PART ONE

Marry your high school sweetheart, join the military, see the world as one of The Few, The Proud. Have a kid, move every 6 months. Being a military brat stunk.

I was conceived in Ohio, born in Germany, and raised on every point of the globe. Dad was always being shipped somewhere else. As soon as we had adjusted to our latest surroundings, it was time to pack and relocate. The strain wore on Mom and me more than anyone. I had few friends — what was the point in making them? For her, it was the same. Mom and I turned to one another for friendship.

We were living in Osaka, Japan when I came home from school one day to see Dad sitting in the kitchen. Several of the neighbors and some military personnel were with him. I walked into the kitchen, and the conversation stilled. Dad looked up, becoming aware of my presence. He turned his head to look at me, his face somewhat ashen, eyes red.

"What’s wrong? Where’s mom?" I asked in a hushed voice, already knowing something horrible had happened. "Dad?"

He looked at me to speak, his eyes shifting to the floor. Something was wrong, very wrong. My dad was a brute: 5’10, 170 pounds of solid mass from his years of military training. His forearms were about the size of my calves. Something was seriously wrong to make this man of iron will break down. I ran from the room, down the hallway to my bedroom. She was gone. I knew she was dead without hearing the words.

Several minutes later, there was a knock at my door and Dad came in, walking over to my bed and sitting down next to me, rubbing my back while I sobbed into my pillow.

"Heath, please don’t cry. It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna get through this," his voice quivered, "We have to be strong, understand?"

"Wha-wha-what happened to her?" I sobbed.

"There was an accident today. Your mom was driving back to the base. Some truck tried to cross the road in front of her and stalled or something. She didn’t see it in time, I guess. The car plowed into bed of the truck. It was over in an instant. She didn’t even feel it." He paused a long moment before speaking again, "I’m sorry, son. I’m so sorry." He began to cry, the only time in my life I’d ever seen him shed a tear. I rolled onto my back and sat up on the bed as he wrapped his arms around me and hugged me. Together we cried.

•

Dad transferred off the island back to the States so I could be closer to family. He had always been uncomfortable around me, not knowing what to say, as he didn’t really know me that well. The military consumed his life. His family had always been secondary. He had always loved us, we knew that, but he didn’t show it very often and said it even less, the older I grew. I was 17, and since I had become a teenager, he had spoken the words "I love you" fewer than a handful of times that I could remember. Part of being a Marine, I often thought.

In some ways, Dad became weaker after the funeral. Maybe he realized that he had two roles to play now that Mom wasn’t with us. Perhaps it was just the pain that ate away at his steely structure, her death the rust destroying him. He began to drink, too, something I’d never seen; nothing excessive, just an occasional drink or beer late at night.

On the first anniversary of Mom’s death, I sat alone at home. Dad hadn’t come back from the base yet, which was odd. He was never this late. It was nearly midnight. As I lay in the dark on the couch I heard the door unlock. He was finally home. I could see his silhouette against the door. I didn’t say anything, too consumed in thought. He hadn’t seen me. He ran his hand through his fine black hair and unbuttoned his shirt as he walked into the kitchen. He turned on the light and reached into the fridge for a beer. He looked kind of out of it, weaving ever so mildly as he moved. I realized he had probably been thinking all day about the same things I was thinking, and to forget, he’d gotten blitzed.

He uncapped the beer and sat in on the countertop, then untucked his shirt, completely unbuttoning it. It hung spread from his broad shoulders. His body was nice; I often wished I had the same. I was about the same height as Dad, but smaller framed. I had nice muscle tone, but not as good as his. He’d had spent more time working out in his 35 years than I had in my 17. His chest was tight and covered in a down of dark, straight hair. I was still relatively smooth, except for a patch of golden hair in the center of my chest, which grew downward to my navel.

His right hand held his beer as his left hand crossed his chest. He stroked his right pec, eyes closed. I lay motionless on the couch, wondering if I had the potential to be as rough and rugged-looking as my dad. His hand disappeared from his chest and appeared to be cupping his dick. I couldn’t tell, the counter blocked most of my view, but as soon as his shoulder started rising and falling, I knew. My own dick started to stir. This was too weird. I was getting turned on watching my old man.

