Date: Wed, 5 Apr 2017 10:05:29 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Dear John Letter (military)

This story and its characters are fictional. If any character resembles you
or someone you know, I WANT DETAILS, you lucky fucker, preferably with
photos! It is, of course, copyrighted by the author with all rights
reserved and very, very negotiable -- don't reproduce or post elsewhere
without permission. Also, keep the cum coming -- Donate to Nifty **TODAY**
at donate.nifty.org/donate.html! I'm an old guy (>30). I know what it was
like when you had to BUY porn. Five miles uphill both ways in the snow just
to GET to the XXX store. You whippersnappers don't know how good you've got
it.

This involves sex between consenting adult males; if that is illegal for
who/where you may be right now, fuck off and get thee to a monastery (where
you might just find scenes similar to some below). Also, please note that
all my stories exist in a world where STDs are neither common nor
deadly. Don't be a fucking idiot; use protection. 'To die for' sex should
never lead to your actual death.

I like hearing from people but I also hate spam. If you get off on flaming
people, please know that you will HATE the results. I will read your
missive and weave you and your comments into my next story to the point
that you cry like a little girl. Bullies get as bullies give.

*****

Dear John Letter 1: Dear John

by Bear Pup

M/M; 'off-screen' anal; touching; sensuality; masturbation; love

Dear John,

I love you more than life itself. Please know that always. But I just can't
take being away from you for months or even years at a time. I can't wait
any more, John, I just can't. I want a family, John, a family with kids but
more importantly a family with a father and husband.

It will probably make this easier for you know it's someone you hate
anyways. Myron Bader was promoted to Lieutenant of the Osage Beach PD. I
went to his promotion party. Most of the town did. We talked and, well,
we'll be married in June. I will always love you, John.

Yours Always, Anne

Mine *always*? Well obviously fucking NOT. Myron? Myron Bader? The asswipe
that got out of the draft because his daddy knew two of the three on the
local draft board and had them swallow the whole fucking flat feet thing?
The only think flat about that bastard is his head!

I'd re-read that letter for six months. For most of the carrier's
deployment, in fact. She'd sent the letter so it would arrive for mail call
the day that the Valley Forge set sail back to Korea. I'd been back to
Osage Beach, Missouri, for 2 weeks in July on 'hardship leave' as my mother
had passed away, God rest her soul. What killed me more than anything was
the "promoted to Lieutenant" part of the letter. Myron had proudly appeared
in his well-worn Lieutenant's uniform at Mom's funeral, so Anne was already
seeing him and never said a fucking word, even when we made out on the
bench overlooking Watson Hollow. At least now I had a better idea why she
wouldn't go 'all the way'; it's hard to fake virginity.

I wanted to hate Anne so bad. Sooooooo bad. But she was right, in reverse
at least. I would always love her no matter what. Myron, now, that was
another matter. I spent months of night watches and scut work fantasizing
about how I was going to kill him, nice and slow. One of the things that no
one was supposed to know was that the Valley Forge was used as a floating
interrogation platform for a while. Most of the guys were really unsettled
by it, but the two months when the "Special Information Unit" was aboard
started three weeks to the day after I got Anne's final letter.

I should be horrified, but to this day I'm just not. Anytime I had duties
cleaning or paining near Hold 4, I just closed my eyes and thought of Myron
making the noises you could faintly hear coming through the bolted
hatch. The fact that I was one of the few sailors who never seemed phased
by the sounds saw me pulling more than my share of those duties.

Sounds. Heh. I ended up with my rack mates because of sound. No ship is
ever quiet, and aircraft carriers were some of the worst. There was a
four-man rack that some REMF (Rear-Echelon Mother-Fucker; someone who sent
men to die but never came within an ocean's-width of a torpedo) had shoved
in at the very end. It had probably been meant as a supply closet or
something and got 'enhanced' to be enlisted rack space. One bulkhead was
slap against the flight elevator, and the mechanical space for that
equipment was directly below. Whenever the flight elevator went into use,
the whole space shook, and a sound like the Final Trump avec Twisted Metal
echoed in the tiny steel box that we called home. I was one of the four
people on the whole fucking tub that could sleep through it.

