Page 168 - Stand by Your Man

156 Jack Fritscher

chestnut red as a strawberry roan stallion. His short-cropped mane
caught the sun like a fucking halo. His red moustache shimmered
in the snapshot. The same beautiful chestnut hair matted across his
pecs, then in a line ran down his flat belly, disappearing into his
baggy swim trunks, reappearing thick on his full thighs, and grow-
ing all the way down to the tops of his feet. Of course, his forearms
glowed like they were downed with copper fleece, so I suspected his
broad back and thick shoulders were upholstered the same. I could
not think about Captain Bill’s chestnut red crotch and furred balls
from which sprouted his porcelain white dick hanging undoubtedly
big, thick, and uncut, with heavy blue veins visible through the
skin. That I could not think about.
But think about him I did.
In my dream, which was no dream, Buddy said, Captain Bill
in the moonlit Vietnam night lay back on a blanket in the dunes.
Naked but for dog tags. His left arm cocked behind his head. His
nose sniffing the sweaty dark red hair exposed in his left armpit.
His right hand fondling his big dick. His eyes focused and intense
on Owsley acid.
Across from him, equally ripped, visible against the quiet night
sky, Buddy stood, legs spread, his right hand stroking his cock, his
left hand smoothing first one nipple then the other. Captain Bill
had covered him from face to feet with camouflage grease paint:
greens and browns and ochre and black.
Buddy was perfect. His aquarian body was totally aligned with
Mars. He was the young warrior come to his captain’s tent. He was a
USMC recruiting poster: cropped blond hair, stungun good looks,
muscles with posture and stamina, and under it all, his big, uncut
blond dick standing straight up his tight belly at full attention.
Each man watched the other, both drinking in visions they
themselves had only seen in dreams.
Captain Bill had recognized the quality of Buddy’s self-posses-
sion the first day Buddy had stepped out of the air-conditioned com-
mercial jet that served as troop transport. When the door opened to
the blast furnace of the humid Vietnam afternoon, Buddy had been
the first of three hundred young grunts to deplane; he was finally

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