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All the Nice Boys Love a Sailor

All the Nice Boys Love a Sailor

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All the Nice Boys Love a Sailor

211 pagine
3 ore
Jul 22, 2012


Being friendly, James and I saw a lot of each other over the next few months, on board and most afternoons in the Fleet Club where we drank beer, sometimes alone, sometimes with Will and Fred. They both found James beguiling, and would have crawled into his bed in a trice, had he been available and living in the Barracks. Male to male sex in the British Navy was illegal, yet Ryan manages to find adventures and secret meeting with his mates on and off his ship.
Jul 22, 2012

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All the Nice Boys Love a Sailor - James Orr

All the Nice Boys Love a Sailor

All the Nice Boys Love a Sailor


James Orr


All the nice boys love a sailor

James Orr

Text by James Orr, Copyright ©2012

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happenings.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication can be reproduced stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publishers and/or author.

While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibilities for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of information contained herein.

Book design by Sabaijai Designs


For Sam

Chapter One

Gibraltar at least that part of it that I would eventually come to know so well, was a culture shock to say the least. Unlike Newcastle, where all one had to do was wait an hour or so and the weather would change, from sunny, to rain, to sleet to a raging blizzard, Gibraltar was perfect. The sun shone almost every day, there was a breeze from the sea and life was laid back and easy.

The people too, seemed to have a different mind-set. What was the point of working when the sun was shining, and the beaches beckoned? Every afternoon it seemed that the people would forget the cares of the work place to throng the long, pristine, sandy beaches, to sun, to make out, and occasionally, to swim.

My favourite nude beach was a narrow strip near Estapona, about 15 miles from Gibraltar. Estapona conserves the essence of a typical Andalusian village with old constructions, like the San Luis Castle, built during the 16th century or the Clock Tower, from the 15th century and of Arabic origin.

Estepona’s old quarter was characterised by its narrow streets that still maintain the original route from the 18th century, although many of its buildings are from before that time.

On the beach, bathing suits, or clothing of any description was optional. I would sit for hours, usually on a Friday afternoon, when all the sailors, or so it seemed, partook of the hedonistic delights of Estapona, where bars and clubs catering to every taste flourished and never seemed to close.

Inhibitions seemed to be abandoned as the plane flew over the Rock of Gibraltar and boys, who had never dreamed of appearing naked in public, would saunter on to the beach, drop shorts, and let everything they owned hang out. They would sprawl on blankets, soaking up the sun, and think nothing of gently fondling sun tan oil onto their most private parts in full view of anyone looking, and more than one one-eyed monster stood proudly toward the ever shining sun.

The beach was a voyeur's paradise, and being a voyeur of long standing I enjoyed myself every weekend.

Another aspect of Estapona was the free and easy lifestyle. Sex in all its forms was available, with no one raising an eyebrow.

At night the streets became one huge meat market and the neighbours complained about the orgasmic moans that emanated from dark shadowy alcoves.

To me, fresh, more or less, from the free-wheeling fleshpots of Newcastle it was a welcome haven from stodgy Sunderland, and even Whitley Bay, where they rolled up the pavements at midnight, women peed in the street, threw up or lifted up their short skirts to reveal that they wore nothing underneath.

I arrived in Gibraltar in late September, stepping down from the British Airways flight into the sunshine of a glorious afternoon, a new man, and a wiser man and still unsteady from the stay in hospital.

As I waited for the shuttle I noticed that there were very few service men or women loitering about waiting for their flight out of Gibraltar. That in itself was not surprising, for the Summer Training period was over for the year and the winter one was just starting.

Gibraltar dockyard was operated as a commercial facility by Bibcock, although there was still a Royal Navy presence, which provided a maintenance capability. Gibraltar's naval docks were an important base for NATO. British and US nuclear submarines frequently visited the Z berths there.

Z berth provided the facility for nuclear submarines to visit for operational or recreational purposes, and for non-nuclear repairs.

There was also a training base, primarily for Reservists from April to the end of August each year. I would become in a very short time a very insignificant cog in the training program.

I had been assigned to the Small Boats, a squadron of three ancient, but sturdy Vessels, that provided the main sea training platform for the Reserves.

There was a sister unit in Portsmouth that trained Reservists so I was more or less familiar with the routine that I would follow for the next year and a half or so.

The flight from London to Gibraltar took less than three hours. My transfer turned up driven by an overweight and grumpy corporal who took exception to having to work after four o’clock, his normal quitting time.

As a certified ‘veteran’ I was not about to take his crap, and being just as grumpy, I exercised my command authority by tearing a strip off his fat arse and had him drive me to a nearby hotel where I booked a room for the night.

