Naval Dilemma

Dutch came first. It was a particularly busy and boisterous night in the Dick Hut, tucked in the back shadows of an alley off the Nuuanu Stream in the heart of Honolulu's red light district. The sign over the door actually said "Richard's," but that's not what everyone called it. Naval ships were in harbor, more than ninety of them, I was told, and all of Oahu was abuzz at the rumbling of war, with the Japs getting more belligerent with each passing day. All the sailors could talk about was how we were on the brink of something big.

As the night wore on and the drinks flowed and sailors overflowed our little bar, it was getting a little dicey for me. Hung Lee, the bar's proprietor and my virtual owner as well, kept a string of young Hawaiian men like me in the bar for when the sailors wanted something more exotic, smaller, more lithe and compact—and more undressed—than each other when they poured off their docked vessels, randy, needy, and with a month's pay in the back pockets of their regulation tight whites. Our main responsibility was to keep the men in the bar and paying for drinks. Inevitably, though, we left the bar with one or more of the men and took them to our small rooms in the upper floors of surrounding buildings. This was where the real money was, and Hung Lee let us keep a third of whatever we earned.

I had already left the bar once that night—with a blond, pimply young sailor of no more than nineteen, who was shy and embarrassed and didn't know for sure what to do. All he knew was that he was far from home, he was lonely and a bit scared, and he had had a raging hard on for weeks because he was missing poking some sweetie back in Ohio on the mainland.

I took him to my rooms mostly because he was being circled by the older, much more experienced and aggressive sailors, and I knew from experience that he was in danger of having something far different happen to him than what he had hesitatingly come into this bar for.

When we got to my small two-room working and living space, he didn't seem to know what to do, where to start. So I started for him. I untied and dropped my sarong, the only thing I wore at the bar, and directed him to disrobe, which he did almost furtively in the corner of the room and turned from me. Then I laid him on his belly on my single bed, the most sturdy piece of furniture in the room—out of professional necessity—and I rubbed his shoulders and back with fragrant oil, loosening up both his tension and his inhibitions. He was grinding the bed clothes with his pelvis by the time I had finished with his legs and had moved to his well-rounded butt cheeks. He was sighing and moaning like he was in the heights of sex, but then I turned him over and my hands and mouth showed him what real sex felt like. It had been some time since he'd had sex, so he shot off quickly and prodigiously almost as soon as I sank my mouth down on his throbbing cock.

And then he was very embarrassed and was stammering and was quite beside himself with apologies. I felt sorry for him and didn't want him to leave with a bad impression of how he would be with a man, so I shushed him and covered his mouth with kisses until he subsided back on the bed with a sigh. He was young and virile and in need, so he was already hard again. I mounted him and slid my hole down on his cock, straddling his pelvis as he lay back in the bed, and I taught him that all he had heard on shipboard of what a man could give him was true.

I was late in getting back to the bar because I had instilled such confidence in the young sailor that instead of leaving when I thought we were done, he bent me over the back of a straight chair and took control of a vigorous second fuck, covering me closely from behind. I cried out in the taking for him, telling him how good he was and how fully he was using me and how much I wanted him—all to help him get seasoned in this new lifestyle he was trying out.

When he asked me how much I wanted, I asked for far more than my usual fee. And I did so to be kind to him. I didn't want to leave him with a great deal of money to spend. I wanted him to go directly back to his ship from here, not return to the bar where the predators were circling the waters. I told him that if he just kept his eyes open for the possibilities, that he should be able to find a special friend on the ship who would bottom for him with more opportunities for encounters and less of a risk of falling in with those who would want to use him for their bottoms until he was more seasoned.

When I returned to the Dick Hut, Hung Lee was beside himself with anger and slapped me hard across the face and pushed me into the thick of the boisterous, rutting crowd of sailors. There were entirely too many ships in Pearl Harbor, too many sailors free in Honolulu. Too much testosterone flying around the red light district. Too much tension in the air. Too much frantic need with an eye on the curfew time.

And there were very few of us bar boys to go around. We were easy to spot in a swirling crowd like this. We wore only gaily colored sarongs knotted at our waists, hanging low on our slim hips. We were barefoot and bare chested and had orchids over our ears. We left the impression that all a sailor had to do was to pull loose that knot and we'd be accessible and ready for action.

