experiencing flashbacks – 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 6

The White Trash Veteran

Bits of brain was softly salty, and clots of blood sparked a metallic fire on Goose’s tongue. Them was Sam’s brains he was tasting, slimy and slippery, savory in a unsavory way. Sam’s head exploded, so his brain filled the air that previously tasted only of steamy wetlands and muddy bark. The toothpaste in Goose’s mouth frothed up and out, and the sizzling bite of gunpowder filled the air.
Campfire smoke dried Goose’s lips, as he hurried into cleaner-tasting air away from the ambush and the puffs of gunpowder from the gunshots him and Harley and them — Fuckhead Squad — aimed behind theyselfs. Mud boot-splashed up onto Goose’s face and mouth. He mighta ate a gecko. Acrid ash filtered onto his tongue, and so did the dreary rinse of a slow drizzle. Vietnamese rain tasted of old tea and fresh earthworms.
Prolly the sniper was aiming for Goose, Goose reckoned that now. But Sam done got in trouble for collaborating with the Americans, so at the time, Goose thunk they was ambushing Sam to execute him as a traitor.
In the next couple seconds, Masterson and Berringer took it too. Goose ain’t gotto taste they brains though.
Goose stood with his hands in the air, surrounded by the comfortable trailers of his West Virginia home, tasting the blood and chewy ear of a Vietnamey he done bit before they got him and Harley surrounded in that jungle. He saw cops pointing guns at him, but his tongue stayed trained on Vietnam. Surrender tasted like chicory.
He musta done gone and went off again. He frightened the ladies of Smashwood Trailer Park enough that the police came to take him on away.
Buck sawn it. That put shame in Goose’s soul. He admiredta be the rock for that boy, and there he was shrieking and screaming like a sheep at slaughter. He mighta begged, he dunno who he was begging for what, but Goose felt it happen and Buck prolly seed it. A boy need a rock to anchor him, like a man need a wife to tame him.
He’s in jail again. Goose be jammed, a pecan stuck in driftwood.
“Martin.” T’was Masterson’s voice. He came outuva mist yanway into Goose’s cell, followed by Berringer. Them both was yankees, but Goose got no quarrel with ’em. A distant drum sounded, bouncing on the sobs of a melody.
“Where’d you two come from?” Goose asked. He sat up upon his bunk. “You dead.”
Berringer nodded.
“You aren’t. You’re as alive as the jungle,” Masterson said.
Goose liketa say something. He got too many words fighting for a spot upon his tongue, so his mouth only opened, and nothing came out. Masterson waited long enough for Goose to not say all the things he wanna say, and Masterson and Berringer nodded like they knew ’em already.
“Your heart is on fire, your pain a lie, and yet still, you may wash away your unlovelies,” Masterson said. Berringer nodded like a turtle.
“I don’t unnuhstand,” Goose said. He weren’t expecting clarity though, so he ain’t ask no questions. “I wish I died the’uh wit’choo.”
Berringer shook his head. “You don’t. You have a son to be here for. You came home for him.”
“It don’t really feel like I came home,” Goose said. “The resta Fuckhead Squad done move on, I ‘xpect. Those that lived.”
“No,” Berringer said. “They didn’t. They ain’t.” A smile fooled upon his face. “They ain’t done move on still.” His yankee accent clashed with his Appalachian words. “Nobody has. Maybe nobody does. They are all hungry ghosts, and we are mere peaches.”
“The past never goes away, Martin,” Masterson said. Ain’t nobody in the Army call him Martin. His squadmates called him Goose. Officers called him Sampson. Only in death did his proper name emerge.
“Why not?”
“The past is your river. Remember that rivers never flow in a circle,” Masterson said. “Your pain and your anger is the Navy bringing you home. The route is long, but the way is wise.”
Berringer added, “In life, in death, in the next life, in heaven or hell, home is always there, waiting for you with enlightenment and grace.”
Goose shrank back. He ain’t understand they’s words, but he couldn’t concentrate on ’em anyway. Masterson and Berringer remained blurry like glasses, and the mist they arrived in spread into Goose’s cell. “I dunno what you is sayin’,” Goose said. “What if’n I hurt my son?”
“What happens will happen and will be a step closer to home, for him and for you,” Masterson said.
Goose sniffled. “Things felt right in Vietnam. With y’all and me and Harley, when we was together, it felt right. It wasn’t, but it felt right, or that part of it did.”
“That is because we were on the same path to different homes then,” Berringer said. “The brotherhood of the same path can still be there for you.”
