Sex in the Navy

(This story further develops themes and situations from a short story entitled "Beanie and Spiro's Great Adventure")

INTRODUCTION

First off, this here story is written in the vernacular, it corresponds to the way people talk. Our two hillbilly protagonists are not rocket scientists, just two wonderfully dumb highly-sexed Texan kids. They enlisted in the Navy because they are patriotic. Of course, they get ramrodded right up the ass by the local enlistment officer. And for those of you who are fact-checkers and critical of lousy grammar, be advised you will see dialectic mis-spellings. These two guys are more into sex than English composition and allocution.

We are only dealing with people over 18 years old having sex. There is no violence, no animals were injured in the creation of this story. Our tale deals with a lot of anal and vaginal stuffing. Dear reader, may you read this story to the ass end.

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Yep, you can call me Spiro if the grits is hot in the skillet. Do you know, or do you not know? That is the fucking question. You may think you know all about your best friends, but do you? Do you truly understand what is in the deepest recess of their hearts, in the darkest channels of their animal brain connected to their cock and testicles where synapses fire like the 80 mm cannons on a battleship? I'm not sure, people can be a mystery and surprise ya all the time.

I grew up in a little town on the outskirts of Palo Duro Canyon in Texas. Of course, you never heard of it. Why would ya? So I'll tell ya, it is a canyon cut out of the ass-end of the Texas Panhandle, over near Amarillo. We shared a high school with several other communities within a 10-mile radius, that's how unpopulated we were.

My Mom just thought the world of Spiro Agnew. You may remember he was Tricky Dickey Nixon's VP, who got drummed out of office and replaced by Bob Ford. Not the dirty little coward who shot Jesse James, I think this Bob was the one from the Ford Motor Car Company, or someplace. Long story shorted, I got stuck with the moniker, Spiro, Spiro J. Thompson.

When did I first meet Beanie? I remember when Miss Rose brought this red-haired freckled-faced kid into our second-grade classroom. The teacher introduced the twenty-seven of us kids to Bernard Callahan Thelonious, who immediately contradicted the teacher, saying,

"Just call me Beanie."

He wore his hair in a crew cut back then, he still does. Aside from his diminutive stature, Beanie was a regular kid, I never noticed anything strange about him. He occupied an empty desk at the back of the class seated next to me. I noticed that he was always fiddling with something; rocks pencils, toys. I think the teacher's bottom desk drawer was filled with his contraband seized just about every day.

In the morning, before school opened, we played basketball unless it was raining. Beanie was always dribbling the ball, even as he walked to school. He was a great player, super accurate. We'd play "Four Horses." I have no idea why it had that name, but if your opponent made a shot in the basket, you had to duplicate it or earn a "horse." If you got 4 horses, you were out. Beanie's specialty was a left-handed underhand shot that was amazing. None of the other kids nor I could master it.

I wasn't much competition for the Bean. I rarely won. In fact, he changed the name of the game to "Four Donkeys," just to make fun of me. I didn't mind, we were buddies. When Remus, the school bully, grabbed the ball away from me, Beanie flew through the air like "Mighty Mouse" and tackled him by the neck. "Small but deadly" was what Arthur Delmar called him. Arty was the class president, the chronicler of a one page mimeographed sheet called "Canyon Dust." Artie, the journalist, kept track of our progress or lack thereof.

Beanie and I were always buds and usually sat near each other in the same class. We would walk to school together and play afterward. In the fall, it was baseball. Beanie could field the ball as if his legs were made of rubber. Just when you'd think he would miss, Beanie'd fall to the ground and scoop it his old yeller glove. In the winter, we played tag football in the dusty lot on the side of the brick schoolhouse. The Bean was hard to tag.

We were dirt poor, living in old clapboard houses built in the 1920s. My home was painted white. God only knows when? Termites eggs polka-dotted the shutters. Beanie lived nearby in a red house. Peeling paint was the only thing holding the houses together.

I was an only child. My Dad was a roofer. He worked out of an old pickup truck with a mushroom painted on the door. The picture was pretty scratched up, but if you looked real close, there were dwarfs taking refuge from the rain under that toadstool. Dad would fix leaking roofs, re-tar, or reshingle them.

Beanies' Mom was a house cleaner, a maid for one of the well-to-do families over on the Northside whose grandpa had hit oil somewhere. Beanie had a sister. She had the biggest ass I'd ever seen. If he had a dad, I never met him, nor did "the Bean" ever talk about him. I remember one time when I went to see Beanie, and his mom had one of those tall memorial candles lit. The candle's glass container sat on a plate.

