being an orphan – Mansploitation

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 8

The White Trash Veteran

The air was thick in wafts and gummous throughout, steamy like a sauna of algae. Harley bumped into Goose, and the gunboat smoothly glid underneath him, jostled by an occasional rock or maybe a river crocodile.
Blood splattered, and water splashed. Goose leaped into action onto the pibber’s wooden deck. His own gun was hot and heavy in his hand, rumbling and jumping up and down when bullets popped outta it. His chest heaved and huffed and probably shouted out something, Goose ain’t listen, cuz he was pulling the trigger harder than anything ever been pulled.
“Goose, you okay? Hey! Sampson!” That was the voice of Willamee Bowder, this old-timey feller with a gray beard and a gravel-choked throat. His voice rattled out next to Goose. Willamee sat behind the wheel of the work-truck. “You in dream-time, Sampson. We got a day’s work aheada us. Get ready.”
Willamee Bowder weren’t in Vietnam. Neither was Goose. Neverthelessly, he felt a bullet pass close to his shoulder, wind like death scything down stillness. Gooks on shore musta done been were firing at the pibber, which teetered beneath Goose’s boots — turbulence from the soldiers rushing into action, shifting the weight on the boat. River water splickety-splashed, blood puddled up sticky as spillt wine and sunshine wafted like heat from an opened oven.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” Goose said. He seed the work-truck come to a stop, and he seed Willamee get out from the driver’s side of the cab.
Goose left the truck too, moving like a dream, no friction, no weight, no texture. The real world was a cloud whooshing by, and the whole universe lingered like a fart. His Garand made his arms shake when he fired it, the heavy gun weighing down on his tired muscles. Liquid leaked onto his ankle, hopefully river water but prolly not, as he bumped into a barrel of something or another, he couldn’t remember, but it was solid enough to stop bullets.
“A’ight, old man,” Goose said to Willamee. “Hooray! Let’s get this shit unloaded! Let’s do it! Fuckhead Squad on it!” He knewed he was being too enthusastic, he wasn’t making sense to Willamee. “Come on!” he screamed. Spittle splattered afront his eyes or maybe that was tears, Goose couldn’t tell. “Get it done!” A clapping sound came from his hands coming together, and Goose jumped, fitting to work. They was laying pipes for a irrigation system at a farm — a soon-to-be farm — in Nowheresburg, California. T’was just dirt at the moment.
Willamee stood beside the truck like a cowboy, furrowing his brow. Goose’s heart pumped much too fast for the situation, but he ain’t feel it. He felt only the pibber reaching rocks, which made it rattle and roll like a drummer beneath his feet. Jostling bursts of pow-pow closemostly punctuated the whitewater frothing down below.
“Relax. It ain’t a race,” Willamee said. He spoke so slow, like he was talking to a retard. His words snipped and festered like skeeters from the future.
“We just gotta do it! Do it! Do it!” Goose screamed at the truck. He grabbed something, some pipe or anywhat, he moved too fast to look at it. “I’s unloadin’, fuck you! You gonna help!? Huh?!” He tossed it off the truck and onto the ground. It felt like nothingness in his grip. Hot blood splattered on his face, probably Delmonico’s, cuz he died then, maybe — Goose couldn’t remember, somebody did and there was blood flecked like drool on his mouth, wonder if they told his mama that part. Water ricocheting outta the river’s turbulence washed the scarlet away. Goose saw hisself ripping irrigation piping outta the back the truck, his chest heaving like it took all his might. “Do it! Get it done, Willamee! We gotta do it! It’s the job! I’s doin’ it!”
“A’ight, we will, we will, slow down, Goose, you is freakin’ out, man-“
“It’s all happenin’! We gotsto finish it!” Goose said. He either fell or jumped outta the bed of the truck — possibly intending to lay out the irrigation pipes, but they wasn’t in the right place and the ground wasn’t prepped for it and he ain’t grab the right pipes to start with. He paced like a furious pendulum. “Let’s unload this shit!” A bullet got him in the leg, and pain splintered up him. Goose yowled like a deer, and he plopped onto the pibber surface. Blood spurted, which Goose felt but ain’t see, cuz he seed hisself collapsing like a coffin into the cold California topsoil.
All thanks to the Lord above, the sudden movement of his tumble and the smell of the American dirt snapped him outta it. He was fully in the present now — the year was 1986, and everything that happened was real, just like all the places between California and Vietnam was real. Death was real. Buck was real. Delaware was real — Goose seen it, he punched a fry cook at a Shoney’s in Rehobeth last year — Manhood was real. Time was real. War was real. Jury was still out on peace.
