Marine Vet Returns Home
Two boyhood friends meet again under very different citcumstanes
This story is fiction. But unfortunately, the premises on which it is built have been repeated over and over. And it seems that even the small amount we do to help those who have fought for us is being cut back. Veterans, thank you for your service. The first parts are a bit of a slow burn. I know some of you will skip to the last parts, but I always feel that it's better if you understand the dynamics. Everyone in the story is over 18. I've used the format of a longer story for this submission. As of now, it's a standalone, but I think there will be more chapters in the future. ©Copyright, 2025, Brunosden.
Told in the first person voice of Oliver Strauss, a 23 year old young gay man.....
1
My best friend from many years ago, Tory Aikman, returned from Iraq and Afghanistan a completely changed man. He had left Eden an optimistic, easy-going boy, full of life and mischief, and returned a haunted man. He had seen the horrors that men perpetrated on other men for territory, for power, or in the name of a blood-thirsty, unforgiving god. He had seen quick, but nevertheless good friends and buddies, blown up into unrecognizable masses of bloody flesh in a few seconds. Friends had lost arms or legs. He had seen small villages destroyed by aerial bombing such that no building stood, no person survived, no tree or bush remained--only deep craters in the hot sandy soil. The "enemy" was ruthless and evil; but our guys were not angels--or at least the policy-makers in our government had pushed hard to dehumanize them. All were atrocities beyond the comprehension of a young man, raised in our small, rural, predominantly-Christian town, where everyone was neighbor and where the worst we were likely to encounter was a broken bone on the athletic field or a tangled auto in a crash.
Tory's return to our boyhood town in rural Indiana had been yet another shock. It was so normal. So totally unaware of the potential of humankind for destruction and murder. Unaware out of deliberate choice, not the failure of the media to report. They had just tuned out the horror. So distant from the battlefield that it felt like a kind of Disney World in the midst of reality. It didn't feel like home. He felt alien. Alone. Scared.
I had heard all of this, second hand from his mother to mine. His Mom was worried, praying and hoping that time would heal, but she too needed to unload on someone--like my Mom.
Tory is a Marine--once a Marine, always a Marine, so no past tense, even though he had been decorated and honorably discharged after four long years of terror and horror. He is not a superman or a superhero. He's an ordinary small town boy who reached manhood on the bloodiest of modern battlefields. He's about six foot, with sandy hair, a square face, watery blue eyes, desert-tanned and with the typical physique of a Marine--muscled, but not overly so, threateningly dangerous in his camos, armor, and warpaint--until he smiles (which was infrequent these days) when he'd lighten the mood in any room.
Tory has theoretically finished therapy--having spent months in a hospital in Germany before he was discharged. Diagnosis: Borderline PTSD. Borderline Depressive. Borderline Suicidal. Not enough to keep him hospitalized, but close enough to warrant continued care and concern. And not enough to warrant a disability determination. He's entitled to "consultations" at the VA with a psych--assuming he can get an appointment and travel the 50 miles to Indianapolis, the only psych clinic in the area. I'm pretty sure that, even if he had saved most of his duty pay, in a few months, he was going to be out of money. I wanted to help.
2
But let's drop back about five years to add some flesh to the skeleton Tory Aikman. He is an only child, the golden boy of Elsa and Tom Aikman. Tom has been the town's only dentist for years. And Elsa keeps house and cooks, when she's not acting as receptionist/bookkeeper/office manager of the small dental clinic. They live in a nice post-WWII home, well-kept on the typical landscaped acre, just at the edge of town.
I'm one of four (all but me away from home by now), from a hard-working German-heritage family. Dad works as a technician in an automobile component factory. Mom subs as a teacher in the elementary school. Our home is smaller, but nearby to the Aikmans, and carefully maintained.
Tory graduated from high school, with mediocre grades, co-captain of the small town football team. I was the other co-captain. I'm Oliver Strauss. We were best buds, living about a half mile apart, and lifelong friends. The whole bit: scouts, cycling, water hole, Halloween tricks, pranks, nicknames. We even managed to get a "classic" 73 Chevy Impala (the one with horizontal wings and the the big V8) working again--after it had been abandoned at an auto graveyard a few towns away. (Actually he did. I only did what I was told, providing muscle when called for. Mostly I handled the restoration of the rusted body with tons of fiberglass, including the unique "flaming" paint job on the sides, as he tackled the mechanicals.)
Both of us were popular within a circle of friends typical of small town America. We doubled for the junior and senior proms, the senior week trip to the Indiana Dunes on the Lake, and numerous other dates to dances and the drive-in. (Yes, until last year, Eden had one of the few surviving drive-ins in the country.) By the end of our senior year, we had both scored and were both getting off--or even laid--on a fairly regular basis with the girls we dated, in the wide backseat of the Impala, or in a bedroom in a house which had been deserted by parents for the evening. Life was simple. Life was good.
