tagGay MaleThe USS Cock vs the USMC Battleship Ch. 01

The USS Cock vs the USMC Battleship Ch. 01

byCoxswain©

THE USS COCK vs. THE LEATHERNECK BATTLESHIP

Couldn't believe my eyes. Who woulda thunk? The Hulk had a weakness!

I was amazed. Couldn't believe it. A monster like The Hulk with such a teeny weakness! It was like the Statue of Liberty jumping up on a chair screaming it saw a mouse.

Let me explain. The Hulk was the biggest Marine I ever saw. An oversized Roman statue, a heavyweight Leatherneck bruiser at least 6'9" -- so huge he had to duck his head going through the portals. Over 250 pounds: muscles all over. Everywhere.

Big, powerful, fast-moving, and dangerous, he was a fucking human battleship!

What a body. Shoulders like the main turrets on the USS Missouri. Pecs like the upper turrets on the Bismarck. A six-pack belly like a stack of anti-aircraft rounds. Slim (but solid) hips. What a fucking physique!

And not bad-looking, either. He reminded me of the cartoon Joe Palooka -- light blond hair (in a Jarhead buzz-cut), blue eyes, square jaw. He had golden fuzz over his chest, a yellow treasure-trail down his belly, and a cluster of curly goldilocks at his crotch.

And what a crotch! Oh, God, don't get me started! His cock, damn, what a fucking crank! It had to be eight, nine inches soft! Thick as a beer can. And balls like two oranges in a wrinkled bag. One look at The Hulk, and I got a new definition for "hung."

And how would I happen to know all this? I saw him naked every morning in the showers. Back in the Sixties, The Hulk and I were both stationed aboard the USS XXXXX, an old aircraft carrier, a bird-farm flat-top from the pre-atomic days, a gray-painted metal city cruising the waters off Vietnam. The Hulk was one of the MARDET, the Jarhead detachment assigned to do ship security, a seagoing SWAT team, so to speak. I was a Navy corpsman.

I first saw The Hulk when the USS XXXXX put in at a Stateside shipyard for some refitting, and the Marine Corps personnel replacements marched aboard while we were there. By coincidence my berth area shared the head and showers used by some of the Gyrenes.

The Hulk fascinated -- no, intoxicated me because I was exactly the opposite: short, bantamweight, dark -- 5'1", 160 pounds, black hair. All my life I was called "Runt," "Short-stuff," "Shorty," or "The Italian Shetland Pony." The Hulk was a giant. My head came to about the level of his chest. His biceps were bigger than my thighs, and his thighs were the size of my chest.

He was a hard-charging Grunt, a combat infantryman. As a corpsman I was more into saving lives than snuffing them out (but to be honest, I wasn't the noble, heroic, "my life for theirs" type) -- it always bugged me that if assigned to go out on combat patrol with the Jarheads, I would not carry a rifle.

Frankly, I can't figure out how I got into the medicine end of the Navy. Before I joined up, I worked in a pizzeria!

But the Navy works in mysterious ways: sensitive, important, destiny-changing decisions are done by the alphabet. My last name was Cacchio (a good Italian name which also means "cock" in slang), so off I went to Corpsman School. I knew a guy named Miller who went to Mechanic School, a Ronson who was a Radio Operator, and there was a sailor named Uncapher who was an Assistant Urologist.

Sorry, am I wandering? Yeah, you're wandering! Get back to the story.

I never saw The Hulk with his clothes on. Our duty stations were in distant parts of the ship. While the ship was temporarily short of doctors, they put me to oversee a little dispensary by myself, where I passed out rash cream and Preparation H, treated cuts and bruises, and gave the occasional injection. Not much call for a SWAT team to protect my stash of Ace bandages, so I never saw The Hulk on duty -- or wearing any clothes.

The Hulk was a hard-fucking womanizer, or so I often overheard. He and his buddies in the showers always bragged about fucking adventures on shore leave. His deep, bass voice cut like a foghorn over the words of the others: ". . . socked it to her all night . . . she couldn't get enough . . . ran out of rubbers . . ."

I, on the other hand, have preferred men ever since I found that magical little thing between my legs could rare up and make me a happy little boy. In the showers I hardly dared look at The Hulk's crotch -- always gave myself away by raising my colors to full-mast. His mast was a real Old Glory: uncut, his cock-hood streamlined it into a torpedo with a black, evil radar-eye. And it had locked onto a target -- me. It knew.