He continued palming his crotch. After awhile, he stopped and set down the empty beer bottle, shifting so I could see a little more. I could see his hands fumbling with his zipper; his brass belt buckle clunked. He popped the button on his pants and reached his hand inside. My cock was pumped, trapped in my jeans. I didn’t say anything, remaining motionless. The muscles in Dad’s arm flexed, his shoulders didn’t move. He was stroking his cock. He looked down. With his other hand he appeared to be sliding the band of his briefs under his nuts so his cock could be displayed. This was wrong. This was so wrong. What was I doing?

I quietly unfastened my jeans and pulled my cock out. Precum dripped from the head onto my abdomen. I gripped my dick, slowly gliding my hand down the shaft. I wondered if it was a big as my dad’s. I knew I had a big dick. The guys in phys. ed. used to joke about it, calling me Apollo, like the rocket, but I never thought much about its size. It was just a dick. Had I inherited it from the guy in the kitchen who was now jacking off in front of me? What did his cock look like? I’d never seen it.

Dad’s eyes were closed. My eyes followed his body from his square, five o’clock shadowed jaw down to his chiseled pecs further down his abs until the counter blocked my vision. His right hand jacked his cock faster and faster. His mouth opened slightly, a look of satisfaction on his face, his left hand again hidden beneath the fabric of his shirt. It ran roughly over his tit. It looked like he was pinching it. I could hear him moan ever so slightly.

I swallowed from nervousness and stroked my cock faster, harder. I closed my eyes. The muscles in my legs twitched as they tightened from pleasure and the fear of being busted by the Marine I was watching jack off in the next room. I ran my tongue over my lips, moistening them with my saliva. It felt so good. I sucked my lower lip into my mouth and clenched it between my teeth, lightly biting it.

My sense of hearing was increased with my eyes shut. I could hear, or thought I could, my Dad’s breathing becoming rapid and more shallow. I pictured his strong hands stroking his huge cock, nestled in a thick patch of hair. He stroked downward toward the floor, the swollen head of his Marine meat disappearing into his hand. He jacked off the same way I did, I imagined. I could see his cock from his vantage point. Staring down the valley of his muscular chest, across the rippled plains of his gut, down to sinewy apex of the ‘V’ that led right to his rigid shaft and heavy nuts.

My chest rose and fell faster and faster. Gripping my cock as hard as I could I pounded it furiously. I heard my old man start to moan, "Ahhh, ahhh…fuck yeah…oh yeah," before he released a growl that started deep in his throat.

The sounds from the kitchen were too much. I gasped for air as I moaned, picturing my dad shooting his cum all over the floor of the kitchen, blast after blast of his thick jizz bursting from his swollen dick. My legs began to quiver. My head was pushed back into the arm of the sofa, my throat thrust high into the darkness of the room. My nipples hardened. My cock swelled as I thrust it into my hand one final time.

"Ohhhh, God. Nnnnnngggghhh," I tried to whisper. My hips rose from the cushions as I shot my load into the air. The first drops landed on my face, beneath my eyes and across my lips. Again and again the cum pumped from dick. I opened my eyes. I heard rustling in the kitchen.

"Oh, fuck. What the — Christ, Heath!" Dad yelled from the kitchen.

I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t exactly hide. My body was limp, my cock still clenched in my sticky hand.

He stormed from the kitchen, his shirt spread open as he walked over, exposing his torso to me. He was zipping his pants. The belt still hung on either side of the bulge in his pants.

"What the hell are you doing up?" he yelled, towering over me.

I started to cry. I gasped for words. He grabbed my arm and shook me.

"What were you — Dammit! Dammit!" he shouted as he placed his hands on his head.

"I…I…" I was screwed.

"Shut up! Shut up! I don’t wanna hear anything! Haul your ass upstairs, now! Understand?" he said. I could smell the liquor on his breath.

I threw myself off the couch, and stood before him eye to eye. It was awkward for both of us. My load trailed downward over my cheeks. I lifted my arm to wipe the drops with the back of my hand. He looked furious. I shifted my gaze downward, stuffed my cock back into my Levi’s and walked on trembling legs to my room.

In the dark, I lay on my back, my arms across my chest, stared at the ceiling and cried.What was I thinking? What’s he gonna do to me? He thinks I’m a damned queer. He’s gonna call me a fag. He’s never gonna talk to me. I felt weak. I hated being weak. This, I had learned from my father.

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