Eating Out, by Tony Wayne Brown
A sleepy noontime Friday. Only four more hours of work this week and I‘m fighting the heat from the radar equipment in this window-less mausoleum of ours that never has had enough air conditioning to make it bearable for humans. Time for Tommy to hit the chuckwagon. I carefully arrange the papers on my desk to make it appear that the maximum amount of work is being done for the benefit of any prying eyes while I’m at lunch.
“Got the phone, Chief?” I yell over the metal dividing wall of my office.
“Yeah, I got it, Boone,” he answers in his usual gruff manner.
Chief Master Sergeant Ken Maxwell never feels the need for niceties with underlings, especially mere sergeants like me, but I’m used to it. Technically, Captain Townsley is my boss, but with 35 years in uniform and the stripes of the highest noncommissioned officer rank on his sleeve, the Chief owns Radar Maintenance here at the 644th. That’s why we just call him “Big Max.”
“Don’t stay all day,” the Chief warns, which is pretty funny considering the fact that in just a minute he’s taking off for the little NCO club on the grounds of the 644 Radar Squadron and won’t return to work today. Usually, then, he’ll get behind the wheel of that big ol’ black Caddy of his and try to make it home. If he’s too drunk to see the road, he’ll pull over and hide his keys in a speaker at the back of his car so the cops can’t bust him for drunk driving if they see him stopped there. He’ll claim somebody else was driving and left him there. It’s worked at least once that I know of, believe it or not. Picturing him telling a highway patrolman, “Can’t drive drunk if you don’t got no keys,” in that awful English of his, I just shake my head.
“Okay, Chief. I’ll see you soon,” I reply, trying not to laugh.
This is a real joke. In the three years I’ve been stationed at this small Air Force radar site halfway between Miami and Homestead, I’ve never seen Big Max on a Friday afternoon. He must have made quite an impact on the sales of Jack Daniels Black Label by now.
Heading out the heavy steel door of Radar Maintenance’s thick concrete block building, I see Melinda, the good-looking black girl from Operations who always describes herself as “pecan tan, not black.” One look at her body raises my temperature. I’ve wished many a time that she’d look my way and see something she liked besides these sergeant stripes on my sleeves. She’s a FOXY lady, like Jimi Hendrix’ woman.
“I believe in miracles, you sexy thing!” I sing to her, doing my best imitation of a song by a British group named Hot Chocolate that I know she likes.
“Go on with your bad self!” Melinda answers, momentarily embarrassed. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“No way, Jose! You really are. I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true,” I state in my most sincere come-on tone. “On the day I was born, J. Edgar Hoover and seven Supreme Court judges made me swear an oath on my umbilical cord to always tell the truth.”
Melinda tilts her head up, looks down her nose at me, and says “I don’t believe a word you say. I’ve heard about you and your women.”
Hmmm, I say to myself. WHAT women? Aloud, I toss back at her with, “Would you believe Elliott Ness and the Seven Dwarfs?”
She shakes her head and lifts her eyebrows.
“Well-l-l, screw you if you can’t take a compliment,” I say. I always kid her like this, but it hasn’t ever gotten me anywhere.
“O-kay,” she says in a husky way.
“O-kay, did you say?” I blurt out, expecting her to say something like, “I said ‘no way,’” but she stuns me by running her right hand down my arm and squeezing my hand as we head in the direction of the parking lot.
“Okay, let’s do it,” she says in a very serious tone.
Not trusting my ears, I stand there with a stupid look on my face. “Whattaya mean, ‘let’s do it?’”
“You’re a man, ain’tya? What do you think it means?”
She has me there. Quite stunned by this turn of events, I finally begin to grasp the significance of her words. Goodness, gracious. I think she means it!
“Uh, well-I-I…uh, Melinda,” I stutter, trying to think of what James Bond would say at this point, but failing miserably. “When?” is the best I can come up with.
“What about right now?” she’s asking as we arrive at my ’73 Gold Duster.
“Now? You mean right now?”
“Yes, baby doll,” she says coyly as she opens the driver’s door and slides over.
“But we won’t have time to eat,” I barely manage to croak, doubting I can live up to my undeserved reputation.
“Oh, yes…we…will!” she says very slowly, pausing between each word.
Oh, my, my. I’m gonna die! My dreams have come true. There is justice in this cruel world after all–and who am I to deny this lovely ebony creature the pleasure of a temporary trip into the serenity of nature on her lunch break?
