Date: Wed, 8 Feb 2012 20:07:30 -0800 (PST)
From: Macout Mann <macoutmann@yahoo.com>
Subject: Before "Don't ask, don't tell" 4

This is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or
to actual events is purely coincidental.  This story also contains explicit
sexual activity between males.  If such offends you, or if you are below
the age where reading such material is legal, please read no further.
Feedback is appreciated.  macoutmann@yahoo.com.


		      BEFORE "DON'T ASK, DON'T TELL"

			      by Macout Mann

				 Chapter 4


When Morgan reached home, he found a letter waiting from his future Chief
of Staff.  It welcomed him warmly, told him about the climate in Pusan,
said that he shouldn't bring tennis gear or golf clubs, and that he would
not need Dress White uniforms, but that he should bring Dress Blues and
Dress Khakis.  It stressed that khaki work uniforms would always be the
uniform of the day.  It also said that he would arrive via Air Force
transport and there should be a Navy sedan or jeep at the air strip outside
Pusan when he arrived, but if there wasn't he could call and a vehicle
would be sent to bring him to Pier I, where the Navy Command was
headquartered.

The Chief of Staff added that things were pretty informal at ComSeaCoor,
and that he was looking forward to seeing him in person.  The tone of the
letter gave Morgan a good feeling about his assignment, and was written not
in Navy Format, but like an ordinary personal letter.  It was signed,
"Sincerely, James Clemmons, Capt., USNR."  Morgan thought it was
interesting that the Chief of Staff was a reservist.  He'd obviously been
recalled to active duty, because of the Korean Conflict.

Morgan's two weeks leave passed very quickly.  It was good to spend time
with his family.  It would be over a year at the least, before he'd see
them again.  He also checked in with Gus, his old tennis pro.  They played
a couple of sets and made a date for dinner.  After dinner they returned to
Gus' place for a nightcap and a passionate farewell.

Cupping Morgan's balls Gus said, "I envy those navy guys that are goanna
get to play with these."

"Don't kid yourself.  I'll probably be lucky to find a place even to
jackoff."

"I guess it's up to me then."

Gus gobbled Morgan up.  Morgan savored the feeling of Gus' lips slipping up
and down the length of his tool.  He remembered the ecstasy he'd
experienced the first time Gus brought him to climax nine years ago.
Tonight Gus didn't want Morgan to cum in his mouth.  He wanted it in his
ass.  Morgan was more than happy to oblige.

Morgan rammed his dick deep into Gus' colon.  "Shit," Gus moaned, "give me
something to remember."

"Remember this!" Morgan cried.  He raised his hips so only his bulb
penetrated Gus' ass, and then rammed it home again.....and again.

He remembered how quickly he'd dropped his load the first time they'd had
sex.  Now he was able to hold out, edging in his mentor's ass, until
finally he dumped squirt after squirt into Gus' chute.  "That must've been
at least a cup," Gus moaned.

They were both exhausted.  But Morgan did remember to tell Gus, "Hey, man,
you may get a call from a guy named Skip. He'll mention my name.  He's one
hot fuck.  So, don't kiss him off."


Morgan's college roommate, Rick Richardson, was straight, but he and Morgan
were really good friends.  Morgan was going to stop in Denver to visit him,
so he left Cinci a day early to allow time before he was to report in San
Francisco.  His folks wished he'd stayed, but he set off, and made his
first discovery about the confusion people had about naval rank.

Kissed by his mom and embraced by his dad, he boarded the DC7.  He was in
his Dress Blues, because servicemen in uniform flew half-priced in those
days.  He found himself seated next to a grizzled army colonel.
Remembering his protocol classes, since he was uncovered he did not salute,
but he greeted his companion, "Good morning, colonel."

"Umph," was the reply.

Morgan was seriously pissed.  So when the colonel asked, "You Merchant
Marine?"  he replied curtly, "No."

Now Morgan had a cousin, Catherine, who worked in Space Control at American
Airlines in D. C.  She had seen his name on the passenger list.  Morgan, of
course had no idea.  But as soon as the plane was in the air and passengers
were to be served, the stewardess came and said. "Mr. Bowen, it is
certainly an honor to have you on board.  Let us know if there is anything
we can do to make your trip more comfortable.  Would you like coffee?"

"Thank you," Morgan replied.

Turning to the colonel, she asked, "And you?"

