Desert Storm

Shortly after leaving Khobar Towers, we boarded a C-130 aircraft and flew to an area of Iraq near the town of Safwan, Iraq. One of my first impressions of Iraq was the beige-brown desert color that surrounded us. Dust storms were so common that you quickly learned to always carry a scarf to protect you from the desert dust. We were mandated to put a “condom” on the end of the barrel of our M-16 semi-automatic rifles. This would prevent dust from collecting inside the barrel which could cause a malfunction. Of course, actual condoms were not as readily available out on the “front lines” where we were at, so we made a protective cover out of paper, tape and rubber bands.

Once we deplaned , we jumped into humvees and 5-ton trucks that took us to a remote part of the desert. Never in my life have I felt such heat like I experienced when we arrived into Iraq. Of course, since I was sent from Ft. Leornard Wood, MO to the 1st Infantry Division (who were already in place in Iraq), I was never issued desert camouflage uniforms and, instead, wore my initial green ones I received in basic training. I thought often, “Gee, if the enemy looks hard enough, they will see me standing out against the beige-brown color of the desert landscape. A perfect target for the Republican Guard!”

As a low-ranking soldier, known as a  PVT or private in army lingo, I was assigned the laborous tasks of setting up the perimeter for our camp along with other low-ranking soldiers. In the desert heat, we rolled out concertina wire (barbed wire) along side our camp, hauled heavy boxes of ammunition to a central location inside our perimeter, set up latrines (more on that later), and set-up various tents which would house our communications center and other amenities.

Of course, working in the desert, we were not allowed to roll up our sleeves or leg pants. We could not take off our outer uniform shirt, nor could we take off our black leather boots. We were told that sand fleas and horse flies were everywhere and carried diseases which could harm us if they bit any part of our skin. We were also told that scorpions could easily sting someone without shoes. So, we worked in unbearable heat, with layers of clothing on, drenched in sweat.

Latrine set up consisted of building a small shack with door which housed a makeshift toilet seat that had a large “bowl” or container at the bottom of the toilet seat. As a private, I was given the “wonderful” task of emptying those containers once daily which were filled with a day’s worth of excrement, which seemed to “cook” itself in the desert heat.

Of course, in 1991, even though the army was probably not thinking about their carbon footprint, we were instructed to take the containers of excrement (I used to drag them because I did not want someone’s shit on my uniform) to one end of our perimeter, douse it with diesel fuel, and burn it until nothing but ashes remained. I would try to burn the shit until hardly anything remained. Afterwards, we had to “bury” the ashes into the desert sand. Imagine working in an environment where the temperature was about 105 degrees fahrenheit coupled with the smelly heat generated by burning excrement. Ahh, army, “Be all you can be!”

A better part of my job as a private was to “assist” with soldiers who were in the makeshift shower stalls. “Assisting” consisted of climbing to the top of the shower stall with a ladder and a jug of water and pouring water down into a container on the top of the shower stall which would eventually come out of a shower head in the stall and allow the soldier to take a decent bath although most times, the water came out in a trickling fashion. Of course, we were instructed to pour the water into the container and allow it to “heat up” in the desert sun. Most soldiers welcomed a cool shower and did not wait for the water to warm up.

I quickly realized that the water container on the top of the shower stall was small enough that it allowed me to view the person showering below. So, as I poured water down into the container slowly, I would watch my fellow soldiers lather their rock hard bodies (most of them were in decent shape) with soap, rinse their cocks off with the water trickle and ,on occasion, get aroused.

I am not sure if any one else watched their co-workers bathe, although I think that some of the soldiers showering knew they were being watched. When I was in the shower stall myself bathing, I would spend an extra few minutes lathering my cock enough so that it was aroused and would ensure I was turned in the direction of the opening above. Whoever was pouring water would be able to see me below!! I don’t think I knew the word ”exhibitionist” back then! To maintain my “heterosexual image”, I would never allow myself to get fully erect or masturbate in the shower stall, but would rather get slightly aroused then play it off like I was just focused on just showering.

One particular day, I was pouring a jug of water into the shower container slowly when the soldier below, one of our sergeants, walked into the stall and started to lather himself. This sergeant was about 5′10, 190 lbs, dark short hair, and a solid, beefy body. He had blue eyes and was clean shaven.

He was lathering his tight body when he stopped at his groin area, grabbed his meat and started to soap it in a jerking manner. As I watched, I became aroused and did not realize I was pouring water down the side of the stall and not into the container, which resulted in the sergeant’s water trickle ending, and him looking up to catch my eye. Of course, I was looking at his erect cock (about 7″) in his right palm. For a brief second, we just looked at each other. Then he said “what the fuck is up with the water?” As I felt my heart beat in my head, I resumed pouring water into the container and did not dare look down again. My hard-on ached in lust, but I knew it was too dangerous to pursue anything out here in the desert.

Several hours later, as I was eating my MRE (Meals Ready to Eat), I saw the sergeant walk by me, look at me briefly, and continue walking past without saying a word. I have always wondered if he would have allowed me to help him lather…I never did find out.

MRE's (circa 1991)

MREs were prepackaged meals in a brown plastic sealed bag which contained a drink (in powder form), snack/dessert, a ‘main entree’, plasticware (including napkin and condiments, and crackers or a slice of bread. My favorite meal was the chicken ala king which occasionally brought a small bag of M&Ms in it. Other times, I would receive a fruitcake for dessert. Ugh! Soon enough, we learned that the best way to add variety to MREs would be to trade various pieces of  our meals with each other. More often than not, we would heat our meals (they were already cooked and ready to eat) over an open fire and enjoy a warm meal. One of my least favorite meals was the tuna with noodles. I always thought it smelled too fishy for my taste.

 Here is a breakdown of the types of meals we received during our time in Desert Storm:

 MRE X-XI (1990-1991)
[All freeze-dried entrees were phased out by 1988]
01 – Pork with Rice in BBQ Sauce
02 – Corned Beef Hash
03 – Chicken Stew
04 – Omelet with Ham
05 – Spaghetti with Meat and Sauce
06 – Chicken Ala King
07 – Beef Stew
08 – Ham Slice
09 – Meatballs, Beef and Rice, in Tom. Sauce
10 – Tuna with Noodles
11 – Chicken and Rice
12 – Escalloped Potatoes with Ham

The MREs were really not that bad, although one meal we received which is not listed above was a hamburger type of patty that was “activated” with water. That was also nasty; although I ate it when I had to due to low numbers of MREs available. I did not want to starve after all….

Al Khobar

After flying into Saudi Arabia, as part of my “whirl-wind” tour of the Middle East (not by choice, mind you) we were taken by a bumpy and dusty truck ride to Khobar Towers, which was a residential complex in Dhahran, Saudia Arabia. We were told that Khobar Towers were initially built by the Saudis  as primarily high-rise apartments, up to eight stories tall. King Khalid, the country’s ruler in the late ’70’s, reviewed the complex and said it was below standards and not suitable for his people. So the complex was vacant for many years until August 1990 when it was opened for Kuwaiti refugees.

