He wasn't as pumped as some of the enlisted grunts I'd done abroad, but they have dick to do all day but work out. His tags and shredded T-shirt joined mine on the deck so I could check out his set of hard, marine-built muscles. I ordered all-head flank and pulled his ass out of the chair. Andy fumbled about, seemingly uncertain, happy to let me have the con as he snuffled fecklessly around my tits. Most of my marines would have their legs spread toward the ceiling and their asses stretched wide for me by now. Still, I couldn't help thinking that something about Captain Andy wasn't quite right. The careless grating of his Corps-cropped head against my arms, the low puppy yelps of pleasure he was making as he nuzzled my pecs, and his scent of man-sweat all gave me the green light for stage two. When they instinctively drifted down, by easy degrees, to my khaki-clad ass, I knew he was a jarhead I could depend on for a thumping good time. His broad hands slipped down from my shoulders to learn every inch of my strong flanks. I rose, rubbing my smooth-textured pelt against his cheek, pulling his head against my chest until the racing cadence of my heart was unmistakable. Captain Andy was fascinated by my abundant blond chest fur. He put his hand up, unsure of whether to push me away or pull me closer but when he brushed against my chest and felt my swollen tits through my T-shirt, I pulled my dog tags off and let my shirt follow them to the deck. My lips washed the blush from his face but set shivers and gooseflesh in its place. I started slowly enough, reaching over to kiss his neck on the way to his right ear. "No," I said with my version of a subtle, knowing smile, "Do you like to be on the top or the bottom? Most of you jarhead jet-jockeys seem to like taking better than giving." Frank talk finally got through the haze but also made the guy blush red-pepper hot and stammer gibberish. Maybe he really was one of those straight marines I keep reading about in Pentagon propaganda. This was going to be harder than I'd expected. He looked at the racks in our room - mine on top and long since made, his on the bottom with the linen still stacked and waiting - and got lost between A and B: "The bottom is just fine." Marines are cute, but no one ever accused them of being quick. Finally I gave up, looked into those amiable green eyes, and asked, "Are you a top or a bottom?" I was a navy lieutenant (oddly enough, the same rank), so our positions in the pecking order didn't matter dick as far as who sucked and who shot. For the next couple of hours, we sat at side-by-side desks while he blathered and I tried to filter through to the subtext - if there was one. When Andy slipped out of his flight suit and I discovered he was a freeballer, my internal queer alarm went off so loud Judge Crater probably heard it. A guy doesn't like to sound conceited, but you don't sail aboard Navy ships for years without knowing whether you have bait for the beast. Roommates generally interfere with my after-hours R&R, but when Andy swaggered in, the usual bitches I'd been doing underway stopped being much of a concern.Įxcept for my dimples and his green eyes to my blue, we looked amazingly alike: about 6'2", blond hair, pug noses, strong brows and jaws, and power-packed muscles everywhere you care to look. I wasn't thrilled about getting a roommate. We were winding down our raj there and hauling the aircraft down to Singapore, so he'd be aboard about a week for the transmit and exercises scheduled along the way. I was stationed aboard a certain LHA on its way to the Gulf when Captain Andy flew aboard with his Harrier squadron at Subic Bay. There are more gay men in the military than you can shake a dick at, but until the Pentagon gets its act together, all a guy needs is one homophobic prick taken into his confidence to put a hell of a serious crimp into his future.
Life in the military is built around deciding whether a guy means only what he says or is really hitting at deeper, more entertaining possibilities. The time had come to end the game of touchy-feelie we had been playing all afternoon.
I stopped working on my flight reports and looked up across the 18 inches that separated Andy from me.