Naval Dilemma

For three days, I agonized. Men were starting to reappear at the Dick Hut, but they were there to bury themselves in drink, not to pursue hookups, and none of them could tell me about either Dutch or the lieutenant. On the second day, the pimply young sailor showed up, shell shocked, and I took him up to my rooms and we made love like he'd never done before. If nothing else, I was able to push the remembrance of that brutal attack out of his mind for a couple of hours.

But he couldn't fill the needs of my life. Only either Dutch or the lieutenant—or both—could do that for me.

On the third day, within three hours of each other, I found out that both Dutch and the lieutenant were alive and recovering from superficial wounds.

That was two days ago. Now I am back to my naval dilemma. Either Dutch or the lieutenant, both of whom are only fleeting pleasures, as they now surely will be transferred away from here quickly. Or neither—the continuing of my life as relief and comfort for needy, now increasingly frightened and endangered sailors, like my young, pimply sailor.

I don't know what to do. My story doesn't end here. All I can say is that both of my lovers survived that terrible attack on Pearl Harbor. And for now, maybe that's enough.