He weren’t dying from that bullet in his leg cuz he done not die from it. Army doc took it out.
In a tent, like on Mash! That was Korea, but the tent was the same. War is war. Comedy don’t stop bullets. That was a good show though. His heart was pumping like a dyke, liketa bust outta his chest, like that alien in that movie.
“We will, we’ll do it — you’re not even unloadin’ the right shit. Slow ya toes, Goose, you gonna break something,” Willamee said. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Goose said, and he was fine. Well, not fine, but he was finer than some things. He no longer felt Vietnam around him. He was in California, and he could touch it. He did touch it. He touched the soil to remind him what California felt like. It ain’t feel like a wetland, that was for damn sure. “I’m fine.”
“What happened the’eh?”
“Nothing. I’m fine,” Goose said. “Let’s get to work.” He looked at Willamee as though to explain, but he didn’t. Work answers itself, so they unloaded gear from the backa the truck.
They was building heaps of farms out here. The pay was good, and they don’t got enough people in the locale to do the job. Cuz Goose had experience, they snapped him right up.
He got that experience in his first prison stay, which was before he got called up for ‘Nam. T’was just a six-month bid, and he did it in comfort cuzza Goose’s daddy being dead. His daddy was a Gray Snake — the biker club — and he died in the line of duty. Gray Snakes honor they dead by gifting the orphans a lifetime of protection.
That meant Goose could get right into the Gray Snakes’s good graces, soon as he arrived at the Virginia State Pen — Goose got to stealing cars in Staunton, Virginia, so he done his time across the state line. The work crew was employed laying irrigation pipes at a Mennonite farm out that way.
He worked alongside this hippie sumbitch Steve. He got long stringy hair like a dirty girl and a love for LSD, which was something Goose knewed nothing about. It was everywhere a couple years later. Steve was aheada the curve on that one.
“It makes you see beyond the universe. Well, not see, exactly,” Steve said by way of explanation. Goose done ask if it was like the mary jane, and Steve spent several million words explaining the difference. “But you can sense the breathing, the pulsations of the universe, the oneness of all things.”
“Oneness?”
“We’re all the same, really. You and me, and the trees and birds and rocks, we’re all just stellar stardust,” Steve said.
“Uh-huh.”
He went on, but Goose quit off listening. He ain’t need to hear tell of drugs he got no chance of doing.
Plus Goose was hot on the wonder about what was for supper tonight. He hoped it was Salisbury steak. Salisbury steak was proper at the Virginia State Pen. He pondered on that, letting the desire flow through and away, contemplating the moment, not that Goose was aware of that way of thinking. Steve did, but Goose ain’t listen at the time. Steve’s wisdom only resonated in retrospect. Not a problem for a Buddhist, cuzza time being an illusion and all that. Goose could grasp his contemplation retroactively.
Supper turned out to be meatloaf, which was virtually the same thing as Salisbury steak. Not as good though. Salisbury steak was meatloaf with a pretty dress and enough ass to fall in love with.
Goose and Steve sat with the Gray Snakes in the mess hall, and Steve managed to stop talking about LSD. Steve weren’t really no Gray Snake, but he joined in with them after his arrest. Since he was a rank pussy and not a proper biker, the others could and did tease the hippie sucker.
“Ooh, Stevina is smelling purdy today!” someone said, and they all cackled. They was calling Steve Stevina cuz he got long hair like a girl. He weared some kinda solid deodorant that smelled like wildflowers vomited into a bucket of ballsweat.
Normally Goose’d join in. He was the one who came up with ‘Stevina’. But at the moment, he weren’t feeling it. Goose found out his draft number was called.
He was going to ‘Nam.
‘Course, he was in prison now, so he was exempt from the draft. But his release date was in three weeks, and he’d end up transferring straight to the Army. He got only a couple days to make it to boot camp. He ain’t even got time to kiss his mama both hello and goodbye. He just hafta say aloha instead.
Somebody mentioned Vietnam during dinner, so that was all Goose could think about. Even afterwards, when they was led to they cell — Goose and Steve together — Goose kept running through his options in his mind: go to boot camp or go AWOL. Goose weren’t a coward or a commie, so only one of those options was optional.
He was going to war. He’d be blowing down gooks by Christmas, most likeishly. A man’s gotta give it, and a man’s gotta take it. Goose dunno yet which side of that equation was which in the grand scheme of things, but he knewed where he was in the here and now.
But time is a ‘llusion, so that’s fine!