During the war, coalition forces (including servicemembers from the US, UK, France, and Saudi Arabia) were housed there. We  were informed that we would spend 1-2 days in Khobar Towers followed by being assigned to a unit which was already out in the “field” (also known as the “front line”).  I soon learned that Khobar Towers was the equivalent of R&R (rest & recreation) since we had access to hot meals, showers, and a “PX” (post exchange – a military equivalent to a “bodega” or “7-11″ with basic essentials like chocolate candy bars, socks, t-shirts, pastries, etc.). There were also phone booths that we could use free of charge to call loved ones back in the United States.

I walked around the complex and was stunned by the frequent sound of fighter jets taking off nearby. Yet, no one seemed to notice the loud boom of each jet as it climbed altitude above us. I was assigned an “apartment” several stories up in one of the towers along side two or three other soldiers. We were instructed that our next formation was at 0500 the next morning and that we should use the free time to call home, shop at the PX, and take a hot shower, since we would not see showers once we were assigned to units in the desert. No showers in the desert? I was beginning to think that body odor would be a great weapon against any enemy!

We were reminded to keep our gas masks nearby “just in case.”

As I walked up several flights of stairs with my gear, weapon, and my sleeping bag and mat, rolled tightly underneath my arm, I noticed that it was pretty dark outside so the only lights I saw as I looked out a window were from nearby buildings within the complex. Once inside the apartment, we were assigned a room in groups of 4 or 5 and went our separate ways. I saw that the only furnishings supplied in the entire apartment was wall-to-wall carpeting. I was expecting a nice bed with a nearby television set.

Instead of wondering where I could find furniture, I picked a wall and dropped my gear on the floor next to it. I rolled my mat out flat, opened my sleeping bag and sat down, listening to nearby chats coming from adjoining rooms. I noticed that sound carried easily in Khobar Towers, making me wonder about the quality of construction in this sprawling complex. The other soldiers in my room dropped their gear on the floor and left the apartment to tour Khobar Towers and utilize their “free” time.  I stayed behind.

I unbuttoned my camouflage shirt, took it off and laid down. After a few minutes, I unbuttoned my camouflage pants and pulled my t-shirt out of my brown (military-issued) boxer shorts. I touched my penis and felt it grow quickly in response. I was tempted to release it from its cotton “prison” but decided against it since I did not want anyone to walk in on me masturbating. I buttoned my pants and shirt and felt my erection strain against the fabric of my boxers and pants. I decided to ignore it and sat up, leaning against the wall. I closed my eyes for a few minutes, but soon realized it must have been longer because all I heard was a loud siren in the distance. The chatter I heard earlier was gone.

Almost instinctively I grabbed my gas mask container, opened it and put the gas mask on, pulling the straps on the back of my head so tight I thought my brains would pop out. I heard my heart beat faster and faster as I realized that this was not a drill. Suddenly, the door to my room opened and one of the sergeants assigned to my group ran in,  yelling through the mouth piece in his mask in a muffled voice “Keep…..hsssss…….your mask…..hsssss…..on until further…hsssss……notice!” He quickly turned around and ran off.

So, to recap:

Here I was, in a furniture-less apartment in the middle of some fucking desert complex (with ugly carpeting), sitting on a mat, wearing a gas mask that made me feel like I could not breathe. I kept asking myself, “How did I end up here? How do men get off on sex wearing these things?”

It is amazing how quickly we review our lives at the moment of impending death. I felt my body shiver as I realized there was a possibility I could not come home alive. I thought about the countless pine boxes I saw used in the many Vietnam movies I watched when I was younger. I thought about my Mother back in New York and my siblings. I realized that I had not experienced having a boyfriend yet. I wanted to taste another man’s lips. I wanted to feel manly arms embrace me.

Instead, I began to think whether dying would be instant or would it be drawn out, as whatever was headed our way would probably cause me severe pain.

I closed my eyes and prayed.  What seemed like an eternity was interrupted by someone running into my room yelling “All Clear. All Clear!” I opened my eyes and wondered “Am I dead?” If this was the afterlife, it sure as heck looked like Khobar Towers. I quickly surveyed the room and noticed that the ugly carpeting was still there. And I was still sitting against the wall.

I stood up and took off my mask. Breathing fresh air felt so good, so natural. I was alive!

I joined other soldiers on the first floor for a briefing by one of the sergeants in charge of that area. We were told that an Iraqi “Scud” was headed in our direction but was intercepted by a Patriot missile. What I thought was an hour or so waiting for impending death either by the enemy or my gas mask, was, in actuality, about 15-20 minutes. I could have sworn it was much longer. I knew I should have jerked off when I had the chance!

Once we were released for the night, I ran to a phone booth and called my Mother. I was relieved to hear her groggy voice (I think it was 4 or 5am in New York City). I decided against telling her about my near collision with a Scud missile and assured her things were going well in the desert. I probably made it seem like I was on vacation but I did not want her to worry more than she was already doing.

After speaking with her I went to the PX, bought a candy bar and watched some soldiers play a game of basketball in a nearby courtyard. As I chewed on chocolate-covered peanuts, I watched several men take off their military-brown t-shirts as they were playing. Watching sweat drip down their hard chests getting “rerouted” in their happy trails made me decide to run back upstairs to my room, unbutton my pants, pull my cock out and jerk off!

Army! Be All You Can Be!

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Update:

On June 25, 1996, a terrorist truck bomb exploded outside the northern perimeter of Khobar Towers. 19 American servicemen & women were killed and over 500 others were injured. Needless to say, when this occurred, I was safely back on American soil in New York, but felt the impact of this event as I watched the streaming reports on CNN.

Which way is Club Med?

Once our plane landed in Rome, I looked out an airplane window and saw blue tanks greeting us with their top hatches open and soldiers with rifles cocked popping out of it. I was so excited to be in Italy. I had never been there before and wanted to go sight-seeing.  I imagined touring the Vatican and the Coliseum. I wanted to go shopping and have gelato by the Trevi Fountain. Instead, we were instructed to stay on the aircraft. I assumed we would pull into an open gate at the terminal building, but instead, we parked out on the tarmac surrounded by what I believed were Italian army vehicles.

We were told that due to bomb threats to the airport, we could not pull up to any gate and could not deplane from the aircraft at anytime. We were advised that the fueling process would take a few minutes followed by a rapid departure to Saudi Arabia. I could not believe it. I was in Italy and could not touch Italian ground. I was almost tempted to run off the aircraft, touch the tarmac with my feet (maybe even kiss the ground like the Pope does) followed by returning to the plane. I immediately decided against that idea since the forward aircraft door which was open was guarded by a mean-looking Italian man (although he was cute).

After chatting with other fellow soldiers onboard, I returned to my seat and looked out the window at one Italian soldier who was stationed in front of his tank, nearest the aircraft. He must have been 5′10 or so, in great shape, clean shaven, and had beautiful brown eyes. I felt a boner rise in my pants as I kept looking at him. I must have been sending some seriously strong vibes because as he turned his head and looked up at our aircraft, our eyes met and he briefly smiled and turned away.

I began to think about my grandmother and earthquakes because I could not be caught enroute to war with a hard-on. I stayed in my seat for about 5 minutes (seemed like an eternity when you have an unexpected hard-on) then got up and walked around the cabin. Before I knew it, the roar of the engines us toward our final destination, Riyadh (in Saudi Arabia).

