A Lover's Lament(36)

I’m not sure why, and maybe it’s foolish of me, but I have a feeling deep in my bones that I can trust him. A tiny voice pops in my head telling me I shouldn’t be feeling this way after everything that happened with Wyatt this morning—especially considering both of our pasts with Devin—but I push it aside.

The need to write Devin back grows with each passing second, so I grab my notepad and pen from my bag, intent on doing just that. He needs to know that I may have lost so much of who I used to be, but one thing hasn’t changed—my ability to forgive. Now, I may not be able to forgive Andrew Drexler, but Devin is a completely different story. I want him to know that the words I wrote, although true at the time, were written out of anger and confusion, but that his words have touched me. The process may be slow, but I will make things right with my family and with Devin.

So as my pen hits the paper, I open up the deepest part of me and let it all out, hoping against hope that I hear back from him again.





“Lover, You Should Have Come Over” – Jeff Buckley

I WAKE BEFORE THE SUN has checked in for the day and scan the tent, noting my men still sleeping heavily. My morning ritual, at least the days I have time to do it, requires a bit of privacy, and I make certain I have it before I begin. Most of these clowns will just jerk it from their cots in the middle of the night with the rest of us passed out around them. There’s always been something odd about that to me. On a regular basis, I've woken up to the sounds of heavy breathing and skin slapping skin, and it pisses me the f*ck off. If I’m not dog-tired, they’ll get a boot heaved in their direction, aimed straight for the dick and with the express purpose of putting them out of business for a while.

No, jackin’ the beanstalk in public isn’t for me. Unfortunately, that leaves only one other place to do it—the Drop Zone. Porta-shitters, as we like to call them, sit for weeks without being emptied and capture every bit of the sun’s heat. It’s like a f*cking greenhouse in there, and one breath in that motherf*cker while beating off and your dick is in full retreat.

So there’s a trick to doing this just right; you have to prep him first. You get him up and going, and then you quickly finish in the shitter. For most of these guys, the bikini-clad chicks above their cots or the porno mags stashed in their bags are a necessity for a proper jerk-off, but I'm an imaginative guy. I close my eyes and my mind becomes like a time machine of f*ck. Marilyn Monroe in Some Like it Hot ... bam! … cum everywhere. Farrah Fawcett in her iconic red swimsuit bent over the counter... set the time machine and go.

This time my mind goes for none other than Jackie O. She’s spread-eagle, with my tongue lightly flicking her throbbing clit while she's begging for my dick. And, of course, I’m making her call me Mr. President. I laugh at the last thought but notice it's at least gotten the job started. Since my dick is half-mast and ticking its way to full form, I slink my way to the tent’s entrance.

Stepping out, I’m met by the sun creeping softly over the tops of the barriers, and I hurry toward the porta-shitters, positioned just past the Humvees in front of the eastern wall. This two-hundred-yard walk is the most important part of the process. You have to walk with speed but not urgency, in hopes that you don't attract attention from the few others also awake—all while the imagined porn still reels in your head.

I manage to make it into the shitter undetected and quickly go to work on my shaft while my left hand pinches my nose like a vise and my eyes squeeze tightly shut. Only this time it isn’t someone famous that I picture. It’s Katie.

Even as early as it is, the Drop Zone is like a sauna, and beads of sweat collect on my forehead. I try desperately to hold in my breath as the seconds tick down. Just as my lungs begin to demand air and my body stiffens, I toss my head back with a stifled groan. My body recovers from its high much quicker in this setting, but at least the job is done. Two weeks of combat stress gone, just like that.

I take in a deep breath of the noxious air and regret it instantly. Opening my eyes, I turn to exit but notice that I've unloaded all over the toilet seat. Fuck! Most of these *s would just leave it, but I think of how pissed I’d be walking in on a jizz-covered seat so I wad up some toilet paper and wipe away the evidence. When I’m done, I toss the wad into the pit and thrust myself through the door, relieved to feel the fresh air again.

Just as I step out, I see Navas exiting the crapper beside me. At first I say nothing, caught off-guard by his sudden appearance and feeling awkward having just shot off a load a foot beside him. He has a curious smirk on his face as he eyeballs the sweat now dripping down my forehead. His gaze drops and he catches sight of my hands fumbling with my belt; his smirk turns into a full-blown grin. He totally knows.

“H-h-hey,” I stammer. “What are you doing up, man?” I add, composing myself a little.

“What’s up, buddy?” The way he says it and the grin planted on his face lets me know he’s got me figured out. “Little bit sweaty, huh? Were you battlin’ a shit or beatin’ your dick?”

“Monster shit, bro. You know how that goes. A week of built-up MREs and the turds are like grappling hooks. What are you doing up this early?” I repeat, hoping to change the subject as we slowly make our way back to the tent.

“Chatting with the ni?os. … you know my mom. She’ll only let me talk to them once a week. Says it’s just too hard on them otherwise, and with the ten-hour time difference, this is the best time to do it.”