he explained the situation struck me as being false, and I instinctively knew he was lying. But why should he lie? I became intrigued. “For a second I thought you might be Russian,” I said. “That was my first impression. You have a Russian-sounding accent.”

“Do I? It’s interesting that you should say that.”

“Why?”

“Oh, maybe I shouldn’t talk so much.”

“No, come on. I’m curious.”

He shook his head. “Let’s not talk about business. It’s so boring.”

“But you’re the one who started it. You asked me first what my job was.”

He downed his drink and signaled to the bartender for another. I saw he was drinking bourbon. If he kept on drinking them at this rate, I was sure he’d get drunk enough to let a few more facts slip out—and I was just intrigued enough to wonder what his game was. He seemed to be pondering whether or not to say something. And then he went ahead:

“I don’t know if you are aware of it, but the Soviets are not looked upon too kindly by the Taipei government.”

“So?”

“Well, just suppose that I was attached to an unnamed Eastern bloc embassy here. I wouldn’t want to advertise the fact, would I?”

“Let’s just say you were. What then?”

“You seem interested.”

“Maybe I am.”

He gave a deep throaty chuckle. “One might almost think you believed everything I was just saying.”

“Come on, why are you making fun of me?”

“I’m not. But I could get into serious trouble if I kid you any longer.”

“You’re only making me more interested...as if you didn’t know. You’re good at this, you know that? What are you, a Soviet spy or something?”

“Now you’re making fun of me.” He peered closely at me. “What would you do if I was one? Hmm?”

“Well, are you?”

“Of course not. Why would a Soviet agent—just assuming I was such a thing—be interested in a young airman like you? I mean, I doubt if you would have access to any military secrets which would be of any value.”

“And what makes you think I don’t?”

“You’re just a dental tech, after all.”

“Do you believe everything you’re told?”

I found the situation indescribably delicious. Wasn’t this exactly the sort of thing we’d been warned about in boot camp? I remembered the instructors solemnly lecturing about why homosexuality was prohibited in the armed services: a foreign agent could use the knowledge to blackmail you into giving away military secrets. At the time I’d laughed at the ridiculousness of the explanation, and yet here I was in that classic scene. It was so hackneyed that I expected at any moment for a director to pop out and yell, “Cut!”, then complain about our third-rate acting.

What added spice to the situation was that he might actually be a Soviet agent. Yet I couldn’t believe that any agent would make himself this obvious, especially on the first meeting. What was more likely was that he was actually an American working with military intelligence to catch unwary, loose-lipped airmen. If that was the case, I’d have to be careful not to get into trouble. I decided to play dumb, maybe even tease him a little. Two could play at this game…and it was getting to be fun.

“What time is it?” I asked suddenly.

He glanced at his watch. “A little after seven.”

“I’m getting hungry. I guess I’ll go out for a bite to eat.”

“I know of an excellent restaurant nearby.”

“No, that’s okay. I just thought….” He was nibbling at the hook.

“Let me take you there. It’s just around the corner. I’ll even treat you. You’re my guest tonight.”

“Really? Thanks.”

We got up to go. He paid both our bills.

The restaurant was a block and a half away, on the main thoroughfare. Its decor was Western-style and it looked expensive. A glance at the menu confirmed this. Demurely, I ordered the most expensive item on it, a “New York steak” with all the trimmings. My friend didn’t bat an eyelash.

It was my first steak in a long time and I ate it with gusto. But my companion didn’t seem to have much of an appetite. He watched me eat with glowing eyes as if he got a sensual pleasure out of it.

“By the way,” I said with my mouth full, “you never did tell me your name.”

“Call me Dmitri.”

I stopped eating. “You’re kidding.”

“Why would I kid you about my own name? What’s yours?”

“Tim.”

He was almost a parody of a Soviet spy. Not even military intelligence could be this bad. Maybe he really was what he claimed to be. On the other hand, I knew from talking with some of the guys onboard who worked with classified materials that there were many Soviet agents around. The Soviets had been known to be incredibly clumsy sometimes.

“That was a delicious meal,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

“My pleasure. I’m glad you liked it.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s still a little early. Where would you like to go now?”

“I have no special plans. Why?”

“The reason I ask is that there is a wonderful view of the city from my hotel room.”

“Who writes your scripts for you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sorry. I was just talking to myself.”

“So...would you like to come to my room?”

I glanced around and said in a low voice: “It’s gonna cost you.”

“I understand,” he replied evenly.

I shrugged. “Then let’s go.”

He signaled for the check.

The Hotel Marco Polo turned out to be within walking distance of the restaurant. On the way there I amused myself with the various scenarios I could act out when I got to his room. Despite my hint that my sexual favors were available for a price, I had no intention of actually going through with it. When the time came, I could always play dumb, and act like the straight who didn’t know he was being propositioned. If he really was a Czech businessman, though, I had nothing to lose by going to bed with him. I even wondered idly how much money I could make off him. But I had to act on the assumption that he was either a Soviet agent or an American posing as one. Nothing I’d said or done so far could incriminate me. I hadn’t told him my real name. He didn’t even know I was in the Navy. The remark I’d let slip about it “costing” him could be taken to mean anything. I was completely covered.

As we approached the hotel, however, my euphoria began to fade. I began to get scared. In the elevator, my drunken companion hummed disconnected snatches of an unfamiliar tune.

We got off on the eighth floor. My paranoia mounted. I had a mental vision of the hotel room in which every piece of furniture was clearly visible, even down to the hidden cameras and concealed microphones. My name was not known, but I wouldn’t be able to deny anything if there were photos as evidence.

Then I caught myself thinking: How silly.

But then, so was everything else.

As he fumbled with the keys at the door, I muttered, “No, I don’t like this room.”

“Don’t like it? But why?”

“I just don’t like it, that’s why!” I snapped back, more viciously than I’d intended. He looked hurt.

“Shall we find another room?”

“Yes. Another room.”

He sighed, and we went back down to the front desk in silence. There, much to my chagrin, he began berating the clerk mercilessly over some imagined fault with the room. I felt sorry for the poor clerk who was trying so hard to discover exactly what was wrong. In the end he led us up to another room with Dmitri scowling and fuming all the while. What made it worse was that Dmitri would turn the sweetest, most cloying face upon me behind the clerk’s back, as if we were in complicity.

In the new room, Dmitri made a show of imperiously inspecting it, then turned to me almost submissively for my approval. I nodded, much to the clerk’s relief, no doubt. But even as he ducked quickly out the door with final apologies, Dmitri shot further imprecations at his departing back, warning him never to let it happen again.

“You really gave him hell, didn’t you?” I said.

“You have to be like that with these people. They need to know who’s in charge; it’s part of their culture.”

He suggested we order drinks from room service to relax after our ordeal. I agreed. The cocktail, when it was brought up, was much more to my liking than the ones I’d had back at the bar. Glass in hand, I walked over to the picture-glass window and gazed out at the city.

He hadn’t lied. The view was indeed wonderful. From this height, the lights of the traffic below were like mysterious signals from another planet. The beauty of the sight gave no hint of the frantic pandemonium it actually was. The sky was completely dark now, and columnar searchlight beams wheeled back and forth across it, sweeping the heavens from all corners of the city. I thought of the tanks and troop carriers parked along the perimeter of the airport, by bridges and other militarily strategic spots.

Taking a sip of my Tom Collins, I set my glass down on a side table. It occurred to me that lately, alcohol had become almost a necessary prelude to sex, as if something had to be deadened or killed before intimacy could blossom. Back in high school, sex had always been so spontaneous, and the pleasure I got from it so intense. Since then, layers of experience had deadened those undiluted joys. I looked down at my drink...the pain killer...then picked it up and took another sip.

In the reflection in the window I saw my companion pulling off his shirt and thought: what a big hurry he’s in—all for nothing. I gazed down at the traffic again and wondered how I should break the news to him.

Suddenly I was jolted by the leathery touch of his damp fingers. They wormed their way between the buttons of my shirt and played over my bare chest. Instinctively I recoiled, jabbing my elbow back into his stomach as I whirled around to face him.

“Don’t touch me, faggot!” I snarled.

The surprised look on his face changed to alarm as I raised my fist. In that instant several things happened. A keen, acrid smell stung my nostrils. The cringing, almost begging look on his face disgusted me, but what filled me with revulsion was that somehow I knew—instantly, and without the need for words—that he wanted to be hit...indeed, that he was begging me for it.

A sudden rush of anger keened through my nerves. I saw a flash of pink and felt a stinging pain in my knuckles. I’d punched him. His cheek was red where I’d hit him.

A beatific look lit up his face, a look of deliverance. He dropped clumsily to his knees and began whimpering in a blubbering voice: “No, please, don’t hit me again like that. I didn’t mean to touch you.”

Something like bile welled up in my throat. His servile position, his big, pleading eyes made me sick. A multitude of thoughts crowded my mind at lightning speed: the sweet feeling of surrender as I squirmed blissfully in the arms of a lover...the excitement of rough-housing with a friend, when he twists my arms up behind my back, clamping my wrists together in a powerful grip which makes tears come to my eyes...Andrews in Hong Kong, towering over me, looking down at me with loathing and disgust....

The quivering face before me suddenly completed the picture. This man was a grotesque mirror of my own self. This could be me in a few years. I knew exactly what he wanted because I secretly wanted the same thing.

I was infuriated.

I brought my hand down in a slap, twisting that ugly face around. He offered no resistance, no retaliation, just a steady stream of blubbering pleas. I felt sick. Balling my hands into fists, I began pummeling him blindly, frantically, and heard the slaps and thuds of soft flesh. It felt like dough. My knuckles started to get warm but I couldn’t stop. I was like a machine impelled by some outside force to go through these motions. Each slap of skin against skin was something that had nothing to do with me, was something completely outside of me. As sick as I felt, I enjoyed this grueling session. A release of some kind flooded me, heightening my awareness, a heady, intoxicating feeling which was an exact counterpart to that other physiological release, laughter.

He finally dropped to the floor and a gush of blood shot out from his nose, staining the carpet. I kicked at his inert body and didn’t stop until I was physically unable to continue anymore. My blind fury had drained out of me and I leaned over to catch my breath. The harsh sound of my panting was the only sound in the room—the only sound in the whole hotel, for all I knew. I was bathed in a clammy sweat and my heart rate was incredibly high.

The naked torso on the carpet quivered once. The towel was still draped around its neck.

“He’s dead,” I thought, and gazed around me in a daze. Everything looked clean and sharp-focused, as if I were seeing a picture taken with a high-resolution lens. I thought of the cameras in the wall. Without a moment’s hesitation, I headed for the door. And then I halted. On the bed lay a wallet, thick with bills. I grabbed it and quickly rifled its contents, pulling out the bills and stuffing them into my pocket before tossing the wallet aside.

And then I was running down the empty hallway. No one was about. Where was everyone? Hadn’t they heard the commotion? I jabbed at the elevator button several times but couldn’t wait for it to come up. I pictured its doors opening upon a cop or a hotel employee. I rushed to the stairs and bounded down them two, three steps at a time. The loud rasping of my breathing echoed in the concrete stairwell, drowning out every other sound. I felt like a trapped animal.

As I dashed out into the lobby and hurried past the checkout desk, the clerks cast strange looks at me. At the front entrance the uniformed doorman bowed to me automatically as I tripped rapidly down the steps to the street below.

It was still quite busy, and I searched frantically among the beeping cars for a taxi. I wanted to get as far away from this place as possible.

An arm hooked itself around my elbow and I whirled around angrily to come face to face with a shocked-looking man astride a bicycle. He backed away from the fury he saw in my eyes.

“What do you want?” I asked, thinking he was a plain-clothes cop.

“You like girl?” he said. “Want fucky-fucky tonight?”

I almost laughed in relief. A bicycle pimp.

He still looked scared and uncertain.

“It’s okay,” I said. “You just scared me, that’s all.”

“You go short-time?” he asked cautiously.

I nodded, and without another word, followed him.

Singapore

We were entering a region of eternal summer. Here near the equator where the climate was sultry and muggy, a fine spray seemed to hang perpetually in the air, infecting us all with a sensual languor.

I was up on the signal bridge clad only in cut-offs, as were most of the guys who had to work outside. Using the high-powered binoculars bolted to the deck (which we called the “big-eyes”) I scanned the shoreline of a tiny island off the east coast of Borneo. These were the tropics of my daydreams, thatch-roofed houses perched upon stilts over the water with, just below them, dugout canoes moored to wooden palings. How often had I fantasized about living in a grass-roofed shack with some lovely brown-skinned island boy, lazing my time away on the beach or splashing nude in a cool lagoon?

Suddenly I heard steps on the deck behind me and turned around to see Senior Chief Russell, the gunners’ chief.

“What are you doing up here, Doc?” He peered at me suspiciously with his glazed-looking eyes. Strictly speaking, he wasn’t my supervisor so he had no right to harass me like this; and this wasn’t even his workspace. But Chief Russell was well known for giving the young guys on board a hard time. I hated the playful pokes in the chest he always gave me—they really hurt.

“Just checking out the scenery, chief.”

The sweat was glistening in the creases of his puffy red face.

“Better get your eyeful now, wog, while you can still see,” he growled with a sinister smirk. He was hinting at the initiation rites awaiting me and the others when we crossed the equator tomorrow. “Get back to work before I tell your first class that you’re screwing off during working hours.” He chased me off the signal bridge.

For the past few weeks there had been secret meetings and mysterious preparations going on among those members of the crew who’d already crossed the line. They were called “shellbacks” to distinguish them from the “pollywogs” or “wogs”—those sailors unfortunate enough never to have crossed the equator. Darkly hinted warnings and threats had hovered in the air for days now about the ordeals in store for us. Navy tradition decreed that shellbacks held absolute sway over pollywogs on the day the ship crossed the line, regardless of rank. (Not even our pollywog captain would be free from persecution.)

I took all this blustering for what it was, a traditional build-up for some silly, harmless initiation rites. Remembering boot camp, I felt safe in assuming that despite all these sinister warnings, no harm would come to anyone. It was nothing more than a morale-building change from the drab routine of underway cruising...a bit of fun and color. I even began to look forward to it.

The next morning I was awakened by the sound of loud thwacks. Over the ship’s 1MC, instead of the usual “Reveille, reveille. All hands heave out and trice up!” came this variation: “All right, you slimy wogs. It’s time for you to wake up and have some fun!” The lights glared on and I was treated to the sight of three shellback crewmates dressed in ridiculous get-ups as pirates and hangmen, brandishing cut-off lengths of fire hose or “shillelaghs,” with which they pounded the deck with all their might, adding the noise of their yells to try to arouse terror in us. But we took it all in the spirit of the game, giving the expected feeble groans of protest and willingly falling in line. They forced us down onto our hands and knees, and in that position, marched us all the way to the mess deck where we were treated to a breakfast of raw oysters and scrambled eggs dyed green.

After eating this, we were driven—still on our hands and knees—by these hose-thwacking Furies from one end of the ship to the other. Finally we were lined up and ushered one by one onto the forecastle where we were sprayed down with a fire hose.

All of this was accompanied by a constant stream of abuse from the shellbacks (“Crawl, you filthy, slimy wog!”) but none of it was actually intended to hurt. In fact, the more popular members of the crew had to put up with the most abuse. But this abuse never got physical. The scary thwacks of the shillelaghs never fell upon a person. If they did—as when someone was singled out for his “rebellious” behavior—they always fell lightly upon the butt.

To me it had all the elements of a play-acted sadism: the loud and harmless smacks, the stream of verbal abuse, the subservient position of the initiates. There was a heady sexual aspect to the whole thing, and I doubted if I was the only pollywog that day who sported a secret erection as he enjoyed living out his fantasies of sexual submission.

Certain pollywogs had been put on a “black list” for special punishment, and these had a shellback assigned to them to ensure added misery. For some reason I was one of them. The shellback assigned to me was a chubby, bespectacled first class sonar tech who’d been paying close attention to me for some time now. But I’d consistently ignored him, and apparently he wasn’t going to let my snubs go unpunished.

In a ridiculous travesty of a macho stance, he glared down at me on my hands and knees and lisped, “You’re on my list, wog.” And I knew I probably was: the long list of boys who’d spurned his advances. There was a fevered gleam in his eyes as I glared defiantly up at him. In a fit of pique, he brought his shillelagh down on my butt with firm, even strokes, and those strokes communicated a secret message of frustrated love which tingled through my nerves.

As the day went on, the sexual aspects of the initiation ceremony became embarrassingly apparent. The morning was highlighted by the selection of one boy from each division to be represented in a beauty contest whose winner was to become “Neptune’s bride.” These boys were hustled away to secret rooms where chief petty officers, their hands trembling from something perhaps more than coffee shakes, skillfully applied make-up and dressed their living dolls with the finest care.

Apparently these chiefs had stowed on board all the necessary items from the very start of the cruise: cosmetics from their wives’ vanity tables, cast-off dresses donated by their daughters, and sexy lingerie bought or wheedled from prostitutes all over the Pacific.

After they shaved the boys’ legs, the chiefs began working their magic, using bikini panties, girdles, garter belts, nylon stockings, padded bras, and bedroom wigs. When they were done, they paraded their lovelies one by one onto the flight deck, where the “girls” were greeted by the delighted cheers of the onlooking sailors.

I listened to the joking comments around me and overheard more than one guy confess to an astonished admiration. Most were startled at how attractive these boys had become by using the same tricks that girls accomplished with make-up. I saw from the fevered gleams in their eyes that, under cover of this charade, they were giving way to the dormant desires which sleep in every male. Joking about the length of time we’d been out at sea—to set their minds at rest—they openly commented on how pretty some of the boys were. The feminine dresses making such thoughts “acceptable,” they momentarily allowed life-long inhibitions to melt away and acknowledged an attraction to boys in one of the few ways allowed by society.

I myself felt that the boys were degrading themselves. However, from the looks in their eyes, I could tell that some of them enjoyed it all: the attention, the wolf whistles (to which they answered with seductive waggles of their butt,) and perhaps even the humiliation.

None of the boys camping it up were among those sailors suspected of being homosexual. If someone like Kyle Roberts or his friend Brad Trinkle had been selected, it would have betrayed the clean, innocent fun this was meant to be. But I noticed that the boy chosen from each division was almost unerringly the one who had caught my eye as being the cutest; at least my standards of beauty didn’t differ radically from most heteros’.

