Date: Wed, 7 Jun 2017 02:45:44 +0000 (UTC)
From: jim ford <sojourn1950@yahoo.com>
Subject: Reflections of a Regular Naval Officer   chapter one

This story is fiction (the complete first chapter is true.)
The characters are adults in adult situations.

Warnings: The only person you can ever hope to truly know is yourself.
Trust no one; use condoms.

If you are not of legal age or in a jurisdiction in which this document is
illegal, go way.

This is my story. Please respect the copyright. If you enjoy it, let me know.

sojourn1950@yahoo.com

Please donate to Nifty.
http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html


Jim Ford
sojourn1950@yahoo.com


"REFLECTIONS OF A REGULAR NAVAL OFFICER"

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

THIS IS NOT LIKE MOST STORIES PRESENTED IN THIS CATEGORY! I was actually in
the military. The situations and settings are real. The names have been
changed for obvious reasons. Although I try to explain most acronyms and
jargon, you may have to google some terms. Google is my bible... resistance
is futile!

The following account is true, and by that I mean, IT'S TRUE! you dickhead!

If interest is sufficient, i.e. Encouraging emails. I propose to follow
this up with more salacious recollections that may contain a bit of sexual
wishful thinking. All the better to jerk off to. Like the supply officer
who got caught jerking off on his first night onboard and wound up getting
butt fucked. Or the Intelligence officer who, in Bahrain, having been
introduced to boxer briefs by his teenage son, shared a pair and their
contents with me... wait a minute, that may still be classified. Or the
Army Major who promised to make my bed, and warm it, if I took him along
with me on my minesweeper/supply boat. Oh, and you will meet two admirals
sons, different families, but each are living proof that NEPOTISM is a
nautical term. And thanks to Nathan, who took time out from getting his
front end aligned to edit and Beta read it. Thanks Nathan, you're a good
guy.

Chapter one (maybe)

I had been assigned to a destroyer, homeported in Charleston, S.C.
Previously, I had spent ten years in northern climates and was tired of
shoveling snow and fighting icy roads. When locals, unpacking my household
goods, asked what the two broad, flimsy, aluminum shovels were for, I knew
I was in the right place.

Onboard my destroyer, I first served as ASWO, Anti Submarine Warfare
Officer, in the Weapons Department. This meant I was responsible for
personnel assigned to maintain and operate the ship's sonar, torpedoes and
ASROC. About 18 months later, I was transferred to the Operations
Department where I served as CICO, the Combat Information Center Officer.
There I had Operations Specialists (OS's) and Electronic Warfare Operators
(EW's).

I avoided the engineering department at all costs. I sure as hell didn't
want to be down in the belly of the ship when the bridge demands,
"EMERGENCY! ALL BACK FULL"! You see the bridge doesn't explain their
reasons... Are we about to collide? Are we avoiding a torpedo, or worse
yet, a missile? They don't have time. And they wouldn't explain it even if
they had the time. I have had engineering call up to ask for info on the
sound powered phones. But, only well after the emergency has passed. You've
seen it in the movies where the poor bastards down below are burned with
steam or drowned without ever knowing the circumstances leading up to there
demise. I knew my job was to go into harm's way when necessary. I was in
the military, for god's sake. I just trusted my own judgement better than
someone I didn't really know. I figure if anyone is going to yell orders
like "RIGHT FULL RUDDER! LEFT FULL RUDDER! ALL STOP!... well you get the
picture. If someone was going to drive the ship into danger, it might as
well be me. I put engineering at the bottom of my wishlist. I spent just
enough time in engineering to earn my Surface Warfare Officer's
qualifications and to wear the pin.

I will tell you about my first time ever kissing a man. This will be a
little bassackwards, because I am going to tell you first about the later
part of my time on my "tin-can" first, and then come back to my first
onboard assignment. Trust me, it will make sense. Remember, the first
assignment was as the ASW division Officer, in. The second assignment was
as Combat Information Center Officer, where I was in charge of the OS's and
EW's.

THE LAST HALF OF MY TIME ONBOARD FIRST!

