This is a work of fiction containing explicit sexual activity between males. If such is offensive to you, or if you are below the age where reading such material is permittted where you live, please read no further.
BEFORE "DON'T ASK, DON'T TELL"
by Macout Mann
Preface
In 2011, homosexuals were for the first time allowed to openly serve in the United States Armed Forces. Prior to that time a policy, known as "Don't ask, don't tell," had been in force. Adopted in the early days of the Clinton Administration in the 1990s, this policy, in theory at least, allowed homosexuals to serve as long as they didn't declare their orientation, and prohibited others from inquiring about a service member's sexual preferences. Thus, the previous policy prohibiting any homosexual from serving in the American military was supposedly relaxed. I say "supposedly," because there continued to be discrimination, if not outright witch hunts, against homosexuals. Many gays and lesbians were dismissed from the services for "violating "Don't ask, don't tell," including many Arabic speakers needed for intellegence work during the Iraq and Afganistan wars. And these dismissals were often the result of the services not following the policy, as they were expected to do.
Of course, there have always been gay members of the U. S. military services, and this is a story about a gay navy man in the era before "Don't ask, don't tell." It is based on actual events that occurred during and immediately after the Korean conflict. The military events depicted are all factual, based on recollections of people who were there. The characters depicted are composites, and are not intended to represent any particular persons. The sexual events as depicted are fictional, but similar events did occur during this period.
Please give me your reaction to each chapter. Your input is vital to making subsequent chapters more meaningful. Contact me at macoutmann@yahoo.com.
Chapter 1
His name's Morgan Bowen. He's always hated it. He'd wanted a nickname ever since he was a tot, but he's always been "Morgan Bowen." And back in 1952, he became "Ensign Morgan Bowen."
Not that he wanted to. It was the lesser of evils. He sure as hell didn't want to be "Private Morgan Bowen." And that was the alternative.
During the Vietnam War, to stay out of service you had to win a lottery. Korea, however, gave us the precursor of "No Child Left Behind," or in the case of the draft, "Best Children Left Behind." You had to take a standardized test to determine if you were bright enough to stay out of the service.
Now, Morgan was a good test taker. Aced the SAT. But the day the stay-out-of-the-draft test was given, he was in a bad mood, had a hangover, and generally thought "what the fuck?" So, despite the fact that he was a senior at that school in New Haven that begins with a "Y," he became super-eligible to be drafted even before the ink on his senior thesis had dried.
So he sought help from ONOP, the Office of Naval Officer Procurement. The test it gave was a whole lot easier. For example, one of the "yes/no" questions was "Homosexual tendencies?" Yeah, check "yes" and be sure to pass the test!
ONOP did decide that he was fit to become an officer in the Naval Reserve and assigned him a reporting date to the Naval School, Officer Candidate, Newport, Rhode Island. Unfortunately, before the date arrived, he received his draft notice and was to report for induction before he was to go to Newport. The Navy fortunately agreed to order him to active duty immediately, which gave him the opportunity to scrub heads (johns/latrines) at the OCS barracks for two weeks before his classes began and also gave him two weeks seniority in the navy ranking system, and a lowdown on how the next sixteen weeks of his life would work.
He also slept with "ship's company" in the regular enlisted barracks and discovered that he wasn`t the only guy in the navy that liked to mess around. There was a Quartermaster, Second Class that loved his hard dick and gave it a workout every night. The QM didn't seem to be concerned that the two of them might be discovered by their mates. He did warn Morgan to stay totally straight when he got into the OCS barracks, though. The brass would be checking for "homosexual tendencies." Morgan knew he could do that, because there would be some weekend liberty, and he'd been to Boston before.
When the rest of the OCS class arrived, he was sworn in for a second time and got an "OC" patch sewn above the seaman recruit stripe on his "coat of navy blue." He was also amazed to discover that his two weeks of prior service earned him the post of Section Leader in his company. So he could parade around yelling "ten-SHUN!" and "fard-MARCH," despite the fact that he knew absolutely nothing about close-order-drill.
Fortunately, the newly-hatched Company Commander gave him a short course in marching and yelling, so he didn't make a complete fool of himself. The Company Commander was one of the candidates who'd been chosen out of the fleet, but he was also the son of an army brigadier who grew up in Hawaii, was a surfer, and wanted to be a frogman. Frogmen were the ancestors of today's Navy Seals. The Battalion Commander was also out of the fleet, a really bright first class petty officer who was destined to become flag lieutenant to a four star admiral
By and large the class was a motley crew of new college graduates, who didn't want to be drafted. Physically they ranged from good-looking, well-built, athletic types like Morgan, to two or three guys with spindly arms and what the navy called a "slight" build, who needed to be careful not to flip their wrists too often. As the weeks passed, Morgan didn't notice a major campaign against "homosexual tendencies," however. In fact, during the mandatory VD film shown about midway through the course, there was a roar of laughter but no effort to find out who the obvious faggot was, when a feminine voice screamed "O gawwwwd," when a dick dripping from gonorrhea flashed full-screen.
