Title	Coming Home
Author	Victor J. Banis
ISBN#	978-1-60820-116-7 (ebook)
Release Date	October 2009
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)

The swinging sixties, the Sunset Strip a smorgasbord of horny Marines, looking for a little action before heading off to Nam. A queen’s delight, and it’s all too easy for a guy to fall in love with these brave, young warriors. But some of those shipping out won’t be coming home, and not all of the wounded wear uniforms.

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The Swinging Sixties. To some, that conjures up images of The Haight in all its flower power glory, before the lilies festered. To others, it was Greenwich Village and that heady period leading up to the events at Stonewall; or the love-ins in Griffith Park.

For me, it was The Strip. Sunset Boulevard. Not the Norma Desmond Boulevard, of flame red Maseratis and grand hotels and pink mansions with heart-shaped swimming pools, but the hurdy-gurdy strip of once-elegant-now-sleazy clubs, discount record stores and gay bars.

And Marines. Scores of them, hundreds of them, flocking there every weekend from Camp Pendleton down the road, strolling about wide-eyed in twosomes, three-four-and-more-somes. And some of them alone. On the prowl. Happily, because these were the ones a gay man like me looked for.

This was the era of the Vietnam war — or police action, as some put it. The population of the one-time Rancho Santa Margarita between Oceanside and San Clemente had soared from a few hundred Marines who marched there from San Diego in 1942 to somewhere around a hundred thousand, give or take a thou or two at any time. Every one of them young, buff, tough — and best of all, as many of us saw it, terminally horny.

To be sure, Camp Pendleton was not the only military establishment in the Southern California area. There were navel stations in Long Beach and San Diego, and one saw sailors, too, on The Strip, their legs slightly bowed, sweet little buns enclosed in tight white that showed their crotches, too, to best advantage, everything nicely outlined to show you exactly what was on the menu — and what hungry wanderer would turn down a tasty seafood dinner when it was on offer?

But for whatever reason, it was the Marines who claimed that Sunset beachhead for their own, where they came each weekend to establish a foothold, to occupy the terrain, to hunt and shoot, and hoist their flagpoles in victory over the restless natives. Their conquests were many. My heart was among them, and therein lies a tale.

For a young unattached gay man, the tail end of the sixties and the beginning of the seventies was a kind of golden era, as close as we ever got to a gay Heaven-on-earth. The whole love-in, hippie-flower-child explosion had made men more aware of their tender side. Men, real macho men, not sissies, wore feathers and bead necklaces and their hair hanging down over their shoulders.

This was the onset of the sexual and social revolution as well. Civil rights, gay rights, women’s rights — the pot never stopped simmering. Porn had gone from underground collector’s items to big budget movie theater smash hits like Deep Throat, Behind the Green Door, and The Opening of Misty Beethoven, though the days when you could walk into a story and buy one to take home and watch were still in the future.

It was almost a rule of the day, too, especially among the young and the curious, that everyone tried almost everything. Drugs, for sure, but for many, that meant sexual experimentation as well. Mick Jagger dressed in drag on the silver screen, Dr. Hook and The Medicine Show sang about “The Freakers’ Ball” (I’ll kiss yours if you’ll kiss mine) and straight men, if a bit shamefacedly, did kiss one another, in public, no less. To be regarded as square was a fate worse than death. To which end, nearly every guy was willing to swing. If you had any hope of being regarded as cool, you had to try it, at least once. Not a few discovered they liked it enough to try it again. Lucky me.

Of course, service men in general, and Marines in particular, were less caught up in this atmosphere than their civilian counterparts, but they were not altogether immune to it either. They were lonely, too, and more of them than would have admitted it were scared. When you think maybe you are going to die soon, it makes living more important, and nothing says, “I’m alive” better than a rock hard dick, especially one in action. Wars and the threat of one’s demise make men horny. Always have. Insects start doing it too, when they think the end is near, but I don’t do bugs. Ever try to give a bedbug a blow job? Marines are way better.