Suddenly thinking his seatmate was somebody important, the colonel regaled
Morgan with all his troubles until they reached Dallas, how he was unhappy
with his new assignment at Fort Hood, how it was terrible that officers
with experience like his were not being sent into 8th Army posts where they
could use their WWII knowhow, how...

The plane was late landing at Love Field in Dallas.  In those days it was
not unusual for a connecting flight to be held for passengers from an
overdue incoming plane.  But, as Morgan descended from the DC7 followed by
the colonel, he was met by an American Airlines agent. "Mr. Bowen," he
said, "we're transferring your baggage now.  If you will follow me, your
plane is ready for takeoff ."

Morgan followed the agent across the tarmac to an isolated DC7, its engines
already turning.  As he reached the top of the air stairs, Morgan saw the
colonel still standing where he'd left him, open mouthed, his hands on both
hips.


At Denver Morgan reached the bottom of the air stairs to see Rick at the
gate doing fancy salutes and dancing around like a circus clown.  Morgan
returned the salute, and said, "Too bad you haven't been drafted.  You too
could serve your country!"

Rick's father came up and shook Morgan's hand.  "Great that you're in
uniform, Morgan.  It'd be good for Rick, if he was too."

The twenty-four hours Morgan spent in Denver was pleasant, if uneventful.
There was lots of horseplay between him and Rick. and some innuendo that
made Morgan wonder if Rick knew he was gay.

Before returning to the airport, he did mention to Rick's dad that he
hadn't made reservations in San Francisco.  Could he suggest a hotel?

"I always stay at the St. Francis," Mr. Richardson replied.  "And it really
goes out of its way for naval officers.  They and traveling salesmen were
what kept the hotel from going bankrupt during the depression.  I'll send a
wire to tell them to expect you."


It was four o'clock, San Francisco time, when Morgan arrived at the
St. Francis and told the desk clerk that he had wired ahead for a room.
"I'm sorry, Ensign, but all our rooms were already booked, when we received
your request.  We can put a rollaway in the living room of one of our
suites for you, though, and move you to a single in the morning, if that
will be agreeable."

"Certainly," Morgan replied.  "Thank you very much."

And that's how Ensign Morgan Bowen managed to spend a night in the opulence
of Suite M, the suite renamed in honor of General Douglas MacArthur after
his stay there, when he was relieved of command by President Truman.

Morgan did know one person in San Francisco, a girl he had dated in high
school.  She had gone to Kent State but had dropped out and moved to the
west coast.  Someone had given him her phone number while he was home.  He
gave her a call.

She seemed delighted to hear from him and said, "We're going to have dinner
at Mario's.  It's on Broadway, which is about two blocks up the hill from
your hotel.  Why don't you meet us there at six?"

Morgan agreed.

It didn't occur to Morgan to change into civilian clothes, so he was still
in Dress Blues, when he arrived at the restaurant.  It had a large cocktail
lounge in front, which ran the full width of the establishment.  The dining
room was in the rear.  The lounge was empty, except for two enlisted
Marines at a corner table.  Morgan went to the bar and told the bartender,
"I was to meet Miss Aronson here."

"They haven't come yet," the bartender replied.  "Would you like a drink
while you wait?"

"I'll have a martini."

While his drink was being prepared, Morgan noticed that the Marines had
vanished.  He had been watching the front door, and they hadn't left that
way, but for the time being he didn't give it a second thought.  He just
sipped his drink in silence and waited.

It was about fifteen minutes later that Dot Aronson and three other girls
arrived.  Dot was as pretty and shapely as he remembered her.  So was one
of her companions.  They greeted each other warmly and moved into the
dining room.

Now Morgan had never been into the "homo scene."  It had never occurred to
him that there were women who liked women.  The bars he'd been to, even in
Scully Square or Greenwich Village, where he might meet someone interested
in what he was interested in, were "swinging" places, not "gay."  But as he
and his companions enjoyed pre-dinner cocktails, it became very clear why
the marines he'd seen earlier had fled the premises.  In fact, the girls
teased that they should have invited him to dine at a place that was
"off-limits."  And Dot's companion, whom he would later describe as a "bull
dyke" with a motorcycle in her garage, made it quite clear Morgan's dick
was to stay in his pants, when he was around Dot.

