I’m sure it was because he looked so much like Chad. The Kadena Officers Club was playing a beach volleyball match with the sailors from down at the U.S. Naval base in Naha. It was a hot day on the sandpit by the officers club pool, the beer was flowing steadily, and all of the guys were playing skins. There was more young, cut musculature per square yard on that square of sand than on a Chippendales’ stage. The officers were losing badly, but we were all having a good time of it.

I wasn’t actually an officer, but I was living on the Kadena Air Force base and was of officer equivalent. I had recently arrived as a consular affairs officer in Naha and the airbase was where our housing compound was located, just inside Gate 1, overlooking the East China Sea, in an enclave that included the Voice of America staff and a contingency of CIA spooks.

This was meant as a rest assignment for me, and after two years in Baghdad, I certainly needed the rest. My experience in Iraq had devastated me—not least because of the loss of Chad. I had never known what my preferences were before I met Chad, who was temporarily filling in as a Marine guard at the American embassy in the Green Zone, which we not-so-fondly called the “bubble,” before he deployed in the field. Before I got there I had thought I was just asexual and turned on completely by the job.

I didn’t want to be anything else, really, latently or otherwise. I was trying to do my best for everyone involved and not make waves or bring emotions into anything here, and that just wasn’t possible in Iraq. And my wandering eye and fantasies were beginning to obsess me. So many young, fit men around me. I’d thought as little as I could of sexuality before arriving in Iraq—and whenever I came close to thinking of my preferences, I’d quickly sublimated them. I’d been born into a wealthy family with a pathway to position and riches already scheduled for me. Having a “thing” for other men, consummated or not, simply was not on the agenda. It was driving me mad to keep it off my agenda in the Baghdad bubble, though.

I’d had a meltdown at my desk late one night and was sitting there, looking at a loaded handgun, when Chad came through on a lockdown checkout.

He’d taken the gun immediately, of course, and got me a glass of water and held me until I stopped quaking and crying. He’d told me to hold tight when I’d calmed down until he could finish his rounds, which were almost done. He offered to take me back to my own quarters in the compound and fix me coffee or something and listen to me rant, if that’s what I wanted. I didn’t want the coffee. I wanted Scotch instead, and Chad joined me. My ranting got quite personal—and so did Chad. And before I knew it I was lying on my back on my bed, with my head hanging over the side and Chad suspended over me on his knees, looking lovingly down into my eyes and his hands gripping my knees, holding my legs open and slowly working my legs back and forth to the rhythm of the fuck, while his cock carefully examined several inches of my virginal channel.

He was gentle with me—at least until we both got lost in the moment. I told him I was willing, but completely inexperienced, and he prepared me well and long until I was in a frenzy of want and grasping that long cock of his with both hands and trying to draw him into me. When he did enter me, it was only to the depth of the edge of his glans at first, holding there as I gulped and gasped and clutched at him. Kissing me, telling me it would be OK, that I could take it, that we’d go slowly.

Then he slowly gave me two more inches, and I was panting and groaning. He asked me if we should stop there. I begged him not to stop, but to put me to the sword, swiftly, and take me out of my virginal frustration. But he just smiled at me and lowered his lips to mine—and gave me a couple of more inches of the cock. He was rubbing across something inside me that sent off fireworks and made me come—my prostate, he said. I started to sob my disappointment that it was over and apologizing profusely that I hadn’t stayed with him. He laughed and said it was far from over. Another couple of inches, and I could feel my channel stretching with his throbbing need, and I rested my heels on his calves.

He held there, momentarily, throbbing inside me. And then deep in, that last inch or more, and sliding out, with me clutching at him, pleading, because I thought he was leaving me. But he wasn’t. Back in and then out, back in and out, repeating, faster—and then faster yet, establishing a rhythm, both of us losing all control and letting nature take over. I engorged again, and the muscles of my channel walls undulated over his throbbing cock. I rubbed my heels up and down his calves in the rhythm of the fuck, wanting to be part of the rhythm, digging my fingers into the bulging muscles of his back, throwing my head back and crying out to the ceiling. As we both came, almost in unison.

