GI Bill Ch. 01


The September 11th attacks took place early in my senior year in high school. I followed the events of the day probably a little more closely than the average high school kid. After reading stories of bravery and heroism displayed during and after the attacks by our first responders and servicemen, I decided I wanted to see the world and kill some bad people.

I made friends, of sorts, with a local recruiter. It wasn’t everyday she snagged a recruit who aced the ASVAB with a 99, particularly one who was eager to enlist right away. Her only problem was that she wanted to steer me into something besides ground pounding and I had my heart set on killing some fanatical scumbags.

She was a story in and of herself. Sgt. L. G. Santana was a pretty darn cute Latina, although at the time I was next to clueless about getting girls in the sack. There were many early mornings where her cute ass provided me the motivation to keep running or exercising.

Sgt. Santana maintained her professionalism, and there was no fooling around between us. I clumsily flirted at times and she caught me looking down her shirt or staring at her ass plenty of times, but despite my fantasies, nothing happened, even after I celebrated my 18th birthday and was legal.

When I went off to basic training, I was in great physical shape and breezed through, thanks to Sgt. Santana’s mentoring and my dedication to fitness. Basic was followed with more training and I was excited to finally get my first deployment to the sandbox.

My first and second tours were fairly enjoyable. I got to do a lot of point of the spear stuff with a great bunch of guys.

I killed my share of bad people and then some. I loved sending Allah followers’ souls to Jesus and I kept him busy.

Unfortunately, I had a few people I cared about get killed or crippled and sent back home, too. When my friends started getting hurt, that gave me a new perspective. I also found out the Kool-Aid didn’t taste so good. We could kill half the people over there and they are still going to behave like it’s the 8th Century A.D.

It was my third tour when I picked up a nice scar in my thigh from a passing 7.62×39 round that went through and through while I was dragging a wounded Major and his driver to cover in the middle of a firefight. An IED blew the piss out of their armored Humvee. Sadly, despite my best efforts and training, the driver didn’t make it and that kind of messed with my head. He was hurt badly and begged me to save him and I failed him. It brings a tear to my eye just recalling it.

Got my third Purple Heart right away for that and a Bronze Star with a V device for valor not long after.

My fourth trip was to Afghanistan. That really sucked moose cock, to quote Pat Rogers, a civilian firearms instructor I trained under. At least in Iraq we had decent quarters. In the ‘Stan, we were out in BFE as often as not. Picked up yet another Purple Heart and again a Bronze Star with a V device after our outpost was over-run by goddamn insurgents.

That was perhaps the most supremely shitty day. Lost a friend to a goddamn treasonous Afghan National Army (ANA) cook who was really a Taliban. We had about three or four ANA soldiers turn on us that day. One was stabbing my buddy when I walked in on him. The quisling had a catastrophic cerebral vascular accident courtesy of a pair of M855 5.56×45 rounds from my M4. Blew his brains all over everything down range in that tent.

I was checking on my buddy administering aid when another one of those ANA cocksuckers pretended he was helping then jumps me and tries to slit my throat. We had a little wrestling match of sorts. First prize got you whatever you wanted from the other guy. Second prize was death.

He had a knife, and he cut me with it. Unfortunately for him, while he had me pinned down on the ground, I accessed my karambit. While I couldn’t get at his femoral, but his balls were real handy, so I cut them off. The look on his face was priceless. Shock and fear, all rolled into one. He moved a little and I got another chance, this time I opened up his femoral. He was very eager to get away from me at that point. He screamed and moaned as he bled out. I just smiled and said, “Inshallah, bitch” a couple of times before he faded to black, his femoral squirting like a hose despite his efforts to staunch the blood loss. Those karambits are nasty little weapons.

I worked on my friend then dragged him out and handed him off to some other GIs and a medic. They thought I was hit too because of all of the blood on me from our cook’s femoral. I was covered and a mess.

Minutes later, the camp was overrun. Taliban had made it inside the wire and it was shaping up to be a rout. In the ensuing firefight, I chased down and waxed two of those goatfuckers who were dragging away an unconscious GI sergeant. I half-dragged, half-carried his ass back to friendlier territory after administering some hot lead therapy to our misguided enemy combatants. maraş escort Helicopter support arrived, along with reinforcements from a nearby camp, just in the nick of time.

