We were shirtless, not because of any sexual reasons, or atleast that's what I thought at the time, but because it was fk*ng hot; humid rather. It made us more vulnerable to any sharpshooters of course, but their Chinese made bullets could penetrate our uniforms anyway, so we usually opted for comfort.
Some cut off the legs of their fatigues too, though that wasn't officially allowed. And it wasn't until I returned to the States that men wore shorts everywhere. After all it was the mid 60's.I reveled at the shirtless habits secretly. I saw bulging pectorals, defined muscled stomachs, tight to the rib cage and toned muscle torsos. It inflamed my crotch and when I could, the canvas covered shower provided a place to satisfy my hidden interests.
The Army's showers were a tent. Water was available thoughnot always warm. The back of the tent had another chamber which was dark. Bodies moved against bodies in there as anonymous hands relieved their owner's erections. I suspected that some hands wandered to nearby erections as well, though it never happened to me and I was too scared to reach out myself.
Being gay or indulging homosexual satisfaction was against the Military Code of Justice at the time and one could be discharged for any such discovered activity. And court Martials for "personal habits" occurred even there where body counts, living and dead were so important they were exaggerated.
Buddies were everywhere. Even though becoming close toanother soldier meant having more drastic reaction should he be killed, ithappened. Bunkmates was an acceptable word and didn't mean sleeping togetherthough it always created fantasies to me.
Not that masturbation is wrong or gay or sick...we all knownow and even then it wasn't. I've never been able to ascertain why it was jokedabout or that those discovered doing it were castigated. Hell, even Doctorssuggest you do it to maintain a healthy flow of body fluids.
Of course in High School we joked about it, kidding eachother. That's what adolescents do. And our parents would suggest going blind,hairy palms or tired eyes as a result of our repetitious pleasure seeking.
Jacking off in that tent, far from the bedroom I grew up in, was freeing. Nobody surprised me chastising me for my sinful ways as myreligious obsessed Mother did at home. Nobody yelled at me for being in theshower too long as my Father did even though he probably did exactly what I wasdoing when he was my age.
Kenny Wisemiller and his friend Marcus were suspended fromschool for doing it in the back of the gym one day. I thought they were stupid but the fantasy ofunzipping my crotch and holding my hardness in the air in danger of discoveryexcited me. We joked about the "back of the gym" location after that...but Iwondered how many of our horny brood did it just for the added excitement. Inever did and actually regretted it.
So the back of the tent approved of us, someone actuallyprovided a place for us to enjoy ourselves and keep us from sharing thepleasures thus endangering our heterosexual standing in the Army. I was naked,nearly outdoors, soaping my body, sharing the darkness with others who weremost likely feeling the same sort of "freedom" yet concerns about wanderinghands or discovery.
Perhaps more than one enjoyed the hands of another. Maybesome actually knelt on the wooden slatted floor and reached for thighs to supportthem as their mouths did what they would try to forget in the years to come butperhaps recall when indulging in whatever type of sexual adventure they wereenjoying.
I wished I had taken the chance, perhaps soaping a hard cockI didn't know and turning to have my buttocks nestle it until the owner wouldpretend I was their girlfriend back home and hold onto my shoulders as theygrunted and cursed the unknown receptive person I wanted to be.
Mel was tall, cute boyish face but with a lusting man sizedand shaped body. His smile could make me do anything and fantasies included meon my knees in front of everyone, be they US or Viet Namese. Of course I neverdid that for real.
I too usually rested nearly naked on my bunk, ignoring whenmy crotch enlarged though turning on to my stomach when it did. I wasn't theonly one. In the twilight, nearly naked lines of other napping soldiersprovided a forest of mounds and bulged Army underwear to delight the shopper. I wondered if I reached for another in the darkness, would he just allow thepleasure or yell an alarm that would result in my being sent home.
Darrell was kidded by many who detected his late night self-satisfying masturbation in his bunk. The joking got so loud and common; I approached himprivately and suggested the back chamber in the shower tent. That very night, Iheard him arise and sneak out of the tent wearing only his underwear. I knewwhere he was going and eventually the kidding stopped. He never thanked me. Ioften wondered what might occur if I followed him into the tent, but again, Iwas hesitant.