As CICO, my LCPO, Leading Chief Petty Officer, was newly minted, CPO,
J.N. Morrison. Fondly known by his subordinates as `Nick the Dick'. His
immediate subordinate was Petty Officer First Class Mosely. Mosely was one
of the most well read, intelligent men and most effective Petty Officers
with whom I ever served. He is the only character, I feel, might actually
read this.

As the divo, Division Officer, I was not privy to the relationship between
Morrison and Mosely, but it was definitely not harmonious. Nick had a lot
to learn about being a Division Chief and Mosely was not patient with
superiors who refused to listen to him. He was not one to suffer fools
lightly. As illustrated by the following...

I came to know Mosely while still ASWO. While getting my Surface Warfare
Officer, SWO, qualifications signed off. He was a great wealth of knowledge
and was always patient and ready to help me.

One night on the midwatch, while the ship was underway for an exercise, I
watched him toss an officer's combination cover, hat, overboard.  (The
round one that has the Navy Shield in front, above the black brim.) I saw
him. He didn't see me. I found out later it was because the pompous ass of
an Operations Officer had belittled one of Mosely's watchstanders because
his coffee, fetched from the Wardroom, was not hot enough. (This guy was
not well regarded by the crew and everyone breathed easier once he returned
to civilian life. In fact, the Captain refused to appear on the quarterdeck
when asshole was piped ashore for his last time. That was a direct and
intentional insult.)

Back to that night... Once relieved of my bridge watch I quickly headed
into CIC to watch asshole search for his cover. Everyone wore a cover
onboard, although it wasn't required inside the skin of the ship, unless on
watch. Asshole was going to "Quarters" shortly and needed his cover for
saluting. As I entered I heard Mosely say, "I told you sir, it's on that
console". He pointed to a video console used to track surface contacts.
Lt. Asshole was frantically looking below, behind, all around for his
combination cover. Asshole began to panic, "I lost my only other combo
cover while standing watch with you fuckers the last time we were
underway. I know one of these bastards stole it. Now, where the fuck is my
hat!"

Petty Officer Mosely, finished turning over to the oncoming watch. As he
approached asshole, he said, "It's right there, sir", indicating the
screen. It was then I realized he had marked the spot where he had tossed
assholes hat overboard. His hat was represented by a glowing little dot
that showed asshole's hat was now about two thousand yards behind us. Of
course Mosely dissembled by saying, "That's strange, the last time I saw
it, it was right there", again pointing in the general direction of the
screen. I tried not to laugh out loud.

Asshole was livid. "Well, it's damn sure not here now! If I find out who
did this, they're going Captain's Mast and their gonna buy a new cover."
With that he stormed out. I had been brow beat myself, several times by
asshole and was not a fan. Mosely was about to head to chow. I took the
seat at the console. "Petty Officer Mosely, can you tell me about this
contact? It never showed up on the console on the bridge. It apparently
passed us just as you walked out onto the starboard bridge wing last
night."

Mosely knew he was had. "Mr. Ford, I don't care if you tell him or not. He
was riding Seaman Jenkins for no reason, other than he didn't wake him up
while his coffee was still hot. I might go to Captain's Mast but that
bastard should be court martialed for sleeping while on watch. Everybody
falls asleep sometimes. That motherfucker doesn't even try to hide it. He
sleeps through the entire watch when he has the mids."

"Petty Officer Mosely, I can't talk about something I am not sure about. As
far as I know, nothing out of the ordinary happened during my watch. You
came out to the bridge a couple of times to discuss closing
contacts. That's it." Mosely was visibly relieved. Once I took over the OS
division, Operations Specialist division, we worked very well together. He
covered my ass on numerous occasions.



Now, on the other hand, Chief Morrison soon became a thorn in my side. So
much so that I began to wonder if I had some deep resentment toward CPOs in
general.

We were in dry dock in the Charleston Naval shipyard. The ship was up on
blocks and my division was tasked with painting the mast. Now, I have never
liked heights. I don't mind looking in the distance. As long as I don't
look down, I'm ok. Believe me it was with some trepidation, that when Chief
Morrison brought me the "men working aloft" chit, I added my name. This
chit meant no radio or radar operations could be conducted within the
shipyard. (A `chit' is a written request.)

