My son was born on February 5, 1972, and I entered the military in May of 1972. He was a little over two months old; my daughter was almost three years old, and I was a twenty-two year old "happily married family man." It wasn't until I was stationed overseas alone (in Guam)that the marriage went sour. They say, "While the cat's away, the mouse will play. Well, my wife apparently played, and played, and played. Probably, had I been the unfaithful husband some G.I.s are (cats away will often play, too), I could/would have forgiven her. I didn't play... and I didn't forgive. On arriving back stateside (late l975), I immediately filed for divorce, took on the "single dad visiting the kids every other weekend" role, and pressed on with my life. I started dating again. Nothing serious, not for sex so much as companionship. At twenty six, most of my fellow G.I. friends and all my old highschool friends were married. Single, I was odd man out. With a date, we did things as couples. What else is a 'straight' man to do?

Then in 1977, I received orders to an Air Base in then West Germany. I went alone (I'm single, after all), and again started dating, although rarely, and none of it leading to sex. There are few single female service members overseas; most are married on "joint accompanying" tours. The only other available women are dependents (too young), and the "local village girls" (who, for the most part, if they ARE dating the local G.I.s, it's because they are seeking pregnancy, marriage, and a ticket to the U.S.). I wanted no part of another marriage for the forseeable future. You know the saying, "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." Well, multiply that by ten, a hundred, or a thousand for a woman caught cheating, then divorced because of it. I didn't forgive her the cheating; she didn't forgive me the divorce. It was not a pretty break-up.

Besides those rare dates, I immersed myself in traveling, learning to ski, and in doing something I'd always wanted to do since I was a child: learning to play the piano. I took lessons from a base Chaplain's wife. There was a piano practice room in the back corner of the base recreation center. I spent frequent time there, banging away, practicing those lessons. One of my skiing partners (we took our beginner's lessons together) was the wife of a G.I. who ran the base recreation center. Because I spent so much time in that back little room practicing, she asked if I would paint it for an upcoming inspection. I was more than happy to.

Early on a Saturday afternoon, I grabbed brush, roller, paint bucket, and pan, and hit the piano room. I remember I was painting the wall behind the steam radiator. I don't know if you're familiar with European steam pipes and radiators, but this radiator was 3 feet tall, pirched under a window ledge, with about a 2 foot gap between the radiator and the wall. A window comprised the upper half of the room's wall. It extended from the ledge all the way to the ceiling, and was the full width of the room. There were no curtains; just a full view from inside and out. I was lying on the floor and had twisted my shoulders and head up behind the radiator to paint the wall behind the pipes. The area was cramped; no room for elbows, much less two arms and a brush. I was as crunched as I could get and was painting when I heard the door open, then close. I figured someone had come to practice, but left after seeing the bottom half of me sprawled out, lying next to an open paint bucket. I couldn't see out and they couldn't see in, but with the paint can and fumes, it was obvious I was painting.

A few moments later, I felt the faintest pressure up and down the length of my crotch. I thought it was my imagination. I wasn't sure the sensation was real until the pressure stopped and I felt my zipper being pulled down. I knew then that whoever had opened the door hadn't left. I was amused at first, thinking this was a prank, but then my pants were unzipped and I felt a hand slide under my waistband. Methodically, the top button was undone and my jeans were opened wide. I became scared. A friend's wife had recently told me her husband was divorcing her and he was keeping their kids. She wanted me to get an apartment so she could move in and remain near her children. She was desperate about it. She'd said we could have sex if I wanted, as she was willing to 'do anything' to remain in the country. I thought it was outlandish, and told her absolutely no. I thought, "Damn, it's her. She's doing this to 'prove' her offer of sex is real."

Now, I was on the floor, right in front of this huge window. If anyone outside walked up close and looked down, they could see me. Anyone could also enter the room--there was no lock on the door. I just froze. I didn't know what the hell to do. A hand slid inside my underwear, then pulled them down, exposing my dick and balls. I felt a tingling as a slick wet finger narrowly moved up and down the length of my dick. What was narrow became much wider, then my entire dick was sucked into a warm moist cavity. I realized she'd been running her tongue up and down my dick, not her finger; then she sucked it into her mouth. The feeling was just indescribable. I was frozen, scared as hell, and turned on at the same time, I had a throbbing boner. It had been a very long time since I'd had sex with anything other than my hand: definitely, I was in a quandry. If I got caught, big trouble! If sex in public wasn't bad enough, it was sex with a friend's wife. If I pulled away, I'd have to confront her and make her stop. If I just lay there, the pleasure would continue. I did just that. I laid there--and received the best blow job ever, and I mean EVER in my life. When it was over, my dick was sucked dry, licked clean, and tucked away. My pants were zipped up and the top button rebuttoned. By now, the fear was replaced by extasy. I stayed in that position for a long, long time, savoring the experience, but wanting to give her a chance to make a silent retreat. I was grateful (VERY grateful), and I didn't want to tell her no again, especially right after such a fantastic blow job. So I waited... until I was sure she was long gone.

When I finally untangled myself from under the radiator (stupidly to dip my brush back into the paint), I saw a short, muscular dude sitting on the piano bench, just smiling from ear to ear. He must have seen my startled reaction to his sitting there. He got serious and said, "I've wanted you for soooo long, and now I've had you." Then he stretched his smile even bigger (seemingly impossible, but he did it), got up, walked out, and closed the door behind him. I was devastated. I NEVER could have imagined it. It was a GUY! Not only a guy, it was a Black guy.