About 9-10 hours later, we were in final descent as our plane headed towards King Fahd International Airport in Saudi Arabia. My heart began beating as I looked out the window and saw that the sun was setting, displaying nothing but brown patches of land as far as the eye could see. Before Saudi Arabia, I had never seen a desert in person. Once the plane landed safely, we were told to gather our belongings and our weapons and proceeded to deplane.

Of course, I was expecting someone to place a lei around my neck and kissed on both cheeks (like I saw numerous times on television). Instead, we were told to gather in formation right on the tarmac. I immediately thought “Wait? On the tarmac?” We soon found out that our plane was parked on the tarmac because the terminal was shut down due to many incoming bomb threats. We were advised that the airport was a huge target for terrorists and could not stay open for safety reasons. I wanted to go into the airport gift shop to buy a post card to send back home to Mom. I guess the post card would have to wait.

Once we were in formation, a general with 3 stars on his hat and lapels came to brief us. He welcomed us to “Operation Desert Shield.” As I looked around, I noticed that besides the black color of the tarmac, there was brown land everywhere I looked. No trees. No grass. I pinched myself since I could not believe I was in Saudi Arabia. I noticed that it was dusk and night would be settling in quickly since the sun was just about set. I felt a cool breeze whip by me. I noticed quickly that is was pretty cool considering we were in a desert environment. It seemed that as soon as the sun disappeared, cool winds came out of nowhere, sending chills down my spine.

The 3 star general continued his “debriefing” by introducing us to the culture of the Middle East. He explained that locally, the culture was way different than anything we have ever experienced. He advised us that talking to civilians, especially women, was forbidden unless the civilian initiated the conversation. He reminded us that we were in a war zone and stressed that danger lurked at every corner. He followed by ringing a siren.

Once the siren ended it’s loud, blaring sound, the 3 star general told us that anytime we heard the siren go off, the first thing we needed to do was to put on our gas masks without hesitation. He continued by adding that there were numerous reports of scud missiles being launched our way on a daily basis with chemical warheads. He told us that the siren would go off anytime any chemical threat was imminent. I immediately pinched myself hard again, reminding myself that I was not dreaming.

What followed next disturbed me deeply and made me regress on an emotional level.

The 3 star general explained that there were “very few rules to follow” during war. He stated that we needed to look out for each other’s ‘back’ when out in the “field”. He stressed that we could not trust any civilian and to treat all of them as “imminent threats.” Finally, the 3 star general stated, in a grave voice, that “any soldier caught engaging in a homosexual act during war would be shot to death. This is war!”

Wait. Did he just say homosexual act? Shot to death? Just because someone was blowing me? He couldn’t have known about me. I mean, I was very straight-acting, wasn’t I? I completed basic training without being kicked out of the army. Didn’t that mean anything? I felt like I was being singled out and noticed that my heart was beating very fast as sweat beads formed on my forehead, even though it was pretty chilly. I could not imagine how an American soldier would kill one of their own on purpose. Then again, the safety of the United Stated and my home in the Bronx was a million miles away.

He continued by reiterating that during war, morale needs to be kept at high levels all the time. Homosexual acts would be detrimental to morale? I would have thought it would boost it!

I decided that during my time in the Middle East, I would act straighter than straight. There was no way I wanted to go home in a pine box with the cause of death being “Killed in the line of duty for being gay.” What would my Mother say?

I wanted to go home. At this point, I knew that during my stay here at “Club Desert Storm” I would have to force myself to look at the sand and not at men. I would have to avoid any situations that may put my sexuality into question.

I decided that I would not jerk off for the next several months. This trip to the Middle East was turning into a nightmare. As I looked around at the darkening horizon I wondered where was the local beach? I needed a massage with a happy ending, not a homophobic army with no protections for something inside of me that I could not control. It wasn’t my fault that I was attracted to the same sex. I knew I could fight this war like the rest of my fellow soldiers, irregardless of who I slept with. Why should that matter? Would I have to watch my back all the time keeping an eye on the enemy (both foreign and domestic)? Could I trust my fellow soldier? This sure was no Club Med.

Flying the friendly skies!

The morning we left for Saudi Arabia was memorable because the sun was slowly warming the Missouri sky. There were few clouds that appeared like big cotton balls against a brilliant sky blue, but for the most part, the day appeared to be off to a good start. As our coach bus (no, not a cattle truck), neared Lambert/St. Louis International Airport, my heart beat faster because I realized I was a step closer to going to war.

As we sat in morning traffic for a few minutes, and what seemed to be like a half hour, I allowed myself to close my eyes on the bus as we waited to move enroute to the airport. When my eyes opened, I felt the vibration of the airplane engines roaring in sequence as our plane was flying over New York City on its way East. I decided that I could parachute off the plane, land on my old block in the Bronx, not need to go to war, and make it on time to dinner with my mother and siblings. With this ‘perfect plan in place,’ I felt the strain of the weight of the parachute pack on my back as I pulled the shoulder/body straps tight and performed a last minute gear check. I looked at my watch, took a deep breath, made the sign of the Holy Cross (Catholic guilt) with my right hand, and turned to face the back door that was slowly opening as the plane that began decending slowly. As I looked out the airplane window, I noticed that the sun was reflecting off the familiar landscape I missed dearly. Brilliant shards of light were reflecting back from the many skyscrapers that dotted the city. I saw the George Washington Bridge and knew that my cue to go home was nearing. Without an additional thought, I pushed myself out the open airplane door and felt the brutal November wind hit my exposed face at a speed of what seemed to be around 200 miles an hour, reminding me that it was winter.

As I tumbled fast towards my old neighborhood, I instinctly pulled at the rip cord that would free my parachute from its pack. Nothing happened. I noticed that I was getting closer to becoming mush on the concrete sidewalks that dotted the streets below me. I pulled the cord again only to realize that my parachute was faulty and I was about to die. I felt my breath become shallow as I gulped for air and said an ‘Our Father’ prayer and closed my eyes. Death would be imminent in a few seconds.

“PEREZ! PEREZ! Get your ass up! Wake up!” One of the sergeants on the bus threw his hat at me which made me realize that I was not spiraling down to my death. Instead, I was still on the coach bus which had just pulled into St. Louis airport.  ”Perez! Didn’t you get enough sleep last night? And wipe that drool off your lip! Disgusting!” I heard the sergeant’s voice boom as I realized I was the last one still on the bus. I suddenly realized that I was still going to war.

We did not go through standard security protocols at the airport, given our M-16 semi-automatic rifles were dangling from our persons. We were escorted to our gate area and ordered to “stand at ease” (which meant to relax for a few minutes). I looked at the gate podium sign and saw that we were headed to Rome, Italy, on Pan Am.

I soon found out that the Boeing 747 commercial airliner was transporting us to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia with a fuel stop in Rome, Italy. I always wanted to visit Rome, but under more friendly conditions. As I looked around, I saw that several dozen men in uniform were all boarding the same plane. The blue lettering in the Pan Am logo on the wall of the gate area reminded me of ocean water and warm tropical places.