The Hulk himself never noticed me (he would have to look down to see me). But every time I looked at the long ramming-spear in the front of that big, blond battleship, the dark eye was staring back at me. The fucking thing was watching me!

Although The Hulk led a normal heterosexual sex-life, judging by the bragging, I was as celibate as a priest. In spite of the legends of man-sex in the Navy, gay life at sea wasn't that simple, especially for somebody short, and I was short. Very short. Okay, very short!

Hey, being short didn't mean I was out of shape. Short doesn't mean "wimp." I exercised, I did calisthenics, and I could run the same number of laps around the flight deck as the "big" guys. Dynamite comes in small packages.
And speaking of packages, I had the same equipment as the bigger guys, and on my smaller frame, it looked huge. So you'd think I would have some good scores.

But mansex interludes always ended up the same. With every new "discovery" in the head, in the showers, somehow, somewhere realizing the other guy was "a player," I always ended up with a big, pushy guy expecting me to be Little Orphan Annie -- or her dog -- and bend over for him.

That doesn't work for me. I'm a top. I don't mind doing double-duty, but I don't like being leaned over a washbasin and fucked only to see the jerk walk off proud of himself as if he'd done me a favor, giving me no chance to get back some of my own (or squirt him my own, as the case may be).

I had gone without sex for such a long time, the first time I saw The Hulk in the showers, the blood rushed from my head to my crank, and I damn near passed out.

Am I raving again? Yeah, you're raving again.

Okay, back to the story: once I saw The Hulk, I became an extremely clean anchor-clanker. Never missed taking a shower . Reveille on the USS XXXXX was at 0500, but most crewmen didn't wait for reveille to get up in the morning -- with 20 showers in the 296-man berthing in our area, many guys sometimes got up at 0430 to beat the lines. But I discovered The Hulk was not an early riser; he was usually one of the last to wander into the head with a towel around his waist.

So, then, was I.

Damn, that man turned me on! Just thinking of him had me doing autorotation [that's "autoeroticism"—beating off—in the Navy, civilian!] so often, my dong was growing a handle. Several times a day I sat on the examination table in my dispensary beating the meat. But The Hulk was like a Playgirl centerfold -- inspiration for jerking off in the sack, not something I could ever touch or meet. Hopeless case.

I'd heard of gay Leathernecks, but The Hulk had "Hetero" written all over him, and if I made a play, after snapping my neck with a flick of his wrist, there would be a burial at sea (probably a secret one as he dumped my body out the porthole). Even if he were> into sex with men, one look at me, and he would use me for toilet paper.

So I watched The Hulk from afar and lived in five-finger fantasies. Those were the sad days. The more I saw him, the more I was a starving man staring through the palace window at the naked king inside. I felt like a dried-up mummy. Masturbation lost its zip; my dick stopped pointing the way. Where are all the horny SHORT guys??

Even worse, nearly every day I passed the Asshole on my way to the chow hall. A pushy jerk, the Asshole kept coming on to me. "How you doin', Runt," he would say as he walked by. "How's about you and me getting together in an empty compartment?"

Who could resist such charm? "Fuck you!"

"Yeah, that's what I mean."

The smart move was to keep away from the guy. He was such a sleaze, no way was I going to get involved with him, but his constant harangues could get us both busted. I couldn't figure out how the bastard knew I was gay -- but on the other hand, he probably didn't know. His come-ons had more to do with the big dog trying to mount the little one, and that pissed me off. "Eat shit and die, Limpdick." It was all I could think of to say.

With a guy like the Hulk parading before me in the nude every morning, my only choice was sex with the Asshole? Hey, I would rather keep playing 13-button Poker.

Damn, I was depressed. By the time the ship gets home, my balls will be dried-up raisins. What's wrong with me?? How come I can't meet anybody decent? In a ship this size, there's bound to be dozens of horny gay men! I was so bummed out, my dick really was limp. Aw, fuck, I wish I could just dry up and die!

But what I saw one morning in the showers blasted away that attitude like it hit a floating mine. As usual, I stood calmly washing myself at a shower nozzle not far from The Hulk, sadly watching him the from the corner of my eye, when suddenly one of his Grunt buddies sneaked up behind him and goosed him!

The Hulk jumped a foot in the air! "Hey!" he roared and turned on the guy (who was himself a big Marine). I figured one guy would kayo the other (my money was on The Hulk -- he could have taken the gooser with one sledgehammer fist). But instead of clobbering the gooser, The Hulk dropped both hands to cover his dick and jumped back. "Don't do that, dammit!" he snapped.