He didn’t pull out of me immediately. We lay there, arms entwined, whispering to each other. No, he didn’t hurt me, he released me, I assured him. Kissing. Me exploring his virile young, well-muscled, hard Marine’s body with my hands and then my tongue. Hearing the intake of his breath as my lips closed over the head of his cock. Him asking again if he’d hurt me, if I was sore. Me lying and saying I wasn’t, begging him to fuck me again. Him complying, young and virile and ready to go again almost immediately.

In the next couple of weeks, we spent every moment we could get together on my bed, with Chad teaching me how well a hard-bodied young man could make love to another man and both of us pushing the reality of where we were and what was to become out of our minds.

Chad saved my sanity, but I lost Chad. When he deployed, he was killed by a roadside bomb on his first sortie beyond the protecting walls of the Green Zone. What a waste of superb body and mind. I mourned Chad, but I didn’t fall apart as I almost had done before he saved me. In the short time I’d known him, Chad had given me strength and purpose I didn’t have before—and once having engaged in sex with another man, there was no pretending it hadn’t happened, no going back. But, perhaps more important, I felt it would be a betrayal of what Chad had done for me to sink to the depths of frustration and despair again.

I did, though, turn down an offer for an extension and asked for a less-taxing posting for my next one. Can’t get much less taxing than the consulate in Naha, Okinawa—or at least I thought so at the time.

There were a lot of young sailors across the volleyball net that afternoon at the Kadena Officers Club who could remind me of Chad. Handsome young men at the height of physical conditioning, both proud and able to serve. There was something about this one guy, though—his easy sense of humor or his smile or something—that singled him out. And as if he knew there was this mystical connection, he was doing a lot of his smiling for me. That didn’t stop him from spiking the ball down my throat a couple of times, though.

I found out after the game was over and we were all draped over the patio chairs next to the pool—when we weren’t diving into the pool to cool ourselves off—and drinking beer that his name was Ron Rivelle, and that he was part of the crew left with a destroyer receiving some upgrades in Naha port. He was sitting near me, and I overheard him saying he’d have a lot of time on his hands, as they were quite lenient with leave while the ship was being outfitted. There were far more sailors assigned to the ship while it was in port than were needed to pull security, which was the only duty required.

“Ah, security duty,” I thought—and that made me think back on Chad and how we had met.

“Do they have a USO facility down at the port?” I asked, throwing the question out to the group the sailor was sitting with rather than to him specifically.

“No, they don’t,” the beautiful young, dark-haired man said as he turned his flashing dark eyes on me. “My name’s Ron, by the way. Ron Rivelle. You with the Air Force? Do you fly?”

“No, I don’t fly,” I answered, with smile. “I’m not in the service. I’m a consular officer down in Naha. But our housing compound is up here.”

“You and your family have base housing?” he asked. I could almost hear the awe in his voice. Off-base housing was still pretty crummy on Okinawa, by Western standards, and there was a shortage of on-base housing for the military. Naval guys got the shortest end of the stick, because, other than the commanding officer, they weren’t permitted to bring spouses or children here at all. At least the army and air force enlisted men could do so if they could find off-base housing.

“I’m all the family I’ve got. And, yes, I’m sorry to say, I’ve got a very nice three-bedroom house here on Kadena. It goes with the position, not with my personal needs. I’m Justin Thorenson, by the way.” His handshake was strong and self-assured.

“Justin Thorenson. Justin Thorenson.” He let it roll off his tongue twice. “Sounds rich.”

“It only gets me third ranking at the consulate, I’m afraid,” I answered. I didn’t want to acknowledge that, yes, the name reflected a well-moneyed family. To take the conversation off this road, I continued. “Why I asked if they had a USO facility down near you was because we have one here at Kadena you can use. They’ve got activities if you’ve got free time. Trips, and classes, and you can get on sports ladders—golf, tennis, competitive swimming.”

“I play tennis. Do you?”

“Yes, a little.” Another little lie to try to keep the gap between our worlds narrow. I’d been a tennis champion at Princeton. I was aching to find a good tennis partner here.

