Secrets Of A Gay Marine Porn Star (22 page)

I finished packing and drove my little white Japanese car over to Camp Butler. He was just lounging around listening to music and invited me in. He seemed glad to see me, almost as if he was expecting my visit.

“Do you like Tori Amos?” he asked. Without waiting for my response, he said, “I love her. Especially her new album, ‘Little Earthquakes.’ And this song, ‘Crucified.’”

I had never heard of Tori Amos. The melody was sweet but haunting. I liked it. I could really identify with this woman, whoever she was.

“Relax,” he said.

We started drinking beers. “Let’s watch music videos,” he suggested and slipped in a video of Erasure doing Abba. I had never heard of Erasure either. I had only been listening to pop or rock music for two years, and I hadn’t caught up with everything.

The video played, and there were two guys. I knew the Abba song, but these two guys in Erasure were doing both the men’s parts and the women’s parts…in drag! At that point I knew Philip was gay. We didn’t say much. We just lay around the apartment, staring at the television screen. But I was shifting in my seat, occasionally sneaking a side glance at him, waiting for a signal.

As if on cue he took a sip from his beer and said, “Hey, I thought you were going to give me a blowjob.” By this point I had chugged down about six beers myself. I stared at him for a moment and said, “Go lock the door.” He sprang to his feet and locked it.

When he came back, he dropped his shorts. It was the first uncut dick I had seen in my life—up close anyway, close enough to see with my bad vision. It looked pretty inviting to me. I fell to my knees and started sucking him off. After awhile we went to his bed.

“I’m only a top,” he declared.

“Okay,” I replied. Whatever that meant. Then I figured it out. Gosh! “I’ll let you fuck me,” I remember telling him, “only if I could sleep with you tonight.”

“Oh, all right,” he said, begrudgingly.

We had sex twice, and let me tell you it was awesome. After all the build up, the months of anticipation, it was really wonderful.

The second time he said, “I’m going to cum inside of you.”

“Okay,” I said. I was not caring at this point. I was loving what we were doing so much that I was telling myself
it’s gotta be okay
.

I was now 0 for 3 when it came to unsafe anal sex. Rationalization, justification and denial were as much a part of my mind-body function as my pulse and respiration. I drank to fit in, I didn’t drink any more than anyone else and I did
not
have a drinking problem. I was only experimenting with gay sex, I was drunk and I was
not
a homosexual. As a Marine, Philip was regularly tested for HIV, we didn’t have any condoms and I was
not
going to get AIDS. These excuses swirled around my head like a cyclone.

What made my sexual experience with Philip different from that with Ian or Tim was that here we were, two Marine Corps officers, taking the vaunted Marine Corps concept of
esprit de corps—
the mystical “spirit of the Corps”—to its outer limit. This was probably further than the generals intended, but who knows? I suspected Philip and I weren’t the first Marine officers to do this together.
This
seemed right. I felt a sense of belonging, a figurative and literal connection I had never felt before. It was so primitive, like we were experiencing a tribal ritual. It also just felt
awesome!

Months later, when he and I talked about that night, Philip said, “No, no, I was telling you I was about to cum because I wanted to pull out.” He didn’t want to! He was going to cum inside of me and he just wanted me to know it. But like I said, I didn’t care. I wanted him to do it. I would learn that this was part of his domination and conquest game. It was also cultural—Greek men viewed taking the bottom role as being the subservient one, the “woman.” Philip was a victim—and perpetrator—of this cultural bias.

Afterward we lay side-by-side, exhausted. But now I didn’t want to stay in the bed with him. I was a jumble of emotions. I quietly got up and got dressed and drove back to my own barracks, quite an accomplishment considering I was drunk, the steering wheel was on the right, the stick shift on the left and traffic went the wrong direction. I kept forgetting which side of the road I was supposed to drive on in this country. But miraculously, I made it home. When I woke up the following morning, I had a little bit of a hangover. I went to brush my teeth and I just looked at myself in the mirror.

After staring at my reflection for a few moments I said aloud, “You know what, Rich Merritt? You’re a homosexual.”

I paused to let that sink in. My thoughts continued.
You’re moving to California in two weeks. Now that you’ve admitted that you’re a homosexual you can continue to hide it, pretend to be straight, find a woman, get married, have kids—or you can find your way in the gay life. Whatever that means
.

I made the decision there and then that I was going to be as out as I possibly could be in the Marines. It literally felt like the weight of the world was taken off my shoulders. When you’re dirty and you take a bath and afterwards it feels so good—that’s how it felt.

This is what being born again was supposed to feel like.

Philip avoided me for a few days. I wanted to have sex with him again, of course, especially now that I admitted that I was gay. Hell, I wanted to enjoy it. I wanted to know all about
being gay,
not just butt fucking, which I had pretty much figured out by now. But he kept evading me. Finally I was getting ready to leave Okinawa and I was saying goodbye to all my friends. I found Philip out in the field on a training exercise.