Anyway, I tried not to think about The Letter much over the decades, but I
just pulled the tortured (and torturous) pages from my treasure trove to
read it again all these years later. What happened this week, around and
after my birthday, made me rethink everything all the way back to Osage
Beach... back to two school sweethearts and long walks on the lake, to a
boy and girl pushing the boundaries of curfew and propriety, and to what
might have been a very... interesting night with Mark Willing -- what a
name; what a missed opportunity.

So, let's see. We were at sea until 3 July of 1950. I only know the day
because our liberty started just before the fireworks the next day, Friday,
the Fourth of July. I'd done something stupid and ended up in the last
group allowed ashore except for the essentials (which I damn sure wasn't).

There had been three liberty stops on the deployment. There were no shore
leaves in the Korean ports for us at the time, only ones inbound and
outbound. The outbound was at Guam; I couldn't even make myself go ashore
and volunteered for deck. In Tokyo on the return, my rack-mates bought me a
hooker, but I gave her to Goober (big dick, tiny nuts) cuz I couldn't
imagine getting it up for a whore; Ranger (actual last name so why have a
nickname? Like me as John or Johnny) and Mickey (big ears. Mickey
Mouse. Get it?) agreed he needed it most of the four of us. Goober got what
he needed, and three different types of clap to boot.

At Guam on the return, we just got shitfaced. The kindly intervention of a
Gunnery Sergeant got us back aboard without the word 'brig' being
used. Huh. I just realized. Gunny and Ranger were really close the rest of
the deployment. Maybe a little quid pro cum was involved. At the time, the
thought never really crossed my mind. I don't think it would have mattered
much by then if it had.

So, back in San Diego. 4th of July. Independence Day. I decided to be
completely fucking independent. I watched the fireworks from the pier, then
caught a ride to the Gaslamp district. We'd docked at pier 6, so I picked
the sixth bar I walked past. I don't even know the name of the place, a
complete dive, just what I wanted. For the next three hours, I used only
one word, "Boilermaker." I used that word a LOT that night. I mean, like
more than a standard Navy drinking binge version of 'a lot'.

This huge red bear of a Marine sat next to me someplace around Boilermaker
number 603 and we struck up a conversation. Well, a slurred-monologue with
laugh track. I was well into the garrulous-drunk stage (I never have gotten
to the punch-throwing-drunk stage; not in me I guess) so the certain words
and phrases kept popping up. Anne. Myron. Dear John. Navy. Rip his nuts
off. Betrayal. Bastard. Letter. Homewrecker. Love -- You know, the standard
bar conversation. Big Red listened, laughed and commiserated at all the
right places and let me basically drink myself into a coma.

The 5th of July, 1950. A Saturday that happened to other people. 6th of
July, 1950. A day that came down on me like a fucking shit-storm. I awoke
in a seedy hotel room with stained, peeling wallpaper and a smell that made
the roaches ill. My mouth tasted like a bilge-rat had died in there a long,
long time ago. My head had shrunk until the skull was several sizes too
small. Someone was pounding spikes into my eyeballs. Everything hurt. Okay,
not bad -- standard end-of-liberty so far.

I got up to piss and barely, just barely managed not to puke. Stumbled to
the head and was relieved that I was already naked. Well, that's
convenient. I reached down and damned if I wasn't sore as all hell. Even
pissing made my nuts ache and my cock was red, raw and inexplicably happy.

Over the next week as the alcohol gradually got out of my system during the
worst case of Bottle Flu I'd ever had, various memories... no, dream
fragments came back. Couldn't be memories. Had to be the strangest dreams.

Puking with Big Red sponging my face and handing me water? Incredibly
likely.

Big Red stripping me, massive marine muscles tossing me around like a rag
doll? Probably happened.

Big Red's massive, hairy chest rubbing mine? Maybe; it happens if you rack
with a mate on liberty and you wake up facing each other.

Big Red chewing on my nipples, dick and balls? Definitely not. True weird
dream territory.

Big Red's huge, furry, muscled body bouncing up and down on mine, head
thrown back and moaning like a whore? What the fuck was THAT dream even
about? Definitely in the 'shouldn't dream after drinking' category.

