“See! I knew it.” Diego points at me, triumphant. “Adrian gets it. He’s suffering with me.”
“It’s part of the discipline,” Buck says. “You learn to control your urges. It’s part of being a soldier.” His gaze lands on me, and for a second, I wonder if he knows. If he can smell the lie on me. But then he looks away, and I realize it’s just my own guilt making me paranoid.
Diego sighs dramatically and slumps back against a log. “Discipline, discipline, discipline. I’d be more disciplined if I had a warm place to stick my dick.”
“Go find a knothole in a tree, then,” Kade says without looking up from his knife. “Just don’t get splinters.”
“Maybe I will,” Diego says. “Better company than you anyway.”
“Guys,” Buck cuts in, “keep it professional. We’ve got a long day tomorrow, and we all need to be sharp.”
Diego grumbles but falls quiet. We sit in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the crackling fire and the chirping crickets. I finish my beef stew and choke down the crackers, washing it all down with lukewarm water from my canteen.
When the guys start talking about football, I tune out. Never been much for sports. Don’t follow teams or stats. Just one more way I don’t quite fit.
Instead, I stare at the fire. I watch the flames dance and twist, the logs glowing red at the center. And my mind wanders where it shouldn’t—going around the circle, unbuttoning their pants one by one. Pulling out their cocks. Seeing them get hard for me. Tasting each one. All those different flavors. Stuffing my face until my jaw aches and my throat burns with their cum.
It’s twisted, I know. So fucking twisted. I shift on the log, my traitor dick starting to get hard in my shorts. I’m a fraud, sitting here with these men, pretending to be one of them, when all I want to do is get on my knees and service them.
“Alright,” Buck says, pushing himself to his feet. “I’m turning in. Morning comes early.”
“Yeah, I’m beat,” Yassir says, standing and stretching.
One by one, we head toward our tent. It’s big enough for all six of us, but not exactly spacious. Our sleeping bags are laid out in two rows of three, a foot of dirt floor between them. Sergeant Rourke has his own tent about a hundred yards away, which gives us a little privacy from the pit bull, as we call him. From each other, we get none.
Emilio’s already brushing his teeth outside the tent when I grab my toothbrush from my pack. I join him at the spitting rock.
“You good?” he asks, his words muffled by foam. “You’ve been quiet today.” Emilio has always been good at reading people.
“Just tired, man,” I say, spitting. “Rourke worked us hard.”
“I know.” He rinses his mouth and swishes some water. “Still, you seem… off.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Something on your mind?”
I could tell him. I could say that I’m confused, scared, that I don’t know what’s happening to me or how to make these thoughts stop. Out of everyone here, he’d probably understand the most. We went through basic together. Shared stories. Talked about family, about the future. He’s a good friend in a way the others aren’t.
But telling him this? Admitting I might be one of those guys? That I look at him and the others and feel something other than camaraderie? I can’t risk it.
“I’m fine, Em. Just need a good night of sleep.”
Emilio studies me for a long moment, and I think he’s about to push, to ask again. Then he just shrugs. “Alright. But if you need to talk, you know I’m here. I’ve got your back.” He gives my shoulder a final squeeze. “You know that, right?”
“I know. Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
We head into the tent, ducking through the flap. The air inside is warm and smells of sweat and damp canvas. Buck and Diego are already in their bags, facing away from each other. Kade and Yassir talk in low voices, their conversation too quiet for me to catch. They’ve been getting tight lately, those two.
I crawl into my sleeping bag, and Emilio does the same next to me. When everyone’s settled, Buck reaches over and turns off the lantern, plunging us into near darkness. The only light comes from a small red glow stick near the door, a dull, blood-red glow that makes everything look sinister.
“Night, assholes,” Diego says. A few grumbled replies follow, and then silence settles over the tent. There’s the rustle of nylon as people shift in their sleeping bags, soft breathing, the occasional sigh or cough. I lie on my back, staring up at the dark canvas, my thoughts racing. Sleep feels a million miles away.
In the darkness, my mind starts to wander. It always does. I don’t mean for it to happen, but I can never seem to control it. Stripped of the distraction of drills and exercises and the pit bull barking orders, all the thoughts I try to push down come creeping back.
Wet, naked bodies. Hard, aching cocks. All my squadmates lined up before me, waiting for their turn.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think of women. Of my last girlfriend, Chloe. Of her long brown hair, her soft skin, the way she smelled. I try to remember what it felt like to be inside her, the warmth, the wetness. But the memories are fuzzy and distant. They don’t have the same sharp, vivid quality as the images from the shower. They don’t have the same pull.
I turn onto my side, facing Emilio. He’s already asleep, his breathing slow and even. I can see the curve of his shoulder in the dim red light, the blond stubble on the back of his neck. He looks peaceful. Untroubled. I envy him.
After an hour of tossing and turning, I realize someone else is still awake.
