M Y O B

BEFORE I BEGIN…

… to describe the next events in my life’s record, I have a few words about the current scene. As I mentioned in my last page, I read a whole lot of blogs: these have displaced downloading freebies from commercial websites. Still, I find myself saving far fewer images than I used to pull down from Usenet. One reason is that the blogs seem to favor what I would call more “manly men”: well developed, if not overly so, and really not in the genre I prefer, which is toy-boys. Another reason is that more and more men these days are covering vast areas of their bodies in tattoos. It really puts me off, given that the unadorned male body is so beautiful in and of itself. At the same time, more and more men are sporting assorted metallic devices: piercing of the ears and other parts too fierce to mention, some approaching and occasionally passing the level of mutilation. These images, too, put me off, though I guess there are some who enjoy that sort of thing. Even with these caveats, I retain and sort on average 1500 images a week! The number of available images is staggering! In general, I do not put on my hard drive:

• Photos of  butts. For my taste, this is the least appealing portion of the male body.

• “Head-shots”, faces.  If they don’t show dick, I don’t save!

• Photos of guys screwing. For reasons that I hope to make clear, fucking has never been my forte!

• With few exceptions, photos of men over 25. I told you I was a retired chicken queen!

• Photos of violence, rape, bondage, torture and the like. Definitely turn me off!

• Photos of guys in leather drag. Likewise, not my thing.

• Photos of guys in female drag. I rate a guy with a dick dressed as a girl as bizarre!

OK: YMMV!

Even leaving out these categories, my collection of images swells ever larger, leading to ever-larger hard-drives for storage. While I have plans to eventually improve these images by de-logoing and so forth, I’ll probably croak before getting around to that. My executor has instructions to wipe and destroy all the drives when the time comes.

So, geting on with the story, here is the next installment of my life.

MAKING A LIVING

The job at the repair shop finally petered out: the owner simply mismanaged it so thoroughly that he lost his clients. So the first order of business once college was out of the way was to find a job. It was a long and arduous task. Silicon Valley was years in the future, and jobs for a fellow with a Chemistry minor were not easy to find.

But, I eventually landed a job in a small independent testing lab. The Director (and owner) was a nice fellow, willing to train me. I was chagrinned to find that I had actually learned very little of practical value in college, but Howard was patient and before long I was pretty much running the place. Money was sufficient for my needs. Life was good, though I felt it could be better in ways I found hard to discern.

I BEGIN TO COME OUT

Following college, I decided it was time to get a “place of my own”: the room I’d occupied for a year and a half close to SJS did not allow me to cook, and some sort of domesticity thing was developing. I moved to a wretched apartment in Santa Clara, near my work. It was cheaply built, and was placed on a huge ant-hill, apparently: I was plagued by ants the whole time I was there. But it did have a (small) kitchen, a living-room, a private bed-room and a bath with shower. It was all I needed, and I could bring tricks there without worry. My recollection now is, though, that I had very few visitors there.

My new job was actually quite fun, and the pay was decent and regular. I settled into a routine. Except, at about the time I moved out of San Jose, I discovered the one gay bar then in San Jose: the Crystal. It was owned by well known brothers who owned a couple of other bars and were reputed to be Mafia family members. It was only gay at night: by day it was a lunchroom and watering-hole for nearby office tenants. It was also right across the street from a Catholic retirement seminary.

I didn’t dress like this to go to the Crystal, but this IS me about that time. ——->

So, after work, I would take a nap, then get dressed for a “night out” and drive into San Jose to hang out in the Crystal. By 9 pm or so, it had switched to gay, the bar-tenders had switched as well, and the place got to be quite a lot of fun. Over time, I came to know some great guys more-or-less my age, but there were not many to whom I was particularly attracted. Still, it was comforting to discover, at last, that there were other guys with many of the same predilections as myself. [In my era, it was entirely possible to reach majority without ever hearing about “homos, queers, or fruits”. I don’t think this is the case today!]

Apparently, few at the Crystal were attracted to me: I worked as unofficial bar-maid for a while to keep from having to just stand around trying to look pretty, or at least not bored to death. I drank only beer, because I found soon enough that I could not drink enough of it to get really drunk before I was so filled up there was no room for more. However, I did drive back to Santa Clara many a night when I was probably DUI, but for some reason  never got caught.

There was one fellow, a regular at the Crystal, who was exceptionally attractive: a wispy blond with (as far as I could assess with him dressed) a nice bod and a beautiful face. Despite repeated tries, I could never get him to give me so much as the time of day. He was, in many respects, the first example of “eye candy” I had encountered. Needless to say, he was popular with most of the patrons, and I watched him trot off with various tricks, always wishing I could be one of them. His name was Hugh, better known as Jeff, derived from his last name. I certainly was not celibate by any means: impromptu parties were common on weekends, and I generally found myself going to one or another of them; since I had a car, kids without one could get a ride with me. I generally would up in bed with someone cute enough to turn me on and get me off. Week-nights I often went home alone. It was a time of wild abandon in some respects, though it left me unsatisfied for the most part.

There came the time when I did go home with a fellow I was not particularly attracted to, but I was lonely and didn’t want to go home alone yet again. We were both slightly drunk, he somewhat more than I, but the promise of a romp in the hay led me to go with him to his place. Once there, and with few preliminaries, we found ourselves in his bed and he wanted to fuck. What he didn’t know, and I failed to tell him, was that up to that time I had not been screwed. I suppose I wanted him to think I was more “out”—or more popular—or more experienced than I really was. Whatever: it turned out to be a night that may well have saved my life, for he fucked me brutally and my protestations of pain fell on deaf ears. It put me quite off the idea of getting fucked ever again, and while there have been a few occasions when I got fucked (and on fewer occasions enjoyed it), my relatively unspoiled bum may be one reason I never developed AIDS.

Then one fateful night, to my astonishment, my idol Jeff hit on me as the Crystal was closing for the night. We walked to his place, not far from the bar, and I got to see what he looked like desnudo. He was spectacular! Tight body, not overly muscular, utterly glabrous and very fair. He looked very British, though in truth he was born out of wedlock in a whorehouse (I was to discover, years later). Like myself, he was totally front-oriented, and we had a marvelous romp. Indeed, over the next week or so, we had numerous romps and sleep-overs. Within a week, I was in love. I fell for this guy in a way I had never suspected possible: I wanted to be near him every moment. I wanted to eat him every few hours. I wanted to wait on him hand and foot. I wanted to wash him everywhere every day. I wanted to move in with him, and I wanted to call him my lover.

It was not to be: Jeff thrived on conquest, and as soon as he conquered someone, he moved on. I’ve found over the years this is one of the greatest failings of gay guys in general: the conquest is everything, and the variety which results is their chief delight. Poor me! I had this stupid notion of settling down and living happily ever after in some sort of domestic bliss. It has been my pattern: I’ve tried it a few times since, but it has never worked, for one reason or another.

I did, however, move into the same building in San Jose occupied by Jeff, a set of four ancient flats at 79 Devine Street (we called it, “ten doors away from Heaven”). Once I got over Jeff’s rejection of me (it wasn’t really rejection: he just moved on to another trick. And another, and another…) I returned to my regular cruising at the Crystal. Jeff and I remained friends until we both moved to San Francisco and lost contact.

I remember one night well: I came into the place around 9 pm and noticed a stranger standing by  himself near the juke-box. He was pretty, hispanic and looked very young. As I went down the bar greeting the guys there, most of whom I knew as friends, I asked who pretty-boy was: no one knew. So, when I reached the end of the bar, I went over to the juke-box and dropped in a quarter.

“Anything you’d like to hear?” I asked the boy.

“No.”

“Would you like a blow-job?”

“Yes.”

“Follow me.”

We waltzed out of the Crystal. The fellow had a car, I directed him to 79 Devine, we repaired to my bedroom. I found out only that he was  enrolled in one of the several Catholic boys’ schools in the area, had gone “over the hill” and had to be back by ten o’clock. He was hot to trot! I sucked him off in a trice, and he departed, never to be seen again. I’d done my first piece of trade. I was back at the Crystal by ten, where my upstaged friends greeted me: “You brazen hussy! Cradle-robber! You whore!” They were all envious, none having had the balls to proposition the kid.

About this time, rapidly getting bored with the Crystal and having to live down my new-found reputation , I overheard someone talking about the “milk run”. Once I got the details, I realized it might be something I would enjoy. I had a car, I had an apartment near First Street, and I had my evenings free. Whoooieeee!

In the late 1950’s, Moffatt Field north of San Jose was an active air base. Guys on leave would come to San Jose to take in movies, drinks, or girls if they could find any. They often hitch-hiked back to the base, using First Street, which headed north to the Freeway  up to the base. I (and several other queens) would pick up guys and proposition them, very often getting them home and getting them off. We all knew that a guy hitch-hiking alone could be had: guys who did not want to fool around usually hiked in groups of two or three. There followed a period of a year or so when I rarely went back to the Crystal, opting instead to service as many “fly-boys” and “air-dales” as I could. I could get a thirteen-button fly open faster than you can say Jack-off Jack Robinson!

Several of the boys became regulars: they would drop in, change into civilian clothes and leave. They’d come back, often a trifle drunk, and I would sober them up with coffee and get them back into their uniforms after getting their load. One or two would occasionally reciprocate, not that I demanded it, but they evidently were comfortable enough with themselves to allow it. And several of the fellows introduced me to buddies they knew would appreciate my services. In time, I worried because there were so many sailors coming and going to my apartment, and I began to drop some of my clients. Then one night, my favorite of the bunch announced that he was shipping out in a few days. He cried, telling me this: he would be going to Korea. He took me to dinner. Back at my place I did him and he did me. Then I took him back to the base, and never saw him again. It seemed to be a sign: my clientele dropped to almost none, and I went back to the Crystal.

There, on a fateful night, I went to the john to take a leak, where I met Johnny. My life took a new turn!

My days “doing trade” turned up later in several of my stories, now all available on the Nifty Archive.

Through these years I spent little time with family. My brothers were all some distance away, and my folks were wrapped up in their own activities. As far as I was aware, none of them knew I was gay. Of course, I was dead wrong, but that’s a tale for the next page.

Coming up: Out for good!

[email protected]

February 22, 2009

MJC

First, I must tell you that my college days were nothing like the story I wrote years later called College Daze! That was written with the benefit of hind-sight, looking back on how it might have been If I had been “out”.