“Seek brotherhood, and you will find home,” Masterson said. “Go now, Martin. You have work a-plenty ahead of you.”
They walked back into the mist then, leaving Goose to his studyment. He dried out for what may have been eons in the jail cell. He dunno if he slept, he dunno if he raged and fought someone, he dunno if he sobbed or hung hisself. He just was.
By the time Goose’s head was clear as a mirror, he was sitting in the interrogation room in Precinct 17. Sheriff Torkelson came on in. He had a dense mustache, properly trimmed, though his chin and cheeks was grizzled with unshaved scruff. His work-hard face was haggard as a burnt-down barn.
Sheriff Torkelson looked down his nose at Goose for a long time. Then he sat in the chair opposite Goose. “You gonna behave proper, son? I don’t like fellers kicking up in mah town.”
“Yessuh.”
A long pause sat between ’em. Goose was still dazed, like he was wrapped in cotton balls. He couldn’t remember how long it’d been since the cops came for him. He wouldn’ta been surprised to learn that was an hour ago or last month.
“So what happened?” Sheriff Torkelson asked.
Goose shrugged. “J’st lost it, suh,” he said.
“Lost what?”
Goose shrugged again. “Dunno. But it’s gone.”
“You gotsta get a grip, son. War’s over. Act like it,” Torkelson said. His mustache showed off a frown. “Don’t nobody got no sympathy for a stuck man. Move yaself on, or I’ll move ya.” Sheriff Torkelson wrinkled his nose, which made his mustache wrinkle, which caused his lip to tremble, which resulted in the dimpling of his cheeks.
“Since you a veteran, I’ll give you a chance to prove yaself, to show that you is dedicated to stayin’ outta trouble.” Torkelson stood up. He looked down his nose at Goose, then he dropped his uniform britches just low enough to bare his crotch. He lowered his tight-whites too, and his fattyfoo popped Goose on the forehead.
With a roll of his eyes, Goose opened his mouth. He considered saying no, telling the sheriff to send him to prison, but Goose ain’t wanna miss out on Buck. If he was in prison, he wouldn’t even get a visit with Buck, and he wouldn’t be able to send no money to Miss Junebug (that’s who Buck was currently staying with and pretending she was his grammaw).
So he parted his lips, and Sheriff Torkelson pushed his cock in. The flavor of unwashed flesh hit Goose’s tongue. He done tasted much worse. He ain’t pluss about it. He just closed his eyes and pretended he was floating down the lazy Monongahela, going with the flow, accepting the currents and rapids for what they is. Can’t blame a dick for stiffing, can’t blame a river for flowing, can’t blame a feller for doing what is to be done.
Ain’t so bad. Goose focused on not gagging. Steve and Sam and all the rest was exaggerating when they went gaggy-waggy. Or maybe Goose’s pecker tasted worse than others. Maybe bigger dicks tasted worse than littler ones.
“Hmmmmmmm…” Torkelson murmured. His balls swayed afronta Goose’s chin. Goose’s lips stretched around the shaft until he could swallow the whole thing.
It firmed up slowly against Goose’s tongue. Torkelson pumped his hips, humping the wetness of Goose’s mouth. Goose’s muscles tensed and quivered, as it took all of his concentration to not gag. It weren’t hard. Or maybe it was, it seemed like it’d be easy if he could quit off thinking about it. Like maybe if he was watching TV, then it’d be fine.
Torkelson’s whole cock fit in Goose’s mouth, and his nose got a deep sniff of Torkelson’s coppery pubes. His face was nuzzled deep in that crotch hair, which mighta been longer than his dick. The hairs was scratchy and woolish.
“You might wanna take a job on an oil rig,” Torkelson said, his voice rumbling and wavering, like he was stone-facing, though Goose could see only them short and curlies. His pecker pulsated against Goose’s tongue. “Get yaself outta town, make a few bucks. Can’t get in trouble if you is tired from work. You unduhstand me?”
Goose nodded with the cock in his mouth, and the motion triggered a gag he couldn’t swallow down. A mouthload of saliva and precum plopped into Goose’s lap. That liketa trigger another gag, maybe even a retch, but Goose worked out that one. He choked it back.
“Cuz this is ya second chance, son-” Torkelson grunted, and his voice broke. He put his hands on Goose’s head, leaning onto him and pumping his hips back and forth. He was treating Goose’s throat like a pussy now, and his droopy ballsack slapped over and over on Goose’s chin. “You won’t get a third one.”
