Sailorboy

I'm sure it was because he looked so much like Chad. The Kadena Officers Club was playing a beach volleyball match with the sailors from down at the U.S. Naval base in Naha. It was a hot day on the sandpit by the officers club pool, the beer was flowing steadily, and all of the guys were playing skins. There was more young, cut musculature per square yard on that square of sand than on a Chippendales' stage. The officers were losing badly, but we were all having a good time of it.

I wasn't actually an officer, but I was living on the Kadena Air Force base and was of officer equivalent. I had recently arrived as a consular affairs officer in Naha and the airbase was where our housing compound was located, just inside Gate 1, overlooking the East China Sea, in an enclave that included the Voice of America staff and a contingency of CIA spooks.

This was meant as a rest assignment for me, and after two years in Baghdad, I certainly needed the rest. My experience in Iraq had devastated me—not least because of the loss of Chad. I had never known what my preferences were before I met Chad, who was temporarily filling in as a Marine guard at the American embassy in the Green Zone, which we not-so-fondly called the "bubble," before he deployed in the field. Before I got there I had thought I was just asexual and turned on completely by the job.

I didn't want to be anything else, really, latently or otherwise. I was trying to do my best for everyone involved and not make waves or bring emotions into anything here, and that just wasn't possible in Iraq. And my wandering eye and fantasies were beginning to obsess me. So many young, fit men around me. I'd thought as little as I could of sexuality before arriving in Iraq—and whenever I came close to thinking of my preferences, I'd quickly sublimated them. I'd been born into a wealthy family with a pathway to position and riches already scheduled for me. Having a "thing" for other men, consummated or not, simply was not on the agenda. It was driving me mad to keep it off my agenda in the Baghdad bubble, though.

I'd had a meltdown at my desk late one night and was sitting there, looking at a loaded handgun, when Chad came through on a lockdown checkout.

He'd taken the gun immediately, of course, and got me a glass of water and held me until I stopped quaking and crying. He'd told me to hold tight when I'd calmed down until he could finish his rounds, which were almost done. He offered to take me back to my own quarters in the compound and fix me coffee or something and listen to me rant, if that's what I wanted. I didn't want the coffee. I wanted Scotch instead, and Chad joined me. My ranting got quite personal—and so did Chad. And before I knew it I was lying on my back on my bed, with my head hanging over the side and Chad suspended over me on his knees, looking lovingly down into my eyes and his hands gripping my knees, holding my legs open and slowly working my legs back and forth to the rhythm of the fuck, while his cock carefully examined several inches of my virginal channel.

He was gentle with me—at least until we both got lost in the moment. I told him I was willing, but completely inexperienced, and he prepared me well and long until I was in a frenzy of want and grasping that long cock of his with both hands and trying to draw him into me. When he did enter me, it was only to the depth of the edge of his glans at first, holding there as I gulped and gasped and clutched at him. Kissing me, telling me it would be OK, that I could take it, that we'd go slowly.

Then he slowly gave me two more inches, and I was panting and groaning. He asked me if we should stop there. I begged him not to stop, but to put me to the sword, swiftly, and take me out of my virginal frustration. But he just smiled at me and lowered his lips to mine—and gave me a couple of more inches of the cock. He was rubbing across something inside me that sent off fireworks and made me come—my prostate, he said. I started to sob my disappointment that it was over and apologizing profusely that I hadn't stayed with him. He laughed and said it was far from over. Another couple of inches, and I could feel my channel stretching with his throbbing need, and I rested my heels on his calves.

He held there, momentarily, throbbing inside me. And then deep in, that last inch or more, and sliding out, with me clutching at him, pleading, because I thought he was leaving me. But he wasn't. Back in and then out, back in and out, repeating, faster—and then faster yet, establishing a rhythm, both of us losing all control and letting nature take over. I engorged again, and the muscles of my channel walls undulated over his throbbing cock. I rubbed my heels up and down his calves in the rhythm of the fuck, wanting to be part of the rhythm, digging my fingers into the bulging muscles of his back, throwing my head back and crying out to the ceiling. As we both came, almost in unison.