I knew that it was late in the day and that all the offices I would need to visit to do my enrolment had secured for the day and I was not about to spend time carrying my kit bag around to empty, locked offices.

I also knew that the next day, Friday, would be a short working day for the clerks who would stamp and initial my papers. This was the beautiful Mediterranean and nobody worked on a Friday afternoon if they could help it.

Being an old hand I figured I could parlay the enrolment into three or four pleasant days of inactivity, or as close to it as I could get.

The next morning I took a cab to the Dockyard, the sprawling naval base filled with Victorian buildings, trees and sailors. I checked in at the Headquarters Building, and began my trek.

In the Ship's Office I was handed an Check List, printed double sides, I would have to have every box checked, stamped and initialled before I could officially move in.

I looked at the list and nodded to myself. That was going to be fun.

From the office I went to the Pay Office where I handed in my pay records and settled down to have my Route Letter audited. This was a multi-page document wherein one listed one's reimbursable expenses. Every item listed was automatically doubted and more often than not a great deal of haggling, and not a little shouting, was involved before the Pay Master reluctantly handed over a penny.

Visiting only two offices took four hours and I finished with the pay people shortly before noon. Knowing that the other offices would close for lunch I walked around for a bit and then headed out to the Fleet Club, which offered beer and a sandwich for a pound on Fridays.

I dawdled, inspecting the local talent, and returned to the Dockyard where I managed to catch the Accommodation Clerk just before he closed down for the weekend.

I was assigned a room in The Barracks, a huge, rambling, Victorian structure and given a meal card. That took all of ten minutes tops, as the clerk was concerned he was working on his own time, and not the Navy's.

Knowing the futility of visiting the other offices, I returned to the Fleet Club, had another beer, watched two idiots pretending to be ordinary Joes and then took a cab back to the hotel where I took my meds and basically slept the weekend away.

Monday I returned to the Dockyard and meandered around, visiting stores and Sick Bay, amongst other places, and then grabbed a shuttle bus down to the jetties where I took a look at the ship where I would spend much of my time for the next year or so.

I was not surprised to find the ship, HMS Pope, deserted and locked tight. The training season was over and the crew apparently had better things to do than stand by the ship.

I moved into The Barracks, my new home, and met my roommates. The room I was assigned was large, sunny, and had a delightful view of a leafy garden and across to the School of Music, which we called the School of Wind, which was all but hidden by the trees.

The room on the third floor slept four. It was clean, and everything was as neat as a pin, it had to be, as the living spaces were inspected every Friday morning by the Executive Officer and the Base Chief Warrant Officer.

I had a bed, a desk, and a large wooden locker to keep my uniforms and possessions in. I noticed that my roommates had been there quite some time as there was also a television set, and a stereo, and two book cases filled with what passed for light reading, lurid novels and wanking books for the most part.

My roommates were an eclectic trio. First there were Will and Fred. They were both born and raised in Cumbria. They were both blonde, both slim, and very solicitous of each other. They were alike as two peas in a pod, with the same peaches and cream complexions, the same mannerisms and even the same dicks. They were not related but they had grown up together, and were the best of friends.

They had joined the Navy together, and gone through the usual trials and tribulations. They were Boatswains, and assigned to one of the yard boats that provided a taxi service between the jetties, maids of all work that trundled around officiously.

Quite good looking, Will and Fred were hardly poster boys for the British Navy. They looked good, they kept their uniforms clean and their boots polished. They also drank like fish and I never saw them do a stroke of work.

They would get up in the morning, admire each other slavishly, comment on each other's morning wood, which pushed out the front of their tight whites, which was the only underpants they wore, and then go off to shave and shower. If they were lovers I never saw them do anything really outrageous in the room, and there were no catcalls about ‘queers’ or ‘faggots’ following them when they walked down the street.

The strangest thing I knew about them was that when one or the other needed to use the toilets, they both would go. If it was Will, Fred would help him, lowering the front of his underwear and all but wiping the pink knob of Will's circumcised penis when he was finished. If it was Fred, Will would perform the same service, although he would gently shake the last drop from Tommy's nearly duplicate penis.

They were strange guys and I often wondered why they didn't just throw each other onto the deck and have wild, animal sex and have done with it!

The third guy was called Monty by everyone. How he acquired his nickname I never knew. He stood six foot four, weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds, and had one tooth missing at the front. He had a strong, muscular body, which he enjoyed showing off nightly.