The sailors, however, were heavily regulated to remain in their starched white uniforms, with the tight midsections and bell bottoms and the pullover top. The Navy didn't care too much what they did on port leave as long as they remained squared away in their sailor costumes while in public. The only saving grace was that they still had buttoned cod pieces for easy access when they needed to piss. It, of course, provided easy access for other things as well. Thus encumbered, the sailors, in their urgency, gravitated more to the half naked, willowy and exotic Hawaiian and Chinese bar boys than to each other.

And there were few even vaguely private places for the sailors to go together. Hung Lee had a back room, but it was quickly filled—at a premium price. As were the surrounding alleys, even if they were free, if you didn't count the danger of being accosted by a roving military police patrol. The sounds of grunts and groans and slurping floated above the whole backstreet and its allies, as white-dressed sailors gravitated to whatever unoccupied shadow could be found to kneel and suck or cover and dog fuck.

It was late enough in the evening, and there were so many sailors in the bar that most of the rest of the bar boys were off in the rooms over the bars, servicing the highest bidders. Hung Lee thought I'd spent entirely too long with the pimply blond, although he was less angry when I showed him how much money I'd gotten out the bumbling sailor.

I was no sooner back in the center of the barroom before the situation got out of control. I was surrounded by a sea of white and of lust-filled faces. A sailor was close behind me, lacing his arms under my pits, immobilizing my arms, and lifting my feet off the ground. A drunken buddy of his had a fist at my knot, pulling at it, and my sarong drifted down to the floor.

He was leering at me and unbuttoning his cod piece fly and pulling out a hardened cock.

Sailors were surrounding us, coming in close, licking their chops, and a rhythmic chant of "Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him" was swelling.

Hung Lee had gone up on the bar top and, red faced, was bellowing at the top of his lungs, yelling that he needed to be paid first and that this wasn't allowed in the barroom, that the military police would be along at any minute and shut them down.

I wasn't scared of the sailor's cock or even what he intended to do with it. But I was apprehensive about the ten sailors who might follow him and about the mob conditions in general, that I might be gravely hurt in the process.

The sailor in front of me was lifting and parting my legs and was crouching his hips under me and between my legs. My feet already were off the ground. Most of these sailors towered over me, all of them were bulked up and at least twice my size.

I winced and flinched as the cock head found my hole and just pressed inside and pushed higher and higher into me. The mob was crowding in closer and cheering at the initial invasion and picking up the "Fuck him, fuck him" chanting.

My assailant was sweating and smelled of too much beer. His cock wasn't thick, but it was long enough that he was rising up further in me with each thrust. He certainly was longer and more insistent and demanding than the young, inexperienced sailor I'd just serviced had been. He was palming my butt cheeks and leveraging on them to pull me up and down on his cock. His teeth went to one of my nipples, and I screamed out in pain at that. And the crowd cheered.

The crowd noise swelled and then inexplicably tapered off, and my tormentor had pulled his cock out of me and I was being lowered, more gently than I imagined was going to be the case, down to the floor. The grip of the man behind me lessened, and he was trembling. But he didn't drop me.

I looked up to see a gigantic, broken nose of an angry-faced head pushing its way through the crowd. The mouth was open, showing uneven, broken teeth; it was bellowing at a level that demanded attention. A monster of a man in sailor whites was cutting through the mob that had surrounded me, and the men were shrinking away from him. Those who didn't give way fast enough were being swatted into the men behind them, all struggling hard not to go down like bowling pens. The man mountain was virtually bulging with muscle. His torso was thick, but not fat, and the material of his sailor bell bottoms were straining to hold in his massive thigh and calf muscles. He was a good foot taller than any other man in the room. And he was ugly as sin.

But he had saved me and had quieted the crowd into docile and skittish sailors instantaneously. The two men who were my principle assailants melted into the crowd, and the mob somehow largely evaporated from the bar.

The man leaned down and lifted my sarong from the floor and held it out for me.

"Are you OK?" he asked.

