Farewell Uncle Ho 57
This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.
Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments. And last but not least, Nifty would like your donations.
Farewell, Uncle Ho
by Dennis Milholland
questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu
Chapter 57 (Tues., Mar. 21)
Luckily, we'd gone to check the houses on Sunday, since the sun was shining. Although we did run into that aggressive racist, who hated Asian Faggots and horribly underestimated the ability of said Faggots to put him out of commission, the day had been pretty nice. But yesterday, with nothing else to expect for a Monday, the clouds and snow flurries had been the order of the day.
Tuesday morning, however, we awoke before dawn. When I looked at the Wesclox it said that it was just past five, and Gerry was already on my cock, even before he opened his eyes. He reminded me of the little puppy that would automatically home in on his mother's teat. I brought his head up to mine and planted the first sloppy kiss of the day on his lips.
And as little puppies tend to do, he followed me to the bathroom. But as opposed to what little puppies do, he used the pot. And the minute he got up, he was mine. We locked lips in such a manner that he breathed through my nose, and I through his. We made it back to the bed, and he placed my engorged dick between his thighs, rubbing the bottom of his balls. I couldn't take my glans rubbing against his wiry pubic hair. When his scrotum retracted, the hair became denser.
"You wanna make love to me?" Was the question I could barely whisper. My voice had become breathy. He nodded and reached for my hole. I held the Crisco can, so he could dip his middle finger into the grease. His finger applied a bit to my backside; the rest he smeared onto his glans and shaft. For some reason, his glans felt thicker than usual, this morning. But the effect was the same magic.
As he started to pump, I clamped the skin on his shaft with my sphincter on withdrawal and relaxing the muscles upon entry, letting him push and pull his skin over his glans deep inside me. His cock was massaging my prostate and bladder, sending me into semi-conscious convulsions of sensual stimulation.
I knew that it wasn't going to last very long, no matter how slowly we took it. And I also knew that I would never get enough of this man. I felt him throb inside me, as I inserted volley after volley of my own seed between his tight abdomen and my convulsing belly. My legs, locked around his waist were trying to pull him further into me, and my arms had his torso in an iron grip. He grunted and held his breath then the final release.
We drifted off to sleep, spent, with his cock still lodged inside me. The pressure in my gut woke me at a quarter to seven. As we pried ourselves apart, we heard our hosts making breakfast and could smell the coffee. A shower seemed like a very good idea.
After it got light, we saw that we were fogbound. And if it didn't lift, it was going to make the drive into the City tomorrow, less than enjoyable. Gordon would, once again, have to do all the driving. I did have a driver's license, which I'd gotten in France, but I had no experience in driving under hazardous conditions, other than Parisian city traffic. As a kid of the City, Gerry didn't have a license, and Ju-Long only had one leg, and, being from Hawaii, wouldn't have been equipped to drive in these conditions, had he had both.
At breakfast, Gerry and I arrived at the table in the middle of Gordon and Ju-Long's discussion of having Cam circumcised. Both of them had been amputated at birth, but were not sure if they would be doing the right thing. Upon arrival, we were enlisted to give our opinions.
"Don't know." Gerry shrugged as he took his seat. "I've never been circumcised. And Ben is the only other man I've ever inspected, and he isn't circumcised, either." When he said this, I was the focus of attention.
"Why weren't you clipped?" Ju-Long seemed amazed.
Taking my first sip of coffee, I shrugged and chuckled. "To be honest, my parents think that it is a totally unnecessary and barbaric custom." That got everyone's attention, Gerry being the only one nodding his agreement.
"But you do have to admit that it is cleaner." Gordon appeared to be defensive. An attitude that neither suited him nor was called for.
"That's not true." I laughed and got off my chair, undid my jeans and pulled down my boxers. "Look for yourself. Is it dirty?" Both Gordon and Ju-Long were staring with open mouths, too stunned to speak.
Recovering a little, Gordon tentatively reached out to touch and inspect it. Of course, by this time, I was rock hard and the skin was almost totally retracted. He slid it back very carefully. I had to laugh, as he sniffed it. "What does it smell like?" Ju-Long wanted to know.
Now, that got a raucous laughter from Gerry and a snicker from me. Gordon seemed totally surprised. "Coconut."
Ju-Long looked at me, confused. "Yeah," I thought it odd that he wouldn't know this. "Chinese have been using coconut oil for the care and grooming of our cocks for, uh, say some six thousand years. And we French have been using rose oil since the Roman occupation. But one thing none of us do, is use soap."
"What do you use, Gerry?" Gordon was now into making discoveries. I put my tackle away before things got out of hand, since Gerry and I still had to lay out some ground rules.
"A little dab'll do ya." He jovially quoted the Brylcreem commercial, taking a bite of scrambled eggs.
Ju-Long was not amused, although the rest of us thought it was funny. He tapped his index finger on the table top.