“Gots to take mah mind off it, Steve,” Goose said with a sympathetic clucking of his tongue. They been back in they cell for mostuva hour. Lights out loomed ahead with ominous imminence like a war, but for now, they got free time. Not that there was much to do.
There was one thing.
“Aw, c’mon, Goose…” Steve hung his head. He looked up at Goose. “Uncle, I mean. C’mon, Uncle Goose-“
“Nah.” Goose weren’t really Steve’s uncle.
But the Gray Snakes at the Virginia State Pen got a uncle and wife system. When a biker first does time for the Gray Snakes, he is a “wife”. That means he do laundry and shit for his cellmate. Wifey stuff. Second time, he is a “uncle”. That means he gets a wife to do his laundry. Lifers are automatically uncles, and so’s orphans, like Goose.
Steve was a wife. He done sweep the floor, and he done wash Goose’s sheets today. Only one wifing duty remained.
Goose plopped his ass down on Steve’s bunk, which was thin and scratchy. Steve don’t got no pillow, cuz Goose done took it. Goose leaned back on the bunk. When that ain’t prompt no response, Goose frowned at his wife. He spread his legs and aimed a nod at Steve.
“Maaaaan, c’mon…” Steve murmured. He rolled his eyes, but he tacked up the curtain that blocked they door and the window in it. Outside, inmates streamed past, getting they chores done and hurrying back to they cells before lights-out, rushing like they gotsta beat a air-raid.
Slow as a turtle, Steve got on his knees afront Goose. He unzipped Goose’s blue jumpsuit, which went down to his crotch; everybody had the blue jumpsuits like a uniform ‘cept the oldest inmates, who, like officers, had snazzier denim uniforms. Goose’s fat cock popped out, as long and as thick as Steve’s forearm. Steve picked that jiggly torpedo up with two fingers and sniffed it. “Ewh, dude,” he murmured. He held out his tongue as though to lick it, but then he hesitated. He held back a gag and dropped Goose’s cock. It dangled like a landmine from Goose’s overgrowed wetland of a crotch.
“A wife don’t do that, Steve,” Goose said. He lightly smacked Steve’s cheek. “J’st lick it.” He done punch Steve ’bout his dallyiance. Steve was calcitrant about it.
Holding his breath, Steve licked it from tip to root, his tongue moving up and down like a cat cleaning itself on an army base. He ain’t pick it up, he just licked, and it stayed limp as a dead snake, bet they got lotta snakes in Vietnam. His tongue was cold and unpleasant.
“You gotsta do sump’in wit’ it, Stevina,” Goose said with a chuckle. He yawned and leaned back even farther, making his cock flop and rope round upon Steve’s face.
“I’m trying,” Steve whined. His tongue done dry out, so it kinda tickled, but not much else happened, ‘cept that Goose’s draft date growed nigh, nigh as hell. He still kept his hands off Goose’s foot-long dick. It was like blubber in his hands, haggling and wiggling. “It’s not getting hard.”
“Tha’ss cuz you’s j’st playin’ wit’ it, baby,” Goose said. He shrugged. “I kinda like it. No rush. Take all night if’n you want.”
With a sigh, Steve took hold of Goose’s cock by the root with one hand, his other hand slowly working up and down the shaft. Then he put his mouth on the tip for just a moment. “Can I just use my hands? No mouth?”
“Nah. That ain’t proper wifing,” Goose said. “Would you marry a woman who only use her hands?”
“Well, I mean…”
“I got hands, Stevina,” Goose said. He aimed his crotch to bap his dickfat onto Steve’s nose. “I can’t reach mah mouf onto mah pecker. Only you can do that.”
Steve sighed, only for the deep breath to almost make him gag again. He held it back, and he again planted his tongue on Goose’s shaft. He spat on it.
Both his hands worked up and down, and he got a good rhythm going. Goose gotsta give him that one. But he kept spitting on Goose’s dick. His tongue sorta glancingly touched it. He ain’t slurp on it though.
He be shirky-dicking, that’s what that is. Goose don’t tolerate it in a prison wife.
He pushed Steve’s mouth onto his knob. “C’mon, hold it in ya mouf, Stevina.” He closed his eyes. “Just hold the tip there and move ya tongue, make lotta spit.” As Steve began to get a rhythm with his hands, Goose let out a little moan. “There you go, there you go,” he said. Steve either spat or gagged up spit, either way, it got some moisture onto Goose’s knob.
