Carmen and Chuck
1,603 words
11 minute read
I prefer to be wined and entertained before I give it up, but then I want to give it up. I try to keep terms and standards in mind and enforce them upon myself, but they are pretty low. It seems that the less marijuana and alcohol I consume, the more urgent my need to come, or more correctly, my need to come with a pussy, or a mouth.
At five feet six inches, a woman with long, natural blonde hair is always noticed when moving in a public location, or crowd, at an airport terminal, or a bus station. I had gotten bred every time I hung around the bus station in San Diego until the police began working the drug traffic, as the busses would bring sailors and Marines. They were easy to spot and horny as any man I ever found. My understanding is that as soon as the protests began, the bus station became overrun by drug sellers, and it became a violent place in San Diego. So, where in San Diego would you go today? This was 60 years ago.
It was nearly every weekend lately that I was set up in the Grounds Maintenance Group 469 Senior NCO barracks with a Supply Clerk, a Yeoman, a Ship's Steward, or the Captain's Chief Steward and Chef, with wine from the Officer's Club grog locker.
The kitchen was small, compact, and heavily fortified, and the stores restocked by the Supply Depot for seven-day-a-week deliveries of goods ordered before eight a.m.
My Quarters were at eight a.m. like all the Navy, so I would interrupt the food preparations to ensure I was not placed on report.
In some commands, Muster, Quarters, or Roll Call, was where the Orders Of the Day were read by the Officer Of the Day using the ship's intercom. If no announcing system was used, the leader of the Muster Section would read them, or a broadside would be handed around, read, and acknowledged. Everyone left Muster, knowing what their day would be until it wasn't.
Today wasn't, and you may enjoy this tale, or is it spelled tail?
I will keep it short since this isn't horribly interesting, as much as it is a story about changing your life--that is, unless you once served in the U.S. Navy.
Imagine a 1960 rural California High School graduate from a small farming community. He was skinny, immature, and strong as a seasoned farmhand, which he had been. He wasn't a hayseed; he was pretty darn smart relative to the others in his high school class and was placed in charge of a U.S. Forest Service Firefighter tanker crew on the first day out of High School. He went to the college nearby the next school year but without enthusiasm or desire.
After realizing he was wasting his time, he volunteered for the US Nuclear submarine fleet. He was accepted and sent to ETN 'A' School on Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay for 37 weeks.
One weekend, he went camping on the Russian River near the Korbel Winery, where he broke his neck when he dove into shallow water. He was removed from the Navy's school and the Nuclear submarine program and eventually became a fleet sailor with a reduction in his service contract to four years instead of the original six years.
He served shipboard for two years in the amphibious fleet out of Long Beach, CA., and then was transferred to a Special Forces Amphibious shore unit designated Beach Jumper Unit 1 (BJU-1). BJU-1 was located at Coronado Amphibious Base on the Strand, outlining the west side of San Diego's Bay.
The base wasn't secure, but the BJU-1 Compound was.Β It was surrounded by a concertina wire-topped 16-foot chainlink barrier with the concertina at the top and the bottom of the enclosure perimeter. There was a drive-thru gate and no sign of what happened inside. A foul weather-covered water-proof telephone hung on the barrier with a yard light that hung over it. He got connected, and two years later, he called a ride to exit the compound as he separated into the civilian world.
The base required special clearances for taxis, so he had called the base motor pool instead. The 1940s vintage jeep that arrived was driven by the natural blonde long-haired sex toy from earlier in this tale. Instead of immediately after Quarters that he was supposed to be released, and after all the tangled security releases, interviews, and sworn statements, it was about six in the evening when he called the motor pool.
Carmen was her name. She had been released from kitchen duty because the regular driver had been dispatched to a catered event at the base commander's quarters. Fate, I think, is what it could be called.