He would return from the Fleet Diving Unit, where he maintained the respirators and whatever the divers used, and strip down to his briefs. If he was in the mood he would lie on his bed and gently masturbate, the pink, sculpted head of his penis poking above the waistband of his whites. He would grunt his way to orgasm, squirting all over the fine, gold coloured hair that covered his body from his navel on down, grin, and then lumber off to the showers.

Why Mongoose felt it necessary to advertise his upper deck fittings was intriguing because, quite frankly, he did not have all that much to show.

For such a big guy he could muster, on a good day, about six and a half inches. He would however, show it off to anyone who walked into the room. Why he masturbated I also found somewhat intriguing. He was a Swordsman, First Class, and cut quite a swathe amongst the Fishing Fleet at the Fleet Club. He was handsome, a hunk if you will, and got laid almost nightly.

Still, advertise he did, notably in the Junior Ratings Mess of the Victoria Naval Reserve Unit. He would get as pissed as a billy goat; perform his piece de resistance, a lecture in Slack Ball Navigation.

Slack Ball Navigation involved the angle of the dangle of one's penis in direct ratio to the hang of one's testicles. For some reasons whether one hung low right, or left, made a difference. Visual aids, in the form of one's genitals, were required, as was standing on a chair with one's trousers and drawers around one's ankles, and was best given when drunk.

Monty's lecture was a sight. Unfortunately, his visual aids were somewhat lacking. His dangle wasn't bad, very neat and trim, with a smooth, dusky-pink, well defined mushroom head. The other two essentials, however, while nicely shaped, were encased in a tight sac which seemed greatly affected by the cool night air.

Still, what he lacked in visual aids he more than made up for in enthusiasm, though I don't think that falling off the chair and breaking his wrist was part of his game plan. And people thought that the only thing colourful about the Navy was its underwear.

Once prepared, Monty would then intone an old rugby song known familiarly as ‘The Angle of the Dangle’, which opened,

The angle of the dangle is proportional to the bootie of the cutie and the heat of the meat.

The angle of dangle is given by the throb of the knob. It's driven by the heat of the meat, as a function discrete: Get it on, or get off.

The angle of the dangle in direct proportion to the heat of the meat causes the size of the rise and the mass of the arse.

He would, with hand gestures and much thrusting of his pelvis, expand and expound for at least an hour, or until the bartender got tired of looking at Monty's dick and told him to park his fat arse, at which point Monty would sit down and drink, half naked, until closing time.

He would usually leave with a cutie on his arm, and everybody agreed that at least Monty had a good pickup routine.

With my roommates in mind I was a little leery when I walked down to meet my shipmates. Fortunately, or unfortunately, they were as dull as dirt, and not given to public displays or helping each other pee.

As time passed I settled into the routine of the ship, which was basically keep the thing afloat, don't blow anything up or set anything on fire. We performed minimal maintenance because we all knew that come the weekend the Reserves would be on board.

In the winter months we did not live on board, but commuted from ashore or our rooms in The Barracks. We would store ship, lay out bedding, count life jackets and tin hats and so on, or apply a coat of paint whenever we felt the urge.

On Friday we waited impatiently for the bus to arrive, and the Reserves, who would man the ship during the weekend. There would be a hasty turnover and we would depart, usually wondering if the ship would be more or less in one piece when we arrived on Monday morning.

In April we would all move down to the ship, check everything and start the summer training. We would take on stores, fuel, and booze, and a full crew of e sailors from the Reserve Divisions, young men full of piss and vinegar, and raring to be sailors, or at least until the first swell started the ship to pitching, and everybody got sea sick.

We would sail north, through the North Sea, around Scotland and then down again. We would steam and exercise the crew in the practical application of the theoretical drills they had learned during the winter months back home.

Every evening we would pull into a secluded harbour, or one of the small ports that dotted the coast where we would invite the locals aboard for a beer, or frequent the local British Legion Branch, where we cadged beer and ogled the local girls.

Sometimes we would drop the anchor and go ashore for a ship's company barbecue. We would cook steaks and salmon over a bonfire, drink and generally enjoy life.

It was a pleasant existence, and I enjoyed myself, at least until the morning the condenser blew up and I ended up in hospital.

I returned to ship on a Monday morning, all bushy eyed and raring to go. I wanted to see just what the dockyard sailors had done to make the old tub better, aside from installing a new engine room.

As I pulled to a stop on the jetty I wasn't surprised to see that aside from a coat of paint, the old girl looked more or less the same. Once aboard I found that, in addition to a new engine room, and some cosmetic repainting in the Ratings Mess and the Gunroom and the cobbled together Midshipmen's Cuddy adjacent to the mess, there had been little change at all.

What did surprise me was that the

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