Marine Vet Returns Home

Marine Vet Returns Home

Two boyhood friends meet again under very different citcumstanes

This story is fiction. But unfortunately, the premises on which it is built have been repeated over and over. And it seems that even the small amount we do to help those who have fought for us is being cut back. Veterans, thank you for your service. The first parts are a bit of a slow burn. I know some of you will skip to the last parts, but I always feel that it's better if you understand the dynamics. Everyone in the story is over 18. I've used the format of a longer story for this submission. As of now, it's a standalone, but I think there will be more chapters in the future. ©Copyright, 2025, Brunosden.

Told in the first person voice of Oliver Strauss, a 23 year old young gay man.....

1

My best friend from many years ago, Tory Aikman, returned from Iraq and Afghanistan a completely changed man. He had left Eden an optimistic, easy-going boy, full of life and mischief, and returned a haunted man. He had seen the horrors that men perpetrated on other men for territory, for power, or in the name of a blood-thirsty, unforgiving god. He had seen quick, but nevertheless good friends and buddies, blown up into unrecognizable masses of bloody flesh in a few seconds. Friends had lost arms or legs. He had seen small villages destroyed by aerial bombing such that no building stood, no person survived, no tree or bush remained--only deep craters in the hot sandy soil. The "enemy" was ruthless and evil; but our guys were not angels--or at least the policy-makers in our government had pushed hard to dehumanize them. All were atrocities beyond the comprehension of a young man, raised in our small, rural, predominantly-Christian town, where everyone was neighbor and where the worst we were likely to encounter was a broken bone on the athletic field or a tangled auto in a crash.

Tory's return to our boyhood town in rural Indiana had been yet another shock. It was so normal. So totally unaware of the potential of humankind for destruction and murder. Unaware out of deliberate choice, not the failure of the media to report. They had just tuned out the horror. So distant from the battlefield that it felt like a kind of Disney World in the midst of reality. It didn't feel like home. He felt alien. Alone. Scared.

I had heard all of this, second hand from his mother to mine. His Mom was worried, praying and hoping that time would heal, but she too needed to unload on someone--like my Mom.

Tory is a Marine--once a Marine, always a Marine, so no past tense, even though he had been decorated and honorably discharged after four long years of terror and horror. He is not a superman or a superhero. He's an ordinary small town boy who reached manhood on the bloodiest of modern battlefields. He's about six foot, with sandy hair, a square face, watery blue eyes, desert-tanned and with the typical physique of a Marine--muscled, but not overly so, threateningly dangerous in his camos, armor, and warpaint--until he smiles (which was infrequent these days) when he'd lighten the mood in any room.

Tory has theoretically finished therapy--having spent months in a hospital in Germany before he was discharged. Diagnosis: Borderline PTSD. Borderline Depressive. Borderline Suicidal. Not enough to keep him hospitalized, but close enough to warrant continued care and concern. And not enough to warrant a disability determination. He's entitled to "consultations" at the VA with a psych--assuming he can get an appointment and travel the 50 miles to Indianapolis, the only psych clinic in the area. I'm pretty sure that, even if he had saved most of his duty pay, in a few months, he was going to be out of money. I wanted to help.

2

But let's drop back about five years to add some flesh to the skeleton Tory Aikman. He is an only child, the golden boy of Elsa and Tom Aikman. Tom has been the town's only dentist for years. And Elsa keeps house and cooks, when she's not acting as receptionist/bookkeeper/office manager of the small dental clinic. They live in a nice post-WWII home, well-kept on the typical landscaped acre, just at the edge of town.

I'm one of four (all but me away from home by now), from a hard-working German-heritage family. Dad works as a technician in an automobile component factory. Mom subs as a teacher in the elementary school. Our home is smaller, but nearby to the Aikmans, and carefully maintained.

Tory graduated from high school, with mediocre grades, co-captain of the small town football team. I was the other co-captain. I'm Oliver Strauss. We were best buds, living about a half mile apart, and lifelong friends. The whole bit: scouts, cycling, water hole, Halloween tricks, pranks, nicknames. We even managed to get a "classic" 73 Chevy Impala (the one with horizontal wings and the the big V8) working again--after it had been abandoned at an auto graveyard a few towns away. (Actually he did. I only did what I was told, providing muscle when called for. Mostly I handled the restoration of the rusted body with tons of fiberglass, including the unique "flaming" paint job on the sides, as he tackled the mechanicals.)

