A Place In The Fleet

By Ensign James Rozo, USN

Notes: This is dedicated to the memory of HT3 Angelopoulos - an exceptional sailor imbued with a strong sense of duty and a commitment to professional excellence. It was my privilege to be his Division Officer and lover. While details have been changed, this is his enlistment story.

“I can imagine no more rewarding a career. And any man who may be asked in this century what he did to make his life worthwhile, I think can respond with a good deal of pride and satisfaction: ‘I served in the United States Navy.’” ~ President John F. Kennedy, 1 August 1963 ~

Nikolas Angelopoulos.

An exceptionally beautiful boy.

Descendant from Greek ancestry, he has an exquisite olive complexion, thick black curly hair, and luxurious dark piercing eyes. Completely smooth, he’s the personification of ideal physical beauty venerated throughout antiquity.

Although a favorite subject of ancient Greek and Roman artisans, the ephebe was a recurring theme in Renaissance and 19th Century paintings and sculpture. Hyacinth by Francois Joseph Bosio, The Resting Shepherd by Adolf Hildebrand, Eros, Catching a Butterfly by Antoine-Denis Chaudet, and Young River God by Pierino da Vinci pulsate with youthful erotic energy.

Muse and model, aesthetically pleasing boys have inspired sculptors, painters, and poets, enchanted emperors and conquerors, and propelled nations to launch a thousand ships.
Angelopoulos is such a boy.

Growing up in a poor ethnic neighborhood in the northwestern corner of the New York City borough of Queens, his childhood is filled with violence and abuse. Provided a classical Greek education by his stepfather, he’s deflowered at a tender age.

Running away from the dysfunctional home, roaming the streets devoid of hope, he walks a treacherous path fraught with the city’s destitute, desperate, and deviant denizens.

Scared and hungry he dodges dangerous liaisons. Gangs. Drug dealers. Pimps. Other exploitive criminal elements. Seeking protection, he joins other homeless kids who collect like scattered leaves around abandoned buildings and in narrow alleyways.

Several street-smart older boys recognize his potential.

And take him under wing.

They teach him how to survive. Safe places to sleep. Where to get food. And how to peddle his wares on Manhattan’s street corners. Shedding all vestiges of childhood, he rents his body to businessmen, UN diplomats, tourists, and other connoisseurs of young flesh.

Craving a taste of the forbidden, gourmandizers dine in the Tenderloin District. With a steady stream of runaway kids arriving via the midtown Port Authority Bus Terminal, the menu is constantly changing. And delightful delicacies can be found to satisfy every appetite.

Inevitably they sell their only possession of value.

Themselves.

Residing on the corner of 53rd and Broadway, wearing a pair of tight shorts that showcase amazing assets, Angelopoulos attracts attention. Potential buyers aroused by urges and fantasies inspect the merchandise while envisioning unspeakable acts of depravity.

He’s fresh meat in the sex supermarket.

Working in an industry that values youth above all else, the boy is a perishable commodity with an expiration date stamped on his ass. Until fully entrenched in puberty, however, he’s a highly coveted dish best enjoyed at the peak of perfection.

Several ravenous meat mongers in silk suits stare at him like a prime, 32 oz. dry-aged porterhouse. Salivating, they consume the succulent boy with licentious eyes, imagining the scrumptious flavor, tenderness, and texture melting on their tongues.

They look around nervously for police and undercover agents. The boy is too good to be true; surely a sting operation to entrap innocent men extending disadvantaged youth a helping hand.

An armored limousine with blackened windows approaches.

Diplomatic plates.

A formidable consumer of beauty.

The occupant is searching for exceptional cuisine: a young boy to augment his collection of aging catamites. Inspecting Angelopoulos, he’s aroused by the lack of salient age markers. Possessing a trained eye, he knows the boy is an uncut diamond immersed in a heap of genetic trash.

The rear passenger window descends.

A simple authoritative hand gesture commands the kid to approach.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Nikolas sir,” assuming a deferential demeanor.

“A Greek. How delightful.”

Attired in traditional Arabic clothing, an exquisite black and gold besht… conveying the man’s high status and wealth, flows over the formal thawb, a white cotton embroidered tunic. Bodyguards in simpler garments, carrying lethal weapons, provide the Saudi Prince with protection.

Draped in youthful perfection, the boy flashes an alluring smile. Employing subtle seduction skills, he enticingly rubs his pert little ass, and glances away.

Pederasty in ancient times was not the exclusive domain of the Greeks.

Many cultures preferred the love of boys.