The grand finale of the day’s festivities was a massive mock torture chamber set up on the flight deck. We had to endure this last hurdle of humiliation before we could be elevated to shellback status. I joined my fellow wogs in the waiting line and, when my turn came, crawled past the corner of the helo hangar to meet the fate which awaited me.

First, two kinds of machine grease were smeared all over my face and body, then rubbed into my hair. Then flour was thrown all over me. After that I was dragged before “King Neptune’s throne” on which was seated the fattest and ugliest man aboard, Senior Chief Russell, clad only in his shorts. Next to him sat the lovely beauty queen wearing a tinsel crown. I was forced to kneel before them both and humbly beg to be considered worthy enough to enter King Neptune’s realm. By way of answer, Chief Russell grabbed me by the head and shoved my face into his fat, protruding belly which had been plentifully smeared with grease. Somehow I felt he was being much rougher than necessary with me. I recalled his sinister warning up on the signal bridge.

Once past this, I had to traverse a long chute into which had been dumped all the garbage from the ship’s galley for the past two weeks. But even before I could crawl into it, someone thrust a raw oyster into my mouth, with the warning that I would be checked at the other end to make sure it remained in my mouth. If it wasn’t, I’d have to do it all over again. The vinyl tunnel, I found, was liberally lined with the puke retched up by those who couldn’t make it on the first try. I closed my eyes and scrambled all the way through to the other end with the slimy gob in my mouth. Someone was standing there blocking my way out but I fought past him. And as I spit out the oyster, the command’s senior CPO—Master Chief Smith—shook my hand and congratulated me, welcoming me into the official ranks of shellbacks. The ship’s sprinkler system was on and I enjoyed a blessed washdown.

I hadn’t found the ordeal difficult at all. In fact, I’d been quite excited by the keen sexual pitch of the whole thing. How much more effective the rites would have been if we’d all been naked! I tried to imagine what the initiation rites must have been like in the old days before the Navy officially sanctioned them, hence taming their character. Neptune’s bride was probably really a bride in every sense of the word, being enjoyed by every sailor on board, from the captain on down.

I rushed down to my compartment to peel out of my besmirched clothes, then went up to the showers to wash away all the muck on my face and body. In the privacy of the shower stall I reveled in the warm, cleansing jets of water, and then sought relief of another kind, with the palms of both my hands slick with soap.

Singapore, like Hong Kong, had had its image sanitized, sterilized and disinfected by its modern leaders, and almost nothing remained of its once-glorious reputation. Now it was just another modern metropolis whose sleek hotels and discos had replaced the fabled dives and opium dens.

I had duty the first day in port, so I didn’t have a chance to explore it until the following day. However, I heard reports that night from the guys returning from liberty. The general opinion seemed to be that Singapore was “dead”—in other words, it lacked bars and girls. The only hot spot in town, the one remaining vestige of its old immorality, seemed to be a place called Bugis Street. Apparently it was a mecca for transvestites throughout Southeast Asia...and a popular tourist spot where straights and their families could enjoy the entertaining show the “girls” put on.

The next day I spent the afternoon with a shipmate named Richie (the boy I’d witnessed masturbating in the forward crew’s head one time) exploring the outdoor markets. As darkness fell, he suggested we go to Bugis Street. He’d gone there the previous night and had enjoyed it so much that he urged me to join him on a return visit tonight. After an initial show of reluctance, I accepted.

We ate a leisurely dinner at a hotel restaurant, then had ourselves driven to Bugis Street by a tricycle pedi-cab whose tiny driver pedaled us with apparent ease up the wide, palm tree-lined boulevard.

At first glance, Bugis Street seemed like any other street in the city, located in what appeared to be the commercial district. The tables of outdoor cafes lined both sides of the street, with groups of tourists sitting at them as if at ringside seats of a show. Most of them were foreigners, but others looked Malay.

I noted sailors here and there who’d come out of curiosity—and perhaps a lack of any other place to go. Some of them were crewmates, while others were probably off the Blue Ridge which was also in port.

At this hour of night Bugis Street seemed to be the only area alive in this part of the city. The rest was dark and quiet. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was only 11:30, still a little too early for the show. As we strolled through the crowd looking for an empty table, we were hailed by a couple of shipmates. We joined them at their table and ordered drinks.

On the stroke of midnight the boy-girls began coming out, singly at first, then in pairs and groups. In their beautiful dresses and long black hair, boys who had been transformed into lovely girls strutted like rare birds of paradise released from their cages to be admired for their delicate plumes.

They stopped here and there to chat amiably with the tourists. Apparently they were almost like stars to the Malays for I saw them signing autographs on souvenir postcards with their photos on them. This show had all the air of a ritualized ceremony, and the boys were like performers who were well aware of the effect they were creating.

Since Singapore was a melting pot of Malay, Chinese, Indian, Islamic and European cultures, the boys were ethnically exotic to begin with, but with the added exoticism of blended genders, the resulting androgyny gave them an almost unhealthy pitch of beauty. They were like rare artificial hothouse blooms carefully nurtured by a mad botanist with a grotesquely twisted sense of aesthetics.

I was captivated.

Two of the boy-girls came over to our table and began chatting with us. Their English had been perfected by long practice. Though not among the most attractive ones there, they were easily prettier than most of the real girls sitting at the nearby tables.

Indeed it was sometimes difficult to tell the real girls from the illusions, though a certain exotic look about the latter immediately set them apart. With some of the boys it was obvious: slight Adam’s apples bobbed when they talked, and there was a certain hardness about the lines of their faces, an angularity to their limbs which made their movements awkward. But others had had hormone treatments which gave them a softer, rounded femininity. These boys wore low cut dresses which clearly revealed the generous swelling of their bosoms. And yet even among these, I knew there were some who still retained their masculine birthright down below, though others had been ignominiously “clipped.” It was a sweet guessing game to wonder which ones were...or weren’t.

Rather than their physical looks, what gave them away as imitations was their outrageous behavior. No real girl would dare to feast her eyes so boldly on a sailor’s delicious body, or make her desire so openly known. Beneath our table I felt the groping hand of one of the boy-girls eagerly explore my crotch. My friends were also being felt up, as was apparent from their feeble, joking resistance.

This was like a dream. Here in the very presence of my straight shipmates was a lovely Malay boy running his fingers over my erection. And my shipmates were protesting—but not opposing—the aggressive assaults of the “girls” sitting with them. They took it all as a joke, or a daring taste of an unfamiliar world of sin. But if any of these boy-girls had been dressed in an ordinary masculine fashion, my friends would have beaten them to a pulp. It was the dresses they wore which gave them an extraordinary license that they flaunted as much as they liked.

Still, beneath all the play lurked a dangerous tension, for at any moment the masquerade could be exposed, and the fraudulent girls unmasked. When I looked into their eyes I could see the boys hiding behind the facade of their make-up. My senses reeled at the magic mirror effect of it all, the topsy-turvy world of blended genders. Feeling a giddiness come over me, I suddenly stood up and said to my companions: “I’m gonna take a walk around. I’ll see you later.” They probably thought I was disgusted by the goings-on.

As I strolled along the avenue, I had the impression that this gaily-lit street was a cabaret roofed over by the spangled ceiling of a cool tropical night. It was hard to believe that this was a commercial street by day, crowded with vehicular and pedestrian traffic, and only at night was magically transformed into a giddy fairyland. I didn’t even have to feign my drunkenness. I felt as if I were inside a noisy, smoke-filled dancehall...an illusion, of course. Transvestites came up to me and boldly flirted, and I traded gibes with them. Their androgyny allowed me to combine my desire for boys with the socially accepted facade of a “healthy” interest in girls.

As I made my way through the crowd, a particularly lovely transvestite sitting alone at a table caught my eye. She was sipping her drink through a straw, and when she noticed me gazing at her, she returned my look with an unmistakable sign of interest.

Without a doubt she was the prettiest one there, and when she batted her lashes in an exaggerated parody of a girl’s flirtatious manner, I smiled back my approval—as if we both implicitly mocked and rejected the world of women.

I stopped where I was and stood watching her for a while. Men would stop at her table and try to make small talk with her, but she always shook her head and rejected them before casting a coy look in my direction. After a while I worked up my courage and decided to try my luck.

“Hi,” I smiled. “Mind if I sit down?”

She smiled back and nodded. I pulled out a chair and sat down.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Maya,” she said in a whisper.

“That’s a pretty name. My name’s Bill.”

“Bill? I like your name, too.” She smiled.

Looking into her face, I knew I just had to have her tonight.

I ordered a drink from a passing waiter and glanced around at the carnival atmosphere of the street. Making his way through the spaces between tables was a street vendor carrying an armload of dildos and vibrators. Wordlessly he went from table to table offering them for sale. He stopped at one and thrust a wriggling, corkscrewing vibrator right into a startled woman’s face. Disgusted, she shooed him away.

The hour was growing late and tables were emptying out. Most of the straight tourists had already had their requisite eyeful and gone back to their hotels. The majority of those who remained were either drunken sailors or clean-cut looking businessmen who were probably homosexual. I noted some of them going off with transvestites, disappearing into rooms off the alleyways. One drunken sailor came out of a doorway with a big grin on his face, followed by a sulky-looking transvestite.

I looked into Maya’s eyes and wondered how I should make my move. I needed to buy some time, for I didn’t dare leave with her while there were still guys from my ship who could witness me do it. I was about to say something to this effect when I heard a big crash behind me.

I turned around to see one of my earlier companions come reeling past the table of an Australian couple nearby. Before I could look away he caught my attention.

“There you are, Billy-boy. Trying to hide from me, eh?”

I groaned inwardly and continued to watch as the drink in his wavering hand spilled all over the front of the Australian woman’s dress. At the sound of her gasp he turned around, almost knocking the umbrella stand off their table.

“Gosh, I’m sorry.” He was about to explain himself but she impatiently waved him away, then got up to leave with her husband. My friend continued his journey toward our table and without an invitation pulled out a chair to join us. I shot Maya a look of regret which I hoped was understood. There was still a chance, however, that my friend was only taking a momentary break in his drunken perambulations. I waited a few minutes but it seemed he intended to stay. I was forced to introduce him.

“Maya, this is a friend from my ship. We call him Mad-dog.”

She dipped her head slightly as he eyed her in a lustful manner, murmuring, “It’s too bad, you know...you could really pass for one, you know.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He was not homosexual, but his intoxication had weakened his ability to hide or suppress his naked desire.

But Maya only had eyes for me. As it became clear that Mad-dog had no intention of leaving, I tried to signal my impatience. I was worried that Maya would think I wasn’t interested in her, that I was only talking with her to pass the time. But I couldn’t say anything openly to her with Mad-dog there...and in my panic I couldn’t think of a way to shake him. I could pretend to leave with him and come back later, alone, for Maya. But I was afraid she’d leave with another sailor before I got back. In fact she might leave at any moment to escape Mad-dog’s unwelcome company.

I had her hand in my grasp under the table and wasn’t about to let it go.

Just then we were distracted by a commotion from across the street. To the accompaniment of scattered applause, one of the transvestites was climbing up onto the roof of the public latrine next to the street.

“What’s going on, Maya?”

“Watch. It’s a Bugis Street tradition.”

While we looked on, the transvestite turned her back to us and bent over, pulling up her dress to expose her butt. She had crumpled up a newspaper and twisted it into a cone-shaped funnel, which she now thrust—small end first—into her anus, making it appear as if a trumpet-shaped flower had blossomed there. Then, as the cheering crowd watched, as assistant set fire to it with a lighter. The crowd went wild. In an instant the newspaper flower burst into flames before it was doused by the assistant.

The transvestite descended from the latrine to the sound of applause. But she’d barely taken her bows when a sailor from the Blue Ridge climbed shakily up to the roof she’d just vacated. To the accompaniment of even more cheers, he pulled his pants down and waggled his bottom in the air. Someone handed him a newspaper and he unhesitatingly repeated the feat. Wild cheers greeted his act.

Meanwhile, Mad-dog was becoming impatient. I felt an uneasy premonition which was confirmed when he said: “I’m going up there, too!”

I grabbed him before he could rush off, and had to restrain him by force. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “You’ll only make a fool out of yourself.”

I held onto him until things had quieted down a bit, and when I finally let him go, he muttered, “I’m gonna go take a piss. Really.” He got up to go to the latrine.

As I watched him weave away, I saw my chance. I leaned over to whisper into Maya’s ear: “Meet me out by the taxis.” There was a taxi stand located conveniently nearby, on the nearest main thoroughfare. She nodded, smiling, and I went to join my buddy in the restroom. Needless to say, I couldn’t leave with Maya just then, for Mad-dog would have become suspicious if he returned to see us both gone.

I took the urinal next to his and announced that I was going back to the ship.

“Not me, man,” he replied, “I’m sticking around.”

“Oh?”

He leaned confidentially toward me. “Is she...he...it still out there?”

I winced at the epithet. “I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

“Hell, I don’t know about you, but that thing out there sure looked good to me—at least good enough to get a blow job from. I’m telling you I wouldn’t mind. It looked that good.”

We stepped out and to my relief Maya was nowhere in sight.

“I guess she went home,” I said dryly. I glanced at Mad-dog, wondering if he would catch on to the trick.

He was peering at the thinning crowd, muttering, “Shit, the lousy bitch took off on me.”

“You mean you were serious? I mean, about wanting her.”

“Shit, yes. I haven’t had pussy in so long that a sheep would look good to me right now. I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna look for her.”

“Then I’ll see you back at the ship.” I headed away, not waiting for his reply. As I stepped around the corner I spotted the huddle of taxis parked along the curb and picked up my pace. Maya was nowhere in sight and I had a sudden fear that she’d given me the slip. And then I saw a hand waving from the window of a cab. The door opened and I leaped in.

“Let’s go.”

The driver had been idling the engine. Now he put it into gear and we shot off down the empty street. Apparently Maya had already told him our destination.

Now that I was finally alone with her I felt strangely shy, like a boy on his first date. In the dark interior of the cab I kept my hands primly to myself. It was a silent 15-minute ride into the unfamiliar heart of the city where the exotic outlines of mosques were tucked away in niches behind blocks of grocery stores and pharmacies.

We pulled up in front of a row of small concrete apartment buildings. I paid the driver and slipped out, with Maya right behind me. The cool night felt empty after the clamor of music and laughter back at Bugis Street which still echoed in my ears. I spotted a lone woman strolling slowly through the shadows along the sidewalk.

Maya led me to the grilled entryway of one of the apartment houses. A sleepy turbaned old man sat nodding in a wickerwork chair in the vestibule. At a word from Maya he started awake and grumblingly unlocked the gate with a key from an archaic looking bunch which jangled like a stage jailor’s. I had the presence of mind to slip a tip into his hand before following Maya up a steep, narrow staircase. We entered the first doorway on the left, whose flimsy plywood door, I noticed, didn’t even have a lock.

At a glance it was obvious that she didn’t live here. The room had a temporary look to it, containing only an ancient double bed, a small bedside cabinet made of wood, and a washstand with a basin of water on it. The walls were bare. A yellow, half-squeezed out tube of KY lay atop the cabinet, and the sight of it sent a shiver through me. I shut the door behind me and, grasping Maya by the hand, pulled her against me, kissing her hard on the lips. She melted softly against me, for all the world like a real girl.

My head reeled at the curious conflict in my mind between the evidence of my senses and what I thought was real. I knew with my mind that I was holding a boy, yet everything else—the soft, clinging dress, the long, scented hair (which my exploring fingers verified wasn’t a wig), the press of soft breasts, the waxy taste of lipstick against my tongue—told me I had a girl in my arms. So authentic was this illusion that I found myself murmuring the usual banalities that girls love to hear; about how pretty her hair was, how lovely her eyes. My head spun. Just how far was this facade to go on? Up to what point were we, for all practical purposes, a heterosexual couple? Did Maya want to be treated as a girl or a boy? Or as a boy playing at being a girl? The fine distinctions made me dizzy with feverish impatience.

As I reached for the zipper at the back of her dress, Maya evinced a sudden shyness and backed away. In a whisper she asked me to turn around while she undressed. I did so, and began to undress myself, feeling as if I were facing away from an enigma.

When I turned around again, Maya was already lying upon the bed completely naked. I knelt onto the floor beside her and ran my hand delicately over her smooth tanned skin, depilated and soft. With my fingers I explored the pliable firmness of her breasts with their large, cocoa-colored areolas. She had definitely been receiving hormone shots for a long time. The question was, had she gone all the way? I still didn’t know for sure because she had her thighs pressed demurely together, leaving visible only a dainty heart-shaped smudge of pubic hair. I leaned down to kiss her lips again, and felt the soft roll of her tongue gliding into my mouth. I sucked at it as she pushed it in and out, then I felt it wriggle against my own.

I ran my fingers through her hair which was fanned out over the sheets, then slid my hand up and down her body which she undulated like a wave in rhythm with our kisses. She was a real girl in every way. Slowly my fingers inched down into the prickly tangle of hair at her pubis, but when I tried to slip them between her thighs I felt a resistance.

I pulled away from the kiss. My mind rebelled at this cruel optical illusion. I had to see whether the sanctity of the boy’s body had been violated.

Gently, I prized her thighs apart despite her continuing resistance. What was the matter with her? Did she take me for a fool who didn’t know what she was? Or was I expected to carry out the charade to the very end, playing at hetero sex?

The discovery of her delicate manhood came as a relief. It had been squeezed back behind her thighs and held there forcibly for the sake of her silly illusion. I handled it lovingly. It was warm and slightly damp. I bent down to kiss it, then tenderly licked at it. I wanted to assure Maya that I found him attractive as he was—as a boy and not as a girl. And I wanted to chide him in a gentle way for trying to hide what made him more beautiful than any girl could ever hope to be.

Contrary to my expectations, she was slow to respond. Was she unable to have an erection anymore? Or was she unwilling, now that she’d been “unmasked?”

Finally I felt her dick stiffen in my fingers. Only a couple of inches long, it was the cutest little dick I’d ever seen in my life. I wondered if it had been this small to begin with, or had it shrunk down as a result of the hormone shots?

