Girls on the Turps

I don't generally traffic in autobiography, but this one is definitely premised in actual events. Names have been changed occasionally, and so I can keep this out of the "Celebrities" category. 1996 was a different time; life was simpler before widespread cellphone cameras, when hotel rooms had actual keys.

Thanks to ChloeTzang for pulling this together, and 'coz she granted me special dispensation to NOT set this on the Australian continent; thanks also to my antipodean experts Icy1, with her considerable vocab help, and of course to JugheadJane, for her kindly hints.

* * *

I was confused when I woke up, and it took me a moment or two to figure out why; when you're used to things a certain way, a change can be a pain in the ass. The sun was already up and peeping through the windows, for one thing; I hadn't woken up after dawn in quite awhile. Then there was the pillow, starchy and with none of the usual funk I'd grown used to; oh. That's right.

This was a hotel.

But the weirdest thing was the feel of my face against the stiff linen pillowcase, feeling like Velcro. I jerked my head up, annoyed; it had been years since I'd been anything but clean-shaven, and now my face was feeling like the sides of my head.

I went to sit up, but the comforter was stuck on something and dragged me right back down; I looked over in annoyance. Of course. Fucking Casey, racked out like a log with the sheets trapped underneath him. I didn't wait; I smashed him on the side of his head. "Hey! Wake up, motherfucker! You're on top of the sheets."

He opened an eye; I could see the pupil contract as he focused, then the whole eye rolled high in his socket. "Fine, bitch," he replied sulkily. I could smell his breath, a thick fog of last night's beer. We'd arrived around noon on the long flight from Seattle, and I knew I'd be complaining for awhile about the thick, brutal heat down here. We'd been walking from the taxi to the hotel when Casey had laughed hard.

"About time!" he'd drawled. The kid was from around here somewhere, maybe Mississippi? "Feels great down here." I'd swapped a quick glance with Wilson, who was from Montana and couldn't deal with this heat, either.

"'Great' isn't the term I'd use," he grumbled. The others had chuckled, each of them more used to humidity than we were; hell, Sergeant Cordero was from Puerto Rico. He wasn't even sweating. I'd scowled and flipped Casey the finger, which was when Cordero had decided it would be fun to make us room together.

Now he rolled over that fraction of an inch that would let me jerk the blankets out from under him so that I could free myself to get out of bed. I stood there, stretching in my boxers, and reassembled myself after a painful night.

Breakfast was things like half of basket of prepackaged croissants and endless coffee: burned, of course, but I'd had worse. An elderly microwave in the corner was heating up frozen sausage sandwiches for some of the other guests, many of whom had the radically short haircuts that reminded everyone that this was a hotel in an army town. I could see there was a banqueting space behind closed doors at one end of the room, guarded by a serious-looking bald guy in a suit. I slid into a seat next to Chong. "How'd you sleep, Cheech?"

"Better than you," he replied smugly. He was rooming with Walker, who was known to hate sharing beds with other guys. So Walker had probably taken the floor. He jerked his chin toward the guy in the suit. "Check that shit out."

"What's up?" I took a yogurt and a bulk-purchase corn muffin and frowned at my table. Casey and the other Southerners had been going on for hours on the plane yesterday about sweet tea and biscuits-and-gravy and the other wonders to be found in Dixie, but so far I wasn't impressed. "VIPs?"

Chong scowled. "At a hotel like this? Nah." We nodded respectfully as Cordero eased through the room. "'Sup, Sergeant?"

"Me. Barely." Cordero was a short, dark guy with a massive smile. Good dude, most of the time. I only knew him slightly; he was an infantryman and I was just an attached forward observer, but then he had three stripes and I had none. So, for the weekend, I was one of his people. "You guys sleep okay?"

"Probably not as good as you," I pointed out. The Puerto Rican glanced at me and shrugged. He and Wilson had scored the room with the two queen beds.

"Look," he shrugged, "rank has its privileges. And this ain't my first time at Ft Benning. Just wait, guys. Hang with me during the weekends; I'll square you away." He slurped loudly at his coffee. "I ever tell you about Sinndee?"

I could tell, just from how he said it, how the name had to be spelled. I glanced over at Wilson, who was in Cordero's squad back at Ft Lewis and had probably heard every story the sergeant had to offer. Me, I hadn't. And Cordero was a man who was always happy to have a new set of ears.