Early Ottoman Arabic literature is replete with references to boy love. Flirtation, courtship, and romance was common. Biographical dictionaries, poetic anthologies, and belletristic works relate the pederastic love affairs of prominent poets, religious scholars, and political notables.

Sultans and Sheikhs often competed, quarreled, and fought for the possession of a beautiful boy. And maintained wonderous harems. Delightful temptations, the proverb, ‘women for breeding, but boys for pleasure’ was well founded. Dancing seductively, they provided alluring entertainment and exceptional bedtime companionship.

Unfortunately, the once ubiquitous practice has virtually disappeared.

Although not forbidden by the Quran, the guardians of Islamic doctrine consider boy-love a corrupting pleasure. Who would ever desire a girl after bedding a beautiful boy? No one. So young angels are privately enjoyed and secretly passed among connoisseurs.

The streets are no place for this boy, thinks the Prince, His Excellency the Ambassador of Saudi Arabia to the United Nations. Enjoying diplomatic immunity, looking to satiate an aberrant appetite, he freely indulges predilections with impunity.

“Acquire the boy,” orders the Prince to an aid.

Bodyguards exit the limousine and approach Nikolas. Presenting little choice, he’s shepherded inside the vehicle and whisked away. Undercover police watch, but take no action. Short of murder, they have orders to let diplomats enjoy the city’s many attractions.

“Strip boy,” commands the Prince.

Momentarily flustered but obedient and subservient, he slips off his shorts and T-shirt. Totally naked, sitting nervously while the men leer like hungry wolves, the car heads east across town towards the Royal Saudi Consulate on 2nd Avenue.

“You won’t need these.”

The aid opens a window and discards the boy’s clothing.

Shocked and terrified, naked and vulnerable, he’s completely at their mercy.

Afflicted by amorous rapture, the Prince lightly caresses the soft unblemished flesh. Skinny chest. Smooth mons pubis. Small erect penis. Tight round scrotum. Prodding the underdeveloped eggs not yet descended, he’s exceedingly pleased with the acquisition.

“Magnificent.”

Once safely ensconced at the consulate the boy is trained in sexual techniques.

He studies Arabic erotica and ancient sex manuals, including the 15-century The Perfumed Garden of Sensual Delight by Umar Muhammad al-Nafzawi. A rare copy, it contains the chapter on homosexuality and pederasty that is missing from modern translations.

The Perfumed Garden presents a series of highly erotic and instructional stories detailing the art of sex. Besides explicit descriptions of all manners of intercourse, it provides qualities in men & women of praise and advice on foods & medicines that promote virility.

A quick study, Angelopoulos excels at his lessons.

And the Prince indulges every conceivable perversion.

His talented new toy is the envy of friends and relatives. Enhancing his reputation for providing exquisite entertainment, he generously offers the American jewel to honored guests.

* * * *

Six years later his days are numbered.

Too old to attract continued interest. Many Arabic poets expressed the opinion that a boy ceases to be attractive at the first appearance of beard-down on his cheeks.

Many of the harem’s boys past the peak perfect age have disappeared. Rumors abound: sold to a flesh trader; starring in videos with dogs and barnyard animals; or working on a private pleasure island for a billionaire with Hollywood and royal British patrons.

No one knows for sure.

Not waiting to find out, Angelopoulos escapes.

It’s time to chart a new course.

For many boys - the abused, emotionally battered, physically beaten, those bludgeoned by circumstance, kids living in dysfunctional families in blighted neighborhoods, squalid existences perched upon the precipice of doom - the military is the best option.

Changing their life’s narrative, enlistment is the opportunity to transcend the bottom rung of the social-economic ladder. It’s the promise of something better: food, shelter, safety, rules and regulations, order in a chaotic universe. A life with meaning and purpose filled with camaraderie and adventure.

He’s accustomed to being owned; so the military is perfect.

The Times Square Recruiting Station is nearby. It has occupied the traffic median where Broadway crosses 7th Avenue since 1946. Historic and iconic with worldwide recognition, it houses representatives from all four service branches.

He’s too little to be a Marine; and not stupid enough for the Army. And who the fuck wants to be in the Air Force? Stationed in the heartland of America or at a remote tracking station in an inhospitable location, Airmen babysit underground missiles that’ll never launch.

No thank you.

He wants world travel. Adventure. Excitement.

The Navy!

Lacking a high school degree his prospects are poor.

Unlike the other Services, the Navy doesn’t take too many kids without diplomas. Exceptions, however, can be made. Waivers requested. Especially for motivated boys with the right disposition and skill set. And Angelopoulos is nothing if not resourceful and determined.