"Yes, now," I replied, "Thanks to you, of course." He looked away, almost bashfully, while I reknotted my sarong low on my waist. I was trembling, but I fought to regain control. Just another night at work.

"May I buy you a drink?" he asked, diffidently, almost in a whisper. He still wasn't looking at me.

"Yes, of course. At the bar." This was what I was here for—to push drinks for lonely sailors. I looked over at the bar. Hung Lee was behind it now. I could tell that he was still half in shock, his whole future having passed before his eyes. I'm sure he figured he came close to having the bar closed down by the naval authorities because a riot had occurred here. And there was no question in my mind that he'd blame me. I'd have to walk very carefully until he forgot this incident.

We bellied up to the bar. I ordered a gin and tonic (which, of course, would come without the gin), and the sailor ordered a Coke. Anybody else in here who ordered a nonalcoholic drink would have been jeered out of the place. But I was pretty sure that no one messed with this monster of a man.

I discovered the source of his almost obscene bulk. He was a boilerman on the battleship the USS West Virginia, which was docked at Pearl Harbor. His was perhaps the dirtiest and most muscle taxing—and developing—job on the whole ship. His name was Dutch, which he seemed anxious for me to know. He seemed to want me to know more than that he was just in this bar to find some man to fuck—or be fucked by.

"And your name?" he asked quietly as we worked on our drinks. As required, I quickly downed my first one and was already on my second one, all on the sailor's tab, of course. He had saved me, so I felt badly about doing this, but Hung Lee was right there, watching my every step, and the sailor didn't seem to mind.

"'Ano'i," I answered.

"'Ano'i, 'Ano'i," he repeated, almost in a whisper, treating each syllable like velvet. "What a beautiful name. Is it Hawaiian?"

"Yes," I answered. "I'm Hawaiian. Well, mostly. A little Chinese blood, of course, and I'm told there's a Presbyterian missionary or two from the mainland in there too. We're all a mix of something here."

"And it turned out quite well, too," He said, giving me a smile that was almost pathetic as ugly as he was. I almost felt like laughing. It seemed like he was courting me. Here in a bar, where I got paid to lie on my back and open my legs, no real pleasantries exchanged.

"Thank you," I said. Then. "And thank you again what you did over there; I would have been in a lot of trouble if something had happened to get the bar closed down tonight. Now, I guess I should—" I was standing up, ready to mingle with the much smaller crowd in the room in the wake of the excitement.

"No, please. Can't you stay a bit longer?" he asked, his eyes pleading with me. "I have money; I can pay for the drinks. Barkeep, another round over here, please."

I looked at Hung Lee for a sign of what I should do. But he was being inscrutable. I knew he'd want me to jolly up the men around the tables and get them to drink faster to cool down their hard ons as I flirted with them. But it also was obvious that Hung Lee realized that it was only Dutch's presence that was maintaining calm on this unusually crowded night. A night full of tense talk of what was happening, why so many ships were in harbor, what were the Japs up to?

"'Ano'i," Dutch said again, almost in loving tones. "A beautiful name. Does it have a meaning?"

"Yes," I answered. "It means desired. And it can be either a boy's or a girl's name. They often use that name when—"

"I know what it means to me," Dutch said in a low, hoarse voice, cutting me off in midsentence.

I didn't respond. I just let that hang there. He was ugly and maybe three times bigger than I was, and it frightened me a bit to think that he was that proportionally big everywhere. And his hulking strength. He could smother me or break me in two in his excitement and lust. An uneducated sailor, a boilerman working in the bowels of a battleship. He might be cruel and rough and incapable of holding himself back at the height of passion. But he had saved me from possible harm, had saved the bar from maybe being closed down when there was so much profit to be made.

"Can we . . . could we . . . would you . . .? I have money; enough money." he was struggling to get the proposition out. But he wasn't looking at me. He was ugly as sin and frightfully big. He didn't need to be told that. He lived that.

I looked at Hung Lee, who nodded slightly. Not really an acquiescence as much as a command.

"Yes, yes. of course," and then an "I would like that." Ever mindful of the role I played the fantasies that were mine to weave for the money. "I have rooms across the street. We can go there. Now, if you'd like."

