Date: Thu, 21 Jun 2018 23:42:01 -0500
From: Lee James
Subject: A Crack in Time

A Crack in Time
Lee James

We Children of the Sixties liked to believe we lived in the Age of
Aquarius: an era of political and social upheaval, love and sexual freedom;
a time of tuning in, turning on, and dropping out. And that cataclysmic
clusterfuck called the Vietnam Conflict raged on with no end in sight.

In the spring of 1970, I was seventeen and had just graduated high
school. I had a plan: work, save, enroll in college, get a student
deferment, and beat the draft. I could control my own destiny.

Well, it sounded good in theory.

The only job I could land in my hometown had me waiting tables below
minimum wage in a ma-and-pa bar and grill called the Longhorn Café.

On an ordinary day of fry cook fuck-ups, a dropped tray of drinks for a
table of eight, and moody customers, an Air Force officer stopped by for
lunch. He looked to be about twenty-four or five, stood around six-two,
with sinuous muscles, black hair, and dark eyes. And the most gorgeous man
I'd ever seen was making a beeline for my section. I stared at him--my
mouth gaping, my knees going weak. I swallowed before I started drooling,
turned off my closeted, silly-bitch fantasizing, and pulled my pad.

As I took the officer's order, I noticed him giving me the once-over,
pausing at the crotch of my hashed-out, bell-bottom jeans.  Then he smiled
at me.

I saw the joviality( maybe it was smart-assery?) in his eyes.  Whatever it
was, I liked it--along with the uniform and his handsome face. My cock
twitched. I got his lunch order and bolted out of the dining room before he
noticed the "joviality" in my jeans.

Regardless of the sexual enlightenment zeitgeist of the sixties, same-sex
preferences did not play well along "Main Street" America. I knew closeted
bisexuals, lesbians and gays lived in my little town. I recognized
them. Maybe I didn't really want to? After all, most people still expected
men to marry, be the breadwinner, and father children. As a man of the
rugged Pacific Northwest, I came across as stoic, straight and, goddamn it,
packed the big balls to prove it.

As I started to set the second lieutenant's lunch before him, his elbow
brushed my thigh... or maybe I brushed my thigh against his elbow. Just a
touch, and electricity shot through me as though I'd shoved one of my
fingers into a 210 volt outlet. I damned near dropped his "Wild West Burger
Platter."

Oh fuck, oh dear... his dark eyes gleamed at me and his easy, open smile
displayed stark white, perfect teeth.

He rose from his chair. Standing military straight, he offered his hand.
"Second Lieutenant Trent Valiston."

Dig it... that masculine voice, his military bearing, his fit and trim
body. I stared at him before shaking his hand and muttering, "Uhh... Myka
Dahl."

He grinned. "Yes, you sure as hell are."

Having heard similar lines hundreds of times before, I just smiled.

Valiston just smiled back. "Do you go by Mike?"

"No, it's Myka, like the countertops."

"Hmmm," second Lieutenant Valiston said.

"I'm told I got the name because my dad knocked my mom up in the kitchen,"
I said.

He chuckled and placed one of his big hands on the base of my spine... only
for a moment... those fingers near my ass, his body, his smile, shit, his
military haircut -- the lieutenant could've ravaged me right there on the
dining room floor! Kitchen, dining room, not a big difference.

It didn't take a Rhodes Scholar to guess that Trent Valiston was stationed
at the nearby Air Force base. As we came to know each other, I learned he'd
graduated from the USAF Academy and planned to make the Air Force a
career. I also learned he'd gotten married about two years ago. In the
jargon of the era, that reality was a "fucking downer."

Whenever Trent came into the café, he'd sit in my section and focus
his attention on me; even when he'd brought a couple of officer buddies
with him. When he dropped by alone, he'd always toss out flattery such as,
"Nice haircut, Myka," or "The way those jeans hug your ass and crotch, you
could be the poster boy for Levi Strauss," or "Like the thought," in
reference to my CSN&Y "Teach Your Children Well" T-shirt. Casual dress was
the rule in the Longhorn. The place made no attempt to be the Pacific
Northwest's answer to the Café du Ritz. I'd become just a teenaged
working stiff--no tie or jacket required--just cannon fodder waiting to get
his ass drafted and shipped off to Vietnam. Those Godless communists
nationalizing those goddamned Michelin rubber trees; followed by General
Eisenhower strongarming DeGaulle to keep his French troops fighting and
dying in those fucking jungles, trying to win one for goddamned
Capitalism. I've heard that's why the French are not particularly fond of
Americans to this day.

