Old Men

Old Men

By:  Garland Davis


DeWayne Johnson AKA Achmed XX Ali pulled the raincoat around him as he approached the entrance to the VFW.  He was ready to strike a blow for Allah and Islam against the infidels who had desecrated the homeland.  DeWayne was from Detroit, but the Mullahs had told him that since he became a Muslim, his true home was in the Middle East.

The plan was to step inside the door, raise the shotgun from under the raincoat and fire the five rounds of buckshot into the room and then use the Glock and the forty-five Colt to kill as many more as possible before making his escape.

He cut in front of an old man walking with a gnarled wooden cane and went through the door.  Coming into the darkened chamber from the bright sunlight, he was momentarily blinded.  He could see some vague shapes across the room at a bar.  He bared the shotgun, yelled, “Allah Akbar.” and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened!  As he fumbled to release the safety, something hard slammed into the right side of his head knocking him to the left.  It slammed again into his right elbow.  He felt the bone break as he screamed dropping the shotgun.  Whatever had hit him came against his head once again.  Suddenly he felt hands grabbing him.  Voices were yelling, “Gun, the mother fuckers got guns.”  There was an arm shoved against his neck as a heavy weight settled on his chest.

“Hold him, Heavy.  I called 911.  The cops are on the way.”

“Hey, he has more weapons in the pockets.  This fucker was going to kill us,”

“Hold him down Heavy, while I search him for more guns.”

DeWayne realized that the old man with the cane had hit him with it when he bared the shotgun.  The fat old man sitting on his chest with the arm against his throat was killing him.  He couldn’t breathe.  He no longer wanted to be Achmed XX Ali or a Muslim.  He just wanted to be DeWayne from Detroit.  He wanted to tell the fat man that, but he couldn’t breathe.

“Hey Heavy, you’re choking him.  Save something for the police.”

“Fuck the cops, the courts will just turn him loose.”

The last thought DeWayne had was, “Mama.”

Don’t fuck with old men when they are drinking beer!




By: Brion Boyles


Back in the late ’70’s when I was in the US Navy overseas, there was a tiny, kimono’d, silver-bearded old man who sold hot, steaming soup and grilled, spiced octopus on a stick from a little cart at the mouth of an alleyway, near the platform steps of the Shiori train station in Yokosuka, Japan….

All thru the frozen winter rain or snow, as each train would empty of its throngs of Japanese commuters to swirl around and past him like a stone in a fast-running river, he would deeply bow a dozen times and quietly chant in soft Japanese, “Oh, honorable traveler—sample my humble offerings, my meager gifts…Oh, gentle customer, allow me to tempt you with my simple, savory offerings,….oh…..” and so on…until the seething crowd gradually ebbed away….


…and then the next train would pull in…”Oh, kind-hearted stranger, look upon my meager treasures, my poor gifts…. oh…”



Amateur Working Girls

Amateur Working Girls

By:  Garland Davis


The mothers of young girls within a large radius of any stateside Navy base knew that pool shooting, beer swilling, line handling, paint chipping, butterflying sonuvabitches were not hot prospects for marriage. The fair damsels of Navy towns were more inclined to bright young lads who could use a slide rule for something other than stirring a picture of Mojo.

So, if you were stuck in CONUS and couldn’t wrangle a way back to WestPac, you had to accept a life of self-imposed celibacy and self-abuse or dabble in the world of commercial relationships.  It was either that or go queer which was frowned upon, back in the day.  In today’s modern, more diverse Navy, you could probably be awarded a Navy Achievement Medal for “coming out.”

Now the mothers of many of the oriental girls working in Asian ports were happy their daughters had found a sailor boyfriend.  Often time these relationships meant the family could eat more often.  But we are talking stateside here.  The girls on the far side of the Pacific are for another story.

By commercial lovemaking, I am not talking the pimp sponsored whores, or the, “My husband is at sea this week” hobby whores. I am speaking about the barmaid or the country girl in from the Central Valley or from Nebraska looking for something she couldn’t find on the farm.  The girl who would drop her drawers when she needed a few bucks to make the rent payment.  The girl who would sometimes give you a “freebie” just because she liked you.