"Don't ya know," said his Mom, "If'n ya don't put something under them there candles it'll burn a hole right through to the table."

"What's the candle for?" I asked.

"Oh, that's for Beanies Dad, he died in the war when Beanie was just a baby."

I asked Beanie about it, some years later, he said matter of factly,

"That's about as true as the Tooth fairy or Santa Fuck-in Claus. If I had a Dad who was a vet, we'd be getting money every month. We ain't seen the first nickel. Mom just got fucked by a married guy who got killed, and we got shit."

"But even so, you are the son of a vet?" I said.

"I ain't got no proof who my real father was. Even if you could prove it, illegitimate children don't get even a cunt hair to chew on from Uncle Samshit."

The Bean wasn't too happy about his origin. My Dad once said, when he was drunk, that he dated Beanie's Mom when she was a barmaid.

"She was one wild heifer that one, a real looker." Then he shut up.

Those of us raised in Texas know a thing about hard luck and hard life. My Dad fell off a 3rd story roof when I was in my first year of junior high school. He never got up off the ground. A paraplegic, he was wheelchair-bound ever since. Why'd he fall off that roof? Shit, roofers are supposed to know how not to fall?

Well, I'll tell ya why. My Dad was what we call a pocket alcoholic. He always had a half-pint of Dumont's Blackberry Brandy or some alcoholic sweet fruit substitute. Even after his fall, Dad managed to wheel himself over to O'Malley's liquor store every morning when they opened. He'd get refueled before the day started.

My Mom left a few years after his accident saying,

"I can't take it anymore. That drunken pervert ain't gonna put his hands on my tits or his dirty mouth on my pussy again."

I didn't know what she was referring to at that time. I don't wanna know now.

After Mom left us, she didn't go far. She hooked up with her high school boyfriend, Dan Figler, who had just his divorced his wife, Irma.

Irma was the night manager at Caskal's Log Cabin Motel over on Ottley Street. Besides managing the place, Irma was renting her pussy by the hour. One of the cops, to whom she gave freebee blowjobs and other extras, let it slip to her husband, Dan. One night over a few too many beers at the Crossroad Bar, Bingo told Dan that Irma was a working girl with more than a big heart. He smiled, burped, and mentioned the heart-shaped mole near her vagina. Dan knew that description fit her to a tee. Dan couldn't stand being made a fool, so he kicked Irma out of his Mom's home.

Dan's Mom had passed a few years earlier. They lived in an old house his family had rented from Mossy Black's for God knows how many years.

But Irma didn't give no shit about being kicked out. She just moved into one of them little cabins over at the motel and set up shop, full time. She did so well in the pussy business that eventually she bought the damn motel from Old Man Menzer. At the time of the sale, Menzer was in the first stage of dementia. I overheard Irma saying to Menzer's old maid cousin at the funeral,

" Old Man Menzer was a real man, even when his mind was gone he could still sport a hard-on you could open a can peas with."

The old lady replied,

"Maybe his heart wouldn't a given out if you hadn't been a fucking him to death."

So Dan Figler, Mom's high school sweetheart, got free of any legal entanglements and divorced Irma, the whore. My Mom moved in with Dan. The two of them seemed to get along quite well.

Dad, sitting in his wheelchair said,

"When I couldn't fuck her anymore, your Mom left me for a bigger dick."

"How do you know Dan's got a bigger dick?"

"Cause that whore of your mother told me so."

But that dick comparison wasn't fair. Mom and Dad had been estranged for years as far as I could tell. Of course, Dad had his own take on the failure of their marriage, it had to do with penis size, not alcohol.

Dad couldn't stop once he got started with his rant."

"All us high school kids knew that bitch, your mother, used to suck Dan Figler's cock under the football bleachers. They'd been broken up for a few years when I started fucking her. She was a bookkeeper at the roofer place I worked for. If I hadn't got her pregnant with you, I'da never married the little whore. She was the easiest piece of ass I ever got. Three drinks and ya could fuck her upsides down. Why one time she fucked me, her boss and some shingle salesman from..."

"That's enough, Dad," I said, "I really don't want to hear any more." My parents separated but never divorced. Dad and I seemed to manage pretty well. I did the cooking, and he got a disability payment, so we were ok. Shit, a few cans of beans and franks can keep most anyone alive and farting.