Once onboard the aircraft, we were instructed by our drill sergeants to lay our rifles underneath our seats with the barrel pointing towards the forward section of the aircraft. I wanted to sit in First Class but ended up sitting somewhere in row 20. It is funny how I do not remember if I sat in an aisle, window, or middle seat. By the way, we did not have ammunition at this point, so our weapons were not loaded with bullets.

I was very calm as the heavy plane made its way to the runway. The flight attendants on board (I saw several women and one man working the flight) seemed genuinely happy to be serving us on this 8+ hours flight. The soldiers around me fell asleep within moments of taking off. I stepped on my rifle, ensuring it was still there, and imagined what that male flight attendant thought about as he walked up and down the aisles, surrounded by the many male soldiers getting comfortable in their seats.  I wondered, did he like men? Was he ’straight’? I heard several times as I was growing up that all male flight attendants were gay. I figured, he must be in heaven being surrounded by so much testosterone.

As I watched him scurry around the cabin, I noticed  that his blazer was either black or dark blue with two red stripes on the sleeves.  I saw that he was wearing a crisp white shirt underneath the blazer and a tie with light and dark blue stripes. His wings were pinned to his blazer ever so perfectly. I noticed that his pants were hemmed well and were just touching the top of his shoe, but covered the heel in the back. I tried to glance at his crotch area, but the blazer prevented that. For a brief second I imagined walking into a lavatory with him, ripping his blazer off and pulling down his pants zipper as I asked him how I could join the “mile high club”. I decided against that since I was surrounded by other soldiers who may not necessarily think it was the proper thing to do 35,000 feet up in the air over international waters. I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

The Glistening Power of Sweat!

Upon the tearful farewell I had with my mother and family earlier, all the soldiers present mounted the cattle trucks headed to “Desert Storm Training” at a different part of the base. Of course, I was imagining that a portion of Ft. Leornard Wood was turned into a desert, but, heck, I came to realize that this was no Hollywood stage.

Once I finally stopped crying, I looked out the sliver of glass on the cattle truck the army called a window and saw that we were driving to a different section of the base but it was still near our old barracks where we had just completed initial training. I was imagining (and hoping for) a long truck ride, standing, mind you, with other soldiers tightly packed around me. I wanted to accidentally  grope whoever was close to me, blaming it on the rocking motion of the truck as it barreled down the road. After a few minutes of mental deliberation, I  thought “screw it” and decided to feel my way through the cattle truck ride.  As I have done in the past,  I started brushing my hand against this cute guy’s crotch in time with the rocking of the cattle truck. I’m positive he was getting aroused since I looked down and saw a bulge forming towards his right hip (I know it wasn’t a gun). But, sad to report, the cattle truck came to an abrupt stop, doors flew open and we were told to get out.

Naturally, I never saw the guy with the “gun”  ever again. Pity. I sure could have used a “release” to deal with the traumatic farewell I just experienced with my family.

We moved into new barracks, again, with the open bay set-up, community showers, and basic training type of atmosphere. The only difference now was that no one was yelling at us, telling us to drop onto the floor to perform a million push-ups, or degrading us for being alive.

The same drill sergeants who were total assholes a week earlier, were now talking to us like coworkers, albeit, there was still a chain of command in place, but there was a peacefulness about working with them now.

Once all the soldiers claimed a bunk bed (I was lucky enough to have a lower bunk), we had the usual inspection of beds made to military specifics:  your wardrobe locker had to adhere to basic training requirements, your camouflage uniform (also known as BDUs or Battle Dress Uniforms) on your person had to be clean and crisp, including having boots freshly shined with a spit-to-a- mirror-image perfection.

We were briefed on the setup of our 2 week desert training. This briefing consisted on how we were going to begin reviewing things we learned in basic training, learn key phrases in Arabic, do’s and dont’s of the Geneva Convention and prisoners of war, you know, easy stuff to remember, right?

Of course, most people under duress, either smoke or drink alcohol, I wanted to get off with someone. But, I was too afraid to try anything or flirt with anyone since we were preparing to go to war. I was always looking around during community showers, admiring other men’s ‘equipment’, especially since we were always rushed in the morning to get ready. But, I could have sworn other guys would look too. Then again, they could have been taking quick glances to compare what they have in between their legs with what other men carried around.

It always amazed me how some soldiers would wake up in the morning with a hard-on, jump down from their bunks onto the floor, and walk around with their erect dicks swaying with no care in the world. On occasion, I would see someone in boxer shorts, with their flag pole at full mast, causing the opening of the front of their boxers to show the world their pole. These same men would walk back and forth talking with their buddies like nothing was wrong (even though they could probably poke an eye out with their bulge)!

Yes. It was hot to look at. But it also freaked me out a bit, because looking at these men with their morning wood turned me on, causing me to get aroused. So, I would pretend I was folding clothes or something (I would immediately think about earthquakes and naked grandmothers to cause my erection to die before I moved anywhere in the barracks).

One morning I woke up at 430am to go pee. I walked quietly into the latrine and noticed that this guy was at the urinal jerking off. He was a beautiful man, wearing only boxer shorts (which were around his knees at the time). I noticed the muscles in his back form as he flexed his back with every stroke. I also noticed how the dim light of the latrine glistened against the beads of sweat on his forehead against his strawberry blond hair line.

I looked down at his muscular ass cheeks and wanted touch them, but didn’t dare. I felt my heart beat in my throat as I walked quietly closer to him. I noticed he had his eyes closed but was pumping his meat furiously. I  noticed how well formed his pecs were on his almost hairless chest, with the exception of a “happy trail” that made my eyes follow it until I saw faint indentations of abs and that lovely “V” on his abdomen that seemed to point me in the direction of bliss.

As my eyes followed his happy trail down South, I noticed that he kept his pubes trimmed short, and were a shade or two darker than his blond hair. I looked at him stroking his meat and was pleasantly surprised to see that he was probably handling about 7 or 8 inches of delicious, prime meat. He was also pretty thick which I discerned easily because his hand that was holding his cock could not wrap around totally against his shaft.

My mouth began to water as I felt my “soldier” stir in my boxer shorts. As I looked on as this hot man pleasured himself, I thought my heart was going to beat itself out of my chest. I felt drops of my sweat form on my forehead and run down the length of my back.  From my vantage point, I could see that the soldier still had his eyes closed (although my gut told me that he was aware I was standing just about next to him, within arm’s reach of his cock). I debated whether to grab his manmeat or just go back to my bunk.

I was turned on physically and mentally, but scared as hell because, wild gay fantasies aside, I was a soldier on a military base, in an army known for its ‘witchhunts” of gay soldiers. Yet, I felt my left arm rise (almost by itself) and my hand begin to reach out towards the soldier’s throbbing member.

Just when I was going to ‘reach out and touch someone” (well, his cock specifically), he shot a huge load all over the urinal. I instantly froze and watched his body react spastically as he rode his orgasm to finish. I looked at his semen drip down the wall of the urinal and mix with the water at the bottom. He flicked his meat up and down and squeezed the last drop out of his cock head and shot it into the urinal with his thumb and forefinger.

He stood there for a few minutes with his semi-erect cock in his hand when suddenly he turned to me and said “Hey! I’ve seen you around. Cool. Have a good night.” With that, he packed his meat back into his boxers after he pulled them up from his knees and walked away.