"I was here after Basic, the first time I tried to go to jump school." He'd injured his ankle during Tower Week. "Me and a buddy of mine caught a cab for Victory Drive and figured we'd spend some money up there." He elbowed Wilson. "Flinger's. It's that glitzy place about a block past Ranger Joe's. Ever been?"

Wilson shrugged. "That's a big fat negative, sergeant. I was already married when I was here for Basic."

Cordero rolled his eyes at me. "Since when did being married keep a guy away from a strip club?" He went on smoothly, evidently expecting us to figure it was a rhetorical question. "So me and my buddy, Hicks, we headed up there because he'd heard there was a super-hot filly there. Candi? Crystal?" He pondered. "Ah. Suzette. That's it. Some famous stripper babe from, like, Florida or some shit."

Wilson, I noticed, was glancing at me, still gnawing at his bacon. "So, there we were. Up front, a bunch of tens and twenties. It was so crowded we had to alternate, like, at the stage. And the girls, man, they were so hot. Hicks and I were nineteen; I had a constant boner, man, I'll tell you.

"So he was up there, staking out, waiting for this famous Suzette whore. I'd headed back a ways, next to one of the tables, and I was just turning around to get a beer when this girl came right past me, like, brushing along my front? You know?"

He paused for another sip at his coffee, and shook his head with a grimace. "Fuck, man, her hip dragged right along my cock. And then she lost her balance, fell right against me, and like trapped my dick against my leg, like. I screamed like a fucking bitch; dude, that shit hurt. She leapt back, like, five feet, and then she just stood there staring down at my junk, man, because she'd felt that shit against her hip dude. And I'm telling you, man, I was

hard

. Fucking huge."

I noticed there were a couple guys staring over from a nearby booth; Sergeant Cordero was not a quiet man. They were bashful-looking guys with the usual army haircut, but they looked sort of tentative, awkward, like they weren't really in a unit. Like they didn't belong. But everyone likes a sexy story, so they were sure as hell listening. "Well, so she took one fucking look, man, and she just grinned like that fucking cat? You know, the one in that Wonderland bullshit? She was smoking, too, about four-foot-ten, in a tiny little silver bikini, just a total babe. Little pigtails, hair bows, the whole thing. Chewing bubble gum. Fuck, man." He shifted in the chair and dug at his crotch, the memory apparently overwhelming. Wilson felt he needed to keep things going.

"So what, sergeant? You just nodded at her and ordered, like, a cold milk or something?" I was supposed to laugh at that, so I did.

Cordero finished adjusting and winked at us. "Bros, I'm telling you: there's nothing like a five-foot Victory Drive whore. She blew a big-ass bubble with her gum and just let her baby blues roll up to my face, and she was just staring at me as the gum popped. She stuck her tongue out and slurped it right back in, then opened that little mouth of hers and blew me a kiss.

"'Sorry, man,' she squeaked. 'Like, I hope I didn't break your cock.'

"'Honey,' I said, 'I hope you didn't break that shit either.' And then she comes up to me, bold as shit, and she just reached down and grabbed me, man. Just fucking grabbed me. She smelled like sweat and perfume." He closed his eyes. "Man, I can smell her right now. Such a memory.

"'Feels okay, stud,' she goes. 'But you know there's only one way to tell, really.' And by this time I'm wondering if I can get my money back from Hicks, because I'm thinking, man, I'm going to get the best goddamn lap dance anyone's ever seen, but no; she's still holding on, and stroking me and shit, and she steps up to me and she sticks her tongue in my ear and she whispers, 'What's that infantry motto y'all have? Follow me?'"

He sighed happily. "Well, so I did, of course. Her fucking ass was smoking hot in that little string bikini, and I had my hands all over that shit before we'd even left the stage. She didn't mind; actually, man, she was arching her back as she walked, just shoving herself into me, so we found this hallway into the back, by the bathrooms. Man, I had no clue where she was taking me; I'd have followed that ass into a firefight, dude. No lie."

"When did she tell you her name, sergeant?" Wilson already knew, obviously, but there was a game to be played here. Cordero sat back in the chair with a dreamy look on his face.

"So she gestured me into, like, a coat closet? Like a little alcove, where they had a bunch of audio shit. Little curtain across the front. She had this weird grin on her face, like the cat that swallowed the canary? I mean, I've been to a million strip clubs in a million towns; I think I'd even been to Flinger's before. But I'd never, like, gotten busy with any of the girls. I had no fucking clue."