That was pretty much the end of the conversation then. Ron turned away from me when called into another conversation with a group of his own, younger sailor buddies—and I didn’t mind the disconnection. I needed to broaden my acquaintances here myself. I hadn’t met hardly anyone on Okinawa. I’d only been here a couple of weeks at this point. And a civilian tossed into the world of the military doesn’t fit in quickly. It’s why I signed up for this volleyball game. And taking what I’d come here for as a cue, I turned to discussion with the Air Force officers who were mostly a bit older than me, but closer in age and background to me than the young sailors up from Naha were.

It wasn’t long, though, before I was thrown in with Ron again—and in more isolation and in a smaller set of people. And it was my own doing. Going stir crazy with my free time—life in Okinawa was glacial compared to Baghdad—I signed up at the USO for a day trip up the East China Sea coast from Kadena to the ancient medieval castle of Zakimi, near the town of Yomitan. A friend, upon hearing I was going to Okinawa, had suggested that I take a look at medieval Japanese castles, saying that he had been surprised to find that fortresses were being built at the same time in Japan and Europe in complete isolation from each other but with the same—or quite similar—construction principles.

There were only eight of us on the bus in addition to the guide. One of them was the sailor, Ron Rivelle, taking the advice I had given him on signing up for tours.

“So, we meet again, Mr. Kadena who isn’t in the Air Force,” he said to me as I boarded the van, which had just enough seats for those taking the tour—and the only seat empty when I boarded was the one next to his. We were both in shorts and T-shirts and the seats were made for Japanese, so all the time we were bouncing up the road to the isolated castle ruins, our thighs and shoulders and arms were rubbing against each other. I don’t know what that did for the young sailor, but it made my blood boil.

Ron was curious about Baghdad once we’d gotten to the “how we got here” chitchat while the bus was rolling along, and I told him what a life-focusing experience it had been and, probably—now that I think back on it—unwittingly revealed more of myself and of the conditions and pressures I lived under there than I really should have. I know that I must have mentioned Chad more than a couple of times—although I’m sure I didn’t reveal the depth of our relationship. And I also must have mentioned that Ron reminded me in some ways of Chad—not the least because he was hard bodied.

I thoroughly enjoyed the outing—and not least because Ron and I stuck together while we were exploring the castle and because I opened to his great sense of humor and his exuberance in enjoying what he was doing—and in including me in his adventurous, innocently open world.

We talked even more freely and openly on the way back to Kadena. He said he’d tried to sign up for the tennis ladder at the Kadena USO but that it was fully booked. I said that there was a tennis court in my housing complex—just for the residents there and their guests—and that if he really wanted to play some tennis while he was stationed on Okinawa, I’d be happy to play with him there as my guest. We set a tennis match date for the next weekend. And I even said I’d drive down to his ship to fetch him for the match.

When we returned to the USO club on Kadena, Ron got out of the van and walked over to the bus stop.

“It’s late,” I said as I walked over to him after climbing down from the van. “And it’s dinner time. You could stand out here an hour or more waiting for a bus and not get back to Naha before they’ve closed down the mess hall.”

“That’s OK. I won’t starve. I’ve got candy bars stashed away.”

“Candy bars? That’s not too healthy. Tell you what. My place is just down the hill. I can feed you something and then drive you back to your ship—and probably get it all done before a bus showed up here. And the drive would be helpful to me. I could see where I had to go to fetch you for tennis next weekend.”

“Aw, I can’t impose.”

“It’s no imposition. I just arrived and am getting tired of eating alone. I can’t promise you anything fancy, but it will be better than candy bars.”

Our comfortable conversation continued through dinner at my house—I had driven down to the tennis court and shown that to him before we drove up to the consulate housing loop. Ron seemed in awe of the house I’d been assigned and kept walking around the living and dining area and asking me if this and that had been provided with the job or if I’d brought it with me.

“The furniture is the consulate’s—and is basically the same that a colonel would have on this base—but the artwork and such are mine. The only thing that’s ostentatious, though, I think, is that I had a car shipped and there’s one that goes with the job. So, I’m a one person family with two cars. Not on purpose, though.”