“I’m getting ready to leave, Philip,” I said. “And I wanted to say goodbye.”

The two of us walked to the edge of the tent city that had been set up in the field as a command post. Philip lit a cigarette and handed it to me. Then he lit one for himself.

He said, “If you ever out me I’ll kill you.”

“I’ll do the same to you,” I replied. The suddenness of his comment shocked me; my instinctive reply shocked me even more. We understood each other. Our bonding was complete.

A tall thin Navy corpsman—the Marines use Navy medics called “corpsmen”—walked by. Philip leaned closer to me and said, “I think Doc’s a sister.”

Philip’s reference to the corpsman using a feminine word didn’t bother me. I was gay now. I could enjoy this. I laughed and watched the flamboyant corpsman walk into the medical tent. There I had my epiphany. I was not alone. Quite the contrary.

We were everywhere!

I wanted to talk more about this new life. By coming out, I had chosen to live an honest life and not one of lies, secrecy, and deceit and I wanted to enjoy it. As honest a life as the Corps would allow me to live, that is.

“I’m going to California and I have no idea where to go when I’m there,” I said.

“Oh, Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood.” He smiled. “Just go to any bar there and you can pick up a guide. That will tell you where to go.”

I wanted him to describe it for me. Tell me what to expect. What is this gay world? What is it like?

“I don’t have time to be anyone’s teacher,” he said. But in those few minutes we had begun what would be an intense training program in living the double life of a gay Marine.

I said goodbye to Philip and to Okinawa. As I looked out the window of the military-chartered aircraft to my last view of the “Rock,” the term Marines use for Okinawa, I thought about the sudden change in course my life had taken in the last couple of weeks. Things were going to be different. I felt like all my problems were solved. All I had to do was find Marines to have sex with and maybe even one to settle down with. I also imagined that there was a community of gay men out there somewhere. They would be welcoming and loving and would treat me wonderfully. Unlike all the straight boys who never wanted to play ball with me. I couldn’t wait to find that community. Couldn’t this plane go any faster?

As the 747 soared higher, so did my spirits. I was going home. Back to America, where I would know a brand new freedom unlike any I’d never known.

M
uch to the chagrin of many in the military, myself included, America elected Bill Clinton to be the forty-second President. A frequent topic of conversation between Marines had to do with Clinton’s promise to lift the ban on gays in the military. Most of these conversations were one-sided.

But not always. A senior enlisted African-American Marine I worked with, Gunnery Sergeant Williams, commented, “You white Marines have to have somebody to hate. You can’t hate the blacks anymore, you can’t hate the women, all you got left to hate is the gays!” Gunny Williams and I became close friends over the coming years.

In a coincidence that was becoming all too common, my battalion commander in Okinawa, the virulently antigay Lieutenant Colonel Killian, had a daughter at Bob Jones University. As I left Japan, he gave me a Christmas gift I had agreed to take to her in person. I sneaked the gift to her on the BJU campus without getting caught. Since I was on the campus, I decided to visit Miss Denham, my high school English teacher. It was third period, and I knew she always had third period free to work on the school newspaper.

“Why, Richie Merritt! What a pleasant surprise!” exclaimed Miss Denham in her aristocratic Southern accent. “Thank you so much for all the gifts you’ve sent me over the years, from the Philippines and Korea and Japan and all the other places you’ve been. You can look inside the classroom and see I’ve got them on display on the shelf with all the other things students have sent during my fifty years of teaching!”

Miss Denham insisted on showing me the improvements that had been made to the school in the eight years since I’d graduated. We walked around the old familiar quadrangle.

“Oh, we must go inside and see Mr. Panache. He’ll be delighted!”

Before I could stop her and dispute this, she opened the classroom door and interrupted Mr. Panache’s science lecture mid-sentence.

“Mr. Panache, look who’s come back for a visit!” she shouted with glee.

Twenty-four high school students turned around to stare. Who was this loser who had come back to visit his high school? What a dweeb! To make matters worse, I was wearing blue jeans. Denim was a definite no-no at Bob Jones. The students, however, seemed grateful for a midclass interruption.

Mr. Panache was anything but grateful. He glared. “Yes, I see. Look who has. Indeed.” It reminded me of the sitcom,
Seinfeld
, and the tense standoffs whenever Jerry Seinfeld greeted his nemesis, Newman.

“It’s good to see you again…
Mr. Panache
.” I wanted to add that I always loved the way those eggplant-colored polyester trousers looked on him, but for Miss Denham’s sake, I refrained.

After saying good-bye to Miss Denham, I left the school and went across the street from the campus to a small store called “Jack’s Quick Stop.” It had always been off-limits to BJU personnel because the store sold dirty magazines.