“Hey Dave, I have a special tonight.  Fifteen bucks just for you. Can we go to your place, that Snake Ranch you call it?  My roommate’s boyfriend is in for the weekend, and I gotta find some place to stay.  The fifteen is good for the weekend.

They weren’t sophisticated or ladylike, but any history of the Navy that didn’t include their contribution to the Cold War victory would be seriously flawed.   Anyone compiling such a history missed a beautiful part of the service or is a despicable hypocrite.

They dressed in the J.C. Penny’s or Sear’s sale fashions with black bra and panties and would sometimes give you a quick tantalizing peek as part of their sales pitch.

Their names were “Peggy,” “Penny,” “Helen,” or “Dixie.”  We bought them beer, gave them jukebox coins, and danced with them.  We told them our tales, necked a little, and fondled them a bit.  They took us in like stray cats.

They weren’t old mercenary whores who had become cynical and heartless.  They were full of life, bouncy kids who really liked the idiots they encountered in the “Sailor Bars.”  They would hang around a short while, un-laundry until they accumulated enough money for their dream and then move on to a normal life.

They knocked the edge off being a single WestPac sailor in a stateside port.  They provided warmth and taught you the value of female companionship.  Sometimes, right before you fall asleep, you will recall one of them and wonder.  You may not remember their names, but you remember what it felt like for a young sailor to shrug off the loneliness for a while.

Girls, I sincerely hope you found that which you were looking for and that your life was as good as you made it for us.  You are a part of our screwball history.

Amateur Professional Girls, a crucial part of a young sailor’s history.  An excellent part.


My Birthday Present

My Birthday Present

By: Lee Thayer


This Happened 13 years ago (before I met my current wife!), it was confirmed my first wife was cheating on me. I went to my boss at work and showed him the chain of emails on how I solved the problem (I am a Chief, I solve problems, not bitch about them).

He looked at me and said, “Chief, you need 2 weeks leave to go whoring?” I said, “that would be perfect, sir.” Boss said ok, I will give you basket leave, you show me a flight schedule and it is done.” I said, “Roger that.”

Next day I handed the boss my flight itinerary and leave chit, and he said approved. I was on my way.

I was headed to Phuket to stay at a Shipmate’s house in a village, I told him what happened, and he had a lady lined up for me. This friend was a bar owner, but his establishment was being remodeled so we could not spend time there. And the powers to be delayed his place opening on what happened on my birthday.

My friend said fuck it, he will have a BBQ at his house in the village for his bar girl staff, him and his girlfriend, and me and my new friend, who was one of his bar girls. Yes, my friend had a gogo bar, his girls, I called them ladies, knew what they were doing.

I had been with the new lady friend for a few days, and everything was good. On the day of the BBQ, the lady that was with me, gets up to get a drink or something, and another girl sits down next to me, my lady comes over and says “she is your birthday present from me.” Ok, don’t have to ask me twice. And I knew these two got along well together! I will call the new girl the young one (about 20-21 years old) and the girl I had been with the old one (about 30 years old, had a child, experienced).

The party is winding down, I take the girls to the house, and we head for the shower together, they knew where the towels were. We finish up in the shower and head for the bedroom. A fabulous time was had by all.

Sometime between midnight and 0300, I got up and told the girls I have to go outside and smoke, the girls follow, we are all dressed in only towels. This on the front patio of my friend’s house.

Well, I am sitting on the steps to the patio about a step below them, I lift open the towel of the young one, and you can think of that yourself, then the old one scoots her chair over, same treatment. And back and forth and so on with. Well, I am near rock hard solid, so I stand up, holding my towel and adjust but they can see. The young one goes over to the seating area on the patio and bends over. I do a quick left and right peek, no one out at 0300, and next thing you know, I drop my towel, and I am banging that like a screen door in a thunderstorm. The older girl says she will wait for us in bed. We finish shower together, and back in the bed. We all fall asleep.

In the morning, it is sunrise, and I see the older girl head to the shower, so I cuddled up with the young girl, and you get the picture, 10 minutes later, in walks, the older girl, I and the younger girl continued on. We showered together afterward, Then the older girl told me no more see her as I gave too much attention to her friend, I said I was just having fun with my birthday gift.

