James and I served in Operation Desert Storm (1991?) together in the same infantry division. At the time, the military’s “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” policy was in effect, but James and I both asked and told one night under the stars outside of the city of Basra which is probably somewhere near Baghdad. Under the stars and zipped up in our GI (General Issue) sleeping bags, James leaned over and lightly kissed me on my bloodied and bruised lips. Psychologically disarmed, I welcomed the kiss and then read him a poem that I had written to “Anonymous” about my secret thoughts and feelings about buttfucking. One verse led to another, and James and I depanted — meaning: removed our pants — and I mounted him from behind. Then began a four-hour session of buttfucking with the tender rhythm with which a man might approach brushing the hair of a doll. After I violently ejaculated into his butthole, I dismounted and repanted — meaning: put on my pants — and we kissed again under the stars of Basra. I never told my boyfriend back home about James. (Jon and I are no longer together because of the domestic violence.) The shared tenderness between two marines in private under the stars of a city besieged by intense military violence is a love (or tolerance for each other) that civilians simply cannot know. James was later dishonorably discharged from the military for the possession of child pornography (boys) and I returned home to Cleveland to try to work things out with Jon. Fast forward ten years: James is in prison (I think), Jon lives in New York, and I jerk off a lot.