As I've explained, Dad was pretty bitter about the split. Still, both Mom and Dad showed up for my graduation, although they sat one seat apart. The day after, a Park Ranger found Dad's wheelchair at the bottom of Caprock Escarpment, a 60-foot drop into the base of the canyon. The sign says a river channel was cut through the sedimentary rock in prehistoric times. That was where the wooden safety rail was broken. Of course, my Dad was dead.

We had a small funeral, a closed casket as his head was pretty much fucked up by the fall. Was it suicide? Christ, I just don't know. I prefer to think he was just too drunk to slow on the downslope. When he hit the observation deck, Dad just blasted through the old wooden fence filled with wood rot.

Once Dad was dead, I figured I'd get the house. But since my parents were still married, Mom inherited the house. Next thing I knew, she and Dan Figler moved in. I put up with it for a while, but the sounds of their lovemaking through the thin walls made me want to vomit. Why? Because it was my Mom and I didn't think of her as a sexual being, especially with Dan, who was always feeling her up, grabbing her big tits from behind while she was cooking dinner. OK, I admit it, my bad.

I was thinking about taking off, shit, I was too old to be living with my mom and her old flame, who wasn't in the least pleased with me smoking his weed.

Beanie and I were just two regular guys. The Bean was short, he never got past 5'4," but he was boyish cute. You might say his face was kinda pretty, and he had that tight ass that the Olympic swimmers have, or is it the figure skaters? I forget.

I'd filled out, was close to 6 feet, and had a round barrel chest, a full head of hair, and two big feet. You know what that means, don't ya? ( big feet=big cock)

We'd gone through high school together, and we were still best of friends. We'd even lost our virginity together one night in the back room with Lola, the waitress at the Pizza Palace. After graduation, we hung around the restaurant flirting with Lola and making trashy remarks that seemed to get her hot and horny enough to give us a second helping after her boss had gone home.

Most of the time, we just drank beer until we could hardly walk home. Lola was right about that. Once the Boss had gone, drinks were on the house. Just before she locked up, Lola would let us both fast fuck her. God, double-teaming Lola's hairy pussy was great fun, but we had to finish before the last bus left the terminal.

Then Beanie got this great idea, "Let's join the fuck-en Navy!"

It was the beginning of the New Year. We were both as patriotic as hell. We went down to the recruiting office on Main Street. We met Petty Officer Branzini, the head man in charge. He was around 5'10", with buzz cut dyed black hair. Beanie said he had a small rug on top.

"What the fuck is a rug?"

"The dude is wearing a wig, a toupee, but don't say nothing."

Branzini wore a white starched outfit with some cool ribbons and medals. He looked like he was headed for the Disneyland Parade in his dress uniform. On closer inspection, his pants looked like they had some stains and crumbs from the jelly donuts he kept in a greasy paper bag on his desk.

"Wanta jelly donut, guys?" he piped up as we entered his tiny storefront.

"They are as fresh as that shop gal's tit over at the donut store. Haha, you guys from around here?"

"Born and raised," said Beanie, I nodded.

"Yeah, I usually give a speech at the high school, but this year I was to busy to get over there."

"Yeah," said the Bean, "we saw ya last year."

"Ok, boys, so what can I do you for?"

"Well, Sir..."

"Don't call me Sir, son, call me Chief Petty Officer Branzini."

"Yes, Sir, I mean, Petty Officer Sir."

I gave Beanie a dirty look.

"Oh, sorry, Sir, I mean, Chief."

About that point, two foxy chicks opened the door and started to walk in.

"Hello, girls," said the Chief. "Dear beautiful ladies, we are here in the middle of official US Navy business. Why don't you girls come back in an hour?"

The girls smiled, and one of them stuck her finger in her mouth. She was wearing a tight blouse that looked ready to pop a button. We got a good look, she wasn't wearing a bra. The other girl looked familiar, a real short mini skirt but I couldn't remember where I'd seen her.

"Sure, Captain, we will be back," giving us all a wink and out they went.

When they left, Branzini wiped the sweat that had formed on his forehead. We heard him say under his breath,

"Great tits a fire."

Then he started in with his sales pitch,

"You guys like pussy? You know, us Navy guys get all the pussy we want, this uniform is a puss magnet. We even have to keep these,"

He stuck his hand in his pocket and threw different colored condoms on the desk,

"Cause we don't take no chances in the Navy."

We looked surprised but didn't say anything. I was still thinking of that gal's bare tit that showcased through that sweater. My cock was moving into second gear.