But, I was not out. This, despite the Creative Writing teacher who certainly was! I enjoyed his class and learned much, but as a person he had a couple of drawbacks: he was “nellie”, and he was too old for my already developing taste for peers and younger.

I was befriended by two older girls, who did show up in the story: these were the first lesbians I encountered in my life, even though I heard the term “lesbian” much later. One of these gals was a sort of “plain Jane”, far from ugly and feminine in her own way. Her mate was one of the ugliest women I had ever met! She was the butch one. Still, it was clear they both adored each other, and I’ve often wondered what became of them. I thought vaguely that guys might have similar relationships, and given the chance I would have related in any way he chose with the pole-vaulter that year! But my on-going infatuation with Jim and (and his nice dick), his camera, (and his nice dick) and his old cars (and his nice dick) took care of my libido.

So, I sailed through two years at Junior College with fair grades despite almost no studying. I had a knack for figuring out what the teachers wanted, and I fed it back to them. All except the “instructor” for my American History course. The man was a fervent Republican which led to many diversions from the topic, and the class occurred directly after lunch. I slept through most of his dreary lectures, and flunked the course cold. This meant I did not graduate from JC (American History was a requirement, and I had to repeat—and pass—it several years later). No doubt my Dad was disappointed, but I didn’t really care.

In an off moment somewhere along the JC years I submitted a poem to a competition sponsored by a small private college in southern California. The work garnered an honorable mention, so I decided to leave home for the remaining two years of college. I was in for something of a shock!

UR

Set, in those days, among a few surviving orange groves, the University of Redlands was said to be the “best Methodist school the Baptists have”. I got in on decent grades, my honorably-mentioned poem, and not much else. (Dad’s money helped!) Rather unexpectedly, I gravitated to the Music Department because of the large pipe organ in the chapel: I had always loved pipe organ music, and so to my Dad’s dismay I jumped from Science to Music. I quickly deduced that I could no longer give the instructors “what they wanted”, because what the organ professor wanted was that I could read music and play the damn thing, which of course I could not do. I struggled along, but had no real musical performance talent.

The organ department then had about 30 students, the music school perhaps a hundred. Of the organ students, I was to learn, all were queer, and of the other musicians, many were. Unfortunately, I learned all this just as was leaving Redlands! Throughout the academic year I was there, when I needed “relief” I drove my battered old Nash out into the hills and flung my seed upon the ground, for want of any better place.

Most of those wank sessions were enlivened by fantasies about an absolutely gorgeous boy living in Cortner Hall one floor below.

However, not one soul ever approached me, tried to being me out, or even mentioned what was going on right under my own nose: wild parties (off campus) which I expect I would have enjoyed immensely.

I did learn one important lesson at Redlands. The catalogue said it was “alcohol free”, and having been raised by my tee-totaling parents, I thought I’d fit in well. Yet, within a week or two of arriving and settling into Cortner, someone suggested we have a party in my room one Saturday night. Vodka and orange juice materialized: vodka was thought to be undetectable by smell, so we would be “safe” having a simple party. Unfortunately, the group assigned ME the job of bar-tender, so I was making “screwdrivers” with a ratio of 4 to 1. That’s four parts vodka to 1 part OJ! Things went along OK for a while, but suddenly the other fellows in the group disappeared! About the same time, I realized I was drunk, never having been so before. We had all consumed far more than we should, and too rapidly: the others fertilized the bushes in the quad, but I managed to stagger to the terlet before becoming very, very sick. Repeatedly! It took me a week to recover, and I have never been anywhere near that drunk since. I reasoned that if that’s what alcohol does to you, I want no part of it!

About a week before departing Redlands for summer vacation,  one of the organ grad students who lived off-campus asked me to dine at his apartment, and suddenly, all was revealed. He told me about homosexuals (first time I’d heard the word), lesbians (ditto), and many, many other enlightening things about “being gay” et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. The revelation for me was that there were other people just like me, who preferred to look at and (hopefully) interact sexually with other boys. My informant regaled me with tales of his own activities, played old Ray Bourbon records, explained the rudiments of cruising and made it clear I could relax and begin to think in terms of being queer without worrying much about it. He did not “bring me out” in the sense of having sex with me: like most everyone I’ve ever met, he was not attracted to me. I had simply triggered his GayDar, and he assumed I was out!

I left the University of Redlands intending to return, even though I sensed it was not the right place for me. It was something of a “rich-kids” school, and it was costing my Dad a lot of money for me to be there. It was super-abundantly clear I would never be another Virgil Fox, even though I had at least one prerequisite: I was queer. I was, however, not yet willing to let other people know it.

I had gotten a summer job in Santa Clara, California, where my life took another turn.

To be continued:  I find the way to San Jose.

[email protected]

February 6, 2009

I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll live long enough to finish this blog! In the narrative, I’m only out of high school, still confused about my role in relation to others, and not particularly sure what I might want to do in life. The narrative will continue, but on this page I want to discuss some contemporary items.

/rant mode on/

ADVERTISEMENTS ON THE TELLY

I watch a lot of TV. More properly, I sleep a lot in front of the TV. I have seen the first ten or fifteen minutes of hundreds of programs, but fall asleep during the first spate of commercials, largely because I turn off the sound, tune out  the subject, and nod off.

It amazes me to think there are thousands of people working in the advertising industry who sit around all day and come up this stuff! How can they live with themselves? What I see on cable (never watch regular TV) is so blatantly stupid and stultifying, its hard to imagine anyone can be so unimaginative as to think it up. Do they really think I am so stupid I would fall for any of their blandishments?

Here’s a few of the worst currently on cable:

• Nutrisystem, which spends five minutes trying to make me believe I can lose weight like the guys shown, while displaying a “results not typical” flag. So, if the results aren’t typical, why are they saying they ARE typical? “Three months of complete meals”, while noting that we have to “add-in grocery and produce items”? Then the meals are NOT complete. It is all a bunch of lies.

• L’Oreal “Regenerist” creme, $7.00 for an ounce bottle with ingredients worth a quarter at most (the bottle probably costs more than the contents). The comely lass in the ad is young and has a naturally flawless appearance for which she was selected. The inference is that using this crap will make someone look as nice as she does. Are there folks out there who fall for this? Can they be that stupid?

• Capital One Credit Cards.  Producing these ads, with dozens of actors, sets, stupid “plots” with the “What’s in your Wallet” punch-line must cost a fortune. They could afford to charge several percent less to the cardholders if they did not spend all this money on stupid ads like these. And, what’s in MY wallet is MY business! I can assure you there is no card from CapOne.

• Geico ads, with that stupid anthropomorphized gecko with a fake accent. I guess Warren Buffet can afford to saturate the radio and TV waves with this crap, but he could charge even less for the insurance if he’d spend less on these dumb ads. I even got a junk-mail offer from GEICO, which I sent back with a note: “Coming soon to an internet near you: Sick_of_GEICO_ads.com”. Somebody has to do it!

• Auto Insurance ads in general, now all promising to “save XX percent by switching to Bumfuck Insurance Company.” So, with a half-dozen switches, I could get my insurance down to zero? Not bloody likely!

• All Ads for women’s hair products. My stomach turns every time I see these, not because I am queer and could care less about most women or their hair, but because I know there are millions of women in the world who are lucky if they have even a scrap of soap with which to wash their hair, most likely in sewage. Imagine how much good the enormous sums spent on useless hair preparations in “developed” countries could do if spent in less developed countries.

• Automobile ads, especially the “cash-back” come-on. Do people really let themselves get hooked on that gimmick? It’s a loan added to the price of the car! The interest rate is exorbitant!  Or, the “zero interest” lie. Read the fine print: “$1.66 per hundred dollars financed” is 1.66 percent, which is NOT zero!

• ALL ads, with the “fine print” buried at the bottom of the screen, in non-contrasting lettering, and there for so short a time NO ONE can possibly read it!

/rant mode off/

I could go on like this, but you get the idea: advertisements are utterly wasted on me, and I suspect they are wasted on almost everyone. Time, effort and money down the drain!

ITS A LOT OF

Still, there have been a few adverts I like: the FedEx ad (below) with the cavemen was funny, but ran for only  a short time. [On the other hand, the cavemen GEICO ads are beyond stupid!] The home warehouse ad was entertaining as well.  There are lots of ads from over-seas that show europeans to be more discerning and clever at writing ads, and willing to be a bit risque at times. (My favorite is this Hyundai ad.  We see these on award programs for “best ads”, but we never see the ads themselves on OUR TeeVees.

There was ONE ad that induced me to buy a product. Very clever, but again it ran only a short while. The ad itself was perhaps 20 seconds in duration, but really packed a punch. The scene was a typical kitchen, with an empty table in the foreground. John Houseman walked on camera with a bottle of something clutched his hand: he plopped the bottle down vigorously on the table, looked into the camera with his wonderful scowl, and said “Use Puritan Oil!!!”  I was so intimidated I actually did buy a bottle: it was around for years, since I rarely cook with oil. But I loved that ad. Only three words—imagine that! [A much longer ad for Puritan Oil with Houseman in his inimitable style can be seen here.]

THE FINANCIAL CRISIS

More appalling than anything else, for me, is this: NONE of the perpetrators who have gotten us into this mess has yet gone to JAIL: my sense is that none will.

A friend of mine is fond of an old aphorism (I’ve no idea where it originated): “A fish rots from the head”. With George the titular head of our government, things went to pieces right down through government and the private sector as well. Dubya was never held accountable for anything he did, and everyone took that as their cue to do whatever they liked—no one would care. For the most part no one did! Now it comes to light that the SEC had been warned about Bernie Madoff ten years ago. Nothing was done. Many people foresaw the business downturn, especially those watching the sub-prime mortgage fiasco. Nothing was done. Many people warned Detroit to build better cars. Nothing was done. There was NO ACCOUNTABILITY.

Now, with nearly every system in the country breaking down and falling apart the Republicans still WANT TO DO NOTHING! There are even “conservative Democrats” who WANT TO DO NOTHING!

I’m beginning to wonder of anyone can ever set things right! President Obama has the right ideas for the most part, but obstructionists used to the old way of doing things in Washington are unwilling to work with him.