It slowly firmed up in Steve’s grip, not so much from Steve’s touch as from Goose’s imagination. He let himself remember women from back home — that was the only way he could stop thinking about his upcoming enlistment.
He wanna recollect local women. Virginia gals sure is gorgeous, pretty as peanuts. Goose tightened his grip on Steve’s head. He pushed down, gently, but dumbass Steve couldn’t even take that, and he erupted into a ferocious gag.
“Uccckkkkkk!” Steve spat up into the toilet. He clutched the rim. “Man, dude, c’mon. That tastes so bad!”
Wondering if Army got latrines or what in the field, in Vietnam, Goose stood. His hefty cock slapped back and forth. It bapped Steve on the face a couple times, as Steve winced but avoided outright whining. He sat on his ass.
“Okay, wait, I can get you off-“
“Nah. I have trouble cummin’ from mouf-stuff,” Goose said with a chuckle. He done tell Steve that before, but Steve really admired to avoid taking Goose’s meat up behind. He motioned for Steve to get off his ass, which Steve did slowly.
“C’mon, man, don’t harsh my mellow,” Steve said. He wearily got up and gripped the wall with both hands. He was already wincing like he was in pain, like a prisoner of war in a bamboo cage.
Goose swaggered his thickness behind Steve, who unzipped his jumpsuit slow as a aircraft carrier and let it drop to his ankles. He shivered. Goose thwapped his cock on Steve’s lower back, which was a signal for Steve to stand on his toes. He did so, and Goose bent his knees too. That lined up his dick with Steve’s ass.
He rammed hard at the hole, way too hard to actually go in. Steve winced as Goose’s cock deflected like a bullet off a tank and slid up his buttcrack. Then Goose aimed it again.
“A’ight, open up, wifey-“
“Owww, shiiiiit!” Steve cried out and clopped his face onto the wall. He tensed up, but Goose got the tip of his dick in there. Steve clenched, trying to expel Goose’s meat.
Goose was ready for that. Like a draft board, he weren’t taking ‘ow shit’ for a answer. He rammed hard, and Steve slammed into the wall. Goose kept pushing, getting a couple inches of dickmeat in.
“Ow, c’mon, wait a sec, wait-“
“Sssssh,” Goose said. He got a fistful of Steve’s hair in one hand and pulled it to get Steve’s attention. “Remembuh? Wifey? Say sexy thangs.”
Steve howled in pain, as Goose kept pushing in deeper. He did spit on his hand, smearing that on his shaft. That was being nice, like a GI Joe. He ain’t got to. Once you get real deep in a booty, it ain’t possible to clench no more. Steve was past that point.
Maybe some words was gurgling outta Steve’s mouth, but they ain’t make no sense. Steve be squirming like a vermin. Prolly got lotta rats in Vietnam too.
How’s a country gonna have lotta both rats and snakes? One them had gotta give!
“C’mon, say sexy thangs or I’mma lose mah hardon,” Goose said. That weren’t true, this was feeling better than it had in awhile — Goose was really letting loose, and Steve was broke-in enough that Goose could pound hard. Waves of pleasure hit Goose with each thrust into him, and Steve’s whole body puckered and shook on the withdraw. Goose held him by his long hippie hair.
“Oooh, uh, baby, ooh, I love you,” Steve said, panting. He ain’t sound sexy at all. That was fine. Goose appreciated the effort.
As a wild waft of sensations rocked his body, Goose let out a chest-rattling moan. He pumped his dick in deep, and he held it in place all the way up Steve’s behind. A tense howl came outta Steve’s mouth — do they got wolves? Nah… — then he clamped it shut. Goose shot a fat wad deep up his guts, and he ain’t think about the Army the whole time.
“Aaaah-“
“Ewww, c’mon-” Steve bit his lip. Goose do dole out punches for whine. Steve hung his head and kept his whine to hisself.
Another burst of jizz coated his booty. Goose pistoned his hips as hard as he could, and Steve yelped. More melty bliss hit Goose’s senses, and he sighed and moaned, collapsing his body onto Steve’s back. Steve smushed his face into the floor as though to burrow outta here. One more final cumwad sprayed into him.
But Goose ain’t pull out right away. He savored the long slow undulations rocking through his muscles, as his sweat smeared onto Steve’s back. Steve’s hands fluttered behind hisself like a Vietnamey butterfly — Goose was assumpting Vietnam got butterflies, everybody got butterflies. Steve patted and clawed at Goose’s hairy asscheeks the best he could reach.