Both of us were popular within a circle of friends typical of small town America. We doubled for the junior and senior proms, the senior week trip to the Indiana Dunes on the Lake, and numerous other dates to dances and the drive-in. (Yes, until last year, Eden had one of the few surviving drive-ins in the country.) By the end of our senior year, we had both scored and were both getting off--or even laid--on a fairly regular basis with the girls we dated, in the wide backseat of the Impala, or in a bedroom in a house which had been deserted by parents for the evening. Life was simple. Life was good.

We both went to college: I went to IU in Fine Arts and Tory to SICC where he completed two years and an Associates' Degree in Business Admin before joining the Marines. The AA degree was a typical major for a non-academically inclined student. I went on to complete an MFA, with a Psych minor, in four years and was now teaching art at SICC. Both of us worked part time and summers.

I was also coaching the football program at the SICC--which was touch intramural, but really quite serious. It helped a little. There was a modest stipend, but community college teachers, particularly in the humanities, typically make only a minimum wage.

We had lost contact during the years when Tory was deployed. I'd hear only a bit here and there from parents who saw each other occasionally. He hadn't been on home leave to Eden during the entire four years. Neither of us had married, although I continued to date regularly until I realized that I was more than just bi-curious. I definitely preferred boys. But, I was quiet and discrete, finding dates well away from Eden.

After discharge, Tory was at a loss. Going from the high of 24/7 danger, the camaraderie of combat, and platoon command to several weeks of psych rehab in Germany, to living back at home in his old room. He had been a communications-intel specialist. It was a shock that he simply could not handle. He knew he had to find a job--but nothing seemed close in intensity to his recent four years. His Dad was happy to be support for some time, and his Mom was pleased to have a son home again to spoil. So they weren't pushing him to do something he hated. He was bored, lacked energy and was more than a little scared. His reaction was to do nothing. I had heard from his Mom that he slept long hours, didn't leave the house except to be driven to weekly therapy at the VA. He had even stopped going to church with them.

For me, things were totally different. Deciding to follow my dream to become an artist was the best decision I had ever made. My folks thought I was crazy to choose a career without promise of financial reward--particularly with my background and proven intellectual talents. They wanted me to become a lawyer. But, I loved the classes, enjoyed my friends in the art department, frequented the IU parties, and joined a frat. All in all, I had a terrific four years. And I'm told that I'm developing into a very good artist and an even better educator. The SICC job is perfect: it is close to home (where I still occupy a garage apartment, detached from my folks' home); it involves doing what I love; it pays enough; and, it leaves me with time to set up and use a studio at SICC where I am preparing for an upcoming show. The football coaching keeps me in shape, playing a sport I have always enjoyed. And volunteering at the local VA's art therapy classes has opened an entirely new potential future for me. But more about that later. It may be my future--unless the show propels me into the big leagues or fine art.

I had realized my sexual orientation early in my time at IU. I liked girls and dated them regularly, but I really got off with guys. I guess that if you need a label, I'd have said that I was bi. I liked sex. Duh! I was 19 and a walking sperm factory! I like anal--as both top and bottom. Women are typically not into that. And the roughness of male on male sex is a real turn-on. I joined a gay-friendly frat, and very much enjoyed the easy-going sex life of a collegiate in a non-hostile environment where nudity and casual sex were a given. I had come out to Mom and Dad as bi in my junior year. (Actually, I am probably gay.) They were surprised--I didn't act gay (whatever that is), played sports, dated. Dad took several months to come around. I think Mom and my sisters convinced him that if he didn't, he'd lose me. So we are quietly okay about it now. We just don't talk about the elephant in the room.

They were saddened--not for me, but for what my life is likely to involve--but they accepted me. More than once, Mom suggested that I'd grow out of it, and that ultimately I would "outgrow" my impulses and marry. I didn't have a boyfriend, but I've many friends with whom I slept on a regular basis. Coaching the intramurals had an interesting side perk: being around young men who were not technically my students. (Intramurals were like a "club" not subject to the same rules as teacher's associating with students.) They were all consenting and willing adults. I'm vers, but I tend to top--perhaps because of my physical size, conditioned from years of athletics, my natural take-charge attitude, and my legendary dick--which I often displayed in locker rooms and showers. I did a little subtle advertising. And they typically come on to me.