Melinda gives me a broad smile like she knows what she’s going to get and how good it’s going to be. I can only imagine what lies ahead, pun intended. I’ve never been with a black girl before. Come to think of it, I haven’t been with that many girls, period. I hop in beside her, fire up the engine and carefully creep down the 5 m.p.h. lane out the only gate.
As soon as I round the curve and get in front of a screen of mango trees, I put the pedal to the metal. With only a puny 305 cubic-inch motor hiding under the hood, though, about the only response I’m getting is a red “HOT” light glowing on the dashboard. The only thing hotter than the Duster’s engine is me!
Hanging a right and careening around the numerous potholes which dot this seldom-used road, I sneak a glance at my companion and like what I see. Her well-proportioned body just won’t quit. Even in her Air Force fatigues she looks exquisite. Her straight black hair is blowing slightly in the breeze and her beautiful face is smooth as silk.
I look a little too long and just in time I jerk the steering wheel to the left down an even narrower path of this former Navy dirigible base that was abandoned in the forties after a devastating hurricane. We go crashing down an almost completely overgrown side street, smashing through overhanging vines and running over small pines that have pushed up through the asphalt.
“Think we’re gonna make it there in one piece?” she asks as we hit a pothole and the seat leaves us for a second.
“Uh, uh…of course we are.”
I slow down a bit and Melinda slips over and puts her hand on my leg and starts licking my ear when we pass onto a one-time taxi-way for the airstrip. I’m dying again. I know it’s a good thing we’ll be at the blimp hangar soon. I’m either going to explode or get killed in a wreck any minute–maybe both. As we start to cruise down the runway, I discover that the car’s top speed is only eighty-five. I feel a hand sliding over my right leg. Damn it, MOVE, you pathetic excuse for a motor vehicle! I silently curse my piece-of-crap Plymouth. The sorry thing just won’t go any faster and it’s shakin’ worse than a hummingbird with a bad case of rockin’ pneumonia and the boogie-woogie flu.
Thank goodness! I finally see the old blimp hangar hovering over the side of the flight line. The tufts of scraggly grass growing through the cracks of the concrete slabs of the World War II-era Navy base and the derelict berthing tower cast a strange effect over the whole area, seeming to beckon us to complete our mission. “You are clear for take-off,” my mind hears emanating from the long-silent control booth atop the tower.
We rapidly approach the hangar and the gaping hole where the huge doors once hung. By now Melinda’s hand has me in quite a state of excitement. I hear a “zip” and start to tremble. I feel a hand where there isn’t supposed to be a hand in normal situations, but I have long ago realized that this is not a normal situation. As we get within the slight shadow the tower is casting just past noon, I nervously peek sideways again, only to see Melinda unbuttoning her top shirt buttons, revealing a lacy black bra and a really fine pair of breasts. This cannot be happening to me.
“You know what I’m gonna do to you when we get in there, baby doll?” she’s asking, with her mouth touching my ear.
“Uh-h-h ,” I say shakily. “Can you give me a hint?”
“Let’s just say I’m gonna do things to you the Happy Hooker never dreamed of.”
“Works for me” is the snappiest comeback I can think of at the moment. This sounds very promising, although I’m just a rube from Bible Belt charter member North Carolina. Even with more than three years of service protecting my country from those Cuban Commies, I’ve not even seen an X-rated video, much less dreamed something like this could happen. I haven’t been lucky with women, so I can’t imagine what she could be talking about doing to me.
I do like the way it sounds, though.
Now I see Melinda rubbing herself with one hand while I’m still feeling her other one on me. I’m hard as a rock and ready to roll. She’s slipping her hand under my Fruit-of-the-Looms and starting to examine the goods. Suddenly I realize we’re there and I’m slamming on the brakes, throwing the car into a skid to avoid running into a post inside the hangar. The smoke rising from the tires seems appropriate, considering how much steam Melinda has been generating.
“Uh, I just happen to have a blanket in the trunk,” I tell her.
“I’m not surprised, Tommy, after what I’ve heard about you! From what I hear you’re like a Boy Scout…always prepared.”
“Aw, shucks ma’am,” I say, like I’m more innocent than Gomer Pyle–which isn’t that far from the truth. My face is the same color as that “HOT” light on the Duster’s dash. Now I know she’s got me confused with someone else. I’ve only had one girlfriend since I arrived here two years ago. Karen Creech is the only other girl I’ve brought here.
