Gage:A Bad Boy Military Romance(5)

By: Cordelia Blanc

“Because I knew they were all going to die, and letting them fuck me was the least I could do.” A chill crawled down my spine.

The Iraq breeze was warm. Before any of us agreed to the gig, they told us we were being sent to a safe, more-or-less peaceful province in the country. And by the looks of it, they weren’t lying. It just looked like a big boring desert. But still, the warm air carried the scent of gunpowder and an unfamiliar scent that my mind could only associate with death. It may have been a peaceful region now, but who knows what could happen? They did keep a battalion of men stationed there permanently, after all.

“Guilt is a powerful bitch,” Nancy said, flicking her cigarette butt onto the dead ground. She had a fresh one lit within seconds. “Just don’t let guilt make your decisions for you.”

She walked inside, leaving me behind the guest facility, facing a long barbed wire fence and a seemingly endless field of dead ground.

Then I noticed him, standing alone, a good forty feet away, behind the building next to the guest facility. He was topless, smoking, staring at me. He looked me up and down, and then scoffed dismissively and looked away.

A part of me wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. But there was something strangely refreshing and comforting about him dismissing me like that.

I didn’t get a very good look at him before he disappeared back into the building. From what I could see, he looked just like the rest of them—just another man obsessed with sculpting his body to impress women he’s never met, totally oblivious to the fact he could get blown up at any moment.


Normally, I could think of at least one dozen better ways to waste my time than to sit in a room full of horny, desperate men and watch a bunch of prostitutes strip clumsily on a stage. That night, nothing else came to mind. Besides, for once, they weren’t technically prostitutes.

I’d skipped the last few shows. You’ve seen one cracked-out street girl struggling to pull her shirt over her head, you’ve seen them all. But I figured, how many times do you get to attend a private Playmate preview?

“Whoa, look who showed up,” Private Ryan Hastings said to me as I walked into the Chow Hall.

The place was still only half-full, the other men still in their quarters, plucking their eyebrows to look pretty for the girls. Hastings had a table front and center, ready to see some marginally famous tits. Private Miller sat with him. “Have a seat,” Hastings said, kicking out a chair.

I didn’t take the seat. “You ever think the girls might think you’re a creep, sitting up front with your boner pressed against the stage?” I asked.

He laughed. “I like the girls to be able to see me,” he said.

“You can get as close as you want, Hastings. Those girls aren’t going to see your two inches.” I motioned towards his lap. Miller broke into a laughing fit. Hastings was less amused but he pretended to laugh anyway. It was a well-known fact at COIQ-QU-14 that Hastings had a small dick.

“Just take the seat, motherfucker,” he said.

“Nah.” I kicked the chair back into the table “Save it for someone who gives a shit.”

“You trying to tell me you don’t give a shit about the world’s hottest girls showin’ their tits?”

“I’ve seen hotter.” I walked towards the back of the room where I knew I’d be out of the way. I didn’t want to take my chances. There was always one or two Barrel Cleaners that would get off the stage and get interactive with the crowd. I wasn’t interested in being part of their show.

The place filled up fast. No one wanted to miss a girl. And no one did miss a girl, thanks to the show’s delayed start. Major Richards refused to green light the festivities until every soldier was in that Chow Hall. For once, the event was deemed mandatory.

“Playboy paid a lot of money to send these girls out here. You’ll give them your full attention,” Major Richards said. It was the first time I could remember that we didn’t even have someone on guard duty. I thought it was an unnecessarily dangerous decision in the name of tits, but like the rest of COIQ-QA-14, I wasn’t worried. Two years had gone by and I’d never even heard a gunshot.

Sometimes I wondered if we even were really in Iraq, or if we were just in the middle of Nevada somewhere, with a nearby town full of Iraqi actors. Did the Hajjis even exist? Or was this just some big elaborate setup to waste time and employee prostitutes?

They dimmed the overhead fluorescent lights, flicked on the cheap, flashing Christmas decorations, and the show began. The joint looked like an elementary school talent show. The stage was just a cluster of tables around a support-post, some plywood, and a big sheet.

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