Incidentally I could have passed for Tory's brother--both of us were about six feet, blue-eyed, sandy-haired, square-jawed with athletic builds. Our cocks were respectably larger than average, both were showers, and hooded. (Yes, of course we had compared.) Our deep voices reflected the unique twang of Southern Indiana. The main difference between us is not physical: I'm artistic, bookish and a student; Tory loved action, sports, using his hands to take things apart or put them back together. Although we had played "show me yours" and jerked each other as teens and played around in the shower, neither of us thought of the activity as particularly gay--just horny guys exploring sexuality and getting off. No mouths, lips or anal cavities were involved. Tory did not know and probably didn't even suspect that I am gay. I assumed that, like most guys, he had had some "innocent" encounters with the troops in the desert where females were scarce and taboo. But, we hadn't talked about it. In fact, we had never talked about sex at all--except maybe to boast about a conquest.

3

Eden, Indiana is a very small place. It didn't take long before I heard that Tory was home. I called several times to try to set up a time for us to get together, have a drink and talk. But, Tory was always evasive, often "unavailable" and seemingly uninterested. I went by once or twice, but his Mom said he was sleeping.

Finally, one Thursday morning, when I had no classes, I just showed up. The house was apparently deserted, but the front door wasn't locked and Tory's ancient Impala was shining in the drive. I took a chance and walked in. I heard the TV in the back room of the house that I knew like my own. So I walked down the hall and found Tory stretched out on the couch in his underwear (facing away from me), a porn DVD blinking in the background. Tory had a fuzzy chin and disheveled dirty hair. Obviously he hadn't shaved in days. He was wearing an ancient thread-bare Semper Fi tee and black knit trunks which outlined his rock hard erection and showed the dark moist circle near the tip. He was on his side facing the TV, using his glutes and hips to thrust, sliding his erection, poking through the fly, through a lubed palm and fingers. I stood quietly and stared, not sure whether to announce my presence or just enjoy the show. And it was indeed a show worthy of any film. Tory was all man, a tanned, gaunt man in the final stages of orgasm, rubbing his balls and taint through the fabric, fisting the shaft, sliding along it, moaning in pleasure and anticipation of imminent release. The cock was long, thick and hard, the hood had furled back nicely, and the knob had taken on an angry dark purple hue. I even noted the drop of pearly viscosity on the tip. I licked my lips involuntarily. Maybe a minute or more passed as Tory thrust into his fists, stopped to edge himself still more, before he blasted three or four times into his fist, the boxers and tissues. He went still, opened his eyes and rolled onto his back. He spotted me immediately, stuffed his shaft back inside, and sprung up from the sofa.

"Fuck you scared the shit out of me!"

"Actually, I don't think it was shit; it looked a lot more like spunk. It's only me, Tory. I guess you enjoyed that. What did she look like?"

Troy was silent, but his still-hard dick tented the knit briefs. Then a hint of a smile crossed his face. "Big tits. Nice smooth round ass. Softer hands. Tight lubed ass. She was letting me in the backdoor. I think I filled her good and proper. But, what the fuck are you doing here? Who let you in?"

"Since when do I need an invitation to your place? I think I spent more time here than at home. And the door was open."

"By the way. Good to see you too, Tory. It's been a long time."

He didn't respond, but sat back down, his trunks still obscenely tented.

Without asking, I sat in one of the old leather chairs facing the sofa and crossed my legs in my shorts to hide my erection. Tory sat back down and pulled a throw pillow over his semi and the spreading wetness on his trunks. The aroma of semen and musk floated into the space. "Why have you been avoiding me, Tory?"

"I haven't..." Then he went quiet. "Actually, I have. It's not just you. I'm not ready for company yet, Ollie."

"Not even your best bud?" I smiled conspiratorially, "I could have helped you with that if you had asked. Like old times."

"You don't know the half of it. I'm still a mess. I'm mixed up. I'm depressed. I can't sleep. And I don't have a job. I'm not even sure I know what I want to do. What would there be to talk about? And for Chrissakes, I certainly don't want your pity. I know you've got your shit together--teaching and all, coaching, looking forward to a showing of your work. Mom keeps me up to date. We are not in the same world anymore, Ollie. We're grown up now. Everything is different. Everything is serious."