“Sssh, almost done, almost done,” Goose murmured. He lifted his chest off Steve, and he rolled his body, flexing all his muscles as he humped his exquisitely sensitive dick in Steve’s ass. Steve grunted, pounding on the cold cement floor.
“C’mon, man…” Steve whispered through clenched teeth.
Goose let his cock plop out, slowly, inch by inch. Steve winced and seethed the whole time, cuz Goose made him poop his meat out. That meant it hurt more and more with every passing moment. Then at last, Goose’s meat dropped to sway between his legs, glistening with jizz and booty juices.
“You gotta relax about Vietnam. You gotta abandon your attachments to earthly struggle. Can’t argue with a river, can’t worry a bridge into existence,” Steve said as he gingerly wiped his ass clean with a wad of toilet paper. “You probably won’t even end up on the front lines.”
Goose slapped him. “Bitch, don’t bring that up!”

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 3

The White Trash Veteran

Goose holed up in Smashwood with Buck and Ellen for mosta the winter, and they lived like family. Goose was at his home, but he ain’t came home. He remained an outlander, like he missed all the inside jokes while he was gone but nobody would explain ’em to him or even repeat ’em with him in the room.
The money ran out by spring, and Goose got turned on to a job on over at a lumber camp in Pennsylvania. He worked there the whole of the summer of 1977. He got to heading back to West Virginia in the fall cuz he received some grim news.
Ellen died. Li’l Buck was an orphan. Or half an orphan at least.
The whole park stayed with sadness, locked in mourning. Goose hung his head proper-like as he workbooted in. Lotta folks came up to him and expressed they sorries and commiseries, and Goose accepted ’em polite as a pony. She got a bad dose of heroin, that was what Goose heared tell of.
Sly as snakes, oodlins of eyeballs judged him. He wished he weared a black shirt at least. But he done return to Smashwood in his wrinkledy workshirt like any other day, flecks of paint and sawdust clinging to the denim. For sure all the parkbodies thunk he shoulda been here, strong enough to control his household like a man, he shoulda been watching over Ellen, providing for her so she don’t gotta sling her cat for horse.
But ain’t nobody say a word about that. Goose heared ’em not say it in his twinging bones.
Lotta folks said Buck be running round like a stray dog, that Ellen weren’t watching him, weren’t keeping him proper. He went and asked folks for food, cuz mama was sleepy-deeping.
Ain’t nobody told Goose on the phone that that was happening. Only now that Ellen was dead. Again, nobody said it was Goose’s fault, which was how that Goose knewed they was all thinking it.
But there weren’t no work round here for a man like Goose, so he had no choice but to go away. He wanna blame Ellen for spending dollars on drugs steada feeding the boy, but a real man don’t blame a woman. A proper man shoulda been here, shoulda found a way. That’s how the cow ate the cabbage. T’is a woman’s nature to dream and dally. T’is on the nearest man to handle reality. That weren’t a duty Goose was living up to at the moment.
The war been tarrying in Goose’s shadow, jumping into light when the moment fit the frame. He been losing his temper at that lumber camp, got a ramstudious reputation, causing ructions over both nothing and everything, and he afreared what might happen when Buck was around. This feller he knewed from the Army, Thad Hoover, he got back to home in Michigan and plum killt his wife and daughters, then hisself. No reason. Just happened. Goose felt a random wheel in him, and he duked up at the dawn, early so nobody would see him boxing walls till his fists grew gnarled and knucklesome; he drownded his outerwards to slay his innermostlies, and it worked. The war be bubbling up, splattering its indignities onto him when he let his guard down, when his brain sputtered and his heart hanged. If he was home with Buck and Ellen, all kinda things might could have done happen. He be spotting ambushes in every corner, and in the lumber camp there was men — mostly veterans theyselfs — who could smack sense into him. Ellen and Buck couldn’t do that. Well, Buck couldn’t, and Ellen really couldn’t.
And yet his brain steady came back to Ellen’s death, telling him he shoulda been here. He did heroin in Vietnam, and he quit before coming over on back to America. He coulda, shoulda and woulda made Ellen do the same. A man should be the master of his home or leastways his own self.
A road is unlike a river in that a driver must know which way to go. A river unlike a road carves out a path that is never wrong. Goose accepted the truth of that but not the reality of it.
It almost felt bad to enjoy visiting with Buck. Soon as he seen the tyke, Goose wrapped him up in his arms. Buck be sobby-lobbing in the trailer of Miss Junebug, that’s who took him on in when Ellen came up dead.
“Is you gonna stay, Pops?” Buck asked when he stopped crying for a spell.