We both went to college: I went to IU in Fine Arts and Tory to SICC where he completed two years and an Associates' Degree in Business Admin before joining the Marines. The AA degree was a typical major for a non-academically inclined student. I went on to complete an MFA, with a Psych minor, in four years and was now teaching art at SICC. Both of us worked part time and summers.
I was also coaching the football program at the SICC--which was touch intramural, but really quite serious. It helped a little. There was a modest stipend, but community college teachers, particularly in the humanities, typically make only a minimum wage.
We had lost contact during the years when Tory was deployed. I'd hear only a bit here and there from parents who saw each other occasionally. He hadn't been on home leave to Eden during the entire four years. Neither of us had married, although I continued to date regularly until I realized that I was more than just bi-curious. I definitely preferred boys. But, I was quiet and discrete, finding dates well away from Eden.
After discharge, Tory was at a loss. Going from the high of 24/7 danger, the camaraderie of combat, and platoon command to several weeks of psych rehab in Germany, to living back at home in his old room. He had been a communications-intel specialist. It was a shock that he simply could not handle. He knew he had to find a job--but nothing seemed close in intensity to his recent four years. His Dad was happy to be support for some time, and his Mom was pleased to have a son home again to spoil. So they weren't pushing him to do something he hated. He was bored, lacked energy and was more than a little scared. His reaction was to do nothing. I had heard from his Mom that he slept long hours, didn't leave the house except to be driven to weekly therapy at the VA. He had even stopped going to church with them.
For me, things were totally different. Deciding to follow my dream to become an artist was the best decision I had ever made. My folks thought I was crazy to choose a career without promise of financial reward--particularly with my background and proven intellectual talents. They wanted me to become a lawyer. But, I loved the classes, enjoyed my friends in the art department, frequented the IU parties, and joined a frat. All in all, I had a terrific four years. And I'm told that I'm developing into a very good artist and an even better educator. The SICC job is perfect: it is close to home (where I still occupy a garage apartment, detached from my folks' home); it involves doing what I love; it pays enough; and, it leaves me with time to set up and use a studio at SICC where I am preparing for an upcoming show. The football coaching keeps me in shape, playing a sport I have always enjoyed. And volunteering at the local VA's art therapy classes has opened an entirely new potential future for me. But more about that later. It may be my future--unless the show propels me into the big leagues or fine art.
I had realized my sexual orientation early in my time at IU. I liked girls and dated them regularly, but I really got off with guys. I guess that if you need a label, I'd have said that I was bi. I liked sex. Duh! I was 19 and a walking sperm factory! I like anal--as both top and bottom. Women are typically not into that. And the roughness of male on male sex is a real turn-on. I joined a gay-friendly frat, and very much enjoyed the easy-going sex life of a collegiate in a non-hostile environment where nudity and casual sex were a given. I had come out to Mom and Dad as bi in my junior year. (Actually, I am probably gay.) They were surprised--I didn't act gay (whatever that is), played sports, dated. Dad took several months to come around. I think Mom and my sisters convinced him that if he didn't, he'd lose me. So we are quietly okay about it now. We just don't talk about the elephant in the room.
They were saddened--not for me, but for what my life is likely to involve--but they accepted me. More than once, Mom suggested that I'd grow out of it, and that ultimately I would "outgrow" my impulses and marry. I didn't have a boyfriend, but I've many friends with whom I slept on a regular basis. Coaching the intramurals had an interesting side perk: being around young men who were not technically my students. (Intramurals were like a "club" not subject to the same rules as teacher's associating with students.) They were all consenting and willing adults. I'm vers, but I tend to top--perhaps because of my physical size, conditioned from years of athletics, my natural take-charge attitude, and my legendary dick--which I often displayed in locker rooms and showers. I did a little subtle advertising. And they typically come on to me.
Incidentally I could have passed for Tory's brother--both of us were about six feet, blue-eyed, sandy-haired, square-jawed with athletic builds. Our cocks were respectably larger than average, both were showers, and hooded. (Yes, of course we had compared.) Our deep voices reflected the unique twang of Southern Indiana. The main difference between us is not physical: I'm artistic, bookish and a student; Tory loved action, sports, using his hands to take things apart or put them back together. Although we had played "show me yours" and jerked each other as teens and played around in the shower, neither of us thought of the activity as particularly gay--just horny guys exploring sexuality and getting off. No mouths, lips or anal cavities were involved. Tory did not know and probably didn't even suspect that I am gay. I assumed that, like most guys, he had had some "innocent" encounters with the troops in the desert where females were scarce and taboo. But, we hadn't talked about it. In fact, we had never talked about sex at all--except maybe to boast about a conquest.