The current issue of The Nation (America’s oldest news magazine) has a fine article by Jonathan Schell (not his usual one-page piece, but a full-blown article) describing in detail how all the forces came together to get us into this fix. I have not finished the piece yet, so don’t know if he has a prescription for putting “Humpty-Dumpty back together again”.

TROMPE – L’ŒIL

Judging by my perusal of numerous gay blogs, the current “ideal man” seems to be a twenty-something (where something = ±2) fellow with six-pak abs. Now I read that many of these “chiseled abdominals” are painted on! Ain’ nuthin’ sacred?

Coming soon: I go to College. Stay tuned…

AROUND THE COUNTRY

To get our minds off Mom’s demise Dad took us on a trip around the country: basically, we went to Quebec by way of New Orleans. This was the summer of 1951: “Jim Crow” was in full swing, and Dad hated everything about the South, but felt we boys ought to see it. I’m glad he lived long enough to see much of the discrimination reduced.

We traveled in our 1948 Chrysler Windsor, pulling a Higgins trailer. Ours was blue, like the one in the photo, and as far as I know, they all were.

1948 Chrysler Windsor, pulling a Higgins trailer

These were popular in the late forties and early 50s, and our family, now of four, fit inside just fine. We saved a lot of money not staying in motels. The two halves of the trailer lid opened out on hinges and a canvas tent popped up on metal stays. Sleeping-bags went on the  two opened flaps, and there was room for two more on the floor of the thing. Here’s a view inside: I slept right up there, and my older brother slept on the one opposite.

The two halves of the trailer lid opened out on hinges and a canvas tent popped up on metal stays.

Dad and my oldest brother flopped on the floor. We had cooking equipment and carried our own food, so we  slept and ate nearly all of our meals in and around this contraption for the  whole summer.

My biggest problem under this regime was to find times when I could exercise my new ability to jack off. I expect my brothers had the same problem, but none of us ever thought of taking matters in hand together. So the summer was spent whacking off in gas-station rest-rooms, behind trees at camp-grounds, and at other places that presented the opportunity.

On the way home, Dad remained in Denver for some conferences, so my brothers and I continued on our own by way of Grand Tetons and Yellowstone. I often jerked off in the back seat of the car, believing my bothers did not notice. I expect they did, though, but chose not to say anything about it. I recall wandering off alone in Yellowstone one day (a fascinating place for a budding chemist): watching a small geyser erupt, I could not help myself. I pulled my pud and erupted right along with it! Far as I know no one was watching, but who knows? Maybe I gave a voyeur something to remember.

GROWING UP

With hormones now ruling my life, I grew up another foot, and out by an inch or two where it really counts. Better yet, I began to find some hair here and there where there had been none. So, when I entered my sophomore year at MHS, I was catching up to my peers in ways that made me feel a little better about myself. Nevertheless, there were residual effects from the hazing I got for being so immature: I became completely pee-shy, unable to piss in the presence of another person (unless I sat in a stall).

This pretty well put an end to my cruising for dick in the boys’ rooms, and in fact led to a permanent aversion to “tea-room” sex.

SOPHOMORE YEAR

The science course in my second year was Biology. We dissected frogs and did all the usual icky stuff. We also got some rudimentary sex “education”, in a class separated by sex. The girls, who probably would have benefited from some insight into how boys work, saw films about girls. The boys, who might have found useful some insight into how girls work, saw films about boys! If what the girls saw was as unenlightening as what we did, the whole exercise was futile. How  can you spend a half hour discussing sex with a bunch of horny teen-aged boys and NOT EVEN MENTION masturbation? Sheeesh! However, the episode did give me an inkling that I might not be so different from my peers as I had come to think.

I endured PE, this time with the help of a lanky fellow named Bill who enjoyed playing hand-ball as much as I did. We actually got pretty good at it, kept score, and once in a while induced another guy to attempt it with one or the other of us. I got a passing grade in PE for the first time in my life!

Still, I remained very much a “loner”. I had only a few friends, one of them a devout and proper Catholic boy who I liked a lot intellectually, though I was not attracted to him physically. He was a bit pudgy; my aversion to adipose tissue was already evident. But at the end of that school year, Gary went off to Bellarmine Prep School, determined to be a priest, so he went out of my life. The tall and lanky basket-ball players remained my favorites and fantasy-fodder for innumerable jack-off sessions—by myself, as usual—and while I often contemplated broaching the subject of mutual JO to other boys, I never did so. I generally got my rocks off twice a day: once after getting home from school, and once before going to sleep. On week-ends, with many hours spent alone in my little “laboratory”, I might scatter my seed on the floor several times. My last act of every day was to whack off in bed, where I just rolled on my side and shot my wad on the wall. I’d be asleep in minutes: masturbation is nothing if not a good soporific!

I was beginning to form some fixations that have lasted to this day. One was a fascination with arms (and legs) which I have already mentioned. Another was a fascination with boys’ adams-apples, since my own did not yet show.

But my primary fixation was on the phallus: furtive glances in the gym were not what I had in mind! It would be a while before I got my hands on one other than my own!

ANOTHER MOVE

As that school year drew to a close, Dad moved us to a rebuilt house on the outskirts, nearer to his job and nearer to the railroad.

The move resulted in one of the most embarrassing moments of my youth. When the bed in my room was removed by the moving crew, the wall beside it (which had once been all white) was found festooned with yellowing cum-stains! Their location on the wall made it abundantly clear that little Bruciebabe had been spraying his load repeatedly on that wall! It’s twoo, it’s twoo!  I’d been shooting off every night for a year or more; the incrustation was not only obvious, it shouted out to anyone who looked: that little kid’s been spankin’ the monkey! I was mortified, but not a soul mentioned it. Whoever bought the house musta painted that little bedroom quickly.

Ironically, we had a half acre of almond trees again, but never harvested them ourselves: Dad sold the crop to the neighbor who also had almonds. The impetus for a new house was his remarriage, too soon after Mom’s passing as it turned out. His new wife was a real bitch, and she had a bratty kid from a former marriage who was too young to be of much interest to me.

However, our move put me closer to a fellow I admired named Jim. He and I shared many interests in mechanical things and, above all, CARS! Jim had several, and through his influence I was able to find a beat-up 1926 Dodge sedan that cost me all of fifty bucks. The windows (except windshield) were missing, and the upholstery was in tatters, but it ran well and I loved it. That car was the first of a bunch of them, all unusual in some way. I had a lot of fun with a 1933 Oldsmobile straight-8 sedan: the engine was so worn out it got only 18 miles to the quart of oil. A few trips the length of the town’s main drag on a hot summer night would lay down a formidable smoke-screen of blue haze. It did not look anything like this restored one, except for the shape: mine was black and ready for the junkyard. (Oh, wait: that’s where I got it)!

Restored 1933 Oldsmobile Straight-8 Sedan

Jim and I bummed around a lot the summer following my sophomore year. Dad and his new shrew wife were off on what I later learned was anything but a honeymoon, so we had plenty of time to go places and do things. One night we were tinkering in his work-room when he asked me a question I certainly had not expected: “Have you ever jacked-off a dog?” Holy cow! It was the first time he’d mentioned anything even remotely about sex! I had to answer truthfully, (see my story Animal Crackers at Nifty), “Yes, why do you ask?”

In the end, we went behind his garage and I showed him how to JO his mutt, at the conclusion of which it was obvious Jim had a hard-on, just as I did. We went inside the garage, sat side-by-side with our backs to the wall, opened our pants and fondled ourselves for a few minutes. Then it happened: Jim reached over and grabbed my prick! I thought I’d died and gone to heaven: it felt absolutely incredible, and utterly unlike how it felt when I held myself. Within seconds, I had his dick in my fist and … well, you know what happened.

Absolutely Wonderful

Though it felt absolutely wonderful to jack each other, we completed the “off” part individually, much as we would have done if alone. In fact, that remained the pattern whenever we got together, which was often. I discovered Jim got horny when driving, just as I did (and, I think, many men do), so most of our jaunts into the Sierra foothills on back roads resulted in one or more JO sessions together. It was a fun and busy summer: the wall in my new bedroom remained clean since Jim and I got off together often, and because when I pounded one out at home, I used an old towel I kept under the bed.

JUNIOR YEAR

At the end of summer my Dad and his new bride shrew returned and life should have returned to normal. Several events occurred to render the school year different. It quickly became apparent  that Dad’s love-life did not exist, and his marriage was headed for divorce. Lillian, a fiery red-head, might have been a hot number once, but towards my Dad she was utterly frigid. When it came some months on, the divorce was based on the fact their marriage had never been consummated! Now that I was learning the importance of getting off, I had a new appreciation for Dad’s dilemma: his needs were obviously not being fulfilled by this witch. Can you spell  G-O-L-D   D-I-G-G-E-R ?

More importantly, now that Jim and I were on intimate terms, I learned he had been using his expensive polaroid camera to photograph as many hard-ons as he could find! Mine joined his rogues’ gallery soon enough, but the erection that fascinated me most was attached to a fellow nick-named Butch—I forget his real name now. Imagine my surprise, then, when I learned Butch was only a seventh-grader, and a classmate of my (for the moment) step-brother! For some reason, Jim had lost interest in Butch, but I was fascinated by the photo of his toad-stabber, and through the agency of little Dougie was able to make Butch’s acquaintance. He lived only a couple of blocks away, had a car, and loved to let me play with his salami! Despite his being younger than I, Butch was taller, far more precocious, and well ahead of me physically. I coulda cared less: he was willing to let me play with his prick, which was enough for me (it was enough for two, to tell the truth, but I kept him for myself)! [Jim and his photos, and Butch, found their way into my story, Piece on Earth: read it at Nifty].

Dad was busy most nights and his “wife” would take her kid and go somewhere (I didn’t care where, as long as they were away!) so I had the house to myself. I’d call Butch, he’d drive over, and we’d play for several hours. Don’t ask me why: we never tried sucking or fucking! We just played with each other’s hard-on and felt each other up elsewhere (remember, I already loved legs and arms, and Butch had some fine examples). He seemed to get a kick out of my lack of precocity, just as I was fascinated by his abundance of it. When he got tired of playing, he’d announce a “race” to see who could cum first: I always won. It seemed with all that length to deal with (I did measure, and he was fully 8½ when hard) it took him a long time to reach nirvana. Perhaps watching me shoot helped, for soon after I shot my wad on to the wooden floor he would blast his likewise. That signaled the end of  our tryst: he’d hike up his jeans and drive home. I was so wound up, I’d often whack off again, then wipe up the mess before going to bed.