And The Hulk was blushing!

My jaw dropped open. The gooser-Marine, who was a big guy himself and older, judging from his gray-streaked hair, guffawed and walked out of the showers. The Hulk went back to washing-up, but I stood there dumbfounded.

Okay, check it out: the other guy didn't get killed because he was obviously a friend, and the goose was just a joke. But what was The Hulk's response? Shyness! The man was sensitive and touchy about somebody grabbing at his crotch.

Okay, who wouldn't jump from being goosed?
But think about it: his first act was to cover his bare dick! In the showers?? That's like trying to cover one blade of grass in a lawn.

After that, I watched The Hulk even more closely. I noticed he didn't take the towel from around his waist until the very last second, and he stood facing the bulkhead until nearly everyone else was gone (except me, and I seemed to be invisible to him). Only then would he turn around to put the stream of water on his back -- letting his cock be seen.

I first thought he came late to the showers because he was lazy, but it hit me: The big son of a bitch is shy about being naked! He's avoiding walking around nude in front of the other guys!

I also noticed The Hulk had his own version of The Asshole. The same old guy who goosed him often snapped his ass with a towel, squirted him with water, and -- and this really got my attention -- was constantly patting The Hulk on the butt. The Hulk hated it -- he blushed. I can't believe it. Blushing!

And something else: I didn't use a stopwatch, but The Hulk seemed to spend the longest time soaping, scrubbing, and cleaning his crotch. So what? You scrub your face, you soap your arms, you rub your chest -- what man on earth doesn't spend more time soaping his cock and balls?? It's just natural!

Yeah, but I spotted some very up-and-down jacking movements in that innocent cleaning. He's doing more than simple body laundry. Again, so what? You don't jack off in the showers?

One more thing, something very, very interesting: while facing the bulkhead himself, whenever another man stood in the shower on either side of him, The Hulk would give the guy quick glances, turning his head and looking down at the man's crotch but instantly snapping his head back to stare at the bulkhead again. God, The Hulk, owner of the most glorious penis on the ship, is checking out other men's cocks!

And I got one hell of an idea, such a motherfucker of a thought, when it hit me, I caught my breath. That big bastard -- body like a battleship -- he could [Oh, shit, I put one arm out to brace myself against the bulkhead] be interested in men!!

I decided to shove off on a great adventure: I'm going to sink the Battleship Hulk -- or at least board it.

Then I really thought about it. Damn, a single mistake, and I'll get one hell of a beating -- if I'm not outright killed. But the challenge! The excitement! I had to go after the big, naked stud. That day I began making plans.

But the Battleship Hulk was such a huge vessel, my little destroyer had to pick the right attacks, use stealth and chicanery -- and chemical warfare.


SORTIE #1
The first war cruise for my USS Cacchio against the Battleship Hulk involved getting closer, close enough for the destroyer's little guns to have any effect on the giant opponent. The chemical warfare part of the attack involved soap -- or rather the lack of it.

Every deck ape in the Navy has a shaving kit with his razor, soap, aftershave, and so on. As I got out of the rack on Hulk-Day, I ceremoniously took the bar of soap out of my shaving kit and put it under my pillow. Then I went to the head.

There I walked over to stand under the shower nozzle next to The Hulk and started to wash myself. I was nervous. In this first stage, I was very, very likely to end up in a meat-grinder. The USS Cacchio was approaching the battleship in stealth mode -- disguised as a simple native vessel innocently about its business. H-Day was about to begin.

I had psychology on my side: big guys I have known were usually soft-spoken. Bullies were always guys of normal size with an insecurity hang-up. Big guys grew up confident about their strength, which spread out into confidence about anything except, say, math tests or dancing lessons. In The Hulk's case, he was oddly skittish about being naked, but I was betting (and praying) he would be the placid type, not dangerous unless pissed off.

Standard pickup lines like, "You come here often?" or "You're really hung, dude" were likely to get me a broken jaw, so looking theatrically into my shaving kit, I snapped my fingers and said, "Damn!, I forgot to get more soap!" I turned to The Hulk. "Mind if I borrow your soap?"

Dangerous question. Asking to borrow a stranger's soap is just this side of asking to borrow his condom, but I had to roll the dice.

And I crapped out.

I don't know what he did. It all happened balls out -- so fast, I didn't know what hold or throw he put on me. Instantly I was flying through the air. Next I hit the shower compartment deck, and I think I bounced! I had just enough time to think, Shit, on top of everything else, he knows Karate??