By and large, OCS was Boot Camp Lite. Everyone marched from place to place, but there was very little physical exercise, and a lot of classwork.
Morgan made several friends, one a classmate from Yale, Paschal Willingham. Morgan noted that even he had a nickname, "Pas." They had had practically nothing to do with each other before OCS, of course. Pas was from a First Family of Virginia, prep school at Andover, Skull and Bones at Yale, not the sort that Morgan had a lot in common with. Morgan was the son of a Cincinatti manufacturer who'd been to public schools. Well-off enough, but not "old money." But still, in the egalitarian atmosphere of OCS, well, Yalee's stuck together. They were the only two men from Yale in the entire class, so they sort of naturally became mess-mates. They had a lot more in common than they might have thought before.
Pas was also one of the few recruits that had a car. Morgan had gone with him to get a base sticker for it. When Pas handed over the insurance policy he had to show, the seaman behind the counter pactically had a stroke when he saw it insured eight family vehicles. He called several of his mates over to look at the document, and said "Damn! This must be one rich motherfucker!"
Pas couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. Didn't every family have all their cars on one insurance policy? Morgan had to explain that yes, but most families only had one or two cars at most. Pas had never thought of that. "The different world of the super-rich," Morgan thought.
The first weekend they had liberty, most of Morgan's friends were staying in Newport. Morgan and Pas talked about "hitting the beach" together, but Pas decided to visit a girl he knew at Brown, which was just down the road at Providence. So Morgan chose to take off for Boston by himself.
In Boston, Morgan headed straight for Scully Square. Years later, Scully would get a reputation as a sex trade center. But in the fifties, while you could find what you were looking for, if you knew what to look for, the area also had a number of good restaurants and was a well-known tourist destination. Morgan knew what to look for, or to put it more specifically, he knew how to be looked for. And although he had to wear his white, Navy boxers on base, on liberty his bell-bottoms had nothing underneath but skin and showed off his bubble butt just right. He didn't have to stroll around the square more than twice before he heard a voice say "Hi, sailor."
"Hi...." Morgan replied with just the right amount of tentativeness in his voice.
He stared into the eyes of a guy about thirty, blue blazer, rep tie, charcoal grey pants. His regular features framed a tidy moustache that matched the almost golden blonde of his hair. "Taking in the sights?" he asked. "So am I."
"Yes," Morgan said. "My first liberty, actually."
"Well, then," his new companion offered, "how about a drink?"
"I've never turned one down," Morgan laughed.
They stepped into a nearby cafe and sat at a window table. "Chivas Regal and soda," Morgan's new friend told the waiter.
"Make mine on the rocks," he said. Then to his companion he said, "I'm Morgan Bowen."
Taking Morgan's proffered hand, the other man replied, "Stephen Matthews, but call me 'Steve.' Good to meet you, Morgan."
Their drinks were served and they chatted amiably about nothing in particular. Stephen was very urbane and had obviously been around. Morgan didn't think Harvard or Yale. Dartmouth, maybe. They were on their second Scotch, when Stephen asked what Morgan's plans were. Learning that Morgan didn't really have any, he volunteered that he didn't either. Then said that he had a hotel room not far away that Morgan was welcome to share. They could have dinner somewhere and see what they could get into. Precisely what Morgan had in mind. He let his hand rest lightly on his crotch as he agreed to the offer.
The hotel wasn't a Ritz Carleton or a Somerset, but it was nice enough. When they reached Steve's room, though, hanging on the door was a pair of dress blues with the two stripes of a Navy Lieutenant on them, and a staff insignia that Morgan didn't recognize. "Holy Shit!" he thought.
Steve laughed and said, "Don't worry, Morgan. We're both interested in the same thing." And he quickly palmed Morgan's jewels through the flannel of his bell bottoms.
"Feels good," Morgan admitted. "But what the hell are you? Not a chaplain or a doc or supply."
"I'm a JAG," Steve said. "Staff ComDesLant. Not too far from OCS."
"Shit," Morgan replied, "a damned navy lawyer that's goanna fuck me and then court martial my ass."
"No. You're going to fuck me, and then we're going to forget it ever happened. But first, cocktails and dinner."
A bucket of ice and glasses were already on a nearby table along with a bottle of Scotch. So they sat down for another leisurely drink and learned more about each other.
