Ainsworth stopped at the front of the bus and shouted more instructions. "When I step off this bus, I don't want to hear the sound of anything but wind sucking in, filling the vacuum that you just left, and the thunder of your hooves hitting those yellow footprints painted out there on the concrete. You got that?"
"SIR, YES SIR."
Ainsworth hollered. "Get moving, MAGGOTS!"
Two additional Drill Instructors from hell were waiting outside the bus. As we jumped out, they herded us into position on the yellow footprints, forcing us into a unit formation. Martinez, the cowboy, the Asian, and the black dude stuck close to me and Remington. The Cowboy always positioned himself on my rear guard.
The Drill Instructors were terrifying.
The black dude looked to his left and right, only to have a Drill Instructor begin a savage verbal assault. He stood eyeball to eyeball and yelled a barrage of detailed instructions, making it clear that the only thing the recruits should be doing was listening to the Drill Instructor at the front of the formation.
The skinny Asian recruit scratched his cheek. Two Drill Instructors attacked. They issued conflicting orders. They called him names. By the end of their tongue lashing, the Asian was visibly shaken and nearly in tears.
Whenever the Drill Instructors were bestowing their attention on fumbling recruits, The Cowboy took advantage of their distraction to have a little fun at my expense.
As we stood at rigid attention, trying very hard NOT to call attention to ourselves, from my rear I felt someone sticking his finger between my legs. Somebody goosed my puckered ass. It almost knocked me off balance.
When it felt safe to steal a glance behind me, I saw The Cowboy standing somberly and staring straight ahead. The mischievous twinkle in his eyes told the tale. With my hands clenched beside my hips, I aimed a fist in his direction. Though he remained at attention, his lips curled slightly upward, like a cat enjoying cream.
The Drill Instructors continued their harangue, calling the recruits Maggots and Scumbags and Sissies.
They herded us like cattle. If a recruit stumbled or fumbled, he was singled out for special attention.
Nobody wanted the attention lavished by those shouting Drill Instructors (D.I.'s).
One D.I. would tell a recruit to face left while another D.I. would tell the same recruit at the same time to face right. Caught in a double-bind, the recruit was in a no-win situation that got his ass chewed no matter which way he turned.
Remington and I escaped this initial verbal abuse because all the shouting and the hubbub didn't phase us. In the coming weeks, we would discover that our emotional immunity to chaos had earned us the respect and reverence of our fellow recruits.
For my part, I felt at home in Boot Camp, having grown up in a military academy surrounded by shouting drill sergeants and abusive elders. I had learned early in life that men in battle must have an emotional temperament that accepts chaos and confusion as normative.
For example, the point behind a Drill Instructors' conflicting demands, No-Win Scenario, is that you make a decision, stick with it, and follow through. Which decision you make is not as important as your ability to stick with it. In some cases, especially with Drill Instructors, trying can be more important than succeeding.
Remington survived the initial chaos and confusion of Boot Camp because he enjoyed the challenge. It was a controlled game. From what he had explained to me during our flight from Dallas, Remington's childhood had more than prepared him for Marine Boot Camp.
A recent immigrant to the U.S., Remington had grown up in Bosnia during their Civil War. He was a new U.S. citizen of Italian-Slavic descent. The conditions, the food, the housing and the facilities of USMC Boot Camp were far better than what he'd had in war-torn Bosnia.
That first night they gave us a web belt, a pair of tennis shoes, a green utility cap, jacket and trousers, a large white T-shirt, a pair of white jockey shorts, green wool socks, a blue plastic soap dish, a bar of soap, a toothbrush holder, a can of shaving cream, a razor, a tube of toothpaste, a pair of rubber thongs that the Marines call shower shoes, a pair of gray shorts, a sweatshirt with the Marine Corps emblem, a green canvas seabag with a wide strap that clipped through a ring at the top, a bucket, two sheets, a pillow and a blanket.
As we moved through the line receiving our gear, the playful cowboy stayed close behind me. Whenever the Drill Instructors turned their backs, the impish prankster seized the opportunities to launch sneak attacks by punching me in the arm or shoving me forward into other recruits in the line. Boys will be boys.
Needless to say, I retaliated.
Since we were not permitted to speak, the clandestine punching and shoving became a silent game between us as we moved through processing. The goal of the game was to knock each other off balance and return to attention before the D.I. saw us.
Our stealthy game under the noses of the D.I.'s provided a source of entertainment for the other beleaguered recruits. I guess you could say that small minds, big dicks, are easily amused.
We got to the barracks about 4 a.m.
The tall cowboy tried to push me down. This time, the humor in his eyes said, "You're my punk."
When the whip-dick tried to shove me onto a bunk, I resisted.
Clad only in our white jockey shorts, we grappled.
This time, unaware of our game, the Drill Instructors noticed our wrestling match. Thinking that we were actually fighting over a rack, the D.I.'s smirked and watched the tussle over which recruit would be boss.
The tall cowboy tried to use his height and his long legs against me.
"You're going down, boooy," he said, imitating Ainsworth's voice.
The recruits and the D.I.'s, except Ainsworth, laughed.
"Fat chance, stinky shitkicker," I said, imitating Lowry and his friends.
Lowry and his pals gathered in a semicircle to watch the cowboy conquer his punk.
"Look," Lowry sneered to Jennings and Johnson, "two limp-dick sad-sacks are fighting for the King of the Mountain."
