After about fifteen minutes he decided to take a chance and "nonchalantly" light up the joint he had brought along, and damn if they weren't all lighting up theirs in the next few minutes. It looked like all one-hundred guys had gradually found their way there as each one probably noticed that's where "the action" --if you could call it that--was. As he eased himself back in a dopey sprawl he realized he now couldn't get his mind off that bin and the tangy over-layers and shadings of ripening shit drifting from it, like the smoky-spicy smells of a woods after a rain on a hot summer day. He could picture the ninety-nine guys, nobody over twenty-six, dumping every day in their private bathrooms: splattering the bowl with diarrhea explosions, or waiting for dark, grainy ones to fall slowly and then stick to the wet porcelain; some frantically squatting and yanking down jockeys a split second before a couple of glossy, golden two-footers shoot into the cool water, and others having who knows what scenes with their week's worth of shit and piss and bananas behind their closed doors, in their bathrooms or wherever.
Reg tried to work against the stink, and a simpleshit fantasy of everybody's mouth sealed onto everybody else's hole in a cartoon plumbing installation, and organize himself to get back to his stateroom somehow and get a little shit and piss out of himself to smear around his nose and taste in his mouth and have a slow, sweet deep-dick jackoff strainght from his aching balls. He had to shoot cum soon. Reg could feel The Fuck Of The Week headed his way; his shithole was twitching and his balls and dick felt like they weighed fifty pounds. He rehearsed standing up carefully so as not to let anything touch his cock and strolling to his stateroom, having formulated the objectives of the mission in descending order of tactical significance--so that the second he could shut his door behind him he could whip his shorts off and lurch and hop around cornholing himself on doorknobs or anything else that stuck out! Either that or go stark raving nuts. Maybe these guys could Army it out, but not him.
It was hard to remember later what happened next, probably because everything happened at once: O'Brien had been doing a shoulder stand ending in a behind-the-head toe touch-down. It made sense more or less that he had slid his shorts off to do it, but they weren't prepared to see his ten inches swell red and curve tight as it grazed his lips, at the same moment as two guys who had been re-laying their bath towels as they changed tanning angles tripped over each other and lost their balance and toppled down into the asswipe towel bin and suddenly began to slam into each other cock to cock, each one bunching up a wad of towels to his face. At just the same moment another guy started singing, softly, to the salsa beat: "Baby I want to fuck and suck, fuck and suck, eat your shit drink your piss baby baby oh yeah baby.." It was madeup, but guys suddenly began ripping their shorts off, panting like dogs. Reg plunged his face into the crack of the nearest ass (he knew exactly where it was) and sucked hard. Some guys sucked dick or humped the air, but mostly it was Rim City. Deck chairs toppled over and broke as guys thrashed and flopped in a frenzy to push themselves into anything that stunk; a small drink-table sailed off the deck and into the ocean. Guys moaned and panted and grunted louder and louder, rolling around and sucking whatever their mouths could reach. Anyone hearing the sudden yelps and choking howls would have thought of enemy tribes killing each other off, but the smell, even in the light ocean breeze, was of piles of young guys giving off butthole fuck-sweat. The scene turned into a golden arches display as guys began spraying their hot beer piss on each other. Reg saw one of the guys in the towel pit gurgling down piss from a guy standing next to him; he could see the guy's cum start to flow out, and then suddenly a ten-inch strand of his warm cream hit Reg's face. It tasted like his own, starchy and mildly sweet. A guy bent over and squatted towards a fuckpile and ripped loud, wet beer farts into the fuckers' faces, which made them fuck faster and faster as they smelled the full force of his hot sewage. The panting and grunting became a roar. Guys slurped down hot yellow urine frantically from cock to cock. It didn't matter, piss was piss, and everybody's piss had the sharp, fishy stink that piss has when it comes out mixed with ripe jacked-off cum and anyway, everybody had finally stopped pretending not to be the total turd-swallowing slut he had been all his life, and that he was not with the hottest shit-and-piss toilets in the world on the U.S.S. Latrine with nothing else to do but shoot cum and shoot cum until they went unconscious in a quivering wet heap.
For a long while nobody stirred, but then they began to untangle one by one and slowly weave their way back to their own staterooms.
