Date: Fri, 13 Jul 2012 16:04:22 -0700
From: Michael Kroll <mkmitigates@hotmail.com>
Subject: Fellatio Interruptus

Fellatio Interruptus
By Michael A. Kroll

The sailor sat in the front seat of my car, unzipped his fly, and
maneuvered his slightly smaller than average but thick and very erect dick
into view, though only the moon illuminated the night sky. There was no
emotion involved for either of us, only the carnal excitement of sexual
anticipation. I didn't even bother to turn off the car radio, as I lowered
my face down into his crotch, and felt the flood of relieved pleasure that
taking a hard dick in my mouth always brings me. He was a kid, and he
groaned with pleasure, making me strain to break through my jeans. But even
the thrill of this clandestine act, the excitement and fulfillment of
forbidden male-on-male sex, was not enough to keep my mind from wandering
to the journey that had brought me here, while I continued to savor this
youthful body, continued to make him moan while comforting myself at the
same time.

It was 1974. I had been living in Hawaii, 31 years old and in need of a job
- again. I had been teaching "bad kids" in a bad high school (oh yes,
Honolulu has its ghettos), but the grant that funded the position ran out,
and I still had to live. I scoured the want ads, applying for anything I
remotely qualified for, including an English teaching job in Guam at
Heald's Business College. I got the job, and soon found myself in that
unhappy place. Americans were everywhere, usually in military uniforms. The
very macho Chamorro culture was in the process of a massive shift
-Waikikiized - and the young, in particular, had to adjust to a new world
while watching their parents' world disappear. The beaches are rocky, and
you are warned about the deadly rock fish that inhabit the rocky shallow
waters and are easy to step on.  A rocky place altogether. In short, I
found this Southseas Island where, according to the banner headline across
the morning paper, "America's day begins," without any saving graces
whatsoever.

When I arrived, I was told that the English class I was hired to teach
would not materialize this year, so instead, I would be teaching Business
Machines! To say I know nothing about business machines is misleading. I
know less than nothing about business machines. When machines of any kind
see me coming, they immediately freeze, break, refuse to start, or
otherwise malfunction. But here I was in the middle of the ocean, depending
on the money I would be earning to get out of here. Which presented yet
another problem: I had no money, and would not get my first pay check for
about six weeks. I had arrived with just enough money to rent a place for
the summer, in this case a Quonset hut. I literally had no money for food,
a fact which led me to the local Safeway where, for the first time ever, I
shoplifted a chunk of cheese.

As I left the store, sure that the next person I met would put me in
handcuffs and take me away, I was approached by a young man, perhaps 20,
carrying a backpack and sleeping bag, and looking lost, with a day or two's
growth around his soft features. "Excuse me," he said, "but you wouldn't
happen to know of a place to rent, would you?" Aha! There is a god after
all! In exchange for moving into my Quonset hut, my new roommate would
provide the food, at least until I got paid. In the meantime, he'd find a
job. I showed him to the vacant room in my Quonset, and he set his backpack
on the floor. In addition to a pair of underwear, jeans and a pulp
paperback, he also unpacked a rough bong he had "carved" out of bamboo. The
store-bought bowl fit nicely into the hole he had made for it, so it was
functional, a fact which we immediately established between us.

I started teaching my business machine classes, spending each night
cramming as much information into my head as I could from the readings I
was about to assign the next day. I could handle the reading part. It was
the practical application of these lessons where I ran into trouble. Those
required actual machines! The only thing saving me from utter failure was
my stupid students. Thank Guam for them.

Every morning I'd go off to work, sweat through a day of business machines,
and return to my roommate, sitting in the center of an ever-growing circle
of bamboo bongs, stoned out of his head. His "finding a job" had morphed
into a bong business model, except that he was both manufacturer and
consumer, so the model could never move its ass off the floor! "How'd the
job search go," I'd ask, breathing in enough of what passed for air in his
room to get a nice contact high before dinner. At that, he always held up
the bong he'd just finished making, offering me the peace pipe.

Every day, the circle of bamboo bongs grew around him, and he sat in their
midst as if in the coils of a bong snake. Each day I'd ask if he'd sold any
bongs. Each day he would reply that he would start that part of the
business the next day. Even though I was finally getting my pay checks, I
never got around to asking him to leave. He was still helping pay for the
food, and, at the beginning of a steamy August, I was nearing the end of my
six-week employment.

