Compartments by Mojavejoe420
Finally, I pulled her to me and kissed her deeply, passionately… for so long… we kissed so hard… she orgasmed again from my fingers as we kissed tenderly… , Compartments
(C) Mojavejoe420 2020
Ships, particularly warships, have watertight compartments to stop internal flooding from torpedoes, bombs, or other hull damage to the ship. Sailors slam the heavy steel doors (hatches) shut and seal them tight, also known as dogging the hatches. This keeps the ship afloat during times of crisis.
Military people, particularly those who have seen combat, also have compartments. When you’re flying off of your leader’s wing (who is also your best friend) and he gets blown out of the sky and you can’t do a damn thing about it, you have to lock all that in a compartment or you will be dead, too. When it comes time to bring your fighter back on board a carrier, the only thing that is on your mind better be landing the plane. Everything else needs to be locked away in its own compartment. One moment of worrying about something else will land you on the blunt end of the boat instead of the carrier deck.
You can’t let shit leak out of your compartments into the others, or your own personal ship might founder and sink. You learn to say, “Don’t mean nothin’” and you close that hatch and dog it tight.
And I did all that. My compartments are sturdy and strong. I didn’t ever let those compartments open, my traumas stayed where they belonged; locked behind thick steel hatches. Psychologists and PTSD specialists will argue I should let them out, talk about my feelings. Well I don’t like those old feelings, that’s why they are kept locked up where they should be. How could I function if I started reliving old traumatic events?
Sometimes, though, we have compartments for good things. Even amazing things, ‘best thing that ever happened’ to you kind of things. But they have to be locked up, too. Oftentimes those fantastic compartments are usually accompanied by sadness, by deep longings for things that were, and what might have been.
Such is the case for me. Long retired from the Navy, there’s only a couple of my buddies that are even still alive. We typically talk around the first of the year to wish each other well, that sort of thing. So to get a call from Don Jacobson in July was… concerning, even unwelcome. It usually meant someone died.
“Johnny, I’ve got some news. Is this a secure line?”
He meant, is my wife around within earshot.
“Yeah Don, I’m good. Who died? I’m guessing it’s Maxwell because it’s just us three anymore—“
“Johnny. Stop. It isn’t Max.” He sighed heavily, then the silence dragged on.
“Well? Out with it Don! I don’t have much time left on this earth and I don’t want to spend it waiting for you to—“
“Maggie.” he said. Just like that, Maggie. Then he mentioned brain cancer or some shit I don’t even know what.
My internal ship jolted from the shock. The dogs loosened and all of my compartment hatches flung open. The flooding began and I was going to lose my ship, lose my fucking mind.
Fortunately, my wife, Jeanine, had left to go visit our granddaughter for a few hours. I staggered down the stairs to my office and slumped into my chair. I was holding on as best I could, but I couldn’t stop the flood. The memories of Maggie, rogue waves of immense proportion, slammed into me repeatedly.
My eyes flooded and I cried like a baby. Me. Naval Captain, Fighter Pilot, then Captain of Industry. Crying like a little fucking baby.
Brunswick, Georgia. May, 1961. Sunday Morning
“Honey! Where’s my razor?” I was packing my bag, I had to catch a transport that was leaving in thirty minutes.
“Look in the shower, silly.” Jeanine always knew where everything was. I don’t know how she did that.
I checked everything one last time, then went out to the kitchen.
“There’s my little punkins!” My daughter, Caroline, smiled and said “Dada” as she held up her arms in wait for me to scoop her up and swing her around, which I did.
We hurriedly packed the car and drove the two miles to what passed for a passenger terminal there at Naval Air Station Glynco.
NAS Glynco. What a shithole. Short for Glyn County. The only thing worse than this installation was the stupid town of Brunswick. Racist assholes, bugs, heat, humidity, alligators, bugs and heat. And humidity. Yeah I said it twice, it sucked down there. My pregnant wife was due in two months and the hospital didn’t even have air conditioning.
I kissed Jeanine in the sun and the heat. And you know what? That shit fell away when we kissed. I loved her so much I couldn’t stand it. I started getting a hard on there in the parking lot.
“What are you going to do with that, handsome?”
“I guess I’ll save him up for you when I get home!”
“Awww… even looking like this, you still like me?”
I patted her seven month tummy.
“More than ever, baby! I love you so much sweetheart. See you Saturday.”
I hopped on the C-1 and waved goodbye to my little family.
~~~
In a few hours I landed in St. Louis where the McDonnell aircraft company was located. My fighter pilot career was tracking nicely, but the Navy determined that I needed to be an instructor for a couple years there at Glynco. The Navy’s newest fighter (the F-4 Phantom) was coming online and it was my job to train the backseat guy how to run the new sophisticated radar system. I would rather be learning to fly the plane instead, trust me. But you gotta take some shit in the service so I put my negative feelings in a compartment and strove to become the best instructor anyone had ever seen.
I checked in to my hotel and inquired about any golfing opportunities in the area. Turns out there was a small 9-hole course right here by Lambert field. The hotel clerk got the superintendent to drive me over and said he would be back around sunset to get me.
I went to the pro shop to see about renting some clubs and getting a few holes in. The pro shop was open, but I couldn’t find anyone. Nobody seemed to be playing, either. I walked around back, there’s always an “around back” where they usually have a shed with all the lawn equipment. Sure enough, I saw some movement behind some equipment.
“Hey buddy!” I called out. “Anyone running the pro shop today?”
A loud crashing noise was the only response for a few moments. Then a head popped out, a female head. A very beautiful female head. Followed by a female body encased in dirty coveralls.
“Well, sir. I ain’t your buddy, least not yet. And we’re closed today. Pipes busted and half the course is flooded.”
We stood there looking at each other for a few moments. I understand the social conventions, I knew it was my turn to speak. I also knew how to be witty and charming. But all those powers seemed to have escaped my brain. You see, she just stood there in dirty coveralls, her wild red hair reigned in by a dirty Titleist visor, her piercing green eyes, face streaked with grease and dirt… I wasn’t prepared for how she affected me. I felt an immediate stirring in my loins. I had never met anyone so striking before.