I rush out of the car–afraid my own personal Black Beauty might change her mind–and stick the trunk key in the lock. I feel two hands grab my butt as the lid swings up and I jump so high I hit my head on it. I’m seeing stars as I feel a bump rising.
“Poor baby,” Melinda purrs, taking my hand and leading me to the hangar door.
Turning around at the door of a dusty office, she reaches out and takes my face into her hands and kisses me, gently at first, then harder as I begin to get into the flow of things. Her tongue must have done more exploration than Christopher Columbus, but unlike him, she definitely knows where she’s going to end up. I can almost hear Jimmie Rodgers singing, “Kisses Sweeter Than Wine” as my passion rises in more ways than one.
Although by now Melinda has got me ready to go off like an Atlas rocket, I’m too damn nervous to touch her. I already feel like a Hawaiian volcano ready to pop its top. I can see it now, broadcast nationally from WTVJ:
U.S. Air Force Sergeant Thomas W. Boone was killed today in a freak accident at Richmond Air Force Station. Cause of death apparently due to a buildup of internal pressure resulting in an implosion which left nothing behind but blackened ashes.
A tug from Melinda shakes me out of my news flash and we look around the cavernous hangar in awe. It’s about a hundred feet wide and the roof soars at least the same distance skyward. I see the mooring hooks that had been used to dock dirigibles decades ago. Melinda is equally impressed.
“This is fantastic! I’ve never been here before, but I don’t think this will be the last time, if you know what I mean.”
I think I do, and it scares me a little bit, but I just say, “I thought you’d like it.”
We go into the office and I lay the blanket down. Melinda plops down a pair of pillows she found on a desk. I don’t bother telling her I was the one who had left them there on a foray with Karen. Before I can get my boots off she kneels and pulls my pants down
Spying the obvious area of excitement she has revealed, she takes my hand and puts it on her breast, then starts squeezing my most private parts, uh, make that sergeant parts. To heck with the boots, I’m thinking. I undo my shirt buttons and pull my shirt off to speed things along. I freeze like a statue of Marty Feldman; my eyes bulging out as Melinda’s mouth clamps down.
Inside, I’m singing, “Bend me, shape me, anyway you want me,” along with The American Breed–and I’m having no doubts that’s exactly what she intends to do.
“If you keep that up much longer, I’m gonna explode!”
“Okay, baby doll. Lay down and let me take care of that.”
Taking a deep breath to regain some semblance of composure, (not much, mind you) I ease down and start kissing her cheeks and neck, giving the first “hickey” since my high school days. We lip-lock again with a fervor to be envied by sumo wrestlers. Since we’re the same height, our vital organs are connecting in the right places, helping to work us up to a high fever. “Burn, baby, burn…disco inferno!” I’m hearing.
I’m in a state of shock, s till disbelieving what is happening to this kid from Greenville, N.C. This just does NOT happen in 1976, even to dashing TV detectives like Rick and A.J. Simon. I surmise that Melinda senses my confusion. She guides my hand to her button-fly. I rapidly unfasten it and slip my hand inside, feeling her curly hair beneath her panties.
That does it! Now I’m hearing Elvis sing, “I want you, I need you” as I remove her shoes and pants, leaving her panties on for the moment. Starting at her feet, I begin kissing, working my way to her luscious mouth. After another prolonged session of interlacing tongues, I slip the crotch of the lace panties aside and put my tongue to work. I feel a tremor coming from Melinda.
“Oh-h-h…that…feels…so GOOD!” I hear her say. I pause long enough to say, “It tastes pretty damn good too,” then return to finish the job I’ve started. Melinda begins pulling my hair and moaning. Her hand exerts a slight pressure on my side, so I straddle her. Immediately her mouth surrounds me. Now, in my mind, Peter Frampton’s singing, “I’m in you, you’re in me,” and I think this must be what he was talking about!
“Hey, baby, this feels good,” Melinda whispers.
I hear, “Hey, hey, baby. I want to know-wo-wo, if you’ll be my girl,” just like Bruce Channel sang it back in ’62.
She recovers enough to say, “Let’s get it on,” and of course Marvin Gaye’s sexy voice comes over my imaginary radio.
“My thoughts exactly,” I reply, somewhat shakily. I’m already more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. How much better can heaven be, I’m thinking as I ease her panties off. I lie on top of her, figuring on starting out the only way I know how, not knowing what Melinda’s plan of action might be. I figure I can change positions easy enough if she wants.
