No one from our small east coast town had any idea one of our classmates would be coming home on military leave to attend our belated fifth year high school class reunion. Having come all the way across the Pacific Ocean from the Indian Ocean and immediately fly home across the United States this classmate easily won the gag gift for traveling the longest distance to attend our reunion. A whirlwind courtship followed his unexpected return for our class reunion and the weekend before the end of his month vacation we were married.
Completing five years of sea duty my new husband's shore assignment for the next two years was only one and a half hours driving time away from home. Even though now married, except for three weekends a month my life changed very little. I still lived at home with my parents, worked at the same job since high school, attended night classes and hung out with friends on the one weekend each month my husband had to remain at the base.
Rotating back to sea duty he opted to return aboard ship on the west coast. This would be my first time away from family and life-long friends. Finally we were able to enjoy a real honeymoon while driving across the United States to the military base.
We found a reasonably priced apartment complex catering to transient military families. The wives arrived and departed too quickly to form any significant friendships. I was shocked and dismayed wife swapping seemed so prevalent after noticing several wives and their husbands leaving weekend parties with someone else's spouse.
Knowing very little about military life the base family service was a big help. The center's orientation program emphasized monetary savings at the base department store (exchange), grocery store (commissary) and gas station in comparison to shopping on the local economy. Marrying a rapidly promoted enlisted combat veteran put us near the top of the base quarters waiting list.
Even though married almost three years, I still felt like a deliriously happy newlywed moving into base housing. Six months after the arriving on the west coast I found myself facing the unwelcome prospect of our idyllic life being interrupted. My husband's ship leaving for at least nine month and possibly longer deployment to the Western Pacific and Indian Oceans tempered my wedded bliss. Leaving me alone far away from home and life-long friends I had always hung out with I couldn't help wondering whether or not marriage with a career military man was a mistake.
It didn't take long after my husband was gone to realize I had too much free time on my hands. Attending a Family Services Center seminar designed to assist displaced wives in transferring acquired work skills motivated me to apply for civil service job openings on the base. Since boredom was eating me alive from the inside out I completed and submitted the cumbersome federal civil service application.
Within a month I was interviewed for a clerk position at the base administration office and a week later was offered an entry-level position. Male and female military and civil service personnel staffed the offices. The division director was nearing retirement and my immediate mentor was also a military wife.
Boring days were a thing of the past. However, I absolutely hated sleeping in an empty bed every night instead of once every four nights. Each lonely night I fitfully tossed and turned in that empty bed too well aware of the irony that I was an attractive blonde living without intimate companionship on a military base among so many physically fit men.
Not having been sexually promiscuous before marriage my naiveté enabled me to remain aloof with sailors coming to our office for assistance. My mentor, Debbie, couldn't believe I seemed unaware of them checking me out. Likewise outside of work I habitually ignored lecherous sailor's lewd and crude comments.
A few weeks before my husband's return Debbie invited me to the base Acey-Duecy Club. We were celebrating her husband's last night as a First Class Petty Officer. His promotion to Chief was bitter sweet due to being transferred aboard one the ships in the carrier battle group scheduled to relieve my husband's group.
My married co-worker's husband's ship left two weeks later. Four days later Debbie surprisingly suggested we go to Happy Hour at the Acey-Duecy Club. Naively I failed to consider how much attention two unescorted, attractive women would attract in a club full of senior petty officers.
While I habitually ignored lecherous sailor's hitting one me, I admired the much more experienced Debbie fending off many sailor's overtures. Much to my chagrin Debbie outwardly seemed unruffled by flirtatious black sailors hitting on us at our table. Upon realizing my discomfort, she leaned over and asked me, "Why make yourself miserable ignoring them?"
Interrupting my feeble, "but we're married" response, she countered with, "Openly bantering with black sailors keeps white wolves unwanted attention at bay." Seeing my confusion Debbie astonishingly clarified, "Especially since white wives with black men is such a forbidden taboo, what's wrong with letting white men wondering about whether black men are bigger and better is myth or truth work for us?" Imagine my shock upon Debbie suggesting, "I'm willing to bet you'll not be able to help getting really turned on by incomparably well-hung black sailors sooner than you think!"
My initial impulse was to get away from Debbie and leave the club. Although astounded by her audacity, it just wasn't in my upbringing to be so rude. For the rest of that first night together at the Acey-Duecy Club I quietly observed her provocative interactions with several black men stopping by our table.
Not yet establishing a close relationship with any new neighbors left me unable to confide the unnerving concerns over the blatantly sexual interest shown toward Debbie and me by black sailors at the Acey-Duecy Club. Having been raised in a predominantly white rural setting I was equally unable to discuss their unwanted attention with friends back home during calls.
Throughout the next week I equivocated back and forth over whether or not to go to another Happy Hour with Debbie. Yet when the Friday afternoon invitation came, I didn't think twice about accepting. Having become familiar the prior week with what to expect, I found myself being congenial whenever she introduced me to a few of the black sailors stopping by to chat.
By the third Friday I cautiously bantered with a few black sailors whom I remembered being introduced to the prior week. The presence of a live band helped encourage me to accept invitations to dance fast numbers with some of the black men. However, with my mind on my husband's return the next week I declined every request for a slow dance and left the club before the closing set of three slow numbers.
Months of long, fitful nights alone in bed were over as I saw my husband coming down the gangway onto the pier. With my husband home we resumed our normal passionate sex three out of every four nights and three weekends each month. Ten months later my husband's battle group received deployment orders.
All too soon my husband's ship was ready to leave. With a saddened heart I once again stood on the pier. I couldn't hold back the tears of despondency as I watched his ship until it was a haze gray speck on the horizon.
Even though Debbie tried hard to console me, I couldn't help being bitter knowing within a month her husband would be home. Neither of us had any qualms about going to Friday evening's Happy Hour reprieve at the Acey-Duecy Club. Not only did I enjoyably fast dance, but also the occasional inadvertent pubic contact, at least on my part, while slow dancing with obviously very well hung black sailors seemed to indicate black men are bigger and I couldn't resist wondering whether or not bigger is better.
Slow dancing more often the next Friday evening assured me Debbie was truthful about black men being better hung than any white man with whom I had been sexually familiar including my husband. Just like my husband's prior deployment I fitfully tossed and turned in the lonely bed each night. Only that weekend and every night thereafter I couldn't seem to resist increasingly fantasizing about sailors with big black cocks.
During a lunch break at work a month after my husband's departure I admitted to my mentor and co-worker she had won her bet. Unsure of what I meant, I reminded Debbie last year she had told me, "I'll not be able to help getting really turned on by black sailors being so well-hung sooner than I think." The very next day at lunch Debbie presented me with a beautifully gift-wrapped present instructing me not to open her special gift until I got home that night.
For the remaining months of my husband's deployment my sexual arousal steadily increased anticipating Friday's Happy Hour at the Acey-Duecy Club. Provocatively I tightly pressed my pubic mound to every black slow dance partner's unmistakably big cock bulge. Afterward I went home alone to salaciously enjoy Debbie's beautifully gift-wrapped nine-inch black dildo not only ecstatically alleviating my sexual frustration, but also steadily eradicating any remaining inculcated racial prejudice.
Never having actually forsaken our marital vows for those long months I was elated to see my husband coming down the gangway onto the pier. Operational demands on the Pacific fleet necessitating unusually long in port working hours, including Saturdays more often than not, were not the only devastating news for our reunion. Because I loved my husband, and that's what counts, our marital sex should have been as good as before this last deployment.
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