[DISCLAIMER: If you're not of legal age to read stories of male-to-male intimacy, or if it is illegal to do so where you are, right now, this very second ... then please ... leave, and return ONLY when and where it is legal for you to do so. If reading about sexual intimacy, feelings, yearnings and the like, between people of the same sex offends you, the author asks that you, too, leave and find expressions to your likings elsewhere. And remember ... "Judge not, that ye be not judged." Comments, both pro and con, including constructive criticism, are welcomed.]


Many thanks and much appreciation to Bill in Seattle for his time and attention in his beautiful editing of my writing. He has made it much, much easier to read and comprehend. Hugs and kisses, Bill. I love ya, guy.



By: ZEKE HOUSEMANN ( zekehousemann@yahoo.com )

This is not a militaristic story, but one of a sailor, in a military environment, that finally experiences the fulfillment of his teen (and even pre-teen) years' sexual stirrings, and his young life's one goal. Then he is thrown into the terror of proceedings that lead to his embarrassing discharge from The United States Navy.

If you're looking for a story filled with sexual scenes, this one is not for you. Yes, there are those scenes here - some mildly graphic ones - but they're not the primary objective of the story. So enjoy, and understand.

Although the story is purely fictitious (with ideas for the storyline taken from tales of several of the author's acquaintances), the events describing the actions of the military reflect the policy and procedure of the time. If you recognize any personal similarities of people described, or names given to them by the author, it is entirely coincidental, except for details of the submarine, SEAHORSE, which details are historical and can easily be read on the Internet, though once it was decommissioned, it was NEVER recommissioned as a training vessel in Groton.



Note: Abbreviations used in this story:

BESS = Basic Enlisted Submarine School; BESSRECSTA = BESS Receiving Station; CO = Commanding Officer; EM = Enlisted Man/Men; ET = Electronics Technician; GQ = General Quarters; HM = Hospital Corpsman; K.P. = Kitchen Police; NEX = Navy Exchange; Commissary (Similar to Army PX); OD = Officer of the Day/Officer on Deck




The next two days were the easiest duty he ever had. As a matter of fact, no duty at all, except for keeping his rack and locker in ship-shape condition, and buffing the hardwood floor of the dormitory room in the BESSRECSTA barracks with a big, heavy, electric buffer.

Most of his free time was spent walking around the base, familiarizing himself with where everything was, but several times a day, he'd walk past the Guard Shack, hoping to see if Zed were on duty ... and alive! Each approach would raise his anticipation and cause his pulse to beat faster. Each walk-by would cause a greater pain in the pit of his stomach.

He even stopped at the NEX and bought a bottle of antacid tablets to alleviate the burning in his gut.

But relief came in an unexpected way -- he was forced to forget about Zed, at least for the time being.

Late morning on Wednesday, July 6th, his new orders came through, and he scurried around re-packing his seabag before the move to his next permanent duty post.

He couldn't believe his good fortune! She was a "Grand Old Lady," the USS Submarine Seahorse (SS-304). She was 311.8 feet in length, her beam (greatest width) was 27.3 feet, and she had a crew capacity of 117 souls. He had heard stories about her engagements during the war with Japan, which had ended just four years ago.

Commissioned on March 31, 1943, and based at Pearl Harbor, she had sunk nineteen enemy ships on patrols around the Pacific theater between August 3, 1943, and August 15, 1945, and had received nine Battle Stars for her outstanding tour of duty. Aside from damaging one transport, three freighters and three tankers, her destroyed victims were:

9 Cargo Ships,

3 Trawlers,

2 Passenger-Cargo Ships,

1 Converted Seaplane Tender,

1 Japanese Submarine,

1 Tanker,

1 Coastal Defense Vessel (an 800 ton frigate), and

1 Junk

Her battlefield ranged from The Marianas to Saipan, Formosa, Luzon, Mindanao, the Palaus, Midway, and Guam.

And, yes, she had been damaged, herself, a few times, but the Japs couldn't put her down.

Gerry learned that she had been decommissioned on March 2, 1946, then overhauled and sent to the Navy Base on the east bank of the Thames River at Groton, CT. There, she would serve as "Wet Trainer" for new Sailors at the Basic Enlisted Submarine School (BESS), into which he had been accepted, by his own request, as no one is assigned to submarine duty otherwise.

But enough of the statistics; any more would probably bore you to the point of abandoning the story.