Goose wanna tell him, ‘Can’t stay cuz I got war in my bones, and I don’t wanna bring it to you, Buck. Parta me died in Vietnam, but I gotsta figger out which part’. All Goose said was, “I gonna hafta go out fer work, son. J’st the way t’is.”
Li’l Buck scuffed his feetses. “Oh.” He picked up what Goose was putting down, or he would one day, when his generation found a war or made one.
“You gotsta be tough, Buck. Stay strong. A man lives in the here and now, takin’ on burdens that ain’t fair, beatin’ back the night by buildin’ up the day. You let ya mama stay in ya heart, where’n e’erythang’s perfect,” Goose said.
Buck nodded like a warrior, and he swallowed down his tears as he shared his peanut butter crackers with Goose. They ate ’em together and drank milk and talked about Ellen’s hugs. Goose hugged Buck the bestmost he could, and he felt in them twinging bones that that was enough for Buck.
After that, Miss Junebug went on about the necessities — of foster families and custodianship, that kinda thing. She said Buck was a hellion, he don’t sit still and he do play rough with the other boys, he do! He don’t got control of hisself.
Goose couldn’t hardly complain about that. Goose had long troubles with rules. Goose couldn’t abide by a rule that weren’t enforced, and it don’t feel real till it was enforced against him. That ain’t a trait that agrees with a military life. The army discottoned to fellers who buck rules.
“You hoopie sumbitch think you can get away with not shaving!” his drill sergeant barked at him the day after check-in. Goose done got his head shaved, but the barber ain’t say he gots to shave off the mustache too.
“Suh, no suh!” Goose snapped down. He be solid at attention. The drill sergeant glared close as though daring him to square up. Goose ain’t take the bait. They got so close Goose could feel the aura of his nose, and Goose’s fat cock bulging through his camo pants felt of drill sergeant’s crotch too. “Suh! I ain’t know — I ain’t — nobody said-“
“Waah-waah-waah, I don’t wanna hear it! A soldier finds out the rules, or he suffers for breakin’ ’em, Sampson! Now get down and gimme fifty push-ups! And if you don’t do every one perfectly, ya whole damn barrack is doin’ ’em!”
No doubt drill sergeant thunk Goose wouldn’t do ’em right and the whole barrack would hafta do fifty push-ups. They’d put it off on Goose. But he did do ’em right, cuz he got arms like tractors, and drill sergeant couldn’t say boo about it. He did make the whole barrack do fifty push-ups a few minutes later, but nobody could blame Goose for it.
Drill Sergeant Tucker was like that — he steady punished the whole unit if’n one feller messed up. That forced ’em to hold each other accountable.
The one soldier who couldn’t quite live up to expectations was Samovich, who was skinny as a toothpick and sloppy as a bear. He couldn’t never do enough push-ups or clean his rifle proper-like or keep his bunk in good order. Whole dang unit got in a bad row of stumps again and again for that sumbitch.
Ain’t nobody wanna punish him. They hoped Samovich to improve, but Samovich cried for his mama and he tried a-sneaking like a clumsy ninja, even cheating on an obstacle course, stogging around the obstacles out in the woods where Drill Sergeant Tucker couldn’t see.
That was some low-manhood, high-sissy behavior, so far as Goose was concerned. And per his buddy Harley, who Goose ain’t barely know yet, but they later ran together cuz they shipped out together.
Once Tucker found out about the obstacle course, he shit his lid, and Samovich returned to the barrack with a heavy head, a black eye and a limp, and word soon got back that they wasn’t getting leave this weekend cuzza him.
Whole dang unit got no leave cuz Samovich couldn’t handle his shit.
That pissed ’em all off. It was Harley who badmouthed Samovich so bad them’all took a turn gutpunching him.
By then he was bawling in the corner of the barrack like a rank pussy, god did that weakling shit piss Goose off. It wasn’t even just that Samovich was a pussy — god knows the world’s fulla ’em! — but he was getting the whole barrack in trouble, and Samovich was going off to war! What’d he think this was? Prep for a trip to a circus? He gonna hafta toughen up or the Vietnameys gonna send him dirtwards. A man rises hisself to the situation at hand.
“Hey, watch this,” Harley said. The whole squad done talk trash like them’all was gonna beat him to bumpkins, but they only gave Samovich a lavish of gutpunches. That got the frustration outta the cadets, but they stayed mad. Beating him up was likeish to get them all in trouble. He already done got the breath knocked outta him, and he hurt so bad in the belly he dry-heaved up a mouthful of spit.