I had already turned them down on re-enlisting before this went down. In fact, I had already been accepted into the University of Illinois, the college my parents had attended, in the weeks before. After my second Bronze Star, they made another pass at offering me re-enlistment, but I declined. While I was with a great bunch of guys, the bloom was off the rose and that last firefight I actually felt like we might not make it. In my opinion, our mission there and the people there weren’t worth it by a long shot and they certainly weren’t worth dying for.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a long way from a peacenik, but this nation-building crap doesn’t work when you’re dealing with people who fuck goats in their spare time and live like savages.

A month after that firefight, I was back home in the USA.

I had checked out of the Army as a Staff Sergeant and was set to attend the University of Illinois, courtesy of my Uncle Sam and the GI Bill. Two of their residence rules I didn’t care for required me to a) leave my personal rifle and handgun elsewhere and b) that I live in University-approved housing which basically meant the dorms or a frat. My firearms were part of my soul after eight years in the service, and almost two-thirds of that time in a foreign land using them to stay alive and take care of business. As for joining a fraternity? After eight years of serving in a fraternity where your brother and fellow infantryman would as often as not literally risk his life for you under fire, the social drinking fraternities pretending not to be social drinking clubs seemed more than a little childishly immature to me.

Making my GI Bill money go as far as possible, I had signed up for a triple dorm room to save money, and move-in day was soon upon me.

For whatever reason, I had butterflies in my stomach that morning. I don’t know why. Hell, I wasn’t as nervous going on my first real-deal combat mission.

I had arrived early in my vehicle, a Dodge Grand Caravan. Yes, a minivan. Not exactly what you would expect a high-speed, low-drag operator to drive, but I got it for a song and paid cash for it and it carried my gear that I liked to have handy. I even installed a small safe in the back for my spare cash, handguns and other valuables. My AR rifle case and gear just had to be covered with a blanket. My stuff for the room was neatly wrapped up in a duffle bag, a backpack and a couple of nylon bags.

I was assigned to Oglesby Hall, which was part of the Florida Ave. Residence Halls on the southeast corner of the U of I’s campus. Student parking was across the street so that was handy. The main intramural facility was on the other corner of campus due west. Lucky for me, they had a rudimentary fitness room in the basement of the Florida Avenue complex that would work if I didn’t want to traipse across campus. I was still a fitness buff and worked out every morning.

As was my style, I was early to the arrival. They let me in a half-hour early to test their process. I think I was the first or second student into the building.

I found my room, 930, and picked the single bed. The other two were bunked. I also took the middle closet and began unpacking.

Coming back out to get my duffel, the first thing that struck me was the age of my fellow students as they waited in the check-in line. They were kids. Compared to other students, I was an “old man”.

About an hour later, George Perez showed up. Perez was a Latino guy from the suburbs that was kind of stocky, and a few inches shorter than my 6′. Nice kid.

Perez’s mom and dad brought him down. He brought in a stereo, TV and fridge. His mom was a MILF and his dad was made of stern stuff. Fit, close-cut hair. Turns out he was a career Army NCO. We got along great. They took me out to eat with them. Mr. Perez took liking me to a whole new level when he found out his son was living with a “retired” Staff Sergeant. Turns out his dad had been in Iraq the first time and we talked about being at some of the same shitholes. His dad wouldn’t hear of me paying for dinner and wrestled the check out of my hand. I got the tip and we called it good. I’d bet his dad was a good troop.

That evening, the third member of our trio arrived. Terrell Maxwell was a skinny black kid from Chicago and the shortest among the three of us at about 5′ 6″. He too was a nice enough guy. He came down on a bus with a pair of suitcases. He told us he shipped a couple of boxes of stuff via UPS that should arrive in a couple of days.

We seemed to get along just fine in our triple room and indeed there weren’t any personality clashes with anyone on the whole floor. There were a couple of strange birds, but all in all, no douchebags. Maybe everyone was in the honeymoon period on their best mardin escort behavior.