I glanced at her face but she had it turned away. Shame had brought a flush to her chest and shoulders, and it excited me. I’d never encountered such shame before, not even with the shyest of girls.

I reached for the KY.

Maya’s ass was nice and tight, but I had to close my eyes to imagine my partner as a boy at all...to shut out the sight of the high heels on the floor, her stockings and dress folded neatly atop the cabinet. I tried to picture Maya minus the long hair and make-up, and wondered how she had looked before the hormone shots had changed her, softening his body’s curves, giving him breasts where none should be, shrunk his genitals down to a travesty of their original beauty.

I needn’t have worried, though: no butt-fuck with a girl had ever felt this good. Clearly she had learned her moves as a boy. I didn’t even try to make it last; I doubt if I could have. I came in about a minute.

Afterward, as we lay there, I turned to her and said: “You fuck pretty good, Maya…for a ‘girl.’”

She looked away.

I touched her gently on the shoulder. “Listen. What I’m trying to say is, I like you better as a boy.”

“I’m not a boy. I’m a lady.”

“Come on….”

She thrust her chin out defiantly and insisted: “I am a lady.”

“Since when? Since your hormone shots?”

She got up to go.

“Wait a minute, Maya. I’m only kidding.”

“I don’t like your jokes, Bill. I’m going now.”

“Where to?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“But why, Maya? What’s the matter? I thought you liked me.” I recalled the coy way she’d returned my bold stares, and the way she’d turned down all those other men right in front of me.

“I did. I thought you were a gentleman. You look like a gentleman.” She sat down on the bed and turned her gaze to the floor. “I liked you.”

“You’re a boy,” I said. “To me you’re a boy.”

“No! I’m not!”

“Yes, you are. You’re a boy and you know it! And what’s wrong with that? You don’t have to turn into a girl just to attract boys.” I knew I should have stopped, but couldn’t help myself, even when I realized, with a jolt, that my argument was so impassioned because it was really myself I was trying to convince. Hadn’t I been ashamed of my own love for boys all along...all through middle school and high school...perhaps even now? Feeling as if I’d been punched in the stomach, I finished up weakly, my voice almost a whisper: “You’re living a lie, Maya. An illusion.”

“Leave me alone. I don’t like you anymore.” She tried to shake herself free. The glint of a teardrop flashed on her lashes.

“Maya, please. I’m sorry.”

She sat down again and I sank to the bed feeling drained and weak. She didn’t want to hear the truth. She knew the truth, but she wanted to keep her fragile world together, holding it tightly with all the strength of her delicate arms, and I, the uncouth one, had just shattered it. It had collapsed at a mere touch. And that was the tragedy of it.

I expelled my breath. “I’m not a gentleman,” I agreed.

“It’s okay,” she said, not whispering anymore. “You’re all right.” And then: “Bill...I’m tired.”

I looked deeply into her soft brown eyes and felt a tug at my heart which I hadn’t felt in a long, long time. “You know, Maya, you’re really very beautiful.”

Down below, the old man rang up a taxi to take me back to the ship, and another to take Maya wherever she was going. We heard laughter behind us and I turned around to see a young European boy break away from the embrace of a heavily made-up girl, a real girl, a prostitute. The girl shot me a seductive look, then noticed Maya. Her eyebrows went up and she covered her mouth to smother a knowing smirk. I ignored her.

My taxi came, and before I got in, I pulled Maya to me and kissed her. But even as I held her—him—I could feel him being pulled away as if drawn from my clasp by an irrepressible undertow.

Bangkok

The waters off Pattaya Beach in Thailand were so shallow that our liberty launch (the ship’s whaleboat) couldn’t take us all the way to shore. We had to roll up the bottoms of our trousers and wade about ten yards or so to the beach. Along with the others, I had my shoes and socks tucked under one arm, and was cautiously walking in the water, feeling the voluptuous squeeze of sand between my toes.

We’d been told to watch out for broken glass in the sand but to me it looked clean. As I approached the shore I saw crowds of vendors with wooden boxes slung around their necks. Even at this early hour they were hawking their slender bottles of Coca-Cola and orange pop. This resort town with its beautiful white sand beach had been a favorite liberty port for sailors ever since the days of the Vietnam War.

In the cool morning air the beach itself was still deserted and a sleepy languor seemed to hang in the breeze. Palm trees swayed gently against the backdrop of azure sea whose gentle surface was shot through with silver spangles of sunlight.

A few native Thai boys were scrambling around wearing nothing but ragged cut-off shorts. Jeep-taxis lined the beachfront street and as I approached them, one driver after another lazily offered to sell me some Thai stick, wearing crestfallen expressions as if expecting to be turned down. I’d heard that the sticks were cheap, and that a dime or quarter meant just that: 10 cents, 25 cents. But I had no desire to get high this early in the morning. I wanted to take a look around first.

Starting from the clusters of bars and strip joints at the southern end of town, I walked along the beachfront until I came to the hotels and bungalows at the northern limits. The whole trip didn’t take me very long at all. Pattaya was, after all, a small town.

I stepped into a restaurant and had a continental breakfast. By the time I stepped out again, the European tourists with expensive cameras slung around their necks were beginning to appear. They were noticeable for the rather formal clothes they wore, and they gazed upon the swarm of American sailors as if upon another, quite alien form of life.

I pulled out a copy of the ship’s liberty bulletin which had a lot of handy information about Pattaya and the nearby capital of Bangkok. I’d always wanted to go to Bangkok and was delighted to learn that there was a shuttle bus for the city which left from in front of the Majestic Hotel several times a day.

I had no trouble finding it, a mini-bus whose driver was squatting under a nearby tree reading a newspaper. Stepping aboard the bus, I noted that I was the only passenger so far. Obviously most of the guys planned to spend their time doing what they usually did in port: get drunk, and then get laid. But Pattaya offered much more than our usual liberty ports: a clean, attractive beach to sun-bathe on, parasailing and motor-boating in the bay...plus cheaper Thai stick than we were likely to find anywhere else in the world.

Fearing that I might have a long wait ahead of me, I opened a window and called out to the driver: “Hey, what time do you leave?”

He glanced up at me and held up all ten fingers. I looked at the clock set into a panel just above the driver’s seat. The man’s sign could either mean that the bus would leave in ten minutes, or at ten o’clock. Either way it wasn’t much longer. I chose a seat near the back of the bus and sat down to wait.

Just then somebody stepped on board: Ensign McDavid, the First Lieutenant (the division officer of 1st division, the boatswain’s mates), a young, still boyish-looking man not much older than myself. He took a look around and, seeing me, came back to sit on the seat across the aisle from mine, saying shyly with a nod, “Hi, Doc.”

Though not very attractive—a little gangly, with a prominent Adam’s apple—he was very popular with the crew. Perhaps it was because the officer he’d replaced, LtJg. Wordsworth, had been so unpopular. At any rate, McDavid had seemed eager from the start to make a good impression as “just one of the guys.” And he’d succeeded so well that there was a certain amount of resentment against him among the other officers.

They probably envied him his relaxed relationship with his men, a rapport which very few of them could ever hope to establish. No doubt they assured themselves smugly that they were acting in accordance with Navy tradition which frowned upon too much familiarity between officers and men, or “fraternization,” as it was called. Such a situation supposedly had the effect of decreasing the men’s respect for authority, and of encouraging a lack of discipline. Hence the traditional cool distance between the men and officers of the U.S. Navy.

There was even a clause written into the military law, the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ) which specifically forbade fraternization. A copy of the UCMJ was posted in a glass-encased bulletin board just outside the ship’s office so that we could read the list of other crimes which, along with fraternization, included sodomy, bestiality, and “lewd conduct,” whatever that was.

On board the ship, the area where officers had their staterooms, restrooms and wardroom was called “officers’ country.” Unlike us, each officer (with the exceptions of the CO and XO who had their own private staterooms) shared a room with a bunkmate. In addition to a double bunk, each room contained a pair of writing desks and closets.

At mealtimes, while we shuffled through the chow line down below with trays in our hands, the officers ate their meal at a long covered table in the wardroom with the captain sitting at their head, clean linen napkins over their laps. They ate from plates imprinted with the emblem of the ship, served to them by a sailor who acted as a steward for a designated period of time.

An enlisted man was not allowed to pass through officers’ country unless specific business took him there. And when he entered it, he was required to doff his hat, leaving his head uncovered the whole time he was in the cool silent passageways, their soundproofed walls (and distance from the ship’s propulsion system) making him feel as if he were deep in some enchanted forest.

Everything in the Navy was designed to bring out the differences between officers and crew.

So now, as I started chatting with McDavid, I felt a slight sense of transgression. Anyone coming upon us, seeing two young men in civilian clothes, our ages not too different, would have thought we were just a couple of buddies. But if they listened carefully, they would have detected a slight edge in my voice, caused by a certain nervousness which always arises whenever a sailor talks with an officer, no matter how casual the conversation may seem to be. And in addition, because I’d been taught to treat officers with courtesy in or out of uniform, I couldn’t break my habit of saying “sir” every now and then.

Apparently even McDavid began to feel self-conscious about the “sirs.” He smiled and said, “Come on, Doc. Seeing that we’re on liberty, and we’re the only ones here, I think we can drop the usual military courtesies, at least for the time being.”

“Sure.”

“Why don’t you just call me Rick? It’ll feel much more natural that way, even for me.”

“Sure.”

I think a shiver went down my back as this privilege was granted to me, for it implicitly contained a certain degree of profanation.

The bus driver climbed aboard and, with the briefest glance back towards us, eased himself into his seat and started up the bus. Apparently he was used to the sight of such a small number of passengers.

We headed up the beachfront road until we came to a large street leading away from the bay. We turned right and followed it out of town until we were cruising alongside lush tropical forests, the branches of the trees leaning out above the road like awnings. The bus picked up speed as we left the resort town behind, and the countryside became poorer looking, and more Asian.

Bangkok was a city of canals and barges, of floating vegetable markets and motor launches, of noodle stands and strange cries resounding in the air; a spicy pungency wafted on warm breezes. The area called New Town was fairly modern, a typical metropolis, but the Old Town offered us sights and sounds not to be found anywhere else. Here, houses stood out over the water on piles or pontoons, and houseboats were moored to the banks of canals. The water looked murky, and banana peels floated tiredly in the wakes of tourist-filled speedboats.

Our bus pulled into a terminal and we had lunch in a cafeteria there. I tried their fried noodles but noticed that McDavid ordered a tuna fish sandwich. After lunch we set out for the temple compound downtown where three beautiful temples, each built in a different style (Thai, Vietnamese, and Burmese) stood side by side. Hiring a guide to show us around, we followed him on his informal tour, clicking away with our cameras like typical tourists. I noticed the man’s teeth were reddish-looking, and pulled McDavid aside when we were alone for a moment.

“Hey Rick,” I said, “did you notice the color of this guy’s teeth?”

“Sure. It’s from betel, a nut or a leaf (I can’t remember which) that they chew on down here. It seems to work as a stimulant, like the nicotine in tobacco, and for them it’s like smoking cigarettes—just as addictive, too, from what I hear.”

I began noticing more Thais with red teeth after that. At the tour’s end I bought some temple rubbings which depicted erotic scenes from the Indian epic, The Ramayana. McDavid wanted to go to a jewelry store to shop for some star sapphires, so we asked the guide to translate this to a taxi driver.

Star sapphires were very cheap here, and the street we were taken to was lined with jewelry stores. Within each store were banked, cloth-covered tables onto which the clerks emptied out tiny bags full of the clean polished stones which, when held up to the light, revealed a pure, cross-shaped star trapped within. We were allowed to sift through them to pick out the ones we liked, and McDavid began looking for a matching pair. He’d worked with jewelry before and planned to make a set of earrings for his fiancée.

“Oh? Who’s the lucky girl?” I asked.

He smiled but wouldn’t tell me her name.

It was late afternoon by the time we finally finished our shopping. For supper I voted we go to Old Town to try some authentic Thai cuisine, but Rick said he didn’t trust the sanitary conditions there.

“Let’s go to one of the luxury hotels downtown,” he suggested. “I’m sure they offer Thai food, and probably much more appetizing.”

“Sure.”

On the taxi ride there we passed a huge plaza where I noticed a large group of Buddhist monks, their heads shaven, wearing the saffron-colored robes of their office. We stopped at a red light and I was able to watch them for a while. They seemed to be peddling caged birds, and as I looked on, a woman came up to one of them and paid him money for one of the tiny wooden cages. But then, to my surprise, instead of walking away with her purchase, she merely opened the door of the cage and let the bird free, then handed the cage back to the monk.

“What’s going on here?” I asked McDavid.

“Oh, that. I read about it somewhere. Apparently you can pay for the privilege of setting one of those temple birds free. It’s considered an auspicious act, and helps you to accumulate good deeds so that when you’re reborn in your next life, you’ll advance to a higher incarnation. In her case, being a woman, she’ll probably want to be reincarnated as a man, because men are the only ones who can enter Nirvana.”

“Wow, that’s kind of hard on the women, isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t make up the rules.”

Bangkok was turning out to be fun and it was largely because of Rick. I didn’t feel my usual sense of desperation when on liberty, knowing I had to have a “good time.” I could relate to Rick in ways which most of my shipmates wouldn’t understand.

Sometimes when he wasn’t looking, I’d steal a glance at him, noting that, young as he was, the responsibilities of an officer had given his boyish face a certain quiet dignity, even a sternness which he was unable to throw off even when relaxing. I found this maturity very attractive. And his wire-rimmed glasses gave him an intelligent, almost scholarly air which belied his position as First Lieutenant.

Just as we reached the hotel section of New Town, evening suddenly fell, as if a translucent purple gauze had been dropped over everything. We agreed to have dinner at a posh-looking hotel whose restaurant offered authentic native cooking—or so the menu said. But I knew it had probably been toned down quite a bit to suit Western palates. Even the so-called “traditional style room” we were shown to had made concessions to Western-style seating; the straw-matted floor upon which a Thai normally sits had been cleverly adapted so that we could sit down as upon a chair, putting our feet down into the sunken area under the table. In the corner were musicians in native dress playing traditional music on exotic-looking instruments whose percussive tones evoked an antiquity which made the sleek hotel seem like a transitory mirage.

As we waited for our meal to arrive, I noticed that Rick kept glancing in the direction of a middle-aged couple and their daughter. Snatches of their conversation drifted over to us and Rick whispered to me that they were speaking in German. The daughter was quite attractive, and I became irritated at the way she kept casting glances at Rick. The subtle visual flirting that went on between them was unmistakable.

I tried to distract Rick with conversation but he seemed more interested in the girl, so I was glad when the Germans finally finished their meal and left, leaving Rick to myself.

“You were getting a little quiet there,” I said to him insinuatingly.

“Was I? I’m sorry. I tend to get a little absent-minded sometimes.”

“Uh-huh. Absent-minded in a way your fiancée probably wouldn’t have approved of. I’m ashamed of you.”

“You’ve got to realize we’ve been away from ‘the world’ for nearly four months.”

“Starting to get a little restless, are you?”

“You might say that.”

“How about a night on the town after dinner?”

“Why not?”

After having an aperitif, we took a taxi to the notorious Patpong district, a street solidly lined with bars and nightclubs. This had been a favorite R-and-R spot for American soldiers during the Vietnam War, and though its heyday was over, there were still many bar girls floating around like exotic butterflies: Malay, Chinese, Eurasian. In every bar we went to, they latched onto our elbows cooing for drinks.

And though the loud disco music, the colored lights and floor shows were what I’d wanted to get away from, I felt happy because Rick seemed to enjoy exchanging bawdy banter with the girls as we grew intoxicated from the drinks. I enjoyed the spectacle of the officer getting more and more slack, and wondered just how far he’d go in my presence. But he always stopped short of taking up the girls’ invitations for a “short time” or “all night.” Perhaps if I weren’t there, he might have gone with one of them.

“What time is it?” he asked suddenly in a clear voice which belied his apparent intoxication. We were sitting at the counter of a bar and he was trying to peer at his own watch, but the girl at his side prevented him from seeing it, covering the watch-face with her hand. He turned to the jovial mama-san behind the counter but she merely beamed and began mixing up some more drinks for us.

“I’m serious,” said Rick. “The last bus for Pattaya leaves at eleven.”

I leaned over the counter and spied a clock on the side wall. “We still have fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen? Oh no. We’ll have to hurry if we plan to catch the bus. May we have our check, please?”

“Check?” The mama-san looked uncertain.

“The check,” repeated Rick more firmly, brandishing his wallet on the counter top.

“Ah, check.” She finally seemed to understand. From the ledge behind the bar she produced a pink slip. We consulted the conversion chart printed on the liberty handout and the fee proved to be outrageously high. When Rick raised a protest, mama-san patiently explained that we’d been charged for the tiny plates of snacks and hors d’oeuvres which had appeared steadily, with alarming regularity, and which we’d munched upon almost unconsciously as we drank.

“No, this is too much,” said the ensign, jabbing a finger at the slip of paper. In an aside to me he murmured, “I should have been on the alert because I’ve been warned about that famous hors d’oeuvres trick. It’s quite common here in the Orient.”

Mama-san folded her arms. But in the end, seeing that McDavid was adamant, she accepted a much-reduced amount, though it was still too high in our eyes. The old con game had worked after all. Rick fumed as we ran down the stairs and stepped out into the crowded street to hail a taxi.

In the cab he consulted the liberty sheet again, this time searching among the printed phrases giving directions in Thai. He pointed to the one for the bus terminal, and the driver nodded and smiled. We sped off into the night, down dark narrow side streets just wide enough for one car; I dreaded the possibility of another car coming from the other direction. But the driver seemed totally unconcerned about this, blatting his horn impatiently just before we shot out into a wide boulevard without even slowing down. I didn’t know if Rick was too drunk to care, or if he was more concerned with getting to the terminal on time, but he didn’t say a word.

We reached the terminal with less than a minute to spare, and made a mad dash for the Pattaya bus. But when we got to the berth, we found it empty. When we asked at the desk, we learned that it had left just a moment ago, early.

“Shit.” It was the first time I’d heard Rick swear. “For all I know, it probably left here empty. I’m not even gonna ask how many passengers there were.”