He couldn't have been happier! He took a Navy bus for the four and a half mile trip from the Receiving Station to BESS. After turning over his orders to the CO, he was told to report onboard the Seahorse. He walked ... almost ran ... the short distance.

He saluted the U.S. National Ensign ("the Flag"), then addressed the OD, "Permission to come aboard, Sir?" It felt wonderful to make the request.

After the formalities and preliminary instructions, he climbed down the ladder into the interior of the boat -- a formidable feat in itself, considering he was hauling his seabag!

Soon he was shown to the sleeping quarters, which he would share with seventeen other sailors. The room in the bowels of the submarine was tiny -- tiny, that is, in order for eighteen grown men to sleep.

(Please bear with me for another moment of specific details. If you've never been aboard a submarine, the following is necessary to provide you with a visual of the living quarters.)

The entire width of the room was only six feet -- two feet of rack space, two feet of passageway, and another two feet of rack space. The length of the room was 27 feet -- nine feet of space for lockers, and eighteen feet of rack space (foot-to-head), six feet per rack. And the stacked racks were only twenty-seven vertical inches apart, with the bottom one, only three inches off the deck! The height of the room was exactly seven feet, allowing three racks, in comparison to the usual upper and lower ones; here were included "middle" ones, as well.

Gerry's eyes bulged. He had heard about the tight living quarters undersea, but this was a bit more drastic than he had imagined.

Suddenly, while stowing his gear once again in an empty locker, his mind conjured visions of eighteen guys simultaneously tumbling out of the closely quartered confines at the call of reveille ... Oh, my God! ... with morning piss hard-ons ... each one jockeying with everyone else to be first at the Head.

Where IS the Head? he wondered.

Leaving his still-not-completely-unpacked seabag on the deck, he walked to and through the aft hatch ("rear doorway," for you landlubbers). Immediately at his left, he saw an ordinary door on which were stenciled the letters "E. M. H.E.A.D." Enlisted Men's Head, he thought, as he entered and looked around. He was astonished. He was shocked.

Four sink basins. One toilet. No urinals. Eight shower Heads in a very small open space.

For eighteen sailors? SHIT! Submariners have to be very friendly, indeed! What have I gotten myself into? Why didn't someone tell me before I signed up for this duty?

"WHAT THE FUCK?" screamed a baritone voice, followed by a physical "THUD!" on the steel deck (floor).

Gerry rushed back into the sleeping quarters as he heard the voice continue, "Who the hell left that mutherfukin' seabag in the middle of the goddam passageway?" (spoken like a true sailor of the "old school") The "voice" was now sitting on its ass rubbing elbows and knees that must have gotten some boo-boos from a fall. Pooooor baby. Oops.

"I'm sorry ..." Gerry began, as the "voice" jerked around and interrupted with, "Who the fuck are YOU?" The speaker's freckles were visibly turning a deeper oxblood-red.

"Gerald Arthur Young, Hospital Corpsman; just came aboard, Sir. Was just checking the Head. Didn't mean ..."

The "voice" cut him off again, "Oh! Pecker-checker, huh? Well ... you leave your damn shit in a passageway again, and somebody'll have you bent over, checkin' their pecker's head from your IN-side! You got that, Mr. Gerald Arthur Young?"

Before Gerry could syllabize a word in answer, the "voice" continued with derision, "Ohhhhh ... Mr. Gerald Arthur Young ... Mis-ter G...A...Y..., huh? You don't say," he smirked.

Gerry lowered his eyes, blushing, while remembering heckles and jeers and embarrassing names those three letters had brought him all through his junior- and high-school years. "They're only initials, Sir, and I had no choice in the matter."

Anticipating a possible bout of fisticuffs, but, instead, seeing the down-cast look on Gerry's face, the "voice" stood up, dusted off the seat of his fatigues, and extended his hand in friendship. "Well, Je..., Jer? Jerry? ... What do people call you?"

Hesitantly reaching out to accept the handshake, Gerry answered, "My friends usually call me `Ger' ... with a `G' ... but it still sounds like `J_e_r'."

"Well ... HM `Jer-with-a-G' ... I'm Frank ... Frank Hadley, and I'm an ET. Shocked you with my little tirade, didn't I?" He smiled as their hands dropped from each other.