Those grand romps came to an abrupt halt: some gal got him up one night and stuck that lovely thing in her snatch, and it was all over: little Bruciebabe couldn’t hold a candle to the “real thing”.  Damn!

As a Junior, I was taking Chemistry as my science subject. However, since I’d already done all the experiments and knew the subject well, the instructor appointed me as “lab assistant”, so while he was lecturing I was prepping his “show and tell”.  Perhaps the association of chemistry in my little home lab with the number of times I whacked off there was the cause: whatever, I jacked off in the school lab frequently while the lecture in the adjoining room was in progress.

I was also on television that year, on a program called “Science in Action”. This is described in some detail in my story, Central Valley High: read it on Nifty.

FRUSTRATION!

The divorce was finalized mid-year and Lillian & Doug were gone. For good! My sex-life consisted of an occasional wank with Jim and non-stop wanks at home. One day in Latin class a fellow I liked a lot stuck his leg out into the aisle, which caused his jeans to ride up, revealing some leg above his socks. I was fascinated by the hairiness there, since my own ankles were as yet glabrous and skinny. I wanted desperately to see more of that leg—and him, so set about developing a plan. It eventuated that he accompanied my Dad and myself when I drove Dad to a conference in the Bay Area. Ed and I were alone in the car on the way home, and as night fell I managed to get our discussion worked around to sex. I got hornier and hornier, and so did he, so we finally agreed to jack off together (or so I thought). I drove off the highway to a spot I knew where we would not be bothered, hoping to slide across the seat and extricate his meat in preparation for some funzies, but before I could move he was out the door and into the back seat! Damn! It was dark, so I couldn’t even see what he was whacking at back there. We shot our respective wads into paper towels (I was prepared), he returned to the front seat and we drove home, our desultory conversation turned to less interesting things. I never made another attempt on him, and think maybe my aversion to body-hair may have originated from the frustration of not having had a good time with him. He was the only fellow in high school I even tried to lure into my clutches.

To be continued …

MISCELLANEOUS

• I read a lot of blogs, including some by youngsters dealing with finding themselves gay. Of course, every situation is different, so there’s no universal advice to be given. Except to say, “hang in: as my own blog will eventually relate, I figured things out to my own satisfaction and had a full and interesting life. It does take time…

• While I empathize with these kids, I envy their ability to put together blog pages and web sites that are absolutely smashing! The process has pretty much defeated me so far. Maybe some cute young thing who likes old men (yeah, right!) will come along and give me a hand. With the blog, I mean…

• As it is developing, my format seems to be a chronological exposé of my life:  So far, I’m not even out of high school! But, the pace will pick up as I got out into the world. A buddy (well, he started out as a lover but things quickly degenerated) and I went to Europe the summer of 1963. This was my first glimpse into other life-styles. Later, I spent time in Vietnam, rode a motorcycle from Phnom-Penh to Singapore, worked in Australia, Philippines, Egypt, Ecuador and elsewhere, so there is much to tell. Here are a few photos to give you some idea of what’s in store:

Ready to depart Saigon, September, 1968, on a Honda CB-160

I have two saddle-bags and a cheap suitcase strapped on the luggage rack. The bike is a Honda CB-160 bought used from a compatriot leaving the country. The national assembly building in the background had been hit by a rocket a week earlier: note the canvas roof, top right.

All wood Siemens Train, Athens 1979

These beautifully maintained all-wood Siemens train-sets were still in use in Athens in 1978. I loved riding them. I hope some have been preserved.

Guayaquil & Quito Railroad, Ecuador, 1979

Perched on the tender of Engine Number 11 of the Guayaquil & Quito railroad, Ecuador, 1979. I had a fabulous time riding almost everything they had working at the time. I went back in 1994 to find very little of it running, and now there seems to be almost nothing left.

• Throughout it all I was queer—not flaming, but not really hiding it either. I had my share of “interactions”, and have no regrets, now that things are winding down.

• The chronology will be interrupted from time to time by observations on the current scene, political or other sorts of rants, and whatever else occurs that I think worthy of note.

To be continued …

09.September.68

Mon Chers~

I recall dashing off a short note at the bottom of my last letter that may have left you suspended a bit. To recount: last Saturday AM I returned to the Australian Embassy, where they prepared for me a letter to the Pochentong (airport) Customs authorities. I’m not sure what the letter said, but in any event it was the magic touch necessary, and after a whole lot of filling in of forms, books, etc., the Chef explained that I was free to depart “avec moto”, and to proceed to tour Cambodia entirely as I pleased. He gave me a warm “Welcome to Cambodia” (even If 2 days late) and hoped I would enjoy my stay.

So, having gotten beforehand a bottle of petrol (the bike had to be flown “dry”), and having on-the-spot re-attached the silencers, I got under way. Now, since having had the engine re-built in the Honda [before leaving Saigon], I’d never really gotten it broken in, & never had the chance to take a “shake-down” run. I’d intended to go to Vung Tao, but by the time I had time for that, the VC were making trouble out that way again. Just driving around Saigon, I had experienced an assortment of minor ills & had (I hoped) corrected them all. Re-attaching the silencers (besides making the machine quiet) seemed to improve its performance.

I visited the Palais Royale the same morning. It is lovely. Curiously, amid the splendor of the various buildings (most of them built around 1915) is a small 2-story building “a la style francaise”, a building built by Napoleon much earlier. But there it sits, all ginger-bread and bric-a-brac; it looks so out of place! After lunch I went through the National Museé (much of it currently being reconstructed). As Todd said, they have a large collection of statues of various Khmer Kings—but not a great deal else.

Saturday night I was poking around the city & stopped for a Pepsi at a small restaurant. The owner—to my surprise—spoke flawless english and welcomed me so warmly it was almost overwhelming. It turned out this man is an expatriate Vietnamese, and he was eager for news: I wish I could have been more encouraging. Of course, this episode lasted through several Pepsis, a large dish of Cambodian-style beef-steak (rather like Korean bool-goggie, but not cooked at the table [and served over water-cress] and so forth: it was after 1 am before I got back to the hotel for sleep! And by prearrangement Mr. Thang-Ny showed up promptly at 8:30 to take me sight-seeing. After petit-dejeunez, where we were joined by another friend, we took the bike in for a battery-charge (too much stop & go driving) and while that was in progress we walked to the phnom for relaxation and photos. It was a gorgeous day. Following completion of the battery charge, all 3 of us drove out [Highway 2] into the country-side (to and somewhat beyond Takhmau), had refreshments, then returned to to PPenh. I lolligagged most of the rest of the day, having not gotten enough sleep the nite before. Did some souvenir shopping—and am happy to say found local items. A good dinner, an evening walking tour, and then to bed to rest up for the trip to Kep.

BACKSTORY: Mr. Ny had introduced himself to me in the hotel lobby: he spoke passable english, and was eager to try it out. I was eager to try him out, so we had a nice afternoon romp right there in the Mondial, and arranged to meet the next morning for sight-seeing. His friend wasn’t bad, either!

Temples Like this One Near Takhmau) are Everywhere!

I got on the road about 8:30 am. Another beautiful day, perfect for touring. First stop was Takeo [via Highways 3 and 25] where I had breakfast of sorts about 10:15. Traffic is, indeed, light, but autos and busses (especially) go like mad and one has to give them a wide berth! Had a pleasant chat with the elder Takeo police Chief, who introduced himself warmly. I understood about half of what he said (in French), and hope he understood as much of my rejoinders (in fractured French).

New Police Meeting Hall

The Chief of Police in Takeo proudly showed off their new meeting-hall, recently completed. Not an automobile in sight!

Once the initial shock of seeing an American wears off, the people respond with warm & spontaneous affection that is both heart-warming and encouraging. But I am a rarity here, so that I get lots of unabashed stares, especially in the countryside. But a smile & a wave (a choumreap sour is pretty hard to execute with one hand on the throttle) brings instant response in kind.

It began to rain very lightly as I approached Kampot, so I stopped there for a bowl of “Soup Chinois” and sat out a typical tropical rain for about an hour. (Chinese soup—besides being very good, is one of the safest foods here; there’s likely to be anything & everything in it, but it is kept at a boil all day long.) After the rain stopped I shopped in the central market for Kampot Pepper, and bought a hand of “ananas” to eat later on. The little boy who sold them to me was so taken aback by it all—I’m sure it’s been a while since he sold his fruit to an american—but his charming smile would win any heart. 4 riels (about 8¢) for the bananas.

BACKSTORY: There was a group of stalls all selling bananas, but I chose the one being tended-to by the youngster, chicken-queen that I am. (His mother had gone on an errand). I guessed his age at ten, but you never know. He was all smiles and all business as he interpreted my proffered hand to mean I wanted a hand of bananas, and he held up four fingers to tell me it would cost 4 riels. I was tempted to swoop him up, put him behind me on the bike, and ride off into the sunset. But I didn’t: and now he’s over 50 years old, if he survived the K-R massacre. I wonder if he remembers that tall american with the big motorcycle.

As I proceeded to Kep [Highways 3 and 16], I was on the heels of a storm, so from time to time stopped under a tree for refuge—and bananas! And about 2:30 I came around a corner and there was the seashore, a lovely beach, lovely sunshine, and no more than half-a-dozen people to be seen!

Banana Break Near Kep

I stopped under this tree for a ciggie and banana: that yellow spot on the right side of the bike is the hand of bananas I bought earlier.Just over that rise is a spectacular view of the Gulf of Tonkin and Kep.

Happily, the machine is preforming flawlessly. The valve-gear in a Honda sounds like a thrashing machine, but they do run well, & as mine is still “running in”, I’ve taken it fairly easy. Tomorrow! A day on the beach. Have lotion, so I hope to avoid further burn (my face & arms burned slightly this morning before I realized it). As usual, will close this but add more anon~

Luv~
Bruce

A Rural Road, Somewhere Near Phnom Penh

The next day: Bokor and Sihanoukville. Stay tuned!

Finally, I got to call myself a Senior! (Funny what a thrill that was then, but now that I’m a senior again, the appellation has lost its luster!) I pretty well had a lock on graduation, having managed to get passing grades in everything, even PE.