I had plenty after that.



The Backseat of a ’58 De Soto

The Backseat of a ’58 De Soto

By:  Garland Davis

A shipmate put a post on FaceBook this morning that reminded me of an incident that happened when I was a young newly minted Second Class Petty Officer.  This is his story:

“Bos’n gonna Bark a true memory. So, this is no shit. Met a way pretty girl in San Diego. Picked her up at her home. Did the HI MOM N DADDY thing. Got in the vehicle and started out. Her Mom must have given lots of advice knowing her daughter was going out with a Sailor. About half a block from her house she gave me a serious look. I said, ‘what?’ She said, ‘if you think you are gonna get any tonight, it’s not gonna happen.’ I turned right at the next block, not saying a word. Turned right again she asks, ‘what are you doing??’ I said, ‘taking you home.’ She says, ‘why?’ I said, ‘well if I’m not gonna get any why waste time.’ She says, ‘what’s my Mom gonna say?’ I said, ‘tell her I tried to get some but since you aren’t gonna put out I took you home. She will be so proud of you.’ Slams the door, pissed, she got out of my vehicle. A month later she calls me on the ship. Sailor Boy still smiling! Bos’n.”

My story:

I was on leave in North Carolina in early 1964.  My mother told me that an elderly aunt in the next county wanted me to come visit her.  She was living in a nursing home.  She asked that I wear my uniform.  So, I broke out the dress blues and took my mother’s car, a ‘58 De Soto, (hated that big bus of a car then, but would give my left nut to have it now) and drove over to see her.  She had been a school teacher and was an intelligent and engaging lady, I spent a pleasant two hours talking with her.

After leaving the nursing home, I stopped at a restaurant I had once worked at.  I had a sandwich and was sitting at the counter drinking coffee and talking with the owner, telling him stories of Westpac and liberty in the Asian ports.  I could tell by the look on his face that he thought I was bullshitting him.

It was around eight or nine when three girls came in and went to a booth.  They were probably my age, nineteen or twenty.  I recognized one of them.  I raised my hand to her and said, “Hi, Sandy.”

The waitress took their order, and the owner went to the griddle to prepare their food. I walked behind the counter and refilled my coffee cup and resumed my seat.  The girl I had spoken to suddenly sat down on the stool beside me and asked, “Do I know you?”

I told her my name, and said, “We were both in Mrs. Langley’s Latin class for two years.”

She said, “I remember you now.  You graduated early.  I sometimes wondered what happened to you.”

I spread my arms and indicated my uniform, “Not hard to figure now.”

The restaurant owner asked her if she would like to eat at the counter.  She nodded yes and stayed with me.  We had talked for about a half hour when one of her friends came over and said, “Sandy we have to go.”

Sandy replied to her, “Go ahead.” And then asked me, “You can give a ride, can’t you?”

“Of course, I answered.”

We left the restaurant.  When we reached the car, I queried, “You don’t really want to go home do you?”

She said, “Not really. Let’s go someplace and talk.”

I told her, “I think I’ll stop someplace and get something to drink.”

She excitedly asked, “Liquor?”

“No, I am not old enough to buy hard stuff, only beer, and wine. But, if you would like some liquor, I know where I can get a bottle.”

“No,” she said, “I don’t like the taste of beer or liquor, but I had a drink of some strawberry wine once that I liked.

Being a connoisseur of cheap wines, I was off in a flash to find some Strawberry Hill.  I found a store that sold beer and wine and grabbed three or four bottles of the strawberry nectar and some Dixie cups.  Away we went to a park by the river. We had a few drinks of the wine and were going at it hot and heavy.  She was willing but very inexperienced.  This was going to be a teaching experience.  After the first time in the back seat of that old De Soto, I told her that I was going to take us to a hotel and get a room.   She agreed.  As we were leaving the riverside park, a sheriff’s deputy was pulling in to harass the people parked there.  Sandy waved at him.  We both laughed as she tried to climb into my lap.

We didn’t sleep that night in the hotel. We spent it exploring each other’s bodies and new sensations.  I taught her the meaning of a couple of Latin words that Mrs. Langley hadn’t bothered to bring to our attention.