A sense of brotherhood done rise among ’em then, a unity of purpose. It felt right. Even Samovich prolly felt it. They moved as one, they acted as one, without thinking. That was a sensation only reckonizable in retrospect. A feller can never step in the same river twice.
Harley was the ringleader, the one daffy-laughing the loudest. “Watch, watch, watch, I’mma mollywop that skinny sumbitch.”
Harley took out his dick and slapped Samovich over the face with it. Harley got a fat pecker, but it weren’t too long, so he gotsta sorta jut his crotch forward, which let him dick-whack Samovich good and hard, solid enough to make a thwap-slap sound.
“Oh shit-“
“Harley dickslappin’ that sissy!”
That made ’em all guffaw, especially when Samovich looked like ain’t nothing happen, like he was stonefacing all of a sudden, despite the tears rolling down his cheeks. Goddamn was he a wussy! Like a woman, he was pretending, couldn’t accept the reality afronta him.
“Get ‘im-“
“-ruined mah damn leave!”
“I wuz gonna get wit’ this chick, maaaaan-“
Before Goose knewed it, bunchesa fellers got they dicks out, jobbing Samovich on the cheeks and chin and forehead. Samovich was looking like a red-faced statue, sniffling back his tears and his cries for mama. The wangs was all limp as hot green beans though. Samovich did wince when Hernandez got his pecker on his upper lip — he musta tasted it — and he held back a bawl.
T’was Goose’s giant cock that made Samovich cry out again. They all done shower with him, so it weren’t no surprise, but maybe them’all ain’t notice or ain’t reckon how big it was up close, till they saw Goose smack Samovich over the face with it. His fatness rested on Samovich’s light hawkbrown face, almost as wide as his face and longer than it for sure.
“Aww, sheeit, that’s a big one, you honky sumbitch!” said one the black fellers, Crowley, who got a fat dick too. He thwacked his thickness onto Goose’s meat and chuckled, as they shafts bounced and jiggled softly over each other.
Goose got no idear who first started ramming at Samovich’s mouth. He was laughing and swordfighting with Crowley, as they all jabbered about the whores they woulda fucked on leave if that pissant Samovich ain’t mess it up. On they first leave last month, most all the barrack ‘cept for Samovich all joined in for a whorish harridan who gave ’em each blowjobs, one after the other. She weren’t much to look at, but she drew a nut out in about two minutes each. Mouth like snappin’ velvet.
When Goose turned back around, Harley was shooting his nut onto Samovich’s mug.
“Oooooh, sheeit!”
“Ewww-!”
“Harley’s nuttin’! Harley’s nuttin’!”
“That honky shoot cream!” Crowley yelped and ran in a little circle in the barrack, guffawing like a barrel. “That honky shootin’ cream!” he said as though there was a chance something else mighta come outta Harley’s erection.
That made them all laugh the dickens! Samovich sat there, teary-eyed and wussy, practically begging a Vietnamey sniper to take him out. Jizz roped over his face from his forehead to his chin.
He did get shot, you know. Goose don’t like to think about it. At the time, when Samovich messed up they leave, Goose and all them all was thinking a rank-ass wussy like him deserved to take a bullet. Somebody got to, and it might as well be someone who couldn’t hack it in basic training.
But that was exactly what happened, Samovich got shot on patrol in Dien Fat Boo, and Goose was sad as a girl when he found out. He ain’t want nobody he knewed to get shot.
And in the end, Samovich did get through basic training. Barely, but that still counts.
Disregardless, at the time, the war seemed too far away to even think about, even though that was all any of them did think about. The war was both too near and too far for studyment.
Harley stepped away, dick swinging between his hands, still dribbling nut onto the floor of the barrack. Harley pumped his biceps like he just conquered a frontier, and everwho did cheer him on. As they did so, Crowley got hard in an instant, you know how black boys is, ain’t even gotta touch his meat, and he held onto Samovich by the ear to plow into his poor little mouth. Harley’s jizz dripped onto Crowley’s pecker.
“C’mon, yo’ mouf is my pussy, Samovich!” Crowley grunted like he was fucking a dislikable whore. He pumped and rammed at Samovich’s mouth, not using his hands so his cock kept slipping out and roping over Samovich’s face, making Samovich gag as both precum and actual cum coated him from bow to stern. “C’mon, pussy-fhroat, gonna wreck yo’ fhroat…” Crowley’s taut muscles rippled.