"My wife was a stripper," Chong announced, his sense of timing less than perfect. Sergeant Cordero just stared at him and shrugged.

"So, she's got this smile. Like a little fucking blue-eyed witch, like she was about to devour my ass. 'Imma check your cock, baby,' she says, 'just to make sure it works,' and I'll tell you, man, that shit was working." He reached unconsciously down to jack himself, casually, like a lot of Army guys do. "I was already hard from watching the girls on the stage, and now I'm in this little closet with a fucking pixie just standing there in, like, a silver bikini. She stares at me, gnawing on her lower lip, and I just reach down and get my shit unzipped. I'm grinning, and she's grinning, and I'm like wondering whether she's going to charge me more than, like, the usual twenty? For a lapdance?

"And then she's reaching into my shorts and her mouth's coming open, and I know she's a performer and shit, but god, she really looked like she was into me, those eyes going all droopy? So she goes, 'Feels okay, honey.'

"'You never really know, though,' I say, because I'm getting into it now, and I know she's going to do something, because they're not supposed to touch your dick, right? But she had both hands on me and was shoving my pants down to my thighs, just jacking me slow and smooth, and with this little twist of her wrist, and man, my dick was fucking

huge

in those little pixie hands of hers.

"'Right?' she says, all giggly. 'I have to do a full inspection, to make sure,' and then she sinks down on her knees, and she's already working my balls with those long nails of hers. She didn't waste any time, neither; none of that kissing and nibbling or nothing. She just opens her mouth and fucking smokes my meat, right there in that little closet."

"I got head off a stripper once," Wilson piped up, lying transparently.

"This wasn't head, Wilson," Cordero tutted, flapping his hand dismissively. "This was a fucking masterpiece, a clinic. She's working me like her mouth is a fucking pussy, hot and wet and tight, man, you know how it is with a really fine bitch. I'm looking down at her, not even believing my luck, and again, I know she's a performer. Like, it's not real; I get that. But man, when she raised those big blue eyes and looked at me? I tell you, boys, I just about nutted right there in her mouth. You believe that shit?" He laughed easily, confidently, still with one hand on his junk. "She'd have been telling the story for years. How she went down on an army guy and he came in like thirty seconds.

"But those eyes, man. Fuckin' beautiful." He shook his head with a grin on his face, like a monk remembering when he got ordained. "I'm just leaning against the audio shelf, right, with all these wires and plugs and shit, and this bitch is humming and shaking her head and, like, totally into it."

"Surreal," I threw in, mostly just to keep the story going. Chong nodded.

"Well this went on for, I don't know, three minutes? Five minutes? And all I'm thinking is how I just have to hold on, just a little longer, so I don't embarrass myself. This little whore is totally into it, her whole body moving back and forth, and I go to reach down, like, because those tits are just perfect, bro. Just fucking perfect.

"And I get my hand on her titty, just the left one, and I squeeze really hard and shit, because I know I'm never going to do anything like this again. And because I was losing it, and I clamp on, and she gets all freaky and starts chomping on my dick, and I'm backing up a little, instinctively you know, 'cause I'm worried about he teeth a little bit, and I reach out and grab something for balance?"

Wilson, who knew the story, was already chuckling. I figured I could see where this was going, too, but I stayed quiet because Chong was mesmerized. Stripper wife, my ass. He had no idea; he was probably still a virgin. "And all at once," Sergeant Cordero went on, coming with relish to the final straightaway of the story, "the whole building went silent. Like, dead silent. Because, you know, there'd been music going, the whole time, but I hadn't been paying attention. And now it was suddenly all quiet, and I looked at the bitch, and the bitch looked at me, and my dick was still in her mouth. But I had a titty in one hand and a bunch of ripped-out audio cables in the other, and people were already yelling from out front because the sound system had gone tits-up.

"So the girl is freaking, because she knows some manager is going to come back and check on the sound system, and they'll find us, and they'll kick my ass and fire her, so she's grabbing for cables and desperately trying to plug them in, while she's still sucking, and she got the first one in just when someone pulled back the curtain."

Silence, a heavy pause during with Cordero shook his head and took a sip of coffee. "Well shit, sergeant," Chong blurted. "What'd you do?"

Cordero looked him in the eye, smiled slowly, and shrugged. "I shot it into her fucking mouth right then." Wilson nearly fell off his chair. "No shit, dude, it was huge. It went everywhere; in her mouth, down her chin, on her tits, everywhere." He tossed back another sip of coffee. "Manager was pissed," he added.

