Bittersweet Tales of Gay Book One

Bittersweet Tales of Gay

19 Short Stories of the Gay Experience

Book One

R E Mahoney

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 R E Mahoney

remahoney@live.com

Your comments are welcome

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Table of Contents

1. Mr. Nobody Special

2. Mickey's

3. Your War Or Mine?

4. The Oilskin Pouch

5. Will Bowie

6. Bi-Bi Blues

7. Tommy Fitz

8. The Pine View Mobile Home Park

9. Ben Walker And Kao Dai

10. The Grave At Hatteras

11. George The Third

12. Near Ensenada

13. Leo L., 18

14. Living With Derek

15. The Cellar Tavern

16. Mr. Lawrence

17. Four Triangles

18. A Summer Outing

19. The Reference Librarian

1. Mr. Nobody Special

Dewey rented himself a room in town so every once in awhile he could retreat from the relentless parade of free swinging meat and bouncing buns that were driving him so fucking crazy his pecker was permanently perpendicular and his nuts so overworked they demanded arbitration. Erickson was he worst of the lot, with Diaz runner up, and Whipple nipping at his heels.

It was not that Dewey thought it was anyone's personal intention to stir him up, but when 30 horny GIs bunk 30 inches apart in a squad room, with a third of them muscling each other under the shower heads at any given time, not a one over the age of 20, and all with bodies super tuned by calisthenics and double time marches, and much of the time they lallygagged buck naked or nearly in the squad room before and after duty hours, especially when its sweltering in East Georgia, there was no escaping, no way to avoid staring, when nature compelled him to lock on and speculate how much he would love to do a number on each and every one whose personality, looks, and breath didn't absolutely repel.

What Dewey saw were bobbing eyefuls at every compass point, spontaneous erections without embarrassment. What he heard was the frenzy after Taps when the bedsprings commenced their song, nobody caring after three months together whether anybody else saw or heard.

Erickson, whose bunk was the other side of Dewey's and against the wall, didn't even bother pulling a sheet over himself when about every night he stroked that totem pole he was so fucking proud of, which was available for Dewey's admiration courtesy of a light from the street.

Dewey knew in his bones that Erickson's cock would welcome a soothing suck, and that could have been worked out under a blanket, but the trouble with Dewey he didn't have the balls to make the first move, leaving him with a duffel bag of missed opportunities and residual frustrations.

Dewey read somewhere that one out of 20 guys had his exact problem, not to mention a like number with dual agendas. All things being equal that should mean that one or two other guys on his floor and a like number upstairs should be skulking and salivating like him. So why hadn't he picked up on them, or them on him?

Dewey decided his problem was because he was so fucking average.

The day he reported to Basic for his uniform, the smart ass supply clerk only checked him out once before tossing him a complete package, 40R, 32/20, 16/33, 101/2D, and 71/2. Even the OD boxers fit like a glove. Yeah, and even his pecker, where with guys like Erickson that made all the difference, was not a millimeter either side of the of the national average for developed males as he understood it, six inches stiff since he was 13, which he doubted had improved even with all the exercise.

Blue eyes? Brown hair? Chewed fingernails? Dewey reckoned like about 85% of his platoon, and in formation his 5' 91/2 placing him right in the middle of the pack. His Midwest accent was too derivative to pinpoint and he didn't have a tattoo or birthmark lend distinction. Yeah, and his surname the most common in the phone book - Smith, for cripes sakes! Poor Dewey, just Mr. Nobody Special." Okay, so he's left-handed.

Big deal.

Dewey, 19 come January, is where he is, when he is, so he didn't have to be some place else, namely 'Nam, where he heard average guys like himself were getting maimed or killed on a regular basis. Because he had good numbers on a certain part of the AGT, his options were persuasively laid out by the recruiting sergeant. Sign up for three years and he could lock Dewey into a non-combat specialty placing him no closer to Vietnam than Japan, Okinawa, or the Philippines, and there was the off chance he could be posted to Germany, which the recruiter told him was all about pussy and schnapps, unaware that Dewey's fancy might run to savories concealed in lederhosen.

Dewey had other options, Canada for one. But then his ex-Marine dad with Bronze Star and Purple Heart among his citations, would have chased him to the Yukon if necessary and dragged him back by the ponytail to face the music. Or, he could have declared his sexual orientation and escaped military service altogether, in which case his dad, who held unshakable views on the subject of sexual perversion, would have beat him black and blue. kicked him out of the house forever, and probably disinherited him. Neither course of action appealed to Dewey, but preferable he thought to prison or suicide, so he swore the oath.

