reader stories
Make Love Not War
Submitted by Connor, 55, Montana
I was eighteen and working in a small café in a Montana college town when I met Dan. I instinctively knew this man could be the one to scratch that itch I’d been feeling since the age of twelve.
I am taking you back to the summer of 1969; a time of tuning in, turning on and dropping out; an era of political unrest, social upheaval and sexual freedom. This revolution began to draw to a close on the afternoon of May fourth, 1970 when the Ohio National Guard indiscriminately fired into a crowd of Kent State students conducting an on-campus protest of Nixon’s escalation of the Vietnam War.
Irrespective of the social change and sexual enlightenment of the sixties, tolerance, understanding and acceptance of those with same-sex orientations were not widespread occurrences. Of course, there were closeted lesbians, bisexuals and gays all around me in the wilds of Montana, but men were still expected to get married, be the breadwinner and bring children into the world; after all, as a Montana male, you were rugged, stoic, resolute and had the balls to prove it.
So, there I was working a minimum wage job trying to earn enough money to begin my college studies when into the café stepped an Air Force officer. He looked to be about twenty-two or three with black hair and dark eyes. He stood about five feet ten, and was fit and trim. 
As I was taking his lunch order, I noticed that he was giving me the once-over -- pausing at the bulge in my jeans. There was a touch of joviality in his deep voice that I instantly liked; well, that and his handsome face.
I learned on our first meeting that his name was Dan; he’d finished college last year, was stationed at the nearby base, and planned to make the Air Force a career. I also learned he was married. In the jargon of the time, that reality was a “fucking downer.”
Every time Dan came into the restaurant, which was often, he would focus his attention on me; even if he’d brought a couple of buddies from the base with him. He’d always toss out a compliment such as, “Nice haircut Connor,” or “Like the thought,” in reference to my “MAKE LOVE NOT WAR” T-shirt; I was a true child of the sixties waiting to see if I would soon be drafted and shipped off to the jungles of Vietnam.
In December 1969, I would receive my “Greetings” letter from Selective Service. It was the first year of the draft lottery, and my number was lucky seven; a very low number assuring I would be drafted if I passed the physical. Dan told me what to expect while at the induction center, and to “enjoy the scenery.”
After eight hours of standing in line after line with countless nude men in front, behind and alongside of me; it was what Dan had meant by “scenery” and hell yes, I looked at all those young bodies, dicks and balls; I was found to have a slight heart murmur which made me “4F” for military service.
One summer night about a month after we’d met, Dan and I were alone in the café. Dressed in civis, he told me the jeans I was wearing showed everything I had. He ran an index finger down and around my cock. I went hard, and Dan laughed; not derisively, but seductively.
I’d never had a man touch me before, and I found myself liking it. Out of some mindless sense of . . . What? Faux moral outrage? I tried laughing off what had just happened, and walked out of the dining room to lock the doors, close down for the night and begin cleaning the joint.
To my surprise, Dan followed me into the back room and asked if he could help me mop and wipe down so I could get off work a bit earlier. Dan then backed me against a wall and kissed me full on the lips. I did not push him away. Fuck no. I liked his lips on mine and the feel of his hard dick against me. I knew I wanted to learn all about him, and I slipped a hand into his pants feeling his stiff cock before moving on to his hairy ass.
Since he was married and I lived with my parents, we left my car in the restaurant’s parking lot, and drove to the mountains in Dan’s VW Microbus. Hidden by trees and parked along a whitewater river, we undressed and stood in the warm summer’s moonlight with our arms wrapped around each other. Dan is the only man I’ve ever been with who needed only to kiss me to make me cum. But I was eighteen, and could maintain a raging hard-on even after shooting my wad several times.
Dan had a seven inch penis with a good girth, and I got my first taste of cock that night. In that we were the same height, we could lie on our sides and suck each other simultaneously. I loved Dan’s male scent, handsome face and deep voice.
That same night, I was introduced to anal intercourse. Dan was gentle, but that first time at getting my asshole reamed hurt like hell; it’s an acquired taste, so to speak. It wasn’t long before I found myself thoroughly enjoying his lying on top of me, and feeling him pumping in and out of me until his pre cum provided additional lubrication; then he’d perform his grand finale of repeatedly pulling all the way back to the head of his cock and thrusting himself deeply back into me until he came.
Over the weeks, Dan and I saw each other frequently. I learned he was part American Indian, which accounted for his sexy black hair, dark eyes and swarthy complexion. We would always go to the mountains to make love, and I definitely saw fireworks every time he’d cum in my mouth or ass.
We were together for about two years before Dan’s Montana Tour of Duty ended. He was transferred to Washington State and, in the process, got divorced.
I was devastated over losing him; but I’d managed to save enough cash from my job to start college. The Montana male stoicism kicked in, and I told myself I would one day again be with Dan.
Upon earning my Bachelor’s degree, I went to graduate school out-of-state. During all that, Dan and I lost touch with each other. It would take more than thirty years for me to again find him.
One day three years ago, I was returning to my office near the end of the workday when I thought of Dan. I’d been with my life partner for twenty-five years, and we were a happy, loving couple. But you never forget your first love and, over the years, I’d found myself wondering from time-to-time what had become of Dan.
Owning my own business, I decided that I would finally spend some company time running a Google search for Dan. In that he has an extremely uncommon surname, I got eight hits. My only hope was that one of them was not his obituary.
In fact, Dan lived in Santa Fe and was an elected official. Several newspaper articles featured his resolutions to urban issues. I punched in 411, and was given his home number. I closed my office door, pressed the “Do Not Disturb” button on my desk phone, and called him.
Irrespective of the more than thirty-year crack in time between us, I knew Dan’s voice the moment he said, “Hello.” We talked comfortably for an hour as if we had continually been in touch over the past three decades.
I learned he too had a long-term partner, and then our phone reunion turned bittersweet. Dan told me he was HIV positive, and had been so for eighteen years following his former partner’s surgery and a transfusion of infected blood. That partner had passed away from AIDS. Although Dan’s drug cocktails were keeping him alive, he casually mentioned that he knew he was living on borrowed time.
We now e-mail each other daily, and talk over the phone periodically. Every story Dan shares is precious to me.
And every now and then, we’ll reminisce about that point in our lives when the world appeared much more vivid, and time seemed to pass by much more slowly -- back when Dan and I were young.
Comment On This Story
Postings to date: 2. Page 1 of 1. Avg Rating: 
Gman Minnesota |
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It was OK.... | |
Randy Rajala Baton Rouge |
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That was a beautiful story. Too bad it didn't work out differently. | |
Posted at 9:29pm on Sunday, October 24th, 2010
Posted at 5:51am on Saturday, July 3rd, 2010
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