Our laughter drew the attention of the entire room, including the guys at the next table. Chong frowned. "So, did she get fired?"

"Probably," Cordero replied, his Mayaguez childhood making it come out without its second B. He glanced at the nearby booth with the awkward-looking guys. "I know that guy. From Ft Lewis. I think he's a cadet."

"Huh." I twisted in my seat and took a glance; ROTC cadets had been infesting Ft Lewis all summer, like they did every summer, and I didn't recognize the quiet looking redhead at the other table with the unbuttoned flannel. He was dressed as if it was still 1993. "What's the deal with that, sergeant? We call them 'sir,' or what?"

Cordero shrugged. "Beats me." Not that it mattered. Come Monday, we'd all be students at jump school, so rank would pretty much disappear anyway. "I usually don't talk to them. Treat them like sergeants, but call them 'cadet.' I guess you could call them 'sir,' if you want. They won't care," he finished, smearing butter onto his croissant.

Chong looked around the room., still clearly dwlling on Sergeant Cordero's story. "Be nice to see a few ma'ams," he muttered, and that's when the universe decided to chime in with one of those on-cue moments that you couldn't possibly script any better.

I was staring idly at the shavehead in the suit when he suddenly perked up, cocked his head oddly, and then murmured something into his sleeve. I saw his eyes sweep around the room, making sure there were no tables in the way of the banquet room doors, and then he nodded and spoke into his cuff again. The double doors burst open as if there was a battering ram on the far side. Instantly, like bubbles flowing out of a shaken Coke, a surge of people came oozing from the room.

If Chong was seeking females, we'd found all of them.

Green. A massive wave of green sweatpants, green jackets, green shorts. Green hats. Long, flowing ponytails. Flashy white teeth, suntanned faces, big sports bags, and an inordinate number of freckles. The meager breakfast staff drew themselves up into a short lineup by the door and began clapping loudly, so obviously the rest of us started to follow suit. Somebody whistled. The green women began to wave, and that's when I heard them talking.

"Fuck," I heard Chong mutter reverently. His girlfriend had ditched him last month; he had to be horny. "Wow."

"Yeah," I agreed soberly, for the voices coming out from between that healthy mass of perfectly white teeth were lilting, spiky, altogether fascinating. "The fuck." The women looked confident, every one of them; the ones in shorts were showing smooth, powerful legs and the cocky strides that said they were used to kicking ass, the kind of strides you saw a lot of from female soldiers. But these weren't soldiers, not with hair like that and their hats on indoors.

And the voices!

They filed past in a sudden breeze of deodorant and Icy-Hot, flashing wide grins and crinkly eyes at everyone around. Like fucking rock stars. Sergeant Cordero, sitting by the door, sat back in his chair and raised his hand lazily up by his ear, like the casual type of Nazis in war movies, but he knew what he was doing; he'd always had a way with the ladies, and every one of these fantastically fit women came past him as though they'd rehearsed this, giving him a hard high-five, while he sat there flashing them white teeth of his own.

I felt my mouth fall open as the parade continued; I was looking now at ass after ass, sauntering by beneath tight nylon sweats. In the rear was a dolly, like the kind you'd use for hauling suitcases or something, piled high with two stacked water coolers. The girl pulling the dolly was smaller than the rest of the group, and she already had a pair of sunglasses on, but something inside my pants lurched when I saw her.

She, naturally, paid me no attention at all.

But she, too, gave Sergeant Cordero's hand a lusty smack as she drifted by, before flashing the room a wide grin above a sharp chin, and then they were trooping out the doors in a wave of laughter. I swiveled my head back, my yogurt forgotten, to catch Chong adjusting his dick through his pants. Cordero returned placidly to his breakfast. "What the fuck was that?" I wondered aloud.

The sergeant shrugged, sipping at his orange juice. "You didn't hear the desk girl as we were checking in?" He sat back with a smug smile. "That's the Australian national softball team. They've got a whole floor; it's why you guys ended up with king beds."

"What?"

"Yeah." He shrugged. "I guess it's the Olympics or something."

I scowled. "No. The Olympics are in Atlanta."

He jerked his head toward where the cloud of Icy-Hot still lingered. "Tell them that, Webb," he told me. "Whatever. I guess they're having the softball shit down here." He glanced up over my shoulder. "Morning, Casey," he nodded. "How's it going?"