“What do we do now?” I asked. We were standing in the empty lounge of the terminal.

He shrugged. “Nothing for it but to take rooms for the night. We can catch the first bus in the morning back to Pattaya. It leaves at seven. Do you have duty tomorrow?”

“That’s not what I’m worried about. I don’t have enough money left to pay for a hotel room.” My mouth turned dry as I told him this because I was lying.

“We’ll work something out. You can pay me back when we get to the ship.” There was a trace of irritation in his voice. “At any rate, we won’t be staying in the Bangkok Hilton, that’s for sure.”

With the aid of the liberty sheet again we managed to inform a taxi driver we wished to be taken to an inexpensive hotel. The driver nodded in energetic affirmation and continued nodding vigorously all through our explanation, making us suspect he probably didn’t understand a word we were saying. But miraculously, we were taken to what looked like a fairly presentable hotel, though it wasn’t located in the part of town where most of the foreigners stayed.

At the front desk McDavid explained that he would take a single room, but that he would like an extra cot brought in. We were guided to a room on the second floor, and I noted with relief that it looked clean and pleasant. It lacked a bathroom but there were showers, probably cold, at the end of the hall.

After examining the room and tipping the bellboy, Rick began arranging his effects on the night table beside the bed. It was obvious he was taking the bed, leaving the cot to me, which was only to be expected, but my pride was hurt because he should at least have made the offer of the bed out of courtesy so that I could refuse it. That’s what any friend would have done. Apparently, despite the wonderful time we’d had together, calling each other by our first names, the unbridgeable gap between seaman and ensign still existed.

The door opened and the boy came in again, lugging the cot. I helped him unfold it and set it up at the foot of the bed. As McDavid went down the hall to wash up, I tipped the boy handsomely, and was rewarded by the glow which lit up his face.

The boy left the room and my heart started to pound.

I had absolutely no doubt in my mind that McDavid was straight. And though my attraction to a man didn’t differentiate between gay and straight, the very unattainability of straight men made them that much more desirable in my eyes. My social facade had been tempered by the necessary discipline of trying to maintain a hetero friendship on the surface with a guy, while deep inside, my most fervent desire was to have sex with him.

I think all men (and women) are basically bisexual, and that any man can enjoy sex with another if he only rids himself of the prejudices and inhibitions which society saddles him with. And everybody knows this. But straight men protect themselves from temptation by telling each other: “Watch out; once you try it, you never go back.” This phrase is very revealing: they know that they might like it and are afraid they might never again enjoy women after an experience with a guy. This isn’t true, of course. But they’ll never find out until they’ve tried it...or until they’re talked into trying it.

McDavid came back and closed the door behind him. He’d taken off his aloha shirt, and was down to his T-shirt and slacks. I noticed little curls of hair peeking out of the neckband of his T-shirt.

“Lights out,” he said, snapping off the bedside lamp. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I watched him fold his shirt neatly, pulling the collar tight and smoothing out the wrinkles. There was a trace of smugness in his movements which I found irritating.

“Do you iron your T-shirts, too?” I said.

“Don’t be so cocky. We O’s are expected to be neat in or out of uniform.”

He turned his back to me to wriggle out of his close-fitting T-shirt, then slipped off his slacks and put them away just as neatly as the shirt. He said to me over his shoulder, “If I’m not up by six tomorrow morning, could you wake me?”

“Oh I see,” I said, “now that the day’s over, it’s not Rick and Bill anymore—we’re back to officer and enlisted, are we?” I felt a little bit like poor Cinderella when the hour has struck for her lovely dream to end.

Rick’s answer was unexpectedly sharp. “Listen, Gale. I don’t have to take any crap out of you. I’m a little teed off about what happened tonight, and maybe I’ve been a little curt. If so, I apologize. But that doesn’t mean you can….” He paused, shook his head and sighed. “Never mind, forget it. Let’s try to get some sleep, okay?”

“Sure, no problem.” As he slipped under his sheets and snuggled down, I began undressing. The creaking sounds from his bed died away and in the silence, the whirring of the ceiling fan overhead sounded loud. From the open balcony window I heard a dog barking somewhere far off, followed by the roar of a small truck passing by just below.

I lay on my cot in only my briefs. The night was so warm that I didn’t need a sheet. The air blowing over my skin felt like a sensual caress. For the longest time I continued to lie there, still unsure of myself. Finally, I screwed up my courage.

“Damn,” I said aloud. “If I knew it was gonna turn out like this, I’d have gone with one of the girls back at the Patpong. That way I’d have had some fun, at least.”

“Not for me, thanks,” he replied.

“You mean you’ve never gone out with a hook, not even once, since we left the States?”

“That’s right.”

“How can you stand it? I mean, officers are human, too, right?”

“Yes. But we have self-control.”

“Oh? Even Mr. Whittaker?” This officer was famous among the crew for the beautiful women he got at every port—even though he had a wife and three daughters back in Diego.

“He’s different.”

“Do you plan to remain faithful to your fiancée during the whole cruise?”

“I sure intend to try. We...we’re getting married as soon as this cruise is over.”

“Oh? Congratulations. But you weren’t thinking of her back at that restaurant, were you?”

“The German girl? You know, to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t have minded....”

“Oh, I get it; you don’t like dark meat, is that it? It’s gotta be white meat for you.”

“That isn’t true, Bill, and you know it.”

I felt a coolness sweep my stomach as I said meanly, “Well, if you decide to look up that German girl, feel free to do so. You can always move my cot out onto the veranda.”

“I just might move it out there right now if you don’t shut up so we can get some sleep.”

“Heil Hitler.”

“Come off it, Bill.” Then, apparently in an attempt to patch things up, he added: “Here, why don’t you take the pillow. It might make that cot more comfortable.” He tossed it over.

I could smell traces of his cologne on the pillow as I put it under my head.

For a long time I lay there wondering if I had the guts to go through with it—the plan I’d been working out ever since I knew we’d be sharing a room. If so, I would have to begin before he fell asleep.

Pretending to be stealthy about it, I slipped my briefs down past my hips, then kicked them off onto the floor. As I did so, the pungent, meaty aroma of semen became quite obvious…no doubt it permeated the entire room.

Rick apparently hadn’t heard me, or was pretending not to know what I was up to.

In the darkness I could feel tiny tremors running through my body as I began pumping myself. There was a faint, liquid-sounding snick-snick-snick and the occasional slap of my balled fist against my groin, but otherwise only silence in the room. For all I knew, Rick was asleep.

At last I heard the creak of bedsprings as he sat up. I stopped.

“What do you think you’re doing, Gale?”

I glanced over at him but the darkness hid his expression. “Don’t mind me, I’m only beating off.”

“Well, cut it out.”

“I have to do it every night. Otherwise, I can’t sleep.”

“Well don’t do it in here. Go to the bathroom if you must.”

“It’s not the same thing.” I still had my hand on my dick.

“This is disgusting.”

“Why? Don’t you beat off thinking about your girl back home?”

“That’s my private concern.”

“Officers have dicks, too, right?”

“Do I have to order you to stop this nonsense?”

“I won’t obey. Not till you admit that you beat off just like everyone else.”

“All right, all right, I do. I do.”

“That’s more like it.” I let go of my dick and lay there in silence. This silence continued for a long time. When I glanced over to where he lay, I saw the whites of his eyes gleaming eerily.

“Do you miss your fiancée, Rick?”

“God, yes. I miss her so much.”

“How long has it been since you last saw her?”

“Too long.”

“I’ll bet you miss her most at night. Just before you sleep. I know. I’m the same way. There’s someone I miss, too.”

“Then you know what I’m going through.”

“Sure. So why don’t you go ahead and beat off while you think about her? It’ll help you sleep. You know I won’t mind it.”

“No way. It’s not something I can do in front of an audience.”

“Relax. It’s not like I can see you or anything.”

“I know. But you’d know I was doing it.”

“So? Didn’t you ever do it together with a friend when you were a kid?”

“No, never.”

“Then you must have had a deprived childhood.”

He laughed. “It’s not something you can call up on command.”

“No? Just think about your girlfriend and the good times you used to have with her. In bed.”

“Oh shit. Don’t remind me.”

“I’ll bet you’re getting hard now.”

“I will if you keep up with this lewd talk of yours.”

“Want me to give you a hand?”

“No! God, no. Let’s not get carried away.”

“I’m only trying to help.”

“If there was a girl here, there’d be no problem.”

“I don’t think this hotel has that kind of service.”

“No. Anyway, I don’t think I could be unfaithful.”

“Sounds like you’re really in love with her,” I said.

“Oh, I am.”

“Is she very good? I mean, in bed.”

“Oh yes. She has all the right moves. We’re good together that way.”

“I’ll bet you are.” I started to add something...then hesitated...then went ahead and said it: “What would you do...what would you do right now if I was her?”

“Oh God, don’t even let me think of it.”

“I’m serious. What would you do?”

“I’d be inside you in a flash.”

“Well? If you closed your eyes....”

“It’d be no different? Come on, you know that isn’t true.”

“That’s only because you know it’s me.” This was getting dangerous. I knew I had to proceed with caution, yet I was afire with recklessness, almost unable to stop myself from saying the very things which would expose me. “You’ll probably think I’m crazy for asking this, but did you ever do it with another guy?”

“Of course not. Why, have you?”

“No, of course not. But….”

“But?”

I pretended to hesitate, then went on: “I guess I think about it sometimes. I mean, wonder what it’s like and all that.”

“Sure, so does everybody. It’s natural. But it’s not the same thing as actually doing it.”

“Do you think it feels good?”

He gave a nervous laugh. “There must be something in it if the fags love it so much.”

“But you don’t have to be a fag to do it, do you?”

“No, but it helps.”

“I wonder if it’s as good for the guys who aren’t fags.”

“I don’t know. But it sometimes happens. I know, because a friend of mine said he tried it once.”

“And? What did he think of it?”

“Nothing much. He said it’s nothing like the real thing, but it was a change. He was in the Army and had been away from girls for so long that it almost seemed to happen naturally. I mean, it almost didn’t seem unnatural. I guess it’s nature’s way of compensating when there’s no women around.”

“Were you disgusted with him?”

“Not really. You really can’t blame him for what happened. And, I guess, like everyone else, I’m curious about it, too. I wonder what it’s like. But I can’t see myself actually doing it.”

“Are you afraid you’ll never go back?”

“No, but….”

At his hesitation, I quickly put in: “You know...I confess I’m curious, too. I always thought that if I ever met someone who was open-minded enough about it, I just might...well, try it. Once.”

“A lot of people probably think like that.”

“And you?”

“Sure.”

A long pause. And then, my voice almost a croak: “Well, here we are talking about it....”

“Come on, you don’t mean to suggest….”

“Why not? Just to see what it’s like. It’s not gonna turn us queer or anything. We’re not gonna end up wanting it for the rest of our lives.” I paused. “...Or are you afraid?”

“That’s not it. I guess shame is more like it. I’d be too ashamed….”

“It’s so dark in here that….”

“It could never get dark enough for me. Even if you couldn’t see me, you’d know it was me.”

“We could close our eyes, then.”

“Or use blindfolds, right?”

“Sure.”

“Are you serious? I was only joking.”

“If we don’t do it now, we’ll end up wondering for the rest of our lives what it’s like.”

“Come on, we’d better change the subject. This is getting dangerous.”

I didn’t reply but lay there on my cot gazing up at the ceiling. But I knew he was silently watching me. Without a word—as if I weren’t even aware of him—I turned onto my side and slipped the pillow out of its case. Then I folded the pillowcase lengthwise once, then twice, until I had a long strip of cloth. Sitting up, I covered my eyes with it and tied it firmly behind my head. Thus blindfolded, I lay back again to await the consequences.

For a long time nothing happened. I could feel the blood pounding madly in my ears, making me deaf as well as blind. But then I made out the sound of the ceiling fan cutting the air. It was a little scary not knowing what was going on. The room was so silent that I was beginning to think Rick might have fallen asleep. How silly that would make me look. But then I heard a quivering sigh. He was still awake, anyway.

More long moments passed in silence.

At first I thought I’d imagined it, so I listened again more carefully. There it was again: I was right. Barely audible over the noises from outside was a stealthy creak. I could feel someone’s presence nearby—I almost jumped when a hand touched my shoulder. With the slightest of pressures it guided me up from my cot and over to the bed.

As I cautiously lowered myself onto the mattress, I felt someone else’s weight settle on the other side. Before I could lie down, a hand touched my back and I understood the message without the need for words. I turned onto my stomach, instinctively going into a slight crouch so that my butt stuck up a little.

In the pause that followed, I could clearly smell the sweat from my own armpits, the sexy odor which always reminds me of the boys’ locker room back in high school. Then I felt two hesitant hands brush the cheeks of my butt, as if accidentally. After a moment they returned, a little more boldly this time. Their fingertips damp with nervousness, they seemed to test the firmness of my butt before making tentative caresses.

I didn’t say a thing.

Gently, they pushed my cheeks apart and I felt cool air against my crevice, accompanied by that delicious feeling of vulnerability which comes whenever my anus is exposed. I felt my hips being raised a little bit more, positioned. And then there was the pressure of a solid something against my hole, a pressure which gradually increased until I felt the familiar give. He was wearing a lubricated condom. Despite all his protestations of fidelity, he had come prepared.

Slowly, he began making love to me. Hesitant and unsure of himself at first, he gradually, steadily became more impassioned. The bed began creaking under us.

It had been so long for me that, as with my first time, I initially felt only pain. But then that rapidly gave way to the familiar, long-denied pleasure. My concern now was how to keep that fact to myself, to cloak my own experience and feign discomfort while in fact feeling its exact opposite. Luckily, to his ears, my sighs and groans could be taken either way.

I needn’t have worried, though. He hardly seemed to be paying any attention to me at all. He had firmly gripped the sides of my hips and was giving himself up to his own private delight. The slapping sound of his groin against my backside almost drowned out the creaking of bedsprings below us.

And then suddenly the savage pounding stopped. I felt his fingers clutch me even tighter and the whole bed shuddered as he sobbed out between clenched teeth: “Cindy...oh...Cindy....”

So that was her name. Now I knew.

He shakily disengaged himself and flopped down heavily onto the bed. Not caring what he thought of me now, I stretched myself out facedown and began fucking the mattress hard, just as Rick had fucked me, and within moments, I was biting into the sheets to muffle my own cry of pleasure.

On the bus ride back, neither of us made the least attempt to hide our yawns. Rick’s face looked pale and puffy as if he’d spent a sleepless night, though I knew he’d had a good five hours’ sleep. The only other passenger on the bus was a drunken sailor from another ship who lay stretched out on the back seat sleeping off a night of debauchery. I gazed absent-mindedly out the window at a canal on which houseboats were jammed. Already, floating flower vendors were guiding their crafts toward the tourist landings upstream.

I glanced over at Rick as he gazed seriously out the window. In the cold sobriety of morning, he bore no relation to the impassioned lover of last night. As he’d fucked me, I’d sensed something a little frightening inside him—not just the heedless abandon of sexual pleasure, but something more like desperation, a hopeless attempt to recapture something he’d lost forever.

Whatever it was, it was gone now. The serious young officer was back. I knew he was back as soon as I’d gotten up this morning. He was already awake before me, and completely dressed. My blindfold had slipped off sometime during the night but no mention was made of it. In fact, nothing at all was said about last night—as if it hadn’t happened at all. After I dressed and washed my face at a sink at the end of the hall, we’d eaten breakfast in a restaurant downstairs, then caught a taxi to the bus terminal where we’d boarded the first bus back to Pattaya.

As he noticed me looking at him, he smiled weakly and came over to sit next to me, but not without a backward glance at the sleeping sailor.

“What were you thinking about just now, Bill?”

“Nothing.” I wondered if I dared make a reference to last night.

He must have sensed this, for suddenly he turned serious again and dropped his eyes.

“If you must know, Bill, what happened last night was...completely unplanned...unexpected. It...wouldn’t have happened at all, but for a unique set of circumstances.”

I felt a chill as if the sun had just clouded over.

“I’ll be honest with you,” he went on. “I’ll admit that I’ve occasionally had fantasies about...certain things. And I also suspect that, if truth be known, a lot of men have probably done...those things, too. It’s only natural.”

I remained silent.

“We’ve been on this cruise, what, four months now? And in all that time, believe it or not, I’ve been faithful to...Cindy. Maybe that’s why what happened last night happened. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I regret it. If you want to know the truth, it was a real eye-opener for me. But I’m also saying it’ll never happen again. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, it never happened at all. I...have my career to think about, as I’m sure you do. Far be it from me to lecture you, or to tell you how to live your life. I like to think I have an open mind about these things. But it’s just not for me. Let’s just call it a strange and wonderful dream I—we both—had last night.”

I looked away, but he must have noticed my expression, for he added:

“Don’t take it like that.”

After a moment he went on:

“And another thing. I know we joked a little about the Navy and its sometimes stupid regulations. I’ll admit that there are a lot of things about the Navy which I actively dislike. But it’s also true, I’ve learned, that there are certain things which are inviolable...which must never be violated...because without them, everything would fall apart...they’re like cornerstones, assumptions upon which everything else rests. I...I trust you know what I’m referring to.”

“I think I know what you mean.”

“Good.”

I looked up at him and noted the shadows of palm trees whipping across his face, and realized that we’d emerged onto the beachfront road at Pattaya. Through the open windows of the bus came the briny smell of the sea. Out across the burnished turquoise shimmer of the bay, the haze-gray frigate which was our home looked solidly moored, as if it rested upon a huge concrete slab. The only bits of color on it were the American flag dipping briskly on the jackstaff, and the huge, block-like numerals painted upon the hull.

McDavid turned to me and stiffly held out his hand. As I shook it he repeated: “Last night...didn’t happen, right?”

“Right.”

“And remember. We had a lot of fun as Rick and Bill out of uniform, but now that we’re back to real life, it’s Ensign McDavid and Seaman Gale once again...much as we may dislike it. Okay?”

I nodded, feeling a welling in my throat as I whispered:

“Yes, sir.”