The Chief was incredulous. "Mr. Ford, why would you want to climb the mast?
Nobody wants to climb that high. Me and Mosely are capable of determining
what scraping needs to be done before we send a paint crew aloft next
week."

"Chief, this is not about you being able to do your job. I'll be sending
our guys up there to paint. Some of them are probably scared to death at
the prospect of being that high off the ground. I won't ask them to do
something I am not prepared to do myself." He walked away shaking his head.

Our new replacement for asshole wasn't much better. He had the nervous
habit of sniffing his fingertips, as if they had just been someplace
interesting. He was amazed at my logic. He couldn't fathom why I felt I
needed to do this. He offered that he would refuse to climb the mast
himself and had directed his men to do exactly that on his previous ship. I
think he may have muttered `fool' as I walked away with the signed chit. I
never liked that man. More than once I wanted to put my boot where I think
his fingertips had been.

The actual climb was as nerve wracking as I had anticipated. I didn't spend
a lot of time sightseeing, but we were definitely higher than the
surrounding buildings. To see men on the drydock floor appear no larger
than piss ants was unnerving and slightly nauseating. Mosely didn't help
when he recalled the last time they had painted the mast. He had been a
Seaman Recruit (SR). One of his buddies with him had puked. He offered in
great detail how it was a good thing no one was directly below them. He
graphically described the fall of shot from such a height. I gave Mosely a
warning, yet impotent, glare. I felt like a death row inmate who had been
granted a full pardon when my feet touched the deck on the 02 level.

The next week Chief Morrison, presented me with the "men working aloft"
chit for the actual mast paint crew. Our prior excursion had revealed only
a minimum of paint chipping was needed. I scanned it casually, but stopped
dead when I saw the name, "Seaman Jenkins".

A couple of weeks before, Seaman Jenkins had been found precariously
perched on the starboard side bridge railing. When told to get down from
the railing Jenkins replied, "I'm going to get down. I just haven't decided
which way." Meaning he was contemplating suicide. The roving patrol, had
called the Quarterdeck and help soon arrived. Jenkins spent a few days in
the psych ward before being declared "fit for duty" and returned to the
ship and my division. I had talked to Jenkins upon his return and he
assured me he would not try anything like that again and he would ask for
help if he needed it. He mentioned that while some people shunned him, PO
Mosely was being very helpful and encouraging. Chief Morrison had, over PO
Mosely's objections, added Jenkins name to the "men working aloft" chit.

"Is this some kind of joke, Chief? You can't seriously believe that I would
let you send a man aloft who less than two weeks ago seriously threatened
to fall to his death."

"Mr. Ford, Jenkin's is a dirtbag, a worthless piece of shit. I figure if
he's gonna off himself, the sooner the better. Hell, I hope he jumps, the
world and my division would be better off."

We were in my stateroom with the door open. I directed the Chief to close
the door and take a seat. I pretended not to notice him roll his
eyes. "Chief you and I have butted heads ever since I was assigned to this
division. Now, I have been patient with you because you are a new CPO, and
I'm new to the division. But Chief, this isn't your division any more than
it's mine. You pretty much ignore and ridicule half of "your" division. You
have systematically chosen the people you like and pretty much abandoned
those you perceive as weak or less competent. Those you don't favor
describe the ones you do favor as being "in the clique with Nick the
Dick". Did you know that"? He shook his head in obvious disbelief. "It's
understood that `your' guys get preferential treatment in even the most
routine tasks.

"Chief, your job isn't to pick the cream of the crop and ignore or harass
the rest. The Navy is manned by some of best this country has to
offer. There're ways of dealing with misfits... through documentation. But,
according to you, half this division is beyond redemption. I don't agree
with that. The evaluations you gave me a few days ago show exactly which of
the men assigned to this division you like, mostly those that already are
or want to be AICs. Two of those you dislike had been selected as Sailor of
the Month within the year just prior to your coming onboard. Has their
performance really slipped that much, there's certainly no documentation to
back that up. Your current evaluations would keep those men from even being
considered for promotion. Your job, Chief, is to help each man assigned to
this division to better develop his skills as an Operations Specialist and
as a sailor.