I stood there, hard as a rock, scared frozen, horny as can be, sweating like I was out in the Sahara for days with no water, and stunned that I just saw this hot guy jerk off and cum, with no care in the world. So, instead of me following suit, I turned around and went to bed (only to sleep for another half-hour until we were woken up by the drill sergeants to begin the new day).  I never did pee.

Army, be all you can be!

Motherly Love…..or, how do we say goodbye?

In November 1990, the weather was changing rapidly as leaves continued their fall color dance and the temperature starting dropping more often.

Since my plans to travel to New York City for the Thanksgiving holiday were cancelled by Uncle Sam, my mother decided to drive to Ft. Leornard Wood, Missouri with her then-boyfriend, my aunt, and my uncle. The four of them drove many hours to spend a weekend with me in Missouri. The Post General gave all new recruits a “weekend pass” to leave Ft. Leonard Wood and go into the closest “town” (Rolla, Missouri), but we could not leave the state by any means of transportation.

My family decided to spend the weekend at a local motel in Rolla. I was so excited to see my family since it had been almost 4 months since I saw them last. On Saturday morning, my family drove to the base and picked me up. I was so relieved to see my mother. She kept smiling and saying to me how proud she was of my accomplishments. My aunt and uncle kept reflecting on my “athletic” appearance, i.e. I was not the same scrawny kid they once knew.

Once we arrived into the motel, I could not help but notice how the motel room door was bright red with the number 24 pinned on it. My birthday is on the 24th. Could this be some other-worldly sign or is it a mere coincidence?

The room was a typical cheap looking, post-60’s decorated room. In hindsight, I remember thinking how nice a room it was because back on the base, in Basic Training, we had no privacy, no television or radio, and no access to “freedom.” Ironically, I was about to fight a war for “freedom.” That room made me think about prostitutes and pimps. I wonder why…. I have since enjoyed more refined hotel rooms in my day, but that weekend with my family in room 24 was one of the best I have ever had in my life.

We spent the weekend together cracking jokes, eating out at local greasy diners and chain restaurants, celebrating life as a family should do. No one mentioned the fact that I was headed to war or that I was not the same “Joey” that they knew in the Bronx many years ago. My mother began her rituals of telling stories of “when Joey was a kid…” and the “candela” (fire in Spanish) he was, explaining that I kept her busy with my antics as a child. Of course, hearing these stories would make me blush while everyone else found it funny (I laughed it off eventually). One story stood out as she recounted the time when my twin sister and I were arguing over something trivial. My mother, in her Latina woman prowess, scolded both of us and my sister was spanked. Since I was next to get spanked, I decided to try hiding from her. Of course, as a child, we do not not know that the longer it takes to get the spanking punishment over with, the angrier the parent will get. My mother started to look for me and I decided to hide in the living room.

Somehow, my mother, crafty as she was, discovered I was there and came after me. I saw her coming and ran around a coffee table in the middle of the room to avoid her. She started chasing me around the coffee table and then stopped. We both started laughing and found it funny that we were running around the coffee table. Suddenly,  she sprang and I was spanked for misbehaving and for avoiding her. Ahhh, the good old days!

That Saturday night, my uncle, who was a New Jersey State Trooper at the time, pulled me aside and told me that he did not want me to go to war. He said that he was proud of me for wanting to serve my country but added that I was too young to die. What he told me next both showed his love for me and was shocking. In a serious tone of voice, he told me he brought his “piece” with him. The “piece” was his gun.

My uncle told me “Let me shoot your foot.” I looked at him thinking “what the fuck are you talking about?” He added “If you are injured with a bullet in your foot, you will not go to war. They cannot send you to war injured.” I immediately thought about being able to go to college sooner than later and not having to face war in a foreign country. And I thought about what the pain would feel like having a bullet penetrate your foot, into your bone. What if it paralyzed my leg? What if he missed my foot and shot, umm, let’s say my penis?

Needless to say, I opted for war and thanked him for his “generous offer” but reminded him that I volunteered for the army and was not forced to join. He briefly resisted but eventually agreed with me. I kept debating what would be more painful, a tour through Iraq and Saudi Arabia, or a bullet through a foot bone? Before I knew it, the weekend was over and the time to bid farewell to my family had arrived.

Saying goodbye to them was one of the hardest things I have ever done. Once we were back on base on that brisk Sunday morning, I noticed how my family was not as chatty as we had been the night before. My aunt kept looking at me, probably reminiscing about me as a child…and now a man about to go to war. My uncle was very quiet himself. My mother had sadness in her eyes, although she kept smiling.

Once the cattle trucks pulled up in front of us, one of the drill sergeants grabbed a bullhorn and told us to get on the truck. One by one, my family members hugged me, my mother being the last one. I remember that I did not feel an urge to cry until my mother hugged me. As soon as I smelled her hair I was reminded of honey and flowers and noticed that it was very long and jet black. As soon as I felt her arms wrap around my body, my eyes automatically opened the floodgates. And we both cried. No words were spoken at that moment.  I don’t think I have ever felt more love than what I felt for her at that moment. I did not want to let her go. I wanted to crawl back into the safety of her womb.

I felt like Joey from the Bronx was dead and a new man was standing in front of her, hugging her back.  My mind returned to when I about 10 years old, running around the block with my friends, climbing onto the top of the concrete cinder block fence in the back yard that was about 10-12 feet high trying not to fall off….to the time at Woolworth’s (before it burned down) when one of the dares I was given was to shoplift a bag of M&Ms (and the only thing I have ever shoplifted since)…and to the time I had my first boy to boy encounter, with the upstairs neighbor’s son, who was my age (maybe 7 or 8 years old).

It is funny what your mind remembers when you are at a fork in the road. In my case, the left road took me to war, the right to jail (since I would have to go Absent WithOut Leave – AWOL to get out of going to war), and not choosing a road resulting in me probably being forced to go to war by one of the local drill sergeants.

Hugging my mother was such a turning point for me. As I felt her warm tears hit my skin, I remembered my confirmation at church. I remembered my mother saving her money to buy me a suit to wear to the church ceremony as I felt her comb my hair and adjust my tie for me. She was so proud that day. Her son (and daughter) were receiving the Holy Sacrament and were entering “adulthood”.

I remembered when I cut my left thumb open by accident with a broken window in the hallway of our old building in the Bronx….. I think I was 11 or 12 years old, running to my mother, who happened to be cooking dinner in the kitchen. I felt no pain after my thumb was split open and the innards of a thumb were exposed, probably due to me being in shock…I remembered showing the thumb to her calmly, and watching her start screaming and saying “Oh my God! What happened?” Watching fear enter my mother’s face was fascinating, proving to me how much she loved and cared for us. As she turned off the stove, she grabbed my hand and told me to run it under cold water in the kitchen sink. She found the container of sugar and began pouring it on my finger (old wives tale), telling me that the sugar would help the finger clot…she took a piece of brown kraft paper and wrapped my finger with it carefully. She meant well. Her first aid skills appeared to be a mix of Western and homeopathic medicines. When she looked at my finger again, she saw the white fleshy meat hanging out of the finger. I think that helped her to decide that we needed to go to the emergency room. No sugar-coated kraft paper concoction would be able to fix my thumb now.

