Christmas Sailor
Christmas day wasn't so cold in Philadelphia as it was windy. I was having brunch with friends at their house in Society Hill and decided to walk from my apartment at 17th St. and Locust. The wind chill factor made doing that more miserable than I expected. By the time I reached Broad St., I'd had enough and ducked underground into the subway system to warm up.
Philadelphia's capable but limited subway system ran under Broad and Market streets and crossed at City Hall. Shortly before noon, as I walked through the dimly lit pedestrian promenade under Broad St., Don McLane's "American Pie" began echoing from speakers that had long since seen better days. As I walked along, softly singing, "Bye-bye, Miss American Pie..." I noticed a boy or young man approaching, the only other person in the blocks-long promenade.
When we got to within a few feet of each other, the attractive guy I'd watched approach, who looked a little shorter and younger than me and was wearing a Navy Pea Coat, mustered what passed for a smile and a half-hearted "Merry Christmas."
My gaydar went off. I instantly determined that the boy or young man, he couldn't have been more than eighteen to twenty, was either new in the city or a visitor, alone, probably gay or at least bi, and was miserable. That wouldn't do at all, I decided, not on Christmas.
I thought, but didn't say, Hello, Mr. American Pie! Instead, I said, "Hi! Merry Christmas to you too! You look miserable."
His name was Bill. He was twenty, from New Haven, Connecticut, and a cadet at a Merchant Marine school in Baltimore. Bill had to serve a year at sea, getting hands-on experience as a marine engineer as part of his education. He was doing that when we met.
I never got to brunch. Bill didn't have a destination that day, so I gave him one. He spent the rest of Christmas Day and much of the next day at my apartment, most of it in my bed.
Bill was gay, but recently so. Having sex with him was almost like being a teenager again, tender, explorative and wonderful. But we were guys, so it was passionate and guttural, too, wildly so when I fucked him. And I fucked him several times during that day and a half. When I meet a guy who loves having his brains fucked out, I give him what he wants.
Bill's ship, a tanker named Brownsville, sailed between Perth Amboy, Bayonne, and a couple other south Jersey ports, and Philadelphia in the northeast, and New Orleans and Pascagoula, MS, and back again, over and over. Over the rest of that wonderful winter, when Brownsville was in port for a few days in or near Philadelphia, Bill stayed at my place for a night or two at most. We weren't boyfriends, but we were whatever we were.
Bill was at sea on New Year's. He called after midnight, and we talked briefly. His ship had no privacy, especially with a line of guys waiting to make New Year's calls on its bridge radio phone.
That winter was particularly stormy. On a trip during near-constant storms along the Atlantic coast, while the Brownsville was loaded with molasses, the ship failed to arrive at Bayonne on schedule. I didn't know that and stayed up late, waiting for Bill to call. When I didn't hear from him by 9 a.m., I called the dock in Bayonne and learned that Brownsville had not arrived or been heard from.
That was the moment I realized how much Bill meant to me.
Bill called the following day when Brownsville finally limped into Bayonne. The ship lost its radio mast early during the storm. When I arrived at the dock to pick him up, knowing that he had been on the ice-coated and weighted-down ship that rode so low in the water that it looked like it was about to sink was terrifying.
Brownsville would stay in Bayonne for at least a week while undergoing storm-related repairs. That meant I would have Bill with me that long.
We made the most of every minute of the time. Not worrying about him having to leave each morning meant I could show him the city during the day. Making out behind a door in Independence Hall while tourists wandered by was so hot we looked at each other after breaking our kiss with eyes that screamed, "Let's fuck! " but we had sense enough not to try to do so there.
Our evenings were spent with me cooking dinner. Then we hopped into bed. My tongue explored and memorized every crease and crevice of Bill's firm, nearly hairless body. I delighted in rolling Bill back on his shoulders and bending his knees to them. His look of heathen-like anticipation while I held him like that for a moment or two, looking down into his blue eyes before I dove down and tongue fucked his tight, smooth, quivering asshole was incredible. Bill always appeared so clean-cut and wholesome, but at that moment, he looked so nasty that it drove me wild.
The Gay Gods smiled at us. Brownsville's refit was extended a few days, enabling us to spend Valentine's Day together. We shopped for holiday toys at Philadelphia's Pleasure Chest. I caught Bill checking out fur-lined handcuffs. Of course, I bought them.
Life was great as our routine continued. Then, during the first week of March, I sensed that Bill had something on his mind during dinner one night. He finally told me Brownsville was leaving Philadelphia the next day and sailing to the Middle East for four months to support our military involvement there. When the ship returned, he would graduate. He said he tried to tell me sooner but didn't know how.