The result was that it would have been a very poor representative of the gay male community who couldn’t find himself a hunk — or two or three if you were especially hungry — to share his Friday night or Sunday afternoon with.

Oh, you’re wondering about that Saturday night I skipped over? Well, conventional wisdom was, when the guys hit The Strip on Friday evening, they were too horny after a week on the base to concern themselves overmuch with who or how. The main objective was, get that load off, now, however, whatever. Sweat the details later, when your nuts cool down.

By Saturday, however, having most of them gotten themselves well taken care of the night before, they were inclined to be more particular and since in general these guys were essentially straight, Saturday night they went out looking for women — never mind that their chances of finding any on The Strip — which was, after all, a part of West Hollywood, or Boy’s Town, as it was known — were awfully slim.

By Sunday afternoon, however, they had regained their senses — along with their hot nuts. And, return to base was looming, which meant another week of doing without. Quite a few of them decided it was best to get what they could while the getting was still good.

For shoppers like myself, Sunday pickings were not quite as generous as Friday night. To be sure, some of the real prizes were still ensconced in the love nests to which the grander queens had whisked them on Friday night; but most Sunday afternoons the crop was still bountiful.

Sometimes you even nabbed a prize bull, one so nearly straight that he had held out for a woman both Friday and Saturday nights, which meant by now his balls were about to burst and “no” had vanished temporarily but completely from his vocabulary. Once was never enough in these cases. You could count on an afternoon’s feast of several repeat loads from these hearty lads before you got them cooled down enough to catch the bus back to the base. This was an occasional Sunday afternoon bonus in the game, much to be hoped for. Truth to tell, it was what many of us prayed for on Sunday mornings. Hey, you kneel in your pew and I’ll kneel in mine.

It was a Sunday afternoon when I met Doug.

I wasn’t, in fact, cruising, having scored very nicely on both Friday and Saturday nights, thank you — not all of them were looking for women on Saturday. I lived a scant half a block off the strip, a fact which had contributed to my success on more than one occasion. Before they could have second thoughts or get cold feet, or think maybe they’d rather keep looking for that elusive pussy, we were already inside my door with skivvies at half-mast, ready for battle stations. It’s called guerilla action, and I can be fast and stealthy when I need to.

So, on this particular Sunday, I’d simply strolled up to a favorite coffee shop on The Strip for a late breakfast early lunch, and was on my way home, when I passed this young man at a corner. He wasn’t cruising, so far as I could tell. Wasn’t doing much of anything, actually, just standing still, watching the traffic, seemingly absorbed in his thoughts.

I was absorbed in my own thoughts as well. Friends had asked if I wanted to go to a matinee showing of an old Robert Mitchum movie and I was considering the possibility — River of No Return, with both Mitchum and Marilyn, neither of them at their very best, but the chemistry between them was worth watching. They’d become good friends during the making of the movie. Years later, when others would trash her, he would say insistently that she was “a good kid.” I liked him for that.

So I had gone by the young man on the corner before he fully registered on my consciousness — like I said, I’d had a couple of busy nights. My fires were tamped.

They were not out altogether, however. I was still alive, in other words. I paused a few feet past him and glanced back, giving him a quick once over. He was nice — not quite movie star material, which was fine with me. There’s something about a guy too handsome to be true that turns me off. I like the hunk next door type. This one qualified, and then some.

Plus, he had the Marine buzz cut. The Vietnam war wasn’t terribly popular in some circles, and a lot of the servicemen wore cheap wigs when they cruised the strip, in a kind of sad attempt to make themselves look less conspicuous — with, of course, the opposite effect.

So, the buzz cut was almost the first thing I noticed about this guy. I liked it. It kind of said, “Here I am, this is the package, take it or leave it.” Masculine confidence is sexy in my book.

There was a lot more to the package, however, than an undisguised haircut. He was a big guy, six three, maybe six four, and beefy, but in the U.S. Marine Corps T-shirt and the tight, faded Levi’s, it was obvious that the beef was solid. And well packed. Did I mention that the Levi’s were tight?