(Author's note: Readers, this was 1949. The movie "E.T." would not come out for another 32 years, so Frank offered no weird, spooky, outer-space sounds [which would be comically logical, today, for Frank`s character] after his announcement.)

A momentary loss of words, and then Gerry got the joke ... ET ... Electronics Technician ... shocked. He chuckled, and then balled his fist up and faked a cross shoulder jab. Frank jumped back.

"Yeah, I got it!" Gerry replied. "... And I am sorry about leaving my seabag there. As tight as things are in here, I'll have to remember things like that, Sir."

"And cut the crap with calling me `Sir,' Jer-with-a-G. I'm not an officer ... yet!"

With a deep sigh, Gerry relaxed even more, placed his hands on Frank's shoulders, and turned him sideways as he went to squeeze past, toward the seabag. As they came face to face, crotch grazed crotch, and Gerry unconsciously moved his hips backwards in order to break any further contact down there.

"I'd just stepped aft to find out where the Head was. Can't believe how small it is!"

"Yeah, it gets pretty tight in there, too, particularly with eight or more guys showering at the same time. Just remember not to drop the soap ... unless you want to get shocked again," Frank kidded.

Suddenly, Zed came to mind, lingered a moment, then disappeared just as quickly.

Gerry laughed again, just to be polite. He felt an uncomfortable stirring in his Navy "Whites," standing so close to Frank. What's happening to me? he wondered to himself as he continued moving toward his seabag.

Abruptly, he stopped and turned back to Frank. "Did I hear you right, `eight or more?' There's only eight showerheads, and it doesn't look large enough to hold even that many people!"

"Yeah, that's what I said, Jer-with-a-G. At times, there'll be twelve naked sailors in there at once. Quite a ... sharing ... experience, I'd imagine."

Gerry just stood there, mouth agape, looking dumbfounded.

"Don'tcha know nothin' about life aboard a sub?"

"Evidently not, even though I thought I did."

"Well, good buddy, let me 'splain some things to you while you stow the rest of your gear ... oh, by the way ... have you decided which rack you want?"

"Well, I sorta thought I'd pick this one ..." he indicated a middle one, "... nearest the lockers."

"Sorry. Bad choice. Back aft, where I am, you'd be one of the first in the Head after reveille. Up there where you are now, you'd be one of the last."

"Ohhhh, good thinking. Any empties back there?"

"Most of them ... for the moment that is. Only one other in our class has come on board so far. He's opposite me, but on bottom -- `afraid of heights,' he says." He indicated the racks to which he was referring.

"Maybe I'll take the middle one, opposite you, Frank."

"Good. Good choice, Jer-with-a-G. Now, finish stowing your gear and ..." with mock seriousness he added, "... get that fuckin' bag off the deck!"

"Aye, aye, mon capitaine," Gerry snapped to Attention, saluted, and happily replied, "... right away ... Sir!" He turned and continued, moving what had already been put away, and stowing the rest of his gear in the locker corresponding to the rack number.

Walking aft to his own rack, Frank picked up from where he had interrupted his own train of thought ... "Now, let me 'splain some things to ya, just so you'll know how they do things around here. Okay?"

"Yeah, I'm all ears, ye olde swabby." They both laughed.

"Well, I'm told that they run the training here just like every-day life aboard The Seahorse was ... during the war, and that is ... we still use the 24-hour clock, but the Duty Roster is based on an 18-hour day."

"Huh? How does that work?" Gerry questioned with a deep frown on his brow.

Frank had removed his short-sleeved dungaree shirt. "Well, it's like this ...matey ..." Frank answered as he pulled his tee over his head, exposing the tanned and well-developed musculature of his upper arms and chest; "... we'll be on Watch Duty, whether standing guard, one day in six, or attending classes, for six hours. Then we'll be off duty for twelve hours, to study, rest, sleep, go on Liberty ... whatever." By then, he had removed his dungaree trousers, shoes and socks.

He stuck his thumbs inside the waistband of his white briefs and pushed down. Gerry glanced over and took a double-take at Frank's bare skin, and particularly his scrunched-up manhood clinging to his scrotum.

After stepping out of his civilian skivvies, he used them to towel-off his sweatiness, then noticed Gerry's wide-eyed stare. "Hot and sticky, today, workin' K.P.," he said, quickly pulling his flaccid four-inch, uncut cock away from his balls. A moment frozen in hesitation, and Frank raised his left eyebrow and asked, "See something that interests you, sailor?"