Cum spurted into Goose’s mouth. It was goopy and cottony, intensely salty, and Goose couldn’t help but retch now. Sheriff Torkelson let out a hair-raising moan, and his sweaty balls crawled up in his sac. Fat bursts of jizz overflowed from Goose’s mouth and splattered all over his face.
“Swallow it, son,” Sheriff Torkelson said, his dick throbbing in Goose’s mouth like a second heart. A few more drops dribbled into Goose’s mouth. “Don’t let it spill,” he said as he slowly withdrew his cock, which dribbled a couple final drops of nut onto Goose’s chin.
Goose hadta fight against his urge to gag or spit or let it plop outta his mouth. That was tough. That was worth a gag. Goose couldn’t resist anyway, so he let himself gag as he struggled to swallow. Jizz slid like snot down his throat, and it sat hotly in his belly.
“Ewwcckkk…” He did spit up some. It even came out his nostrils when he couldn’t keep it down. It wetted his shirt to his chest. He recomposed hisself, then let out one more gag.
“Hmm-hmm…” Sheriff Torkelson murmured as though he was expecting yet disappointed by Goose’s gagging.
Goose looked up and quieted his throat. “Yessuh,” he said, clutching his belly to keep from spitting up all that jizz he just swallowed.
“Get outta here, son,” Sheriff Torkelson said once his dick was tucked away. “And don’t lemme catch you raisin’ a ruckus again in mah town.”

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 2

The White Trash Veteran

It rained like rhythmic broth in the marshy jungle north of camp. The crippety call of crickets and the rattatat of machine guns boomed outta the steamy yonder and combined with the chop-chop of the helicopters overhead and the chirrup of the frogs and the splashing of Goose’s heavy boots in wetland muck, and his huffing breath lingered like saxophone sounds amid the clap-a-clap of his gun jostling to and fro.
Bwooooooooosh — schhhllaaat!
A bomb went off somewhere, and men cried out — maybe a landmine — them voices sounded gooky. They bumped and chattered and clashed crashing syllables somewhere nearabouts, maybe all around. The echoic jungle indistinctly whooshed past Goose’s ears, as he boot-splashed in some direction or possibly a different one.
“Woo-jai-goo!” sparked some gook, or some shit like that, it all sounded the same to Goose, who just arrived in Vietnam last week. Already, he be plussing.
More ding-dong chatter sounded from thisaway and thataway and yanway and from up on over yonder too, and Goose unclipped his gun. He dunno which direction to point it in, as all he heared now was the jungle calls of critters creepy-crawling. Vietnam got more bugs than sense. Goose hoped to draw his firearm.
But his hand was empty. No gun.
Goose had it a moment ago. Did he drop it?
“Stop! Stop right where you are! Hands in the air!” One the gooks had stellar English, with drawl and a trace of twang. Sounded like he was from somewhere proper, maybe Tennessee.
The peal of a siren shattered Goose’s rainy shards into panes of togethertude, and he stupored into stillness.
Cops surrounded him. Guns aimed himward. The sun blared in his eyes. No endless canopy clouding overhead. No wetlands under his boots. No helicopter sounds.
He was in America. Tennessee? Maybe. Pennsylvania? Indiana? Were those real places? Goose never was convinced Delaware was real.
“Put your hands in the air!” shouted the insistent cop in the lead. His gun glinted in the sun. He had a groomed mustache liketa grow into a beard but never quite got there.
“Aaaah… shit,” Goose said. He ain’t know where he was or what done happen. For a moment, he couldn’t even remember leaving Vietnam. Had he rotated out? Gone AWOL? Fragged his commander? Or did he die there?
Goose sunk to his knees. His mind still whirred as facts filed back into place. He recollected now the floaty-boat back to America. He was honorably discharged, if you can believe it, like a fucking knight. He did the paperwork. He got a medal. The cops stormed forth and slapped cuffs on him. Goose stumbled to the black and white, policemen shoving him this way and that like a sturdy man in a Navy brig, and they squeezed him into the backseat.
Martinsburg seemed very far away. Goose don’t know where he was, so t’was possible it was nearby, but it felt afar. He ain’t wanna ask after his current locale cuz he was feeling lazy in mind and soul, like a pecan floating down the gentle Monongahela. Nothing that happens now matters, because everything done happen, back in Vietnam. His ache for Ellen and for li’l Moses Buck was only a minor eddy in the current of the universe, and there was something comforting in the meaninglessness of it all.
The next few hours swirled through a relentless, incomprehensable tornado of questions and photographs.