Big Red with one hand teasing my ass-crack and the other thrumming my tits
while he sucked load after load after load out of me until I was shooting
blanks and begging him to cut my nuts off? I think someone may have put one
of the weird Beatnik drugs in my Boilermakers.

It did seem odd that my still-raw cock would twitch at some of those, and
that my strangely-tender tenders would churn when the dream images came
up. Bad booze. Nothing more.

Another eight-months of my hitch on the Valley Forge, then assigned
dockside doing the same shit on different planes. I'd been a mechanic's
mate working the Skyraiders. The damn things were virtually indestructible,
so I spent as much time mopping and painting as I did working on the
planes. We did a lot of bullet-hole repairs, though.

Anyway, Skyraiders (and all the other prop-planes) were on the way out. I
spent six months training at some desert hell hole to maintain the new
Cutlass. Before I could even get deployed, some REMF pencil-neck decided
that I should immediately be trained on a completely different plane, the
Crusader. It had the strangest tilt-wing-things that worked great... unless
there was dust, moisture, dirt, birds or any other damn fucking thing
around. It was also damn near impossible to land safely on a carrier,
something of a problem for a carrier-based plane. It got the nickname
Ensign Eliminator for the number of guys killed or injured or just thrown
overboard when it landed.

I got lucky again and they put me in a different semi-desert hell-hole
called NAS Kingsville in Texas. As it turned out, it would be the last time
I lived anywhere on the 'wrong' side of the Rockies. I served out my second
hitch trying to keep those fucking Crusaders from killing the wrong people
(me, mainly) and damn near ran back to California when I was cut loose.

Turns out that I was not the only person to think that California was a
pretty great place to move after leaving the embrace of the Navy (or
Marines, Air Force, Army, Coast Guard and every other fucker in a
uniform). Unfortunately, it was expensive and jobs were scarce unless I
wanted to go right back into working on or building the very planes I swore
never to set eyes upon again.

I made a great friend in Kingsville named Markley who we call called
Marksman (no fucking clue why). I ran into him at a jobs-poster as he
headed to the mess on base in San Diego one day. He was on leave, driving
north to see family and offered me a free ride and place to stay. I was
seriously low on coin so we ended up in a place called Castle Rock,
Washington. His family was what I wished I could have come home to. Turns
out that his dad was a mechanic and knew of a friend-of-a-friend "a few
towns over" who was looking for help, specifically a guy who knew which end
of a screwdriver to grab.

And that's how I ended up in place called Mayfield. "A few towns over" was
actually 40 miles or so. The 'friend' was a genial old geezer named Wally
Wallace (I found out on his death that his name was actually Otha Phineas
Wallace; I'd go by Wally too!) who had also been in the Navy sometime
around the Revolution. He contracted the boat repair work for the Lake
Mayfield Marina. Tourists would come in and rent boats, often
sleep-aboards, and his job was to fix whatever the fuck the idiots did to
them before the next guest drove up.

He'd had an assistant mechanic who'd been called up when he came of age
(his third such), and he'd decided he was sick of training kids only to
have them ship off as soon as they were useful. I could bunk in what had
been his boat-shed/shop when he'd still taken on spare work -- as long as I
was agreeable to cleaning out the bird crap, battening down the windows and
doors, and painting it inside and out. I had learned from hard lessons how
to pretend an officer wasn't bat-shit crazy so played along. Turned out
that the place was... actually nice.

Wally had put in two bathrooms back in the day, one downstairs and one in
the loft, and the space was open, airy and bright. He'd originally used the
good-sized loft for parts and bookkeeping. It had become the home of a
whole colony of pissed off pigeons. I stepped outside and looked
around. The lake was a hydro-dam one just like Lake of the Ozarks, but not
nearly as large. The hills and mountains were bigger, as were the trees
and... the prospects. I never even asked Wally what he was paying. That was
43 years ago last week. I met Wally on my birthday in 1954.

Other than frequent visits to the elder Markleys and occasionally to
Marksman and his 6-child family, I had rarely left Mayfield that day to
this. When I did, it was normally to go to places like Seattle, Portland or
one of the big cities of California. I never once went any distance East at
all. Missouri was a book closed, banned and burned.