Secondary sexual characteristics were finally making their appearance, so with my body more nearly resembling my peers, and with them growing up and realizing the folly of beating up on a defenseless kid,  I was able to enjoy my final year in high school. My old Dodge made it into the yearbook,

My Final Year in High School

though stuffed with people was a rare sight: my classmates for the most part thought I was really peculiar to have eschewed the popular Fords and Chevies they drove.

Though my “career” as a writer would come much later, I did do a lot of writing in  high school and college. I still have a large binder with my oeuvre from that time collected in it: looking over it now, I realize how clear it must have been to adult readers (teachers, councilors, and so forth) that I was queer: my regret is that it wasn’t equally clear to my classmates, who probably would have rewarded me with a lot of rampant cock, if only they had known! How I would have loved it, if only I had known.

My English Lit teacher was amused by several of my poems. The most famous one, submitted to (and rejected by) numerous contests was this quatrain:

The day was cold

The food was old:

Soon it was covered

With ugly mold.

Only slightly more serious, if a trifle  longer, was a parody (1951) on a famous poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay:

DIRT WITHOUT MUSIC

I am not resigned to the dumping of dirty dishes into the hot water.

So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been for time out of mind:

Into the water they go, the dirty, the greasy.

Crowned With bones and scrapings they go:

but I am not resigned.

Scraps and bones, into the garbage with you,

Be one with the gravy, the indescribable mess.

A fragment of what we ate, of what we chew,

A  tidbit, a morsel remains, but the best is eaten.

The celery crisp and green, the stewed tomatoes,the onions, the beets

They are gone. They are gone to feed the dogs.

Elegant and curled Is the broccoli. Fragrant is the broccoli.I know.

But I do not approve

More precious was the taste of that lamb than all the Four Roses of the world.

Down, down, down, into the suds of the dishwater

Gently they go, the greasy, the gummy, the gooey;

Quietly they go, the handle-less, the broken, the chipped

I know, but I do not approve, and I am not resigned.

So that year my mischievous nature asserted itself: I pulled off numerous pranks, harmless kid-stuff, which nevertheless greatly vexed the Dean of Boys, in whose office I found myself quite regularly. The man was a pompous fart who harangued me about such things as morality, living an upstanding life, and so forth (remember, he was convinced I was queer and active, but unaware that I was not even out to myself). He reported to my father regularly, and may have been surprised when Dad refused to chastise me for any of it: he knew I was just “feeling my oats” and testing the system, something quite normal for a late-blooming teenager. As for the Dean, he  became a role model (years later) for Newt Gingrich. The day after his wife announced she had cancer, he filed for divorce and took up with a young bimbo half his age. This was too much for red-neck Modesto: he was fired and run out of town. I went on to graduate, a gangly nerd with a lot of very strange habits, totally out of synch with my classmates.

This is me in rented drag for High School Graduation.

To be continued …

email:     [email protected]

Change we can bereave in

I have a real knack for breaking computers and software; if anyone can force a “restart”, I can! So, while my blog is being rebuilt by an expert (in a new and better format), I’ll take this moment to post my next “occasional rant”.

/rant mode ON

Readers of this blog will be well aware how delighted I was that Barack Obama was elected as President. Alas, the bloom is off the rose. As with most politicians, once in office, he has found it convenient to forget many of his campaign promises. There’s nothing new about this, but like many others, I believed Barack was somehow “different”.

And, different he is. His ability to string together a group of words to form a sentence is *so refreshing after 8 years of Bush’s incoherent ramblings. But George could keep his party in line (with Cheney as “enforcer”): Mr. Obama seems  unable to bring the democrats into line to give him the support any president needs to succeed. Perhaps those who thought he should remain in the Senate a few more years before running for President were right.

Making the war in Afghanistan his own will prove to be a terrible mistake. The Afghanis have successfully driven out every invader of their territory, starting with Alexander the Great! We should go. Now! The money we spend there now could buy up the entire poppy production for years; we could refine the product into useful morphine, and **burn the rest of it. The money could then be spent by the Afghanis as they see fit.

If one accepts the need to sacrifice 30K more men to this fruitless enterprise, (I don’t) he could at least have taken the opportunity to explain that to get that many men into uniform we will have to accept men and women regardless of their sexual orientation: no dice.

As for the group of jerks we collectively call Congress, they should all be utterly ashamed of themselves. Harry Reid is a wimp. The Senate majority “whip” (Dickless Durbin) couldn’t swat a fly. After months of wrangling, the bought-and-paid-for in the Senate have destroyed current hopes of a true reform of health care and have delivered the American public into the hands of the insurance and pharmaceutical industries. Against a proven majority, the Republinuts have won!

President Obama should long ago have made it clear he will not sign a health-care bill that does not included a “robust” public option. He should do so immediately, even though it is probably too late.

The list of visages on the TV that make me want to vomit has grown very large in recent days. It began with George Bush, whose appearance always made me switch channels lest I blow chunks on the carpet. He’s now been joined by John “Beaner” and Mitch McConnell, both right up there with Sarah “Pailin” and turn-coat Joe Lieberman. *Especially Joe Lieberman, raking in millions to deliver health-care to the “industry”. What a jerk!

Here’s my opinion of the whole friggin lot of politicians in Washington, who with almost no exceptions are willing to sell the population down the river to save their own fat perks.

(photo)

/rant mode OFF

I have a real knack for breaking computers and software; if anyone can force a “restart”, I can! So, while my blog is being rebuilt by an expert (in a new and better format), I’ll take this moment to post my next “occasional rant”.

/rant mode ON

Readers of this blog will be well aware how delighted I was that Barack Obama was elected as President. Alas, the bloom is off the rose. As with most politicians, once in office, he has found it convenient to forget many of his campaign promises. There’s nothing new about this, but like many others, I believed Barack was somehow “different”.

And, different he is. His ability to string together a group of words to form a sentence is so refreshing after 8 years of Bush’s incoherent ramblings. But George could keep his party in line (with Cheney as “enforcer”): Mr. Obama seems unable to bring the democrats into line to give him the support any president needs to succeed. Perhaps those who thought he should remain in the Senate a few more years before running for President were right.

Making the war in Afghanistan his own will prove to be a terrible mistake. The Afghanis have successfully driven out every invader of their territory, starting with Alexander the Great! We should go. Now! The money we spend there now could buy up the entire poppy production for years; we could refine the product into useful morphine, and burn the rest of it. The money could then be spent by the Afghanis as they see fit.

If one accepts the need to sacrifice 30K more men to this fruitless enterprise, (I don’t) he could at least have taken the opportunity to explain that to get that many grunts into uniform we will have to accept men and women regardless of their sexual orientation: another chance missed.

As for the group of jerks we collectively call Congress, they should all be utterly ashamed of themselves. Harry Reid is a wimp. The Senate majority “whip” (Dickless Durbin) couldn’t swat a fly. After months of wrangling, the bought-and-paid-for in the Senate have destroyed current hopes of a true reform of health care and have delivered the American public into the hands of the insurance and pharmaceutical industries. Against a proven majority, the Republinuts have won!

President Obama should long ago have made it clear he will not sign a health-care bill that does not included a “robust” public option. He should do so immediately, even though it is probably too late.

The list of visages on the TV that make me want to vomit has grown very large in recent days. It began with George Bush, whose appearance always made me switch channels lest I blow chunks on the carpet. He’s now been joined by John “Beaner” and Mitch McConnell, both right up there with Sarah “Pailin” and turn-coat Joe Lieberman. Especially Joe Lieberman, raking in millions to deliver health-care to the “industry”. What a jerk!

Here’s my opinion of the whole friggin lot of politicians in Washington, who with almost no exceptions are willing to sell the population down the river to save their own fat perks.

Our politicians aren’t worth even this much…

/rant mode OFF

. . . except the line here should be “the rockets big bang”. The VC got close enough to be able to lob mortars into the city center, and did so, beginning May 1. It became so routine, I did not even write home about it until it had been going on five days. I figured if a mortar hit my apartment, I was done-for, and only a direct hit was likely to carry me off. The closest one to land near me was about a city block away. These usually did so little damage, I often could not figure out where they had struck.

Monday,6 May 1968

Dear Everyone again~

After writing my letter yesterday, I took a shower and a nap, then went to mail the letters and meet a friend I’d seen earlier and made plans for dinner with. (Sorry about that sentence!) It was about five to seven when I went out, and when I got across the street to the Rex I found a sign announcing new curfew hours of 1900 to 0700. That shot the dinner engagement, leaving only time to drop by the friend’s house (to find that he’d gotten the news on the radio) and get back to my apartment. So I ate out of cans here, twiddled my thumbs, wrote a few letters, etc, read, and finally turned in early. Of course, the change in curfew hours goofed up the Long Binh bus schedule. Apparently it arrived about its usual time, just before 7AM, although where it went I’m not sure, since Pasteur St. was at that time still blocked off. I went to the Rex for breakfast, meeting one other person from LB there, and together we investigated the Military Bus situation (there is usually one going to LB), but so far today only emergency runs by the Mil Buses have been observed, hence I didn’t get there.

Have stayed pretty close to home today. There have been three major engagements with VC in Saigon today, in sections of town known as Go Vap, another near Tan Son Nhut, and another in the general area of the Phu Tho race track. Late today there was a bombing-straffing raid there: it looks as though maybe it’s been decided to get the VC out of there for once and for all, as it has been a stronghold for them ever since Tet. Their HQ is a revered Pagoda they comandeered, and ARVN has been reluctant to destroy it. If my direction sense is correct, the action I saw there today would leave little of the Pagoda standing, but my vantage point here is much poorer than when I was living nearer to Cho Lon.