"We both know that your previous division Officer was your best
friend. Everybody liked Casey. I am not Casey, I don't fraternize with
enlisted men, especially those that serve under me. You and I are never
going to be best friends. We can and should, however, respect each other
professionally. If I was less than professional in my regard for you, how
do you think your own evaluation would read? It's obvious that you resent
my very presence. You miss your friend and the way he gave you a free hand
to run this division. I am not Casey and that pisses you off. I
understand. But, you need to learn to work with different management
styles.

"Your attitude toward me is surly at best and often borders on
insubordination. Those moments are mostly kept to the confines of my
stateroom, so I try to overlook them. Think about this, if our roles were
reversed, would you tolerate the disdain you show me everyday... I honestly
don't think so.

"You are truly gifted as an Air Interceptor Controller. Your expertise
could develop our guys into some of the best anywhere. But, AIC's are not
the only skilled people this division needs. Can you truly say you have
been involved with the ASW team or NGFS team. Have you shown any interest
in developing Seamen like Jenkins? I don't think so.

"You act surprised that I know so much about this division. If you hung
around when I come into CIC, you might learn something about me. But, you
can't stand to be in my presence and hurry away as soon as you can. The
only time I see you is when you have papers for me to sign. Even then you
send an underling if there aren't any obvious questions to be answered. I
spend time each day trying to get to know my men. I am interested in what
they think and how they are getting along. You should try that, instead of
regaling your chosen minions with tales of controlling CAP fighters.

"If I let you keep Jenkins on this list we could both be brought up on
charges. If he died, you and I could both be facing charges of
manslaughter. At the very least if his shrink found out he was allowed to
work aloft, you and I would most likely face disciplinary action. The guy
is still unstable. And you, knowing this, want to send him aloft? It's like
you're daring him to jump." I marked Jenkins name off the chit.

"Chief I want you to take these evaluations with you. I want you to think
about what I've said here today. Ask yourself if I have misled you in
anything I said. Ask yourself if I have ever treated you with anything but
respect? Also imagine you being assigned to the squadron and tasked with
investigating the case of an 18 year old Seaman who had plunged to his
death from the mast only days after threatening to jump to his death from
the same dry docked ship's bridge railing. Consider possible findings of
negligence or even criminal charges. Think about how that could impact the
careers of everyone involved up to and including the Captain.

"I hope to see a more professional approach reflected in those evaluations
when you bring them back to me." I handed him the evaluations folder and
charged him to have a good weekend. Once he was gone I physically shuddered
at what might have happened had I just approved that chit without reviewing
the names. Jenkins was a dirtbag, but he was also a human being.

I took the chit to my finger sniffing department head. He asked why Jenkins
name had been crossed off the list. Without waiting for a reply, he
casually observed, "You should have left him on the chit. Probably would
have saved us from processing him out on a dishonorable discharge later
on. I waited until I was outside his stateroom to roll my eyes in
wonder. At that moment I had little hope the Chief would come around to my
way of thinking. I went home that night believing I was surrounded by
idiots.

I should note here that I had to talk to `finger sniffer' three times
before he forced Chief Morrison to stop bypassing me in his chain of
command. They had been used to bypassing Casey as Divo and were comfortable
working together. Try explaining the importance of the chain of command to
your boss. Talk about diplomacy...

I can't say there was a miraculous change in Chief Morrison's
behavior. But, little things were beginning to tell of some changes within
the division. Chief put himself on the chit to attend ASW team training,
something he had avoided in the past. He personally monitored and critiqued
basic maneuvering board training. The most significant tell was in the
evaluations he resubmitted. He explained that he and the two division LPOs,
Leading Petty Officers, had sat down together and rewrote the
evaluations. I was a happy camper.

I wasn't happy for long. Our XO, Executive Officer, a true leader in my
book, advised me I was under investigation by the squadron. It seems that
Chief Deplane filed an informal complaint with the Squadron Command Master
Chief (CMC) that I had conspired with the officer who relieved me, Greg
Flowers, to ruin his career. The XO assured me, I had nothing to worry
about.

Flashback to two Chiefs reporting onboard....



