Read Sex for America: Politically Inspired Erotica for Free Online Page A

bullet in the captain’s skull. Real simple. And don’t volunteer. Whatever crazy shit you pull, never volunteer. Of course, all sniper platoons are full of volunteers, shitcrazy bastards, all of us: backwoods loo- nies from Louisiana or Arkansas or Missouri; Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, and blacks from the inner cities on either coast; Navajos from near Flagstaff; plus a good share of scrubbed-clean white boys from the burbs, like me, Catholic-schooled, a string of pretty
girlfriends name of Jennifer or Kelly or Laurie, racks of trophies and medals from rugby and wrestling. We were none of us a nipple beyond twenty-one. There was no reason for us to get along out- side of The Suck. We were shooters, we slept with our rifles.
     
PFC BROCKNER
My first few years in I had a series of boyfriends. Navy boys. Sea- men, that quirky little cap, the workaday denim and boondockers, and always I’d ask, What really happens on those submarines? One hundred men go down and, a year later, fifty couples surface? An old joke, but I liked the sound of it.
The thing about being a gay marine is you have to be smart about where you put your dick, and when. You go drinking with straight marines in San Diego or Myrtle Beach, and you hook up with women, sorority types from USC or Duke, or local beach girls. And you fuck the women. So even if there is fag suspicion, word gets out that you fuck women, and your platoon mates still call you a mama’s boy and a bitch, but they know you’re not queer because you fuck women. And it even helps to cock block a guy or two, really go after the snatch occasionally, just to be safe. Then, on the weekends you aren’t screwing sorority or beach girls, you go to the queer bars in Santa Monica or Atlanta, or you fly to San Francisco or New York. Or, if you have a navy or civilian boyfriend, you go to his place and you fuck him all weekend, or he fucks you, or however. And you never try to fuck a fellow ma- rine, because you never know. The guy could be queer as you, but you hit on him and he might feel set up, or maybe he’s way deep in the closet, and he blows your cover. And now you are fucked, really fucked, gang-beaten and raped with a broomstick or a fif-
teen-inch flashlight, no lube. So—no happy queer-pink triangles, no rainbow stickers, no “I Love a Man in Uniform” buttons, no Village People or Cyndi Lauper or Bette Midler. Rock ’n’ roll and pussy, escape and evasion—that’s how to be gay and stay alive in the marines.
     
SERGEANT SAVINE
My regular was Esmeralda. She was a small, lovely woman, not a sneeze bigger than five feet, brown skin like some dirty river, but in that pretty kind of polluted way, the way a woman’s pollution becomes your pollution, her dirt and grime and discarded tires and piss and shit becoming yours, her bad lovers and fathers and uncles and mothers becoming yours. Not a whore with a heart of gold. Just a woman with trouble, lots of it, like the trouble we all have.
After buying Esmeralda two drinks, Thomas’s minimum be- fore you could retire upstairs, we walked to my room on the fourth floor. We had great sex. We drank liters of water, cutting open IV bags full of electrolytes and Ringer’s solution. I drank water out of the shower head while Esmeralda washed my scratched back and love-swollen balls, and I washed her pretty brown skin. We went back to the bed and this lasted much of the night, back and forth from bed to shower, five or six sessions until we heard screaming down the corridor, deep-down screaming, deep down from the nowhere of someone’s being, and I knew it was Cash.
I pulled on my skivvies and ran to his room. He lay on his side, back toward me, still screaming, and the room filled with a vomitus smell of blood and shit, and as I got closer I could see him clutching his bloody ass, still screaming. Blood covered the
sheet, and I thought, Cash got ass-raped, Cash got ass-raped by the Ether Bandit.
The story of the Ether Bandit had been