Shortly, I shall wander down Tu Do Street to the only newsstand that ever seems to have the Nat’l Geographic: they said it may be here today (the April issue). Then I shall take supper at the Rex and come back home for the evening. What tomorrow will bring in the way of transportation I don’t know. I DO know that Workmen’s Comp does not cover people who get injured or killed when out of quarters during a curfew period, hence I WILL not leave before seven, regardless of what time the bus leaves. There being absolutely no communication between Long Binh and the buses we ride, this sort of timing problem occurs frequently, so no one worries about it.   ////   I’ll write more later, or tomorrow.   ////   Later, after supper: Looks like I may be stuck here a while, though it’s hard to tell. As the enclosed clips show, an area that I normally pass through every day was the scene of considerable activity yesterday, and again today: that’s the area along Phan-thanh-Gian just short of the first bridge on the Xa Lo Bien Hoa. Traffic, I understand, is limited to military vehicles. I shall make an attempt to go to LB tomorrow, if only to get mail, but may not get through. Not much there for me to do anyhow, so I don’t really worry much about it. It is now past 7, curfew is on, and only mil vehicles are on the streets. There still is a fight going on near Phu Tho, and it is likely to go on all night. We can expect more rocket and mortar attacks, I suspect, but these usually don’t come until the small morning hours. Will add to this in the morning, before I mail it.   ////   Later: about 8:30, and all quiet. A storm, complete with electricity and rain has come and is about over. It seems so strange to sit in my front window with nothing on more than my shorts watching a driving rain: I’m so used to rain being accompanied by cold! It must be about 80° F now, and of course it is humid, but in no way really uncomfortable. One can get drenched by these rains, and be dry an hour later, without ever having been really uncomfortable. What a welcome change from the typical SF cold rains! Below me I hear the piano strains of Bach’s Invention No. 12 (if I recall correctly): the barber in the shop below is not a half-bad pianist, and though I have not made her acquaintance yet, I shall.

All for now,
Bruce

The National Assembly Building took a direct hit during the rocketing of Saigon. The sentry in his little box was not enough to ward off the rockets!

________________________

Tuesday, 7 May 1968

Dear folks~

About 9:30 PM last night, just as I was drifting off to sleep, there was a terrific bang nearby. I got up, but could see nothing, so went back to bed and slept well until about 4AM, when the noise of a considerable battle in the direction of Cho Lon woke me up. I’m still not sure what all was going on, but it was quite a battle, and was still going on as late as 8 AM. The explosion last night turned out to have been a rocket which landed precisely in the middle of Nguyen-Hue, about two long blocks (but around the corner) from me. I surveyed the scene this AM: three autos were totally demolished (one burned), about six others heavily damaged, and eight or ten others damaged somewhat. Several windows in buildings on the West side of the street were blown in as well. Apparently, no one was injured, but it made quite a mess. Since breakfast this morning, three similar rocket-blasts have been heard fairly near by, but I haven’t ventured out to see where. I did see the LB bus on its usual route, about 7:40, but they didn’t happen to see me, and I was in no particular mood to  go to LB anyhow. Looks as though I should be able to make it tomorrow, though, when I shall be able to get these letters off; at the moment I am out of stamps, which I cannot get here in town anywhere that I know of, and I’m also low on paper, though I can pick that up in the “Nguyen-Hue PX” (the local euphemism for the black market street vendors).

Radio reports of last night’s activities in Cho Lon are sketchy at best. I probably will never know what happened. My contact with the bamboo telegraph is temporarily broken as my number-one friend is out of town for three days. All I could learn yesterday was that there were boo coo VC in Cho Lon, which is hardly news; many of them were said to be women.

So, it is one more dull day here in Saigon with little to do. The chap I was to have had dinner with Sunday evening could not get out to CMO yesterday at all, and there was considerable question this AM when I saw him waiting for the bus, as to whether it would be able to get through today. I haven’t seen him since I finished breakfast, so maybe they were passed [through] after all. Will add to this if anything eventful happens today, otherwise will mail it tomorrow at LB.

Luv again~
Bruce

________________________

Long Binh, Wednesday AM, 8 May, 1968

Well, we got through on the bus this AM—all six of us who ventured out, that is.

The Phan-thanh-Gian bridge, while damaged as you see in accompanying picture, is still passable, using the left lane only. Traffic was very light, except for an in-bound convoy that was miles long.

Yesterday, a large area just across the Saigon Canal from Tran-Hung-Dao Blvd., about a mile and a half from where I am, was intensely fired-upon by US helicopter gun-ships and other aircraft. The area around Phu Tho race track was similarly worked over, as were scattered parts of Cho Lon. All afternoon I watched the action from the top of the Rex. Pockets of VG infiltrators were trapped in the area near me, and considering the beating the area received, I doubt if many got out alive.

The night was reasonably quiet; about 4 [AM] a few rockets landed in the general down-town area, though none as close to me as the previous night. Then about 5:30 (I was in the bathroom at the time) there was a TREMENDOUS explosion very close-by which really startled me because of its suddenness. After a few minutes I went out on the porch to find that we were amidst another electrical storm, and the explosion had only been a close lightning strike! Whew! (Or, as Snubs would have said, “Now, what do you know about that?”)

So it goes. The offensive is presumed to be over except for clean-up, though of course no one really knows for sure!

Luv to all,
Bruce

______________________

Here I wrote a lengthy letter and sent it to a long list of friends who had not been on the regular distribution list. So, this one may be a bit repetitious.

Wednesday, 8 May 1968 2000h

To all~

I have just finished watching, for more than an hour, one of the most spectacular electrical storms I’ve ever witnessed. Throughout that time—and indeed, still, as I write, the various flashes came more freouently than 1 per second! The display was fairly distant, so not much thunder was to be heard, but what beautiful pyrotechnics!

The arrival of the monsoons (mua mua) came much more rapidly than I expected. The first storm I actually got caught in was here in Saigon two weeks ago, when I went out to do a bit of shopping at the PX. Several inches of rain fell in the space of a couple of hours, resulting in much localised flooding and many stalled vehicles. Yet, it was over as suddenly as it began, and within an hour or so the streets were almost dry again.

Needless to say, there has been much more to see than electrical storms here in Vietnam. Yesterday, for instance, I watched from the top of one of the taller buildings (6 stories!) as US helicopter gunships “worked-over” and area about a mile and a half away; the scene took me back, of course to the Tet offensive days, just after I arrived, for I had watched similar scenes then, too.

You will probably have read of the current offensive by the time this letter reaches you. It seems to be about over, but another 25000 people are homeless (not that “home” was much to start with). Ironically, there is a great tendency for the Vietnamese to blame this situation on us: the reasoning goes that if President Johnson had not limited the bombing, the North could not have re-infiltrated the South so quickly following their setbacks in the Tet offensive. The tragedy of our ever having gotten mixed up in this part of the world really is that we are damned if we do and damned if we don’t—and this frustrating position stems, I believe from a fundamental flaw in our approach.

There can be no doubt that the ideals we espouse and try to practice at times sound good, and may even impress some well-educated and thinking people. It is, for instance, very magnanimous of us not to bomb Hanoi, in the interests of “humanitarianism”. Yet, we are dealing with an enemy who has no qualms about using all its strength against Saigon, and has no compunctions whatever over murdering non-combatants (wives, children, reporters, foreign attaches, and even medical personnel: in this last drive, the third Field Hospital near Tan Son Nhut was attacked unsuccessfully). Whether humanitarianism is being served, in the long run, will only become clear when the fate of the thousands of infiltrators and tons of materiel that have moved into SVN since the change in bombing raids has been settled—and when the last of those who have to defend the South from this attack have been laid to rest.

I often wonder where these humanitarian drives of ours were back in the days of saturation-bombing raids during WWII: I’m not far off when I recall figures like 80,000 people killed in Dresden in one night, and far larger numbers in Hiroshima and Nagasaki somewhat later. In retrospect, the claim of humanitarianism has often been made for the latter, in that the war was essentially ended because of those staggering losses. The feeling is building up here that the same reasoning should apply in Vietnam, and that a quick, staggering blow to Hanoi-Haiphong complex might be just what is needed to place a new perspective on the “peace talks” presumably about to begin in Paris. It is pretty clear that Hanoi is using this same reasoning by showing its strength right now.

Our involvement in this war has consistently been viewed through lenses curiously tinted with a mixture of false optimism and sheer underestimation of the determination of the enemy. The origin of this tint can easily be traced directly back to the consistently violated (by both sides) Geneva Convention, 1954. Somehow, from this vantage point, I cannot see how we could have more consistently acted in ways calculated to drive Ho Chi Minh away from our way of thinking and directly into the hands of the Communists, who are, after all, the only others to whom he could possibly turn. In 1954, Ho was the rightful heir to control of all Vietnam, and most experts agree that he would have been elected unquestionably. Our paranoid fear of Communism can be the only reason for our refusal to allow this election to take place: without that paranoia blinding us, it seems to me that we might well have seen a united Vietnam long ago, acting together with its neighbors to resist any onslaughts the Chinese might take a notion to make: the Chinese are, after all, the traditional enemies of the entire “Indo-chinese complex of nations. Our initial mistake, long since compounded over and again, quite possibly irrevocably now, was in not uniting Vietnam under Ho and helping to guide it into alliance with Cambodia, Laos and Thailand into a bulwark against expansionism in China.

If one accepts this assessment of the current situation, the next question, of course, is: what do we do now? Do we dare to pronose in Paris to rectify the mistake, unify Vietnam, depose our puppet Saigon government in favor of the long-delayed general elections (which Ho Chi Minh could quite possibly still win) and show a genuine willingness to bolster the entire country against China? Or shall we content ourselves with another “solution” like Korea, where no real solution yet exists, and indeed, a state of war, technically, still hangs over that country? Or shall we show our brute strength by obliterating Hanoi and taking over the whole country by force, thereby fueling the “Yankee Imperialism” fire that already rages over much of the world?

Well, it is a dilemma we have got ourselves into, and I for one would like to see us get out of it in the first way I’ve suggested above; yet the history of this conflict would hardly let one dare hope for a solution that is basically honorable and certainly within the realm of possibility. To succeed at this would require a degree of diplomatic sophistication hardly evidenced in prior diplomacy; it would require a certain amount of “eating crow” that our Ministers of State are unaccustomed to in their diet. And, most importantly, I think, it would require that we—at last—should begin guiding our foreign policy by some of the same ideals we espouse, instead of by very shortsighted expediency.

On the personal side: I am well. The warm weather agrees with me. I have succeeded in making some good friends among the Vietnamese people, whom I find, for the most part, delightful, humorous, and unfailingly polite and respectful, a group of oualities notably lacking among the American civilians here. While I work at Long Binh, 10km out of town on the Bien Hoa Hiway (1A), and could arrange billeting there, I prefer to commute and live in Saigon primarily to be able to leave behind the boobs I have to work with all day. For the most part, they are a group I would not ordinarily associate with under the worst of circumstances, so I feel better leaving them to their drinking and wenching while I try to get some ideas of what it is like to be Vietnamese in Vietnam. This tends to be a slow process, of course, complicated by the unfamiliar language. Yet there is a reciprocal interest in getting to know an American in circumstances other than horizontal. I’m picking up the language little by little, and vice versa. What with curfews and the uncertainties of day to day living, the process is painfully interrupted regularly!

