Mark stepped onto the tarmac of the small county airport. The craft bringing him almost home wasn't that large for a commercial jet but it got the job done. The shimmering, blistering Southwest Texas heat slammed at him like a blowtorch. He didn't flinch; he didn't even acknowledge it was literally scorching the plants around him. He adjusted his sunglasses while walking toward the terminal; where he had been during the past few years, this was a minor vacation to his body and mind.
As he walked toward the ARRIVALS sign on the small air terminal, his mind subconsciously calculated and categorized the positions, placements, and motions of all things human and mechanical around him. His eyes were absorbing movements and shadows around him; this was now his nature as well his focus in life. He was not that unusual from any other person disembarking from the flight. His military uniform was - well, slightly wrinkled from nearly 27 hours of flying airport to airport, waiting for the next link to bring him closer to his destination. The Vietnam conflict was in full swing so military and naval personnel were easily seen many places; so were protestors, used car salesmen, and other typically civilian life forms that Mark cared less about. He was indistinguishable from other military personnel unless you looked into his eyes; they made you think about checking your life insurance payments.
The air conditioning touched his skin as he passed through the sliding doors. He located his duffle bag and travel kit, and then headed out to find transportation that went far from the typical routes. He had another 120 or so miles to go before he could relax, sit down in some peace and quiet, and then let his mind and body settle. When he left several years ago, a modest, nondescript county bus service ran through the small town he was headed toward. A short conversation with Airport Security directed him over the pedway and the airport entrance road toward a small, weather worn sign at the end of the shuttle bus lanes that listed that same service. The shade of a large elm tree covered a concrete bench.
Propping his duffle against end of the concrete bench, he allowed himself the opportunity to sit down and relax. None of the airline seats or the terminal chairs he had been cursed to endure for the past two days would allow any respite. The concrete bench, however, had its own silent strength out here in the open. It proudly displayed a history in scuff marks, pencil markings, the obligatory occasional chip gone from the corner, and it was actually somewhat cool being in the shade of a large elm tree. Behind his wrap around sun glasses, he surveyed his newer surroundings as he had done while disembarking the plane.
Satisfied the terrain was not hostile, nor indicated possible forces in shadowed hiding, Mark allowed himself the pleasure of letting his body relax and enjoy the cool warmth of the bench and the shade of the tree. Anyone coming near him might notice that he had yet to indicate discomfort with the searing heat and humidity, he was not sweating nor was he showing any problems with the humidity. He knew no one would have a likelihood of recognizing the person that left those thousands of days long ago as the military person sitting there now. That former person was a slight, chubby, shy, and significantly naïve person compared to the professional warrior with the well-chiseled body now holding the same name. Maybe the same spirit, most certainly not same mind or the same focus.
An archaic, wheezing bus rumbled in to the loading zone lane; Mark boarded it to finish the next, and hopefully the last, leg his transporting ever closer to home ground. The bus was old enough to be the same one he departed on - inwardly he smiled. That bus ran like shit and rode like crap back then; it appeared that some minor god had resurrected this clunker back into running condition just for him. No evidence any air conditioning other than the "10-50 AC" - wheezing downhill at 50 mph with all 10 windows open - had ever blessed this old beast.
Relaxing on the rear bench seat, Mark allowed himself to enter a light, restful asleep as the old bus chugged onward toward his destination. The same dream he had several times crept back into his mind's eye - a family scene with 2-3 small kids, nice house, probably his spouse in the kitchen working on supper, him in jeans and a t-shirt, and then the door bell rings. He opens the door - a war weary marine covered with old blood stains, some dirty bandages, and several bandoliers of ammo grabs his shirt and drags him from his house into the jungle where suddenly he is transformed into his own cammies, his own weapons, and is tracking a target in his sniper rifle sights. The quiet "phut" - "phut" firing of his own sniper silencer wakes him up again, as always, and he quietly looks around his position without moving his body. It has only been about 45 minutes but Mark feels rested enough to slide back into a light sleep again that does not have a dream he can recall. He knows its wishful thinking - that's what a base camp shrink told him once after a debriefing from an especially grueling mission.
About two hours later, Mark awoke as the bus began a slight descent into a small Texas town. This town, like so many other country towns off the main freeways, looked worn and tired. Not quite enough money to stay neat and tidy, the phrase keep well painted and spruced up he remembered as he left the bus and stepped on home ground. It did not escape his vision that the court house still needed bricks around the front right cornice piece fixed, or that the grocery store had "country fresh eggs" on sale.
He gathered his gear as the driver pulled it from the vehicle storage bin and headed toward the one small hotel in town; he hoped it was still there. The few people he passed acknowledged his presence quietly with a typical West Texas "howdy nod" and politely moved to give him room as he passed with his duffle bag. His quiet smile bode them no malice; his heart and soul were glad to be back on home turf. The hotel was still there, the rooms were still clean, and the price had not gone through the roof like other places. The desk clerk gave him directions to the one rental car agency in town - along with her own small town opinion of people who didn't own their own cars. Mark smiled, thanked her, and promptly located his room so he could unload his bags.
In the room, he stripped to his skin, used his sweaty shorts to wipe the dust off his shoes before he set them together on the floor, and his finger prints off his brass belt buckle before rolling up his belt for storage. This was the routine he had learned in training; it served him well all these years. He unconsciously scratched his balls and tugged on his nut sack around a few times to stretch the skin out and back; a typical male thing that just felt good. He tugged on the end of the extra foreskin that covered the head of his flaccid penis, pulled it back and forth to stroke himself a few times before getting into a real shower, with real water pressure.
Standing in the shower, he leaned forward to put his hands on the wall and let the water run all over his body and cascade down his ass to the shower floor. The water also ran down his dick and onto the floor, he laughed to himself about having to pee that much and let his urine mix with the water until he was done. A good scrubbing later, Mark stepped out feeling much more human and much more relaxed than a half-hour before. He dried himself, walked nude across the room and turned on the television and see what channels he could receive. The summer heat created severe havoc and massive static with most of what was available mid-afternoon. He was able to see part of a local weather report - hot, hotter, and even hotter was the afternoon comment. The afternoon farm to market report said it was 112 degrees in the shade; he wondered whose shade?
A phone call later, he dressed in some faded jeans, a light colored shirt, socks, and well worn black loafers to walk the 8 blocks to the rental car dealer. After a half hour of more "we're the first here" talk than important data on him and his expired license, he had a new, black Ford sedan - with air conditioning for $3 a day more - under his control. He visited the courthouse, bought a new road map for the county roads, and then headed for the real reason he had come home. The roads had not changed much, the crops in the fields looked the same summer burnt brown, but it was good to have the map to locate new interchanges or the occasional new drive back to a farm house. The years since his last visit began to melt away as the miles to the property drive entrance became less and less.
Mark turned in to the drive and then slowed to a stop. He took several deep, long breaths to calm his soul - this was a mantra with him because he knew as soon as he entered the house he would not be thinking with his head; he would be thinking with his heart and his slowly rising dick. He eased toward the house and parked in the turn around area. As he stepped from the car, a slender woman with mildly blonde-brown hair opened the screen door and walked out to the screened porch walkway. Mark's heart went right into his throat and he felt his common sense draining right into his now quickly inflating dick. Every memory, every smell, every sense was suddenly heightened and on full alert. From 10 feet away, he could see her nipples rising in her plain yellow blouse; he could see the pinkness of her areoles around them. He knew she never wore a bra unless she was going to town.