Australia

It wasn’t quite the U.S. and it wasn’t quite the land of my dreams, either. I’d imagined gorgeously bronzed surfer boys in tiny bikinis lounging on white sand beaches. Perhaps it was like that in Sydney, but we weren’t in Sydney. We were in Western Australia, at a small town called Geraldton. Most Navy ships put in at Sydney, on the other side of the continent, or if they came to the west coast, at Perth. But one ship a year put in at Geraldton, and we were the lucky one this year.

The disappointment on board was keen…at first. We looked out upon a sleepy town of some 20,000 people which, in many ways, was like an American town of ten or twenty years ago. Strange unfamiliar-looking cars (though bearing familiar names like Ford) drove on the left-hand side of the road. On the bumpers of many of them were “roo-guards” which protected them from kangaroos; in the outback, these pesky beasts often slammed into a moving car, causing considerable damage.

In the stores, ceiling fans were more in evidence than air conditioners. And everywhere you went there were flies; you had to constantly wave your hand in front of your face to keep them away. In the display window of a meat store, I spotted a long flayed pink tail which I learned was a “roo-tail,” a great delicacy here.

Though I’d never been to England, I imagined Australia as a cross between that country and the U.S. On the playing field next to a school you could watch young boys in shorts playing cricket. And downtown there were “pubs” and “milk bars.” The people’s accent was quite distinctive, and sounded very exotic to our ears. The consensus on board was that it made the girls sound irresistibly sexy, but at the same time, made the guys sound faggoty. I didn’t find the guys faggoty at all. In fact, their rough, rangy appearance made me think of frontier cowboys.

From the very first day in port, the townspeople were so open and friendly that the crew’s initial disappointment quickly turned into delight. A bulletin board was set up on the quarterdeck, and it soon became filled with notices inviting sailors to dinner or tea (and “tea” here meant practically a full meal.) Many activities were organized to bring the townspeople and the sailors together: softball games, picnics, even “roo-hunting” expeditions. And the guys loved it. It was all good, clean, wholesome fun, which was enjoyable for a change. Many of the crew were homesick, and Geraldton was the closest we’d come in a long time to an American-like place. Some of the guys expressed their pleasure at being able to look at some “round-eye pussy” for a change.

In keeping with the good will nature of the port visit, our ship had offered to paint the town orphanage and clear out its playground. One guy was “volunteered” from each division, and I was picked from mine. I didn’t mind it, though. It would only take two days at most (out of the seven we’d be here) and the work itself only lasted from morning to early afternoon. Besides, the town was so small that there really wasn’t that much to do anyway. You could see all the sights in an hour. Some of the guys had headed down to Perth, the nearest big city, but I wanted a chance to enjoy this taste of small town life in Australia, which, after all the foreign ports we’d hit in the Far East, was rather exotic in its own way, perhaps by contrast.

The classroom I was painting smelled so strongly of turpentine and paint that my head swam. I felt as if I’d caught an unseasonable cold.

“Let’s take a break,” said BM1 Cunningham.

“Great.” I dropped my paintbrush into a can of diluted paint thinner and stepped toward the window. Climbing up onto its sill, I let myself down onto the cushiony softness of the ground below. The refreshing breeze outside was a welcome change from the stuffy closeness of the room. My ears still hummed and my head was giddy from breathing in the fumes. I sat down on a paint-spattered piece of canvas where BM1 joined me, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He offered me one; I shook my head.

He was in charge of our little work force here. I was painting the classroom while two others were painting the hallway. The rest of the guys were clearing the playground of tree stumps, helping to install swings and a merry-go-round. Right now everyone was knocked off, sprawled out on the grass, smoking cigarettes in the shade.

“How much more have we got to do?” I asked.

“Just finish up this room, then there’s a small hall closet and we’re done.”

“Thank God. I don’t think I could take much more of this.”

“Aren’t you glad you aren’t a boatswain’s mate? Then you could have fun painting the hull all day.”

“Cut the crap, BM1.”

He got up and poked his head into the window. “Not bad, not bad. You know, you’d make a pretty good BM, Doc, if you put your mind to it. Ever think about changing your rating?”

“No thanks. I’m happy as an HM.”

“Where’d you learn to paint like that?”

“I used to paint houses back home during the summer.”

“Back in the days when you actually had to work for a living instead of just handing out rubbers.”

“Get out of here.”

He sat smoking for a while in silence. Then suddenly he nudged me in the ribs.

“Check this out,” he said in a low voice.

I followed his gaze and saw an attractive woman in her late 20s stooping down to talk to the other guys across the playground. She was carrying a tray and handing around paper cups. I recognized Stephanie, one of the coordinators of this project. Though she worked at the hospital as a nurse, she sometimes volunteered to help out at the orphanage in her free time.

When she was finished talking with the others, she came over to us.

“Would you fellows like some tea, too?” she asked.

“Sure.” I shielded my eyes from the sun so I could look up at her as I reached for my cup.

“How are you coming along here?”

“Just fine,” answered BM1 for me. “We should be done in an hour or so.”

“Lovely.” She smiled at us. I noticed the shy way her eyes met mine then darted away. There was something endearing about her nervous awkwardness as she glanced at me in my paint-splattered T-shirt and cut-off shorts.

We finished drinking our tea, handed back our cups and thanked her. As she hurried away with the tray, BM1 gazed after her with a look of approval, then turned to me.

“You lucky bastard,” he said. “I think she has the hots for you.”

“Bullshit. You’re imagining it.”

“No. I saw the way she looked at you.” He lowered his voice and continued with a sensuous leer. “Why don’t you go for it?”

“Actually, she’s not really my type.”

“Don’t give me that crap. How long have we been out to sea? When was the last time you had any, huh? Nobody’s that picky. You’re young...unattached. What have you got to lose?”

“Well, for one thing, she’s a bit too old for me. She’s practically thirty.”

“So what? When I was your age, I didn’t let that stop me. Hell, I’d go for her myself...if I was still single.”

I glanced down archly at his crotch. “Then you must be thinking about your wife right now.”

He cuffed me playfully on the side of the head. “Get back to work, seaman.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

Stephanie came by again later when the work was done. As she leaned in at the window and peered around at the walls, she exclaimed, “It looks great! You boys do good work.”

“Make sure you leave that window open all night, if possible,” said BM1, “so that the room can air out properly. And try not to go into it too much for a few days—especially not the kids. The fumes can still give them headaches for a while yet.”

“All right.”

“If you want, one of us can come by tomorrow and clean up a little...take the paper off and straighten the place up a bit.”

“That would be great.”

“Bill, why don’t you drop by? I’m sure you can handle it by yourself.”

“By myself?”

“Sure. It’ll only take one guy to do the job.”

“All right,” I muttered.

Stephanie turned to me. “How about if I pick you up at the ship?”

“Fine.”

“Then I’ll see you at—?”

“Uh, how about one?”

“Super.”

As she walked out of earshot I said, “Why’d you do that, BM1?”

“Don’t be so damned proud. I’m happy to do you the favor. You’re not gonna pass it up, are you?”

I looked at the gloating expression on his face—almost as if he himself were the lucky one—and realized he was exhilarated at the prospect awaiting me.

The delight was all his.

He called out to the others to knock off, and we all headed toward the pick-up truck which had been lent to us by the town to serve as the ship’s duty vehicle. I sat up front in the cab with BM1 while the others sprawled in the truck bed. Once we were on the road, BM1 nudged me in the ribs again.

“Boy, I wish I was in your shoes.”

“Well, then, why don’t you drop by tomorrow? I’m serious. Just tell her I couldn’t make it.”

“Are you crazy?” He turned to me in disbelief. Then, to my surprise, he who’d bragged so often about all the women he’d laid, said to me with a straight face: “It’s different when you’re married, Gale. I’m not like those guys who can cheat on their wives.” Although he had a half-apologetic look on his face as he said this, I knew he really meant it. I thought of Ensign McDavid and his fiancée, and wondered if I myself could ever wind up in a relationship which would make me feel guilty every time I lusted after a handsome stranger. But I was known onboard to be single and unattached, and a fervent liberty hound to boot, so it would look strange for me to pass up this chance for some “free pussy.”

So I was caught in a trap. If I tried to wriggle out of it, there might be some doubt cast upon my “heterosexuality,” and that was the last thing I wanted. And of course BM1 would want to know from me later how it went. To disappoint him would be almost an insult to him...tantamount to withholding my sexual favors from him.

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.”

“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 occasionally 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.

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 sticking 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.

But did he only get his kicks from playing voyeur? It was even possible that the other two didn’t know about this predilection of his. That would explain why he’d been so furtive earlier. I didn’t dare make any allusions to what I’d seen. The only thing to do was to keep my ears open for a clue, and perhaps find out in time.

We smoked on for perhaps an hour more, and though we enjoyed a lively discussion, none of our topics came even close to the subject of homosexuality. For all I knew, these three were absolutely straight, and the scene I’d witnessed earlier had been nothing more than a mirage.

Finally Richie got up and stretched. “Well, I guess I’ll be going down below. How about you, Doc?”

The tone of his question implied that he wanted me to leave, and I immediately asked myself why he didn’t ask the others. Did he want to speak to me alone? My heart raced. And then a more likely explanation came to me; he probably only wanted to draw me away from Brad and Kyle so they could be left alone to continue their play.

I got up and turned to the others. “And you guys?”

“We’ll be staying up here a little while longer,” said Brad. “I have watch in two hours anyway, so I can’t sleep tonight.”

“See you guys, then. Thanks for the….”

“Don’t mention it, Doc.”

Richie stepped aside to let me down the ladder first. I felt as if I were a prisoner being escorted away. Still, there was a chance he wanted to talk to me. When we were inside the skin of the ship I asked him, “Why’d you leave so early?”

“I have a watch early tomorrow.”

“Oh.” I tried to hide my disappointment.

He saw me all the way to the forward crew’s lounge, and our talk was devoid of any suggestiveness. The lounge was empty except for a boy studying for his oceanography class. (We had a professor on board teaching it; the course was good for college credits.) The TV was on but its sound was turned down.

“Well, see you in the morning,” I said as I headed down the stairwell. Before I ducked under, I noticed him taking a seat in the lounge. Was he going to watch TV, or was he guarding me to make sure I stayed down in the compartment? My heart was pounding too hard for me to think straight.

I went to my rack but was too excited to undress for bed. Anyway I had no intention of doing so. After waiting an impatient ten minutes I crept back up the ladder and poked my head above the hatch. Richie was gone. I climbed out and rushed through the lounge, down the portside passageway until I came to the ladder just outside the radio shack. Using this, I hurried up to the next level, and then the next, until I could step outside the skin of the ship once again.

My eyes adjusted to the dark quickly this time; the compartment and the passageways had been lit only with red night-lights now that it was after taps.

The outside air felt warm to my skin as I made my way back toward the helo hangar. From the corner of it I glanced up again to the lookout deck to see if the two boys were still there. Sure enough I saw their silhouettes against the stars, and this time there was no orange glow of a joint. With a racing heart, I inched along the bulkhead until I was next to the fenders. I knew if I got on top of one of them, I could easily climb up onto the swab locker, from the top of which I could get a much better view than I’d had before. Praying for speed, I pulled myself up the side of the locker until I could roll onto its top.

Made it. Cursing the lack of light, I wiped the salt spray out of my eyes and peered upward in the dark.

Brad—it had to be Brad—was leaning back against the railing to brace himself. And Kyle—it had to be Kyle—was crouched before him on his hands and knees, his head bent downward.

I caught my breath, tightened my grip on the projection I was clutching to keep from falling off. There could be no mistaking the bobbing motions of Kyle’s head: he was sucking Brad off.

I wished I had a better view. My arm was crooked around the tool-shed projection, and was getting cramped. I saw Brad put his hands on Kyle’s head to urge him on. Kyle’s rhythm picked up speed.

I thought I heard a stifled sob.

My head began spinning as I fumbled my fly open with my free hand and liberated my straining erection. It took only a couple of pumps of my stiff shaft before my body was wracked with exquisite spasms as my dick shot spurts of semen out into black nothingness. I was holding my breath so I wouldn’t be heard, and the blood was pounding in my head as I quickly did myself up again, not even bothering to wipe my dick clean.

Shakily, with one hand clutching the tool shed, I slid down the side, landing on the deck in a squat. Peering around to make sure I was unobserved, I hurried forward again until I came to the ladder leading down to the radio shack. I now felt something like panic lest I should get caught outside the ship at this time of night. I hurried into the skin of the ship.

By now the red night-lights within seemed extra bright to my eyes. I dreaded the prospect of meeting anyone. But luckily no one was about at this hour and I made it back safely to my compartment.

Down by my rack I undressed for bed. I slid under my sheet, naked, my heart pounding furiously. I felt as if I’d just run a mile.

Just above my head was the familiar slap of the water against the hull. And accompanying it tonight were the keen, ear-piercing pings of the sonar, screaming down into the hidden depths of the ocean to seek out subs. My eardrums ached from it.

But I felt a profound elation...as if a whole new world was just opening up for me.

Paradise Beach

They called it Paradise Beach and it was their counterpart to the crew’s Fantail Beach and Flightdeck Beach—so called because so many sailors sunned themselves there during the day on beach towels. Paradise Beach, however, came alive only at night, and was known only to the three friends who met there.

I too had now become a regular visitor, but though from night to night the talk gradually grew bolder and more open, I still hadn’t learned anything further about the three boys’ homosexuality.

It was Kyle who played a leading part in these get-togethers, and he seemed to be the acknowledged leader. With his unstoppable flow of talk, he kept the conversations alive. Because he’d never made a secret of his inclinations, he dauntlessly joked around on homosexual themes. And I admired his cocky openness, though I never let it show. Occasionally he put on a campy queen act, slipping an arm behind my back and blowing into my ear. The others only laughed, but I felt uncomfortable, and shoved him away in embarrassment.

One night, as the four of us were smoking some pot up on Paradise Breach, Kyle placed the lit end of his joint into his mouth and leaned over to blow me a shotgun. I opened my mouth just inches from his lips as he exhaled a steady stream of smoke into my lungs. The proximity of his mouth excited me.

He turned the joint around and took a hit from it; then, looking at the other two for approval, said: “Should I tell him?”

Brad and Richie seemed a little uneasy and looked at each other.

“Tell me what?” I asked.

“We’ve talked it over among ourselves and decided you’re cool, so I think I’ll go ahead and tell you.”

“Tell me what?” I repeated.

“I’m gay.”

I tried to work up a surprised expression.

“You mean you never guessed?” he asked, incredulous.

“I...I don’t know. I mean….” I was confused. Why was he confessing to what was already an open secret?

“Does it shock you?” he asked.

“I’m a little surprised, I guess.”

“Does that mean you won’t be coming up here anymore?”

“No, it doesn’t change anything. I mean, it doesn’t bother me what a guy’s sexual preferences are. We can still be friends, right?”

“You’re all right, Doc, you know that?” He dropped a limp hand onto my lap.

I brushed it away. “I said friends, and that’s exactly what I mean.”

“Oh, shucks.”

The others laughed. Though it all seemed casual enough, I felt as if I were being subjected to some sort of test, like an entrance exam which, if I passed, would allow me entry into their inner circle. I glanced at the other two because I’d noticed looks passing between them as I answered Kyle’s questions. Were their confessions coming up, too? Or were they going to continue their charade as liberal-minded friends who accepted an avowed homosexual as a companion?

“Oh no, don’t get any wrong ideas,” said Brad, correctly interpreting my look.

“Oh, they’re hetero, all right,” put in Kyle quickly.

“Just wanted to be sure,” I said.

“That would be too much, wouldn’t it?” giggled Kyle. “I mean, if we were all queer.”

And nothing more was said about it that night.

We’d caught up with the task force, the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk and its complement of destroyers, supply ships, and submarines. A task force is virtually self-sufficient out at sea and can go for months without hitting port. Unlike a smaller ship such as ours, (which, alone, must constantly go into port for replenishments), a carrier is like a floating city, with its own bakery, hospital (staffed by doctors), dental office, and library. Mail can be flown onto it every day by plane (and then shuttled by helo to the smaller ships around it.) As for medical and office supplies, we could requisition them at any time while the supply ships were with us. For refueling, there were the fleet oilers, floating gas stations which made port calls unnecessary; we could perform underway replenishment indefinitely.

It was because of all these ships around us that we were able to have such a long at-sea period—much to our chagrin. However, when I went topside and saw all the other ships around us, flashing signal lamps at each other, lined up in formation and performing maneuvers, I felt excited at being part of it all. It was like being in a war movie.

The carrier itself was huge, dwarfing us by its mass. It left a wake miles wide, and I’d heard that it was almost impossible to notice its rolling onboard because it was as smooth as being on land. In the open hangars below the flight deck could be seen its jets with their wings folded up, their wheels chocked, and mechanics at work on them. Their wings and tails were adorned with colorful splashes of color: stripes, arrows, numbers, and other insignia.

As a frigate, our main duty within the task force was to sweep the seas before the carrier and search the hidden depths for unfriendly subs. The carriers are the heart of the Navy’s fighting force and have to be protected at all costs. (With their planes’ striking power, they are the nerve center of any combat operation.) If, for example, during a war, we were to spot a torpedo heading toward the carrier, our inglorious task was to intercept it, even blowing ourselves up if necessary. We were, like any low-ranking soldier, expendable.

Another of our jobs was plane guard duty. This meant we tagged along behind the Kitty as it conducted flight ops, which often went around-the-clock. If a pilot were careless enough to ditch his plane into the sea, we would be right there to pluck him out of the water. Night ops were particularly fascinating to watch, and I often went topside to Paradise Beach in order to enjoy them.

As the jets climbed into steep take-offs, their engines roared like thunder, and their tails belched out a bizarre plume of smoke tinged green and purple and white. Amazed, I watched an artificial sun light up the night in brilliant rainbow colors as a gut-numbing tingle vibrated through my stomach. Almost immediately afterwards, another plane came whining in for a landing, its cockpit canopy glowing dimly green from the instrument panel lights within. I could even see the pilot’s helmet with its squadron insignia decal on its side.

“It’s a sexual sight, isn’t it?” said Kyle.

I nodded, for that was exactly what I’d been thinking. I was sitting with my legs dangling over the side of Paradise Beach, leaning against the railings, and Kyle had just come up from below. Lately we two were the only ones up here, for Brad, with his sonar watches (12 on and 12 off) was busier than ever, and Richie had been switched to night watches.