“What a colonel would get,” Ron said breathlessly as he stood at the front picture window and gazed out to the two cars in the drive—the office Toyota and my own BMW Z4 sports convertible, one of my only indulgences as I tried to play down my family wealth while living the role of a mere government servant. I could have shot myself, though, for dropping the hint that I was of colonel rank. Ron was an enlisted sailor. Colonels were a dime a dozen in my business, but to him I was somewhere up in the panoply of the gods.

Ron was quiet all the time we were driving back to Naha. It didn’t take long to drive to his ship, but it seemed uncharacteristic for him to be so silent. I decided he was tired from the day’s outing—as I was. But it was a good tired. I hadn’t felt this relaxed and happy with life since the last afternoon tryst I’d spent with Chad in Baghdad.

“You can let me out here,” he said as we approached a manned gate in the steel mesh fencing around the naval base pier.

“Which one is yours?” I asked. He pointed to one that was still a good quarter of a mile away from the fence, down a row of naval vessels of various sizes. “No need for you to walk there; I’ll drive you down near the ship.”

“Can’t. Restricted area.”

“And I have a car licensed to go anywhere on a U.S. base that I want,” I said. And, as he looked both awed and doubtful, I drove up to the gate, was saluted, and didn’t even have to come to a stop befoe we were through and driving down along the line of ships to his destroyer.

I parked in the shadow of a stack of crates not far from the gangplank to his ship. And it was a good thing that I did, because when I came to a stop, he reached over and wrapped his hand around my neck, turned my face toward his, and gave me a deep kiss on the lips.

I froze, stiff in the kiss but then yielding as it continued, and completely at a loss when it was finished.

“That’s what you want from me, isn’t it?” he muttered. Then he turned and exited the car, shutting the door, and not looking back as he sauntered toward the end of the gangplank.

I was in shock. I was taken entirely by surprise. But should I have been, I wondered, as I sat there with two fingers on my lips where his so recently had been. He’d completely misjudged me. And how had he decided that I would welcome any such familiarity? He was so young and virile. So manly—so obviously straight. Why would I have thought he’d be interested even if I was. My mind raced over the day, trying to review what I’d said, what we’d done—how he’d figured he could take that liberty. I wasn’t swishy. Was I? Could someone tell just by looking at me, or listening to me that I would want to be kissed by another man? Surely not. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before.

And it wouldn’t happen now. Chad was a one-time relationship. That had happened naturally, but I had no intention of making that choice for my life. It took too much out of me. I don’t know why Ron thought I was interested in this. Had he taken my offers of dinner and a ride and a tennis date as some sort of cruising him rather than just friendliness, albeit friendliness driven by loneliness, a loneliness and feeling of isolation I might have mentioned to him? Maybe I had been too forward. But I’d end it right here. I just wouldn’t show up to pick him up for tennis, and he’d get the message.

I stewed for days and days, always resolving my consternation with the declaration that it would go no further.

When Ron opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat beside me the next Saturday morning on the Naha pier, I turned my head and leaned my face into his, as he guided my lips to his with a hand behind my head. He pressed his tongue at my lips and I opened to him in a deep kiss. In addition to his racket, he’d brought a fairly hefty duffel bag, which he threw into the small space behind the seats of the Z4.

“I’ve got the whole weekend off,” is all he said as I started off, my hands trembling so badly that I wondered if I’d be able to keep the convertible on the road.

I had intended to tell him when he got into the car that we could play tennis this once—but that I wasn’t looking for what he was offering. I didn’t want to be an ass and just cut him off without some sort of civilized closure. At least that’s what I’d told myself—how I justified putting on tennis gear that morning and making the drive to Naha.

Later I didn’t remember the tennis match. I can’t even recall who won, or even if we’d played at all that day. What I do remember is me kneeling between Ron’s legs as he sat in a straight chair beside my breakfast table and worshiping his cock. Taking it lovingly between my hands and kissing the glans. Running my tongue over his piss slit and listening to him moan and feeling his fingers dig into my hair as my mouth covered the slick bulb and I sucked while my tongue flicked in out of his slit—all techniques Chad had taught me. Licking up one side of the engorged tool and down the other. Trying, unsuccessfully—but who cared—to take it all inside my mouth cavity. Playfully bringing my teeth down on the side of it to hear him grunt and groan. And then covering the glans with my mouth again and giving suck.