As I lay in the sweat provoking night weather, I wonderedhow many others like me were hiding their desires. It didn't matter if theywere gay or not, all of the soldiers got horny, I knew.
And most probably usedthe anonymity of the shower tent to treat their buildup of testosterone.
The nights when I awoke and went to the latrine, I returnedand heard certain sounds that made me suspect that there were others likeDarrell who, using the cover of the night and other soldiers' sleep, thought oftheir hands as another name..a wife, a girl friend, an old high school buddyperhaps or even one of us. Had they asked I would have gladly obliged.
I thought of a blonde I met during a summer Jamboree campingevent the summer before I graduated from high school. And as I did then, mymind wandered to those I knew from my teenage years. Buddies who wore nothingduring skinny dip adventures, naked bodies displayed willingly in the gymlocker room and even strange men I had met now and then.
They would smile and chat with me like a friend. I, being astranger, wondered why they treated me so, though I knew. There was somethingabout me that told others I had a similar attraction. I read about it inmagazines and newspapers. Years later, of course, the internet provided sucheducation, but in the 60's we could rely on word of mouth, secretly obtainedreading material or the special books we could read in the public library,hoping nobody would notice our selection or reaction to what we read.
Sgt. Morris was black. Hell, almost half of our Company wereNegros. That's what we called them then. Some of the southern boys called themanother name but only in whispers less they find new welts on their faces whileon guard duty.
But the racial rancor I remembered from back home waslessened. We all knew that our lives depended on each other sooner or later. Anignored warning, a lack of warning or an on-purpose placement could maim orkill anyone of us.
If there were any conflicts, they were short lived andblamed on frustration, tempers or the general fear of the enemy which we calledCharlie among other things.
Leroy Washington, we always called him by his two names, wasa good guy. Not only was he a crack shot but had a huge cock. We, that is thewhite boys, whispered about it. How many of us wondered about hot that cockfelt in our mouths or asses was only imagined. But we did talk about the lengthand thickness..and how much larger it got when erect.
During a boisterous Christmas celebration complete with Roude or Ruou Thouoc (snake wine), a small pine tree decorated with toilet paperand Army medals, we got so drunk or pretended to, that we were dancing alone orwith buddies. It was Leroy Washington to wrapped a ribbon around Johnson (that'swhat he called it) and danced naked and erect.
"That's my Christmas Gift to all of youse" he yelled and wecheered and watched. I think I too experienced an erection but nobody noticed.To my credit, I prefer to think the others ignored it, allowing me to celebratein my own way.
Leroy Washington stayed bareass through the entire party..thatis if wearing a ribbon around his Johnson still qualifies.
I pumped my own Johnson in the back tent at least twice thatnight. I heard others there too. Their grunts, curses and groans enabled me todo a second time...stimulating me to return to my bunk still with a half harderection which I chose to not hide.
Johnson, there was another reason that name stimulated me;more about that later.
Of course it rained...during the season, it seemed to rain dayand night...actually it did. Trails of rain water ran through the tent, kept theair chilled at night and created mold here and there. We used baby powder sentto us from home to treat the rashes and other physical reactions.
And of course there were the patrols. Mostly our companyprovided guard duty. We weren't MPs but perhaps because we had a near marksmanreputation, the honchos wanted us protected from the dangers of patrols, in casewe were needed to provide unofficial sharpshooter services.
We practiced through the fence nearby shooting trees, twigs,garbage and items we tossed in the air. Now and then, a wounded local mightappear not causing distress or alarm, but sometimes cheers..which I will alwaysbe ashamed about.
When we did go on patrol, we'd look in each other's eyes andsilently communicate our concerns for each other and ourselves. When wereturned soaked with rain water instead of blood, the stress would be erased byhot water and another substance.
Yes there were lots of drugs there. Locals could providemost anything we needed be it soft toilet paper, letter materials, pot orheroin and tools to inject or inhale.
I inhaled until my body resisted remembering the patrol thatendangered lives and eventually slept, escaping into the arms of Mr. Bonnet. Ibumped into him after graduation and tried to speak to him in French, thelanguage he required us to speak in the classroom.