Morgan was wrong about Dartmouth. Steve grew up in New Hampshire, but went to William and Mary for undergraduate school and to the Columbia Law School. Had clerked for Justice Hugo Black, and would liked to have joined a high-powered Washington law firm, but was advised to "do his duty for his country." So, he'd be in Newport for two more years, then into the reserves and onto Washington. He said he chose William and Mary, because he'd loved Colonial Williamsburg when the family had vacationed there, and the student body was mostly male with just enough coeds to keep the wild straight boys happy. And he'd guessed correctly when he'd visited the campus that there would be enough wild gay boys to keep him happy.
Morgan told Steve about growing up in the Midwest. He'd always been a maverick. Was a problem as a teenager. Ran over from Cinci to Newport, Kentucky to raise hell whenever he could. Would have been just as happy at Ohio State as Yale, but his dad wanted him to be an ivy-leaguer, so he became one.
They had dinner at a small French restaurant near Symphony Hall that both had been to before, and back at the hotel they wasted no time in getting into what they'd both come to Boston to do. Steve removed his blazer and tie, and then removed Morgan's kerchief and jumper. His sparkly white t shirt clung to his torso, and Steve nibbled his nipples through the cotton fabric, before lifting it over his head.
"Nice body," Steve murmured.
"I try to stay in shape," Morgan answered. He removed Steve's shirt, leaving them both bare from the waist up. Steve didn't have the bod that Morgan did, but his was nothing to be ashamed of. Morgan ran his hands over Steve's and up and down his hairy back.
"You're goanna wish you had these thirteen buttons back when you become an officer," Steve said, as he methodically unbuttoned Morgan's bell bottoms to reveal his thick 9 inches, now freed from its flannel prison. "Man, what a piece of meat. That I gotta have. Right now." He pushed Morgan onto the bed, and without bothering to remove his grey trousers, took Morgan's throbbing tool into his hungry mouth.
Morgan hadn't had lips on his dick since he'd lain with the quartermaster before OCS started, so the feeling was electric. "Yes," he cried, "suck me. Suck me, man!"
And did he? Steve rammed his nose into Morgan's pubes, practically gagging on his knob as it reached the back of his throat. Steve savored the taste of his precum as it dripped from his piss slit. Steve twisted his head to give Morgan the sensation of having each surface of his dick pleasured by every part of Steve's mouth. Morgan rocked with passion as he dumped strand after strand of cum down Steve's willing throat.
They lay on the bed for several minutes to get their breaths. Then Morgan reached for Steve's belt and finally stripped him. Steve's dick was not the size of his, but it was big enough. Morgan took it in his mouth and returned the favor he'd received from Steve as best he could. Steve held out for longer than Morgan had, but when he shot his load it was more than Morgan could swallow. Rivulets of cum ran down his chin, which Steve eagerly licked off Morgan's face.
"That was great," Steve told the younger man, "but like I said, I want you to fuck me. I want it hard and raw. And I know you can do it."
"On your back or on your stomach?" Morgan asked.
"I want to see your face," was the reply. Then, "There's some k.y. in my bag over there."
Steve rolled onto his back and lifted his legs. Morgan squirted lube on his ass, but when he inserted his greasy fingers into the other man's hole, he decided that a whole lot of preparation wouldn't be necessary. He smeared his dick with k.y. and placed the knob against Steve's sphincter.
"Give it to me," Steve panted. Morgan entered his anus. "Yeah.....goddam.....fuck me!" he cried.
He'd said he wanted it hard and raw, so Morgan rammed his prong all the way up his waiting ass and felt his muscles clamp his tube in response. He repeatedly pulled almost all the way out and pounded his gut back against Steve's tail bone and slapped his balls against his ass cheeks. Both men were in a frenzy of raw sex, Morgan realizing that he could go as long as he felt like it, Steve wanting Morgan to use every ounce of his animal energy to satisfy his craving.
Steve gazed into Morgan's wild-man face, as he satisfied his dick's desire. Morgan watched Steve's expressions of ecstasy, as he felt his ass filled over and over again. It was almost half an hour before Morgan collapsed on Steve's sated body and released another dose of cum into his grateful partner. They both fell asleep with Morgan's softening dick still inside Steve's hole.
They awoke completely rested and fulfilled. They showered together, and afterward they gave each other more head. They dressed, went to breakfast, and prepared for the journey back to Newport. The liberty had been everything Morgan had hoped it would be.
On the train to Providence they sat opposite each other and chatted as though they'd never seen each other before. The magnamous officer taking an interest in a much younger enlisted man. The officer usually referring to the enlisted man as "son."
Stephen had left his car in the train station's lot, however, and he did offer a lift to the young OCSR. That would save Morgan the boring bus ride to Newport. Now their conversation was much more intimate, until they reached the OCS gate. Morgan jumped out, said "Thank you, Mr. Matthews," loud enough for the sentry to hear, and saluted smartly.
Many thanks to s.p. for his technical assistance.
Copyright 2011 by Macout Mann. All rights reserved.