And I remember him nonsensically asking if I had a bedroom, and me equally nonsensically telling him we should use the guest room. I didn’t want to be doing this in my own bed. I already felt I was betraying both Chad and myself, what I had resolved I would do to control my life.

I remember not making it to the guest room that first time—Ron pushing me down on the floor of the hallway on all fours and mounting me and fucking me like a dog. And me loving every stroke of it. Suddenly not wanting control. Taken up in the hedonist glory of being fucked on a hallway carpet by a beautiful young stud like a bitch in high heat. Being wanted like that by a perfectly manned young sailor.

And then on the guest bed, me on my back, hanging onto the slats of the headboard with all my might, as he plowed me hard and deep and looked down into my eyes with those dark eyes. Full of lust. Making me spout at the sheer knowledge that I would make his dark eyes flash with lust—that his cock could get hard for me, would want to be deep inside me, pumping, pumping, pumping. Chad, Chad, I kept thinking. Magnificent chest, both of them. My hands couldn’t get enough of groping, rubbing, grasping. And his kisses, when he bent down to me. Tongue pushing in—fucked at both ends—as he swabbed and tongue flicked and possessed me fully.

He was young, virile—and insatiable. I don’t know if he went soft the entire afternoon and evening. And night. And the next day. In the shower, at the kitchen sink, on my patio—thankfully protected from view from the neighbors. Again and again on the guest bed. On the living room floor and sofa. From the rear, standing and on all fours. From the front. On the move in circles around the dining room, me plastered to his pelvis, arms wrapped around his chest and legs around his waist. In the bathtub. And that first night—in my bed. Taboos and resolve being shattered, erased, cast aside.

On Sunday afternoon, belly flat on my bed, I moaned my last surrender to Ron, who rode my hips, me totally exhausted and unable to resist or contribute or anything else. I’d never been taken like this—so long or so often or so deeply.

“God, sorry, Ron. Don’t you ever give out? I can’t go with you any farther. I’m done in. And sore, oh so sore.”

“First time with a sailorboy, what?” Ron asked as he pulled out of me, slapped my butt playfully, and lay full length on top of me. “We can all fuck like this. It’s part of the recruitment test.” Then he laughed. The happy, easy laugh, of a young man at the top of the world—no worries, just doing his thing. Getting his rocks off. No harm done; just a bored young man having fun.

“Almost the first time with anyone,” I answered with a groan. “I asked you to go slow. If this is what going slow—”

“Fuck as good as that Marine did?”


“I asked, do I fuck as good as that Marine, Chad, did? Sailors can top Marines in anything?”

“God, Ron. I didn’t tell you that—” This was just a competition thing with him—best the Marines.

“You didn’t have to tell me. He fucked you, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” It was as much a whimper as a formed word. My mind was screaming for him to take the hint that this wasn’t as much a lark for me as it was for him—that he had gone over an edge of sensitivity. He was scratching at hallowed ground.

“And when you said you’d had enough, did he do this for you?”

“Oh, god, no, Ron.” He’d wrapped his arm around my belly and was pulling me up on my knees, my chest plastered to the bed. My head was hanging over the side of the bed and I stared at the accumulation of spent condoms Ron insisted on gathering there on the carpet beside my bed, as he, hard once more, slid into me. “Oh, Fuck. oh, shit, oh FUCK!” Ashamed that I couldn’t put him in check—that I still wanted the dick so badly that had dug into ground I didn’t want disturbed.

Largely spent himself after that taking, he lay there on top of me.

“I gotta be back to Naha soon.”

“I don’t know how I can manage to move a muscle. I know I said I’d drive you back, but—”

“You don’t have to. I’ll be off on Wednesday too. I can take the Z4 now, and then you won’t have to come back for me Tuesday night.”

I didn’t exactly say yes—but I didn’t exactly say no, either. I felt the walls of my fortress life tumbling—all for a tumble in the hay. I had no defense to field against his exuberance—and his master cocking.