“Please sir, help me. I want to be a sailor.”

Framing his charms, he employs considerable powers of persuasion.

“I have transferable skills.”

“Hmm… well, I’ll need to test your aptitude,” explains the recruiter.

“Of course, sir.”

Although impressed with the boy’s oral ability and eagerness to swallow, it’s his talented ass that seals the deal. Feasting on the perfectly proportioned posterior, the recruiter admires its innate perfection. Curvaceous. Alluring and available. Open and ready to be ravaged.

Kneading the supple flesh, he runs calloused hands over every inch of the silky smooth skin. Spreading the boy apart, seeking every crevice, a stunning aurora of crimson, canary, and chartreuse shimmer around the exquisite central flower.

“Damn, it’s beautiful.”

Instinctively Angelopoulos spreads his legs wider, issuing an invitation to board his accommodation ladder. The recruiter takes position, renders a crisp salute, and steps aboard.

The watertight fitting is un-dogged, and he slides inside the luxurious quarterdeck. Underway making way, he advances deeper into the hull and visits internal compartments. The undulating chute grips the tumid shaft, rhythmically squeezes, and insistently pulls it forward.

“Fuck! Where did you learn that?”

Angelopoulos moans in pleasure as the appendage advances in the anfractuous passageway. Internal organs are perfectly aligned to facilitate a deep, satisfying penetration. Demonstrating amazing technique, utilizing secret sexual knowledge, the velveteen walls grip the cock with amazing force.

“My god… what an ass!”

“Oh sir, fuck me harder!”

Violently thrusting in-and-out, achieving maximum penetration, stirring the steaming pot with different angles of attack, his request is granted.

Tested aggressively, the boy surrenders completely to the experience, never asking for mercy, taking every thick inch, desiring more. Supremely talented, his muscle control is otherworldly. And all too soon he’s inseminated with potent US Navy jam.

“Well son, there’s definitely a place for you in the Fleet!”

Creatively completing DD Form 4 (Defense Department Enlistment into the U.S. Armed Forces) and other NAVPERS paperwork, they side step questions with vague responses. Looking to fill quotas, no one cares. And entrance processing commences immediately.

Fingerprinting. Police background check. Citizenship verification. Physical examination. Drug screening. Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery (ASVAB) test. Rating selection. UCMJ briefing. Signing the papers. Taking the Military Oath of Enlistment.

Before departing for boot camp, the recruiter holds a special party for the boy.

And a dozen salty dogs enjoy him all weekend.

At Navy Recruit Training Center, Great Lakes IL, Angelopoulos proves very popular with his Company and Platoon Commanders. Immersed in regimentation, surrounded by hundreds of virile males, he drinks in their masculinity. And happily demonstrates his considerable talents.

Upon graduation from HT ‘A’ School he receives orders to USS Forestall.

* * * *

“Welcome to Repair Division,” greets Ensign Rozo.

“Thank you sir.”

Mesmerized by the sailor in Service Dress Whites, the Ensign takes a moment to inspect the boy. Looking up and down, he drinks it all in. Dazzling perfection: high cheekbones, luxurious dark piercing eyes, an infectious smile with inviting voluptuous lips.

The iconic white uniform accentuates his masculinity. The translucent fabric showcases the whole enlisted package: a throbbing shaft with shapely head, generous ball bag hanging down the starboard trouser leg, and intoxicating ass… enticing and inviting.

A magnificent addition to the division.

Rozo’s expanding shaft searches for quarters inside his khaki trousers.

After years of being surrounded by authoritative men, Angelopoulos is an excellent judge of character. He immediately recognizes the Ensign’s concupiscence. Enamored by the handsome young officer, he’s hopeful for a mutually beneficial arrangement.

Rozo understands sailors and their instinctive need to follow orders. So no chasing, coercing, imposing of wills, or silly games are necessary. It’s the perfect union of authoritative officer and submissive enlisted man… just as congress undoubtedly intended.

“Sailor, you’re going to be my boy.”

“Oh thank you sir!”

“Let’s continue your check-in down in my stateroom.”

The next morning Rozo passes the word.

Angelopoulos is off-limits; he’s the Ensign’s exclusive property. His boy.

On the sailor’s chest is a 5-pointed nautical star and compass rose tattoo.

The star represents a fixed point of reference upon which sailors rely to keep themselves out of harm’s way. The compass rose is a traditional symbol of navigation and of finding one’s direction through physical and emotional confusion.

Angelopoulos has found his life’s direction.

His place in the Fleet.

Comments and readers’ experiences with sailors, afloat or ashore, are always of interest.