He didn't pull out of me immediately. We lay there, arms entwined, whispering to each other. No, he didn't hurt me, he released me, I assured him. Kissing. Me exploring his virile young, well-muscled, hard Marine's body with my hands and then my tongue. Hearing the intake of his breath as my lips closed over the head of his cock. Him asking again if he'd hurt me, if I was sore. Me lying and saying I wasn't, begging him to fuck me again. Him complying, young and virile and ready to go again almost immediately.

In the next couple of weeks, we spent every moment we could get together on my bed, with Chad teaching me how well a hard-bodied young man could make love to another man and both of us pushing the reality of where we were and what was to become out of our minds.

Chad saved my sanity, but I lost Chad. When he deployed, he was killed by a roadside bomb on his first sortie beyond the protecting walls of the Green Zone. What a waste of superb body and mind. I mourned Chad, but I didn't fall apart as I almost had done before he saved me. In the short time I'd known him, Chad had given me strength and purpose I didn't have before—and once having engaged in sex with another man, there was no pretending it hadn't happened, no going back. But, perhaps more important, I felt it would be a betrayal of what Chad had done for me to sink to the depths of frustration and despair again.

I did, though, turn down an offer for an extension and asked for a less-taxing posting for my next one. Can't get much less taxing than the consulate in Naha, Okinawa—or at least I thought so at the time.

There were a lot of young sailors across the volleyball net that afternoon at the Kadena Officers Club who could remind me of Chad. Handsome young men at the height of physical conditioning, both proud and able to serve. There was something about this one guy, though—his easy sense of humor or his smile or something—that singled him out. And as if he knew there was this mystical connection, he was doing a lot of his smiling for me. That didn't stop him from spiking the ball down my throat a couple of times, though.

I found out after the game was over and we were all draped over the patio chairs next to the pool—when we weren't diving into the pool to cool ourselves off—and drinking beer that his name was Ron Rivelle, and that he was part of the crew left with a destroyer receiving some upgrades in Naha port. He was sitting near me, and I overheard him saying he'd have a lot of time on his hands, as they were quite lenient with leave while the ship was being outfitted. There were far more sailors assigned to the ship while it was in port than were needed to pull security, which was the only duty required.

"Ah, security duty," I thought—and that made me think back on Chad and how we had met.

"Do they have a USO facility down at the port?" I asked, throwing the question out to the group the sailor was sitting with rather than to him specifically.

"No, they don't," the beautiful young, dark-haired man said as he turned his flashing dark eyes on me. "My name's Ron, by the way. Ron Rivelle. You with the Air Force? Do you fly?"

"No, I don't fly," I answered, with smile. "I'm not in the service. I'm a consular officer down in Naha. But our housing compound is up here."

"You and your family have base housing?" he asked. I could almost hear the awe in his voice. Off-base housing was still pretty crummy on Okinawa, by Western standards, and there was a shortage of on-base housing for the military. Naval guys got the shortest end of the stick, because, other than the commanding officer, they weren't permitted to bring spouses or children here at all. At least the army and air force enlisted men could do so if they could find off-base housing.

"I'm all the family I've got. And, yes, I'm sorry to say, I've got a very nice three-bedroom house here on Kadena. It goes with the position, not with my personal needs. I'm Justin Thorenson, by the way." His handshake was strong and self-assured.

"Justin Thorenson. Justin Thorenson." He let it roll off his tongue twice. "Sounds rich."

"It only gets me third ranking at the consulate, I'm afraid," I answered. I didn't want to acknowledge that, yes, the name reflected a well-moneyed family. To take the conversation off this road, I continued. "Why I asked if they had a USO facility down near you was because we have one here at Kadena you can use. They've got activities if you've got free time. Trips, and classes, and you can get on sports ladders—golf, tennis, competitive swimming."

"I play tennis. Do you?"

"Yes, a little." Another little lie to try to keep the gap between our worlds narrow. I'd been a tennis champion at Princeton. I was aching to find a good tennis partner here.