He was back as promised Tuesday night. It was like there were two of us living here now—except that one of us was eating the other out of house and home and not doing a share of any chores. For a couple of weeks he was in my house whenever he wasn’t needed down in Naha—which seemed to be often. And he was driving my convertible. He said, not unreasonably, that I had another car and if he drove one, I wouldn’t have to be carting him back and forth.

He veritably took over my life, keeping me busy catering to his every need and keeping me royally fucked.

To escape him from time to time, I was spending more time at the office than I needed to, and I took on a volunteer class at the USO, teaching beginning Japanese to any serviceman willing to take it. The military students for these classes didn’t have to pay, Uncle Sam thinking that knowing the language would acclimate them better to the island culture.

I would have gone out to dinner parties more, except that I found that Ron was intercepting my calls and turning invitations down. It didn’t seem like it was because he wanted me to himself. It became almost as if he didn’t care if I was there or not—but that if I was there, my function was to provide for his needs, to spend time on the tennis court help him improve his game, and to open my legs to him whenever he was in the mood—which was constantly. He was perpetually randy, and I rarely saw him without a hard on.

There was no escape at the language classes, either. Ron signed up for those and brought a couple of his buddies along with him. They would sit in the back of the class while I was trying to teach and whisper among themselves. And I’m sure from how they were whispering and how the other two sailors—near carbon copies of Ron in youth and muscle power, although one was black—looked at me during the class time that Ron was telling them of the extent and nature of the control he had over me.

This was borne true two weekends later. Ron had asked me about the military beach rest area on the northern coast at Okuma. The houses there were identical to the officers housing here on Kadena. It had originally been built as a Voice of America base but eventually turned over to the military and then used as vacation houses for general-rank officers. VOA, the spooks, and the consulate, though, each kept a house. I didn’t have to tell Ron about the exclusive resort. He’d heard about it on his own. He wanted me to take him there for a weekend, saying he heard it had the best, and most isolated beach on the island. I had stupidly revealed that the consulate still controlled one of the house.

So, I signed up for the consulate’s Okuma house. When the time came to go there, though, I found I had to work on the Saturday morning.

“No problem,” he said. “I’ll go on up in the Z4 Friday night, and you can come up in the Toyota on Saturday afternoon.”

When I arrived, there was no one at the house, but I counted three duffel bags rather than the expected one. I walked out to the verge of the beach and watched Ron and his two sailor friends from the Japanese class cavorting in the surf of what, indeed, was the most pristine and private beach on Okinawa. They were all gorgeous, carbon copies of each other in musculature. They were all wearing Speedos that left little to the imagination of what they were packing. The black sailor, in particular, was hardly contained in the pouch of his suit. If they noticed me watching them, they showed no indication of recognition. Just watching them horse around and run into the sea and swim straight out vigorously against the current and then let the surf carry them back in only to attack each other on the sand and wrestle left me exhausted. I assumed they would all just shower and drop off to sleep when they returned to the house.

It was almost dark before they left the sand, and I had left them to their play some time ago. When they came back to the house and had showered and donned gym shorts, I’d fixed dinner for all, after which Ron made clear he wanted to fuck. I’d put his duffel in the master bedroom along with my bag and one duffel in each of the other two bedrooms. I did a double take and told him I couldn’t imagine how he had energy left over for that following his day on the beach. He laughed, asking me if my Marine guard had lacked the energy under these circumstances, and I had to turn away from him to keep him from seeing how that hurt me.

And Ron wasn’t the only one who wanted to fuck. I was laying on my back, butt at the edge of the bed in the master bedroom with Ron standing between my thighs and plowing me hard, when the other two sailors entered the room, naked—as magnificent in body as Ron was and with hard cocks in their hands, the black guy’s a stunner—and stood patiently, in line, beside the bed until Ron was finished. And then the other two took their turns. None of them asked me what I was interested in.

The second sailor, the big, black stud, was thicker than Ron—thicker than Chad, thicker than anything I’d had before—and he thrust inside me so hard and fast and then started pistoning like a jackhammer. He thumped my chest with closed fists on alternating thrusts, oblivious to my grunts and groans of objection, assuming I was loving it—which some aspect of me was. To them I was a older man who had discovered a gold mine—three young studs to service me. I reached out to his hard belly and tried to push him away, but Ron was climbing up on the bed and behind me, forcing his knees under my shoulder blades and trapping my arms in a full nelson. The third guy was up on the bed then, straddling my chest and feeding his cock into my mouth as the black monster pistoned on. By the time the third guy was ready to fuck me, I just laid there and moaned, not putting up any resistance at all.