On a hot summer night about a month after we'd met, Trent sat at a table
drinking coffee and reading. Only he and I remained in the café at
closing time. Dressed in civvies, Trent told me the jeans I wore showed
everything I had. As I stood before him wiping off his table, he ran an
index finger down and around my cock. Being seventeen with the libido of a
mink on industrial-strength spanish fly, my dick instantly went from just
hanging to straight up and stone hard. I'd never had a man or woman touch
me intimately before, but I liked it a lot... I mean a whole shitload of
lot. But in faux moral outrage, I blew-off Trent's ballsy advance, and
without a word walked out of the dining room to lock the doors, close down
for the night, and begin cleaning the joint.

Trent followed me to the janitorial closet. He placed a hand on my
shoulder, and my body shivered.

"I'll help you mop and wipe down, then we'll split to someplace where I can
get to know everything about you."

I shrugged. "If you like." Well shit, I at least tried playing hard-to-get.

Two men giving the Longhorn Cafe a lick and a promise...we finished in no
time. Trent backed me against a wall and kissed me. I did not push him
away. Hell no, I liked having his lips on mine, and our hard bodies pressed
together. Soon, we were sucking tongues, swiping mouths, and moaning.

Slipping my hands under his shirt, my fingertips ghosted along his pecs and
abs. Then I went for his jeans. He groaned as I wrapped my right hand
around his cock, while palming his furry ass with my left. I could honestly
state, "A good time was had by all," as the local newspaper reported on the
Sunday supper and Canasta game, coffee and Oreos served, at the Knudson
ranch.

He had a wife at home. I lived with my parents. We left my piece-of-shit
car in the café's parking lot, and drove to the mountains in Trent's
VW Microbus. We didn't talk about what we were about to do. We knew what we
both wanted.

Parked along a whitewater river and hidden by trees, we undressed and stood
in the summer moonlight, holding each other. With our nude bodies in full
contact, Trent needed only to kiss me to make me cum. But shooting fast
didn't present a problem. At seventeen, I needed about fifteen seconds to
get my cock locked and loaded again.

Trent had a big dick with a good girth, and I got my first taste of male
genitalia and cum that night. The two of us being the same height, we lay
on our sides doing a sixty-nine.

Then we went back for seconds.

Man oh man, Trent's spicy, musky male scent and sexy body had me wanting
more. Married? Who gave a shit! It was the summer of 1970; we were young,
hung and lusty.

That same night, Trent introduced me to anal intercourse. He was gentle,
but that first fuck did not escape my attention. my ass hurt for two days
after Trent's big cock stretched, filled, and plowed me. But I wasn't
complaining. Yes, a good time was had by all.

By our third liaison, I thoroughly enjoyed getting fucked; feeling him
inside me, his dick's mushroomhead massaging my prostate until I cried out
in pleasure--our bodies soaked in sweat. When his pre-cum provided
additional lubrication, he performed his grand finale of long-stroking
me. I loved feeling his cock pulsating as he ejaculated--his semen slowly
slipping out of me, pooling around my balls and sliding down my inner
thighs.

Over the weeks, Trent and I saw each other frequently. In fact, we met
every hour we could beg, borrow, and steal. He told me he had American
Indian in his gene pool, accounting for his erotic black hair and dark eyes
that could make me smile, feel his happiness, his frustration, and
ultimately, his love for me.

We would go to the mountains in his Microbus to make love--he drove as I
smoked a joint and sang along with Hendrix on the eight track, tossing out
the mondegreen, "'Scuse me while I kiss this guy." Then I would lean over
and do it. Fuck the oncoming traffic on the two-lane highway. That's when I
knew I'd fallen in love for the first time.

I could never convince Trent to share a doob with me, but I made certain he
saw blazing colors and heard a rock band every time he'd cum in my mouth or
ass. Whether for love or just sex, we used each other throughout the summer
and fall of 1970.

In December, I received my "Greetings" letter from Selective Service. The
lottery had given me lucky number seven--plenty low enough to get drafted
if I passed the physical. Fuck oh dear, I'd turned a strapping, hearty, and
healthy eighteen. And a very Merry Christmas to your ass, Myka Dahl.

Trent told me what to expect while at the induction center, adding, "While
you're there standing in line almost buts to nuts, discretely enjoy the
scenery."