Gerry quickly raised his eyes to meet Frank's, flushed with embarrassment (or was it guilt?), and just as quickly returned to his locker detail. "Sorry, even though I've been in the Navy for four months, I'm still not used to somebody else's nudity ... outside of the group showers, I guess."

"Well, you'll get used to it pretty quick, especially in these two areas." He began folding his dungarees neatly and placing them on his rack.

Gerry walked aft to his new rack, and experimented with getting in it, which took some maneuvering to do, since it was only twenty-seven inches below the upper-rack. Finally, he made it. He looked across the passageway, and there, only inches away, was Frank's bare ass, spread open as Frank was bent over, gathering his clothes to take them to his locker.

Gerry could even smell Frank's sweaty, masculine, musky scent. Instantly, he felt a tingle shoot through his groin. He blushed crimson, and rolled over to face the bulkhead. He heard Frank's bare, sweaty feet on the steel deck, walking toward the lockers.

"I'm gonna take a quick shower, then drive over to New London to see what's happenin', and grab something to eat. Maybe see a movie. Hey! Since you're new around these parts, wanna join me? Give ya somethin' to do, so ya won't be bored outta your skull. I take it you don't have any duty assigned yet."

Frank had put his stuff in his locker, grabbed a towel, threw it over his shoulder, and sauntered back toward Gerry -- totally nude, with his dick, a little heavier, thicker, and longer than it had been earlier, swingin' in the breeze.

Gerry turned over just as Frank stopped right in front of him. And of course, THAT was the first thing, the only thing, that he saw! He squinted his eyes tightly shut, and forced his hands not to cover the renewed tingling in his crotch.

Avoiding the possibility of staring again, he rolled his eyes up, under his closed eyelids, before opening them and looking Frank squarely in the face. "Yeah, that sounds great. I'd like that, but Frank, I don't want to impose on you. I'll be fine here."

"No you won't, Jer-with-a-G, and you won't be imposing ... I asked you. And I'd like the company. So how about it? You coming with me? Or am I gonna have to knock your block off, throw you over my shoulder, and kidnap you?" Frank balled up his fist this time and threatened a blow.

"No! No, Sir!" Gerry feigned being afraid of getting beaten up. "I surrender. I'll come with you, Sir, if ... uhhh ... uhhh ..." Gerry forced himself to look directly at Frank's cock, now standing nearly straight out, all six-and-a-half inches of it, surrounded by a bush of auburn-colored curlies.

"What is it, sailor? Out with it!"

"... uhhh ... if you'll just move your ... uhhh ... weapon ..." he moved his gaze quickly to Frank's face, "... away," as he gestured toward the showers.

"What?" Frank questioned. "You afraid of this li'l ol' thing?"

"Not afraid of it ... just not used to having one staring me right in the face." Gerry felt sweat break out on his forehead, swallowed hard, and looked away.

"You really are shy, aren't you?"

No response.

"But you'll get used to it around here, Ger. Everybody walks around naked from time to time, especially here in the sleeping quarters. No secrets here at all. I even hear that we'll have group jack-off races." He moved toward the Head as Gerry began maneuvering to get out of his rack.

"Good man!" Frank continued in response to Gerry's movement.

"Oh! I just thought of something, Frank," Gerry quickly commented; "Are you gonna wear you Whites into town?"

"No fuckin' way, man. I'm wearing my civvies."

"Damn!" remarked Gerry with regret. "I don't have any civvies with me, and I don't want to wear my uniform if you don't. Maybe I should just stay here."

"No way, man. No fuckin' way! You're comin' with me. Hey, listen, we're about the same size. I've got some clothes you can wear, and I won't take `no' for an answer."

"Well, if you're sure you wouldn't mind ..."

"Hell, no, I wouldn't mind. I wouldn't mind at all ... well, I would mind if you absolutely refused to allow me to give you a ... a helpin' hand ... 'til you can get your own civvies."

"Well, O.K., Frank, thanks a lot; I really do appreciate it. Boy! You really are a good friend to do this -- to share your clothes with me 'till I can get mine sent here and ..."

(Did Gerry really miss hearing Frank's subtle proposition? Yep. I think he did.)

Frank interrupted him by saying, "Now then ... get outta that uniform, let's take a shower, and then I'll letcha get in my pants any ..."

(Was that another one?)

