Fellatio Interruptus By Michael A. Kroll
The sailor sat in the front seat of my car, unzipped his fly, and maneuvered his slightly smaller than average but thick and very erect dick into view, though only the moon illuminated the night sky. There was no emotion involved for either of us, only the carnal excitement of sexual anticipation. I didn't even bother to turn off the car radio, as I lowered my face down into his crotch, and felt the flood of relieved pleasure that taking a hard dick in my mouth always brings me. He was a kid, and he groaned with pleasure, making me strain to break through my jeans. But even the thrill of this clandestine act, the excitement and fulfillment of forbidden male-on-male sex, was not enough to keep my mind from wandering to the journey that had brought me here, while I continued to savor this youthful body, continued to make him moan while comforting myself at the same time.
It was 1974. I had been living in Hawaii, 31 years old and in need of a job - again. I had been teaching "bad kids" in a bad high school (oh yes, Honolulu has its ghettos), but the grant that funded the position ran out, and I still had to live. I scoured the want ads, applying for anything I remotely qualified for, including an English teaching job in Guam at Heald's Business College. I got the job, and soon found myself in that unhappy place. Americans were everywhere, usually in military uniforms. The very macho Chamorro culture was in the process of a massive shift -Waikikiized - and the young, in particular, had to adjust to a new world while watching their parents' world disappear. The beaches are rocky, and you are warned about the deadly rock fish that inhabit the rocky shallow waters and are easy to step on. A rocky place altogether. In short, I found this Southseas Island where, according to the banner headline across the morning paper, "America's day begins," without any saving graces whatsoever.
When I arrived, I was told that the English class I was hired to teach would not materialize this year, so instead, I would be teaching Business Machines! To say I know nothing about business machines is misleading. I know less than nothing about business machines. When machines of any kind see me coming, they immediately freeze, break, refuse to start, or otherwise malfunction. But here I was in the middle of the ocean, depending on the money I would be earning to get out of here. Which presented yet another problem: I had no money, and would not get my first pay check for about six weeks. I had arrived with just enough money to rent a place for the summer, in this case a Quonset hut. I literally had no money for food, a fact which led me to the local Safeway where, for the first time ever, I shoplifted a chunk of cheese.
As I left the store, sure that the next person I met would put me in handcuffs and take me away, I was approached by a young man, perhaps 20, carrying a backpack and sleeping bag, and looking lost, with a day or two's growth around his soft features. "Excuse me," he said, "but you wouldn't happen to know of a place to rent, would you?" Aha! There is a god after all! In exchange for moving into my Quonset hut, my new roommate would provide the food, at least until I got paid. In the meantime, he'd find a job. I showed him to the vacant room in my Quonset, and he set his backpack on the floor. In addition to a pair of underwear, jeans and a pulp paperback, he also unpacked a rough bong he had "carved" out of bamboo. The store-bought bowl fit nicely into the hole he had made for it, so it was functional, a fact which we immediately established between us.
I started teaching my business machine classes, spending each night cramming as much information into my head as I could from the readings I was about to assign the next day. I could handle the reading part. It was the practical application of these lessons where I ran into trouble. Those required actual machines! The only thing saving me from utter failure was my stupid students. Thank Guam for them.
Every morning I'd go off to work, sweat through a day of business machines, and return to my roommate, sitting in the center of an ever-growing circle of bamboo bongs, stoned out of his head. His "finding a job" had morphed into a bong business model, except that he was both manufacturer and consumer, so the model could never move its ass off the floor! "How'd the job search go," I'd ask, breathing in enough of what passed for air in his room to get a nice contact high before dinner. At that, he always held up the bong he'd just finished making, offering me the peace pipe.
Every day, the circle of bamboo bongs grew around him, and he sat in their midst as if in the coils of a bong snake. Each day I'd ask if he'd sold any bongs. Each day he would reply that he would start that part of the business the next day. Even though I was finally getting my pay checks, I never got around to asking him to leave. He was still helping pay for the food, and, at the beginning of a steamy August, I was nearing the end of my six-week employment.