Ron told me that I loved the cocking. I murmured my acquiescence, wondering if he would have even been listening to me if I told them how alien and denigrating this was to me. I’m sure Ron thought and had told the other two that this is what I did—preyed on young sailors in search of the constant plowing. And then the three of them left me there, spread-eagled on the bed in the dark, and went into the living room and played video games and drank the beer I’d brought for the weekend.

I lay there alone, in the dark, thinking on how I was being used and ignored, in a seemingly never-ending cycle. Wanting any one of them to come back in and hold me and hum softly to me as Chad had done. They were just overgrown boys, of course. It wasn’t anything they intentionally were doing. Sex was sex to them—all three of them. They assumed, I’m sure, that I was having a good time. There wasn’t anything more than surface relationship. It didn’t mean any form of relationship. It didn’t even acknowledge the sex partner. They were just oversexed fucking machines, getting their rocks off as often as they could. I was just a malleable vessel for their semen to them. Someone who had pursued and picked up Ron—to get exactly what I was getting. I might as well have been a rubber blow-up doll as far as they were concerned. Except I could also give them privileges and food and drink they couldn’t get in their sailorboy world.

And what about me? What did I want out of this? Why wasn’t I just sending them packing—beyond the edge of fear of what they might do to me if I did object? I enjoyed the fucking, I had to admit. Not as often, perhaps, as I was getting it. Certainly not as impersonally as I was getting it. But even the black stud, the cruelty of his taking, had me climbing the clouds when we got into the rhythm of the plowing. But I wanted more. I wanted some tenderness. I wanted what Chad had given me in the sex act.

No one came into the bedroom in the evening. None of the three popped his head in to ask how I was doing, if I was OK, if I wanted a beer too or to come out and play their video games with them. Early in the morning hours, Ron came into the room, and, without a word, turned me on my belly, mounted my hips and, with hands palming my shoulder blades, fucked me to his ejaculation. Then he just stretched out on top of me, without withdrawing his flaccid cock, and started to snore quietly. I didn’t begrudge him the fuck—I’d wanted it, moving my hips with the rhythm of his taking and sighing for what he was doing inside me. And I went to sleep, pretending that he was holding me in a loving embrace rather than just flopped on top of me.

I was awakened Sunday morning to three randy young men wanting to restart the relay. Luckily they also wanted to get back out on the beach that day as well.

They left—three of them stuffed in the Z4 and laughing and playfully punching at each other, not a look of farewell in my direction—early Sunday afternoon. After cleaning up the house, I left for Kadena three hours after they did—exhausted, sore, and, yes, frightened about what had become of me and how I seemed almost to be a prisoner and a sex slave and a provider of provisions and privilege. I knew there was no reason I should put up with this. But I was cowed. And I enjoyed Ron’s fucking—and even that of his friends—if there just wasn’t so much of it. If it didn’t degrade me so much, have me being just an object for their lusts and wants.

The Z4 was parked in the driveway when I drove the Toyota up to the Kadena house, and I was met at the door by all three of the sailors—who had ravaged my refrigerator and panty—and who manhandled me back to the master bedroom and ravaged my body as well for the rest of the night.

At last I wasn’t the only one who was exhausted. I managed to force myself awake and quietly get out of the bed and to the front of the house before any of the sailors wakened. My suitcase from the weekend was still by the door. The first thing I did was to move the Toyota to the other side of the compound, to in front of the house of one of the CIA contingent, a man I was beginning to become friendly with before Ron appeared in my life. I put the keys in an envelope, writing a request on the envelope that he have someone deliver the Toyota to the consulate. Then I returned to the house and drove away in the Z4—all the way to a hotel in Naha, where I checked in.