When I took Sandy home at eight the next morning, her mother came onto the porch as the car pulled into the drive.  As I stepped from the car, Sandy came around to my side and to kiss me goodbye. We made a date for the evening, she was a sophomore at Wake Forest and had a nine o’clock class. Otherwise, we would probably have stayed at the hotel.

I laughed on the way home at the look of horror on her mother’s face when she saw the blue uniform.

For the next two weeks of my leave, I spent the days Sandy was in school with my mom. Sandy and I spent the nights and weekends fucking each other’s brains out.  But all good things must come to an end.  I had orders to Japan and had to catch a flight to Atlanta and on to San Francisco and then from Travis to Yokota AFB in Japan.

Sandy came to the airport to see me off. She kissed me, looked me in the eyes and said, “I’ll never see you again, will I?”

“Probably not,” I answered.

She smiled, waved and walked away.  I often wonder, who was using who.  If she is still living, she will be in her seventies now. Does she still think upon that two-week interlude as I do?  One of the great experiences of becoming an adult.

For years, afterward, every time I thought of that old ‘58 De Soto, my dick got hard.



Little Eddie’s Girls

Little Eddie’s Girls

By:  Garland Davis


“You know, that boy couldn’t make out in a whore house with a pocket full of fuck chits.”  I am sure we have all heard this said about someone we know to whom it applies.  An inept individual who alienates women just by existing.

Little Eddie was just the opposite.  Eddie was just under five feet tall.  He confessed to me once that he had a growth spurt in boot camp. Eddie told me that his recruiter fed him six pounds of bananas and a half gallon of water before his physical just so he could make the minimum weight requirements.  He said he didn’t shit for a week afterward.

Eddie’s child’s body and cherubic face brought out the maternal instinct in women.  Even the most mercenary, hard-hearted whore just wanted to mother him.  Eddie was offered more pussy by accident that the rest of us could buy on purpose.  The biggest problem Eddie had was his taste in women.  If there was a woman in the group who had the body and mass of an offensive tackle that was the one he would take out for the night.  Kinda like the rest of us would settle for a less attractive woman if we couldn’t make it with a prettier one, Eddie would take a more feminine girl if he couldn’t find one with a body like Shaq’s.

I served in two different ships with Eddie.  We were both First Class Petty Officers in an old Forrest Sherman Destroyer and a couple years later CPO’s in a Tanker.  I was a cook and Eddie was a radioman.  We were both single and prowling the CPO Club and bars of Honolulu and various WestPac ports.  I partnered with Eddie because he would attract the women and I could hopefully make out by consoling the more attractive ones that he passed over for the wide bodies.

Back in the day, Honolulu had a Triple A Baseball Team.  Eddie and I were avid baseball fans and attended many of the home games.  By the third inning, we would have a gaggle of females around us.  The old Honolulu Stadium bleachers were prime recruiting grounds for available women.

It was embarrassing at times when people would mistake Little Eddie for my brother or my son when we were in civilian clothes.  I have seen bartenders and barmaids card him and still refuse to serve him, claiming that his ID had to be a fake.  We often wore our uniforms when out carousing just to avoid the confusion over his identification.

Once in Kaohsiung, Taiwan, a pretty, no she was beautiful, bar girl fell in love with Eddie.  Every time he went ashore, she stalked him.  Every time he gave her the slip, we would tell her where he was.  She once invaded the hotel room where he was being entertained by one of his “Eddie’s Pretty Girls” as we called them.   The last time I saw her she was crying, asking, “I more pretty than her, why he no like me?”

I ran into Eddie a few years after we both retired.  He introduced me to his wife.  True to form, Eddie had married a woman who looked as if she could carry him around under her arm and burp him over her shoulder after breastfeeding.  The way Eddie beamed at her, he appeared to be as happy as a pig in a mud hole.


I Win

I Win

By:  Garland Davis


In restless dreams, I walk alone,

Through P.I. streets of mud and stone,

Beneath the halo of a neon lamp,

I duck into the bar out of the wind and damp,

She takes my hand and leads me in,

She brings cold beer with a smile, I win,