But eventually it was over, and he lay in his jail cell, both sobering up and piecing together. He done start a fist and skull with a lippy larry in a bar, and then everything went blurry. He brawled ’em all like a hillbilly do. He punched up purple at a cop in his blues, then, seeing red, Goose took the cop’s black and white. He was going inside for sure. Hopefully for just a couple months.
“You okay, hillbilly?” came a deep voice from the cell next to him. It had a distinct New England tone to it, a portion of stawk and a dose of yip. Not quite New York, not quite Massachusetts. Yankee for sure.
“Who you callin’ hillbilly?!” Goose said as he sat up, which got him swimmy-headed. “Yankee bastard.”
The man across the way, with half-gray curls atop his squareness, chuckled. “Where you think you’s at, hillbilly?”
Goose shrugged. “Good question.”
“You’s in New Juusey,” said the man. “Name’s Dutch.” They both nodded back to each other. “You an Army man?”
Goose nodded. He rubbed his sore temple. “Yeah-um.” He grunted. “It’s 1976, right?”
“Yup.”
“When’s suppuh?”
“You had yu’s. You puked it up,” Dutch said. “You might get Castle to let you make yuuself a sandwich.” He sniffled and shrugged. “Prolly not. He’s a dick.”
Goose sighed. “Fine.” His belly done went queasy as a weasel anyway. He laid back on the bunk. He closed his eyes. He thunk he stayed awake and that only a few seconds passed, but when he opened his eyes, it was hours later. He awoke to the jailhouse door slamming shut, as a uniformed cop came in, looking like a blob-shape frown. He got a scruffy beard and a eyepatch over his right eye, which was blue as the Pacific Ocean.
He stopped at the cell bars by Goose’s head. His nametag read Castle. He held a clipboard. “You alive?”
“Yes suh.”
“What’s ya name, son?”
“Nobody.”
“Fingerprints gonna bring up a name?”
“Yes suh.”
Castle let out a long sigh. “Then why not tell me-?”
“J’st look at mah dog tag!” Goose said. He took off his dog tag and tossed it at Castle, who caught it.
A long pause sat ‘tween them two, and it grew like kudzu, snaking and sneaking, encircling the cell in sullen silence. Goose wondered if Castle done walk away, but he ain’t move his head to see. It was nice to stare at the ceiling, which was solid and unchanging.
“You gonna kill yaself?” Officer Castle finally asked. He scratched his eyepatch, which made him wrinkle his nose.
“No suh.”
“You got any medical whatevers?”
“No suh.”
“Good,” Castle said. He sniffled and rubbed his nose, which again made him wince. He dropped the clipboard and held it by his side. He looked at Goose for the first time since coming in here. “You okay?”
Goose shrugged.
“Ya public defender will be here in the morning.”
“Uh-huh,” Goose said.
“You took a swing at me earlier.”
“Sorry ’bout that. Suh.”
“Sorries don’t cut it, son. What happened? You was putting out crazy,” Officer Castle said. He paused but Goose kept them peepers trained on the ceiling. Goose was thinking of a response, but he ain’t show it and he ain’t wanna give nothing that sound like excuses. Officer Castle frowned so hard Goose heard it. “You lost control. You look strong, but you got weakness in you, son. You too weak to control yaself.” He took a step to the side, where’n he could better see Goose’s face. “You too weak, son-“
“I heared ya.”
“Well? You satisfied with that? Jesus Christ do pull thorns from the paws of lions, son. The pro’lem with you is you think you’re the lion, waiting for Jesus to show up. But really, you’s the thorn,” Castle said.
“Yessuh.” There was a huge bulge in Goose’s boxer shorts. He got a gigantic cock, and the too-small boxers made that obvious. He rearranged it so it didn’t look like he had a hardon. Rearranging it made it look like he did have a hardon and was concealing it.
“If you wanna take carea that stiffy, Dutch’ll jerk you off,” Castle said. He walked off, snorting at Dutch, who was in the cell leaning against his bars and smoking a cigarette.
“Yes suh.” Goose sat up and chuckled. He waggled his dick in his army-green drawers. The door to the jailhouse swung shut, and the lock loudly engaged.
All was still and silent. With no noise, Goose’s ears pricked up, and he soon heared the whirr of the ventilation system, the plink-plink of water dripping somewhere, the scurrying of a mouse in the walls. Them was good sounds, and a sortuva holy calm came over him for a few seconds, lasting until his thoughts commenced to pondering again.
