It was a hot summer in Georgia in 1986. After eight weeks of basic training in South Carolina, members of my platoon were finally granted our first weekend away from the barracks. We were not permitted to leave Ft. Gordon, so a group of fellow soldiers rented a room at a hotel on base.
Several guys decided to purchase a prostitute who was working the curb near the giant Postal Exchange (PX)– a big Walmart of sorts. Not all of us wanted to take turns with her. I hung out in the bathroom of the hotel with Pvt. Ventura– a dude from Hawaii. His green eyes and olive skin haunt me still, although I admit never looking deeply into them. We drank what was left of the vodka, one sitting on the toilet, the other upon the edge of a giant bath tub. After screams and moans in the room had quieted down and late night videos on VH-1 turned to the Go-Go’s, Ventura and I quickly claimed one of three beds in the room.
I did not need to ask Ventura why he did not want to fuck the whore. We were both merely children– 18 years old– and I for one had not had sex with anyone at the time. A smell of cured ham with a whiff of vinegar circulated through the air conditioning system causing all the exhausted boys to fall into a deep slumber. It was if the scent of the whore had poisoned them all– drunken asses seemed to fall deep into sleep upon the carpeted floor moments after eight week loads were released into the girl who wanted just $200 for the entire gang– back at the PX. I had to pay my $100 share for a room and the booze and other favors the men all shared.
Ventura humped me while I pretended to sleep. He slowly pulled down my brown Army underwear and tried to enter an ass that had yet to fully develop. I felt like such a whore in the morning. I spent the next 12 weeks trying not to make eye contact with a man who I knew thought of me of nothing less than a homosexual whore, even though he did not pay me a cent or even offer to shine my boots one night back inside those barracks with a cement floor and tin walls and roof where television was still banned.
Three years later, at a new duty station in Germany, I was sitting around the barracks with a bunch of guys just talking. Suddenly, a guy with long hair who I had known for over a year turned and said– “Hey! Wait a minute…I know you from Ft. Gordon.” He seemed to undress me for a moment with his beautiful eyes.
I blushed and asked if he remembered the night all the guys in the platoon fucked the ugly whore from the PX.
He claims he did not remember the incident and just winked at me, as if somehow, his homosexual tendency got washed away by a heavy gulp of beer that slid down his hairless windpipe.