On the same day that Chief Morrison had walked down the peer to report
aboard Our destroyer, he was accompanied by another newly minted CPO. I was
standing on the fo'c'sle, the upper most deck at the front of the
ship. (Imagine that scene from titanic with their arms outstretched. They
were perched on the handrailing on the fo'c'sle.) I watched them approach,
knowing one of them was my new Sonar Chief. The slimmer one was
smiling. Obviously excited about his newest assignment. I was hopeful that
he was to be my new LCPO. You know what they say, `hope in one hand, spit
in the other and see which one fills up first',

The other man, the one destined to be my LCPO, was taller than my 6'2". He
was noticeably overweight and morose. He was not happy to be here. I would
later learn, Chief Deplane was resentful that he had not been ordered to a
newer, more sophisticated warship, a dedicated ASW platform. Chief Deplane
had never served onboard any ship. He had been selected from among his "A
School" classmates, in San Diego, to become an instructor. Through
reenlistment incentives he had risen quickly through the ranks. He had put
on his new uniform somewhere between San Diego and Charleston. He had never
undergone and refused to undergo the traditional Chief's initiation
ceremony.

The man had no understanding of his responsibilities as a LCPO. He was
recalcitrant and lazy. He put in for leave during the time we were to
attempt our biannual torpedo and ASROC certification. We were actually
going to fire live weapons at a submarine. Only a select few ships got to
fire actual, live weapons. Of course, every destroyer got to shoot their
guns. Compared to launching an ASROC and torpedo, gun firing exercises were
an everyday occurrence. But, here, my LCPO insisted he was not needed and
that, instead, his parents desperately needed him to select a retirement
property in Florida. I denied his leave chit, because the next highest
ranking man in sonar was Second Class Petty Officer Johnston. A truly
knowledgeable, effective and dedicated Petty Officer. I had great respect
for him. He had served as my acting LCPO for several months before
Deplane's arrival.

A day or so later, I was called into the XO's stateroom. He explained that
Chief Deplane and the Command Master Chief (another dickhead) had
approached him with Deplanes leave chit. Bottom line, the XO approved
Deplane's leave chit. The XO said, "Jim, believe me, you'll be better off
without the whiny son of a bitch". That was the first time he had used my
first name, even in private. He further reminded me that I was to be moved
to the Operations department shortly after this exercise and Deplane would
be someone else's problem.

I immediately got with PO Johnston and we began training for our live
firing at AUTEC. The exercise went so well I put Johnston in for, and he
was awarded, a Navy Achievement medal. We received plaudits from our
squadron and fleet commanders on the high scores achieved in our live
firings. As promised, shortly after we finished our firing exercise I
turned over the ASW division to Greg Flowers. Greg was about the same
height as Deplane. But, where Deplane looked fat, Greg just looked big. I
conducted the turnover following a checklist, so nothing was overlooked. I
reviewed the personnel folders, all save Deplanes. I told Greg there was
such a clash of personalities between myself and Deplane that I felt that
they should develop their own relationship without my muddying the waters.

I took over the Operations Specialist division and tried to forget
Deplane. Lord knows I had enough problems with Chief Morrison. Greg did on
one occasion ask me why I didn't warn him about what a douchebag Deplane
was.

A couple of weeks went by and Chief Morrison was moving in a whole
different direction. When I entered CIC, he would greet me with a smile and
discuss whatever training was being conducted. He even had one of his
previous `rejects' training for AIC school. When he came to my stateroom we
could relax and joke around. The change was drastic to say the least.

Eventually I decided I had worried enough about the charges Deplane had
lodged. I was certain I had done nothing improper toward him. He had at
some point been given a TDY, temporary duty assignment to squadron
headquarters there in Charleston. I was in the XO's stateroom to get him to
sign something and asked about those charges Deplane had tried to
bring. The XO began to apologize and I thought `Uh oh! I'm going to need a
lawyer'. He saw my face and began laughing. "I thought you heard about the
big brouhaha in the Chiefs Mess last week."