He perched precariously, straddling one of my straight chairs reversed, his massively muscled arms folded over the back resting his bulging chest against the slats, as I stood by the bed and unloosened the sarong and let it slide to the floor in swirls around my ankles. I had no idea how much of me he had seen in the ganging earlier in the bar, but his eyes at first went wide and then slitted when he saw me fully unclothed, and I heard his intake of breath.

He just looked at me for the longest time, and then he stood up from the chair and slowly stripped off his navy whites. It was my turn to take breath in when he was done. His muscling was inhumanely bulky, but all in proportion, and his cock, as I had feared, was enough for three men, not too abnormally long as it stood straight out from his thick thatch of reddish pubic hair but as thick as a normal man's wrist. I had never taken anything that thick. And his balls hung low and were the size of lemons. I hadn't the slightest doubt that they could provide semen to flow for hours.

He was holding back, unsure of whether I would want to continue after having seen him. But I lifted my arms in a welcoming, gathering gesture, and, with a sob, he moved to me, picked me up, gently and almost lovingly in his arms, and his mouth went to mine.

I closed my eyes, not least to close out the ugliness of his face. I wasn't resentful, but I wanted him to think my body would respond to him, and I was afraid that the ugliness of him would freeze my desires. But I need not have had any fears about that, because his kiss was soft and tender, and sweet tasting. I couldn't get enough of the taste of him, and sensing that, he tentatively darted his tongue into my mouth, and then when I sighed to that, he probed deeper, yet still tenderly. And all the while we were kissing, his gigantic hands were moving on my body, with tenderness and skill belying the clumsiness that would have been expected of him, knowing just what to do to make me melt.

When we broke from the kiss, I murmured "Oh god, take me, fuck me." It was a line I instinctively used to get sailors to get on with it so I could get back to the bar. But I wasn't at all sure that was what I meant now, in this instance.

I could feel him shudder at that. He was still holding me in his arms. But I could tell I had broken through the ice. He knew now that I would accept him.

"Yes, yes, in time . . . if we can manage. That's not always possible," he said in a low, hoarse voice. "But first I want to make love to you. You are so lovely."

He laid me gently down on the bed, on my back and sat down on the side of the bed next to my waist. "Do you have . . .?" he started to ask with hesitation.

"Sheaths? Yes, there, in the nightstand drawer."

"No, not that . . . and I've brought my own. I don't think yours would—"

No, probably not, I thought. And then a chill went up my spine at the realization of what was to come. How monstrously thick he was.

"I meant oil. I would like to give you a massage. I am longing to feel your curves and crevices."

"Oh, that's in the nightstand as well. And . . . well . . . it can be used for—"

"Yes, that's good," he broke in.

He was a divine masseur. He worked all of my muscles so lovingly and deeply and sensually that I was purring and getting close to dozing off when he gently turned me over. And the sensuality of what he was doing was so strong that I was fully engorged when he turned me. He worked my neck and chest and arm muscles and moved down from my chest to my pubic fringe and then up from my legs to under my ball sac.

And while he was working me, I was gliding my hands over any part of him I could reach. When I could reach his cock, he poured oil on my hand and I stroked him. I couldn't get my fist around what he had. And it was hard as a rock and was throbbing. I knew it wouldn't be long now before I was put to the test. He was sighing and groaning. With my eyes closed, I could completely blot out that he was a ogre of a man, in both bulk and visage.

I must have drifted off to a purring sleep, because I came back to full consciousness with a warm, moist, fully encasing sensation in my cock, which was completely sheathed in Dutch's mouth. Then I realized my channel was being filled as well—as fully as most men could with their cocks. Dutch was working on opening me to him with oil and his huge thumb.

His thumb had found and was stroking my prostate, and, with a flinch and a lurch, I exploded into his encasing throat. I murmured my appreciation and the extreme pleasure he had brought me in his sensitive and prolonged preparation.

But we weren't very far along in the preparation at all yet. Now it was time for Dutch's pleasure.

He turned me in the bed to where my butt was on the edge. He pulled over the straight chair and sat there now. Placing two pillow under the small of my back, he took my calves in his big fists and pulled my legs apart and folded them up and made me dig my heels in the wooden side piece of the bed.