That was pretty much the end of the conversation then. Ron turned away from me when called into another conversation with a group of his own, younger sailor buddies—and I didn't mind the disconnection. I needed to broaden my acquaintances here myself. I hadn't met hardly anyone on Okinawa. I'd only been here a couple of weeks at this point. And a civilian tossed into the world of the military doesn't fit in quickly. It's why I signed up for this volleyball game. And taking what I'd come here for as a cue, I turned to discussion with the Air Force officers who were mostly a bit older than me, but closer in age and background to me than the young sailors up from Naha were.

It wasn't long, though, before I was thrown in with Ron again—and in more isolation and in a smaller set of people. And it was my own doing. Going stir crazy with my free time—life in Okinawa was glacial compared to Baghdad—I signed up at the USO for a day trip up the East China Sea coast from Kadena to the ancient medieval castle of Zakimi, near the town of Yomitan. A friend, upon hearing I was going to Okinawa, had suggested that I take a look at medieval Japanese castles, saying that he had been surprised to find that fortresses were being built at the same time in Japan and Europe in complete isolation from each other but with the same—or quite similar—construction principles.

There were only eight of us on the bus in addition to the guide. One of them was the sailor, Ron Rivelle, taking the advice I had given him on signing up for tours.

"So, we meet again, Mr. Kadena who isn't in the Air Force," he said to me as I boarded the van, which had just enough seats for those taking the tour—and the only seat empty when I boarded was the one next to his. We were both in shorts and T-shirts and the seats were made for Japanese, so all the time we were bouncing up the road to the isolated castle ruins, our thighs and shoulders and arms were rubbing against each other. I don't know what that did for the young sailor, but it made my blood boil.

Ron was curious about Baghdad once we'd gotten to the "how we got here" chitchat while the bus was rolling along, and I told him what a life-focusing experience it had been and, probably—now that I think back on it—unwittingly revealed more of myself and of the conditions and pressures I lived under there than I really should have. I know that I must have mentioned Chad more than a couple of times—although I'm sure I didn't reveal the depth of our relationship. And I also must have mentioned that Ron reminded me in some ways of Chad—not the least because he was hard bodied.

I thoroughly enjoyed the outing—and not least because Ron and I stuck together while we were exploring the castle and because I opened to his great sense of humor and his exuberance in enjoying what he was doing—and in including me in his adventurous, innocently open world.

We talked even more freely and openly on the way back to Kadena. He said he'd tried to sign up for the tennis ladder at the Kadena USO but that it was fully booked. I said that there was a tennis court in my housing complex—just for the residents there and their guests—and that if he really wanted to play some tennis while he was stationed on Okinawa, I'd be happy to play with him there as my guest. We set a tennis match date for the next weekend. And I even said I'd drive down to his ship to fetch him for the match.

When we returned to the USO club on Kadena, Ron got out of the van and walked over to the bus stop.

"It's late," I said as I walked over to him after climbing down from the van. "And it's dinner time. You could stand out here an hour or more waiting for a bus and not get back to Naha before they've closed down the mess hall."

"That's OK. I won't starve. I've got candy bars stashed away."

"Candy bars? That's not too healthy. Tell you what. My place is just down the hill. I can feed you something and then drive you back to your ship—and probably get it all done before a bus showed up here. And the drive would be helpful to me. I could see where I had to go to fetch you for tennis next weekend."

"Aw, I can't impose."

"It's no imposition. I just arrived and am getting tired of eating alone. I can't promise you anything fancy, but it will be better than candy bars."

Our comfortable conversation continued through dinner at my house—I had driven down to the tennis court and shown that to him before we drove up to the consulate housing loop. Ron seemed in awe of the house I'd been assigned and kept walking around the living and dining area and asking me if this and that had been provided with the job or if I'd brought it with me.

"The furniture is the consulate's—and is basically the same that a colonel would have on this base—but the artwork and such are mine. The only thing that's ostentatious, though, I think, is that I had a car shipped and there's one that goes with the job. So, I'm a one person family with two cars. Not on purpose, though."

