Date: Thu, 24 Jul 2014 10:02:16 +0200
From: Dampies Dampis <dampies1960@gmail.com>
Subject: A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing 1

This is the story of a gay man in a hostile anti-gay military environment,
who has to endure therapy by a homophobic medic.

There is no sex in this episode.  There may be later as the story develops

Thanks to my friend KABS for editing for me!

http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep this amazing site going
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The year was 1984. South Africa wasn't a happy place. I was in the army for
my two years of national service. My name is Ben, and I was gay and out,
unusually, as my lover and I were activists. Well,  I was an
activist-wannabe,  since I should really have conscientiously objected to
National Service, as others had,  and endured the prison sentence, but I
guess that I didn't have quite enough of a problem with the white "regime"
to risk that extreme form of conscience.There was "unrest"  in the
"townships" (colloq. referring specifically to designated black urban
areas) and anybody in an army uniform was not always welcome,  especially
in said urban areas and even in the cities.

The myth of the army keeping the peace in the townships and protecting our
borders was beginning to wear thin. The UDM (United Democratic Movement)
and others of their ilk were getting the word out there.

I had grown up as an Afrikaner in an Afrikaans school and household. I
didn't know who Nelson Mandela was until my boyfriend, Grant, a "rooinek" -
(red neck/ Englishman) told me about him when I was 24. I ended up in the
SADF (South African Defense Force) and "serving my country",  in spite of
the fact that gay heros  like Simon Nkoli were sacrificing their freedom
for a greater freedom from Apartheid. So,  because I didn't have the
courage to stand up for what I said I believed in, I lost my boyfriend the
moment I got on the train to Pretoria for my basic training.

In spite of the fact that our different stances on sacrifice were a
stumbling block, it was a tearful goodbye as we finally separated due to
ideological differences. Grant,  my lover made it clear that although he
loved me, he couldn't endorse my giving in to the Apartheid Regime, and we
would be history as soon as I finally became part of the oppressor's iron
fist. It was only later that I realized that he sent me into the jaws of
death alone, without any support,  because he couldn't stand the thought
that I might die,  and that he might so lose me to the Regime.

Those first few days in basics were a blur as I not only had to fit into
the extremely hard and harsh reality of "basics" (basic training) but also
mourn the loss of my lover of 2 years,  because of my "cowardice".

It was really a moot point as I had a choice of imprisonment for
objecting,  or running the risk of being deployed to the "operational
areas" on the border, making excursions into Mozambique or Angola,  where
our "enemies" threatened the safety of the Republic with very real
weapons,  in spite of the fact that they were the real enemies only of the
Apartheid regime. Since Grant had initiated me into the true story behind
what we were fed as unsuspecting South Africans and as Afrikaners
especially, it made serving in the armed forces so much more onerous. When
I was deployed to the border after basics, my worst nightmare came true.
To cut a long story short, I was sent to the border, lost both my legs
below the knee in a landmine explosion and was sent back to the "states" as
we called civilization, to recover.

To say that I was depressed would be an understatement. I was still missing
Grant terribly,  especially since the loss of my legs, but I didn't contact
him since I was so ashamed of my lack of conviction. I saw my mom briefly
at 1 Mil, the military hospital in Pretoria, but she couldn't travel that
far,  living in Boksburg, a town about 30km away, and her being in her late
fifties by that time. Furthermore,  the prospect of spending the rest of my
life with no legs didn't really provide me much reason not to sink into a
deep funk,  which wasn't helped by the fact that I still had a good 18
months of my 2 years' military service to complete.

My reputation as "moffie" (derogatory Afrikaans term for queer)  preceded
me and although it didn't seem to matter to the guys on the border,  as
long as I pulled my weight and didn't  try to seduce them, I had to endure
many a snide remark and some threats of violence from some of the other
patients in the ward.

The worst was when I was introduced to my physical therapist, and his
greeting went like this: "O,  jy's die mofgat!"  (Oh,  you must be the
queerass). Then he proceeded to warn me that he would do his job and work
with me and get me back on my feet but that he wasn't a "poephol pilot"
(ass pilot,  a colloquial reference to queers).  He warned that I'd better
watch myself and not go and get a boner every time he touched me,  and
there was no smile to soften the cold grimace in his face,  which was
inches from my own, and his hate-filled eyes left no room to doubt his
seriousness.

I am a shortish guy,  coming in at 5ft 7 1/2 inches, and although I'm quite
stocky and muscular, Lt. Dolf Vosloo (short for Adolph- go figure!) stood a
good 6ft 2 inches in his army boots,  and the wine red beret that he wore
as a medic made it important that he disabuse me of any Hanky Panky
expectations, since the medics had a reputation for being largely gay. He
was a slab of solid Boer muscle, with stern hazel eyes above a straight
nose,  which perched above his regulation mustache,  and luscious lips that
his derisive sneer didn't succeed in camouflaging. He had a job to do,  and
as a conscriptee he had no obligation to like it,  since,  like me, he was
there under duress.

In spite of the fact that under normal circumstances he would have made me
weak at the knees, the prospect of having to work with an outright
homopbobe as a physical therapist didn't thrill me. Besides anything else,
I was a bit scared that he would "donner" (thunder,  literally,  meaning
clobber)  me,  as he was obviously a guy with something to prove. Even if
he didn't physically abuse me, he had the power,  as an officer,  to make
my life a living misery.

We were scheduled to start work the next day and I sank even deeper into my
dark cloud. His disdain for my sexuality was palpable, and he couldn't be
accused of trying to hide it. That night I quietly criedmyself to sleep,
as I wished that I had succumbed to Grant's pressure to object,  rather
than end up legless and in imminent danger of getting my gay ass bashed by
my therapist.

I was just going to have to make the best of my lot. One step at a time.

Oh yeah. That wouldn't work for me anymore.

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Please let me know if you're curious how this plays out and would like to
read more. Encouragement is a big part of writing erotic fiction.

TX for reading! Dampies1960@gmail.com