More Wildyr Tales

Air Force Blueball-1

Air Force BlueballAirman Basic Justin O. Corso completed his morning toilet and observed himself in the mirror simply because he had the luxury of an extra ten minutes, one of the major differences between Basic Military Training and Tech School. At BMT a shaved head was utilitarian because there was no time to run a comb through your hair, much less pamper it. Corso still kept his thick, black curls short, but long enough to give some definition to his head and to frame his heart-shaped face. The young airman critically examined that face, recalling what the men in his life had said about it.

“f*****g sexy,” Joe, his buddy at Monterrey High, exclaimed as they learned the art of giving blowjobs on one another when they were just chickens-with-baskets on the Pacific coast beaches.

Rollin Meisters, his college history professor, waxed more eloquent. “It is a magnificent, olive-complexioned countenance inspiring Doric love. An angelic painting by Rafael, Michelangelo, or perhaps Botticelli! A visage to snare the hearts of women and drive men mad!” The professor had introduced him to the joys of anal s*x. Amazing how the man never lost his dignity, even with Corso reaming his ass.

The opinion he valued most was rendered a month ago. “You’re so f*****g beautiful that men have to respond to you or persecute you,” Tom Bley, his Senior Training Instructor, had declared as he f****d Corso cross-eyed on the Saturday following graduation from BMT. Afterward, he’d shown the handsome sergeant what it was all about. Something fluttered through Corso’s stomach. Regret…loss?

The ex-surfer examined the eyes they all admired so extravagantly, big, opal, iridescent…like golden California sunshine leaking from tiny fractures in irises that were sometimes blue, sometimes green. Those orbs were probably his best feature, although the smooth skin that tanned but never blackened was a close second.

Suddenly aware that he was admiring himself, Corso sheepishly stuffed toilet articles into a kit and returned to his bunk. His spirits lifted as he realized that this marked the twenty-ninth day of this assignment, meaning that he was now in Phase II of his tech training. In turn, this brought about the lifting of some of the restrictions for the NPS students, airmen with no prior service. What pleased him most about the more relaxed atmosphere was that he could eat one meal a day somewhere other than the base dining facility. He was also free to go off station after Retreat, so long as he remained within twenty-five miles of the base.

Donning the uniform of the day, he made formation before the MTL, the military training leader, called the men to attention and marched them to the classroom.

Corso had opted for aerial gunner training because he wanted to be a part of a flight crew without making the commitment required to go through OTS and flight school. He’d enlisted only because he had no clear idea of what he wanted to do with his life after college. He’d spent too much physical and mental energy pursuing his history prof to worry about something as trivial as a life plan.

The first couple of classroom hours at the tech school were presided over by an Air Force captain by the name of Harris R. Andrews, a trim, blond-headed man of about thirty. Corso’s finely tuned radar alerted him to the officer’s interest, but the captain played a cautious game until tacitly confirming his attraction by shaving a ridiculous mustache after Corso pointedly stared at the wispy thing. Damned if Corso’s sausage didn’t crawl around in his skivvies the next time they met. Since fraternization between the officers and enlisteds was forbidden, not to mention the activity that was running through Corso’s mind, he resigned himself to paying attention in class and keeping his mind on business. That worked…usually.

* * * *

Corso showered again after Retreat since he’d ended the duty day with an intense PC, physical conditioning session. He was proud of his body and worked hard to keep it in excellent shape. A good physique on the California beaches where he had learned his values was more important than facial symmetry.

He skipped the mess hall in favor of the snack bar to dine on a sinfully juicy hamburger, the first in months, working it off by walking a couple of miles to the front gate. A passel of airmen awaited the arrival of a city bus to take them from Kirtland AFB to downtown Albuquerque, New Mexico…or more accurately, to deploy them at the bars strung along East Central. Some of his training flight were among those waiting.

“Corso! Hey, man, over here!” an airman from a German farming family in Iowa beckoned him. Faas was attractive in an understated way, and he had a dry, wicked wit that was appealing. Corso decided he could do worse than hook up with Faas and his buddies. Somebody was bound to know more about the town than he did.

“Hey! We’re gonna do all right tonight,” Faas announced loudly. “Look at this guy! We got us a babe magnet! Hey, bro, I got first call on your discards, okay?” Everyone laughed appreciatively.

A wave of Air Force blue assaulted a big country and western nightclub like Dirt Darts closing on an objective. There was some bitching about the cover charge, but no one dropped out because of it. The club was a big, no-frills joint that filled up fast once the sun dropped below the Five Sisters, crumbling volcanic cones on the horizon west of Albuquerque. The weathered remains perched atop lava flows clearly delineated by stark, black bluffs where the molten magma had halted and cooled, sparing the Rio Grande River Valley below.

The military contingent gravitated to one corner of the vast place while cowboys, real or wannabees, and yuppies, genuine or aspiring, swarmed the rest of the hall. The near-solid blue of the military wing was relieved by brightly decorated dorm rats and sleeper leapers, young…and not so young…women who find airmen exciting. As Faas had predicted, some of the bees were attracted to Corso’s honey. He engaged in a little light banter, but subtly held them at arm’s length, easing them into his fellow airmen’s eager arms. For the most part, he sat watching pitchers of beer disappear down thirsty gullets and listening to the banter, wondering if the civilians in the joint understood the foreign language the airmen spoke.

