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HETSEX young studs the unit who
Subject: "HetSex" by AdrBrown. New story, new author.
To: story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us
Eli,
I don't exactly know what to do with this story. It is *about*
sex (if I understand the codes, FM mast, FM, allusion to FF), but
contains no actual portrayal of sexual activity. If it is not
appropriate for the a.s.s.m. newsgroup, would you please advise
where it might be submitted?
Thank you.
-- Adrienne
=================================================================
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The following is a work of fiction regarding sexual relationships.
If you feel that it is illegal, immoral, or otherwise improper for
you to read this, then DON'T READ IT.
*****************************************************************
Adrienne Brown Approx. 1700 words
HET SEX AND STUFF LIKE THAT
That was easy. Getting rid of Barry. Or was his name Perry?
Whatever. His speech was so badly slurred when I picked him up at
the bar last night that I never figured it out. And this morning,
I didn't want to give him any clue that we didn't get to know each
other very well last night. Very well indeed. Intimately, if you
know what I mean.
Anyway, despite his hangover, he took off like a rocket once
he got to the door this morning. All I have to do is hint about
marriage and most grad students freak out. Males, I mean. They
figure I'm good for a quick lay, but to make it permanent? No way!
I guess it's that they know I'm a career Air Force officer plus the
way I come after them over breakfast the morning after.
Now, if those OSI gumshoes talk to him, I'm certified. OSI?
Office of Special Investigations. The Air Force's secret police.
Why would they want to talk to him? You've heard of the "don't
ask, don't tell, don't pursue" policy, haven't you? Well, take it
from me, it's a joke. Especially the "don't pursue" part of it.
Somebody sicced them onto me. I think they really have it in
for us. They think any Air Force female whose face doesn't stop
a clock and who doesn't date is lesbian. Yeah. I thought that
stereotype was long dead. But it isn't.
That's right, they think I'm queer. Now isn't that a hoot.
They're right, you know. But what they don't have is any proof of
my "orientation." Suspicions, but no evidence. Not a trace.
Certification? Oh, that's what I call a man's witnessing to
my being het. Heterosexual. That throws the OSI bloodhounds off
for a while. From what I can tell, they have to report, go through
channels and re-evaluate me before they can come after me again.
Oh, I don't know this for sure. Yeah, I'm guessing. But I sure
as hell am not going to ask anybody in OSI what their procedure is
for hunting us down. I'm not that dumb!
Anyway, I've got the drill down now. It's much simpler than
ever before. That's why I'm living up here in Davis, twenty miles
up the freeway from Travis Air Force Base, but just a hop, skip,
and a jump away from the university. When I need to get certified,
I troll for a graduate student in one of the bars, one who is
fairly well blotto, take him home with me and finish the job. In
the morning, he wakes up with a splitting headache, no memory, a
rubber full of cum, and me, naked as a jaybird beside him, just
gushing over how good a lover he was. I don't know why it is--
perhaps the hangover, but so far I've been able to make them all
believe we've really done it. I'd guess that for men, it isn't so
much the pleasure but the conquest they're after. And it seems
that the muff of an Air Force captain looks pretty good for
bragging rights.
After that, I turn on him--I always do it at the breakfast
table--over toast and eggs. Up to that point, I've been stroking
his ego. Stroking it so smoothly that he really hasn't felt the
full effects of his hangover. Yet.
I shift gears as quietly as possible. Honey just drips from
my lips. I get his telephone number, then ask whether he has the
weekend open. I tell him we need to find a place closer to Travis.
If he doesn't bail out at that broad hint, I launch into my spiel
on the difficult life of a tanker pilot. About the long hours,
irregular deployments, and how I'd really like to come home to him
without facing the hazards of driving twenty miles on Interstate
80 while tired. Besides, although I know he'd be good with the
kids and taking care of the house, it would be best if it wouldn't
take me too long to get home from the base in case of an emergency.
So far, I've never had to go that far in my script. And not
one of them yet has gone into cardiac arrest when they realize what
I'm talking about. Usually, he tries to negotiate. You know,
talks about the liberated woman, the sexual revolution, and open
relationships. That sort of crap. That's when he finds out I'm
a bitch. Oh, I'm sweet about it, but I tell him that, for career
purposes, I really should be to whoever is getting it.