He looked across the way at Dutch.
“I don’t gotta jerk you off.” Dutch puffed on his cigarette from across the way. “You got anything on you? Cigarettes?”
Goose patted his pockets and pulled out two nickels and a lighter. He showed them to Dutch. “Shit… I don’t got none. Can I get a cigarette?”
“No,” Dutch said as though that shoulda been obvious. Then he peered closer at the lighter. “Lemme see the lighter. If it’s full, I’ll trade you a couple cigarettes for it.” Dutch came outta his cell and over to Goose’s. Goose handed him the lighter, which Dutch hefted in one hand and looked at it in the light to see the silhouette of the level of fluid inside. Then he swiped the nickels too. “Three cigarettes.”
Goose nodded. He took the three cigarettes from Dutch and lit one. “I’s in New Juhsey?” he said as he exhaled. That only now sunk into his brain. “How’d I get to New Juhsey?”
“How in the name of Christ could I know that?” Dutch asked. He snubbed his cigarette butt out. He returned to his cell and laid down on the bunk with a magazine in hand. He leafed through it.
Goose puffed on his cigarette. The smoke felt good in his lungs, and it invigorated him. He felt truly alive, and for the first time since he woke up, all five senses was firmly in America.
“I’da signed up, you know, I’da done my part,” Dutch said. He was nose-deep in his magazine yet, laying in his bunk. “If I wasn’t in here. And if I was young enough. I’da signed up for the Army. Or maybe Navy, my dad was Navy.”
“Navy is a buncha nancies,” Goose said. He stood and jogged in place, which made his fat cock jiggle in his britches. Now that he was feeling fully awake, he really did admireta get a nut off, like Castle said. It’d help him get back to sleep. No point in doing anything else here but sleep.
First he finished his cigarette, and he did a quick workout in his cell. That helped settle the heeby-jeebies in his belly. He stopped when the push-ups reminded him of boot camp.
Dutch fiddled with the radio in his cell, trying to pick up a channel that was mostly static. He moved the radio round to find an effective spot. When that proved ineffective, he left his cell and went to the back of the jailhouse. The song finally came in clear. Dutch nodded his head in tune with the beat liketa dance, but he couldn’t cuz he was holding the radio in the one spot where it worked.
Goose checked his cell door, which was locked. “Why’s your’n unlocked?”
Dutch scowled, bopping his head to the beat. “I’m the trustee. I’m allowed out.”
“Ooooh, you the bucket trustee. Mil’tary police had them,” Goose said. He grabbed his cock through his boxers and waggled it in Dutch’s direction.
With a scowl, Dutch came to Goose’s cell and withdrew a key from his pocket. He unlocked the door and came in. “I’m doin’ it how — eckkkk…!” He stopped short when he seed the size of the basket in Goose’s boxers. He whistled. “Shit, you hillbillies don’t play. Don’t even think about puttin’ that in my ass. I don’t do that, Sheriff says I don’t gotto, no matter what. Not even the colored cops can make me do it. He said so.”
“Fine. I don’t wan’cha ass,” Goose said. He pulled down his boxers and thwacked his hefty cock against the palm of his hand. “C’mon, I won’t be able to sleep without blowin’ a nut.”
“Lay on ya bunk,” Dutch said. “I’m not gettin’ on my knees. Don’t blow in my mouth. I’m allowed to hit you if you do.”
“Fine-” Goose aimed his dick at Dutch.
“You can shoot ya nut into the toilet,” Dutch said.
Goose said with a weary sigh. “Fine. J’st do it, Dutch. Jaysus Christ, New Juhsey fellers do thangs slow.” He got one hand working up and down his limpness, but he weren’t trying to get it hard.
“I’m from Rhode Island,” Dutch said.
Goose snorted and settled back on his bunk, boxers round his ankles. Dutch bent over and took Goose’s dick in one hand. He gave it a couple strokes, then lowered his tongue and licked it from tip to root.
It firmed up in his hand. Dutch used just one hand at first, his tongue teasing the tip, slobbering up spit. Then he put both hands on it and kept at it hard. He kept sticking his tongue out like he was gonna lick it again, but his tongue barely touched the tip a couple times.
“C’mon, t’ain’t-“
“I’m gettin’ you off, I choose how to do it!” Dutch said. His tongue teased Goose’s knob, then he winced and pulled away. He spat into the toilet.
“It won’t get hard like that,” Goose said. “C’mon, put’cha mouth on it. Swaller it. I won’t force it in, I won’t throat ya down, I swan.”