Saigon itself, though it shows evidence of having once been a beautiful city, is now a pretty bleak place: colorful at times, but not always pleasant. Many of the so-called essential services (water, garbage collection, sanitation, beautification) are consistently neglected mostly because of a sheer lack of manpower and money. The economy is badly inflated, though there are signs that this trend is slowing down and may soon reverse itself. And of course, the city is hopelessly overcrowded—even without the roughly 1/8 of a million refugees from the Tet and current offensives. It is this overcrowding, that enables the VC to infiltrate the city so easily, and to move tons of weapons and explosives into the city with comparative ease. The standard of living for many thousands is piteously low, yet outright starvation is quite possibly less prevalent than in america—in part because of our huge giveaways, in part because of our incredible stupidity in allowing thievery on a grand scale to go unnoticed, and partly because SVN is rich in agricultural potential.

For those of you who may have been in Saigon, the stately trees lining Dai Lo Le-Loi, Duong Cong-Ly, Duong Pasteur and Dai Lo Tu-Do have all been removed in order to allow for re-allignment and widening of these boulevards and streets. Although Tu-Do is often referred to in the US press as a honky-tonk street, it has far less the appearance of same than many real honky-tonk streets in nearly any US city of comparable size (over 3 million, now!). Native crafts are abundant and oriental, of course, though, Americanization can be seen creeping in here and there (mass production techniques, for instance; so-called carvings that are really molded composition, and so forth). Imports from Japan are numerous, as well as from Hong Kong: surprisingly little from Thailand or Cambodia is available here. The inevitable street-vendors (indigenous in the orient) are everywhere, though the wares tend to be US goods which find their way by devious routes from the PXs. There is excellent Vietnamese (and some French) food available, although the curious concoctions available at the numerous street-stand operations are unwholesome in the extreme, no matter how tempting some are in appearance!

This letter, soon to be concluded, constitutes the first (belated) of the occasional reports I offered to send in my farewell letter of January 23rd. To chronicle all the events since then would be dull end unrewarding: I hope that I have managed to sum up the high points, and give you my version of how it is here. I hope this letter finds you all well, as am I, and in good spirits, as am I, generally, if not actually optimistic. I appreciate the notes you sent responding to my farewell, and promise to keep in touch frequently: let ine hear from you from time to time as well!

Fondly~
Bruce

I have to apologize for the lack of photos in the blog so far: I did not carry a camera when working in Saigon, so I have very few images. Once I departed for Cambodia, I took more pictures.

A WORD ABOUT FORMATTING

I am transcribing my letters from longhand, exactly as written. It seems I was enamored of the mdash in those days: I used it far too often! After a while, I was able to obtain a typewriter, and these letters I should be able to reduce using OCR. We shall see…

Bear in mind, while reading the next letters, that I had been in Vietnam all of 18 days, and was beginning to get my eyes open!

Thursday, 15 February 68

Dear everybody –

Two letters, both mailed on the 10th, arrived today from home. I think improvement in delivery will be observed when commercial flights into Saigon are resumed The only way in (except military) is still Air Vietnam from HK or Bangkok. Pan Am has flown in a few charters, but no scheduled flights yet. Apparently, mail is going out on a better schedule; this is bound to lead to confusion and crossing of letters en-route, but so it goes.

I am well, and by no means hungry. Except for my first experience with “Ho Chi Minh’s Revenge” (the local euphemism for “Montezuma’s Revenge” in Mexico)—probably brought on by food but possibly encouraged by Primaquine (malaria pills)—there is little news. Vietnamese curfews have been relaxed somewhat again, a good sign.

The clippings and articles are much appreciated and I’ve been passing them around. Oddly, I liked W. Lipman’s article concerning his contention that Johnson and Wilson have failed to observe the meanings in power-shifts in Asia. The LA Times article “perspective” has only one debatable issue—re the declaration of martial law, which they see as smashing the “constitutional facade” built after the Buddhist revolt. This is unfair, from the present vantage point—only time will tell whether or not the “facade” is restored along with the return to normalcy. A coordinated attack (by outside force) in any part of the US would almost certainly be met with the same response, as was, for example, Hawaii following Pearl Harbor.

There is really little to distinguish calling out the Nat’l Guard to cope with internal disorders, or declaring Martial Law in the case of external attacks. Such times require prompt decisions—even if they later turn out to be the wrong ones—and simply cannot wait for a debate by a National Assembly. Even in the recent [USS] Pueblo fiasco, the decision on retaliation or negotiation was made by one man, regardless of what sort of “constitutionality” or other terms it (later) becomes couched in . . .

And Peter Arnat, who probably sat out the attack in his suite at the Caravelle [Hotel in Saigon], speaks of “man-high mountains of garbage in front of the BOQs”—implying falsely that the garbage accumulated only there: and the “man” to whom he broadly refers must have been (like himself in all probability) prostrate with “Beer 33″. The Vietnamese men are, indeed, small in stature, but the least of them—vertical—stands well above any garbage piles I’ve seen (though he would doubtless be entirely lost in the piles in New York or Memphis. . .

For that matter, on a pound-for-pound basis, the stamina of the Vietnamese (whatever their political persuasion) has to be admired, for it far outstrips our own. A larger-than-average VN man, for instance weighs in at around 120 lbs. One sees commonly pedicabs (operated by one man) carrying whole families, not to mention articles of furniture, malfunctioning motor-bikes, large potted trees, and such manner of things—and all accomplished for wages that amount to less than a pittance. . .

The women, in general a bit smaller than the men, are, when under 30-35 years old, amazingly beautiful and congenitally feminine in intriguingly subtle ways. The national garb, called an Ao-Dai, (usually seen in slightly modernized version—i.e., without the closed, high-neck collar—introduced by Madame Nhu) adds marvelously to the effect. The women age very quickly—seemingly almost over night; one never see an aging woman, only young ones or old ones. Some of the old women have their own grace and charm, most notably in their calmness and wisdom. . .

Now, with american civilians here, it is another story altogether. I speak mostly of men, because there are very few american women here. All but a very few are here

Beer 33

primarily for the money; second for the women & booze—both of which are much more readily available than in the states; thirdly (in many cases) to get away from family or other obligations; and last and least, to work. PA&E’s management (I don’t doubt that other companies are the same) is composed of a boneyard of retired military people, few of whom have any apparent abilities beyond boozing and girl-chasing, at which they apparently excel. Earlier I mentioned the local beer—”33″ (Ba-moui-ba, usually pronounced incorrectly as “bammyba”). It’s facetiously referred to as “half formaldehyde and half embalming-fluid”. It’s not a great deal stronger (in alcohol) than US beer, but the only beer I ever tasted that was worse was English “Bitters”. For myself, I drank half a bottle-ful, sent the label home for a souvenir, and will never touch another one! Like anything else, one can acquire a taste for it—it’s not unusual to see some nut here put away a dozen bottles in an evening’s time—but why to bother with doing so is a great puzzle to me, bad as the stuff is! And hard liquor—US brands—without all the domestic taxes, are incredibly cheap, and hence sell extremely well. The VNese drink very little, if at all, and never drink 33!

I  sent home the wrapper from a packet of toilet paper. I wonder at the significance of the fact that it is one of the few items one see still labelled in French. . .

In fact, a gov’t decree forbids any signs in any language except Vietnamese. One sees a few—many of course on US reservations—but around Saigon proper, very few. About the only common one is “WASH CAR” along the Long Binh-Bien Hoa highway. The entire area is “off limits” to US civs & mil pers, which leads one to suspect—accurately—that the sign means something altogether else than what it says. . . (They also do wash cars, incidentally!)

It’s now 10:30 pm—ooops! 2230—and time for bed. I’m feeling better now. The distant booms of artillery to which one becomes rapidly accustomed here have begun, and can be expected to last throughout the night as usual.Tomorrow arrives earlier than one wishes. So – love to all – hope you’re well and not too worried about me: I plan to enjoy this experience, and so far have not for a single moment regretted coming over.

Love –
Bruce

That’s a modern bottle of Ba Moui Ba (which simply means “thirty-three” in Vietnamese), but the label is pretty much as it was in 1968. I’m told the beer has improved vastly: I certainly hope so!

So, how, after only 18 days in country, could I have discovered the sorts of things described in the letter above?  It turned out there were not a few people I came into contact with, PA&E folks and others, who were utterly disillusioned by the situation, and had no qualms about saying so: in these letters I am largely parroting them. Despite their misgivings, though, they were still in Vietnam! The reason for that, of course, was money. The eighteen-month rule for tax-free status almost guaranteed that guys who signed up for 18 months (as I did) would stay: they had nowhere else to go except home, which would negate their tax-free status.

Continuing:

Saturday, 17 February 68

Dear Folks~

Your note and clippings of Feb. 13 arrived today. Only four days, so I guess delivery is improving. The clippings are very interesting—most especially John Randolph’s one on Saigon as a “Sin City” ready for a knifing.

From what I’ve seen so far, I’m willing to bet that if the VC had not attacked, that article would never have been written. Yet everything he says of Saigon (and much more he didn’t say) is entirely true, VC notwithstanding.

It is clear to me that one of our biggest  mistakes in this “effort” has been to create the opportunity for the existence of companies like PA&E, RMK-BRJ,  and the various others who bring in the U.S. civilians. I cannot believe that any of the work we or others are doing could not be done through normal military channels just as effectively (if not more so), and at far less cost. The question boils down, of course, to the reasoning behind the existence of contractors to the military in a place such as this.

Certainly, the arrangement is not expedient, liaison between the military and the contractor’s employees gets to be a problem at times—frequently a bottleneck. The facilities constructed, operated or maintained by civilian firms are probably no better than the military could do for itself. There must be some other reason for the existence of our companies—and that reason is really very apparent here.

The U.S. civilian population here serves mainly as a channel for pumping money (US $) into the economy, in the mistaken belief that this will in some way benefit the Vietnamese. Americans being what they are, however, (cf. previous letter) the results aren’t as predicted (by economists, anyhow).

There are about 11,000 U.S. civilians here. They all have all the privileges of the military, can use most military recreation facilities and so forth. The only real distinguishing features between the civilians and military are 1) no uniform 2) higher pay 3) do not live in military quarters (some exceptions).