"Huhhhh???" Gerry blurted out, frozen in place, with mouth hanging open.

"Maybe I better rephrase that," Frank laughed it off. "I'll letcha wear my clothes any time you want to, and then maybe I can wear some of yours after they get here."

"Oh!" Gerry sighed and relaxed, realizing what Frank had meant.

Frank's way of talking seemed very strange to Gerry.

Gerry's lack of understanding double entendre seemed very naïve to Frank.



That afternoon, they went across the Thames to New London. Frank drove around for a while, showing Gerry the sights. They stopped at the Garde Arts, a beautiful, ornate, Moroccan-styled movie theater and saw ... or rather ... sat through ... "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre" with Walter Huston.

Knees touched. And jerked away. Several times.

Eventually, they touched again. And remained, unmoving. Soon, knees, calves, and the sides of their shoes were even pressing against each other.

The house lights came up -- the movie had ended. At least two pair of trousers were mountainously tented -- thank God, they were triple-pleated! With hands in pockets, each cradling, hiding their erections from onlookers, they walked a couple of blocks to where Frank had parked his car.

"Feel like a beer and burgers before going back to BESS?" Frank asked.

"Know a good spot?" Gerry questioned in response.

"Sure ... the Dutch Tavern. Best burgers I've ever eaten. And we might see playwright Eugene O'Neill there. It's his favorite spot in these parts. Get in."

"What's he written?" Gerry asked, once inside the car.

"Ever read `Strange Interlude?'"

"Nope. Never heard of it."

"Interesting story about a love triangle ... two men, one woman ... but a lot can be read into it. For instance, whenever I think about the story, I always remember some critic's comment about it ..." he paused, looked up-left, recalling the exact words, and then continued; "... `The thoughts that people have ... are never the words they say,' and I guess that always makes me wonder if people ever really mean what comes out of their mouths."

"I always mean what I say," Gerry commented.

The moment lingered, and Frank replied, "Yeah, I bet you do." He looked at Gerry, deeply and silently ... thinking ... but saying nothing further along the subject.

Soon they were at the tavern-restaurant and each ravenously devoured two giant burgers. Since Frank was driving, he ordered only one pitcher of Amber Ale, for their table of two.

Sitting in the dimly lit corner booth, they had a view of the entire room. And as fate would have it, on that particular night, no women were present. One sailor and three other solitary men (two in business suits) sat by themselves, each alone, at the bar. Two officers, obviously from the Coast Guard Academy, directly across the river from BESS, sat very close together in another booth. And two young looking guys with military style haircuts, but wearing civilian clothes, were playing snooker in the anti-room.

Wednesday night ... middle of the week ... not much action ... not even the usual pianist. It was quiet, like on a slow night in an English pub, and that's what it was ... in New London, Connecticut. But "Dutch?" Go figure.

While Frank was nursing a single glass of the sweet, heavy beer during their dinner, Gerry thoroughly enjoyed the flavor and texture, this being the first time he had ever tasted Ale. He was smiling more, talking more, and quickly becoming more relaxed. He wasn't used to drinking very much. Soon the pitcher was empty. He slid closer to Frank. Not only were their legs touching, their hips were, also. And he put his right arm around Frank's shoulders, and pulled him closer, face to face. Their lips were only a couple of inches from each other. His eyes were droopy. For balance, he thoughtlessly put his left hand on top of Frank's left thigh.

With a slight slur, he said, "Thanks, buddy." Then, his hand slid further up Frank's thigh.

"For what, my friend?"

"Jus' that. For bein' my friend ... a real friend! For loanin' me your clothes. For bringin' me over here. For showin' me aroun'."

"No problem, Jer-with-a-G. My pleasure."

"Nooooo, goo' buddy ... (burp) ... MY pleasure." His hand moved higher and felt Frank's straining erection through the thin linen trousers and cotton boxers. Slowly, gently, he began stroking the engorged shape through the fabric, as he leaned the extra couple of inches and kissed Frank's moist lips. Thinking ... but saying no more ... at that time.

The hops, the barley, or some new spirits had finally relaxed and freed him enough to finally express, and perhaps, even to enjoy, his need to discover and explore the urges within himself that only lately had he begun to dream and wonder about.

Thank God, Frank was agreeable ... and the tavern was dark with dim candle-light, here and there.


(Stay tuned for Part 3a)



11-02-2005 /nifty/gay/no-sex/five-minutes

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