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Wartime Sex

I located Room 212, inserted the key into the door, and opened it. Inside was a neat, comfortable space equipped with a queen-sized bed.

My knees buckled. To a lowly corporal accustomed to field tents and bunkhouses, this chamber was a veritable cornucopia of the senses. The white sheets were imprinted with a floral design of bright reds, yellows, and blues, on top of which lay a matching, down quilt. Thinking that I’d died and gone to GI heaven, I fancied myself a four-star general.

Rapidly stripping to my undershorts, I gleefully jumped into bed and got under the covers. I tried to lay still, but my eager legs were twitching with nervous anticipation. I began fumbling with a rubber.

Jeez, I don’t know why I can’t get this crap on. I’ve practiced with it a thousand times. First time jitters, I guess. Oh, what the hell. I’ll get it later. First things first. Conversation and foreplay before screwing. Relax, Don. You’ve hit the jackpot.

Five minutes later, I heard a gentle knock at the door. It was Sally.…

Soon we were devouring each other. For five minutes, the bed squeaked fast and furiously. Our sustained, rhythmic panting rapidly reached a crescendo, followed by somnolent sighs. Our libidinous aria over, we grew silent, and I settled down to the most peaceful sleep I had experienced since joining the Army.

The next morning, after enjoying a wonderful breakfast, Sally and I shared a cab ride back to our respective camps. During the drive, we made plans for a future rendezvous.

I couldn’t get enough of her. For a naive Bronx boy who barely knew the meaning of the word “petting,” making love was very intoxicating. It was like Jack’s peanuts: the more you had, the more you wanted—and it was one helluva break from base routine.

Copyright © 2004-6 Mark Stuart Ellison
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