Kyle sat down beside me and I felt his knee brush against mine and instinctively moved aside a little. It was only after I’d done so that I realized that the seemingly accidental brush might have been intentional.

“That’s a pretty big ship, the Shitty Kitty,” he said.

“Sure is.”

This time when his knee touched mine I didn’t budge.

Forward of us we could see the dim forms of our signalmen moving back and forth on the signal bridge. Flight ops was a particularly trying time for them. And in front of them one or two points off the starboard bow, the huge dark shape of the carrier towered like a hill, its wake fanned out like a ghostly shore.

“Ever been on a carrier, Bill?”

“Just once, to pick up some supplies.”

“I have a friend on the Eisenhower and he says he hates it.”

“I can imagine.” On a carrier the size of the Kitty Hawk, with its crew of 4,500 men, it was impossible to get to know more than a handful of people. You were just an anonymous face in the crowd. And like any city, it undoubtedly had its share of social problems. “I hear you can get mugged in the passageways at night if you aren’t careful,” I said.

“That’s right. You can’t walk around at night without a buddy.”

“Damn.”

“Speaking of buddies, did you know that they even have a gay ghetto onboard most of those things?”

“No kidding? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Where is it on the Eisenhower?”

“S-2 berthing, in supply. They say if you sleep down in S-2, you’d better keep your ass to the bulkhead, or sleep with your dixie cup over your butt.”

“I love it. Is your friend in S-2, by any chance?”

He chuckled deep in his throat. “I’ll leave that to your imagination. Not all my friends are gay, you know, though most of them are. My best friends all are.”

“Isn’t it hard for you? I mean, being gay and in the Navy?”

“The hardest part is resisting the temptation.”

“No, seriously. Why did you join up in the first place?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I was always falling in love with boys in uniform. And the idea of wearing a sailor’s suit—it was so romantic. What a disappointment I was in for. The Navy is romantic, all right...until you join up.”

“Why don’t you get out? It’s not that hard.”

“What, fess up to being queer? That’s a hell of a way to get out of the Navy. I don’t know. I think I wanna stick it out for as long as I can. There’s worse things in life.”

As we were talking, the activity of the jets had picked up quite a bit. One came screaming in for a landing, and as I craned my neck up to watch its descent, I felt the brush of Kyle’s hand against my thigh. I glanced sideways at him to determine whether it had been accidental, but he was gazing up at the jet.

“I can almost read the markings on that one’s tail,” he said.

“K...M,” I read aloud. Immediately another one came whining in for a landing.

“Good God, how many of them are out there?”

I felt the hand brush my thigh again but pretended not to notice.

“I’ll bet you they land more than seven planes within the next five minutes,” he said.

“How much?”

“Ten bucks.”

“You’re on.”

I slipped my wristwatch off and brought it up so I could read the phosphorescent markings. I was trying to make my breathing seem normal because I knew his hand would descend onto my thigh again, and the thought of it was agitating my heartbeat. Sure enough, it did...and this time stayed there.

“What’d I tell you?” he said. “Another one. This one says KB. I wonder what those markings stand for.”

“I don’t know. It probably has something to do with what squadron they’re in.”

His hand slid down between my thighs and cupped up against my dick. I prayed that it wouldn’t get hard, but rebelliously it swelled out and stretched tight against the inseam of my dungarees, responding to the pressure of Kyle’s hand.

“Here’s another one—that’s three. How much more time do I have?”

I glanced at my watch. “Three and a half minutes.”

With the palm of his hand he began rubbing the underside of my erection. There was no way now I could keep up my end of the conversation.

“This is busier than Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, I bet.”

His fingers closed around my dick and began stroking it. I gazed forward to the signal bridge but the signalmen were busy at their tasks. Even if one of them were to glance back in our direction, Kyle and I would be nothing more than a dark blob in the night.

The stroking was even and smooth.

“Those pilots have to be crazy to try to land on that deck. It doesn’t look like it’s moving, but it is, you know. One slip-up and you’re nothing but a ball of fire. But I hear they have computers on the planes nowadays that will compensate for the ship’s roll.”

The stroking continued.

“There’s another one now. That’s, what, four in under three minutes. At this rate I think I’ll win that bet.”

From the corner of my eye I saw that he was gazing up at the landing jets. But down below his fingers never ceased their regular stroking. I clenched my toes as I felt a weakness spread through my body. All my vital energy became concentrated on the six-and-a-half inches of hardness being stroked by Kyle’s hand.

“What’s the writing on that wing...?”

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 tentative 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.

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 Filipino 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 what 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.

Bunny returned shortly holding a funny-looking medicine bottle stuffed full of pot. I was glad there was so little of it because I knew I’d probably end up buying it from him.

“You have papers?” he asked.

I shook my head. Though most sailors carry a packet of rolling papers with them on liberty, our ship had been getting very strict about drugs recently. Since leaving Thailand, the captain had ordered quarterdeck searches at every port. Sailors coming back from liberty were patted down and, if there were sufficient grounds for suspicion, strip-searched. Anyone caught with drugs or paraphernalia (which included rolling papers) was sent up to captain’s mast.

Bunny made a face, then searched the room for some kind of substitute. In the top drawer of the dresser he found a sheet of newspaper being used as lining. I laughed when he pulled it out, but he seemed to find nothing unusual about rolling a joint in the local newspaper. When he was done he handed it to me; it was the biggest joint I’d ever seen in my life.

I lit it up and took a hit. The newspaper crackled and left a long, shivery blossom of ash on its tip. When I passed it to Bunny I saw that my thumb and fingers were blackened from the newsprint.

Because it was so loosely rolled, the joint went fast. It was not very good pot, but I did begin to feel a bit of a high. Along with it, as often happens with me, was an edge of paranoia. I began to remind myself never to leave Bunny alone in the room because he’d find the money and take it.

Back at the Shangri-La he’d been such a saucy little faggot, so irresistible and sexy, but now that I was alone with him in my room the magic seemed to have faded somehow, and I saw him for what he was—or what I thought he was: just another tough little street boy. There was no telling what he was really after. Why had he asked me to get rid of Brad? Wasn’t it just so he could separate us and work on me alone?

He stood up suddenly. “I’m taking a shower now,” he announced.

“Sure.”

I watched him briskly doff his clothes in front of me. With the detached vision granted by the pot I gazed at the scrawny and undeveloped body which emerged, and almost regretted dumping Brad. I thought of Titi with his polo shirt stretched tightly over his firm chest and shoulders.

“No, wait,” I said, “Let’s take a shower together.”

“Why?”

“It’s a lot funner that way.” I stood up and began taking off my own clothes. I’d just realized that if I took a shower later myself, Bunny would have a chance to search the room.

He shrugged his shoulders and stepped out of his baggy trousers. I saw that he was circumcised, and remembered that Filipino boys prided themselves on going through a ritual circumcision upon reaching manhood. Apparently they were eager to be able to boast afterwards that they hadn’t even flinched. This was no mean feat, considering that the operation was often performed without any anesthetics by some decrepit old man using the most primitive of instruments.

“Come here.” I pulled him to me so I could run my fingers through the spider-webby hair at his crotch…hair which looked so recently sprouted. The tiny walnuts of his testicles hugged boyishly tight against his body. His small erection was rock hard.

“Come on, let’s take that shower.”

There was no hot water, of course, but I’d come to expect that. Though it restricted amorous play in the showers, it brought me awake. I soaped him up, then had him soap me. After rinsing ourselves off, we stepped out to dry our glistening bodies.

The wide spacious bed delighted Bunny, and he jumped onto it with glee, kicking out his legs and drumming his heels against the headboard. I jumped onto it after him and we wrestled playfully for a while. Then, as we got tired, I pulled him to me.

“Wait,” he said. “Turn the lights off.”

“Why?”

“I’m shy,” he said flirtatiously.

“Like hell you are.” But I turned the bedside lamp off before pulling him back to me. When I kissed him he responded immediately, nibbling back at my mouth like a greedy little fish. Coyly he darted his tongue in and out between my lips. His teeth were tiny and even, which was one of the things I liked about him. I felt his hand rubbing my stomach in slow, circular movements.

Suddenly he pulled away.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“I just remembered. I don’t have taxi money to go home.”

“Taxi money?”

“I live far away. I have to take a taxi to go home.”

I stiffened. “Don’t do this to me, Bunny, please. You said you came with me because you like me. I even got rid of my friend for you.”

He said nothing.

“Bunny, I never pay for it. Never. And I’m not starting with you.”

He still said nothing.

“I’m not an idiot, Bunny. Those watered-down drinks I was buying you all night: I know how much you make from each one.”

“I was only kidding, Bill. Don’t you know when I’m joking?” The look he gave me was so sincere that I almost wanted to believe him. “Bill, I don’t like you when you get mad.”

“All right, let’s forget about it.”

“Are we still friends?”

“We’re still friends.”

“Can we gilly-gilly now?”

“Yes.”

I turned to him again, but for some reason he began pulling the sheet off the mattress. I thought of the money hidden underneath.

“What are you doing now?”

“We make love like this. Watch.” He pulled the sheet up over both of us until we were completely covered, even our heads. Then he tucked it all around underneath us until we were tented as snugly as if we were inside a cocoon.

“You can’t be that shy, Bunny.”

“It’s good like this.”

“Oh yeah?” I pulled him close to me and began kissing him again. He was right: there was a claustrophobic immediacy to our caresses. Everything seemed magnified, every breath and pant, and the tight sheet wrapped around us was like an elastic accomplice to our lovemaking. We were in our own little world, existing apart from the rest of mankind. I tried to imagine how we looked to someone outside observing the bumping, squirming cocoon we’d become.

And then I pictured a couple of men sneaking in through the window—Bunny’s accomplices, tipped off by a signal (by the light being turned off, perhaps.) It was all a plot; I was helpless, wrapped up in this sheet. If they wanted to, they could easily beat me up and ransack the room for money.

“No!” I pulled the sheet away from my head and looked quickly around the room.

“What’s the matter?” asked Bunny, perplexed.

I jumped to my feet and rushed to the window. It was unlocked. I opened it and peered out into the night. All was quiet. But I saw that if someone wanted to, he could easily scale the wall and climb up to this second-story veranda from the street below. Bunny came to my side as I closed the window and locked it.

He pushed it open again. “It’s so hot in here.”

“No!” I almost yelled. “I want it closed. I’m not gonna get mugged by your friends.”

He looked at me with a pained expression, which turned into bewildered pity. “Are you crazy or something?” He stood silently for a moment, then sighed and walked back to the bed.

“And none of your crazy sheet tricks, either,” I added, “because I know what it’s for.”

At this he lost his temper and began yelling at me in Tagalog, mixed with English: “Who wants your fucking money? No one wants your fucking money. You’re an asshole!”

“What? You little whore, you’ve got a lot of nerve saying that.”

No reply, only a sullen glare.

I felt a meanness rise up inside me. “Oh, wait a minute, I forgot: you like me, right? You’re not a whore, right?”

He turned his face away.

“Go on, say it,” I said. “Let’s hear it. Tell me you’re not a benny-boy at all. Tell me you only do this kind of thing for the money—that you’re really straight as an arrow. That’s what they all say, isn’t it?”

I had a vision of a tiny village of thatch-roofed huts upon stilts, with hogs wallowing around below, rooting in the ground for leftovers, and little children running around naked among them. A few years ago, Bunny would have been one of them.

“You’re sending all the money you make back to your parents in whatever bum-fuck village you come from, isn’t that right? And if it wasn’t for the money you could make peddling your ass to rich foreigners, you’d still be back there with your 15 brothers and sisters all running around with nothing to eat, right? Well, you can get the hell out of my bed right now. Go on. Get out of my room. I don’t wanna see your face anymore.”

He jumped out of bed and stood quivering before me. There were tears in his eyes. “Fuck you, asshole!” he cried, then began gathering up his clothes.

As I watched him, I started to seriously wonder if he was right; maybe the marijuana had induced this mad paranoia. The stuff must have been more powerful than I thought. And coming on top of all the drinking I’d done.... If so, he had every right to be offended.

He was still muttering angrily under his breath.

“Bunny.... I’m sorry. I guess I smoked too much pot. It made me crazy. Let’s forget it. Forget the whole thing and call it a night. I’m tired. And don’t worry. I’ll pay for your damned taxi ride home.”

“No! I said I don’t want your fucking money!”

Now what? Why didn’t he just take the money and go? I felt a sudden tiredness seep into my body. The whole situation had become too ridiculous for words. My anger dissipated, and I gazed wanly at the frail-looking boy who’d provoked my meaningless outburst. I felt sorry for him.

“Come on, Bunny, you don’t have to leave.”

“I’m going.”

“It’s after midnight, damn it. You can’t leave now. I said you can stay.”

I went over to him and pulled the clothes out of his hands. He made a half-hearted move to repel me.

“Will you please stay? I’m asking you now. I’m sorry I blew my top like that, all right? Fight’s over, okay?”

He stood firm and refused to meet my eyes.

Wearily I climbed back into bed and snapped off the light. “You can stand there all night if you want to, I don’t care. Or you can come back to bed. And don’t worry: I’m not in the mood for gilly-gilly anymore.”

He knew from the tone of my voice that I meant it. After a few moments I felt the bed creak under his added weight but I didn’t turn around to face him.

Back to back, still not facing each other, we sought sleep.

Beneath me, hidden under the mattress, was my money. I imagined I could feel it, as the princess in the fairy tale had felt the pea. It seemed to give off a tangible emanation like radium’s green glow, or a storybook curse, and its presence banished any idea of sleep for me. Tossing about restlessly, I cursed myself for bringing it in the first place. It had only come between Bunny and me.

The hum of the hotel’s generator died away. Another of the so-called “brown-outs,” those periodic power failures so common in the Philippines. There would be no more electricity for the rest of the night.

A light touch at my shoulder almost made me jump. It was Bunny’s hand. I shrugged it off.

“You want gilly-gilly?” he whispered at my back.

“No. Let’s just get some sleep, okay?” The act of refusing him gave me some satisfaction. I added almost gruffly, “See you in the morning.” The avowal of his desire almost made up for the trouble I’d had with him earlier.

“Bill? Please?”

I sighed and turned to face him. “Okay, wanna try it one more time?”

He nodded.

In spite of everything, I was still aroused. I began kissing and stroking him.

“Bunny....”

The feel of his tiny butt was exciting me.

“Here, come here.” I pulled him on top of me, lying back as I did so.

As his cool butt settled onto my chest, I saw that he was aroused. Scooping my hands under his butt, I lifted him up and pulled him forward until his anus was poised just above my mouth. The familiar rectal smell greeted me as he lowered it. I buried my nose in his cool firm flesh and began wetting and kissing his hole.

I let my tongue dart up into it, then twirled and feathered it all around the salty lick. He gyrated his hips, rocking gently, directing my delicate tongue-lashing up and down from his balls to his asshole, then back again.

Finally he lifted himself off and I breathed fresh air again.

“I want you to ride me, Bunny,” I said.

He was uncertain at first, but I urged him to it:

“Come on, Bunny, don’t be shy.”

He lowered himself carefully down onto my erection, reaching down with one hand to guide me in. He clenched when he first felt me against his hole, but then I felt him relax. The delicious give gradually enveloped the entire length of my dick. It was a very tight fit.

With an uncertain look on his face he began rocking up and down, bracing himself by leaning forward with both hands on my chest. As his rocking picked up speed, his hair became unkempt and fell down over his forehead, covering his eyes.

I began thrusting up from below.

“Bunny....”

Wanting to make it last, I moved as slowly as I could, to savor it to the full. But almost immediately I felt it coming on, the delicious pleasure I’d been denied for so long. Unable to resist it, I shivered out a sob-like moan, racked by a sensation so exquisite and fleet that it shot through me and was gone even before I could let out my first sigh. I gasped raggedly, lying there chasing the vanishing memory, now so faint, and then gone forever.

He stopped. I noted the tiny transparent dewdrop shivering on the very tip of his glans.

I reached up and gripped his shaft.

“No, Bill, please. I’ll come.”

“Go ahead. I want you to.”

I began pumping him.

“Bill, I’m coming.”

He sat up straight and, brushing my hand aside, gave himself one or two pumps.

Instinctively I closed my eyes as I felt a warm, damp kiss land on my cheek, my chest, my chin. I was reminded of what it was like to be his age. Had it been that long ago? When I opened my eyes again, Bunny looked like he was about to cry. “I’m sorry, Bill.”

“Don’t be. It was lovely.”

He started to wipe the cum off my face with the sheet. I stopped him.

“Don’t you dare.”

He had such a shamed look on his face that I was surprised. I’d thought the boys working here would be jaded and callous from a very young age.

“Bunny....”

He continued to look embarrassed. I reached up to feel his chest, and his rapidly beating heart was like a tiny bird imprisoned inside the most exquisite latticework cage.

Homeport

It was bound to happen sooner or later, and it finally did on the morning we pulled out of Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. Kyle and Brad had gone down to Waikiki the night before to get their ears pierced, and showed up on the ship that morning sporting identical gold ear-rings in their right ears. The moment I saw them coming up the brow I knew they’d gone too far this time. They’d been suspected of being queer for a long time now, but this was a visual flaunting of the fact, and they would never be forgiven for it. The days of covert tolerance were over.

Ironically, the Navy was the only branch of the military which actually allowed ear-rings as part of the official uniform—but only under special circumstances. A sailor who’d had a ship go down under him was allowed by naval tradition to wear an ear-ring to signify that fact—and he could link together as many ear-rings as required, one for each ship. However, it was obvious at a glance that neither Kyle nor Brad had been anywhere near a war; they were only following a West Coast gay fashion.

As word got around, I noticed sullen, threatening looks flicker over the faces of some of the crew whenever they caught sight of one of the Paradise Beach duo. They associated me with them, of course, so I was becoming scared even to be seen with them.

Richie wasn’t included in this silent denunciation. He’d always taken care not to be seen too much with the three of us in public, and ever since our last liberty stop in the PI, he’d stopped coming up to Paradise Beach altogether. It seemed that the closer to home we got, the less “queer” he became. Apparently he was one of those for whom foreign travel is liberating, but who eventually return tamely to the caged doors of home.

