hot, and Patrick loved the whole experience of kissing a man. As he wondered how high this natural rush could go, Chris backed away. “So you’re not a homophobe and obviously not a fundamentalist. What are you? Besides an excellent kisser.”
“I—” Patrick tasted his lips and grinned. “I don’t think I’m ‘confused’ anymore. But you’ve—aroused—my curiosity.” Patrick almost added that “curiosity” wasn’t all Chris had aroused but the comment seemed too overt and, given the tightness of his shorts, unnecessary.
Chris seemed flattered and smiled. “Don’t take this wrong—I mean it in the best way, but I had you pegged from the start. When you’ve been around awhile, it gets easier to spot family.”
“‘Family’? What do you mean by that?”
“That’s what you are now, right? Family? Or do you plan to spend the rest of your life in this ‘curious’ phase?” Patrick nervously scanned the area for military spies. Chris threw his head back, laughing. “You’re hysterical. Considering what we just did, eavesdropping is the least of our worries. And do you mind if I take that stupid-looking bandanna off your head? You have a great energy about you. You shouldn’t hide it.” Without waiting for Patrick’s permission, Chris slid around, put his arm around the younger man’s waist, and slipped the bandanna off. “That’s much better. Now I can see you. Completely. And I mean this sincerely—you’re very easy to look at.” He whispered, “Don’t be so nervous. We’re safe here. No one’s listening, no one’s watching—except a few voyeurs, but no one to worry about.”
The other man’s embrace felt comfortable and secure. “Um, th—that’s not why I’m nervous. I—this is—new—” He realized then how much he loved the warmth of Chris’s tough skin against his own softer exterior. Patrick felt safe with Chris because they were both under the military’s rules. Rules that we’re both breaking.
“Do you want to go somewhere and talk? Let’s go downtown for a drink at a little place I know. I’ll introduce you to people.”
“Sure.” Patrick knew his life would never be the same and that he’d never regret this day.
During Patrick’s final seven months in flight school, he and Chris forged a close friendship, slipping into the roles of mentor and protégé. In mid-December, on Patrick’s last day in town, Chris treated him to a high-class dinner celebrating Patrick’s graduation from flight school and promotion to first lieutenant and, sadly, to bid each other farewell. “I can’t believe you’re leaving Pensacola a virgin,” Chris joked. Before Patrick could protest, Chris held up his hand and qualified his statement. “I’m sorry, I mean a gay virgin.”
“I’m just—I don’t know, Chris—”
“Patrick, I’m kidding. I admire how patiently you’ve adjusted to gay life. Promise me you won’t get bitter. The gay world has enough jaded old queens—many are under the age of twenty-five. All of us were cheated out of our adolescence. No use trying to get it all back in one circuit party weekend. Take it slow and easy—stay young and naïve as long as possible.”
“I’m usually not this much of a prude.”
“You’re cautious. Deliberateness is a valuable skill. It’s what makes you the top pilot in your class. It also makes you think about sex before you do it, a very good—but rare—trait these days. Too bad some others I’ve known weren’t as deliberate. They might still be alive.”
“Do you mean pilots? Or gay men?”
“Come to think of it, both.”
“I still feel guilt over breaking my engagement with Karen, without telling her the truth.”
“The rules are wrong and they force us to keep secrets. Sometimes they cause us to hurt the people we care about without explaining why. It’s not your fault. Do like I do—blame it on George Bush. Makes me feel better.” Chris poured more wine. “I predict you’ll get over that guilt when you see the men in California. Which reminds me.” He fished in his pocket. “Here’s my buddy’s number. Look him up.” He handed the paper to Patrick. “Told him all about you.”
“Thanks.” Patrick glanced at the number suspiciously. “‘Don Hawkins.’ So you told him about me—what’s his deal?”
“Thought I taught you better than that. I didn’t tell him anything about you, except that your good looks are both boyish and manly. But no, I didn’t tell him your rank, or what you do, or anything like that, although Don’s smart enough to figure out a lot of things. Coming from here—and knowing me—he’ll assume you’re a pilot. You two can share all that girly chitchat when you meet. Besides, it’ll give you something to break the ice. Don isn’t—let’s just say he’s not the most socially sophisticated person. But he is one of the best all-around guys—honest, loyal, dependable—a real Boy Scout, except with gigantic muscles and a hairy chest. Oh, I can hear you two Marines now—‘what’s your MOS’? ‘I’m a pilot. Ooh, what’s your MOS?’”
Patrick laughed. “You love to crack yourself up, don’t you?”
“Someone’s got to do it.” Chris added somberly, “Especially now that we’re leaving. Wish I could take you to Patuxent River, Maryland, to be a test pilot with me.”
“I should learn how to fly the Cobra before I try testing stuff that hasn’t even been built yet.”
“You’re right,” Chris said. “I’m going to miss you, though, and I don’t say that to very many people. I can tell that someone in San Diego is going to be the luckiest guy alive.”
“Flight attendants, please take your seats for landing.” The captain’s voice brought Patrick out of his thoughts. Going to the beach that beautiful day in Pensacola had changed his life forever. As he looked out onto sunlit Coronado Bay and the palm-tree-lined streets below, he couldn’t help but wonder what other surprises—maybe some lucky guy—were in store for him.
4
“Captain Pfeiffer, how did you get the callsign ‘Jungle’?”
“Good question, sir. My first squadron commander pronounced my name like ‘fever’—”
“‘Jungle fever.’” Leonard laughed. “Clever.”
“I was a wild lieutenant back in the day. He said I made him sicker than a case of malaria. So ‘Jungle’ stuck.”
“‘Back in the day’? Christ! How old are you? Twenty-nine? Thirty?” The two men carried their helmets, notepads and maps as they walked across the tarmac from their Cobra into the squadron’s hangar at Camp Pendleton. The maintenance area smelled of aircraft fuel, grease and machinery, a mixture that made Leonard feel at home.
“Thirty-two, Colonel. Makes me an old man in the Corps. But thank you.”
“Thirty-two?” Leonard feigned shock. “That old?” As he and Jungle climbed the steps to the second floor, he hoped the power of suggestion emanating from their discussion of age made him feel winded and not age itself. This evening he felt all of the fifty years he’d be this year.
“How’d you get the callsign ‘Royal’?”
“My father was British and I grew
