This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.
Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments. And last but not least, Nifty would like your donations.
Farewell, Uncle Ho
by Dennis Milholland
questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu
Chapter 90 (Saturday, July 15, 1967)
I wasn't adjusting very well to having nights and days being equal in length, since we were now much closer to the equator, than anywhere else I'd ever been. I was being quiet, just looking at Gerry sleep, and trying to remember what it was like before we met.
I remembered that gnawing loneliness, which had always accompanied me through life along with the fear of getting found out. Queer bashing had always been the national sport both physically and administratively, for as long as I could remember. To counteract physical Queer bashing, I had taken all the martial arts courses, I could find. And there had always been that steadfast question in the back of my mind, wondering when the guy, in whom I'd just become interested, would find a better match. That had been the pattern throughout high school and college, until I finally gave up looking.
He sort of opened one eye. "Guten Morgen, mein Schatz." He tried to snuggle closer.
I dragged him into a kiss, repositioning him on top to face me. I made this moment, this memory burn itself deep into my mind. I knew for certain, that this time it was going to last.
His luscious, full lips comforted me, as would small, soft, shiny, satin pillows. His tongue was gooey and inquisitively searching the depths of my mouth. The actual first contact of sweat-cooled skin was at the chest level; his moist skin slid across mine.
I felt my cock engorging, as I slid my legs around his hips, locking my feet at the small of his back. He purred. His tongue played with my left ear. His padded lips were caressing my eyelids, kissing away residue of sleep.
My cock was trying to become fully erect, straining under his balls. My Gerry's hands left my face and slid down to lift my knees to my chest, elevating my ankles to his shoulders, pulling his torso back a little to get the angle right.
He dribbled saliva onto his right hand, massaged it down the length of his retracted skin, making him breathe deeply, while mingling it with pre-cum and his natural tallow-like substance, which built up faster here in the tropics. The scent made my pulse pound.
He entered me smoothly and laid his midsection back onto my dick to slide my skin back and forth between his moist, tight belly and mine. I contracted my sphincter muscles in time with his strokes, letting them contract on the in and releasing on the out. The mood was mellow. There was no hurry, no reason to rush. We still had several weeks of leave with which to settle into what many straight people considered marital bliss for themselves and disgusting, sodomite perversion for us.
He let his first two fingers of his left hand slowly play with my tongue. Occasionally, I lightly bit down on the soft skin on his slender fingers.
The contractions of his abdominal muscles preceded by a slight gasp, told me of his climax. He remained in place several minutes before turning to lie on his back on my stomach, assisting my own penis into him, using his juices oozing out of me as lubricant.
We rolled onto our left sides and continued without haste. And soon, I deposited my sperm inside him. Slowly, we drifted back to sleep.
***
According to my Wesclox, it was just past 0945 when Linh knocked at our bedroom door to get us up for breakfast. Gerry and I got dressed, and moved toward the kitchen, from the direction of which, we heard American pop music. Linh must have procured a radio, and it was tuned to the American Forces Network.
I knew this propaganda machine from AFN France. Back in Paris, it had had the ability to make everybody yearn for 'back home', even my two Moroccans, who'd never even been to the United States and didn't understand English.
'This is AFVN, serving the American fighting man twenty four hours a day from the Delta to the DMZ, with transmitters in Quang Tri, Da Nang--' had already invaded our home before I could get to the dial. I changed it to a local station filling the waves with the Vietnamese version of Bang, Bang, My Baby Shot Me Down, which yielded me a thumbs-up from Linh, who was sipping coffee in the dining room.
Gerry gave me a foul frown, readjusting the dial back to 99.9 FM. '…with the key network station in Saigon, Vietnam…'
I grinned at my guy, as I poured coffee. "As opposed to Saigon, Indiana?"
'…one of these is the Chieu Hoi program…' I joined Linh in the dining room, leaving Gerry to listen to Army news on the radio.
"Hey, listen to this." Gerry called from the kitchen. He turned up the volume.
The fuzzy, static-laden, distant sound of the reporter's voice, probably over a bad telephone connection, was telling us about, so far, three days of heavy rioting in Newark, which was threatening to spread to neighboring communities in northern New Jersey. According to this report, blocks upon blocks of residential and business buildings have been set alight with millions of dollars of damage.
"Wow," Gerry poured himself a cup of coffee and continued addressing the radio. "Bernays and his buddy, Goebbles, woulda been proud of this shit reporting.” Then he smiled at me. “This isn’t rioting, people, it’s a fucking revolution.” He got a croissant out of the warming oven.
I nodded and snorted coffee through my nose, the very instant the reporter told us about the New Jersey National Guard's having been called in. Gerry and Linh looked at me questioningly. All I had to say was "over yonder in Vee-yet-naym", and it took only a second for Gerry to burst out laughing. When I related what had happened at the Reception Center at Fort Dix, when PFC Howdy Doody, a plantation owner's son from Alabama, had reported for training in the Jersey National Guard and ended up getting a blanket party and a court martial.
Gerry was sitting there with raised eyebrows, chuckling and sputtering, while I translated the incident into Chinese. Linh sat there with raised eyebrows, waiting for the punch line. But I'd finished.
Eyebrows were still raised in anticipation of a good laugh. Uncomfortable seconds passed. Gerry looked at me with slight disappointment, as if I'd fucked up the translation. Linh looked at Gerry and me with mild disapproval, as if we were the most moronically immature children, he'd ever met.