As for Kyle, Brad and me, it went without saying that our meetings up on Paradise Beach would have to cease.

When Chief Smith called me into his office one afternoon I knew exactly what to expect. He was the senior-ranking enlisted man aboard, and as such, was something of a gray-haired father figure for most of the younger sailors. I genuinely liked him, for he was one of the few “lifers” I could stand. He was the command’s career counselor and kept a tiny office which had a locked, cage-like door to protect the promotion test materials within from theft.

I greeted him cheerfully as I stepped into his cramped office, but in fact I was scared to death. He had a hurt look on his face as if he didn’t like what he was about to do. I knew I was in for some bad news. The strange thing was that it was he who looked guilty...which made me feel that much more terrible, as if I’d let him down in some way.

He cleared his throat and had a hard time looking me in the eye. “Bill, I feel it’s only fair to warn you guys about what’s happening. The XO called an emergency meeting this afternoon because there are certain people on board who are starting to take actions against you which might have serious consequences.”

“What for? What did I do?”

“Please, Bill. I don’t want to play any games today. This is serious.”

“But there’s no proof of anything.”

“I wish there wasn’t.”

“But...ear-rings? What’s the big deal? Don’t you think you’re over-reacting a bit?”

He shook his head. “It’s not just the ear-rings, Bill.” He looked down at his hands. “As you know, Senior Chief Russell is an old flat-topper from way back. He loves to watch flight ops when we’re with a carrier. Well, one night when we were in the IO, he went out to the fantail as usual to watch night ops….”

I felt my heart sink sickeningly.

“And he looked up towards the helo hangar just by chance….”

I didn’t hear the rest of the story. I thought back to the first night I’d seen the silhouettes up there myself, and the other larger one down below peering up at them. And I’d thought all along it was Richie.

I’d always suspected Senior Chief Russell was queer; ever since coming on board, I’d been the recipient of significant looks and jokes, playful pokes in the ribs. Naturally I’d snubbed these overtures, as had both Kyle and Brad. But I’d had no idea about the depths of his feelings. I recalled the time I’d bumped into him on my way up to Paradise Beach. Apparently he’d been in the habit of spying on us from below, getting his kicks in the only way he could. I could just picture him, the lonely rejected suitor, night after night, gazing up at us with insane jealousy as we did all the things he wished he could do. And now this was his way of getting back at us.

There wasn’t much I could say. “Why did it take this long for the shit to hit the fan?”

“The chief had told the XO about it before, but he’d let it slide that time. And now this ear-ring business comes up—it’s like the straw that breaks the camel’s back. He really had no choice this time.”

“I guess not.”

He winced at the undisguised irony in my voice. “I’m really sorry, Bill. You’re a damned good corpsman, and you never got into any trouble. From looking at your service records, I can tell you would have had a great career in the Navy. I’m really sorry to be losing you.”

“Losing? You mean I’m gonna be booted out?”

A confidential look came over his face. “I’ll be honest with you. Personally, I have nothing against what anyone’s sexual preferences may be. But in this case, we have no choice. We have to abide by Navy regs.” His eyes looked truly sorrowful.

I’d never planned to stay in the Navy anyway after my four-year hitch was up. Still, I knew there’d be a void in my life when I got out. As much as I hated the Navy sometimes, I’d grown accustomed to it. To leave it all so suddenly, without any emotional preparation, would be like having the breath knocked out of me. You may hate the very air you breathe, but you continue to breathe.

“How soon will we know what’s going to happen to us?”

He shook his head. “I’m sure we’ll know by the time we get to Diego.”

It was a seven-day crossing from Hawaii to Diego. “What exactly will they do to me?”

“Well, if it’s the usual, you’ll be offered a chance to sign a paper waiving your rights to a hearing…in return for an automatic general discharge.”

“What happens if I don’t sign?”

“It’s better if you do. That way, you’re at least guaranteed a general discharge, whereas if the case goes to court-martial, you might end up with a bad conduct discharge, an undesirable discharge, or even a dishonorable one. The Navy just wants to avoid all the time and hassle involved with a court-martial.”

“So if I sign, I’m out, just like that?”

“Well....” He looked away. “You might be asked to name names, to tell naval investigators all the people with whom you’ve had relations. That’s the usual procedure.”

“Why?”

“So they can identify more homosexuals.”

“I won’t cooperate. Nobody can make me sink that low.”

He looked acutely embarrassed.

“Listen, chief,” I said. “Get me out of that and I’ll sign the paper waiving my rights. I don’t wanna cause the command any trouble. Is it a deal?”

He looked weary as he nodded. “All right. You have my promise.”

“Thanks, chief.” I stood up.

“Sorry it had to end this way, Bill. If there’s anything else I can do for you, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

“Of course.” I still felt as if I’d betrayed a trust, or had cheated on his affection for me.

Later I heard that an extra watch had been posted on the helo deck at night for the duration of the cruise.

I got back to sick bay, but hadn’t been there five minutes when Kyle dropped by. He looked pale. I asked my first class if I could take a five-minute break. He shrugged as if he didn’t care what I did anymore. Our work relations were beginning to sour already. Apparently he was being needled by his buddies down in the first class lounge.

I followed Kyle out to the fantail. I had nothing to lose now in being seen with him.

“What are we gonna do, Bill?” He wasn’t wearing his silly ear-ring anymore: it had been replaced by a look of desperation bordering on paranoia.

Unlike me, he’d been disliked by most of the crew from the start. His walk and his mannerisms gave him away as an “obvious” type. Ever since boot camp he’d had to put up with taunts and slanders. Now guys were dropping notes on his bunk, some of them containing death threats. His clothes were “disappearing” from the ship’s laundry, his mail was getting lost. (As for me, I was probably seen as a “regular guy” who’d slipped. Still, I knew I’d better avoid using the passageways at night.)

I shrugged. “What can we do? They got us. We’ll probably get general discharges.”

A general discharge (also known as an administrative discharge) was usually handed out to drug offenders, conscientious objectors, homosexuals, and the like—all the undesirable elements within the Navy. It was considered neither honorable nor dishonorable, but somewhere in between. Though it carried full veterans’ benefits with it, it was still viewed askance by most sailors. Dishonorables were so rarely handed out nowadays that a general one was viewed in the same light as a dishonorable once was.

Kyle gave me a fierce look. “Did you know that when they give you a general discharge, they have to state the reasons for the discharge on the papers?”

“So?”

“So that means your parents will find out. They send a letter home to your parents explaining why you got kicked out. They have to.”

I felt sick. That was what scared me the most. It would be painful for my mom and dad to find out I was gay. Though I’d wanted them to learn about it eventually, I didn’t expect it to be this soon.

Kyle was probably thinking the same thing. “Well, I don’t know about you, but my parents don’t know I’m gay. It would break their hearts. What the Navy’s doing is unconstitutional. We have a right to our privacy—even if we are fags.”

I sighed and said in an even voice, trying to keep my temper down: “When you join the military, you give up a lot of your constitutional rights. You become an expendable piece of equipment. Not even your life is your own. When I was in corpsman school, I helped treat several cases of attempted suicide. There’s no specific clause in the military regs which deals with attempted suicide, but they had to charge these guys with something, so do you know what they did? They charged them with ‘destruction of government property.’ Because that’s exactly what you and I are right now: government property.”

“Well I don’t care. I talked it over with Brad and we decided we’re taking it to court.”

“Forget it. There’s nothing you can do.”

“How about you? Are you just gonna let them kick you out?”

“I knew this was one of the risks I was taking when I first joined up, and so did you.”

When I’d signed my enlistment papers, there had been a question just before the end: Do you have homosexual inclinations, or have you ever engaged in homosexual activities? I had checked “no” because I knew I wouldn’t have been allowed into the Navy if I hadn’t. I’d lied. And so had Kyle. And now they’d caught us out in our lies and we were paying the consequences for it.

“Let’s face it, Kyle,” I said. “The Navy has us, if for nothing else than breach of contract.”

He looked disgusted. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m fighting it. You may be a quitter, but I’m not.”

I blew up at this. “If you guys hadn’t started all this by getting those faggoty ear-rings, none of this would have happened!”

“You’re a fine one to talk. Come off it, Bill. Deep down you’re just as faggoty as I am. At least I’m honest about it, not a hypocrite like you.”

“You know something? Sometimes I think it’s true: a fag’s worst enemy is another fag!” I turned away to go back to sick bay, and heard him say to my back:

“Isn’t that my line?”

I was through with the Paradise Beach gang.

As the ship approached Diego, the crew became more and more restless; after nearly nine months away from our homeport, it was impossible not to be caught up in the frenetic party-like atmosphere. Even we, the branded outcasts, were infected.

Now that the air was cleared, so to speak, and everything was out in the open, I was surprised at the number of guys who showed me sympathy and support. These were guys who were absolutely straight, but who apparently had no sexual insecurities.

The majority of the crew, though, were far otherwise. Their deep-rooted paranoia about homosexuality was so ingrained that their reaction was like an automatic knee-jerk: a fag was someone to be shunned and hated. Now that they’d discovered another facet of me, guys who’d once been so open and friendly became curt and impersonal.

But far worse than them, it was the undetected gays on board who acted the most prudishly offended, especially those who were on the borderline, or who had “dabbled.” Of course they were the ones who had the most to lose if they were suspected. I could almost sympathize with their need to protect themselves. Almost.

I was most surprised at Richie’s transformation. He seemed so scared of me that he actually started in terror whenever I walked into a compartment where he was. But I had no intention of giving him—or anyone else—away; their secret was safe with me.

Now that it was safe to do so, many of the guys openly admitted to their curiosity about homosexuality. Under the guise of fascinated revulsion, they sat around Kyle listening to the tales he told. And he was most willing to oblige them. One evening I sat on the mess deck a few tables away, listening in without joining them. Kyle was talking about hustling.

“When I was in A-school in Diego, I’d go up to LA every weekend and cruise the streets looking for johns.”

“Did you make good money?” asked one guy.

“Of course. Why do you think I did it so much? Wanna know something? I always wore my dress uniform when I went up there, too: it was a sure hit. You should have seen them hit the brakes when they spotted me in my sailor’s suit. That was the only time I was glad I joined the Navy.”

“What kind of guys picked you up?”

“All kinds: businessmen, mechanics, teachers, football coaches, airline pilots, even a mayor from a small town in Oregon. Catholic priests….”

“Catholic priests?”

“Oh yes. You wouldn’t believe how wild they can get. And it wasn’t always men, either. There’s plenty of women who go for that kind of thing. You’d be surprised at the number of rich women—some of them married, too—who offered me money to be kept by them.”

“And you passed that up?”

“I can’t stand women, junior.”

“What are some of the things you had to do with your customers?”

“Oh, you name it. I’ve been tied up, beat up, pissed on. And a lot of them want me to beat them. They can’t get off in any other way. I’m always happy to oblige, of course. It’s an easy way to make money.”

“What was the weirdest thing you ever did?”

“This one guy—he was a used car dealer from Phoenix—wanted me to shit on his face.”

“Gross!”

“But that’s a rare case. Mostly it was just the old F-and-S.”

“Meaning?”

“Fucking and sucking.”

One of the guys at another table—a snipe—turned around at this. He had a look on his face indicating he’d had as much as he could take. In an obnoxious, cutting tone, he asked, “And what’s it like to suck dick, Roberts?”

In answer, Kyle picked up the chicken drumstick on his tray, brought it up to his mouth and slid it in as far as it would go.

“Jesus Christ!” The snipe banged away from the table with his friends in disgust. “Get me away from this fucking fag!”

Kyle called out after them: “You can call me whatever you like, but in a few days, you’ll have to call me long-distance.”

We were a little ahead of schedule and had to anchor out the night before we came into port. This was because there would be a welcome-back ceremony on the pier when we pulled in, complete with a brass band and perhaps even a television crew filming a segment for the local news.

At 7 o’clock in the morning, we cruised slowly up the channel, past the breakwater, passing marker buoy after marker buoy. A tug came out to meet us, spraying out water from its fire hoses in salute. It came alongside and a pilot came aboard our ship. He was a retired Navy captain, looking a little shabby with his long, unkempt hair. Under his orders (relayed to the tug crew with a walkie-talkie) the tug nosed us slowly and awkwardly into our assigned berth.

I watched it all from my vantage point above the helo deck, on the former Paradise Beach. An excited crowd milled about on the pier, mostly family members holding banners and placards which read “We Love U, Daddy,” “Welcome Home, Sweetheart” and similar things. The band struck up “Anchors Aweigh” and then “Stars and Stripes Forever.” I watched it all with a heavy heart, knowing it would be for the last time.

The first rope was tossed ashore, caught by some sailors in a working party from another ship, and as soon as they secured it to a bollard on the pier, the boatswain’s mate’s whistle sounded over the 1MC, followed by his announcement: “Moored. Shift colors.”

Balloons slowly lifted into the air at this, dotting the sky with spots of red, green, and yellow. But a lot of work still remained before the brow could go over. There was the usual bustle back on the fantail as the rest of the lines were sent over and secured, and it was another 30 minutes or so before all seven mooring lines were in place.

Meanwhile, sailors on the neighboring ships—looking grubby in their everyday dungarees (we were in dress blues for the occasion)—gazed in amusement at all the fuss our ship was creating. They pointed out the pretty girls on the pier to each other.

Liberty call wouldn’t be passed for a while yet, but a lot of guys were already milling around in the doorways, dressed in their civvies. But no one cared. As soon as the brow was secured, liberty call was passed, and there was a rush of sailors flowing onto the pier.

A fury of embracing followed as girlfriends, wives, and children rushed to greet them. I spotted Ensign McDavid in the crowd passionately kissing an attractive girl—Cindy, I presumed.

Senior Chief Russell, the instrument of my downfall, was also in the crowd, in the arms of his dumpy-looking wife. Near him was his son, about 12 years old, looking a little embarrassed by all the emotion around him. He was gazing intently at the ship’s equipment.

Even the sailors who had no one waiting for them on the pier were just as eager as the others to leave the ship. Hastily saluting the flag on the fantail, then the OOD, they scampered down the gangplank and pushed their way through the crowd. There was a storage garage on base where many of them kept their motorcycles and cars; no doubt they were in a hurry to visit girlfriends or family living out of state.

Everybody was in such a hurry to go someplace, to meet someone. Although I had liberty until 8 o’clock the next morning, I didn’t feel like going out into town. My days onboard were numbered anyway—I might as well spend the remainder of my time on the ship which had been my home for over a year now.

I spotted Jim walking down the brow with his bicycle slung over his shoulder. No doubt he was heading down to Broadway to check out the latest X-rated flicks before going to see his massage parlor cutie.

On the pier, the commotion was finally dying down as people headed off to their cars in the parking lot. For me, this ceremony marked the end of an adventure; a phase of my life was ending and I felt as if I were awakening from a long dream. I wondered to myself whether I’d found what I’d set out to find. My heart felt empty and I didn’t want to know the answer.

The next day turned out to be my last on board. We were on holiday schedule, and nearly three-quarters of the crew were still on extended liberty. Only a minimum of people remained aboard since we were back to a 6-section watch, as opposed to the 3-section one we’d been on the whole time we were overseas. (This was the absolute minimum number of men required to get the ship underway in an emergency.) The ship was like a ghost town—dead.

And then everything started happening at once. I was told to go to the ship’s personnel office where I signed some papers. Then I went around to all the departments with a check-out sheet getting the initials or signatures of the duty department heads. The dreaded ordeal went by so quickly that it was painless. For the people involved, it was just another job. Some of them shook my hand and wished me luck, but others refused to even touch me, as if I carried some loathsome disease.

Since Kyle and Brad were consulting with the legal advisor on base, I was the only one checking out. I knew they would create a lot of resentment within the ship by their action; it could only bring them more trouble later.

I finished signing out and went back to the personnel office to pick up my orders. Then I went down to my locker and packed everything I had into my seabag. As I passed through the mess deck on my way up to the quarterdeck I ran into Jim.

I had thought he’d be disgusted to learn I was queer, but his attitude surprised me. Grabbing my seabag and hoisting it over his shoulder, he followed me up to the quarterdeck. There we shook hands, and he said softly in his Texas drawl, “They got no right to treat you like this. They’re treatin’ you like you was dirt.”

“Thanks, Jim.”

“The Navy sucks.”

“I don’t regret joining, though. We had a lot of good times together, didn’t we?”

He looked down at his feet, then away. He was obviously uneasy at the implications of what we’d done together. Even those good times were tainted for him now.

“I understand,” I said softly. “See you around.”

I was alone as I walked down the brow for the last time. Over my shoulder was the seabag containing all my possessions; under one arm was the fat manila envelope which contained my orders and the complete records of my military life.

As I stepped off the gangplank I felt as light as a feather. I knew that life on board the ship would go on as usual without me. I was completely unnecessary for the smooth functioning of the ship. Despite the fact that I was proud of the job I did, another corpsman—someone just as good as me, no doubt—would be sent in to replace me, and he’d pick up right where I’d left off. It wasn’t a difficult job, no matter how you looked at it. I wouldn’t be missed at all. In a few months, I’d be completely forgotten.

All around me on the pier, sailors were busy at their various tasks. For them it was just another working day. I spotted a cab at the head of the pier and thought to myself: why should I wait for the shuttle bus to take me to transit? The quicker I got away, the better.

I went over to the taxi, opened the door and got in. “Transit,” I said, slamming the door behind me. The cab took off. I didn’t look back.

Transit

Life in the transit barracks was like being in limbo. I felt as if I were in a state of suspended animation. Here I knew no one…and most of the others were strangers to each other as well.

Everyone was waiting for something: those who’d just come out of boot camp were waiting for their first ship to come in. Others who’d taken leave or been hospitalized were awaiting their ships’ return from short operational cruises. Still others had finished their four-year hitch and swaggered haughtily around without a care in the world.

Discipline was very lax. We were assigned make-work such as cleaning, lawn mowing, or painting, mainly to keep us out of trouble. Five sailors would be assigned to a job which two could easily do in half a day. Most of the time guys didn’t bother to show up even for these easy tasks. They managed to slip away sometime between morning muster and the assignment, and didn’t reappear until evening muster. Others didn’t even bother to attend muster. As punishment, they were assigned extra work—which they shirked. No one seemed to give a damn about anything. Even the CPO in charge had given up. He did what he could to put some semblance of order to the place, but it was a losing battle.