So, there I was, adding all this up, when he turned his head and looked right at me. Not so much like he was cruising. No coy glances. Not even a smile. Just this frank look. Like he was sizing me up too. Then he nodded ever so slightly, as if he had agreed to something.

I hoped I knew what. Mitchum and Marilyn were suddenly a lot less appealing. I walked back to where he was standing. He continued to watch me, neither smiling nor frowning, his expression neutral.

“Busy?” I asked.

“Not really,” he said.

I hesitated. Usually by this time I was getting signals, one way or another. Many, probably most, of these guys were available, but not all. A few were even hostile, though why those were on The Strip I never did understand. This guy, though, I couldn’t tell. He looked innocent, only not quite. I had a sense that he was looking for something, that he was interested, but in what I wasn’t quite sure. He had the look about him of one of those bulls I looked upon as a special catch, the ones who were still carrying Friday night’s load around, with Saturday’s added to it for good measure, but something about the way he regarded me reminded me too of a bull sizing up the matador.

“I just live a block away,” I said, grabbing the bull by the horns. “Want to come by?”

“Maybe.” A long pause, and then he asked, “You’re queer, aren’t you?”

“Uh, yes. Gay, actually. We prefer gay.”

He continued to appraise me for a minute longer. Then, he kind of shrugged. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

He fell into step beside me and we walked for a bit, turning down the steep hillside that was Alta Loma Street, where I lived.

“You do this often?” I asked.

“This?”

“Get picked up by gay guys?”

“No. First time.” He glanced sideways at me. “Does that make a difference?”

“Not really,” I lied, and restrained myself from turning cartwheels. Alta Loma was a very steep street; I could end up down on Santa Monica Boulevard.

But, he wasn’t giving me a lot to go on here. Maybe he didn’t really know the score. Maybe he thought I was offering a kind of alternative USO without the starlets. Drinks, a bite to eat, some music to listen to. Maybe he thought I was a starlet. Maybe, I thought, I ought to get things cleared up before we waste a lot of time. There was still time to catch Mitchum and Marilyn — or find myself another Marine, now that my appetite had been aroused.

“I was kind of hoping,” I sort of stammered, though I wasn’t usually tongue-tied, and I don’t know why I suddenly was with him, “that we might, you know, fool around when we got to my place.”

“I understand.”

“If that’s cool,” I persisted. “With you, I mean.”

He looked sideways at me, his expression still neutral. “That’s what I figured you had in mind.”

“Ah.” Well, so now I knew that he was amenable — and, also, that he wasn’t much of a talker. Both of which were fine with me. We walked the rest of the way in silence. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. He didn’t feel threatening, the way some do. You learn to sense that sort of thing with these fellows, or you can get into a lot of trouble. I am happy getting pounded with a big dick. Fists are another matter. Sometimes you had to know when to bail out.

I wasn’t getting any angry or threatening vibes from this guy, though. It was more like, I didn’t have any clue what was going on behind that kind of chiseled façade of his.

Even if we never discussed it, most of the jarheads I picked up sort of knew the drill, pretty much knew what was on the agenda. Some of them, a lot of them, wanted a blow job, short and sweet, here’s your supper and thanks for the memories. Some of them — more than a few, I’m glad to report — liked to have their asses plowed, and if I say so myself, I had the tractor for the job. Some were on their way in fifteen, twenty minutes and a few spent the day or even the night, which generally meant a repeat. If once was good, in my book, twice was even better. Sometimes, I got a three-peat. No sense putting the tractor away till the field’s properly seeded, the way I saw it.

In general, there’s a way they have about them, these weekend warriors, and with practice I had gotten very good at tuning in to it, like dialing up an FM station. It was message they broadcast that said better than words, “I’m horny, I just want to get my nuts off, and you’re the lucky one.”

This gyrene, though, was a total mystery. He just didn’t have that feel about him. Didn’t seemed to be broadcasting any particular message. I kept twiddling the dial, and I couldn’t find a station. I glanced sideways at him a couple of times, but he was looking straight ahead, his face expressionless.