He allowed me but finally spoke in English allowing me toexplain why I wasn't going to college in the fall. We walked and I talkedfinding myself warmed by his apparent interest..which I couldn't find at home.
We sat at a fast food café and ate, laughing at each other'sjokes. He answered my questions, perhaps relieved that he didn't have to hideanything from a student who was no longer protected by that title. The more hetalked, the more questions I asked.
"Are you gay?" I asked and he stared at me with a blankexpression. Eventually he nodded whispering the same question. And for thefirst time I admitted it to myself and this paternal substitution.
His apartment was on a high floor overlooking the nearbylake side where Speedo clad boys and men moved about. I had wondered how Icould meet them. His hand patted by lower back and eventually but jeans cladbuttocks.
It was I who pulled his arms around me wanting what I hadnever felt in my entire life. His body was against mine as his hands unbuttonedmy shirt from behind and moved against my skin. I let it happen, I wanted it tohappen.
That one day the sun came out figuratively speaking. LarryTaylor's arm was around my bare shoulders and my arm around the back of hiswaist. Below me, his buddy's head pressed against my crotch a bit stronger thenI had felt before.
It was Marvel, a guy we nicknamed because of his habit toconstantly read Marvel Comic books; he brought or was mailed to him.
Leroy Washington was next to him and they were messingabout. Others surrounded us until the entre platoon had gathered, arms holding,smiles widening, jokes and comments but nobody moved away even when the wisecracks included homosexually related.
I felt Larry's arm move until his hands were moving down myback and to my waist. His fingers moved under my belt. I didn't want to reactfor fear the others would know, or perhaps I liked the feeling. My waist wasloose enough to allow his entire hand to move under my elastic and cotton,fingers resting in the crack between my buttocks.I felt his friend Marvel moving his head against my crotchand everything stopped when the local taking the photo yelled "SMILE" and wedid as he suggested.
"You ok?" Larry said to me. I looked towards him and hisfriend Marvel and smiled. "Very ok" I said.R&R was something that we were all allowed but few took.Larry suggested I join him on an R&R trip and I shrugged ok. We were going toTokyo another Asian city I had never thought about visiting. Marvel joined usand the three of us encountered the Japanese language, food, small houses andthe only hotel we were advised to use.
It consisted of one room plus an American styled bathroom.We didn't shy away from dressing in front of each other. It was like thebarracks. When I saw Marvel and Larry horsing around naked, their cockshardening and them ignoring it, I knew or hoped what was ahead.
When I woke one night to the sounds of them fucking. Iwatched in the darkness, their silhouettes exciting me and my hand moving tosatisfy myself. Larry's hand moved to replace mine and eventually our buddystatue transitioned to totally unlimited, undeniable, over the top, nothing offlimits physical satisfaction.
I learned things I hadn't known about how to please othermen and I didn't care if one saw me enjoying some touch, lick, insertion,nipple twisting or any other pleasure. It wasn't like the three-way I had hadwith Mr. Bonnet. Those were fun, don't mistake me. But they were near politecompared to the animal behavior the three of us exhibited.
We never asked if what we did was ok, never refused a touch,like or anything. We played tourist, we behaved like three young men, we triedlocal food but what we really wanted was to be back in our room, stripping,sucking, fingering, fucking, slapping, sweating and comparing orgasms.
R&R seemed to speed by too fast. We were on the planeheading back to what we three feared the first days we went and now secretlyfeared might be our individual demise, hopefully only wounded status.
It had been different then my times with Bonnet. Those, Irealized were innocent, if that's the right word. Perhaps tamer would be more appropriate.Larry, Marvel and I didn't talk about our lust, our being fags or any issues.We just consumed each other with an unbridled appetite for sex.
With Mr. Bonnet I had spent most of that summer naked in hisbed, wandering around his apartment, on my knees, crouched over his man sizedcock, lying on the couch, my head of hair stroked with his caring fingers.
We talked, I learned, we kissed, I loved. We did fuck so Igrew as a gay boy turning into a man. He was surprised when I announced I wasgoing to the community college. To me that meant two more years with him.