“Oh, man,” Faas whispered, eyeing a blowsy blonde across the table. “What a foxy momma!”

“Dipshit, you wearing beer goggles?” Hooks, a black airman on the other side of him, demanded. “The Blue Berry on the front gate looked better’n that!”

Corso smiled, recalling the chubby WAF in blue standing guard at the main gate of the base.

“You see them pingers this morning?” another voice asked, referring to a busload of new trainees arriving fresh from BMT. “Them guys didn’t march, they waddled!”

“Man, how much longer we gotta be Smurfs?” Hooks complained.

“Phase III, my man,” Faas answered. “Gotta wear Air Force blue off station till you enter Phase III.

“s**t! Sixteen more days!”

Faas laughed. “Sixteen more days! Man, a bucket head like you’s not gonna make it in sixteen days. You don’t make your PC requirements, you’ll be sporting blues and cunt caps in town for another month, at least!”

“s**t, Faas, you a walking cranialectal inversion, you know that? I’ll make my PC, no sweat.”

Faas tossed a thumb at Corso. “Take a lesson from this guy! Man, he throws off them sit-ups and push-ups without bleeding salt. How come you do that so easy, anyway?” the airman asked, bringing unwanted attention back to him.

Corso shrugged. “You know us California beach bums, it’s all about muscles.”

“YGBSM!” exclaimed the Airman, No Class, a two-striper across the table, the stranger with the blonde hanging all over him. Corso saw that the girl understood the acronym for you gotta be shitting me, and realized these women specialized in separating baby blues from their sperm.

“Man, I rode the waves down San Diego way all my life!” the man, who was not a part of Corso’s group, added.

“Monterrey,” Corso answered the implied question and invested a few minutes discussing the merits of the surf up and down the California coastline and comparing the virtues and vices of shortboards and longboards and guns.

“Howdy!” a voice next door bellowed, clearing four tables. Grinning, Corso saw that the blonde also understood the warning that someone had cut a ripe one. “Don’t blame me!” the offending airman put in. “It’s the gut bombs them tomaine technicians feed us.”

Relying on experience to dictate the exact amount of time it took for methane to rise into the rafters, the guys settled back into their chairs and took up where they had left off, talking trash and swigging beer and groping p***y. In the middle of Corso’s conversation with the big-wave man, who introduced himself as Driver, the guy looked up and smiled.

“Hey, Deer!” he yelled at a mosquito-winged one-striper making his way cautiously between the crowded tables.

“Yo, Driver,” the airman responded and detoured to their table.

“Come meet some frustrated blue balls. These baby blue slick sleeves is right outta the tech school cradle. First night off the rez.” Driver introduced the newcomer as John Deer.

As the young airman shook hands around the table, Corso wondered if that was a nickname…John Deere like the farm tractor? Sure wasn’t built like one. Lithe, with broad shoulders and a trim waist. Then he got a good look at the kid through the dim light and heavy swirls of forbidden cigarette smoke. The guy was an Indian. A tall, slender, good-looker who rang the bell at the top of the chicken meter. A drop-dead, sinfully beautiful Native American. It must be Deer, after the animal, not the tractor. An earth name like some of the First Americans adopted.

“Didn’t know they let you in here,” Driver said, echoing Corso’s unspoken thoughts. The kid looked about eighteen. Couldn’t be, of course. The stripe on his arm meant the guy had already invested sometime in the Air Force.

“Sometimes they card me, and sometimes they don’t,” Deer answered in a deep voice that was definitely older than eighteen.

“Tell me something,” Faas piped up. “How come you guys is wearing blue? Man, I can hardly wait to get in my civvies.”

“s**t, Faas, farmer’s overalls is blue,” Hooks needled.

“f**k, I left them back on the farm! I got some cool threads that ain’t got no shade of blue at all!”

“Worked late,” Driver answered. “Didn’t wanta take the time to change.”

The Indian kid shrugged. “The girl I’m with likes uniforms.”

“Deer’s got a cushy job. Know what he does? He’s a damned coffeemaker. A titless WAF! He’s a f*****g mailman!”

Deer let loose a slow grin that lit up the place. “A vital cog in the mighty Air Force juggernaut,” he answered. “You Airmen Basement wouldn’t know what was up, we didn’t deliver all those little pieces of paper that tell you when to take a crap!”

The table turned boring after the ethnic E-2 centerfold left. Corso watched him take a seat at a small table opposite a dark young lady. Probably an Indian, too. As Corso wondered if the kid would f**k her tonight; his c**k stirred restlessly.

Faas lurched to his feet. “s**t, I gotta go make some officers!” he announced and lumbered off to take a dump. By now, every man at the table had hooked up with a female except for Corso, but there were still a couple of hopefuls hanging around. A quick glance at his watch showed it was close to 2100 hours. Call to Quarters was just an hour and a quarter away. Suddenly fed up, he rose and assumed the role.

“FTP,” he announced, “I’m kicking chops!” Decoded, that meant, f**k this place, I’m leaving. He moved away before anyone could respond, and more importantly, before the Barracks Bettys could pounce.