Perez, in addition to having a cool career Army father, also had a trio of girls he had gone to school with that he introduced to Terrell and I the next day. I didn’t know anyone and it was exceptionally nice to have pretty girls around. The girls were all black or mixed and very sweet. They hung out with us for a couple of hours and I found myself hoping they would be back.

The ring-leader was a mixed girl that was half Latino. Her name was Jennifer and she was stunning. She kind of looked like a young Jennifer Lopez minus the big ass and about fifty pounds. If I was a betting man, I’d say she probably looked like a supermodel if she dolled herself up. She stood about 5′ 6″ and had gotten the round, black girl ass from her dad and the skin and hair from her Latina mom. Just guessing, I’d say she was a size 2 or so, and maybe 105 pounds and a 32-B bra size. She had a boyfriend from her hometown who was attending Northwestern. As pretty as Jennifer was, I didn’t think their relationship was going to last with all those pretty girls at Northwestern.

There was also Tifani, a very dark-skinned black coed. She had a cute body but when she smiled, her teeth were in serious need of some braces and she didn’t have the prettiest of faces. She was about the same height and build as Jennifer, maybe 10 pounds heavier with slightly bigger hips. Tifani’s personality made her the party girl, the life of any party. She was dating a white guy who was about thirty, divorced and worked for the City of Chicago. She usually dressed the most provocatively with skin-tight jeans and shirts the norm. Oh yes, she had a very sweet ass that just begged to be squeezed and she knew guys liked it.

Also, there was Shonda, an uber-petite dark-skinned black girl who was due to turn 18 in a few weeks. She was all of about 5′ 2″ tall and couldn’t have weighed more than 85 pounds, soaking wet. She admitted her bust was a mere 28″, barely A-cup and that her hips were 30″, mainly thanks to a nice, round ass. “I kept wishing for the breast fairy to bring me some boobs, but it never happened,” she laughed. “All I got was a skinny ass.” The boob fairy didn’t completely miss her, but she did look more like a 14-year-old girl than a college coed. She had naturally curly, black girl hair that was cute very close in almost a pixie-cut. There was no mistaking her for a boy though. She was cute.

Shonda was single, probably in part because of her appearance and in part because of her introverted personality. It might have also been because she was kind of a book worm. It was obvious she was tagging along with the other two girls, but it was all good. In my opinion, she needed to get her a cheeseburger and fries and put some meat on her skinny bones.

The girls and the three of us all got along well and we began spending more and more time together. As they lived in Trelease Hall, the sister dorm (no pun intended) to Oglesby where we were at, we began sharing supper with them, along with other meals if we saw one another eating in the shared dining hall.

After the girls left that first day, I jokingly asked Perez if he was a gay man to have all these girls around him all the time as “friends” and he just laughed. “Dude,” he said. “You just have to be an alpha male.”

I’ll admit, he might as well as have been talking Russian.

I told him I’d always had issues “picking up” the ladies and he gave me a couple of books on a USB drive. “Here, man,” he said, handing me the thumb drive. “Read these and buy some condoms. Not necessarily in that order.”

The next couple of days before classes started, I was engrossed in the books in a crash course to learn a few skills to find myself a date in my down time. Sure, I bought texts and reconnoitered classroom locations, but job

was learning how to become at least a novice lady killer.

One of Perez’s books was “How to Succeed with Women” and the other was “The Pickup Artist”. I began practicing my technique even before I finished the “Succeed with Women” book and was striking up conversations and getting more and more comfortable approaching women, even some of the best looking coeds. It truly was a target rich environment and I meant to make up for time lost serving in the female-barren locales in Asscrackistan and Iraq. I also decided to use my age and maturity to my advantage.

Better still, I had three girls around to practice upon. I tried various techniques and observed their reactions. I watched their body language and analyzed it.

George had told them I was trying to get more comfortable picking up girls, so they seemed to look upon me as harmless and played along. I think we all learned a few things about flirting and body language. Those three girls were such good sports about it.

Jennifer, I was noticing, was arguably the best looking girl in Trelease Hall, so it was extra mersin escort nice having her around. There were lots of guys hot on her trail and even if I was on the friend ladder, I knew hanging with a super-attractive girl like her would attract other attractive girls to me. And knowing I could freely flirt with a beautiful girl and have her smile emboldened me. I was flirting with lots of girls every day.

