This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental. This story also contains explicit sexual activity between males. If such offends you, or if you are below the age where reading such material is legal, please read no further. Feedback is appreciated. macoutmann@yahoo.com.
BEFORE "DON'T ASK, DON'T TELL"
by Macout Mann
Chapter 4
When Morgan reached home, he found a letter waiting from his future Chief of Staff. It welcomed him warmly, told him about the climate in Pusan, said that he shouldn't bring tennis gear or golf clubs, and that he would not need Dress White uniforms, but that he should bring Dress Blues and Dress Khakis. It stressed that khaki work uniforms would always be the uniform of the day. It also said that he would arrive via Air Force transport and there should be a Navy sedan or jeep at the air strip outside Pusan when he arrived, but if there wasn't he could call and a vehicle would be sent to bring him to Pier I, where the Navy Command was headquartered.
The Chief of Staff added that things were pretty informal at ComSeaCoor, and that he was looking forward to seeing him in person. The tone of the letter gave Morgan a good feeling about his assignment, and was written not in Navy Format, but like an ordinary personal letter. It was signed, "Sincerely, James Clemmons, Capt., USNR." Morgan thought it was interesting that the Chief of Staff was a reservist. He'd obviously been recalled to active duty, because of the Korean Conflict.
Morgan's two weeks leave passed very quickly. It was good to spend time with his family. It would be over a year at the least, before he'd see them again. He also checked in with Gus, his old tennis pro. They played a couple of sets and made a date for dinner. After dinner they returned to Gus' place for a nightcap and a passionate farewell.
Cupping Morgan's balls Gus said, "I envy those navy guys that are goanna get to play with these."
"Don't kid yourself. I'll probably be lucky to find a place even to jackoff."
"I guess it's up to me then."
Gus gobbled Morgan up. Morgan savored the feeling of Gus' lips slipping up and down the length of his tool. He remembered the ecstasy he'd experienced the first time Gus brought him to climax nine years ago. Tonight Gus didn't want Morgan to cum in his mouth. He wanted it in his ass. Morgan was more than happy to oblige.
Morgan rammed his dick deep into Gus' colon. "Shit," Gus moaned, "give me something to remember."
"Remember this!" Morgan cried. He raised his hips so only his bulb penetrated Gus' ass, and then rammed it home again.....and again.
He remembered how quickly he'd dropped his load the first time they'd had sex. Now he was able to hold out, edging in his mentor's ass, until finally he dumped squirt after squirt into Gus' chute. "That must've been at least a cup," Gus moaned.
They were both exhausted. But Morgan did remember to tell Gus, "Hey, man, you may get a call from a guy named Skip. He'll mention my name. He's one hot fuck. So, don't kiss him off."
Morgan's college roommate, Rick Richardson, was straight, but he and Morgan were really good friends. Morgan was going to stop in Denver to visit him, so he left Cinci a day early to allow time before he was to report in San Francisco. His folks wished he'd stayed, but he set off, and made his first discovery about the confusion people had about naval rank.
Kissed by his mom and embraced by his dad, he boarded the DC7. He was in his Dress Blues, because servicemen in uniform flew half-priced in those days. He found himself seated next to a grizzled army colonel. Remembering his protocol classes, since he was uncovered he did not salute, but he greeted his companion, "Good morning, colonel."
"Umph," was the reply.
Morgan was seriously pissed. So when the colonel asked, "You Merchant Marine?" he replied curtly, "No."
Now Morgan had a cousin, Catherine, who worked in Space Control at American Airlines in D. C. She had seen his name on the passenger list. Morgan, of course had no idea. But as soon as the plane was in the air and passengers were to be served, the stewardess came and said. "Mr. Bowen, it is certainly an honor to have you on board. Let us know if there is anything we can do to make your trip more comfortable. Would you like coffee?"
"Thank you," Morgan replied.
Turning to the colonel, she asked, "And you?"
Suddenly thinking his seatmate was somebody important, the colonel regaled Morgan with all his troubles until they reached Dallas, how he was unhappy with his new assignment at Fort Hood, how it was terrible that officers with experience like his were not being sent into 8th Army posts where they could use their WWII knowhow, how...
The plane was late landing at Love Field in Dallas. In those days it was not unusual for a connecting flight to be held for passengers from an overdue incoming plane. But, as Morgan descended from the DC7 followed by the colonel, he was met by an American Airlines agent. "Mr. Bowen," he said, "we're transferring your baggage now. If you will follow me, your plane is ready for takeoff ."
Morgan followed the agent across the tarmac to an isolated DC7, its engines already turning. As he reached the top of the air stairs, Morgan saw the colonel still standing where he'd left him, open mouthed, his hands on both hips.
At Denver Morgan reached the bottom of the air stairs to see Rick at the gate doing fancy salutes and dancing around like a circus clown. Morgan returned the salute, and said, "Too bad you haven't been drafted. You too could serve your country!"
Rick's father came up and shook Morgan's hand. "Great that you're in uniform, Morgan. It'd be good for Rick, if he was too."
The twenty-four hours Morgan spent in Denver was pleasant, if uneventful. There was lots of horseplay between him and Rick. and some innuendo that made Morgan wonder if Rick knew he was gay.
Before returning to the airport, he did mention to Rick's dad that he hadn't made reservations in San Francisco. Could he suggest a hotel?
"I always stay at the St. Francis," Mr. Richardson replied. "And it really goes out of its way for naval officers. They and traveling salesmen were what kept the hotel from going bankrupt during the depression. I'll send a wire to tell them to expect you."
It was four o'clock, San Francisco time, when Morgan arrived at the St. Francis and told the desk clerk that he had wired ahead for a room. "I'm sorry, Ensign, but all our rooms were already booked, when we received your request. We can put a rollaway in the living room of one of our suites for you, though, and move you to a single in the morning, if that will be agreeable."
"Certainly," Morgan replied. "Thank you very much."
And that's how Ensign Morgan Bowen managed to spend a night in the opulence of Suite M, the suite renamed in honor of General Douglas MacArthur after his stay there, when he was relieved of command by President Truman.
Morgan did know one person in San Francisco, a girl he had dated in high school. She had gone to Kent State but had dropped out and moved to the west coast. Someone had given him her phone number while he was home. He gave her a call.
She seemed delighted to hear from him and said, "We're going to have dinner at Mario's. It's on Broadway, which is about two blocks up the hill from your hotel. Why don't you meet us there at six?"
Morgan agreed.
It didn't occur to Morgan to change into civilian clothes, so he was still in Dress Blues, when he arrived at the restaurant. It had a large cocktail lounge in front, which ran the full width of the establishment. The dining room was in the rear. The lounge was empty, except for two enlisted Marines at a corner table. Morgan went to the bar and told the bartender, "I was to meet Miss Aronson here."
"They haven't come yet," the bartender replied. "Would you like a drink while you wait?"
"I'll have a martini."
While his drink was being prepared, Morgan noticed that the Marines had vanished. He had been watching the front door, and they hadn't left that way, but for the time being he didn't give it a second thought. He just sipped his drink in silence and waited.
It was about fifteen minutes later that Dot Aronson and three other girls arrived. Dot was as pretty and shapely as he remembered her. So was one of her companions. They greeted each other warmly and moved into the dining room.
Now Morgan had never been into the "homo scene." It had never occurred to him that there were women who liked women. The bars he'd been to, even in Scully Square or Greenwich Village, where he might meet someone interested in what he was interested in, were "swinging" places, not "gay." But as he and his companions enjoyed pre-dinner cocktails, it became very clear why the marines he'd seen earlier had fled the premises. In fact, the girls teased that they should have invited him to dine at a place that was "off-limits." And Dot's companion, whom he would later describe as a "bull dyke" with a motorcycle in her garage, made it quite clear Morgan's dick was to stay in his pants, when he was around Dot.
Still he adjusted well. They enjoyed a very good meal. And after dinner Dot and her friend, Jane, volunteered to introduce him to San Francisco nightlife. But first he would have to get out of uniform.
The girls were appropriately impressed with the furnishings of Suite M, while he changed into a blue blazer and chinos. Then they were off. Back to Broadway.
He was assured that the bar they visited was not "off limits," but it was apparent that the few women there were with other women, and that the men, the vast majority of the clientele, were not interested in any of the girls. In fact the bartender, a hunk that Morgan couldn't keep his eyes off of, made it quite clear that he had similar feelings for Morgan.
To maintain his image with his companions, Morgan told Dot that the bartender was making eyes at him. She laughed and told Jane that Morgan was afraid of the bartender. "Don't worry," Morgan was told, "he's harmless."
Before they left, however, the girls went to the ladies' room while Morgan settled their tab. Among the change he received was a slip of paper, "Jerry. 547-9358, after 12 noon," it read.
The girls finished the evening by taking Morgan down the street to the Beige Room, a gay nightclub frequented by as many straight tourists as gays. They watched a female impersonator do as good a show as Morgan had ever seen. Then they dropped him back at the St. Francis.
Next morning, while the hotel was moving him to a single, he went to report for duty. He had assumed that he would fly out of San Francisco; but no, he was to sail on the USS Shelby, a troop transport that would carry infantrymen to fight in Korea, dependents to join their families in Japan, and officers of all services being posted to the Far East. He learned that while most transports were USNS ships manned by civilian crews, the Shelby was a commissioned vessel with a navy crew, considered to be more ocean liner than transport. He was very lucky to be assigned. And the ship wouldn't sail for two more days.
So back at the hotel, Morgan called Jerry around twelve-thirty. "Hi," Jerry said, "I didn't really think you'd call. But I'm glad you did.
"My schedule doesn't fit anybody else's. I go to work at six, get off at two, and sleep `til noon. Can we get together?"
"Sure," Morgan replied. "I'm at the St. Francis, Room 514. Not too far from where you work. Why don't you stop by?"
"What about 2:30?"
"Sounds great."
Morgan ordered ice and a fifth of Scotch from Room Service, and settled in to wait for Jerry's arrival. Jerry saw Morgan's uniform in the closet first thing and said, "Oh. Seafood."
"Yep," Morgan answered, "and why isn't a strapping specimen like you in service?"
"Me? I just got out six months ago. Fuckin' Marines. Lucky though. Spent my whole enlistment stateside."
Morgan's eyes feasted on the other man's body. He was dressed just as he was at work the night before. A pink knit shirt, its arms stretched by Jerry's rippling biceps and his ample pecs and sloping torso enticingly filling the remaining fabric. At work his large white apron covered his tight black trousers, but now his bulge was nicely apparent.
"Well," Morgan said, "the sight of you must have got a hellova lot of recruits hard."
Jerry laughed. "More than you'd think."
Morgan told about the two Marines he'd seen the night before, and Jerry laughed again. "Yeah. They probably thought somebody'd squealed on `em, and you were ONI or something. Sneaked out through the kitchen, I'll bet."
Morgan offered Jerry a Scotch and he said he'd take a light one. They chatted for several minutes, then Jerry said, "Hell, man, I didn't come up here to talk, and you're a damned good looking fucker yourself. I wanna see what's underneath those chinos."
Morgan stood, and Jerry moved over and grasped Morgan's crotch with one hand, while unbuckling his belt and opening his fly with the other. "Nice dick," Jerry whispered.
Meanwhile, Morgan rubbed Jerry's chest and slipped his hands down to his new partner's hardening tool. "You too," Morgan panted.
They stripped each other and slipped into the three sheeted bed the St. Francis was famous for. They began by pleasuring each other's dicks alternately, then sixty-nined, until they reached their first orgasm. Almost three hours later, after each had received his third dose of cum, they showered together. And then it was time for Jerry to leave for work. They agreed to repeat the encounter the next afternoon.
After all, Morgan figured, it would be many months before he had his dick down the throat or up the ass of another guy.
Copyright 2011 by Macout Mann. All rights reserved.
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