The next morning, right after arriving at the consulate, I asked for permission to take my R&R early, as I had urgent business in the States. The consul granted it, with the comment that, although I’d been doing my job well, he’d noticed that I was on edge and seemed distressed. I knew that he wanted to chalk that up to my recent tour in Baghdad, and I didn’t say anything to disabuse him of that notion.

I then called the Military Police for Kadena Airbase and told them I thought I’d seen some men approaching my house as I left for work and decided that maybe it would be best if an MP met me there in an hour to check it over—that, unfortunately it hadn’t really hit me as a possible problem until I was well on the road to work. The dispatcher said he understood, and an MP would meet me there. He asked me if I could tell if the men were servicemen or Japanese civilians, saying there had been a spate of break-ins on the base recently. I hedged, suddenly concerned that this would explode on me—that Ron and his friends would be found there and would start talking about what I’d done with them. But I knew they said they were all expected back at their ship by now.

When I arrived, the MP was already there. He was a young black man and was well-muscled and stood at least six-and-a-half feet tall. My mind immediately raced to wondering what he looked like naked. How powerful his equipment was—was it true they were all built huge? Ron’s friend certainly had been—what it would be like taking him back to my bedroom when we entered the house. Would he be willing? Would I have to pay him? But then I shuddered—he probably thought I was apprehensive about what we’d find in the house—and I castigated myself heavily for what I had allowed myself to think, to become. Even my weaknesses were developing weaknesses. I had to get away from here. There was too much young, desirable man flesh here. I needed a country where all of the men were old and ugly, fat and wrinkled.

The house wasn’t trashed too badly. A few things had been broken—three young, randy men could be counted on to do some innocent roughhousing. But mostly it was surface, beer bottles and dirty dishes tossed around—and towels in the bedroom and beds unmade. If the MP saw anything in this, he wasn’t saying anything. For all he knew, I was a bad housekeeper. Other than that—and the pile of spent condoms on the floor by my bed, which, thankfully, I got to before the MP reached the bedroom, and pushed under the bed—there was no evidence of the three sailors.

The MP took the report and called in for a locksmith to get over there pronto because I said I’d feel safer having the locks changed. In reality, wanting the locks changed right away was my motivation for bringing the MPs in on it. Foolishly, I had given Ron a key to the house.

I waited until the MP and then the locksmith were gone before I left. As the locksmith worked, I tidied up the house and packed my suitcases. I didn’t plan on coming back here. I didn’t want to be here when and if Ron and his friends showed up again. I knew I was weak. If Ron came to my door—and even if he brought more than just the two friends—I knew I’d let them lead me back to the bedroom and would lay on the bed and open my thighs to all takers. I was probably the most conflicted person I knew. I wanted the intimacy of the fuck—even while realizing that what I was getting here wasn’t intimate at all. That it was hollow, not what I really wanted.

I checked around the loop to see if the office Toyota was still there, but it was already on its way back to the consulate. Before returning to the office, I stopped at the Naha hotel to leave my bags and to extend my room reservation until I could get a plane out for the States. I was done with Okinawa—and with this form of trying to find someone to love to replace Chad.

My urgent business in the States was to go right to my personnel officer at State and request an immediate transfer anywhere—yes, Afghanistan or Egypt or Mexico, it didn’t matter where. Okinawa just wasn’t working out for me. I no longer thought that Chad would be my one and only, of course—I couldn’t deny that Ron had given me a taste for it—but next time I would move slower, be smarter—look for someone who showed some sense that they knew it was me—a real person with needs and desires to be accommodated—that they were fucking.

I probably wouldn’t be here at all now—certainly I wouldn’t be able to write this—if my personnel officer at State hadn’t instantly seen that I needed another lazy-life post. Malta is just a two-man post. We do what we want, the consul general, Stanley Stevens and I, with little worry of what the rest of the world is doing or sees us doing. It was my good fortune that Stan’s family is wealthier than mine, that his Harvard trumps my Princeton, that he’s a worthy tennis opponent, that he is ten years older than I am, but still in magnificent form. And that he wanted me and makes gentle and complete love to me and has a cock that can reach my depths and sing love songs to me. Controlling me, as that’s the major thing Ron taught me—I did want to be controlled—but doing so without overwhelming me in the process.



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