He shook his head in sad admonishment, "You two fuckin' beaucoup dinky dow, GIs." and got up to clear the table. And I thought it was good that Yvette, the school teacher, hadn't heard that. As if to underscore Linh's words and my thoughts, a heavy cloud passed between the sunshine and our building. But the day had started off so nicely, and I was determined not to give up, just now.
***
At about half-past ten, Linh answered the knock at the door. Yvette and Wade both gave him a hug. When we went to greet them, Yvette gave us her usual bilateral smooches to the cheeks. Wade, however, surprised us with firm, close hugs. He was grinning, obviously pleased with something major. "You have no idea, what those documents mean to the NLF."
"There was hardly any worthwhile current information in them." I followed everyone into the dining room, when Linh brought in a basket of croissants and took orders for coffee.
"You're right, but they verified some things and tied up a lot of loose ends from the past, like the Diem assassination." Wade took a croissant but remained standing. "Would you mind if we drink coffee in the front room?"
I saw him glance at the large, dining-room window, which opened onto Lê Loi, and realized that it could have been extremely unhealthy for him to sit at the table in front of a large, unshuttered, open window. "No problem, at all."
We were just getting seated on the couch and two overstuffed chairs, surrounding the chinoiserie coffee table, which strongly resembled my parents' dining table in New York, only much lower, when the phone rang. Linh came in from the kitchen to answer it. "C'est monsieur Landry."
Before he could say anything, I asked Jules if he wanted to come over for coffee and croissants. He chuckled into the phone and told me that all entrepreneurs in Vietnam got up before seven and his stomach was starting to feel ready for lunch. "Actually, the reason I'm phoning is to remind you that you and Gerry have to get your pictures taken for the Cercle Sportif ID card."
"You're right; it totally slipped my mind." I could feel my face burning from embarrassment. "Does the Kodak shop down on Tu-Do close for siesta?"
"Which one?" Jules' voice was smooth, as always, reflecting no admonishment. "There are two."
"The one closest to us, at number 118." I glanced at Wade, who nodded.
"They'd be silly not to." Jules chuckled. "As opposed to the shop down here at number 47, they don't have air conditioning."
***
It took about twenty minutes of cooling off under the air conditioner to get our pictures. When we came out of the photographer's shop, we found our friends directly across Tu-Do on the other side of the street and without Linh. They were standing in the shade under the concrete awning in front of the TWA booking office in the Saigon Palace Building, leisurely eating an ice cream. They’d obviously been to Brodard’s,
The Vietnamese white mouse was not being very successful at hassling them, almost certainly for loitering, and more than likely at the behest of the white, American, office manager, who was looking out of the closed glass-and-brass door. Gerry and I double-timed it over to our group.
Apparently, our three friends were refusing to speak anything but French, and the young cop only understood Vietnamese and rudimentary English. Times, they were a-changin'. He looked at Gerry. "You got ID, GI?"
"Sure thing, Charlie." which would have been an everyday thing to say in New York, if you didn't know someone's name. It was an alternative to Joe. But not so in Saigon. And Gerry knew it.
"I no Charlie, GI." which was probably understood as part of 'Victor Charlie', the phonetic alphabet for VC, as in Viet-Cong.
Gerry and I both pulled out our wallets and flashed our military IDs. The policeman slithered into the side street in front of the Saigon Palace. The American, office manager opened the glass-and-brass door, and snarled at Gerry. "You know this bunch a Gooks."
The anger in Gerry rose to color his face the shade of a bad sunburn. "Yeah, so?"
"Well, get 'em off the sidewalk in front of my office." Fear at the sight of Gerry's face, which was now less than an inch from his, must have squelched his indignation.
"Fuck you, you white- supremacist shit." Gerry growled between clenched teeth. "This sidewalk is theirs, not yours."
The glass-and-brass door was forced shut against the force of the door closer. The little bell tinkled, and the door locked. The office manager also pulled the manila-colored shade, when my Gerry got a hearty round of applause.
The street emptied; siesta had started. Jules returned to his shop. And the rest of us made our way back up the street to the corner of Lê Loi.
Again, as usual, the coolness of the stairwell soothed the heat. By the time we made the first intermediate landing, the rain had started, and I was relieved that, on the next landing, Yvette said that she and Wade would come over to get us for the drive over to the Cercle Sportif at three. They went through the door to Yvette's home, across from ours.
Linh gave us his usual hug, but looked surprised. "Where are the others?"
"They're all too groggy." From where we stood in the entry, I saw that the table was set for six. "Sorry, Linh."
Again I was glad for the eternal optimism of the Saigonese. Linh was not in the slightest disappointed as the mischievous grin crossed his face. "All the more for us."
And we were happy that the others didn't come for lunch, since there was enough for seconds and thirds. Linh served up a cold honey-dew-melon-lime and crème fraiche soup with a shot or two of Cointreau, accompanied with freshly baked madeleines.
***
"How do you think that that policeman recognized us as GIs?" Gerry asked me as he casually tongued my left tit.
"Probably the Right Guard spray, like the MP said, yesterday." I was using my tongue to rim his left ear.
"We'll have to ask Linh what the Vietnamese use." Gerry flicked his tongue down my chest, across my belly and onto my cock. He paused again. "Do you wish I was Asian?"
Even though I'd told him many times over, that I loved him just the way he was, he was still hung up on how Haruki had taken Sean as a white trophy. So, I took a deep breath. "You are Asian, Cauc-Asian. It's like Wade is Indo-Chinese."
"So what does Cauc mean?" He cuddled my pubic mound, having inserted a finger into the end of my foreskin.
"WASP, mein Schatz."