Face-down on the wet deck, shower water splattering over me, I felt something heavy -- his foot -- on the back of my neck. "Fuckin' little faggot!" he roared, "I ain't no goddamned queer! Get the fuck out of here!!"

I crawled to my feet and stumbled from the showers. Damn, did I ever misjudge that one! The Hulk was not the placid type. So much for male psychology.

I was lucky all I got was a couple of bruises and an emotional put-down. There was no one else in the shower, so it was not a "public" humiliation -- and not something with witnesses that he could put me on report about (all I had to do was deny it). I staggered back to my rack and got dressed for duty.

Shit!
The destroyer USS Cacchio was sunk with all hands, asleep in the deep. Never fired a shot. Fuck! The Hulk had manhandled me like tossing a biscuit from one table to another! So much for lustful dreams. So much for plans. My dick was so limp, I could've stuck it into a soda straw.

Worse, the Asshole came striding into the dispensary that day. "How's it going, Little Man?" he sneered. "Gimme some aspirins. You got any condoms?" He lowered his voice. "I could show you how to use them."

I had one edge on him: he was also of Italian descent. His name was Ansolini, so it didn't take much slurring to say something like, "You know the Navy doesn't pass out condoms, Asshole-ini."

"Yeah, well, at least I can use one, Runt. What do they call those special little things for guys like you -- "condominiums"?

"Ha-hah, very funny. Don't give up your day-job, Bob Hope." The Asshole left the dispensary, and I leaned on the counter, my head in my hands. Damn. Now I'm a straight-man for a moron clipping jokes out of "The Reader's Digest."

You're raving again! Who wants to hear about Ansolini?


Then He walked in. First time I ever saw him in uniform. I truly didn't recognize him at first.

Oh, shit, The Hulk!
Just as I was about to leap back from the counter and lock myself behind the Examination Compartment door, he spoke: "Sorry, man. Real sorry about this morning."

I was speechless. What? You're what?? This the Marine Corps version of Bait & Switch -- you make me think you're sorry, I don't run away, then you switch attitudes and knock my head off!

He spoke again: "Asked around till I found out who you was . . . want to apologize—

--Apologize?? That's the 11th Commandment in the Gyrene Bible: Thou shalt not apologize!

"Real sorry. Problem with my temper. Gotta control it better. Ain't proud of what I did. Didn't mean what I said. Sorry I said you was a little homo and all. Wish you could let us be bygones."

"Let us be bygones?" I wonder if he knows how to read. Still, the big son of a bitch sounds sincere
.

He held out a huge paw. Wants me to shake on it. Ah, what the hell. I held out my hand, and it was engulfed in his huge mitt. As his fingers closed over my hand -- God, I'll never play the piano again -- I felt the warmth, and I'll be damned if my dick didn't start hardening in my pants! Hope (and lust) were reborn!

And like mystical Atlantis rising from the depths of the sea, the destroyer USS Cacchio once again rose to the surface, water cascading from its turrets, its brass glittering, its guns manned and ready! My ship was squared away, back on the attack to bring down the battleship Hulk.

"You okay?" he said, releasing my hand.

"Yeah. No harm done."

"Well, see ya around."

"Yeah, later." When the door closed behind him, the urge hit me: I adjourned to the Examination Compartment, climbed up on the padded examination table, and pulled open the 13 buttons in the flap of my pants. My rejuvenated crank leaped out to greet me like a happy puppy, and the jackoff fantasy was fucking glorious! Although H-Day sure as hell didn't turn out the way I thought it would, we were under way again, full steam ahead!

SORTIE #2
By the weirdest accident, the USS Cacchio had achieved the goals of the first campaign. For the next foray, the little destroyer had to land some rounds to begin actual combat. For that, the USS Cacchio would use a smokescreen. That afternoon I got a bottle of shampoo from the ship's store. Ordinarily I washed my hair with a bar of soap, but I needed something extra-foamy.

The next morning I hit the showers at the usual time (late), and sure enough, The Hulk was just walking in. Only two other guys were in the showers. I didn't say anything; I just walked in with him, turned on a shower, and started washing.

"Hey." The deep, bass voice.

I was nervous. Is that "Hey -- how're you doing?" or is that, "Hey -- are you in here again after I told you to get out"? I looked over at him. Damn, what a stud! The sight of him never failed to get to me. They'll carve that on my tombstone. Since he wasn't coming after me, maybe his "Hey" was Meaning #1, so I gave a noncommittal reply: "Hey."

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