"Would you believe, nothing?" Gerry looked bemused that Ju-Long and Gordon apparently had no idea about penises, even if both of them had one. "Sometimes Ben puts Crisco on it, so it will slide into him better. And other times, he'll rub some coconut oil on it. But other than that--
"--what I'm asking is," Ju-Long shifted in his seat. "how do you keep it clean?"
"By washing it." Gerry looked at me, as if Ju-Long had gone totally nuts.
"With what?" Ju-Long was almost yelling.
"Water." Gerry laughed at the absurdity of the situation. And it was at this moment, that I realized that circumcised men had no idea about their own sex organs. Well, at least these two didn't. And like with Marv, it was a topic that caused antagonistic behavior.
"How do you take care of Cam's cock?" I wondered if they understood what they were doing with their son.
Ju-Long pulled out a joint and lit it. "The French pediatrician in Saigon told us not to touch it. Just let him play with it and when he's able to retract the skin himself, we should teach him to wash underneath it."
"Sounds like excellent advice." I took another sip of coffee and ate some toast. Gerry agreed.
"Yeah, but…" Gordon sounded mildly irritated. "our pediatrician here says that we should have him circumcised to prevent a whole list of diseases."
"Huh?" I laughed, and Gerry was holding his shaking head with both hands supported by his elbows on the table.
Gerry looked up. "The only disease your doctor is trying to prevent, I'd bet, is to keep the little guy from playing with himself." He lit an after-breakfast cigarette and handed me the pack and the Zippo. "I'd also bet that he's a fucking sorry-assed, puritanical Christian who thinks the kid could be enjoying himself."
For the first time, since the discussion started, Ju-Long lightened up and laughed. "That's exactly what Gran says."
***
Something about fog had always intrigued me. And today was no exception. Gerry and I were bundled up in our field jackets, jeans and galoshes for a walk on the beach. The first thing that we discovered was that walking on sand in galoshes was far from easy, but excellent exercise. The idea of crossing paths with the fascist pig from Sunday, did cross our minds, but we decided to live with it.
"How does it make you feel," Gerry wanted to know, as he took my hand at the ocean end of West Lighthouse Walk, turning west onto the beach. "when a white guy call you something like Gook?"
I smiled at my own white guy. After all, Gerry was the whitest guy I'd ever known. Any whiter and he'd be an Albino, or a ghost. And still, he was the sweetest and probably the most open-minded guy of any color, I'd ever known. "Probably like it would make you feel, if an Asian called you a Kraut."
He looked stunned, as if something like that had never crossed his mind. Then, he laughed. "It wouldn't bother me at all."
"There you have it." I tugged at his hand so we could keep walking. "To quote my dad: 'Most Caucasians don't realize that they are only a Cauc away from being Asians, themselves."
Apparently, that struck Gerry's funny bone. He had to stop, almost going limp from laughing. Again, I gently tugged at his hand, since we wanted to make it as far as the lighthouse. He giggled and chuckled for the next two hundred yards, dragging his galoshes in the sand. Finally, he simmered down and stopped. He looked a little sheepish, pulled me close and gave me a deep, loving kiss.
We didn't see the two joggers, a man and a woman, until they'd passed and the man had greeted us with a happy: "Good morning, Gentlemen."
"Good morning." We returned the greeting loudly enough to be heard above the surf. When the shock had worn off, we just looked at one another. The recognition that not the whole world was hostile toward Queers, was like the breeze off the ocean. It was so refreshing that it stung.
***
We made it to the seventy some-odd-foot lighthouse, with its lantern trying to triumph over fog. Two members of the Coast Guard came out of the Keeper's House and waved at us. We'd just waved back when an unknown male voice came out of the fog. "You must be visiting the Clarks." Gerry wasn't as startled as I was as he straightened up, having been resting on one elbow on the railing next to me.
"Yeah," He laughed and extended his hand to the woman and then shook the man's hand. "how did you guess?" I followed suit shaking hands.
"Your jackets are sort of a give-away." The woman snickered. "Even if the peaceniks are starting to wear them, too. But theirs wouldn't be that new. Got drafted, huh?"
"Yeah," I stated truthfully taking Gerry off the hook. "this past January." The man shook his head, sadly.
The woman smiled somewhat stiffly. "Canada's not an option, huh?"
"If you're a resident alien and you get your draft notice," I was quoting my father. "there's no way the IRS will give you a sailing permit to leave the country."
"You're foreigners?" The man seemed more than slightly incredulous.
I took my passport out of my breast pocket and handed it to him. "Yeah, I'm French and my buddy here's German."
"Since when do they draft foreigners?" The woman demanded indignantly of the man.
"Don't know." And after only a cursory glance at my passport, he handed me back the blue booklet. "And you're lovers?"
"That's pretty obvious, isn't it?" Gerry stated in hitherto atypical boldness.
The man looked seriously fearful, as he lowered his voice to just above a whisper. "You do know that you could get into a lot of trouble in the Army because of that, don't you?"
I laughed. "That's just another of those fabulous freedoms, for which your country is sending us to Vietnam to die."
Couldn't say that I blamed them for going coronary red and just walking off without saying a word. But, then again, what could they have expected?