The single most prevalent local institution that figures into the economic situation is “the shack job”. Anything from 80.00 to 120.00 [dollars] a month buys the services of a mistress. There is nothing clandestine about it; the PA&E Asst to Chief of [redacted], who lives in this hotel, has his “wife” with him—a very charming Cambodian lady. While the “shack” is officially grounds for terminating, it is used only when they want to get rid of someone and can’t get anything else against him.

Now, one’s mistress is almost always not one’s maid. That’s a separate matter, though most maids only take care of one or two customers. They do all the laundry (for both), cleaning, bed-making, etc., for a monthly fee. So there’s another 50-75.00 per month going into the economy. Both the maid and the mistress, incidentally, pay VN income tax at a rate of about 40%. So does the hotel or apt-house owner; rents are running now 150-250.00 per month depending on location & conveniences.

There are other curiosities, though. For instance, it is commonplace for both military and civilians to get PX items to give their girl-friends and/or mistresses as gifts; this is perfectly legal. The most common items are cigarettes, beer and liquor. Now, the receiver rarely consumes these items, but sells them instead. (This is usually not taxable, because it is untraceable). Hence, a fellow who pays the equivalent of $1.00 or 2.00 for drinks in local bars is often paying for the very same liquor he bought for $1.00 or 2.00 for the whole bottle! The same for the other items mentioned.

Well—the whole business goes on and on. It’s all here. In effect, by allowing the expatriates to create here what they feel is some sort of utopia (more often euphoria!) there is created a channel for dumping thousands of dollars per day into the economy. The evidence of it is everywhere, but as I’ve previously mentioned even that which gets in by this route fails for the most part to filter down to the indigenous poor; and the inevitable inflation in this system really hurts them the most. One can really believe they will inherit the earth. . .

With great justification, many Vietnamese come to look on us as Santa Clauses. Every now and then a VC turns up (usually dead) who was employed by a U.S. company! Regardless of their political persuasion, every possible ruse to part U.S. civilians (& military) from their money or possessions is used, from outright thievery & trickery right on up. It’s become a high art—and great sport—here, the philosophy being, of course, that with everything to gain and nothing to lose, why not?

Well—why not, indeed? We set ourselves up to be taken, so we certainly can’t complain when we are. But on a different tack, is this really the way to win friends and influence people? Can it be safely said that these policies instill any degree of patriotism among the populace? Any degree of sympathy for “democratic processes”? Or for that matter, any degree of real freedom—the sort we espouse so strongly? I think not—and I think events in the past few weeks have shown it conclusively. If anything, the general populace tends to feel we failed to protect them, and/or that our presence here caused the assaults in the first place.

Another curiosity is the policy of non-aggression. South Vietnam has no guerillas in North Vietnam. It has, in fact, precious few troops anywhere near the DMZ. Holding that part of the country, and bombing near Hanoi is strictly our business. But down here, we never engage the enemy—we wait until he engages us. Today as we left Long Binh around 1 O’clock, we were massing a line of tanks along the LB perimeter; a hundred or so VC were actually visible setting up some positions a half-mile away from the road. Similarly, the road from Long Binh on out to Bien Hoa complex was “red” all day – i.e., closed to all but emergency traffic because of VC activity in the fields that were formerly jungle but now have been burned off, nearby. For a while, a bunch of them were out there digging a trench WITH A TRENCHING MACHINE (in broad daylight), and all we could do was watch. A single mortar well placed would have stopped it cold—but that is “aggressive”, so we have to wait and wait and wait—and when they open fire, we can go to work. I make no claim to be any kind of military strategist, but the situation just doesn’t make sense to me . . .

One reads in the States, incidentally, that the Black Market has been wiped out in Saigon. Of course, nothing could be farther from the truth. What has happened, fairly recently, is to close up the channels by which money made on the black market could be sent out of the country—obviously this goes counter to the plans of getting it into the country in the first place. But (discretely, of course!) one can play the black market all he wants as long as he spends it all here—all it does is stretch one’s dollars a little farther in terms of goods & services bought. Here again—though BM operations are grounds for termination, a rather high PA&E official told me himself where to get the best rates on converting “green” (U.S. $) into piastres. The official rate is $1=118$. The unofficial rate hovers around $1=170$ (transposition of the $ sign designates US Dollars or piastres [piastre = dong; piastre was a holdover from the French].

I’m happy to report the dispensary had just what I needed for the minor gastrointestinal disorder that kept me busy for a day or so. It’s one of the occupational hazards one encounters here.

Will do some looking for an apt., and may add to this tomorrow.

Sunday PM, 18 Feb

Last night was a bit noisy. The long-expected “third offensive” apparently was mounted, somewhat haphazardly it turns out. Tan Son Nhut was hit again, and a number of delta towns were struck by mortars, but no follow-up ground action ensued. Nevertheless, from 3 this AM on our sleep was frequently interrupted by very loud blasts from various directions.

Went down-town this AM—things are picking up, and a number of stores were open. Went out to the main PX in (Cho Lon) and picked up a few minor items needed—and found out where it is located. Looked at a couple of apts in the AM—not much good came of it though. Most of them were too far from the bus-line to be suitable. But I’m in no particular hurry—and with the raft of resignations from PA&E (and other companies) resulting from recent action, there ought to be some good places on the market soon. Napped in the afternoon—catching up on sleep lost (or at least interrupted) this early AM. Had a pleasant dinner with a congenial group here this PM, and am now about to turn in with the Asian ed’n Time & Newsweek—which should answer your questions re those periodicals in last letter.

How about a subscription to Scientific American for my B-day? That will solve the problems of checks going around the world several times—and it’s the one magazine I haven’t seen hide nor hair of since I got here.

So, another week begins –

Love to all–
Bruce

We’ve been reading a lot lately about the foul-ups by the civilian contractors in Iraq: we learned nothing whatsoever from the experience in Vietnam! I later worked in several other nations where, though there was no war, there were a lot of U. S. expats whose primary purpose was to feed money into the local economy at a low enough level that less of it could be skimmed by the government (as opposed to funneling it through the government directly, where almost none of it trickled down to people who needed it).

ANOTHER SIDE OF THE STORY

Many years later, I wrote one of my “feelthy storiez” that incorporated some of my experience in Vietnam. Here is the relevant excerpt (from Back to Heartbreak Motel):

“Seeing that diminutive jockey sent me back to Vietnam once again. Viets are small people, and I thought the boys were especially cute. In those days, the ubiquitous garb for youngsters up to puberty (and occasionally well beyond) was a pair of brief shorts, sometimes a tee-shirt, and clogs: rarely much else. For a leg man like myself, it was paradise!

“I had arrived there with a group of other “round-eyes” just before the famous Tet Offensive launched by the VC in 1968: while that raged, we were confined to a small fairly modern hotel away from the city center. I knew nothing about Vietnam, so latched on to an older man who was returning for his third tour of duty:  he knew the situation well, and explained that as long as we laid low, we were in little real danger. The VC were after much bigger fry. But, almost two weeks without sex was a problem for me, then in my prime, and the situation was made worse by one of the boys on the hotel staff, who got steadily sexier-looking as the duration of my sexual deprivation increased. It seemed to me the lad made more than the usual number of excuses to visit our room, and subtle glances convinced me his gaydar had registered me appropriately. With my mentor around most of the time, I could not approach the boy, but I resolved to do so as soon as the coast was clear.

“However, my first encounter with a local fellow occurred in the whore-house just a short distance from our hotel. Once we were able to move about,  C. A. introduced me to getting a “steam-job and a blow-bath”, as it was locally known. I discretely enquired if the house had a masseur: of course they did, yet another vestige of the french occupation, I suppose.

“My first encounter was a revelation: I had never had any kind of massage in my life, but the practice of bathing first (useful, given the hot climate) was particularly enjoyable for me. The masseur’s name was Hung: he was small, wiry and strong! Yet, his touch was gentle as he soaped me all over, then rinsed me with cool water. After drying me off, he put me on his table face-down and went to work. He really knew his stuff! I found his rubbing, pounding, and punching very relaxing. When he tapped me to turn over, he discretely placed a small towel over my private parts and went to work on the rest of me. Of course, when he got to my legs, particularly my thighs, the little towel rose up majestically; I’m sure he knew it would. His touch became lighter as he worked his hands up into my groin, played with my balls, and ran his fingers through my pubic hair. By this time, I had let my left arm drop over the side of the table so I could explore his bare legs, and as he began working with me under the towel, I slipped my hand into his shorts: he had a nice little boner, but my fingers had almost no pubic hair to run through. When Hung put one hand around my engorged prong, two weeks’ of  frustration—repeated visual stimulation by the young boys all around, but no contact—worked their magic! He jacked me with his right hand as he fondled my shriveled balls and whisked the towel away just as I  got off: my gawd, what a mess! I shot my wad over and over, flooding his delicate hand: he in turn came in my hand. It was glorious! After another wash, it was over.

“However, it was commercial: not very expensive, true, but done for profit, not for fun. I resolved to find some play-mates who might be as intrigued by me as I was with them. The boy, Nguyen, at the hotel was at the top of my list, but the place was so small and intimate I knew anything I might do with him would be known within minutes.

“As soon as things returned to normal after Tet, I sub-let an apartment near the city center. I engaged Nguyen to help me move a few sticks of furniture into the place, at the conclusion of which he seemed loathe to depart. The massive bed captured his imagination, and he had long since captured mine. Seated close, I stroked his glabrous thighs, which was all he needed to begin stroking my somewhat hairy arms. His hard-on pushed at his shorts, and within minutes we were both stripped bare and pawing madly at each other. He seemed as taken with my body-hair as I was with his lack of it, and he was not at all bashful about sucking my dick, as soon as I had tasted his. He had a small prick, but in perfect proportion to his size; on his pubes there was not much more than the suggestion of a bush, and there was not a trace of fat anywhere. When he came, I thought I might drown: he seemed able to shoot forever, though he eventually calmed down.

“For the remainder of my tour in Vietnam, Nguyen dropped in several times a week; we carried on the same way every time, but neither seemed to get tired of it. I became hooked on the Asian somatotype, and remain so to this day.”

This is a snapshot of the masseur mentioned in the excerpt above

Nguyen was younger, and much better looking!

That’s all for this page: the saga will continue as time permits.