"Boys, I asked you a question, do you like pussy-or do you like cock?"

"No," we responded.

"No, you don't like pussy or no, you don't like cock?"

We didn't answer quick enough...

"Because," Branzini continued, "even if you ain't into cock yet, and you will be, the Navy is the biggest flotilla of gay fuck-offs you ever saw. Onboard, you get cock for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and even for a late-night snack. When you get shore leave, that's when the female bitches won't leave you alone. It's bar pussy day and night. So guys, either way, you swing, you got it made in the US N-A-V-Y, "

He spelled it out.

"Well, sir," I answered, "I'm a fan of cock, my own cock, and as for pussy, that's all I dream of. In fact, after seeing that gal's tit, I've got a hard-on."

With that, Branzini grabbed me by the crotch.

"Yeah, you do," he remarked, holding on a little too long.

"And you bud," he said, "looking at Beanie. You kid, look like you'd rather have a cock in your mouth than a lollipop."

Now that comment surprised me. I'd never figured Beanie for a homo. Was he a homo? God I hope not, I'd rather he was a commie.

"Well, sir, with all due respect," said the Bean, "I do believe a stiff cock is a thing of godly beauty, and I've been known to snag a few pubes on my front teeth at the Pussycat movie house during the 2am flick on a late Saturday night. As for pussy, it tastes ok when the Chinese restaurant isn't closed."

At that comment, we all laughed, I figured Beanie was shining him on with the pubic hairs.

"You guys ever been to the massage parlor across the street?"

We looked at each other without answering.

"If you like slanted twat that tastes like soy sauce, you should give it a try. There's a girl there who will sit on your face and jerk you off at the same time. Just tell her Branzini sent ya. That way, they don't think you are a cop, ha, ha., ho."

I shut up and Beanie, never one to keep quiet, said,

"Thank you, sir. Sound like a good place to play pick up dicks."

"Oh yeah," said Branzini, "and then some"

Branzini turned to me, "Do you do the massage girls, Ensign?"

"Ahh, I don't got a job, so where do I get the money for that kinda shit?"

"Well, Ensign, that's the point of the question I asked ya. In the US Navy, you get a cool thou and a half just for starters. In a year or two, you can top two thousand a month. That's pussy riding change, for you and your buddy here. You two can be the kings of the cock walk with pussy under each arm."

I didn't know what he was talking about. I just grinned and laughed.

"Now," Branzini all of a sudden got seri-assed,

"To enlist, you must be a US citizen or a resident alien."

"You mean like a Martian? I ain't no Martian," said Beanie.

"Not that kind of alien. I'm talking about a claim jumper, a foreigner, a fucken terror-ass."

"No problem there, Chief, I'm as American as Apple pie. My folks came over on the Mayflower."

"What flower," said the Chief, "they were gay?"

I could see this guy was lacking in historical knowledge.

"It's ok, I'm a citizen since way back."

"And what about you, little guy?"

"Well, Chief, long story short, my Dad ate a bullet in Desert Storm. I was born right here in Texas."

"Ok, both you gophers qualify, so far."

"By the way," the chief continued, "you get all the health care you could ever want. If you marry, you get the same for your wife, even if her cunt is dripping with syph."

Beanie made a face.

"Just kidding," said Branzini.

"And if your wife has a cock?" said Beany.

"Listen, mister, we don't need more fagots in the Navy. We already gots plenty of them.

Bean recovered quickly, "I said if your wife likes to cook."

"Lots of wives like cock, that's why other men are always available to service them."

"Cook, not cock."

At this point, we realized the Chief was more than a little deaf.

"Oh, if your wife cooks your cock you are in big trouble, but don't eat it, they can still sew it back on."

"Ok, good to know," said the Bean, lifting up his eyes to me as if to say this guy is not just deaf but is an idiot.

"You guys graduated?"

"Oh yeah, six months ago."

"Actually, 5 months and 15 days," said the Bean.

"Well, you still gotta take the app test, that is the aptitude test."

I looked quizzical.

"Don't worry, you take the test here. If you have any problems, we'll give you a hand. Shit if you fail, I'll give you all the answers."

"Thanks, Chief."

"What about getting on a sub," said Beanie.

"Women can't serve as Navy Seals or on submarines, but you are gay, you'll be serviced most every day."

"A sub, a submarine, Boss, can we get on one."

"Oh yeah, is that what you are saying? No problemo. I'm a little bit hard of hearing."