Dutch rolled his eyes, but he did stretch his mouth around the tip. He teased it with his tongue. He kept going with both hands too, and Goose’s cock firmed up. It throbbed against Dutch’s lips.
The more Dutch mouthed up on it, the more it tasted like spit, not pecker, so Dutch found it easier and easier. His tongue rocked up and down the shaft, but he didn’t move past the first couple inches, making no effort to throat it. Goose ain’t complain.
Soon enough, his dick was rock-hard, and Goose let out a moan. Dutch ain’t throat it none yet, but he kept both hands on the shaft and his lips upon the knob.
Then all at once, Goose grabbed Dutch’s head and at the same time precum slipped out onto Dutch’s tongue. Goose ain’t force his dick in, but he did push down on Dutch’s head, just enough to signal what he wanted. Dutch paused, pulled off and cast a glare up at him, then moved back to Goose’s cocktip. After a few more seconds, he was overcome by a gag. He leaned over to the toilet and spat into it.
“Ewck, you taste awful,” Dutch said. He gagged up more spit into the toilet.
Overcome by a desire to nut, Goose hurried to a standing position. Dutch was bent over the toilet, so Goose grabbed him by the head and forced his dick into Dutch’s open mouth. Dutch’s broad shoulders tensed up.
He tapped then patted then outright hit Goose on his thighs and the meaty part of his asscheeks. Dutch tried to wrench his head away, but Goose kept a tight hold on his scalp. Goose pistoned his hips. He ain’t force his meat down Dutch’s throat, but he did push it to the backa his mouth and ain’t let Dutch spit it out. That meant precum slicked up Dutch’s throat.
“C’mon, swaller it, j’st throat it a li’l-” Goose murmured. He stopped when his cock hit the back of Dutch’s throat — as far as Goose was concerned, that meant he lived up to his part of the bargain. He hadn’t forced it in, hadn’t “throated him down”, as they say in prison.
But Dutch erupted in gags and whoops, and he shoved Goose off. He spat up into the toilet. “Nah! No way! That ain’t how I do it! No-” His chest muscles roiled and undulated, as he retched again. Goopy white precum clung to his lips and his teeth.
Goose slipped the tip of his dick back into Dutch’s mouth, and despite his protestations, Dutch did swallow the first couple inches. He kept both hands on the root to keep Goose from throating him down. A few meaningless syllables slipped out when Goose let his cocktip come in one of leaving Dutch’s mouth, but Goose ain’t let up enough for Dutch to form any words, specially once Goose felt his orgasm burgeoning deep within him.
Cum spurted into Dutch’s mouth, and Goose sighed grandly. He held firmly onto Dutch’s head, pleasure roiling Goose’s chest, until Dutch managed to drag himself off and gasp for breath. Goose’s second wad spurted onto Dutch’s face. Goose bent his knees to aim his dick for Dutch’s open mouth, as he clasped Goose by the thighs and tried to push him away.
That meant his third and fourth jizzwad jetted straight into Dutch’s mouth, huge fat wads that overflowed and were instantly retched out. Dutch spat up jizz all over his stony face, which turned red as he tried to catch his wind. With his hands behind his back, Goose rammed his meat at Dutch’s mouth and let it rope up his face, so his final couple cumwads matted Dutch’s hair.
“I said no-!” Dutch was overcome by a gag, and he spat up more cum into the toilet. Goose finished himself off with both hands, shooting a few driblets of creamy jizz over Dutch’s face and head.
“Sheeit, sorry, Dutch,” Goose said with a throaty chuckle, his voice wavering cuz the aftershocks of an intense orgasm still rocked him. He thwacked his limpening moist meat onto Dutch’s ear and the side of his cheek.
Dutch scooted away and wiped his face off, holding back gag after gag. He shot Goose a stern look. “Fuck you, asshole,” he said, hoarse as a horse. “That was it, no more. No matter how long you’s here.”
Bouncing his meat between his two hands, Goose chuckled. “Yeah. We’ll see, Dutch.”

The White Trash Veteran

When Goose returns from Vietnam, he thought he’d be coming home again. But nothing could be further from the truth! He’s gotta travel for work and to escape the police, and that’s gonna send him an odyssey of alpha male man-on-man action, Buddhist enlightenment and raunchy, filthy situations!

Goose is in for a bevy of rednecks, machos, hicks, hillbillies, soldiers and more, as he overcomes his hangups from war and finds a way home to his family.

It’s free! Read it now as an ebook or read the whole story on this site!