"What a colonel would get," Ron said breathlessly as he stood at the front picture window and gazed out to the two cars in the drive—the office Toyota and my own BMW Z4 sports convertible, one of my only indulgences as I tried to play down my family wealth while living the role of a mere government servant. I could have shot myself, though, for dropping the hint that I was of colonel rank. Ron was an enlisted sailor. Colonels were a dime a dozen in my business, but to him I was somewhere up in the panoply of the gods.

Ron was quiet all the time we were driving back to Naha. It didn't take long to drive to his ship, but it seemed uncharacteristic for him to be so silent. I decided he was tired from the day's outing—as I was. But it was a good tired. I hadn't felt this relaxed and happy with life since the last afternoon tryst I'd spent with Chad in Baghdad.

"You can let me out here," he said as we approached a manned gate in the steel mesh fencing around the naval base pier.

"Which one is yours?" I asked. He pointed to one that was still a good quarter of a mile away from the fence, down a row of naval vessels of various sizes. "No need for you to walk there; I'll drive you down near the ship."

"Can't. Restricted area."

"And I have a car licensed to go anywhere on a U.S. base that I want," I said. And, as he looked both awed and doubtful, I drove up to the gate, was saluted, and didn't even have to come to a stop befoe we were through and driving down along the line of ships to his destroyer.

I parked in the shadow of a stack of crates not far from the gangplank to his ship. And it was a good thing that I did, because when I came to a stop, he reached over and wrapped his hand around my neck, turned my face toward his, and gave me a deep kiss on the lips.

I froze, stiff in the kiss but then yielding as it continued, and completely at a loss when it was finished.

"That's what you want from me, isn't it?" he muttered. Then he turned and exited the car, shutting the door, and not looking back as he sauntered toward the end of the gangplank.

I was in shock. I was taken entirely by surprise. But should I have been, I wondered, as I sat there with two fingers on my lips where his so recently had been. He'd completely misjudged me. And how had he decided that I would welcome any such familiarity? He was so young and virile. So manly—so obviously straight. Why would I have thought he'd be interested even if I was. My mind raced over the day, trying to review what I'd said, what we'd done—how he'd figured he could take that liberty. I wasn't swishy. Was I? Could someone tell just by looking at me, or listening to me that I would want to be kissed by another man? Surely not. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before.

And it wouldn't happen now. Chad was a one-time relationship. That had happened naturally, but I had no intention of making that choice for my life. It took too much out of me. I don't know why Ron thought I was interested in this. Had he taken my offers of dinner and a ride and a tennis date as some sort of cruising him rather than just friendliness, albeit friendliness driven by loneliness, a loneliness and feeling of isolation I might have mentioned to him? Maybe I had been too forward. But I'd end it right here. I just wouldn't show up to pick him up for tennis, and he'd get the message.

I stewed for days and days, always resolving my consternation with the declaration that it would go no further.

When Ron opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat beside me the next Saturday morning on the Naha pier, I turned my head and leaned my face into his, as he guided my lips to his with a hand behind my head. He pressed his tongue at my lips and I opened to him in a deep kiss. In addition to his racket, he'd brought a fairly hefty duffel bag, which he threw into the small space behind the seats of the Z4.

"I've got the whole weekend off," is all he said as I started off, my hands trembling so badly that I wondered if I'd be able to keep the convertible on the road.

I had intended to tell him when he got into the car that we could play tennis this once—but that I wasn't looking for what he was offering. I didn't want to be an ass and just cut him off without some sort of civilized closure. At least that's what I'd told myself—how I justified putting on tennis gear that morning and making the drive to Naha.

Later I didn't remember the tennis match. I can't even recall who won, or even if we'd played at all that day. What I do remember is me kneeling between Ron's legs as he sat in a straight chair beside my breakfast table and worshiping his cock. Taking it lovingly between my hands and kissing the glans. Running my tongue over his piss slit and listening to him moan and feeling his fingers dig into my hair as my mouth covered the slick bulb and I sucked while my tongue flicked in out of his slit—all techniques Chad had taught me. Licking up one side of the engorged tool and down the other. Trying, unsuccessfully—but who cared—to take it all inside my mouth cavity. Playfully bringing my teeth down on the side of it to hear him grunt and groan. And then covering the glans with my mouth again and giving suck.