Well, until now. The last week had made me reexamine everything I thought
was real. Back to Mark Willing. He was a real buddy, one of the great
friends of my entire life. I met him when I was, hmm, 9? 10? The Depression
was loosening at least a little. Lake of the Ozarks inundated eleven small
towns when it was created (starting, ironically, in the year of my
birth). My parents were lucky. They owned an 88-acre patch on the edge of
Zebra, Missouri, the town that became Osage Beach. When the reservoir
finally filled, they still had 41 acres above the water line.

The people displaced by the lake -- well, the rich ones -- needed land to
live on and my parent sold it to them. What had been Darby Farm became an
arm of Osage Beach; the rest became Darby Hollow, an arm of the lake that
shared my surname. Did I forget to mention? I'm John Darby, glad to
meetcha. Ironically, my parents would have made a fucking fortune if they'd
waited two decades. In the post-war years, the guys who came back from the
war and made modest fortunes in some trade or business paid a premium for
lake-front homes, premiums that went to the people my parents had sold to
cheap.

Mark Willing and I were maybe 14 when he first broached the subject of
dicks, and we hinted around for a week before we each got up the nerve to
ask if the other jacked off. We both said no, um, yes. We'd occasionally
jack off together and once jacked each other, a revelatory experience for
us both. When we were 16, he hinted at more and I froze up. It was 1945,
one war was over and the other ending, and I just clammed up and ignored
him from them on. Now, though, I wondered "what if?" Obviously he had been
Willing in both name and attitude.

So, I was born, grew up, dated Anne, left for the Navy (actually before my
18th, but close enough that a smudge on the birth certificate got me
in)... and died inside when I got The Letter. Wally and I found each other,
and it just, well, worked. I never asked about him and he never asked about
me. The past was a distant country with no relevance to the now. I became
mildly-popular around town, but the gals learned that I was good for a
conversation and nothing more. Suddenly, probably due to one of my
exceedingly-rare binges, everyone knew about Anne and... The Letter. Gals
stopped flirting and started going out of their way to be kind. I didn't
mind. Sex was something that happened to other people.

Wally died in 1974, the day after the Fourth of July fireworks. When they
read the will (I wasn't there; I was fixing a houseboat with a stripped-out
motor), the town found out that Wally had JUST missed his 100th
birthday. He was born in October of 1874. And he left everything,
everything to me.

I closed the shop for a week, both in mourning for my mentor and dear
friend, and to figure out how the business really worked. Wally kept
meticulous books and had started about ten years earlier writing marginal
notes obviously intended for me when I took over. There are still a lot
water-spots on those pages from the number of times I cried reading through
them.

I spent two weeks afterwards catching up on back-work, then closed
again. It was clear that I could not run things alone any more than Wally
could, and there would be little chance of finding someone local to hire
and train. I'd given it a couple weeks of thought, and figured what worked
for Wally, a guy fresh off a Navy hitch, might well work for me. I made a
deal with the guy who ran the auto-shop to take care of any serious issue
and was in San Diego two days later. I checked into an acceptably-seedy
motel and started to prowl the job boards.

Instead of posting an ad, though, I hung out and chatted up the guys. Jeez,
was I ever that young? Likely-seeming guys would get a quick meal with me
at the little café thing in the NEX (Navy Exchange), "one salt to
another". On my third day, I ran into a young tough who called himself
Mack. He was a really small guy but obviously scrappy. Just coming off his
first hitch, he was 22 with a thin, wiry build and dark, glinting
eyes. Over a burger and fries, I found out that his specialty was
small-craft maintenance, the launches that the USS Flint used when resupply
with helicopters was not feasible.

He was also an energetic and fun guy. There was no doubt that he was the
jokester of his class, a fact reinforced by his insignia as a Seaman
Apprentice, a sure sign that he has been busted back at least a couple of
times. He obviously had limits, though, since he had an honorable
discharge. He reminded me of my mates before The Letter, full of piss and
vinegar. I nudged him about his plans and he said that he was
expletive-enhanced not going back to Texas and was hoping for someplace
with real trees to settle down to raise a family. I took him drinking that
night and found that he could both hold his liquor and knew when to stop,
something I'd learned much later in life. Three days afterwards, he was
back with me in Mayfield.