I didn't spend a lot of time at the Quonset hut, anyway. I had taken a torn pair of pants to a seamstress, and made a friend. The "seamstress" was a thin man with prematurely graying hair, an ex-Marine, who sewed for a living. He was, perhaps, ten years older than me. I was far from open about my sexuality then, but I was very comfortable with him. Our relationship never progressed beyond professional (he made me a beautiful kaftan for which I paid him), and casual, sitting and talking at his table. In that subtle way that gay men have of communicating, our conversations included clues and hints that each hoped the other might act on, but neither of us ever spoke directly about our sexual selves - or our suspicions about the other. Still, he managed to tell me in a natural way, as just part of the conversation, where gay men cruised at night. My heart beat faster when he did, and I knew that when I left his apartment, I would not be able to escape the magnet of the gay beach he had just told me how to find.
It was dark when I arrived and parked in a rocky spot overlooking the beach. I could hear the slap-slap of the tiny waves on the shore more than see them from here. I walked down to the rocky-sand beach. There was a moon shining on the water, and brilliant stars stretched across the sky. I walked along the water's edge, admiring the way the moon's reflection broke like shards of ever-moving glass on the surface. I didn't hear the young sailor walking up the beach as I walked down, but I looked up in time to see his dark eyes staring into mine. His right hand rested on the crotch of his white uniform. We both stopped walking. There was no doubt what he wanted. My loins came alive. I wanted it too. Slowly, he turned as if to give himself privacy, unzipped, and began to urinate onto the rocks. He had deliberately turned only partly away, making sure I could see that his dick was getting thicker in his hand. Quickly, I followed his lead, peeing a few feet from where he was doing the same. Like crabs, we edged toward each other, until I was close enough to move the fingers of my free hand across his pants, through his wiry pubic hair, and then around the growing thickness. He could not have been more than 19 years old, smooth faced and nervous. "Do you have a car we could go to?" he asked, urgently.
When we got into the small used car I had purchased with my second paycheck, he asked if I could turn the radio on, and he fiddled with the dial until he found a station that played god-awful country music. I didn't care. I would have listened to Chinese opera to get to this point and beyond, And, without further ado as they say, beyond is where we got. His groaning got louder and his breathing more labored as each of us got close to fulfillment, his about to spill into my willing mouth, and mine into my own hand, which I had taken a moment to lubricate with his pre-cum, and which was moving up and down my now hard, huge cock.
And then unexpectedly and without warning, another Dick interrupted my reverie and, in another moment, would substitute my pleasure in sucking my sailor's dick for a different pleasure, one that could only have been provided by an even bigger Dick! If you're old enough to remember Richard the Dick Nixon, then you're old enough to remember what a cocksucker he was. Oh, I don't mean that literally - not in the way I was now doing such satisfying job of demonstrating. In truth, it's as impossible to think of Dick sucking dick as it is to picture him poking Pat. But since they had two children, I can only imagine those rare moments of coupling as hurried, grunting affairs. But I digress.
Suddenly, as I was sucking and licking a thick, hard dick in the front seat of my car like a teenager, the country music ended, and an announcement came on alerting us to a message from the President of the United States. "Good evening. This is the 37th time I have spoken to you from this office, where so many decisions have been made that shaped the history of this Nation," the President began. Guam was the staging area for the B-52 bombing raids on North Vietnam and Laos, and the entire island shook each time they took off with their deadly loads, reminding me each time of why I hated this man.
And then I heard him say, "Therefore, I shall resign the Presidency effective at noon tomorrow."
I stopped moving. I sat up. His 25-year-long slog to the presidency was ending like this, in disgrace. Ah, how fitting. How satisfying! My partner appeared not to care about the announcement, except to display a certain impatience while he waited for his music and me to resume. Which is what I did, not even waiting for the music. Slowly and sweetly, I finished what I had started. What might have been one of countless and dimly remembered sexual encounters in my life became an indelible memory, making it infinitely more pleasurable I thought, as he squirmed deliciously and filled my mouth with his warm essence.
I drove back to my Quonset hut without even bothering to change the station. For the first time since I had arrived in Guam, I felt completely satisfied.
Fellatio Interruptus 7 Michael A. Kroll