A mother’s love is such a strong bond that helps you to formulate who you will become once you are an adult. My mother taught me the beauty of love, patience, and hard work. I learned to sew, cook, clean, and fend for myself with her help. I usually call my mother every year on Father’s Day to wish her a Happy Father’s Day because I have always seen her as my mother and father, all rolled up into one person.

So, hugging her was such a powerful moment for me. Reminding me that no matter what happens to me in Iraq, her love will always be there for me, to guide me home.

With tears rolling down my cheeks, I pulled away from her, turned around and mounted the cattle truck along with my fellow soldiers (all men). Once the doors closed, I noticed I wasn’t the only man crying. We were all going to war, leaving our loved ones behind. I looked at my left thumb, rubbing my right finger on the scar that remains to this day, reminding me of her sugar-coated kraft paper concoction.

Tighty whities (or bang! bang! bang!)!!

Tighty whiteys?

Sure, I would look discretely at my fellow soldiers changing in the shower areas and would happen to ‘glance’ at the one or two soldiers who woke up with a “woody” in the early mornings (our average wake-up call time was around 4-5am)…..what amazed me was that these same men, with their hard-ons, would prance around the barracks floor in their “whitey-tighty” underwear, with their genitals saluting anyone who passed by.

I wondered if they were interested in same sex “exploration” like I was, but soon realized that the piece of jewelry glistening on their left hands against the glow of the morning sun was their wedding bands.  Of course, these same men with their flopping meats would make a comment about how horny they were (as they grabbed their crotches) and whined about how they longed for  the “honey pot.”

The Honey Pot? It took me a bit of time to realize that a honey pot was a reference to female genitalia. I was envisioning this same man sticking his cock into a jar of honey. What a “sticky” situation that would be!

Heck, the only time I tried not to look at the men around me was when we were in the showers. I did not want to become aroused because on men, their level of arousal is quite visible and  I did not want to get harassed by anyone.

Besides, our constant training coupled with our intense non-stop physical fitness regimen ensured that once you were in bed, you would pass out out of exhaustion (maybe it was done on purpose by the drill sergeant team).  You also learned to sleep whenever you could because the drill sergeant team began routine (almost nightly) drills where someone would walk onto the barracks floor with a stick and a metal trash can lid. All of a sudden, you would awaken to the “clang, clang, clang”  or the “bang, bang, bang” of the stick against the lid. I would wake up in a panic, look at my GreenPeace watch and notice that it was about 0415 hours.

Many times I’d wake up scared shitless, wondering if a war broke out. Almost instantaneously, I would scan the room and watch other soldiers as they scrambled out of bed in a hurried fashion with their ‘meat’ flinging all over the place. I could have sworn on several occasions I saw a penis head pop out briefly…..ahhh, the good old days!

It seems like military training for a new recruit was like a regular civilian job. Training consisted of an early wake up call (normally between 4-5am, PT (physical fitness), quick shower, quick breakfast, formation by 0800 hours (8am), and at the training site (they were called “ranges”) by 9am.

Of course, 0800 formation was the first point where drill sergeants would ensure your uniform was crisp and clean, your combat boots were polished and the front tip was shiny like a mirror, and that you were clean-shaven, without a hint of stubble.

For me, as a slightly hairy guy, I can shave around 0600 and start showing “peach fuzz” on my neck and throat by 0900.

As luck would have it, one day I missed a spot on my face near my chin as I was shaving in a hurried manner.

My ‘favorite’ drill sergeant, Sergeant B, walked over to me as I stood in formation. I was sure I was in compliance: my uniform was spotless and creased in all the right places, my boots were mirror-like, and my stance was as sharp as a hot knife cutting through butter. 

As he pulled out a playing card (with my luck it was probably the “Queen” of Hearts or something),  Sergeant B held the card in front of my face and suddenly ran it across my chin, making me feel like I was the wheel on Wheel of Fortune that was just spun and was clicking away as it passed the dial (only I wish I could land on a nice prize).

At first thought, I could have sworn Sergeant B was trying to cut my jugular vain. But I soon realized, he found stubble. 

Sergeant B, in true form, looked at me with his piercing (and evil) brown eyes and yelled out to the entire formation “Pussy forgot to shave! What do y’all think about that?” There was an erie silence as no one said a word nor looked in my direction. “Pussy, what do you think your punishment should be?” I could feel sweat forming on my brow. In basic training you soon realize that responding and not responding to drill sergeants would result in punishment irregardless.  I tried not to flinch as the brim of his brown hat hit my army cap. “Pussy. ARE YOU DEAF?” Almost immediately I responded “No, Drill Sergeant!”.

Sergeant B (I assume sensing my panic) said “As punishment, DROP! All of you DROP!!!! DROP! Give me 50! Come-on! Don’t make me double it to 100! You can thank Pussy later personally!!”

My heart was beating so fast coupled with my tiring arms. I was pumping push-ups so fast I thought I was going to pass out. I hated that man! Now I was sure he had a small dick! He enjoyed taking his penis-envy out on new recruits, using his military power to control us. Did’nt he know who I was? Of course he did. I was “Pussy” to him.

The interesting thing was, after we did our push-ups and returned to the barracks that evening, no one harassed me. No one heckled or made a comment about the “extra exercises” awarded to them on my behalf. I was expecting a few fist fights that night, maybe fight off a late night “soap party”. But nothing happened.

And the next morning, I resumed crotch-watching as the banging of the metal trash can lid rang in my ears (Sergeant B was next to my bed and gave me a “personal” wake-up call).

Superman!

What the fuck, WAR?

My heart was beating so fast I thought I would either have a heart attack on the spot or would go into some type of nervous breakdown. As soon as our assembly meeting ended, I walked out of the auditorium shaking in my combat boots.

I NEVER SIGNED UP FOR WAR! That was not part of my contract (actually, it was but I chose to think otherwise). I always saw myself as a lover and not a fighter. I hate guns. I hate fighting. I hate the concept of war. I only joined the army to “turn straight” not to become a war fighter. I kept thinking “tell someone you’re GAY. Go fondle some guy’s crotch. That will keep you out of war (but put you in military prison)….” I kept trying to think of ways to get out of going to fight a war I knew little about. I craved being back ‘on the block’ and being in high school.

So many thoughts, yet, nothing seemed to make sense to me.

Life seemed so innocent in the Bronx then. Life seemed so intact and simple.  I know I wanted to leave the Bronx. But the Middle East? A Puerto Rican in Iraq? Is that legal? It sounded ridiculous to me.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I opened my mouth but no words or sounds came out.

What if I told Sergeant B to suck my dick? Do you think his offer for beer would be rescinded? Would it get me out of going to war?

It is amazing how many thoughts and ideas cross your mind when news like the one I received enter your realm.