I shook my head. "I haven't heard anything, XO. What happened in the Chiefs
Mess"? I knew I was not well liked by the CMC, Command Master Chief,
especially since one of my guys had given him a copy of a photo showing the
instant the torpedo exited tube during our live firing exercise. The
dickhead sent the photo to a Navy Publication claiming it was his. My guys
set me wise and l let the Wardroom know what he had done. The dickhead CMC
had been on the bridge taking pictures and couldn't have possibly taken
that photo. The torpedo deck had been cordoned off with no one but a
minimum of torpedomen allowed in that area. One of my torpedomen happened
to be an excellent amateur photographer. When asked, my guy gave the CMC a
copy, never thinking the bastard would do something so underhanded. Hence,
I was not well liked by the CMC. I never understood why he kept his job
after that story came out. Apparently he convinced the Captain it was the
magazine's fault.

I suppose the look on my face sobered the XO. "Jim, relax. It's alright. I
told you from the beginning not to worry. The Captain signed the lousy
evaluation Lt. Flowers wrote up on Deplane. We all know you had no input at
all regarding that eval. Deplane was and is a worthless piece of shit. He
will be permanently assigned to health and recreation. He won't set foot on
a ship again except to encourage use of the golf course or rec center.

He continued, "But about the Chiefs Mess. One day last week Deplane and the
Squadron CMC were here asking questions about you in the Chiefs Mess. Chief
Morrison happened to walk in and Deplane told the Squadron CMC, "Here's
Nick, he came onboard the same day as me. He works for LT. Ford. Ask him,
he'll tell you how impossible it is to work for the man. He's never
satisfied and always looking for the slightest mistake to tear into
you. Ain't that right Nick".

"Well", Chief Morrison snarled at Deplane. `What kind of shit are you
trying to stir up now? All I know is since you came onboard with me, all
you done is whine and complain. You fought it when he wouldn't let you set
up a five section underway watch in sonar cause you claimed our sonar was
totally ineffective, so what was the use. You fought it when he denied your
leave chit cause he thought the senior sonar tech should be onboard when we
live fired a torpedo and an ASROC at a real submarine we tracked with
sonar. You fought it when he insisted you oversee the cleaning of your
passageway after it failed XO's Messing and Berthing inspection three days
in a row. In fact you fought everything he tried to get you to do. All you
didn't fight was laying around on your fat ass, jerking off to porn, and
bitching about Lt. Ford. Everybody knows both you and the Command Master
Chief here hate him. Most likely because he believes in hard work and
integrity. Things neither of you know nothing about. I work with Lt. Ford
now. If he's so bad how come you couldn't get along with Lt. Flowers. He's
practically a pussycat compared to Lt. Ford.

"You don't need to be coming around with the Squadron Command Master Chief
trying to cause trouble for Lt. Ford. The only swinging dick on this whole
ship that will even listen to your claptrap is our CMC. And that's cause
Lt. Ford let it be known that he plagiarized a photo that rightly belonged
to Third Class Torpedoman Jones. You really think you got the backing of
the mess? I don't think so. I don't know about anybody else here but this
place is beginning to stink. I'm going topside to get some fresh air".

The XO chuckled. "In a matter of minutes the Mess was empty except for
Deplane, our CMC and the Squadron CMC. I got a call the next day from the
Squadron CMC. He apologized for taking up our time and told me Deplane was
being reassigned and our official manning was to reflect the loss
accordingly.

"I would have told you sooner, but I figured Chief Morrison would have let
you know. Like I said i never really thought it was important enough to
worry about."

I left the XO's stateroom in a state of shock. I knew things were getting
better between me and Morrison, but I never expected him to defend
me. Certainly not in the Chiefs Mess, in front of the CMC. I went from
feeling concerned to cautiously optimistic to downright giddy.

That afternoon, Chief Morrison came to my stateroom just before knock
off. We talked about the ongoing refit and how it affected our spaces. I
told him we would need to take advantage of this down time and get our
spaces cleaned and painted. He presented me with a list of spaces and the
Petty Officer detailed to lead each paint team. We then discussed the
updated equipment being installed and which would require teams or
individuals be formally trained. He then gave me a list of candidates for
formal training. He had a complete roster and itinerary for travel and
accommodations for our ASW team to train in Norfolk, Va. He had already
notified the watchbill coordinators as well. I was thoroughly impressed. We
had touched on these topics, but for him to step up and take action was a
complete turnaround compared to how he had responded to my queries in the
past. I think my facial expression must have shown some shock. I voiced my
appreciation and admiration for his taking action based on my having
mentioned these things just days ago.