"We've both been through a lot together, Tory."

"Nothing like this." I continued to stare, expecting that he'd at least add a few more words. And after a few more minutes of silence, I assumed he wanted me to go. So I got up to leave. As I passed the sofa, I detected a deep sigh, maybe a muffled sob and a chest spasm. I turned quickly. And just as I did, Tory broke down, dropped his head into his lap, and began to cry. "I can't seem to put the horror behind me, Ollie. It's like nothing either of us had ever imagined, let alone witnessed. I have nightmares--even in the middle of the day. Concentrating to jerk off is one of the few times when I feel relief." By then he was spasming, holding back sobs.

I moved quickly to the sofa and he allowed me to draw him into my lap, massaging his shoulders, holding him tight in a chest to chest hug. It took a long time, but Tory finally quieted. By then, my shirt was drenched with his tears, and the tenderness of twenty-plus years of friendship overwhelmed me. I loved this guy. But I was overwhelmed by the warmth and beauty of the guy I was holding so closely--and the fact that he reeked of musk and sex didn't help either. My hormones finally took over. I pulled Tory's face to mine and kissed him on the forehead, then each cheek. He didn't stop me. Next I pecked at Tory's lips. He responded by jerking away. So, I didn't try to force the issue. My hand went to Tory's neck to hold him tightly in place as I whispered words of comfort. "It's okay, Tory. I'm here. Go ahead and let it all out. We've been bros for decades. That is what bros are for. You can talk to me about anything. I'm here for anything you need. And I'd never tell a soul."

Tory relaxed for a few additional minutes, enjoying being held, but ultimately I think he felt that we were just too close. So he pulled away and moved to the other side of the sofa.

Then he just talked for a long time, recounting experiences in the desert--mostly good ones where he had bonded with other marines, one where he had lost a buddy. I sat silently and listened, "actively listened"--prompting Tory to continue. The "talk" lasted for nearly an hour. Tory had opened up perhaps for the first time in months.

Then it was my turn. "Tory, let me try to be your BF again. I'd really like that. You need to get out of this place and start doing some normal things. A little at a time. And I'll be there if you need to talk--or if you just want to call it a day and go home. I'm coaching intramural football this afternoon. Why don't you join us? We can always use another coach. And there's an art session tomorrow at the VA, I want you to join us."

(The intramural football was a no brainer suggestion--all physical, bringing back the normalcy of teen athletics. If I played it carefully, it would distract him from thinking about the past by making him plan the plays for the next few seconds. But, I carefully didn't use the word "therapy" to describe the classes--where six to ten vets gathered with a teacher for a few hours of drawing or painting, from life or plein aire--it really didn't matter. It was the "ordinary" comradeship that mattered--ordinary guys concentrating on capturing a scene, a still life or a life model with pencil, chalk or paint. A few had talent; a few had technique; but it didn't matter. And we talked over a few beers afterwards. The art class was just an ice breaker for the real purpose--the conversation after.)

"We've got time and you don't have to register in advance. Let's get you cleaned up. Then, I'm taking you to lunch. Then, I'll drive to SICC. We've got coaching gear there. Just give it a try. I'm not taking no for an answer."

4

Tory looked like he was about to refuse. But, I wasn't giving up. It was time to take charge. Curiously, as teens, I was always the one to suggest a date, a prank or an activity--although he would usually take over with his enthusiasm. I stood and pulled Tory up. "Your room. Shower. Now, grunt. You stink. And not in a good way." Tory's eyes opened wide and he smiled, but he followed me up the stairs. I knew the layout and the routine. We had showered many times in his bath, often together, occasionally using the watery moments to jerk each other.

I marched Tory into the bath, pulled off his tee and reached in to the shower to turn on the water. Like an automaton, Tory pushed his trunks down and stepped in. Fuck, he was so sexy. His dick, now only a little chubbed, girthy and with a well-sculpted peach-spahed head, arched dark and nicely over egg-sized balls. His gauntness emphasized the cut abs and deep vee. I was staring, but he didn't seem to notice. He was in a trance. Then my memory of our earlier days together took over. I stripped and stepped in behind him. "I haven't washed your back or your hair in years, Tory. It used to be one of my favorite things." I expected a protest. But, he allowed me to join him, not saying a word.