Our occasional trysts were explained as various schoolactivities and a part time job. I actually did have a part time job deliveringpizzas to other apartments in the area. The only thing the job did was surpriseme when someone answered the door nearly naked. I saw other boys and men in theapartments, realizing Mr. Bonnet lived in an area known for homosexuality.
I also learned that Bonnet had other friends like me. Iwondered if he really loved me or just was playing. But I dared not confronthim, my sexual play was too important to me, let alone the affection he alwaysgave me. We even shared some fun with others now and then, which I foundeducational and not threatening as I would end up in his arms sleepingcontentedly.
I moved in the second year at his suggestion. He had alreadytold me he was moving in the spring, so every day and night was precious. Ididn't know if he wanted me to go with him or not. We never discussed it.
The day he and I said goodbye was even weirder. I knew hewas moving back to take care of his mother and that "She wouldn't understand".That was all.
And he knew I was joining the Army with no alternativesapparent. I'd use the GI Bill once I was discharged to finish college and then,"we'll see" he said.
The sex was angry, sexy, animalistic, sensual andexhausting. He couldn't get enough of me and I didn't hesitate to oblige. Hisdrive was stimulated by our parting and mine was because I too was scared ofthe future alone..and the fact that a horny 20 year old never had to be askedif I was interested in sex.
Like a 5 year old child, I absorbed all that occurred aroundme and to me. I observed, learned, grew, asked and fantasized until I wasshirtless posing with arms around my half naked buddies, whose bodies pressedtightly against mine.Photos, we found new ways to pose, joke positions, heartfelthugs, daring revelations of our fatigues pushed low enough to show pubic hairsometimes, newly acquired tattoos, discovered nipple rings.
Conrad showed me a ring that made me flinch. It pierced thehead of his penis. Another metal ring surrounded his balls. I asked about itand he told me, "it made me feel hot" he said. "Did it hurt?" I asked and hesmiled a way that I perceived as "yes".
One practice I enjoyed in the lazy hot and humid afternoonswas napping. A bunch of us would find whatever shade we could, often providedby a stack of sandbags or parked truck. We lay in the dirt of on a tarp andnap. One would lie down, another would rest with his head on the first soldier'sthigh, yet another may lay on him etc. etc. I lay on Conrad's bare stomach onceand felt his fingers in my hair. It reminded me of Mr. Bonnet but alas it didn'tlast long enough for my cock to rise hard and high allowing the remainingfingers to find it as Bonnet did sometimes, milking me into releasing my spermall over my body...but it was nice.
This buddy napping happened everywhere. I remember the timeI lay my head on Leroy Washington's fatigue covered hip. "Turn your head andmeet Mr. Johnson, just keep your mouth open as wide as you can" he advised.
The rest around us laughed. And yea they were lying on ornext to each other too. My mind envisioned me doing as advised and seeingJohnson aimed at my face. I would move forward and let it stretch my skinjamming against the back of my throat while everyone chant "CUM CUM CUM" orsomething.
Of course I never did it. But my mind was quick enough forme to respond "Naw I'll just nuzzle it" and fluffed his crotch like a pillow.Everyone laughed and even Leroy Johnson patted my head "Go ahead white boy, Iunderstand" eliciting another laugh.
Johnson. I was naked at the time lying on the couchproviding Mr. Bonnet with enough skin to pet and play with as he desired and Iwanted.
"Did you know Doug Johnson?" he asked. My "yea I think so,played Lacrosse right?" In face he was the star of the Lacrosse team and hot ashell. I'd sit in the stands and stare at his bare thighs and half way revealedstomach muscles flex as he swung the Lacrosse Stick while running.
Everyone stared at him when he walked in the hallways. Heseemed friendly to others in the good looking, jock & upper class groupingsaround. I and a couple of others were near my locker one day when I was ajunior. Doug Johnson walked by, and we watched naturally.
For some reason I called out "Hey Doug, wuz up?" We hadn'tspoken before. He looked at me, his eyes did an up and down motion and thenglanced either direction. "Cool, wuzup?"
My two friends stared at me as if I had become "one of Doug'sgroup". After that if Doug passed he often acknowledged me before I said anythingto him.