I remember that day all too well. It was a sunny Fall day in 1990. The leaves were various hues of oranges and yellows with some brown thrown into the mix. There was a slight breeze that made the air a bit nippy but was tolerable. I remember looking at the sidewalk on base and concentrating on the lines etched in the concrete. I wondered if the army used soldiers to lay that sidewalk down. And I wondered if those same soldiers were sent to war; only, either World War II, Korea, or Vietnam. I looked at the green and brown tufts of grass near the buildings, comparing it mentally to a desert. How would I survive? Would I have the best tan of my life? Could I find a mall in the Desert? I don’t speak Arabic.  Are there gay Arabs? How would I know someone is gay? Shit. A desert? What if I get turned on by anyone (or anything)? Do camels bite? Where would I sleep? Where can I buy Coppertone?”

I remember looking for a payphone. I needed to call someone. I needed to call my mother. She would know what to do. She would know how to “fix” it. She always did before.

When I saw the payphone inside the phone booth I remembered Clark Kent. He could run into a phone booth and in seconds come out a superhero. Maybe if I ran into the booth I could come out (literally, haha!) as Superman and fly away….fly back to the Bronx and go to college like I originally planned. So, I ran into the booth, closed the door and waited to transform into a superhero. Nothing happened. I closed my eyes and forced myself to change into a superhero.

Still nothing happened. I looked at the number pad on the payphone and, taking a deep breath, dialed the operator.

I called Mom collect. As soon as I heard her voice say “hello?” I started crying. I cried and cried. Naturally, her voice took on a tone of worry and she started crying, asking me “What’s wrong? Tell me.” I felt my warm tears stroll down my cheek and land on my dry lips as I licked them. Salty. I felt such a heavy force pressing on my chest. I couldn’t breathe (well, I could, but I thought I couldn’t). My heart felt like it stopped beating as I blurted out through sobs and heavy heaving “Mom. Umm…Mom. I’m going to war. I am going to Iraq.”

She did not say a word. I wondered if she passed out or hung up on me. The silence seemed to last forever, although it was only seconds. I called out for her, “Mom. Are you ok?” She responded by saying “What? War? Are you sure?”

I guess it times of distress, part of our coping mechanisms is denial. She seemed to understand what I told her but refused to allow it to sink in. Her oldest son was going off to war. I explained that in lieu of flying back to the Bronx for the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, our leaves (military version of time off from work) were cancelled and we were being “shipped” to support “Operation Desert Storm.” I made light of it by saying that I would be back in the United States in no time. Never did I let on that I was scared shitless. That I did not know if I would ever see the Bronx again. That I had an impending thought I would come back in a plain, unmarked pine box.

My mother regained some composure and told me that she loved and was proud of me. She said that she knew in her heart that I would be fine and would be back home “in no time.” As she was trying to console me, I wondered what she was doing at the same moment on her end of the phone line. Was she cooking some delicious Puerto Rican delicacy which would send incredible smells throughout our apartment in the Bronx and into the building? Was she crochetting her 85th blanket or booties for a baby that did not exist? Was she hanging clothes on her makeshift clothes-line in the living room (well, it ran from the entrance of the kitchen into our dining room and ended in the living room)? Or was she watching one of her many Spanish soap operas where the matriarch of the family was involved in some torrid love affair with a 24 year old man (of course, he was gorgeous) who was a gardener or a delivery person?

I wanted to jump into the phone and fly back into her arms. Into her womb that was safe and warm. I wanted to smell her food again at dinner time. I wanted to have her scold me for hanging out in the backyard with the “wrong kids”  and for not washing my hands as soon as I came upstairs. I wanted to see her comb her black long hair and paint her toe nails. I wanted to see her wear her many sun dresses around the house dancing with her imaginary partner to the latest Salsa or Merengue song on the radio.

Instead, I was thousands of miles away in a green camouflage uniform, trying to regain composure and hiding tears from fellow soldiers on other phones. But I soon realized that these other soldiers were crying themselves as they disclosed their version of the news we all received to their loved ones.  I thought, it seemed, that I was the only one being sent to a ‘far away land’. But I wasn’t. We all were.

The end of 8 weeks!

Before too long, 8 weeks of basic training were coming to an end. I could not believe it. I survived army basic training. Countless hours of push-ups, millions of miles in running (or so it seemed), thousands of insults yelled by our “leaders” also known as drill sergeants and it was just about over.

We would receive mail sent to us by friends and family every few days. However, to receive it, we had to stand in formation and hope that your name would be called out. To make it even worse, drill sergeants would call out a name, acknowledge your presence through eye contact, then throw the letter at you like it was a ninja star. I never knew that letters had such sharp points! Of course, before I left home for military training, I told friends and family to write me every day. Unfortunately, that meant a lot more letters thrown at me barely missing my eyes or forehead. Every now and then, a sharp corner of a letter would hit me in the neck, arm, leg, even my groin. And, it seemed like the drill sergeants relished throwing mail at us at ungodly speeds! And it hurt!

As my luck would have it, one drill sergeant, Sergeant B (to protect anonymity I will either change names or use abbreviations), decided one day to make my life in training a living hell. From the first time we met, shortly after I received my army “haircut”, he decided to call me a new name, “Pussy.” Whenever he yelled Pussy, I had to run to him and stand front and center. “Pussy. Come here Pussy.” Even though I wanted to beat him to a pulp, I swallowed my pride and complied. I would run across formation, stand in front of him, not moving, barely breathing, trying not to focus on how I would make him pay for “insulting me.”

Sergeant B was about 6 feet 3 inches, African-American, who sported a thin mustache, and had a slim, muscular physique. When I first met him, I was intimidated because he was taller than I was (I am 6 feet 1 inch tall). Maybe it was his brown drill sergeant hat with the wide brim that made me feel like 3 feet shorter. Nevertheless, he decided to rename me something I really had no interest in (haha). I wondered if he sensed that I was “different.” Was he a homophobic soldier? Why did he decide to single me out among the few hundred other men in our unit? I know that these questions will go unaswered, but, he made my stay in basic training a lot more harder!

Sergeant B appeared to relish throwing me my mail. He would make sure the letters hit me somewhere on my body, telling soldiers in front of me in formation to move so he could have a direct line of fire. Once or twice I actually wished I would not receive mail from home.

“Pussy! Do you want to go home? You don’t have  balls do you? Pussy, you are a momma’s boy. Pussy, no man is called a pussy, Pussy!You want to hit me, Pussy. Don’t you. Or better yet, Pussy, do you want to cry? Awww. Pussy wants to cry.” Sergeant B’s “compliments” were a source of embarassment and questioning for me. I never met a bully in my life I could not handle either by talking my way out of trouble or threatening my way out of it. But, here I was, thousands of miles away from home being insulted on an almost daily basis. And I did nothing to stop it!

Many times at shooting ranges I thoughts of shooting Sergeant B crossed my mind. Realistically I knew I would never do it, but, I can see how soldiers “snap” during basic training (Full Metal Jacket – the movie – gave a great example of a new soldier “snapping”). When I was forced to stand in front of Sergeant B, feeling the brim of his hat hit my forehead, I would think about how tiny his penis was. I believed that he needed to compensate for his small meat by insulting others. Here was this tall man, with the smallest dick out there. So, by insulting someone else, his ego was stroked since no one else was “physically stroking it” for him.

