Continued Explorations – Back Home and Beyond
My tour in Thailand wrapped up in late 1967. I boarded the transport plane back to the States with a duffel bag full of souvenirs, a head full of memories, and a body that craved things I could barely name. The humid nights, the dim lanterns, her smirk—they haunted my dreams on the long flight home. I told myself it was over. A chapter closed. War stories for the boys back home, minus the details that would get me labeled or worse.
But desires like that don't just vanish. They simmer, waiting for the right spark.
I got stationed stateside, a quiet base in the Midwest—flat lands, cold winters, nothing like Southeast Asia. I dated a few girls from town: waitresses, secretaries, the kind with soft curves and sweet smiles. We'd make out in my car, fumble in motel rooms. I'd finger them until they were slick, lick my fingers clean like always, but it felt... incomplete. My mind wandered back to her—to the weight of a cock in my mouth, the salty rush of cum, the sharp tang of piss on my tongue. I'd jerk off alone afterward, replaying those scenes, and come harder than I did with them.
One weekend liberty, I drove to the city—Chicago, neon lights and anonymous crowds. I heard whispers from other vets: bars on the outskirts, places where men went for more than drinks. I found one in a dingy alley, no sign, just a red door. Inside, smoke hung thick, jazz played low, guys leaned close at the bar. I nursed a beer, heart racing like that first night in the brothel.
A guy approached—older, like my buddies in Thailand, salt-and-pepper hair, broad shoulders. He bought me a shot, chatted about the service. "You look like you've seen some action," he said with a wink. We ended up in his apartment nearby. No words needed, just like with her. He undressed me slowly, pushed me to my knees. His cock was thicker than hers, circumcised, veiny. I took it eagerly, remembering the motions—lips sliding, tongue swirling, fighting the gag as he thrust deeper. The smell was different: musky, male, no hint of perfume or tropical sweat. But the thrill was the same.
He came in my mouth, holding my head steady. I swallowed, feeling that familiar mix of shame and fire. Then he flipped me over, lubed up, and took me from behind—slow at first, then harder. It hurt, but the pain melted into something electric. I came without touching myself, spilling onto his sheets.
That was the start. I went back to that bar, others like it. Sometimes it was quick: glory holes in restrooms, anonymous mouths or hands. Other times, full nights with strangers—sucking, fucking, exploring. I discovered bathhouses, steam rooms where bodies pressed close in the fog. I'd kneel in the dim light, servicing one after another, tasting the variety: cut, uncut, thick, long. The anonymity fueled it—no names, no judgments.
Back on base, I kept it hidden. Dated women to blend in, but the real release came on those trips. One guy I met regularly—a trucker passing through—introduced me to more. He'd tie my hands, blindfold me, make me beg. Or we'd swap: me topping him, feeling the power of thrusting into a tight ass, watching his face contort. I learned to rim, burying my tongue deep, tasting that forbidden earthiness that took me right back to her asshole, sticky and raw.
Years passed. The '70s brought discos, freer times. I got out of the Air Force, moved to San Francisco—ground zero for it all. Castro Street, leather bars, pride parades. I dove in headfirst. Relationships formed: a boyfriend for a while, tall and lean, who loved pissing games like she did. We'd shower together, him aiming at my mouth while I stroked him hard. Or group scenes—three, four guys at once, me in the middle, mouths and cocks everywhere.
But always, in quiet moments, I'd think of her. That first time, the surprise, the surrender. It opened doors I never knew existed. I sought out trans women too—beautiful, fierce, with bodies that blurred lines. Sucking them felt like coming home: the softness above, the hardness below, the coarse hair and prominent nipples.
Even now, in my later years, it hasn't stopped. Apps make it easy—Grindr hookups, discreet meets. The lust is quieter, but still there. Salty cum on my tongue, a finger in an ass, the warmth of release. Thailand was the spark. The rest? A lifetime of flames.
I never regretted it. Not once.
But desires like that don't just vanish. They simmer, waiting for the right spark.
I got stationed stateside, a quiet base in the Midwest—flat lands, cold winters, nothing like Southeast Asia. I dated a few girls from town: waitresses, secretaries, the kind with soft curves and sweet smiles. We'd make out in my car, fumble in motel rooms. I'd finger them until they were slick, lick my fingers clean like always, but it felt... incomplete. My mind wandered back to her—to the weight of a cock in my mouth, the salty rush of cum, the sharp tang of piss on my tongue. I'd jerk off alone afterward, replaying those scenes, and come harder than I did with them.
One weekend liberty, I drove to the city—Chicago, neon lights and anonymous crowds. I heard whispers from other vets: bars on the outskirts, places where men went for more than drinks. I found one in a dingy alley, no sign, just a red door. Inside, smoke hung thick, jazz played low, guys leaned close at the bar. I nursed a beer, heart racing like that first night in the brothel.
A guy approached—older, like my buddies in Thailand, salt-and-pepper hair, broad shoulders. He bought me a shot, chatted about the service. "You look like you've seen some action," he said with a wink. We ended up in his apartment nearby. No words needed, just like with her. He undressed me slowly, pushed me to my knees. His cock was thicker than hers, circumcised, veiny. I took it eagerly, remembering the motions—lips sliding, tongue swirling, fighting the gag as he thrust deeper. The smell was different: musky, male, no hint of perfume or tropical sweat. But the thrill was the same.
He came in my mouth, holding my head steady. I swallowed, feeling that familiar mix of shame and fire. Then he flipped me over, lubed up, and took me from behind—slow at first, then harder. It hurt, but the pain melted into something electric. I came without touching myself, spilling onto his sheets.
That was the start. I went back to that bar, others like it. Sometimes it was quick: glory holes in restrooms, anonymous mouths or hands. Other times, full nights with strangers—sucking, fucking, exploring. I discovered bathhouses, steam rooms where bodies pressed close in the fog. I'd kneel in the dim light, servicing one after another, tasting the variety: cut, uncut, thick, long. The anonymity fueled it—no names, no judgments.
Back on base, I kept it hidden. Dated women to blend in, but the real release came on those trips. One guy I met regularly—a trucker passing through—introduced me to more. He'd tie my hands, blindfold me, make me beg. Or we'd swap: me topping him, feeling the power of thrusting into a tight ass, watching his face contort. I learned to rim, burying my tongue deep, tasting that forbidden earthiness that took me right back to her asshole, sticky and raw.
Years passed. The '70s brought discos, freer times. I got out of the Air Force, moved to San Francisco—ground zero for it all. Castro Street, leather bars, pride parades. I dove in headfirst. Relationships formed: a boyfriend for a while, tall and lean, who loved pissing games like she did. We'd shower together, him aiming at my mouth while I stroked him hard. Or group scenes—three, four guys at once, me in the middle, mouths and cocks everywhere.
But always, in quiet moments, I'd think of her. That first time, the surprise, the surrender. It opened doors I never knew existed. I sought out trans women too—beautiful, fierce, with bodies that blurred lines. Sucking them felt like coming home: the softness above, the hardness below, the coarse hair and prominent nipples.
Even now, in my later years, it hasn't stopped. Apps make it easy—Grindr hookups, discreet meets. The lust is quieter, but still there. Salty cum on my tongue, a finger in an ass, the warmth of release. Thailand was the spark. The rest? A lifetime of flames.
I never regretted it. Not once.
1ヶ月前