"You two butt buddies now?" One of my friends asked. Iremember that day too. I had never been accused of being anyone's butt buddy. Iknew what that meant having heard it watching a gay porn video when I snuckinto the back entrance of an Adult Book and Video Store.
The only time I saw Doug Johnson naked was when I had ballsenough to enter the locker room after Lacrosse, Football and Wrestling Teampractice. I pretended I left something from gym class and went to the locker Iusually use. To my delight there stood a totally naked body, Doug Johnson's.
"Hey buddy" he smiled as if delighted to see me. He didn'thide his cock but stood there totally available to my eyes. I stammeredsomething about leaving something and he moved aside as I looked in the locker.
"Just my stuff man" he said. I was so close I could smellhis body odor. My cock was rock hard. "If you need some help with that stripdown and join us in the shower dude" he said. Others nearby heard and laughed.
"Fuck off" I said which was an acceptable manly response tosuch efforts to embarrass me.
So yea, I heard of Doug Johnson. "Why?" I asked.
"Oh he called, might come by" My lover said. We already haddiscussed the ending of my second year in community college, his departure andmy decision to done the Army green uniform too.
"I tutored him in high school. He want to State, calls nowand then" Bonnet said. I was thrilled to suspect Doug was like me after all. Perhapsthe reason he spoke to me in school was he somehow suspected we shared anunspoken desire. I wondered what would have happened if we had stepped over theline and revealed ourselves to each other.
Doug never came by, at least not while I was there. But Ifelt like I was competing with his ghost, making sure I was as enthusiastic asex partner as ever. I'm not sure Mr. Bonnet "thanked Doug" in person or not.
When it was time to pack up, our entire platoon wasinvolved. We laughed our relief. None of us were killed. None were even woundedat least not by a bullet. One or two had "other injuries" but after some shotsand weekends staying in the tent we all shared instead of going into the nearbytown, they healed.
Few of us went into town. The dangers of bicycle bombers wasvery real. Charlie threatened locals all the time. So to save some relative inthe North, they would steal from us, cheat us or even kill soldiers to gainapproval by the enemy.
If we did go into town, we traveled in groups feeling safer.Of course we weren't but that was the advice the MPs gave us. One MP, JasonBeinberg used to go with us. I wasn't sure why but he was cool. And the MPuniform and weapon he carried gave us a guard.
He was found in the hut of a prostitute, his genitalsbutchered. It shocked the hell out of us all and my friend was dead...causing meto weep in my bunk for the rest of my stay in that crappy country.
Yet we went into town. Some of our buddies would disappear,probably into the hut of some obliging and affordable prostitute. We'd sit in abar drinking what we who were under 21 couldn't drink at home until we barfedor pretended we were drunk.
There were souvenirs to purchase for our families back home.Since Viet Nam was a previous French occupied country, I bought a few thingsand sent them to Mr. Bonnet in Florida. He never wrote back.
Letters were sacred. Mail call was a near reverent part ofthe day. Those that didn't get mail listened to the letters of those who did.Hometown news, lovers, breakups, babies being born, parents sending their loveand other normal, usually considered boring information, was heard with ahunger for home.
Leroy Johnson revealed to me during one of those mailreading sessions something that made me feel good about going home. I hadplanned to go to Florida, maybe find a University there, maybe see Bonnet evenif Doug Johnson was living with the man instead of the mother he claimed to becaring for.
Or I'd just apply while back in the states to any universitythat would take me and move wherever that was...letting the events direct metowards whatever the rest of my life would be. Maybe San Francisco would bebest, I thought, where I heard many gay people were.
"Clark?" I perked up my years when Leroy Washington said hisname. "Oh yea her name..." he said then whispered "yea my lover. We met justbefore I joined up. He missed Johnson."
He smiled "you cool so I told ya".
Leroy Washington, like Doug Johnson, knew I was a queer andthat was ok. It made going home better for me somehow.
I didn't care about the politics even after being advised toput on civilian clothes before I left the base back home.
I wandered the Haight Ashbury district surprised there wasso much open drug taking, men kissing and flower wearing hippies. I rarely toldanyone I had just been in Viet Nam.