We had an incredible last night together. I liked to edge Bill, kissing, licking, and nibbling on his more than good-sized cock for a long time before I even started to suck on it. Sometimes I'd have him on his back and hold his arms down while pressing his cock against his firm tummy with my lips. When he looked down, I'd look up into his eyes as my lips squeezed and tugged on, and the tip of my tongue wiggled against and tickled the little sensitive male clit spot. That night, I employed every talent I enjoyed to provide Bill with the most unforgettable experience I could deliver as the prelim to the most mind-blowing fuck of his life.
Early the following morning, Bill and I took a cab to Brownsville's mooring. I watched as he walked the half block to the ship so he would appear to be just another crew member walking back after a night ashore.
Brownsville was scheduled to sail at 6:50 p.m. that evening. I spent the afternoon with my friend Jayce, playing video games, smoking pot, and talking about Bill and the guys in Jayce's life. The conversation got around to Bill's departure and how grotesquely inadequate it was that my farewell to him should have been in a cab parked by the river. Jayce agreed that Bill deserved a festive Bon Voyage!
Leaving our game for a few minutes, Jayce returned with a handful of two-inch-long firecrackers. He suggested we light and toss them while shouting "Goodbye Bill" as Brownsville cruised by.
I was impressed by Jayce's creativity and offered that I had a flashlight with which we could flash a Morris Code farewell message. Don't scoff. There's a little John Waters and Cecil B. DeMille in every gay man.
Brownsville's mooring was upriver from the Benjamin Franklin Bridge. We decided the perfect idea would be to go to the river, stand beneath the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, toss firecrackers, and flash "I Love You Bill" in Moris Code with my 12-inch, two-battery flashlight as Brownsville sailed under the bridge. We were so young, so gay, and so stoned.
When we arrived on Delaware Ave. just downstream from the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, we found a twelve-foot high barbed-wire-topped chain link fence with a gate, a guard house, and a cop guarding the Philadelphia Fire Department Fire Boat Pier. The cop, confronted by what may have been the first interlopers in his entire career, wanted to know who we were and why we were there. We gave him the straight God and Country version of the story.
When in doubt, falling back on the flag and apple pie seldom fails. We got the okay to enter, go to the river, and use the flashlight, but the cop was firm; we could not shoot off any fireworks. The police officer told us that in Philadelphia, fireworks could only be used under the supervision of the Fire Department. "Remember," he cautioned as he allowed us through the gate onto the pier, "Absolutely no fireworks without Philadelphia Fire Department supervision."
We swore on every Revolutionary artifact in the city that we would not think of shooting off a single firecracker.
When Jayce and I finally reached the end of that long concrete pier extending out into the Delaware River, we discovered, on the left side, a large, single-story building with a sign proclaiming, Philadelphia Bureau of Fire -- Fireboat Batallion. Moored at the end of the pier were two fireboats. They were huge, and mounted on each, right in front of each of their superstructures, was a humongous searchlight at least a thousand times larger than my flashlight lens.
"Do you know how to say "I love you, Bill," in Morris Code?" Jayce asked.
"I have no idea," I replied. Why does everyone bother me with details?
"I bet there's a code book in there," he said, pointing toward the building from which came the sound of many men.
It turned out the building was where the Philadelphia Fire Department Fireboat crews hung out while not putting out fires on the river. There were very few fires on the river. They welcomed us warmly when we entered, happy for a diversion from their boredom.
I told the firefighters my tale of friendship, war, and separation and explained why we came to the river and what we hoped to do. I told them of learning from the police officer guarding the pier that we could not shoot off fireworks without Fire Department supervision.
One firefighter asked to see our flashlight. They all laughed when we showed it. Our little two-inch firecrackers got another laugh. They told us no one on a ship moving on the river would see the flashlight or hear the fireworks. They had another idea.
We sent Bill off in the style I had hoped for on the cold winter night, but not exactly as planned.
When Brownsville sailed under the Benjamin Franklin Bridge a few minutes after 6:50 p.m., with Jayce and I standing on their bows tossing firecrackers that absolutely no one, including us, could hear, both fireboats greeted the old tanker with hooting, whooping, and screeching horns and sirens. Instead of my flashlight, two giant 15-mile searchlights flashed GOODBYE BILL ... STAY SAFE...GOODBYE BILL ... STAY SAFE over and over ...but without the "I love you" part. Sometimes, a plan doesn't work out exactly as planned, but close enough.