He came to my dormitory room the very next day and asked if he could "do it" again. I said no, and slammed the door. He returned a couple more days, knocking at my door, with the same results. Then one day, I was alone in the communal shower after work when he appeared and asked if he "could" again, and once again, I forcefully said, "No!" He just stood there in the shower entrance, staring at my crotch. I was furious, oblivious to what was happening, just eager to rinse all the soap off and get the hell out of there. He said, "Oh mannn, look... you're dripping." I looked down at my dick. Not only was it rock hard, it was dripping pre-cum like like a damn fawcet. He patiently watched as I look down. I felt betrayed by my own body. I was still angry, but now confused. I went back to rinsing the soap off, then he asked again, and when I looked at him, he licked his lips. I was pissed that he had stayed, and yet turned on by the thought of another fantastic blow job. I turned the water off and while still dripping wet, I took his hand like he were a small child, and led him back to my room. The blow jobs became regular after that, but hardly "routine." This guy would make me come so hard that when his mouth didn't cover my dick, when I shot my load, the first spurts of cum would land on the wall behind the headboard (we're talking 6 feet). The following spurts would land ON the headboard and on my face.

It seems for the longest time, I was enjoying sex with a man, but also for the longest time, that sex was "one sided." All he wanted was to perform oral sex on me, and I let him. It became almost a daily ritual. Then he asked me to reciprocate. I couldn't, or wouldn't. Eventually, I did touch him; I 'played' with him from time to time, but that was all. As the weeks rolled by, he wanted more, but I was still coming to terms with this whole thing. He finally gave an ultimatum: reciprocate, or roll over. If I didn't, the 'arrangement' was over. He was serious. I wasn't a complete fool. I didn't want the oral sex to end, but I still wasn't ready to put my mouth on another man's... so, I rolled over. It was love at first fuck. Of course, it wasn't long after that, that I really was 'feeling' him, stroking him, and eventually giving him the same oral pleasure he so lovingly gave me. It wasn't just 'sex' anymore, it was making love... and loving a whole man's body.

After a couple months, he had to leave for the states; his mother was ill. While he was gone, I was reassigned stateside. I left Germany and was settled stateside. I started dating women again, thinking 'that' part of my life was over. My thinking was, "Hey, I've been married, I love my kids, and I'm seeing them when I can. So what if sex with women had never been thrilling? That's what a guy does, right?" Well, that's what I was taught, and I was a guy. I was doing what I was suppose to do. I thought all the macho talk about 'great sex' was just hype, and the experience with another guy, although wonderful, was just one of those things that happened to some G.I.'s once in a lifetime, and wouldn't be repeated. It couldn't, at least, not as explosive and wonderful as it had been with 'that' man. Then I got a call from out of the blue. It was him. He said he had finished his tour in Germany, had come back stateside, had been hunting for me, and had finally managed to track me down. He asked if we could 'get back together' again. We did.

It was he who showed me what I'd been missing all my life: sex really WAS great. All the hype, all the stories, all the wonderful fantastical things ever said about sex were finally true for me -- with a man. It was explosive with him. He taught me the joy of sex, but he didn't have to teach me to love him: that came naturally. We eventually became lovers for 12 years, but THAT is another story....

Suffice it to say, after 12 years of loving a Black man, I know what I want in the future: Simply what I had, and grew to know and love. There's a lot more untold story after this first time, but now you know how I discovered and came to accept what and who I am, and why I prefer what I do. There's an old saying, "The boy you were is what helps you become the man you are." I suspect if you're really curious to know who I am, you'll also be curious to know how I got to be this way. I hope the long tale was worth it.

Postscript: I've since had a 2nd lover (also Black) and that relationship lasted two years, although we remained roommates for a year afterwards. We broke up in 1992 (the year I retired from the military), but lived together as roomies (separate bedrooms) until 1993, when we both moved to Memphis. We still remain friends, but went separate ways on arriving at the Memphis city limits. Since then I've been single, available, and looking... for love, not casual sex. Oh, in February of 2000, I "got it on" with the man in the story above: my first true love and lover. We did it "for old time's sake." The sex was just as wonderful and explosive as it was back then, but while dynomite, it let me know the love we had just isn't there anymore. All those years of questioning "what if..." were answered and even though he still offers, there's no temptation for a repeat. We're also still friends... just friends, and he now has a lover. I'm happy for him, and yes, I'm still looking.

Newest Update: WoW. I've been here in Oklahoma for four years now. Let's see: I didn't find anyone in Memphis the ten years I was there so it was time to look elsewhere. The closest I came in Memphis was having a boyfriend for 3 months in 1999. I wound up kicking his ass back to the lover "he said he didn't have." In March of 2003, I moved to SW Oklahoma to play the 'dutiful son' and help my parents in their frail health. Yes, even us old codgers have to play that role, sometimes. I lost my Mom in the Summer of 2005. I got to spend her last two years with her, and I wouldn't have traded that for anything. I guess some things just work out the way they're suppose to. Still, I've been looking for my Mr. Right here in the SW Oklahoma and N Central Texas area... and NADA. I stayed to help the V.A. Center with my Dad; he felt lonely and with Mom gone, was afraid I'll abandon him and move off. Well, that didn't happen, either. We lost him in November of this year (2007); a month before his 90th birthday. I cherish the time we spent together, too. Our last parting words to each other were, "I love you, Dad," (and "I love you, son"); so no regrets there. I've fulfilled my duty. Now what?

I still have the house in Memphis. I may move back there, or sell it and move elsewhere. As of now, I have no plans to do anything. I feel like I'm in limbo, having always had short and long term goals in my life, and now having none. With my character and personality, I prefer to move TOWARDS something new and wonderful, not move just to get away from something old or unchallenging. Nothing "new" has popped up -- yet. It's time to search for direction and new goals. Any ideas?