Now that I was an “out” gay man, I was going to buy a
Playgirl
, or something like it, out in the open and without shame. I was terrified as I looked around the shelves. Would I have the nerve?

Something else caught my eye. It described itself as a gay and lesbian magazine, sort of “newsy,” sort of “human interest.” It was called
The Advocate
. This might be interesting, I thought, so I picked it up, along with a magazine with guys in it that looked even more promising than
Playgirl
. I grabbed them off the shelf and carried them to the cashier. I didn’t care what he thought. So this stranger would know that I was gay. What did I care? Buying
The Advocate
was my first overt act as a semi-open gay man. As I left the store with the paper sack in my hand, I could see the backside of the BJU campus across the street. I had finally felt liberated.

After spending Christmas and New Year’s with my family, it was time to head to the West Coast. Jimmy went with me to visit a friend of his who was stationed at Camp Pendleton. Gary had been visiting his family in Spartanburg over the holidays, and we decided to convoy from South Carolina to south Texas. Jimmy and I would spend a couple of days with Gary in Texas, and then finish the trip to California.

“What time are we going to leave?” I asked. Gary was in charge of the journey.

“I’ll be at your house at midnight,” Gary said.

“Midnight! Are you fucking crazy?”

Gary had a million sensible excuses for leaving at midnight, but I knew the real reason. That’s when the Great Santini always drove his family on trips, in Pat Conroy’s semi-autobiographical novel and movie of the same name. Gary’s idol back then was a cross between Tom Cruise in
Top Gun
and Robert Duvall in
The Great Santini.
I suspected he preferred Duvall because he played a Marine.

“If I catch you running over any turtles in the road,” I warned, “I’ll call the humane society on you!” The Great Santini had taken tremendous pleasure in flattening turtles on Southern roads during his early morning road trips with his family.

It was a miracle, but we made it to Texas okay. I fell asleep a half dozen times and swore I’d never drive across America—or leave on a trip at midnight—again. Jimmy also swore he’d drive us the rest of the way from Texas, which he did.

Gary advised us to cut our trip short. As a top-notch flight student, he had grown accustomed to checking the weather for any flight plan, or, in our case, road plan.

“There’s a January storm coming over the Pacific,” he said. “Snow or ice will block up the mountains east of San Diego and you won’t be able to pass. You better leave now.”

“You’re crazy. It doesn’t snow or rain in southern California.” But I had learned to trust my friend and Jimmy and I left south Texas the next morning.

I was somewhat glad to have Jimmy along for the ride. I can’t stand to drive and he drove most of the way. But my emotions were mixed. Although we got along okay, we weren’t particularly close and didn’t have much in common. Even though I listened to music that was “bad” by fundamentalist standards, I still didn’t like the hard rock and heavy metal that he preferred. But mostly, I wanted to check out the gay scene as soon as I arrived in California and, with Jimmy along, I’d have to delay those plans.

We drove all night across Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona. Jimmy was crazy like that. He refused to stop and I was probably insane for letting him continue. In the morning, we stopped at the Marine Corps Air Station in Yuma, Arizona, to see a friend I had been stationed with in Okinawa. From there, I decided to finish the drive. At a gas station I bought a cheesy Mamas and the Papas cassette tape and blasted the song “California Dreamin’” as we crossed the Colorado River from Arizona into California. I sang the words at the top of my lungs.

“You’re so fuckin’ weird,” Jimmy said. He was joking, I think.

I laughed and shouted, “We’re in California, baby!” I felt like I was at home.

An hour later I observed, “This sucks! All I’ve seen so far is goddamned sand. Where the hell
is
California? You know, the California in the movies!”

We saw it soon enough. The sun was shining as we descended the west side of the mountains into the city of San Diego. We had beaten the snow. As we approached the Pacific, we took the T-tops off my MR2. It was a little chilly but I didn’t care. I was ready to experience every minute I could of the California life.

I didn’t have to entertain Jimmy. He ended up spending most of his time with his friend and I decided to take off up to West Hollywood one evening after checking into my unit. I had no idea how far it was. I drove and drove for what seemed like an eternity. I took Interstate 5, or as I’d soon learn to call it—simply “the five”—north from Camp Pendleton. Before long I found myself in a place that seemed as foreign as Okinawa had seemed. Then I drove through downtown Los Angeles, with the office lights shining from inside its skyscrapers and on into Hollywood.

Finally I saw the exit for Santa Monica Boulevard.

I had no idea what I had expected to find, but this wasn’t it. It was about ten o’clock on a Thursday night. Along the boulevard just off Highway 101 in Hollywood, nothing looked glamorous or inviting to me. I saw a lot of Hispanic people, something I was unaccustomed to. They didn’t look gay or wealthy or famous. Everything along the side of the street looked a lot darker than I would have thought.
Where are the lights?

