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Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6: Vietnam 1968: Sexual Frenzy
Date: Wed, 18 Oct 2000 10:10:03 -0400
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Also From TxM6 Hyperfiction
http://www.txm6.com (updated 10/03/00)
http://www.txm6.com/enfer (updated 10/04/00)
http://www.txm6.com/lcfallon (UPDATED 10/04/00
http://www.farragher.com (Poetry updated 10/04/00)
0642X Henry in Nam.txt
TxM6: Hyperfiction
WEATHER REPORTS: Henry Whitman
"Enter the Fucking War Zone, Troop!"
22 May 1967: Day Forty-One,
Central Highlands, Vietnam.
-"What the fucking weather tonight bitch," I
said sitting in shit water, steam du bain. Don't
worry the slope thinks I use that word "bitch or
cunt" to "elicit affection."
"Cunt, I sing again. Wash my asshole." I sleaze
in the steam, and nuts tighten (expand & contract
like the after shock of a bitchen come holding
your thumb in her thing when she leaps yelping
for the rafter) when the gook hand holds my
snake as I fuck her mouth many a time and she
blubbers and swallows, I no spit, she brags,
icing the head clean, licking number one blow
job, you like, soldier she asks, repeating, hurt
good, looking up like a candy grabbing kid
hawking quarters at the big top back home in
Pepsi land.
"This is the Land of Used to Be Alive"!
"How long cock sucky VC," I ask taking it
all in again, almost a dream, and then more,
asked the engaged defendant, another, one young
75 lb. VC woman/girl of ancient Siam and France
(said votre pere was a holy man one humping true
beggar) and she lapped at my cock salivating
almost knowing her routine answer and wiles; get
it up dear ass backward how I loved the veracity
of childhood melodies, but in defense of
nothing, I was stoned, delirious, deeply
enchanted with the welling up and de tumescence.
"I had twelve years," she spoke in French,
knowing I understood, "trois ans," she
sputtered, not missing a stroke. Hands on
flanks, puckered, playing my dick ribs like a
vibraphone.
"Lookee. No VC," she whispered, half gasping,
peering into my sighs, high voice garbled by
dick jammed clean at her throat, thinking I
might beat her ass after oral poontang, she
pulled back, dropped my prick, defended her cunt
and tits crossing arms and legs, hurt.
"No VC here," she pleaded quickly and pulled her
self up, by strong tight arms, using a reverse
one arm push back, sitting up, almost calm, or
pretending, laughing, or jeering, fake smiles as
she spread her legs on the edge of the ancient
wooden tub, opened her hairless cunt lips,
displaying the pink soul of wings, inflamed
glands, my scum, her pus and necrotic tissue.
She had the clap, I surmised, good. I would
shoot beaucoup penicillin in all our veins
before I left, and reasons to fuck her sweet ass
again tomorrow, a freebie, I laughed not really
worried. I knew I was careless but I liked this
one, how she walked, and the sway of her head,
how her nipples were pregnant large even if her
tits were not too far from childhood.
Iris, Irene, whatever, Aileen, Justine, or
Louise de fou (name changed daily to confound
MPs) appeared 12 or less by round eye stats and
tables but she was seventeen, no, dix huit ans,
she said. Fifteen by her own addition? Who the
fuck knew?
"I was twenty-five -not almost fifty. In the year
2030 will it matter?" I asked wondering if she
understood.
"-Who the fuck cared?"
Not many. I pretended when it helped, and then
nothing.
When I was horny. Twice a day. When I could I
did what I could and never looked back. I never
raped. Always more or less willing, and script
or cigs changed hands.
By my daily grind, Iris was pussy that's all and
a small mouth, and an unbelievably large
asshole, and a backside to beat silly with rope
or paddles if that was your thing. Not mine; to
be honest, mostly, I preferred gentleness (I am
not a liar), almost, compared to some old grunts
and West Point motherfuckers. I heard lying
stories you couldn't fucken believe. One King
size grunt like to slice clits and pussy lips
for a sandwich. He would save them, preserved in
gin. Made a drunken heroine, he joked, cooking
tit and ass literally over sterno sprinkled with
angel dust and hash.
Yes Sir, no problem Sir, right away Sir, we,
great American heroes beat the shit out of
whores and stuffed their cunts with fire
crackers, lighters, and fluid; light em up, and
they, bound and gagged, would scream like slope
soldiers dropped from a Huey.
Deadly shit like that. After all they were dirty
snaking Commie mother humpers and we were the
glory and the stars and stripes.
Right? We lost brother grunts to children
selling soda pop and who the fuck gave a shit?
One dead slope or less. One strangled or throat
cut VC whore (minus tits for trophy).
Who the fuck kept score in-country, or could
claim to be righteous when they fucked children
to brag how they were kinder than Romans or
south African buggers.
We paid them off in nickels and dimes. Each cunt
got her due. Sure? Who paid for what was really
free when you considered the full affect of
napalm. Crispy Critters and hot dogs. Crispy
critters and.
Here I was. Spec. Four. Medic. College graduate
do gooder. Ask not what your country can do for
you, but what you can do for your country, bull
crap.
Turn the page quickly here or I am too far up
your ass. Now look, I am doing hard time earned
combat badge in the Highlands, two silver stars.
But on stand down, still cherry but not too virgin
at least three Special OPS to reinforce Special
Forces in Laos; yes, more to come; my ass
getting battle hard and, you might laugh now,
really skinny. More, I was twenty-five, horny
and healthy-wanted poontang or something
approximately more thrilling than jerking off
waiting for incoming.
"Did it matter?" I liked her look, so what if I
itched. Shit.
Afterwards, I would promise her salve, daily
needles, and laugh at myself, knowing she
couldn't know why I thought like a doctor when I
opened up a foggy pussy. Could be I was wrong.
Could be yeast or bacterial? Who the fuck knew?
Or maybe cunt leeches. You know what I mean.
Pussy grubbers with long thick dicks beat small
cunt to death with a wicket stick and a rubber.
Not that I wore one. Hypocrite. I know I gave
speeches about VD but who wants to feel nothing,
got it feel nothing like some freak that kills
children.
"My brother good catholic, hate VC," she leaped
down, suddenly, after I let go, falling back
into the tub like any teenager at a summer
swimming hole, shrieking and splashing my face
until I smiled and caught her ass in my hands,
grabbing at tits, as the smoke from my chest and
the longing, aroused I pushed into her cunt,
then switching found her ass, leaning her back
against the submerged stool, I was fucked up, as
I came, almost twice, pulling back wanting more,
to tease.
"I no Buddhist, Moi catholic; Sister Maria
loved, said I good girl, when I kissed her
cross. She put god in her pussy for me. I had
seven no eight years when Sister shook like
Jesus did on the cross."
Iris, suddenly stopped laughing, spoke clearly,
now, as she licked my dick clean, I no lie she
said, Nun made me love her, many times, over
and over, pulling my white shit from the debts
I imagined Iris, at eight, gamouching holy clits
until the ache hurt, and I couldn't bear it, and
then I turned her, ass forward, no more than
fourteen or fifteen into my arms, cost more, she
said, fuckee there, pointing to ass, hurt too much,
but OK, she held her cheeks open, as I kissed her
mouth from behind her head, Iris fighting now,
quietly, pushing me away, as I forced her to kiss,
open mouth, sucked cum back, trying to avenge horror
or furor I felt, I suppose when I fucked her ass
hole hard as I could, angry, what you think
afterwards was never real, I thought later,
laughing at the sad events and the result, add
KIA for brother grunts in the boonies.
"No Kiss," she screamed, out of breath, as I
pulled out of her ass, no coming, afraid I would
beat her for refusing; "You like blow job," Doc,
she pleaded. No fuckee ass now, as the pain made
her face age, almost ancient like temples and
Hindu gods playing with dick like monkey.
Later, I learned, VC whores never want to kiss.
What did I know then? I was cherry; still I
wasn't a virgin, but I liked to kiss more than
fuck sometimes, but I was a weird troop, I knew
that. Suddenly, she changed when I said, OK no
ass fuckee, now. We wait.
"I Know Doc," she said, calling me my secret GI
name. You helped my cousin in Ville far from the
valley. He had lost his legs. You saved him and
helped my sister with baby. She has GI kid.
"Noire" fuckee.
I didn't tell her it couldn't have been. I
wasn't in country last year. Some other Doc must
have been. No, You good GI. My sister liked you.
Told you to come back, and she would fuck you
for nothing. You didn't have beaucoup dick like
the Noire.
I laughed at her distinctions. Iris, her name
for the day, seemed frightened.
"I no fuckee Noire." You help Iris. Give many
blowjobs and fuckee. I be your girl, clean up.
"Shit," I said. "Why the fuck not." If I can, I
will, I said, petting her hair, and watching her
chest, almost flat, and her belly round, heave,
up and down against my hand.
Four, five months, you too, I said. Patting the
round swell, then playfully milking her nipple,
turned on by the rounded swollen aspect as if
she were my child, or my wife. Not that I had
one then.
"Yes. Take care of Iris, I mean, Marie, no,
Justine, cher Henri," she pleaded.
"How you know my name," I asked, surprised,
intense but not angry.
"You good man;" Iris like you more than all
soldiers. I laughed out loud. I love liars.
"You not hurt Iris, No?"
I was almost moved, as I pulled her up, found
her cunt, fucked her good, my dick spread her
almost naked lips, and coming, as I screamed,
she felt something, I knew it.
You come, I asked. Always, she lied. GI like
my baby come. I be enfant, Oui. And when she
kissed my hand, or pulled at her knife, I
felt death in her hair as I banged away to
kingdom come. Just didn't give a fuck, really.
I was short, saved by the Gods. I don't know
their names. Do you?
Last week. Same whore. Same "club." Bitch bit
off the hump's dick. Then she pulled a pin. All
dead. His arms and her tits, his head and her
cunt flung far and wide, made a terrible
collage, I thought, inspecting, filling out
forms and body bags.
Four humps and two righteous VC whores, that's
what they said. Maybe she just wanted to die. So
be it mother fuckers I remembered my sad
impotence as I shook my fist at the gray sky
through the murky green canopy.
Everyday it was so calm at LZ Bravo, near Dak
To, 10 klicks from that retirement home, walk in
the park, Base Station Echo, and like all
diddly-bopping fuck offs, just after insertion
and just before killing, Zippo runs and I
delivered babies, pulled them from cunt and set
them to breast, to blow them to smithereens,
called How I won the peace and lost the war. Or
how many children you kill today, dear LBJ. You.
You Politician, you were more than summation of
fear. Never could tell life from death. It just
swam your way, and you were amazed by its nasty
but lascivious affection, how it clung to your
dick, nails impaled in legs, how it sucked at
your cock, and with any rise in body
temperature, blood pressure, respiration, fuck
orgasm, just as ordinary as any decline in rain
fall, and during the dry season, when the slopes
were hiding, not giving it up, well, the dust
made smoke with your eyes, but there was no
romance, and sadly no poontang worth eating or
dogs worth cooking or children to grieve their
mamasan or cher Monsieur.
Another Bullshit Taxi Driver, hokum- No way!
But why, as the song goes, do I love them so?
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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