Still he adjusted well.  They enjoyed a very good meal.  And after dinner
Dot and her friend, Jane, volunteered to introduce him to San Francisco
nightlife.  But first he would have to get out of uniform.

The girls were appropriately impressed with the furnishings of Suite M,
while he changed into a blue blazer and chinos.  Then they were off.  Back
to Broadway.

He was assured that the bar they visited was not "off limits," but it was
apparent that the few women there were with other women, and that the men,
the vast majority of the clientele, were not interested in any of the
girls.  In fact the bartender, a hunk that Morgan couldn't keep his eyes
off of, made it quite clear that he had similar feelings for Morgan.

To maintain his image with his companions, Morgan told Dot that the
bartender was making eyes at him.  She laughed and told Jane that Morgan
was afraid of the bartender.  "Don't worry," Morgan was told, "he's
harmless."

Before they left, however, the girls went to the ladies' room while Morgan
settled their tab.  Among the change he received was a slip of paper,
"Jerry.  547-9358, after 12 noon," it read.

The girls finished the evening by taking Morgan down the street to the
Beige Room, a gay nightclub frequented by as many straight tourists as
gays.  They watched a female impersonator do as good a show as Morgan had
ever seen.  Then they dropped him back at the St. Francis.

Next morning, while the hotel was moving him to a single, he went to report
for duty.  He had assumed that he would fly out of San Francisco; but no,
he was to sail on the USS Shelby, a troop transport that would carry
infantrymen to fight in Korea, dependents to join their families in Japan,
and officers of all services being posted to the Far East.  He learned that
while most transports were USNS ships manned by civilian crews, the Shelby
was a commissioned vessel with a navy crew, considered to be more ocean
liner than transport.  He was very lucky to be assigned.  And the ship
wouldn't sail for two more days.

So back at the hotel, Morgan called Jerry around twelve-thirty.  "Hi,"
Jerry said, "I didn't really think you'd call.  But I'm glad you did.

"My schedule doesn't fit anybody else's.  I go to work at six, get off at
two, and sleep `til noon.  Can we get together?"

"Sure," Morgan replied.  "I'm at the St. Francis, Room 514.  Not too far
from where you work.  Why don't you stop by?"

"What about 2:30?"

"Sounds great."


Morgan ordered ice and a fifth of Scotch from Room Service, and settled in
to wait for Jerry's arrival.  Jerry saw Morgan's uniform in the closet
first thing and said, "Oh.  Seafood."

"Yep," Morgan answered, "and why isn't a strapping specimen like you in
service?"

"Me?  I just got out six months ago.  Fuckin' Marines.  Lucky though.
Spent my whole enlistment stateside."

Morgan's eyes feasted on the other man's body.  He was dressed just as he
was at work the night before.  A pink knit shirt, its arms stretched by
Jerry's rippling biceps and his ample pecs and sloping torso enticingly
filling the remaining fabric.  At work his large white apron covered his
tight black trousers, but now his bulge was nicely apparent.

"Well," Morgan said, "the sight of you must have got a hellova lot of
recruits hard."

Jerry laughed.  "More than you'd think."

Morgan told about the two Marines he'd seen the night before, and Jerry
laughed again.  "Yeah.  They probably thought somebody'd squealed on `em,
and you were ONI or something.  Sneaked out through the kitchen, I'll bet."

Morgan offered Jerry a Scotch and he said he'd take a light one.  They
chatted for several minutes, then Jerry said, "Hell, man, I didn't come up
here to talk, and you're a damned good looking fucker yourself.  I wanna
see what's underneath those chinos."

Morgan stood, and Jerry moved over and grasped Morgan's crotch with one
hand, while unbuckling his belt and opening his fly with the other.  "Nice
dick," Jerry whispered.

Meanwhile, Morgan rubbed Jerry's chest and slipped his hands down to his
new partner's hardening tool.  "You too," Morgan panted.

They stripped each other and slipped into the three sheeted bed the
St. Francis was famous for.  They began by pleasuring each other's dicks
alternately, then sixty-nined, until they reached their first orgasm.
Almost three hours later, after each had received his third dose of cum,
they showered together.  And then it was time for Jerry to leave for work.
They agreed to repeat the encounter the next afternoon.

After all, Morgan figured, it would be many months before he had his dick
down the throat or up the ass of another guy.


Copyright 2011 by Macout Mann.  All rights reserved.

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