His response was typical of the arrogant attitude that he consistently
projected. I would compare it to typical `fighter pilot jock syndrome',
except I have known fighter jocks and most were nice guys. Rear seaters on
the other hand... not so nice. He was probably the cockiest bastard I have
ever known.

Anyway, "Mr. Ford, I got you figured out now. It took he a while, but I
know you now". This he emphasized by tapping the side of his head with his
index finger. "Yes Sir. I can read you like a book. I can predict your
every move".

Like I said the Chief was cocky. He always projected an air of confidence
and he always had a spring in his step. I sometimes had the feeling that,
when he stood talking to me, he stood on the balls of his feet to make
himself appear taller. I really wanted to wipe that shit eating grin off
his face. It flashed through my mind that he had somehow learned my darkest
secret. Once I realized he hadn't really figured me out, I wanted
desperately to take him down a notch or two. I remember not really
believing what I was about to do.

The man was a couple of inches shorter than I. He had blond hair with a
reddish tinge. He had some freckling and could never tan. He had worked out
with Casey and had excellent definition with noticeable muscles in all the
right places. He had sharply defined facial features, that probably
prevented him from being handsome. But, with his blue eyes and cheeky grin,
he was definitely attractive. His lush lips seemed to reflect whatever his
attitude happened to be at the moment. A crooked grin, a knowing smile, a
criticizing sneer, a throaty laugh... it was all focused around those lush
lips. You know, for most people, you read their eyes. I never saw too much
in his blue eyes. I always seemed to notice his lips.

As I stood, I directed him to stand also. I pushed my chair up against my
desk so it was out of my way. I took on an air of confidence. "So Chief,
I'm an open book to you, am I"?

Immediately I could sense he was off balance, suddenly not sure if I was a
threat. I was at least two inches taller and some 30 pounds heavier. (Yes,
I was a runner and yes I worked out.)

"Tell me Chief, what is it I am thinking right now"? I took a step closer.

I could see he wanted to move back in response to approach, but he forced
himself to remain where he was. "Mr. Ford, You can't fool me. I know you
now". At this point those luscious lips actually quivered.

I stepped into his personal space. "Okay Chief, what am I gonna do next"?

By now, it was clear that he was on the defensive. He couldn't attack and
yet he refused to retreat. He looked suddenly helpless and managed only,
"Mr. Ford"?

I rested my right hand behind his neck and pulled him to me. "What am I
gonna do now Chief"? Before he could answer I pulled him into my embrace
and kissed those luscious lips.

I swear to God, Bill, Fred and George! Those were the softest, sweetest,
most amazing lips I have ever kissed in my entire life. Even now the memory
does things to my body.

It may have been shock. I can't honestly say he responded. I will say he
didn't pull away until I began to suck, nibble and lick those amazing
lips. I think it was when I cupped his firm tight butt to pull his groin
into mine that he broke the embrace and stepped away.

"So Chief I guess you saw that coming a mile away". His eyes darted around
my stateroom, as if searching for something.

He sputtered, "I, Uh, I gotta go".

With an evil grin I said, "Where have you gotta go? We're not through yet"?

He stumbled as he stepped backwards toward the door. Again, he mumbled, "I
gotta go", as he backed out into the passageway, closing the door behind
him.

By the time I opened the door he was at the far end of the passageway,
about to step through the watertight hatch. I called out, "Where you goin
Chief? I'm not through with you yet".

He stopped, turned to me, smiled and replied, "I gotta go, I'll see ya
tomorrow, er, uh, Monday. Mr. Ford.

Author's Note: All the foregoing is true. Only the names have been changed.
I have in mind more chapters to post HOWEVER! They will be fictionalized
accounts of my time in the military. The settings will be real. The people
will be real. The sex will be 'mostly' fantasy. email me and I'll post
more.

sojourn1950@yahoo.com