It seemed like everytime we were engaged in some military task, Sergeant B would make sure to be around me, verifying my work personally. Why did he have so much interest in me? If I did something wrong, he would make a spectacle of it, ensuring my embarassment. Somehow, I managed to ignore most comments and finished basic training without stabbing Sergeant B in the neck since I felt I only reached up to there. The more I think about it, his personality with me made it seem like he was this massive giant that I could not reach up to and forgot that he was just as human as I was.

During week 7, Sergeant B said during morning formation, “Perez, front and center.” I froze, thinking he called someone else because he has never used my real name before. “Perez, I said FRONT AND CENTER!” I walked up to him, standing in front of the other soldiers and looked straight ahead. “Perez, walk with me.” We started walking and he told me “Perez, just wanted to thank you for doing a great job these past few weeks. And for hanging in there. Now, get back into formation. Oh, by the way, maybe we can get a beer one of these weekends.” I stopped, looked at him and smiled. He smiled back.

As I walked back into formation, I felt my heart beat faster. Did I just hear what I thought I heard? Was this man the same person who almost caused me to take my rifle and knock him on the head with it? Was this the sergeant who made my life miserable? Now he wants to have a beer with me? What the fuck?

In hindsight, I realized that army basic training is nothing more than a grueling mind game. Sure, there are many physical aspects to it, but, overall, the army tries to break you down mentally and rebuild you to their standards. The same person, Sergeant B,  who died many times over in my mind, was now saying that we could have a beer together soon? Wow. I knew I had accomplished something greater than just surviving 8 weeks of basic training.

During week 8, preparations were underway for our military graduation. I was excited to go home for a few days before beginning AIT (Advanced Individual Training). Since I was going to become a combat engineer, my AIT would also be at Ft. Leornard Wood. Most soldiers would travel to different bases to learn their specialities. With my luck, I would spend another few weeks on the same base.

I was about to call my mother one day to confirm my travel arrangements to come home when we were instructed to go immediately to the main assembly hall on base. We arrived and were told to have a seat until the meeting began. Suddenly someone said “On your feet…Present Arms.” Almost with precision, we all stood up and saluted the person who walked on stage to address us. A few seconds later, this person, who turned out to be the post general (really high ranking officer – the big boss) instructed us to sit down.

The general began by talking in a rapid tone about a “conflict” in the Middle East. He stated that the “Republican Guard” was invading Kuwait (I thought “Ku-what?”) and was endangering world peace. He proceeded to talk about how the United States military have been given the “honor” to help the people of Kuwait and neighboring Saudi Arabia by helping them fight the “Republican Guard”.

Somehow, I did not like the sound of this. I had no idea where Saudi Arabia was, who the Republican Guard were (in fact, I thought it was some elite part of the U.S. Army), and why the Post General was addressing us in a hurried tone.

Then the General said something that took what seemed hours but was about a minute to sink into my mind. He said “Men, you will all have the honor to fight the Republican Guard and help keep your country safe by participating in ‘Operation Desert Storm’ and defending our very freedom.” I looked at the 4 stars embroidered on his left and right shoulders of his camouflage uniform. I stared at the shiny stars on his cap. I followed his footsteps back and forth across the stage and noticed that his military boots were very shiny. His uniform was well pressed with perfect creases along the side.

Then I realized the worst thing I thought that could happen to me. I was going to war.

Left, Left, your military left…..

The next few weeks in basic training consisted of early wake-up calls (around 5am) to begin daily physical exercise routines that consisted of running 4-5 miles per day, endless amounts of push-ups and jumping jacks, and singing cadences like:

Great Big Gobs

Great big gobs of greasy grimy gopher meat,

Chopped up chicken feet,

Mutilated monkey meat,

French-fried eyeballs sitting in a pool of blood,

And I forgot my spooooooon!

 

Yellow Bird

A yellow bird

with a yellow bill

Was perched upon my window sill.

I lured him in

with a piece of bread

And then I smashed

his little head.

The doctor came

to check his head

“Indeed” he said

“this bird is dead!”

————————————————————————————————————————————————

We would run every day of the week (including Sundays). Of course, that included rainstorms, snow blizzards, hot and cold days. Our army PT (Physical Training) uniform consisted of a gray t-shirt (with the word ARMY emblazoned in big black block letters across the chest), gray cotton shorts, and a gray sweat suit. During cold mornings we would have to make formation between 5-530 am in our skimpy little PT uniform, wearing a black knit cap (army-issue of course), and black leather gloves.

During warmer days, I would enjoy morning formation because we would just wear our skimpy shorts and gray t-shirt. Even though I was barely awake at that early time, I would discretely look at other soldiers’ “packages”. I soon learned that many soldiers did not wear underwear underneath their PT shorts, to my delight!

As we started running, I would look around and glance at the many ‘packages’ flopping up and down. I would occasionally see the outline of a soldier’s member, big and small, delineated against the gray fabric of the army shorts (what a way to get motivated in the morning)!

Once we returned from our morning run, we would be given about 30 minutes to shower, get dressed, make our bunks (to specific requirements – think bouncing 25 cent coins on the bed) and get to the Mess Hall for breakfast.

Of course, I know your curiosity wants me to describe the shower set-up in a typical army basic training barracks:

Our barracks consisted of four floors with “open bay” setups for rooms. An open bay was basically a large room with about 25 sets of bunk beds. I was luckily assigned a bottom bunk. At the end of one of the bays was an office manned by one of the drill sergeants at night. At the other end were the latrines followed by the shower bay.

The shower bay consisted of a large room with multiple shower “stations”. Privacy did not exist in the shower. From any shower station, you could see anyone and everyone at any given time. The shower bay was tiled in white with chrome plumbing accents. One of the initial items new recruits were “advised” to buy when they first arrived to training was “soap on a rope.” Before the army, I never knew anything like that existed.

One of the many jokes around the showers mentioned by soldiers that always came up was that having a soap on a rope would prevent a recruit from bending over if he dropped his soap onto the shower floor. If any soldier had a regular bar of soap instead of the ‘recommended’ one, you would become the butt (pun intended) of that day’s homophobic slurs. The next day that same soldier would proudly walk into the shower with a soap on a rope tied around his hand. Luckily, I bought my soap on rope as soon as I arrived to training.

During my first few days as a soldier, I would try to be one of the first or last soldiers to shower because I did not want to get aroused and have “it” pop up when I least expected it. But I soon realized that “mind over matter” was a powerful thing. There were several times I would be in the shower as early as possible only to be joined by another soldier that had a nice body along with a nice appendage and was soaping himself as I tried not to look. It always seemed (again, wishful thinking on my part) that the soldier would scrub his manhood over and over again, leading me to think that he was trying to signal to me that he was looking for some man-to-man action.

Naturally, that would get me aroused and get my blood rushing to my manhood almost in an instant. Luckily, I learned that thinking about my elderly grandmother, an earthquake, or other disaster would “kill the moment.”

I can say that I never got fully aroused even though several times I saw guys in some form of aroused states while in the shower. If I were filming a porn movie, my character would probably say to that aroused soldier “Hey there recruit! What’s up? Looks like you are!” And, of course, that would lead to a sexual episode that would probably sell thousands of DVDs.

You learned quickly in the army that shyness was tossed out the window since you practically ate, showered, and slept together with your fellow soldiers.