I'd meant to sell off Wally's house as I was supremely comfortable in that
service-bay loft. I realized that I could rent it to Mack (real name Jerome
McMillan) for cheap, making both of our lives easier. Mack turned out to be
an able and industrious employee. He was married to (literally) the girl
next door, Sally Anderson, less than a year after he moved in. The
post-wedding moving day was amusing. Her mother wept piteously as dad, the
groom and I carried Sally's stuff literally across the lawn to her new
house.

It's often said that a new bride can do in six months what an experienced
wife takes nine months to accomplish. Close enough. Jerome McMillian II was
born seven months to the day after the wedding. He immediately became
Mick. Mick and Mack were inseparable from the time the boy could toddle
along behind his dad. I held Mack after he dropped Mick for his first day
of kindergarten. Mack literally wept from the time he got back to the shop
until it was time to leave to pick his precious son up.

Mick got a sister, Angelica Anderson McMillan (Angelica was Sally's
grandmother's name) a year later, and a younger brother (Jacob "Jake"
McMillan) two years after that. I helped build the addition with another
room and bathroom that became Mick's private domain when he was nine. Mick
was already working alongside Mack every day after school and all summer,
showing real talent on something both Mack and I were weak on, exterior
patching, repair and paint. Mack and I were far more interested with the
mechanicals.

Mack held Mick when he cried over not making the baseball team, over losing
a schoolyard fight, over his first crush/heartbreak. Each time, I held Mack
the next day as he cried out the pain he'd taken from Mick's tears. It was
a pattern that I cherished, helping heal my fellow sailor as he worked
through the trials and tribulations of fatherhood.

There were some things that no kid wants to tell his father and Mick was no
exception. I found him one Saturday afternoon sitting behind the shop
literally shaking with emotion. He had lost his virginity the night
before. Mick was 13. The girl was 17 and, to be honest, came as close to
raping Mick as it was possible to rape a walking bag of hormones with a
permanent erection.

I talked him down off the edge and he spilled everything, including his
desperate fear that he might have gotten her pregnant. We went through it
all, including the fact that his dad had already had all the right talks
with him (hence his panic). I went in and grabbed a four-pack of condoms
that I kept for no known reason (the last woman I was close to was Anne,
and the last woman I had sex with was a hooker in Pearl the deployment
before The Letter). I explained being safe and how to say 'no' in a way
that wouldn't get your balls ripped off. From that day forward, I was
Mick's second dad. There were a lot of things he didn't want Mack to know,
and he brought those to me.

For instance, when he was 15 and came to me on a Sunday afternoon with a
pressing problem about which he was horrified to ask his father or anyone
else on Earth. Mick hemmed and hawed and finally just pulled down his
shorts and pointed. We'd seen each other naked plenty (and Mack and Jake as
well) since we often used the open shower in the back of the bay. I
swallowed the laugh that threatened to engulf me and that I knew would
destroy poor Mick. Apparently, Mack's sex lectures had forgotten to mention
the essential value of *lube*. Mick had spent most of Saturday "fishing" on
the lake, but the rod that got the most workout was not the one with the
reel attached, and his dick was as raw as hamburger. He really thought he'd
broken it permanently.

Another titbit that Mack would never know (from me at least) was that Mick
and Jake were typical of teens and young-adults across the country in their
time, especially in the Pacific Northwest, widely known as the Weedbasket
of America -- they smoked pot, and often. Mick never once came to work
stoned. It was an agreement I reached with him when he was 14 and first
admitted trying it. The very first time he showed up less than sober from
ANYTHING, Mack would know everything about his (and later, Jake's)
drugging.

Mick did, however, run stoned. He was early to the running craze, putting
in uncounted miles each day and learning every road, track and trail of the
surrounding hills. He was taller that Mack by nearly six inches but had the
same whipcord musculature and slight build, perfect for a runner. In the
evenings after work, he stopped at the tree-line to toke and ran until the
buzz wore off. It was what made it possible for him to eat like a horse and
never gain a pound. Pot also made some of our more... interesting
conversations possible.

