Gage:A Bad Boy Military Romance(6)

By: Cordelia Blanc

The first girl up was runner-up Miss January. She got a thunderous applause, being the first girl out. Some old lady with wrinkly old lips had to come out and tell her to go easy on the pole, or she’d take the whole building down. A shame too, because the girl was surprisingly acrobatic. She wasn’t much to look at, but she could flip around that pole like a fucking chimp in the zoo. Her tits almost fell out of her black bunny top, which got a few whistles from the Joes.

The next few girls were less entertaining. One girl got a particularly sharp rise out of the crowd. She was blonde and petite and had big fake tits like the rest of them, so I wasn’t sure what was so special about her. She liked to flash her stiff-looking chest spheres to the crowd, which she did more times than most men in the room blinked.

Then, the one I came to see took the stage, the black-heeled vixen from the landing pad, the smoker behind the guest hall. “Give a warm welcome to Miss April, 2016, Ashley King!” Major Richards announced from his little makeshift podium next to the stage.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who thought she was in a different league. The place erupted with hollering and whistling and catcalling. I didn’t pity Miss April one bit. Those men were going to eat her alive, and judging by the flat, unimpressed look on her face, she wasn’t excited for the feast.

Like the others, she was dressed in the traditional Playboy Bunny outfit with the poofy white tail and the big black ears. She spun around the pole, did a few laps around the stage, and then left. No tit flashes. No pussy. The crowd sighed one loud, simultaneous sigh. It sounded like a big, deflating balloon. I couldn’t help but laugh from my back corner seat.

Runner-up Miss May took the stage, but the men were too preoccupied being disappointed over not seeing Miss April’s rack that they hardly even noticed. Runner-up Miss May didn’t get far into her little routine before she realized she had no one’s attention. She got naked faster than you can say Barrel Cleaner, and then left the stage pouting like a kid throwing a tantrum.

By the time Miss June rolled around, I’d seen enough. Desperate women trying to get the attention of desperate men. I couldn’t take another six months. I slipped outside.

If it wasn’t for the thudding bass from the music in the Chow Hall, you’d think the outpost was abandoned. The buildings were all dark, the air was silent. Save for that evening, we always had three guys on watch duty. Everyone passed time on watch duty differently. Some guys listened to the radio. Some guys played their guitars. Some guys watched porn. There was always some sound filling the warm Iraq air. That night, there was nothing.

I jumped up and grabbed onto the pull-up bar. I did a few reps. My mind was back home, on my family, on my future. My tour was over in sixteen more months, and I had nothing waiting for me back home. I had no job lined up, no university, no wife, no kids, no mortgage, nothing. “Have you considered a career in the military after your tour?” they asked us once every couple of months.

I joined the military for something to do. My friends back home were all either busy chasing dumb girls that they’d get bored of within months, or chasing mindless jobs that would make them want to kill themselves. I didn’t want any of that shit. Before I joined the army, my buddy said to me, “You’re twenty-five, Gage, you’ve got to do something with your life. Anything.”

“I want to be a boxer,” I said. “I’m a boxer.”

“You lose every fight.”

“Not every fight.” I had twelve wins and sixteen losses—not the greatest record, but not the worst, either.

“Look, Gage—You like fighting, and that’s great. But it’s maybe just not the career for you. It’s not doing anything for your wallet, you know what I’m saying? It’s not a career.” He was right. I wasn’t good enough to go pro. I was hardly good enough to be amateur.

My other friends agreed, and even my parents said something similar. They weren’t quite as gentle. “When are you going to do something with your life?”

I had no intention to do something constructive with my life just because that’s what everyone wanted me to do. I didn’t want to be like them, all running around, stressed out about some stupid raise that would make them no happier. I was sick of hearing them talk about it, so I joined the Marine Corps to shut them up. And it was a way to practice my boxing without their hollow scrutiny.

Sadly, I was wrong. There was nothing to do at COIQ-UA-14. Nothing that they weren’t already doing back home. No one here wanted to spar with me. Even the gyms were better back home.

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