“Hey, you sweet hunk of muscle. You just lay down and let your lady do all the work.”
Can this be real or am I about to be beamed up to the Starship Enterprise? I hope like heck it’s real, because like my dirt-road country Aunt Francis would say it feels REAL nice! Well, actually more like superb in this case. Melinda’s as hot as Diana Ross singing, “Touch me in the morning,” and I’m dripping from excitement.
In microscopic increments she lowers herself. Easing ever so slightly downward, she sends a thrill down my spine and I hear The Guess Who singing, “shiver down my backbone…shakin’ all over!” She rhythmically moves up and down and I’m thinking Thank you driver for gettin’ me here like The Who sang on “Magic Bus.”
Funny how these songs keep popping up at a time like this, huh?
Reaching up, I one-hand her bra strap–for the first time in my life, quite smoothly, thank you very much–and pull it off. Her dark brown nipples contrast sensually with the tan of her body. I rise with Melinda still connected to me and tease her nipples with my tongue while she digs into my back with her fingernails.
“I love the way you’re doing that, Tommy. It’s just like Karen said it was.”
Karen!” I yell like a wounded banshee, whatever the heck that is.
“Oops! I didn’t mean to say that.”
“You mean my Karen?”
“Uh-huh. She moved in with me last night.”
Man, oh, man. Now I really am dying. The one girlfriend I’ve had in the armpit-of-America town where our barracks are located. My love, my darling. I’ve ruined my chances with her. I’m finished. Done. Kaput. Dead. She’s gonna toss me out like yesterday’s paper when she hears about this, and you KNOW she will! Why didn’t I go to lunch earlier. Now it’s, “Stop! In the Name of Love,” I envision The Supremes singing, their arms extended, palms up.
Melinda starts moving up and down faster and faster and I feel an explosion of epic proportions like Vesuvius or Pompeii or Krakatoa coming on and I’m thinking, maybe Karen won’t find out, and even if she does– “ain’t no stopping’ us now,” like McFadden & Whitehead sang…to heck with The Supremes!
“Yes! Yes! YES!“ I scream like Smokin’ Joe Frazier’s trainer in the final moments of a championship fight with Muhammed Ali. I shake my head as I feel a hand on my shoulder shaking me. I open my eyes to see Melinda in front of my desk–fully dressed.
“WAKE UP, you fool!” she’s yelling. “It’s past four and it’s your turn to drive the run vehicle back to the base! I can’t believe you gonna make us get home late on a Friday ’cause you fell asleep like a fool!”
I rub the cobwebs out of my eyes as I hear The Righteous Brothers singing, “You never close your eyes, anymore, when I kiss your lips,” and I’m thinking what a dream that was! I don’t want to close my eyes at all with anybody but Karen ever again, I swear.
Outside, next to Radar Maintenance, Melinda slides to the middle of the front seat of the six-pack Dodge pickup that we’re using as transportation between Homestead Air Force Base and the radar site. Big Max is to her right, slumming his way home with us commoners due to his state of inebriation beyond even his tolerance, smelling like a Jack Daniels distillery and only halfway conscious. The three airmen in the back seat are chanting, “Let’s go!” like an old song by The Routers that cheerleaders use at games. Melinda’s obviously calmed down quite a bit now that I’ve gotten us underway.
“Want to eat at the dining hall with me tonight?” she asks innocently (I think).
I’m glancing toward her to see if I can spot any trace of black lace through her olive-drabs, but can’t no matter how hard I stare. Eating on base doesn’t appeal to me very much.
“Na-a-ah, I don’t think so,” I reply as her left foot brushes my leg. I look down to see very non-regulation black lace stockings peeking out below her fatigue cuffs, and now I’m hearing Uriah Heep singing, “Stealin’ when I should have been buyin’,” like I heard back in ’72 on the jukebox at the induction center just before I started the physical exam prior to my four-year date with Uncle Sam. I feel my mouth moving, despite my feelings for Karen.
I smile like a kid in a candy store, clutching his weekly allowance. “Hmm…on second thought, what the heck. Let’s eat out.”
Almost single-handed, using nothing more than a manual Remington typewriter that probably was War World II surplus, Tony Brown kept south Florida safe from invasion during his four-year Air Force tour. A graduate of East Carolina University’s Journalism program, and a former writer for several publications, his work has won two competitions and been published extensively.
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Tags: dysfunctional, relationships, sex, tony wayne brown