The first massive father-son row came late for Mack and Mick. It was the
first day of Mick's junior-senior summer when Mack and Sally sat him down
at the kitchen table to help Mick decide whether he would go to college or
join the Navy. "Neither," Mick's immediate answer, was unexpected and
unacceptable. Sadly for Mack, he'd raised his son to be a man, and a man of
strength, integrity, grit, determination and a bullheaded stubbornness that
was unmistakably Mack-inspired. The next day, I had Mick crying on my
shoulder in the morning and Mack in the afternoon, a pattern that reprised
for most of the week until I popped Mack upside the head in true Navy-mate
fashion and knocked some sense into him with an hours-long tongue lashing.

I hired Mick for the summer as an apprentice, though it was clearly
unnecessary as he was as good a boat-mechanic as his father or me by that
point. He worked part time throughout his senior year. Mack fretted
incessantly that it left his son no time to date the girls who fawned over
him. I was careful never to say that Mick didn't seem fazed by it and
increasingly begged to work Friday nights and Saturdays late as much as
possible, giving him a clear and unbreakable excuse to *avoid* such
dates. Other than the lack of female companionship, though, nothing about
Mick's life would have seemed even slightly odd.

Mick was something of a loner, with a few select and very close
friends. All of them to a man decided to go out of state for college,
sending Mick into a tailspin just as graduation day loomed. I dragged him
back behind the shop and gave him the same treatment that always worked
with Mack, a swift pop to the side of his head and a long crying jag where
I held him as his loneliness poured out.

The biggest not-for-dad conversation lasted through that summer. It was
Mick's second great heartbreak. Martin was one of those college-bound,
intensely-close friends. Mick came to me a week after he and Martin had
first 'fooled around' which I took to mean going further than the normal
teen circle-jerks and 'helping hands'. He was a wreck, and Mack came to me
to see if I could find out why. Mick lasted perhaps three minutes before
cracking and pouring out every ounce of fear, self-loathing, guilt and
desperate, gnawing need.

Even in the insanely-conservative 40s and 50s of my own youth, there were
always guys, especially at sea, that discreetly took care of shipmates'
most private needs. The idea of man-on-man sex and even love was far from
alien... and I was a little shocked to discover, considering the Mark
Willing thing, it was far from worrisome for me. I comforted Mick, consoled
him and helped keep him sane over the next three emotionally-ravishing
months as the affair intensified, flared and ended explosively when Martin
left for college in Kansas.

Mack only asked me for details of what was going on once, and I asked him
in return how he'd feel if I had told Mick or Sally some of the things he'd
cried about to me over the years. He never asked again, but thanked me
constantly for how much I helped his son.

Anyway, so a few years after high school when Mick turned 21, Mack took it
upon himself to introduce his quiet son to another rite of passage into
manhood. Down to the VFW in Mossyrock they went. Mack had gotten permission
from the guys ahead of time, and got Mick roaring, puking drunk. When they
rolled back into the house at around four in the morning, Sally had already
blockaded the doors and told them to sleep on the porch like the disgusting
and smelly animals they had become.

They stumbled over to the shop and I took pity and gave them a couple of
sleeping bags, making sure both of them were right outside the bathroom
door. Good thing, too. I made Mack and Mick wash down the floors and clean
the bathroom before I would let them have breakfast. Since he was
thoroughly, visibly, unmistakably miserable and obviously not the
ringleader, Mick was provisionally forgiven by Sally. After being hosed off
thoroughly before being allowed into the house, he slept in his bedroom
that afternoon and from then on. He was slightly green for at least four
days.

Mack was allowed in the house once each day to get some clothes and
otherwise was on the shop floor for over a week. I'm not entirely sure that
he 'got any' for the rest of that year. That was January of 1996, a bit
more than a year ago, and I'm relatively certain that Mick has never even
had a beer since.