I experienced the Army's doctrine of "hurry up and wait." I spent what
seemed like six months--all right, it was maybe two hours--standing in line
after line of nude man flesh in front and behind me; and hell yes, I copped
glances at as many of those young chests, asses, dicks, and balls as I
could.

I wondered how many of these beautiful young men would return home disabled
or in plain aluminum caskets. In later years, we'd learn that many of the
soldiers and nurses who served would find themselves unable to leave those
jungles behind. Many veterans eventually became victims of that pointless
war by taking their own lives.

I was found to have a slight heart murmur which made me "4F" for military
service. Can I hear a hallelujah? Praise the Lord and don't pass the
ammunition!

But after a high school friend died in `Nam, it took about six months of
talk therapy before I got beyond my survivor's guilt. In so many ways,
Vietnam fucked with an entire generation.

Trent and I were together for about two years before his tour-of-duty
ended. He was promoted to full Lieutenant, and transferred to
California. I'd never felt so sad, empty and alone.

But I'd managed to save enough bread from my shit job to start college in
the fall. Trent and I sent each other handwritten letters and called each
other regularly. His marriage ended within two months of moving to sunny
California. Following his "quicky Mexican divorce, he shared an off-base
apartment with another Air Force officer. I assumed his roommate was gay. I
didn't ask.

When I started graduate school, we lost touch with each other, as often
happens when two people's lives are full and spinning in different
directions. The male stoicism kicked in: just suck it up because you'll
never again see Lieutenant Trent Raymond Valiston. What started as a summer
fling proved to be nothing more than that, when all was said and done. Or
so I rationalized it.

And forty years would pass by before I found him.

On a warm day in late spring while returning to my office, I thought of
Trent. It struck me: forty years ago today, June sixth, we'd met in the
Longhorn Café. Across the years, I'd wondered from time-to-time what
ever happened to my sexy, handsome military man. I'd been with my life
partner for twenty-five years, and we were a happy, loving couple. But like
everyone else, I'd never forgotten my first love.

I owned a successful business, and decided I'd use my company's "Manhunt"
software to search for Trent. With his uncommon surname, I got eighteen
hits. I hoped I wouldn't find his obituary among them.

My "Manhunt" search told me Trent lived in a Sacramento suburb, and worked
as a State legislator. The software also gave me Trent's home and capitol
phone numbers. I closed my office door, plopped my feet on my desk, and
called him.

In spite of the forty-year crack in time, I recognized Trent's voice the
moment he said, "Hello." And he instantly knew who I was, declaring, "Baby
Dahl! I've thought of you over the years, but didn't want to disrupt your
life." He paused. "Yes, I'm still dumber than dog shit. Can you forgive
me?"

Of course I could. We talked comfortably for more than three hours as
though we'd been calling each other every week over the past four
decades. I learned that he had retired from the Air Force, loved politics,
had a long-term partner; then our phone reunion headed south. Trent told me
he'd been HIV positive for eighteen years. His drug cocktails were keeping
him alive, but he knew he was living on borrowed time.

We e-mailed each other daily and called periodically for almost two
years. On a beautiful summer day, Trent's partner, Dave, called me at home.

"Trent had a fatal heart attack Saturday while we were camping. He died
doing what he loved."

Trent's death came as no surprise. But tears lined my cheeks. I offered
Dave my condolences, adding, "Trent will always hold a spot in my heart."

"Trent wanted me to call and let you know." He paused. "No, he made me
promise that I'd tell you."

I managed to croak out a, "Thank you."

Dave said, "I followed Trent's wishes and had his body cremated. He wanted
no memorial service, no flowers, no cards."

Trent and I had agreed not to see each other dead or alive. We wanted to
remember each other only as we were back in the day. With Trent's death, I
questioned the wisdom of our decision.

But in my mind's eye, I could still see Trent and I standing nude in full
body contact under the summer moonlight. That single vision would remain
precious to me as long as I lived.

Dave's voice turned cool. "Trent wanted you to have something he'd made
arrangements for about a year ago. I'll send it today."

UPS delivered Dave's package three days later. Inside the box, I found a
sterling silver vial containing some of Trent's ashes. The engraving read,
"For my unforgettable Baby Dahl. TRV."

And every now and then, I'll hold the vial in my hand and reminisce about
that point in our lives when the world's Colors appeared much more vivid,
and time seemed to pass by ever so slowly... back when Trent and I were
young.


Copyright 2018, Lee James. All rights reserved.

A Crack in Time is a work of fiction . Names, places, characters, and
incidents are either the products of the author's imagination, or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.