“Aw, fuck, Crowley, you doin’ it! You doin’ it!” Goose whooped and hollered. He done gone to prison by this point — Goose was old for a basic-training feller. He ain’t mention to nobody that he done shoot his nut in a sissy before. Mosta them’all was just eighteen years old, maybe nineteen in a couple cases. Goose was the old man at twenty-four. Them young’uns acted like they ain’t know a feller could nut in another feller’s mouth — and you just know they never heared tell of butt rangers. Goose acted similar, cuz he ain’t want nobody to guess what he done.
It ended up coming out anyway, but not at that time.
Crowley pounded his cock at Samovich’s throat, and while he did so, some other feller shot a wad onto Samovich’s face. Young’uns is like that, busting a nut in a instant. Whoever that was — Goose don’t remember now — they ain’t even get they dick in Samovich’s mouth. They prolly thwacked it on his face, maybe got some spit on it, definitely got smeared with cream from Harley and maybe Crowley, which was prolly what lubed up they dong. In any case, they was spewing they load onto Crowley’s dick still while Crowley was closing his eyes to fuck Samovich’s throat like a pussy, his heavy balls slapping at Samovich’s chin.
“Aw’ight, aw’ight, here I go,” Crowley closed his eyes and forced his dick down Samovich’s throat. His black shaft pulsated visibly as cum spurted down there. Crowley ain’t let up, not even when Samovich retched up jizz round his eggplanty knob. It plopped onto the ground at his feet.
Then Jerry Whathisname did much the same thing, he only needed a minute, maybe less than one, in Samovich’s mouth, he got a dinky peter, that was why. So did Manny Hernandez, Carl Taggart and that other black boy, the islander —Lucent — who was Trinidadian, skinny like a jaguar — and Yeller, Opie, Lyle, Abe, Nottingham, Goose weren’t sure of the order. He waited till the end.
Goose liked the idea of a well-lubed throat. By the time he swaggered his thirteen-incher in front of Samovich’s face, that sumbitch weren’t even visible. He got prolly thirty-nine cumloads on his face. Well, less, cuz Crowley and some others shot it down his gullet and Lucent missed, got mosta it on his shoulders. Samovich spat up mosta the ackempucky onto his own face, and Hernandez spat on Samovich’s face bunches, he was like that, he did that, made Samovich’s mug ugly, wet and sticky. There was fifty fellers in the barrack, but a couple was gone for various reasons at the time, so maybe thirty-nine loads hit him in various places. Big boy loads too!
Gommy puddles of it coated his face, no bare skin at all there. He was soaked on his ears, his shoulders, his neck. Mosta his crewcut was moist, and Samovich kept smearing it round with his hands, but he ain’t got nothing to wipe it off with — damn was he a sissy! Ain’t nobody holding him down, reckon! He just was too scairt or sad or whatever to move, got a pussy on his soul holding him down. He don’t fight back, he don’t even got smart-ass remarks like a short feller.
“Maaan, come on…” was all he said, leastways all that Goose heared. Then he erupted in more gags, his whole body undulating like a eel.
Samovich weren’t resisting one bit when Goose rammed his meat into that paltry sumbitch’s wide open mouth. He was well broke-in, his throat lubed. Goose got a good four inches in, the others cheering him on, then he held onto Samovich’s face and forced it in more. Samovich stretched his lips around the shaft. Got maybe eight inches in then. Pretty dang good, most fellers can’t get that far in no matter how hard they plowed.
He shot his fat wad onto Samovich’s face — he made sure to pull away, so all them’all could see every drop of it coat Samovich in creamy ropes. His giant balls shot giant loads, and Goose wanna paint Samovich white as cotton. So he aimed his dickmeat for the last few cum-free spots on Samovich’s face.
It felt good, but the main sensation was pride, not pleasure. Goose liked seeing Samovich take his cumload, even if he was jacking his own meat at the time. Samovich kept his mouth open though nobody told him to, he was just that muchuva pussy. He cringed and gagged as his mouth overflowed and spilled.
“Damn, Goose-“
“Whiteboy got mad meat!” Crowley was happy-dapping up and down, his own manhood jiggling like a angry baseball bat.
Still more jizz got Samovich on his back and his nape, as he at last reckoned he could crawl away. He sobbed on all fours, while Goose followed him, laughing so hard he couldn’t even keep ahold on his dick. It fell between his legs and dangled as the last couple drops dribbled onto Samovich’s legs and feet.
Then Goose sighed and pulled away, amid the claps and laughter from the resta the barrack. That felt good as candy, he thunk. Not enough to make up for the lost leave, but still, it felt good to get a nut off.
Even if Samovich was good for nothing else, leastways he could do that.