Page 74 of Down and Dirty

“More like a tonsil hockey injection,” Cage interjected. “Talk about!”

“You got a bite mark on your neck,” Max continued. “In fact, I could swear that’s a bite mark on your inner thigh.”

He glanced down. There was nothing there beneath his shorts, but it was too late. He’d revealed the possibility that there might have been.

“Actually,” Geek began, “there really is such a thing as a sex flush. During sex, blood rushes to the genitals and all the other body extremities, including the face. The flush, which mostly resembles a measles-type rash, usually goes away after orgasm. Except if a person has an excessive number of orgasms in a short period of time. Some people even take niacin or vitamin B3 a half hour before sex to increase the blood flow to the skin and mucous membranes. There was even a guy in China who—” Geek stopped midsentence, noticing that everyone was staring at him. The boy did astonish them sometimes with his font of knowledge. “I’m just sayin’,” he concluded with his own blush.

“Open your mouth and show me your mucus,” JAM requested of Zach with fake seriousness.

“Bite me!”

“I’d say you already had way too much of that,” JAM shot right back.

“So how’s the love glove comin’?” Cage asked Geek.

“It’s a penile glove. Sheesh!” Geek corrected, then realized that Cage was just ribbing him. “Great. The website is up, and Julie had five thousand hits the first hour. They can’t make the product fast enough to fill orders.”

“Amazing!” Zach said, not because the concept was so outlandish. Hell, they had everything on the Internet, even… well, everything. The amazing thing was that Geek was involved. He was beginning to think that Geek’s naive-and-inexperienced persona was a big scam.

“Back to Big Mama,” Cage said to Zach. “How ya gonna separate WEALS from yer love life, cher?”

“I don’t know, but I have to. I can’t treat Britta any differently than the others.”

“Oooh, boy! This oughta be good,” JAM remarked. “Pretty Boy restraining his libido!”

Did everyone really think he had that little control over his sex life?

Probably.

They must think his dick was on autopilot every minute of the day. For the first time in his life, he was embarrassed by his reputation.

He and his guys put the bell on the back of a pickup truck and drove it to the grinder so that it would be visible and readily available to the women who were ready to quit. Then they pulled out the heavy kapok life vests, which had been around since Moses was a kid… or at least before World War II. The vests kept even an unconscious person floating in turbulent waters. They also pulled out the women’s personal helmet liners, preparing for the next rotation. Two dozen helmet liners of already rung-out trainees were arranged beside the bell… a graveyard of sorts.

Every class of Navy SEALs painted their helmet liners with the class number on the front and back, along with their last names. Green for first phase, blue for second phase, and red for third phase. These ladies had made their own personal statement by painting theirs pink with #1 on front and back.

After that, they lugged out the heavy IBSs. Inflatable Boats, Small, were among the most hated training tools in all SEAL training. They weighed several hundred pounds even without being packed with equipment, and they had to be carried on the heads or extended arms of the trainees at almost all times. This rotation alone should result in a dozen women ringing the bell.

“Listen up, ladies,” Zach told the group when they came back. “This is your new best friend. Inflatable Boat, Small. Better known as IBS. Or ‘that frickin’ boat.’ From now on, you will carry it almost everywhere, even to the chow hall, mostly on top of your heads, six persons to a boat, three on each side. Now, some of our SEALs have been known to develop permanent bald spots from their IBS experiences.” He waited till their protests died down and till they watched two women walk over, take off their helmets, place them in the line, then ring the bell. “But we are going to make a concession to your female sensibilities.” Some of the women made disparaging remarks about the likelihood of that, which he chose to ignore. “So, you may wear one of these pretty little bathing caps.” He twirled a red, butt-ugly, thick rubber cap on a forefinger up in the air. Or you can wear your helmet liners all the time, which could be uncomfortable. Or you can risk baldness. Your choice.” They all took the caps, muttering as they did so.

“Another thing,” Commander MacLean interjected. “I’ve been hearing way too much muttering. Next mutter I hear, and the whole group of you will be punished. One for all and all for one.”

Donita Leone, once a famous Olympic swimmer, made the mistake of muttering, “Sadistic bastard.”

Simms, who seemed to have an attraction for his black “sister,” stepped forward gleefully, motioning with a forefinger for her to follow him back to the grinder. “How do you feel about Helen Kellers?” everyone heard him say. Helen Keller was a politically incorrect name for an exercise in which half sit-ups were done holding the back off the ground at a forty-five-degree angle and hands cupping the ears. A leg was lifted a few inches off the ground, then a knee brought up till the leg was ninety degrees to the hip. Only then was the elbow of the opposite arm brought over to touch the knee. Over and over. Alternating sides. Supreme balance, muscle control, and stomach muscles of steel were required to do them properly, which most people didn’t. Instead, they flailed around like… well, Helen Keller. Donita was doing a pretty good imitation now of the famous deaf lady immortalized in that movie with Patty Duke.

“Let’s start with surf appreciation,” Zach ordered the others. “Into the water, ladies. Pronto.” When they had waded into the surf, shivering despite the temperature, which wasn’t all that cold today, about seventy degrees already, he yelled out, “Line up and lock arms. All fifty of you. Now, march into the surf zone and sit down. You heard me. Sit the hell down.” Instantly the icy waves came crashing over them.

He made them sit there for three minutes, but it probably felt like an hour before he shouted for them to come to shore. “Up boats, ladies. Time for a short run to warm you up.”

Britta was visibly shivering, her teeth chattering, when she came out.

“Are you cold, Asado?” he inquired. “I can get you warm real quick. All you gotta do is ring out.”

She said something in Old Norse that he was pretty sure equated with “Get a life, bozo.”

After much clumsy scrambling, they got the knack of holding the IBSs on their heads. Little did they know that quickly they would experience an almost unbearable pain in the neck and jaws, even the ankles and knees, just from the weight of the rubber boat as they ran.

He had to give them credit when they began calling out what had to be a quickly improvised series of jody calls. Anyone who had ever seen the movie Stripes knew how ridiculous they could be. These particular ones seemed to be prompted by a woman from Nashville that someone had told him was a country western singer. Her name was Alda Sue Perry.