Bobby and I met in Golden Gate Park. Some group with afemale singer I never heard of was singing. My open shirt allowed the sun towarm me. Either it was my haircut, boyish face or dog tags attracted him.
"Still in?" he asked and we talked. The afternoon sun bakedus as we lay together like the buddy napping I had done thousands of milesaway. Nobody remarked as his hand pet my smooth skin and my fingers buriedthemselves in his curly reddish hair.
We kissed like lovers do. Again nobody yelled names at us.It lasted the entire last year of my service. He was waiting for me when Iexited the gates that last day and we hugged in public. This time we did hear afew comments.
I wished Leroy Washington, Larry or Marvel was there. Theyhad all gone their separate ways. Exchanged addresses were still in oursuitcases or pockets.
It took me six months before I wrote to each of them inguarded expressions of gratitude. I mentioned a special friend named Bobbyhoping the code would reveal the truth. And I suggested they visit us in SanFrancisco.
"If you're coming to San Francisco, wear flowers in yourhair" I ended each letter and signed it.
It was another year before I wrote to Mr. Bonnet. I'm notsure why. State was easy to enroll in, I told him I still had his letter of recommendationwhich I used and thanked him "for that and everything" I again resorted tocode.
It was the late 60s and being gay was about as welcome asbeing a Viet Nam veteran.
The day Bobby graduated, a letter from Florida arrived. Ididn't realize who it was from at first. It said Mr. Bonnet had passed away twoyears before of a heart attack. And then the narrative that I had fantasizedwas described, signed by Doug Johnson.
I wrote back ending my letter with my usual song quotation.I had to tell Bobby someday should Doug actually visit San Francisco.
He was white smooth, freckled, round tight buttocks, shavedpubic area, a thick penis, smooth ball sack, red lips that felt good to mineand my cock often.
Sometimes we made love and other times we acted likeanimals. We played games, neither masturbating or even touching each otheruntil we couldn't stand it and then let ourselves loose like snarling, starvingjungle cats..Ignoring time, neighbors, food, or cleanliness...until we wereexhausted.
He gave me a bouquet of flowers on the day I graduated. Weposed for photos. I would send them to my parents. From the way we held handsor the photo of us kissing they would get the message. I didn't care if theyresponded. I would decades later.
Doug visited and stayed. It was awkward at first. Bobby knewI lusted after him. Doug might have. We smoked and drank and finally talkedabout it. Laughing we stripped naked and
Bobby watched as I sucked the formerLacrosse Star.
We talked about Mr. Bonnet and I learned of the totallyillegal relationship he had with him. I wanted him to fuck me and he did butonly after we asked Bobby. Somehow I had grown as a gay man along the way.Bobby had become part of me, more than sexually speaking.
The night was spent with the three of us enjoying eachother, hard, soft, and naked. In the darkness we talked, petted, sucked more,fucked more and grew up.
Decades later, gay marriage is the issue. Leroy was gone.Doug married an older man in San Francisco. Larry and Marvel live in Boston.Bobby's naked body is wrapped around mine as I try to find a way to finish thislaptop written narrative.
We're much older of course. We have sex less often. We kiss,cuddle, hold and hug as much as we did years ago.
Friends include straights, gays, lesbians even a couple oftransgenders. We lost friends by way of assassination and AIDS, Iraq andAfghanistan Wars.
We counsel the very young and the disenfranchised runaways,former military and anyone that needs it.
Bobby's family still ignores us as they die. He mourns themin my arms. My parents let us sleep in my old bedroom many years ago. Nobody spokeof acceptance or otherwise when we visited. Mom kissed and Dad asked about thewar even though that was a decade after I had come home.
But at times, I awake in the middle of the night feelinglike I had been resting my head on a thigh, bare stomach and felt some unknownsoldier's fingers toying with my short hair.
The rain soaked patrols feel fresh as does the fears ofinjury or death.
The threesome with Larry and Marvel flash back now and thentoo, the warmness of Mr. Bonnets much older naked body curled against my back,the smile of Doug Johnson asking me "waz up?" makes me smile.
For no reason at all, I kiss Bobby..actually for all thereasons in the world.