Dewey had been seduced midway through high school - your basic master/slave routine, one-way ticket, and terminated without sentiment when the older boy declared it null & void, saying the time was ripe for him to explore the socially acceptable avenue of sexual intimacy lately come his way as a BMOC. As a parting gesture, he suggested that Dewey have a go at a sophomore slut, a girl Dewey thought so repulsive he feared her twat would shrivel his dick and ruin his sex life forever. Thanks a lot, Craig!

One afternoon during the Easter vacation of his senior year Dewey was in the YMCA locker room toweling himself after a dip in the pool when a sailor on liberty with the face of a choir boy made a pitch so inept it charmed. Later in the sailor's room Dewey, who never for a moment believed it was better to give than to receive, learned about sharing.

The room Dewey in soldier uniform rented two years later, tapping savings from high school vacation jobs and a legacy from his grandma, had no visible place to sleep, giving the unworldly youth pause until his landlady opened a closet door and out sprung a bed that swiveled and dropped into the middle of the room, leaving Dewey to wonder, What won't they think of next? only to discover that the vertical roll-away bed had been patented in 1909.

During the week Dewey was expected to occupy his hunk in the barracks, but he had heard that bending that rule was not without precedent provided the offender returned to barracks before the bugle sounded morning formation. But soldier beware who failed to set his alarm, whose car wouldn't start, or had missed the 6:15 AM bus from town. His fate, as any sergeant would confirm, was immersion in a pile of very deep shit.

What remained for Dewey were Thursday night GI parties scrubbing the barracks with his mates for Friday inspection, attendance obligatory or mark you down for company punishment, and command performances on KP. Dewey also felt it prudent also to spend one night each week with comrades at the Service Club. But such were minor inconveniences to a young soldier who had a pied-a-terre where he could entertain privately.

When Dewey's overnight absences were noted there were expressions of envy and sly speculations that he had a chick in town, during which he intercepted a flashing query from a pair of eyes that might not have been surprising had it come from Erickson, Diaz, or even Whipple. Dewey was unskilled at reading cues but he was sure he had it ight this time. He was convinced he had been messaged by a kindred spirit. But Luke Walters?

Quiet, reclusive, unprofane, overmodest Luke Walters? He hadn't even been a blip on Dewey's radar.

Celibate the whole five months he'd been in the army, Dewey's first impulse was to trail Luke to the shower room and confront him nude to nude, but he backed off that strategy when he thought it over. If Luke was as frustrated as Dewey they might both might get excited and that would be embarrassing if there were others under the nozzles. Dewey's break came on a Friday night when the mess hall was half empty on account of weekend passes and the menu: overcooked liver and greasy fish the options for indigestion. Dewey saw Luke sitting by his lonesome picking at his meal and reading, and he closed in like a used car salesman. But it was Luke who opened the conversation.

Thought you'd be off to town by this time.

I decided to take a later bus. Not as crowded. Doesn't matter anyway, I don't have anything special on tonight."

Word's out you got a lady in town.

Nobody heard that from me.

You have to admit that the obvious conclusion when a guy doesn't sleep in his bunk three or four nights a week.

I suppose it might seem like that. Can you keep a secret?

Scout's honor good enough?

"That's usually a safe bet. What I have is a hideout. It's not much, just one room with a tiny kitchenette and bathroom the size of a hall closet.

Just a place to kick back, have a couple of beers, maybe read an Erskine Caldwell penis teaser, play tunes, and have a friend over once in awhile."

"Sounds great, I'm jealous. The barracks can be noisy as a rock concert.

The only privacy is under your blanket."

Only two things a soldier did under his blanket, sleep and play the skin flute. Had Luke just sent him another message?"

You know what I feel like doing tonight? Play Gin Rummy. I've seen you take on all comers in the day room, but I'm not half bad. You up for being my first guest?

Sounds temptin', but why not one of those good old boys you usually run with?

Too rowdy. Ask one, six would come and trash the place.

Tell me about your tunes. What do Yankees listen to?

"My mom just shipped me a box of my albums. I told her I bought a record player at a pawn shop. She sent me Fleetwood Mac, Pink Floyd, Bob Dylan, and being a North Carolina boy, two you're bound to like -

James Taylor."

"You said the magic words, Mr. Smith. You got yourself a house guest.

I wasn't but 10 years old the first time I went to my first James Taylor concert. His folks live