I didn't spend a lot of time at the Quonset hut, anyway. I had taken a torn
pair of pants to a seamstress, and made a friend. The "seamstress" was a
thin man with prematurely graying hair, an ex-Marine, who sewed for a
living. He was, perhaps, ten years older than me. I was far from open about
my sexuality then, but I was very comfortable with him. Our relationship
never progressed beyond professional (he made me a beautiful kaftan for
which I paid him), and casual, sitting and talking at his table. In that
subtle way that gay men have of communicating, our conversations included
clues and hints that each hoped the other might act on, but neither of us
ever spoke directly about our sexual selves - or our suspicions about the
other. Still, he managed to tell me in a natural way, as just part of the
conversation, where gay men cruised at night. My heart beat faster when he
did, and I knew that when I left his apartment, I would not be able to
escape the magnet of the gay beach he had just told me how to find.

It was dark when I arrived and parked in a rocky spot overlooking the
beach. I could hear the slap-slap of the tiny waves on the shore more than
see them from here. I walked down to the rocky-sand beach. There was a moon
shining on the water, and brilliant stars stretched across the sky. I
walked along the water's edge, admiring the way the moon's reflection broke
like shards of ever-moving glass on the surface. I didn't hear the young
sailor walking up the beach as I walked down, but I looked up in time to
see his dark eyes staring into mine. His right hand rested on the crotch of
his white uniform. We both stopped walking. There was no doubt what he
wanted. My loins came alive. I wanted it too. Slowly, he turned as if to
give himself privacy, unzipped, and began to urinate onto the rocks. He had
deliberately turned only partly away, making sure I could see that his dick
was getting thicker in his hand. Quickly, I followed his lead, peeing a few
feet from where he was doing the same. Like crabs, we edged toward each
other, until I was close enough to move the fingers of my free hand across
his pants, through his wiry pubic hair, and then around the growing
thickness. He could not have been more than 19 years old, smooth faced and
nervous. "Do you have a car we could go to?" he asked, urgently.

When we got into the small used car I had purchased with my second
paycheck, he asked if I could turn the radio on, and he fiddled with the
dial until he found a station that played god-awful country music. I didn't
care. I would have listened to Chinese opera to get to this point and
beyond, And, without further ado as they say, beyond is where we got. His
groaning got louder and his breathing more labored as each of us got close
to fulfillment, his about to spill into my willing mouth, and mine into my
own hand, which I had taken a moment to lubricate with his pre-cum, and
which was moving up and down my now hard, huge cock.

And then unexpectedly and without warning, another Dick interrupted my
reverie and, in another moment, would substitute my pleasure in sucking my
sailor's dick for a different pleasure, one that could only have been
provided by an even bigger Dick! If you're old enough to remember Richard
the Dick Nixon, then you're old enough to remember what a cocksucker he
was. Oh, I don't mean that literally - not in the way I was now doing such
satisfying job of demonstrating. In truth, it's as impossible to think of
Dick sucking dick as it is to picture him poking Pat. But since they had
two children, I can only imagine those rare moments of coupling as hurried,
grunting affairs. But I digress.

Suddenly, as I was sucking and licking a thick, hard dick in the front seat
of my car like a teenager, the country music ended, and an announcement
came on alerting us to a message from the President of the United
States. "Good evening. This is the 37th time I have spoken to you from this
office, where so many decisions have been made that shaped the history of
this Nation," the President began. Guam was the staging area for the B-52
bombing raids on North Vietnam and Laos, and the entire island shook each
time they took off with their deadly loads, reminding me each time of why I
hated this man.

And then I heard him say, "Therefore, I shall resign the Presidency
effective at noon tomorrow."

I stopped moving. I sat up. His 25-year-long slog to the presidency was
ending like this, in disgrace. Ah, how fitting. How satisfying! My partner
appeared not to care about the announcement, except to display a certain
impatience while he waited for his music and me to resume. Which is what I
did, not even waiting for the music. Slowly and sweetly, I finished what I
had started. What might have been one of countless and dimly remembered
sexual encounters in my life became an indelible memory, making it
infinitely more pleasurable I thought, as he squirmed deliciously and
filled my mouth with his warm essence.

I drove back to my Quonset hut without even bothering to change the
station. For the first time since I had arrived in Guam, I felt completely
satisfied.

Fellatio Interruptus		7
Michael A. Kroll