Kiss

C. H. Savage

April 2006

It was 6:30 in the morning. Muster was in half and hour and I was off base lying in the back seat of a ‘70 Monte Carlo. She was sleeping between my legs, her head in my crotch. Her hand was curled in a pile of puke on the baseboard – a real trooper, this one.

We had been out on the town with a couple girls from Hoboken. Good times, really – nothing much – just the mutual desire for an easy lay.

After a night of power drinking at the Horn – a grade A shit-hole located on the outskirts of Jersey – the girls thought we should go parking under the Conway Park bridge. The park was a mile from base and a popular hangout spot for sailors. It was also a popular spot for the locals to cruise. The trick to drinking under the bridge was simple – drink all you want while keeping your head from getting smashed in by some random looking to mix it up with a Navy fuck. Most often bats were the weapon of choice so you usually knew when to move - unless you were like my buddy, Domes. He stopped a bat with his head and spent his last six months on light duty with his cracked skull hidden under a wrap.

It was about 3 o’clock in the morning and most of the cruisers would be gone by now. We’d be able to do whatever we wanted as long as the cops didn’t show. On the way back to Philly, though, I lost it all. Mathis was swerving wildly while his girl was giving him a hand job. He was laughing like an idiot while swilling from a bottle of Beam. He laughed even harder when I told him to stop - that I was about to puke.

"Enjoy the ride, Savage," he yelled over the music. Cherry Pie was blaring from the speakers. He threw in a few sudden brake jolts with his swerving when he saw I was turning green - a maneuver that sent my first batch on the floor behind the driver’s seat. He thought we were on some sort of pornographic amusement ride. His eyes were red and wide and everything he said was exaggerated with a wide sweeping motion of his arm – his bottle splashing over the dash.

"Stick your head out the window ya fuckin’ hic," he yelled.

After we parked I spent the first half-hour puking and dry-heaving to the sounds of Mathis and his girl romping in the front seat. Fucking, Philly, I thought. Each time I came up for air I could hear another comment about his great sailor cock. I punched the back of his head as I leaned out the door. This time it was violent – I felt the muscles tear under my ribcage as I heaved. My nose and throat clogged with vomit – I was suffocating only to inhale chunks of puke.

When I finally finished I sat back, sweating and clammy. My stomach muscles were twitching - they had taken a beating. The Philly boiler-pot and the summer heat sat still. Mathis and his girl were still going at it in the front with her feet planted on the driver’s side window. Beyond them I could see a car burning in the distance. It’s gas line had been cut – the final show after a stolen joy ride. Spittle was dripping from my chin when my girl wrapped her arms around my neck and sat herself on my lap. This one was all hair and legs. Long legs and clean – all the way to her ass. Her hair spilled over as she took her top off, wiped my forehead with it and stuck her tongue down my throat.

A real horny trooper – my Jersey girl.

C. H. Savage fumbled around with dirt roads and twelve packs in a small Iowa town for about seventeen years before he left it behind for the United States Navy.