Jennings and Brad Johnson laughed.
Remington, Martinez, and the Asian rooted for my rival. The black dude rooted for me.
The Cowboy and I were too busy wrestling to pay attention to the catcalls.
We flexed our muscles against each other.
Though The Cowboy was taller, I was stronger and tougher.
As our arms battled in a contest of strength, my shoulders and biceps gained control.
His face showed his sudden consternation. I felt my erection getting harder.
The tall Texas cowboy couldn't believe that a smaller dude was overpowering his well-developed upper body.
As he exerted more effort, he grunted. "Tough-ass little muscleboy."
I took him partially down to the concrete floor of the barracks and whipped him into a headlock. I had him on his knees.
I smarted off confidently. "You can't take me, Cowboy."
When The Cowboy struggled to get to his feet, I flexed my biceps and made a peaked muscle against his cowboy noggin.
When I flexed, Martinez whistled.
I heard Martinez remark to Remington, "He's a fucking SuperKid. Look at the size of his arm muscles!"
Observing my prominent biceps, some of Lowry's bunch were cheering for the shitkicker to punch me.
"Hit him in the stomach!" Jennings shouted. "Don't let him beat you with those SuperKid arms!"
The cowboy tried to get tough. He was trying to stand up.
I tormented his head with my bicep prowess and taunted him, "These muscles have whipped full grown men."
I pumped my muscles into a knotted bunch of bristling he-man biceps and put some SuperKid-whip on his head.
His face turned a shade of purple. He drooped and his legs sagged.
He began to lose his whip-dick attitude as his strength flagged. The erection in his jockey shorts weakened and slouched.
He tried to punch my gut, but I leaned into my headlock and powered him down.
My penis swelled with power as I curled my muscles around his head and pressured him back to his knees. I was sapping his energy and slowly dropping him completely to the floor.
Jennings shouted at the sagging cowboy. "Punch the muscleboy! Use your fist!"
When The Cowboy tried to slug me again, I caught his arm and tucked it tight inside my headlock.
I rolled him down to the concrete floor like a steer wrestler controls a calf.
I lay across his chest, squeezing his head, controlling his neck and arm while pinning him to the concrete.
I let him know who was boss.
"You'll never break my headlock," I grunted confidently.
The cocky cowboy was trapped under the power of my arm and shoulder strength.
His long legs kicked as he struggled to roll back to his knees.
My upper body tensed and flexed. I held on tenaciously.
I leaned back and squashed his head with a brutal squeeze.
In a move of desperation, The Cowboy used his free hand to try to gouge my eye.
Knowing that he was getting desperate made my dick harder.
The championship cowboy was feeling embarrassed that a smaller dude was holding him under control.
"You give it up?" I asked him.
"No," he growled.
I rubbed his face into my sweaty armpit.
He kicked his legs some more.
Lowry shouted. "Pinch those damn muscles off his arms!"
The Cowboy's free hand clutched at my bicep. He tried to pinch the solid mounds of muscle on my upper arm. For all the effect it had, his fingers might as well have been squeezing cold steel.
I pumped my biceps harder and worked him over real good.
"Fuck," he muttered, kicking his legs again.
Since he'd started the fight by provoking me during processing, and since he was being stubborn, I folded his muley cowboy ass into a cradle.
While he was kicking, I caught his legs and pulled his knees up to meet his resolute chin.
When I had my hands locked tightly together, I squeezed with all my might.
On one side, I was pulling his neck and head forward to make his chin touch his chest. On the other side, I was pulling his knees across his chest to touch his chin.
He grimaced as the muscles in his neck, back, and hamstrings stretched to their limit.
"You give it up?" I asked him.
Inside his white jockey shorts, his whip-dick was turning into a tiny pile of loose skin.
My arms and shoulders cradled his appendages tight enough to make his muscles cramp.
I was squeezing the fuck out of the tough, cocky Cowboy, coiling him so tight that he couldn't draw a breath.
His chest turned red. His face turned purpler.
"Who's the King of the Mountain?" I asked him.
"You are," he groaned.
I folded him tighter and asked him, "You ready to quit, Cowboy?"
"Yes," he moaned. "I quit, SuperKid. You got me."
Because of my biceps and upper body definition, the nickname "SuperKid" stuck to me.
I let him go and jumped to my feet, ready to rock and roll again.
The Texas Longhorn lay on the floor like a limp noodle, sucking air, his skin splotchy red.
When I saw that I'd whipped the fight out of him, I relaxed a bit and offered to shake hands.
His name was Phil Steadman.
Steadman was a good sport.
As we shook hands, I saw his eyes drop curiously toward the expanded erection punching against my underwear.
I fingered my big dick, flexed my jutting biceps into peaks, and said, "Anytime, Cowboy."
For Steadman, "anytime" meant all the time.
From that night forward, he was prone to jump me anytime, anywhere, in a sneak attack.
We wrestled in the barracks, in the gym, in the Men's Room, on the obstacle course, on the Rifle Range, and any place else where we had an idle moment. I know what you're wanting to ask. The answer is no, I didn't always win.
Steadman became one of my best friends in the Marine Corps. We confided things to each other. He would sometimes tell me about his relationship with his wife. I would sometimes talk to him about my growing relationship with Remington.
We got to bed at 4:30 a.m. and an hour later a Drill Instructor rousted us for our first day.
did ya like that dude?
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then click here for episode 3 of BOOT CAMP and remember
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