The Navy’s shipboard discipline was completely absent here. Sailors smoked in their bunks, drank beer in the halls. Theft was rife. Those who were getting out of the Navy felt they had nothing to lose anyway. Among them were some real thugs, booted out with dishonorables. Others were medical discharges, found unfit for life out in the Fleet, guys with serious emotional problems, suicide attempters and the like. Some of them had such a loose grip on reality that I wondered how they’d managed to get through boot camp. Of course there were homosexuals, too, who now brazenly flaunted their inclinations.

In this timeless, meaningless world I managed to become anonymous, easily able to blend right in and turn invisible.

My bunkmate was a young boy just out of boot camp. I couldn’t believe how green and eager he looked. He was so full of questions, grilling me on what life was like out in the Fleet. Despite myself, I began playing the role of the grizzled veteran. Had I been as eager and enthusiastic as this boy just two years ago? Somehow it was hard to believe.

When I thought of the many disappointments in store for him, I couldn’t help feeling sad. And he probably had such a romantic image of a sailor’s life, too. But since he hadn’t been to A-school, he would end up in first division as a boatswain’s mate, chipping paint, swabbing decks, and learning how to swear and smoke like the others. And soon his bright boyish face would turn sour and mean.

I made up my mind to tell him only about the good times I’d had in the various ports, sometimes changing the genders of my sexual partners. Looking at his face beaming with longing, I sighed and said, “Yeah, I did my four years and I’m glad to get out.”

“But it sure sounds like you had a lot of fun. The Navy couldn’t be that bad, could it?”

“It could have been a lot worse, I suppose. Let’s put it this way, then: I’m glad I went through it, but if I had my choice, I wouldn’t do it again for any amount of money.”

Since my ship was in port and my shipmates would be around, I thought it would be better if I didn’t go out with him too much. If we were spotted together, people would get the wrong impression. The kid would have a hard enough time as it was, without the added stigma of being branded a homosexual. I gave him an excuse and headed out on my own that night.

There was a huge telephone exchange on base, filled with rows and rows of semi-private booths, and I wanted to call home to let my mother and father know I would be coming home soon. And maybe I could give them a hint about the reason for my early discharge.

When my mother came on the phone, and I told her the news, she was speechless with joy.

“But how?” she exclaimed. “I thought you still had two years left?”

“Not anymore, mom. I put in for an early discharge under a new program and got it!”

“That’s wonderful!”

She shouted for my father to come on the line, and when I repeated the news to him, I realized that it would be harder than I thought to tell them the real reason for my discharge. By the time I hung up, I was feeling almost depressed at my helplessness.

After knock-off the next day, I headed off-base to find someplace to wash my clothes. I didn’t want to use the laundromat on base where I might be seen and recognized by my shipmates, so I was happy to discover a small place just outside the gate which seemed to be little used by anyone. When I stepped inside, I found that I was the only one there.

I had finished loading my clothes into a washing machine, and was sitting on the bench reading a magazine when the most gorgeous redhead I’d ever seen in my life walked in with a sack of laundry under his arm. His hair was cut very short, military-style, and I guessed he was Navy.

Seeing that I was the only other one there, he gave me a curt nod before dumping his clothes into the nearest washing machine. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, gazing at his back as he poured detergent into the machine and selected his wash cycle. He caught me staring at him when he turned around, but he didn’t seem at all surprised. Probably he was used to it.

“Are you in the Navy?” he said, sitting down on the opposite bench.

I nodded. “At least for a little while longer, anyway. I’m waiting for my discharge.”

“Getting out, huh? Lucky you. I still have two and a half years left. I signed up for six. How long were you in?”

I thought for a moment, then decided on the spur of the moment to take a big gamble. “About two years or so, give or take a month.”

“You mean you’re getting out early? How’d you pull that off?”

“I told them I’m queer.”

“Really?” He looked at me more closely. “And are you? Or did you just say that to get out?”

“I am.”

“Oh.” He didn’t seem startled at all by my reply, and calmly commented, “It must have taken a lot of guts to confess.”

“Actually, there were two other guys who also fessed up at the same time. Or rather, we were busted by a closeted chief. But, unlike me, they’re both gonna fight it out in court because they don’t want their parents finding out about them.”

“Oh yeah? Well, you wanna know something? It’s a lie.”

“What is?”

“That the Navy informs your parents when you get discharged for being queer. I know, because I had some friends who were booted out for the same reason, and they said their parents never found out why. It’s just the Navy trying to scare you with their bullshit.”

“Well, that’s good to know. But I’m thinking about telling my parents anyway. I mean, they’re probably gonna find out about me someday, so it may as well be now.”

“Hmm. And that way you get your own back at the Navy in the process.”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“My name’s Julian, by the way.” He leaned across to shake my hand. His palm felt warm in mine.

“I’m Bill.”

“I’m gay, too.”

I almost fell off the bench. “My God. Then you must have noticed me drooling all over myself as I stared at you. I feel so embarrassed.”

He laughed. “It wasn’t as bad as all that.”

I sat back unable to say a word. In all the foreign countries I’d been to, I’d felt sexually brave, even reckless. But now that I was back in the U.S., I felt as if I were back to square one, and had to relearn all the rules. Here we were, two guys who had just met, telling each other we were gay. This was something completely new to me. Until now, all my homosexual encounters had been secretive, and burdened with shame. But Julian seemed to have no inhibitions at all about his sexuality.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t we celebrate your discharge from the Navy?”

“Great! What do you have in mind?”

“Well, I’ve been invited to a party tonight. Would you like to come along?”

“I don’t know….” I had visions of meeting Julian’s friends, with whom I would feel like a total stranger. “Actually, I’m not much of a partying type.”

“This is the type of party where you won’t feel out of place. Trust me. You’ll enjoy yourself.”

“Where is it?”

“Up in La Jolla. A rich musician I know throws these parties every weekend. Once you’ve been to one, you’ll never forget it.”

“All right….” My heart wasn’t in it, but since this was a chance to get to know Julian better, I could hardly refuse. “What time?”

“I’ll come by transit barracks in my car tonight at seven. Be waiting for me out front.”

“All right.”

Julian had specified casual dress, but since jeans and a T-shirt probably would have been a bit too informal, I decided to wear slacks and a polo shirt. When Julian came to pick me up, I was relieved to see that he too was dressed in the same style.

As he drove me there, he told me that this musician’s home was a well-known landmark in La Jolla, and when we got there, I could see why. It could only be described as palatial, a three-story mansion set on an imposing estate, with trees and shrubbery dotting the vast yard. Cars were parked every which way on the lawn just inside the imposing gate. Julian found a place to park and we got out. Faint music could be heard coming from the direction of the house, but no lights seemed to be on. A gloom seemed to pervade the whole place.

When we got to the front door, it was open, but we hesitated before entering. And then a soft voice said, “Go right in.” I peered into the shrubbery surrounding the house and noticed some people standing here and there among the bushes.

Even inside the house, all the lights were dimmed. There was a large foyer as we entered, and beyond it, a spacious living room. A pair of staircases swept up from either end of the room to a landing on the second floor. People seemed to be lurking everywhere in the shadows. A strong smell of marijuana hung in the air.

Groups of men were standing around or sitting on sofas, and everyone welcomed us with smiles of greeting, seeming quite at home. As we walked through the living room, a couple of well-dressed older men standing by the fireplace looked us over and began making comments about us, speaking loud enough for us to overhear:

“Ooh, look what just walked in.”

“Love the tall one. Nice ass.”

“Give me the chest and shoulders—you can have the ass.”

“Wonder how well he’s hung.”

“Care to take bets?”

“Eight inches? Eight-and-a-half?”

“Oops, he’s looking this way.”

Julian pretended not to hear them.

“Come on, Bill. Let’s get something to drink.” In the dining room, there was a record playing softly on the stereo, but the only person present was a young boy—he didn’t look sixteen—dressed all in silver: a tight T-shirt covered with spangles, and a pair of shorts which fit him so snugly that his butt looked encased in tin foil. He was dancing in a fay way, truly androgynous, not sexual at all.

He smiled blankly at us without seeming to see us.

“Do you know where Peter is?” Julian asked him.

Without breaking his rhythm the boy pointed at the doorway opposite.

As we stepped out into the hall, we had to inch past a couple of young men entwined in each other’s arms, oblivious of our presence.

I turned to Julian. “This is some party. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“What did I tell you?”

“I think I’d like to use the bathroom.”

“It’s the second door on the left.”

As I nervously opened the door and stepped inside, I reflexively backed away when I saw someone already there. In fact there were two men, one standing with his back against the wall, his pants bunched down around his ankles, and the other one down on his knees, sucking him off. They both turned to face me, but before I could apologize, the standing one said: “Care to join us?”

“No thanks.” I backed out and rejoined Julian out in the hall.

As we made our way through the house, I could see couples everywhere, all male, kissing or fondling each other openly, and many of them seemed to stare hungrily at us as we passed.

“This whole place seems like one big orgy,” I said in amazement.

At the end of the hallway was an oddly-shaped room reached by a connecting passageway. Apparently it was part of a tower attached to the main building of the house. As we stepped into its dark interior, the pungent aroma of some kind of tropical incense greeted us. A couple of men were lying together naked on the thickly carpeted floor. One of them said:

“Oh, hi, Julian. I’m glad you could come.”

He was a middle-aged man with thinning white hair, and his partner was a muscular young black man. When I looked more carefully, I saw that the two of them were gently fucking.

“How’s it going, Peter?” said Julian.

“Great. Why don’t you two get naked too? It feels so much better.”

“Umm. In a little while, maybe. We just got here.”

“Sure. Take your time. Oh, that feels so good.” He turned his attention back to his partner.

I couldn’t believe that Peter could calmly have a conversation in mid-fuck, but as my eyes got more accustomed to the dark, I realized with mild surprise that we weren’t the only ones in the room. There were perhaps five or six other men sitting silently on cushions arranged against the wall, and they’d all been watching Peter and his lover have sex.

Julian cleared his throat. “Uh, see you around, Peter.”

“Sure. Let’s talk some more later.”

We went back out to the passageway leading to the main building.

“Come on,” said Julian, “Let’s see what else is happening.”

On the second floor, there was a huge master bedroom whose door was wide open. When we stepped inside, we saw a beautifully muscled male stripper standing atop the bed dancing seductively to some music playing on the stereo. Several men were sitting around on the floor watching him. The dancer had just pulled off his G-string, revealing an enormous erect penis, easily ten inches long, and as the spectators closed in to get a better view, he danced over to one of them. The man leaned up and took the dancer’s dick into his mouth and began sucking it as the others looked on. But the dancer didn’t give him much time to enjoy it before moving on to the next man, who in turn took the proffered dick into his mouth. The dancer kept going from man to man, only allowing each of them a quick suck. Apparently this was his act, and he seemed able to go on indefinitely. Julian had seen this before and explained to me that one of the spectators would eventually be the lucky recipient of the stripper’s ejaculate.

“This is wild,” I said. “You can say what you like, but there’s no place like the U.S. for sexual freedom. I love it!”

“I’m glad you’re having such a good time. Shall we take a look outside?”

“Sure.”

When we went down to the first floor and stepped outside, I wasn’t surprised at all to see numerous men among the bushes openly fucking and sucking. No one made any attempt to hide anything. Couples, threesomes, foursomes were entwined and writhing in the dark.

Finding myself thoroughly aroused by all this, I pulled Julian with me into an uninhabited nook, and he immediately melted against me in a tight embrace. As we kissed I could feel his excitement pressing against my groin.

Reaching down, I gently kneaded his hard-on over his slacks, and he in turn massaged my straining dick. Then I slid my hand up under his shirt to caress his nipples, gently tweaking them. He closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the sensation.

I couldn’t take it anymore. Reaching down, I unzipped his fly, then my own. As he unbuttoned his slacks and pulled them down together with his briefs, I reached into my pocket for my Vaseline. And when I yanked down my own pants, my erection flipped up and hit my stomach with an audible slap. I uncapped the Vaseline and dipped my finger into the cool gel, then spread it carefully onto my dick, coating it thoroughly.

With a quick glance around to make sure we weren’t being observed, I turned to Julian. He was facing away from me, holding his butt cheeks apart. I guided my dick in between them, nuzzling my glans up and down the cleft for a while, toying with him before closing in on his anus. Then, gyrating my hips to get a corkscrew motion, I wriggled my way slowly in, and heard him bite back a grunt.

“That feels so good, Bill,” he murmured.

“For me, too.”

I slid all the way in until I couldn’t go any farther, and stayed like that for a long time, savoring it. I could feel his heart beating fast beneath my fingertips. I kissed his cheek from behind and gently blew on his ear. Then I began pumping my hips slowly, moving in and out of his tight hole, my hands placed for support on either side of his hips. As I started to pick up speed, I reached down and felt for his dick. It was still soft, but at my touch, it stiffened quickly into erection. I toyed with it a little, gripping it by the shaft and pumping it in rhythm with my thrusting.

So engrossed was I that the sound of a light tread behind us startled me. I’d completely forgotten about the possibility of anyone seeing us. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw a man standing at the entrance of the niche watching us with a drink in his hand. It was too dark to tell how old he was or if he was good-looking, but he was definitely tall and well-built. Julian realized from my reaction that there was someone else with us. I leaned down to whisper into his ear, “Don’t look now, but we’ve got company.”

“Was he watching us?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, don’t stop now.”

“All right.”

He twisted his face around so we could kiss, and I continued fucking him.

I heard some twigs cracking behind me, and before I knew it, our watcher in the dark was up against me, his hand sliding along my butt, caressing me. It felt good. I became even more aroused, and my pumping became frenzied. His hands slipped up my chest and came to rest on my nipples. I felt my nipples being rubbed and stroked...and then pinched, tightly. I shut my eyes as a sigh trembled out of me. Suddenly the hand went away. Glancing back over my shoulder, I saw the man undoing his pants, reaching down to pick up the Vaseline I’d dropped. As he began lubricating himself with it, my heart began to pound.

I closed my eyes and concentrated on fucking Julian. But when I felt a hand touch my butt again, I stopped pumping. The cheeks of my own butt were slowly being spread apart, and as always, the feeling of cool air against my anus made my stomach knot up in excitement. Though I was still buried deep inside Julian, I stood absolutely still, trying to relax my muscles, even as I continued to fondle Julian’s dick.

Then I felt the touch of something warm against my hole, and a steady pressure there. I let my sphincters relax and concentrated on letting myself give. Slowly the man pushed his way inside me, and as I reveled in the delicious sensation, I felt Julian’s sphincters clench tighter around my dick. Quickly I covered the head of his dick with one hand and firmly massaged his shaft with the other. His body stiffened and trembled, and then I heard his groan as warm moisture spurted copiously onto the palm of my hand. I continued to milk his dick dry as the unknown man’s breathing at my ear became agitated. Then I began moving slowly in and out of Julian’s hole, feeling the man at my back synchronize his movements to mine. We were moving in tandem, each of my thrusts being answered in back by a slightly delayed thrust of his. Abruptly our rhythm picked up speed, settling into a steady jog, the universal beat that feels so good. And then I heard his sucked-in breath and a tiny cry as he came inside me. Simultaneously I bit hard into Julian’s shoulder trying to muffle my own cry as I shot off deep into his ass. From my squeezed fist, Julian’s cum dribbled onto the ground below. The three of us remained like that for a long moment, breathing hard, locked into each other, feeling drained. And then there was a soft cry from somewhere nearby. I realized that we’d been putting on a show for yet others out in the dark. Another soft cry sounded, and then another, as our invisible watchers variously had their own orgasms.

The day I got my final discharge from the Navy was like any other day in transit. At morning muster, my name was on the special list called out by the chief at quarters. I went with a group of others to an administrative building where a bored clerk—a yeoman second class—handed out our orders alphabetically. One boy gave a loud whoop when he got his, but the rest of us accepted ours in silence. I noticed an enigmatic older man, tall and gray-haired, receive his with stony-faced dignity.

Back in the barracks, I changed out of my work uniform for the last time. Since I’d already sent most of my gear home by mail, all I had was a couple of changes of clothes which would easily fit into a small knapsack. In my civvies I left the barracks and headed toward the gate feeling like an imposter, a sailor disguised as a civilian. My two years in the Navy had accustomed me to thinking of myself as a sailor. I didn’t feel like a free man yet.

At the telephone exchange I stepped inside and found an empty booth away from the others, then dialed the number on the piece of paper in my hand. It was the number for the quarterdeck of Julian’s ship. The petty officer of the watch had the word passed for Julian, and in about three minutes his voice came on the line.

“Hello?”

“Julian, it’s me. Bill. I’m officially a civilian now.”

“Congratulations.”

“What time do you get off work today?”

“At four.”

“Great. I’ll be waiting for you at the usual place, then.”

“All right. I can’t wait to see you.”

“Me too, buddy.”

When I hung up I glanced down at myself. Just hearing his voice had given me a hard-on.

I thought of everything I had to do today. First, I would go to the Army-Navy store on Broadway and sell all my uniforms. And whatever they wouldn’t take, I would throw away. I wanted to keep nothing that would remind me of the Navy. Next, I had to go to the bank to cash a check. The Navy had provided me with airfare to get home, calculated by mileage, but since I didn’t plan to fly home right away, I could use that money as I liked.

I picked up the phone again. There was another call I had to make. My parents should know that I wouldn’t be coming home anytime soon. I thought of how the news should be phrased. I met someone very special the other day, and we plan to live together for a while. The money I’ve been saving up should easily cover the costs of renting an apartment in town. Yes, I’m in love, really in love, for the first time in my life. His name is Julian and he’s absolutely gorgeous. I’ll bring him home someday to meet you. Yes, you heard right. It’s a boy. Yes. Yes, I am. And always have been. And damned happy about it, too.

I glanced at my watch. It was a weekday, so my father would be away at work. It would be my mother who answered the phone.

I dialed the number and listened to the ringing signal. One. Two. Three. On the fourth ring the phone was picked up.