I kept driving west and finally reached a part of the street that looked a little nicer. But it still didn’t look appealing. I saw a group of men gathered outside a bar.
This must be it
, I thought. I slowed down to look and the driver behind me honked his or her horn. The bar—and the crowd—looked scary. I didn’t even get out of the car. I continued along the boulevard until I reached the 405. I saw on the map I could take that back to Camp Pendleton, which I did.

What was wrong with me? Why had I driven two hundred miles in the rain to a strange place and not even gotten out of the car?
I was exhilarated about finding gay people but I was also terrified of the unknown.

Friday night Jimmy and I decided to drive to San Diego. But it was kind of lame because we had no idea where to go or what to do. We drove around a bit, found a place to eat, then returned to the base. The next day, I dropped him off at LAX. It was nice to have spent time with him but I was anxious for him to go. I think he was anxious to get home, too.

At last.
I was all alone, and it felt great!
It was daylight and I could explore Santa Monica Boulevard properly and find out exactly why Philip had recommended it. I knew where to go this time and approached the gay mecca from the west side. It was much nicer.

The first place I saw was called International Male. One of my Marines in Okinawa had received a catalog from this place and the other men had given him a ration of shit for it. I couldn’t wait to go inside and see all those hunky models hanging out wearing skimpy underwear.

Unfortunately, they must not have been at work yet. I went elsewhere to look for men.

I was terrified. I had no idea what to expect. What if someone who knew me from Camp Pendleton recognized me? Looking back, my extreme paranoia bordered on insanity. West Hollywood is a hundred miles from Camp Pendleton and no one in California knew who I was.

I walked the sidewalks, marveling at the open displays of homosexuality. Guys holding hands, very good-looking guys too. And it was
all
guys! I hadn’t seen such a skewed ratio of men to women anywhere else…except on a military base.

I went into a bookstore, hoping to find the “guide” that Philip had described. I saw what looked like a newspaper and flipped through that. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I did know that I was intensely horny. I had had sex with one guy a year for the past three years. I had to pick up the pace.

There was an ad for something called the Hollywood Spa. I had never heard of a bathhouse and I was unaware such places existed. I honestly thought this was just an all-male day spa, well, that was open twenty-four hours a day. I asked the store clerk where the Hollywood Spa was located.

He lowered his voice and leaned forward and whispered the directions to me. I thanked him and went on my way with my “guide” in hand. I wondered why he had whispered.

Hopefully I could meet someone at the day spa who might be interested in going out with me.

Just getting into the Hollywood Spa was intimidating enough. I had to pay a membership fee and show them my driver’s license, which was frightening. What if the military obtained access to this membership list? They handed me a towel and assigned me a locker number.

The Hollywood Spa was not what I had expected. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but within minutes it became clear to even a naive “Carolina boy” like myself that the only purpose of this place was for guys to meet each other and fuck. There were even private rooms available for that, something I totally hadn’t expected.

What the hell.
I was horny. Why not fuck? I wasn’t wearing my glasses and couldn’t get a good view of the guy I hooked up with until we were alone in his room. He had been much better-looking from a distance, but my lust won out.

Satisfied, I left the spa and West Hollywood and returned to Oceanside, ready to resume my career at my new duty station. Using the gay newspaper I had obtained in West Hollywood, I found a listing of gay bars in San Diego, which was much closer to my new home in Oceanside than was West Hollywood. The area was called Hillcrest; in case anyone was in doubt that it was the gayborhood, Hillcrest was lit up in gigantic neon lights over University Avenue, the main boulevard.

My first night out in San Diego, I went to a bar called the Brass Rail, advertised in the “guide” I found in LA. It was a large crowd for a Monday night. There was live entertainment. Two attractive women were onstage singing.

In the crowd I spotted two young guys with military-style haircuts. About twenty minutes later I worked up enough nerve to approach them. One had been looking at me, so I walked up to him. I was nervous as hell.
What the fuck do I say? What do I…

“Hi,” said one of the guys. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around here.”

Whew. That was easy.
“Um, no, I just moved here.”

We chatted about basic stuff, where we were from, and that kind of thing. I gave him my real name, something I had debated about. Lying about my name in gay bars didn’t appeal to me. My logic was that if anyone else was in here, they were as guilty as I was. I assumed I’d be able to spot someone from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, the dreaded NCIS agents. They weren’t all that bright anyway, from what I’d heard.

The two guys were both Marines. Bingo! I was on my way to meeting gay Marines. Just as I’d suspected, there were legions of us out here. I just had to find them.

As I watched the women on stage, though, I wondered why all these supposedly gay men would be interested. Maybe this wasn’t a gay bar after all! Maybe I had fucked up the address.