The Saturday afternoon scene eventually turned out to have been just a shift in the mood as they continued moving through their assigned routines with one another day after day. Nobody goofed off much. Some even added to their routines. A few guys began working on their tennis from six until breakfast every day. Some guys did invent new orgies, like piling into the little casino (nobody used it as that any more) and closing it off, then farting as much as they could; the guy who held off from cumming the longest got to set up the next scene, like the private from Chicago who organized a "How To Fuck" reveue in the ship's theatre. He got six guys, with Reg about in the middle setting the pace, to bunny-hop fuck. The idea was to fuck very slowly, driving cocks deep into asses and then slowly pulling back as a group, speeding up a little and slowing down again as the guys in the audience yelled out to them to keep on fucking. Reg could feel the guy who was jamming the guy who was up his own butt also clutching for him, greedy for more and more fuck. Slowly the tempo increased until everybody was screaming to eat shit and drink piss. They stayed in each other until they softened enough to bloat each other's rectums with hot piss, and then carefully pulled out and lined up, bent over, and sprayed the audience's open mouths with five yellow-brown-white spiral ribbons from five side-by-side holes.
Guys actually started to look at each other as they talked. A guy named Alvin, who looked like a Zulu version of a 6'3" oscar statue, convinced O'Brien to take his torquoise-and-black-flame dashiki; it had looked fantastic on Alvin, but then anything would have. When O'Brien finally accepted it and put it on, you could see what Alvin was after: when O'Biren wore that dashiki his eyes lifted you up, even from across a room, like an intergalactic force field.
A lot of the sex went on in the dining salon. Why not, they were always hungry for shit, piss, armpits, cum, farts and fucking no matter how sore and drained they were from the night before. Their balls actually made more cum the more they fucked out their loads.
Everybody could see that everybody's asses and cocks were heavy-duty. No matter how carefully tailored their pants were, the waists were always too large and the seats were always cut too small. Guys did the best they could to keep the waists from looking bunchy; it was the only way to have pants they could get on at all. Reg could sense everybody relaxing more and more as they realized that for the first time in their lives they didn't have to walk around looking stupid just to keep everybody and his grandmother from hitting on them, or avoid ever getting turned on because there would never be any prospects for the scene they really wanted. Sometimes he would see two guys waiting in the lunch line, and one would say "Hi" and the other guy would answer by dropping down onto the carpet, stretch his hole open enough to tear it and say "Fuck my hole, man!" and the first guy would kneel down and fuck, and everybody else would just step around them or help by sucking for a while or piss on them if they could.
Everybody could see everybody else had always done his share of checking out his own cock and ass all his life, like sneaking a quick side shot at the jut of his butt as he walked past a store window or a parked car. Reg would have loved to eat out his own tight ass, and he could still get about an inch of his own dick into his mouth by lying on his back and raising his legs and bringing his crotch back toward his face. It felt so good to show it all off and to know that each one of them was on everybody else's menu.
Loud four- and five- ways would always be going on somewhere on the decks throughout the night; any time a guy needed it nonstop it was there. Sometimes the guys would get several group fucks going at once, and then the groups would yell out to each other: "Hey, you guys wanna fuck us?" and guys in the other group would yell back, "Yeah, you wanna fuck us? Come on, you guys are so fuckin' hot!!" and the groups would slowly lurch and dance toward each other, pissing and grinning and going "Uhh-uh! Let's all fuck! We're all gonna fuck!" Somebody would yell out: "Hey, you guys got turds in your asses? " And the first group would cut loud, hot farts so the other guys would get whiffs and moan for shit as they dance towards each other:" Uh---uh! Yeah! Let's all get together and fuck a fuck! Our cocks are gettin' so fuckin' hot! We're gonna fuck so much! We gotta fuck! We can't stop fuckin,' we can't stop fuckin,' we gotta fuck and fuck! Uh! Uh! Uh!
A world-class, really good library and state-of-the-art computer room was there for the first-classers, along with the olympic pool, track, and health club.
Sometimes a guy just wanted to snap around playing bucking bronco fuckaroo all by himself; guys would stand back and give him room, but it was okay to whistle and clap if he really got into it and improvised raunchy-ass jacks.