Initially, I felt most confident flirting with Shonda, the quiet girl. It seemed I could not say anything wrong with her and she usually laughed at my humor. It was fun and it seemed to make her feel good getting showered with compliments and attention. I looked upon myself as just an average guy half-again the age of these girls. I didn’t expect to bed any of them.

The first two weeks went by and in general life was shaping up to be pretty decent, but I still hadn’t gotten laid.

That third weekend on a Friday night, George brought home his date, a girl he had picked up from one of his classes. He introduced me to her. Her name was Laura. She was a pretty brunette with short hair, pretty green eyes and kind of a round face with freckles. In short, she was damn cute. She was wearing some low-cut white top and a very short pair of denim shorts that were delightful.

I was instantly a little jealous. This girl was small, about 5′ 3″ and probably weighed about 100 pounds. Here I am working on school work and Laura and George are making out in his bunk. I could hardly keep my eyes off her.

My cock was hard as could be as George’s hands felt this girl up – and she was doing the same with George as they kissed passionately.

Her shirt came off and she was wearing this sexy, lacy bra which cupped her B-cup breasts oh-so-nicely. I could see she had some sexy tanlines too, from where I was sitting.

She noticed me looking and smiled.

A few minutes later, George asked me if I could give him a little while.

I told him I’d be back in an hour.

That was a long hour, knowing George was fucking a pretty girl and I was single.

When I went back in, Laura was standing next to my desk, looking into the mirror on the wall. She was wearing her shorts and her bra. Her hair was badly disheveled. George was wearing his boxers, getting dressed. He had a big grin on his face.

Laura gave me a hug and thanked me for being a good sport giving them some privacy after she put her shirt back on.

I felt like a dork and a failure. Flirting with all these girls and I still hadn’t even closed on a date, much less sex. I liked Laura and would have loved to have fucked that girl silly. In short, that day sucked.

Shonda had her 18th birthday party in our room with the six of us the next Wednesday evening. During the party, where a little alcohol was served and everyone was half-lit, Tifani made some comment that Shonda was now legal to “get with John”. I made a mental note of the comment but didn’t put too much stock in it as we were all teasing her pretty much all night.

I was designated to give Shonda her birthday spanking and she climbed onto my lap and I gave her 18 playful swats, which ended up more like 25 or 30 by the time Tifani, Jennifer, Terrell and George all got one or two licks in. Her ass was tiny and I took the opportunity to grope her butt more than once.

It was that Friday when we had another little gathering in our room. Of course, there was liquor as I was plenty old enough to buy booze. Perez’s female friends were there — “our girls” as us guys called them — and Terrell had a “friend” over. Her name was Scarlett and she was a fairly pretty blonde girl with nice boobs. She was about 5′ 6″ tall and probably weighed about 150 or so. She was just a little on the thick side.

She was wearing tight, faded jeans and a snug, low-cut shirt. She was showing off a little bit of cleavage and seemed flirty. I flirted back, using those skills I had been learning. I needed the practice.

We were sitting around, drinking and talking as 18-year-olds are often to do on a Friday night. Conversation, of course, was often about sex and sex-related topics. It came out that Shonda was a virgin. She seemed embarrassed the revelation, especially as almost everyone was like, “you haven’ t done it yet?”

I scooted over and put my arm over her shoulders. “I’ll protect your chastity, Shonda,” I said, half-playfully. Everyone laughed.

She didn’t seem to mind being close to me. In fact, she seemed to cuddle up to me so I left my arm around her. Even later, after I’d left her side and returned, she’d cuddle up next to me.

And while I had a cute skinny black girl who liked me but looked like she was about 14 at my side, I kind of had my eye on this “friend” of Terrell’s. She was blonde, cute and continued to flirt with me as the night wore on. She certainly seemed to be sending me indicators of interest – much more so than she was doing with Terrell. And then there was Jennifer, who was looking very sexy tonight. She had done her hair up a little and put some make-up on and was looking pretty nice.

God, I needed to get laid.

Finally, it was getting late and we decided to break up the “party”. It wasn’t even midnight. “How sad,” I thought to myself.

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bir yanıt yazın

E-posta adresiniz yayınlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir