7
James Conner has a date inside a porta-shitter.
The date is with a Ms. Kia Drayton, the Playmate of the month of December the preceding year. Ms. Drayton is an aspiring model and actress whose turn-ons include confidence and the ability to be yourself. She hails from the insides of a Playboy magazine that Conner has been saving for just such a moment as this.
There is a secret compartment inside a Marines body armor vest for magazines, specifically pornagraphic ones. It is located inside the front compartment where the Kevlar plate is stored. A magazine like this can be succesfully retrieved for whenever the mood strikes you, or, in Conner's case, whenever the need arises.
To get to this date, inside the receptacle, Conner will need to don full helmet and vest, and carry his SAW. He will lug this gear across the Camp, while first checking out with his Squad Leader, Sgt. Lazirko. Nothing fancy for this, just a casual, "Going to the shitters, Sar'nt." And the reply, "Make sure you take flak and kevlar. And dont forget your fucking SAW." Conner knows that Sgt. Lazirko does not mean anything wrong with the eff-dash-dash-dash bomb, that is, anything negative, Marines simply enjoy talking in expletives.
Once at the porta-shitters the quest is one going door to door, to simply select the best possible location. One is occupied, which removes it from the list. One has feces smeared liberally on the walls, which also removes it from consideration. Finally Conner picks a shitter that has not been abused too badly. He gets in and shuts the door, resting the SAW on the floor. It immediatedly falls forward, and he catches the weapon just before it can fall in the bowl. One of the legs contacts the rim. At least it wasnt the forward grip, he thinks.
A problem arises as there is not enough room for him to take off his gear. It is getting very, very warm inside the shitter. The business has to be concluded quickly. He opens the vest and retrieves the magazine, opening it to the desired centerfold. Kia Drayton, in all her sweet mocha perfection, gazes back at him lustily, with newsprint fuck me eyes. He gets hard quickly, and starts jerking it.
There is rustling from the shitter next to him. Followed by noise of an asshole, angrily speaking expactorations. Flaccid.
Conner decided to stand there and wait. The mystery shitter grunts and does his business, and as he continues Conner really starts to sweat. Its getting even hotter inside the porta-shitter, almost difficult to breath. He looks at the graphitti on the walls. The usual LOOK LEFT and LOOK RIGHT, but also a military specific additions EAT THE APPLE, FUCK THE CORPS. At least no one has drawn genitalia. Finally the sound of the door slamming, and the poop troop walking off in the sand.
He has to flip through the photo spread to get aroused again. When he does he goes to work quickly, determined to finish. His mind is in a battle, in one corner in the lovely embrace of Kia Drayton, reassuring her with his confidence and his ability to be himself, in the other corner he is suffocating to death in a shit oven. Someone is knocking. "Hey buddy!" They are calling out. "Hey buddy!" It is all good. They are knocking on a shitter two or three doors down. His face is covered in sweat. White spots are appearing in front of his eyes.
Let him...
"Hey buddy!"
warm flesh...
"There any tp?"
Explosion!
The cum jerks from him onto the centerfold. "Aaah!" He groans, not being able to help himself. Releasing the magazine, it drops into the blue gunk beyond the seat, which recieves it with a slurp. He turns around, and buttons up the fly of his trousers. His discomfort is completely realized. On the back of the shitter door someone has written
I WISH I WAS
WHERE I WAS
WHEN I WISHED
I WAS HERE
Which Conner takes to be words of profound wisdom. Opening the door and moving out, the fresh desert air is good, good and sweet.
****
That evening Staff Sgt. Kurre gathers the platoon around him. Conner gets out his little green field writing pad, and a black ink stick, which is another name for a pen, and the only color for a pen authorized by the United States Marine Corps. "Sit kneel bend." He goes, and the platoon does so, the front row sits, the middle row kneels, and the back row stays up straight. "We've got a name for this mission." He said. "Operation Phantom Fury. At approximately oh seven hundred tomorrow, a twenty-four hour curfew will be enforced on the streets of Fallujah. Intel estimates that between seventy and ninety percent of the civilian population has already evacuated."
"Leaves only the bad guys." Sgt. White says.
"Thats right." Kurre says. "Intel goes on to say that insurgents have flooded in from the border with Kuwait. Hard line extremist from Iran, or even real live Taliban, from Pakistan. Were in for a fight."
Murmuring from the platoon. Someone says "Damn" and someone else says "fuck yeah."
"What it comes down to is this." Kurre says. "At a time to be determined, were going in there, and were going to execute MOUT tactics. Military Operations in Urban Terrain. And if any of you have been paying fucking attention back in Lejuene, MOUT has high casualty rates. People are going to get shot, and some of those people are going to die."
Lt. Easter chimes in. "I need four volunteers." Most of the hands shoot up. "Who have been to the Designated Marksmen course." Most of the hands come down. But Conner and Sawyer's remain, along with Jon Bon Odle.
No comments:
Post a Comment