I say that the Air Force cuts us a little slack
in our choice of tactics when we're trolling for a husband. But
if they were to think I'm just getting my jollies, OSI would come
down on me like a ton of bricks. The Uniform Code of Military
Justice has a court martial offense called "sodomy" that's applied
to any case where the two consenting adults are not legally
to one another. At present, I'm not interested in a major career
change. If the guy isn't back-peddling furiously by that point,
I tell him that he probably wouldn't cherish being a witness at a
general court martial and having the national press make him into
a household name.
As I said, this routine makes it much easier than before.
Actually, Kim suggested it to me when I took leave after the
squadron transferred to Travis AFB three years ago. I'd had a
pretty bad experience just before we left March AFB and it took her
a couple of days to put my head back together again. For three
years, I'd actually let some guy poke me in order to get certified.
Grit my teeth, fake major orgasm, and get it over with. God, that
was filthy, disgusting! The last one was the worst of them all--
he was a professor from Riverside and a certifiable kink. But it
kept me clear with OSI for a few months.
Actually, it was also a three-year experiment. I was hoping
that, instead of being homo, I was really bi. I was looking for
somebody I could stomach in order to get into a long-term het
relationship. Oh, I had no intention of giving up Kim. She'd been
in a poly relationship before and wasn't worried, as long as she'd
still be my primary. So if I were bi, that would solve a whole lot
of problems. But I never did find a guy who could ring my chimes.
I'm still looking, still hoping, but I'm not going to let another
man poke me until I'm really comfortable about it in my mind.
Years ago, Kim and I had talked about my taking up with a fag.
You know, fake the het thing for both our benefit. But I was
leery. If there wasn't a real relationship in such a situation,
how could I trust the guy not to do something stupid while an OSI
gumshoe was nosing around, like getting caught with his lover and
burning me if it was to his advantage? No, my getting poked was
what the bloodhounds were looking for. So I gave them what they
wanted.
Why do I go through all of this? It's simple. I like being
a tanker pilot. Really. It floats my boat. And just as long as
I can keep OSI confused, I'm AOK. As far as I can tell, nobody in
the squadron is concerned about the plumbing of my bedmate. I'm
good at my job. And that's what counts.
With everybody, but OSI.
Well, somebody in my past was concerned enough--and suspicious
enough--about my "preference" to finger me. And I haven't got a
clue as to who it was. It could have been somebody as far back as
ROTC. There were a lot of studs in the unit who thought that
the female cadets were trolling and that I ought to go out with
them. For starters. After all, they were doing us a favor. That
was before they understood that the policy on sexual harassment in
the military has teeth. At least that it would work for a mouthy
bitch like me who knows how to take care of herself.
There was this cadet officer, a senior, in the AFROTC unit who
got physical with me one evening in my sophomore year after
formation. He started pawing me, I put my knee where it really
hurts, and the next day the officer instructors reviewed Air Force
policy on sexual harassment with all the Air Science classes. And
they made sure that each cadet got a xerox copy of the policy
statement. After that, nobody bothered me. Until active duty.
Growing up the way I did, I wasn't paranoid about my
sexuality. And about what others might think of it. Oh, I knew
that being queer was incompatible with being in the service, but
I figured that all I would have to do was stay in the closet, keep
my mouth shut, and wait. The policy couldn't last for ever.
Yeah. I voted for Clinton in '92. I was excited by his
effort to change policy. And, when that went belly up, I was naive
about what "don't ask, don't tell" would mean. Now, I'm sort of
paranoid about it all. Kim says I see an OSI gumshoe behind every
bush. But I don't want to make it into Air Force Times, like Major
Debra Meeks did a year or so ago, on a charge of sodomy. I don't
want my seven years of active duty service to go down the drain.
And I certainly don't want to take up lodgings at the graybar
hotel.
And so, when it's necessary, I go trolling for a stewed grad
student and do my thing. Jack him off, fake het sex and stuff like
that.
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Comments and constructive criticism are sincerely welcome.
Copyright 1998 by Adrienne Brown - mailto:adrbrown@aol.com.
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