Mack and Mick got real secretive about three months ago, but I decided not
to pry. Business was good, the winter had been mild and things were
fine. April was dawning beautifully. The only thing less than perfect was,
well, my loneliness. It had been nearly 48 years since I last touched
another person... that way, you know. The first couple of decades it was
because of the pain and the fear that I'd be Dear John'ed again, something
I was relatively certain would destroy me completely. The rest of those
years? Mainly from habit. And face it, at soon-to-be-68, who'd really want
a geezer like me? I kept fit, using the exercises drilled into me by the
Navy every day. I occasionally ran short morning routes with Mick, who
would also slow to my pace. He was a great kid, Mick was.

I knew something was up as my birthday approached and no one said a
word. The only reason on Earth that an impending birthday is
scrupulously-avoided in conversation is a surprise party, and I worked hard
to psych myself up for one. The Big Day arrived and I was ushered out to
the Marina for an obviously-arranged on-site review of their boats. We got
back to a closed-up shop and I schooled my face to be 'unsuspecting' and
prepped for 'utterly surprised'. The big door came up and... I was
surprised, really.

The place was filled with folks I knew, some I hadn't seen in years. Front
and center were Marksman and his brood, three of the six already married
with kids of their own. Jake was in full uniform, on special leave from his
recently-started hitch in the Navy where he was following in his father's
footsteps. Mick and Mack and Sally got what they really wanted, though, as
I cried openly at the number of people who cared enough to gather.

The party finally wrapped just before dinnertime and everyone faded away
except for Mick & Mack. Mick disappeared into a screened-off area I hadn't
noticed before in the back of the shop. Mack pulled me aside.

"You've got one more present tonight, Johnny." I'd gone from John to Johnny
when I'd inherited the shop from Wally. Apparently a 'y' is required at the
end of any appropriately-geezerly name. "And you need to know this. Mick
has been wanting to give you this for a very long time. If the gift isn't
to your tastes, he really will understand, but give it a chance, okay?"

Now utterly confused, I nodded. I would never disappoint either of them,
and it hurt that Mack didn't know that instinctively. Mick could give me
ballet slippers and I'd rave over them. How could he not understand that?

Mack vanished, closing and locking the shop doors on his way out. Suddenly,
an amazing aroma came from behind the partition and Mick swept it aside. A
steaming dish of what had to be lasagna, a personal addiction, was there
with a smiling Mick holding a chair for me. The table was set with candles
and wine, settings that blurred as I teared up again. I sat down as a
beaming surrogate son served me himself. It was a wonderful meal, truly,
and the perfect end to a birthday at any age. When we finally finished the
wine (Mick had had a single glass, I had three), Mick sat forward.

"Johnny, you ready for your birthday present now?" He smiled at me, almost
shyly.

"What? This *was* the birthday present, Mick, and it was perfect!"

He took a deep and steadying breath. I could not imagine why he seemed so
nervous. "I, um, I've always wanted to give you something like this. Mack
and I talked it over and I took some lessons." He stood and moved to a
sheet-covered something and pulled back the cloth. I'd never seen one in
person, but it was clearly a massage table. A slow and luxurious smile took
me.

Mick pulled me to my feet and started to undress me. I started to protest
and realized how silly it was. You can't get a massage in clothes and he'd
seen everything I had more than enough times! I did blush when he divested
me of my boxers, though. I was literally old enough to be his grandfather!

He helped me onto the shockingly-comfortable table. How is it even possible
to feel so good just lying flat on your face? Suddenly, I felt Mick's long,
thin, strong fingers on my shoulders, rubbing in some sort of
wonderful-smelling oil. It was like a year of pain and stress and worry and
frustration melted away with each stroke of his hands. I yelped and gasped
plenty as he untied knots so old I'd tied then in my Navy days.

He took his time, working up and down my back, my legs, even my ass. Every
touch was better than the last. I could feel... not just how good he was,
but how much he cared about me and how much he wanted to make me feel good
with every single stroke of Mick's powerful hands. He finished and told me
to flip. That's when it struck me. Little John had enjoyed the sensations
as much as I had. I was probably as hard as I'd been in about twenty years,
harder than when I jacked off for sure.

I started to demure when I felt Mick's hands return to my
shoulders. "Please, Johnny? Please let me do this for you?" The need and
care in his voice was something against which I had no defenses... never
had really. I flipped and rolled my eyes as my cock thwapped against my
belly.

The process repeated. He took enormous care with my arms and hands, and had
me panting as I tried to fend off the sensations as he worked on my pecs
and... ahem, nipples. He traced his hands down my sides and made me shiver.

"Johnny, before I keep going, I want you to know something. I've dreamed of
this since I can remember dreaming. You are the perfect man to me, Johnny,
even more than Mack. I, I love you Johnny." I felt warm tears fall on my
chest and drew breath to respond when Mick's hand slowly encircled my balls
and all I could do was moan. When he stroked my engorged manhood, it was
like I was transported to another world of pleasure.

I gripped the edges of the table, desperate to make him stop, desperate for
him never to stop at all. He left my cock dripping and aching and returned
to the massage, now focused on my inner thighs, then my sides, then my
nipples, then my temples. The feelings were so intense, so wonderful, that
I whimpered when he got to the sides of my neck.

That sound was apparently what Mick has been waiting for. Without a word,
he bent down and kissed my closed eyes, my cheeks and then my lips. I'd
last really kissed someone in 1949 -- Anne as we sat overlooking Watson
Hollow. Every thought of that night, from 1949 to today, flooded me with
sadness, loss and anger... until now. Mick licked my lips open and this
tongue sucked mine into his waiting mouth. Every swipe, every exploration,
wiped away a year of inner pain just as every stroke of his hands had
earlier erased a year of physical aches. I had never, never felt passion
like this, or what I could only call love.

He kissed me for an eternity. He finally pulled back and I gazed at his
upside-down face, awash with tears that dripped on my own cheeks. "I love
you so much, Johnny."

The next voice to speak was mine, but it was as alien and strange to me as
anything. It was calm but breathless, sincerity ringing in every tone. "I
love you, Mick. I think I always have. Please, please kiss me again?" I
could not believe my own words, but my soul knew what both Mick and I
needed most in all the world... another kiss.

The second was harder, more urgent, more demanding on both of our
parts. When Mick pulled back this time, there was a gleam of triumph and
burning determination in his eyes. He went back to the massage, but in a
way that exuded forcefulness, love, lust, need and desire. Less than a day
before, I'd been lamenting the fact that no one would want something like
me. Unlike the other touches in the last hour, these demanded that I
recognize how stupid and wrong that was. Mick not only wanted me, he
thirsted for me. I was not something he wanted, I was something he
desperately needed.

He came back, face right-side-up this time, and stared at me a moment, a
hand to each side of my face. "I love you." He kissed my cheek and repeated
that phrase. He echoed the phrase with each kiss as he moved slowly across
and down my body. Kissed my neck, my shoulder, my nipples, my sides, my
belly button {I giggled like a girl on that one - it tickled!}.

He took my balls in one hand and rolled them as I moaned, his other hand
stroked and teased my shaft and I whined with need. He took his time,
wrenching every ecstatic sound I knew from my throat. Suddenly, both hands
were working together toward a single, inevitable goal. His mouth latched
to mine in time to swallow the bellows of my Rapture. At no point in my
life had anyone given him- or herself to me so totally, so openly, so
unreservedly. And at no point had my soul erupted as much as my nuts and
prick.

This was something beyond mere fulfillment. It was completion in the
most-literal sense -- my mind, body and soul came together in that moment
and wrapped around Mick's own and I was suddenly, irrevocably, complete for
the first time in my life. My cum coated us both by the time I was
finished. Mick pulled back and I saw him open his eyes, long closed through
the orgasmic kiss, with a look of worry and impending regret. It was
heartbreaking. "I love you, Mick. I love you now, I loved you then, I love
you forever." He started to cry in earnest, and I knew that these were the
words he longed for as much as I had; the difference is that he'd known
this and for me it was a sudden, earth-shattering
revelation. Regardless. It was the truest thing I'd ever said.

<eof>

This was written for a reader who is very special, and a really great human
being. That it took porn to meet him is fascinating. He is not named in
this tale, but bits and pieces of him appear in various places. Thank you,
{deleted}, and Happy Birthday. May you find your Mick, your Mack or your
Johnny. Love, -Bear Pup

*****
If you want to get mail notifying you of new postings, e-mail me at
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