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Sex is like sleep: He takes it where and when he can, and sometimes he goes without for so long that he can't even remember the last time he got any.
He realized years ago that he gets laid more often when he's on a tour of duty than when he's stateside. That shouldn't make sense but it does. It should involve adrenaline and the stupid fucking rush that comes from knowing you risked your life and came through unscathed; but it doesn't.
It's all about opportunity.
John confines his risk-taking to the cockpit, where at the very worst he'll only be shot down or killed. He's worked too hard for the privilege of flight, and he's not about to be grounded for not knowing when to keep his dick in his pants.
Hint: That's always when it's someone in his chain of command. Or someone who used to be in his chain of command, or might one day end up in his chain of command. Or hell -- even someone he knows. The beauty of being deployed is that there are always people leaving, people coming -- people John will never have to lay eyes on again in his life.
He's not the only one taking advantage of the revolving door. Even the straight boys are doing it.
Take this guy, for example. He sent all the right signals. His invitation reached John loud and clear. But John can tell all he really wants is five minutes of privacy, and someone else, anyone else, to do the touching. He's tired of it always being his own hand on his dick.
Privacy's easy. John takes the lead, shows him where to find it. And the guy at least knows not to speak, or ask for a name, or do any of that dumb crap that will literally make John walk away from the prospect of a nice, blinding orgasm. Amateurs are dangerous. They're welcome to go fuck up someone else's career.
John tucks them into that little corner, in the warehouse behind the supply pallets, and signals it's safe to begin by reaching for the guy's belt. And oh yeah, he's read this one right. John'll call him masturbation-guy. Masturbation-guy brushes John's hands out of the way and does his belt himself, then parts his fly barely enough to shove the front of his underwear down under his balls.
There is no eye contact. He's expecting John to do likewise.
John does, but he takes his time. Each button he teases free is significant progress. He rubs himself through his underwear a few times, fingers pressing, outlining his shape and length, until the guy's labored breathing reaches just the right harsh pitch. The guy pounces on John's erection when it's finally unveiled.
Hn, yeah, this could work.
Masturbation-guy isn't new to the game, but he isn't skilled, either. There's no technique, just a series of fumbling squeezes and tugs that probably couldn't produce results if the guy kept at it until his wrist gave out. (This guy's probably the type who drives screws with a hammer.) His hands do have some interesting calluses though; anyway, John just wants a warm-up before the main course. He's not worried about being able to get off. He's well aware of what he needs and how to take it.
"Hey," the guy whines, though his fingers don't stop dragging down John's dick. And yeah, that's almost enough of that. John's after an orgasm, not road rash. "Little help?"
"Sure." The word is sultry and breathy, because John's thinking about what comes next and how good it's going to be. Just one word and he's betrayed his anticipation.
That's one benefit to fucking strangers -- they don't know you well enough to recognize your tells. (They also never expect you to stay the night, though John doesn't consider that a benefit so much as the entire goddamned point.)
The dick he closes his hand over won't win any size contests. He's hoping it won't set any speed records either, because he wants to savor what he's about to do, just in case it's another couple months before another opportunity like this finds him. "Oh yeah, that's good," the guy groans, which is sort of insulting seeing as how John's barely touched him. Still, he pumps the guy's dick until it's rock-hard and weeping and so, so ready for him.
Then he lets go.
The guy's hips stutter forward, and John waits for it, the frustration and the protest. "Hey," the guy complains again, sounding petulant, and gratifies John with a muzzy glare. "Why'd you stop?"
John slithers to his knees, holding eye contact the entire way down.
He loves the moment the guy gets it, because he's read him correctly and it's all there: shock and outrage and panic, and an overpowering animalistic lust that holds him frozen to the spot while John fists the base of his dick and pushes the head past his lips.
Oh, I'm sorry. Have we strayed outside of your comfort zone? he inquires with one ironically raised eyebrow.
He knows both answers, to the question he asked and the one he didn't. John hasn't met the guy yet who'll argue with a blow job in progress.
The guy flails as he nearly loses his balance; his shoulders crash hard into the pallets behind him, but John rides it out and pins him there, engulfing his dick nearly to the root. The velvet heat of the shaft slides down his tongue; tight coils of hair tickle his nose. He hears a choked-off sob and shifts his hand down to clench down on the guy's balls, the pressure just shy of what he knows would register as pain. A warning. They can still get caught if they make too much noise.
John slides off and wets his lips again, trying to decide if he wants to be a fucking tease or just a fucking bastard. He nuzzles his cheek against the tip and the guy gasps. Bastard it is; neither one of them seem to be in any shape to last through prolonged torment. So he sweeps that delicious cock back into his mouth again, tongue contouring to it, exploring the spidery veins that are popping out beneath the skin.
Every time he bobs down he gets his jaw open just a little bit wider, increases the hard suction he's applying just a little bit more. His hands are in the action, twisting around the base in counterpoint to the way he spirals his lips around the shaft. Just because the guy's terrible at jacking off a partner doesn't mean John should hold out on him. The way the guy's whispering and panting, "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh god, oh fuck," suggests he's never been given proper head in his life. And, well, John sure doesn't mind ruining him for every girlfriend he'll ever have.
Most women, he's learned from experience, just aren't passionate about sucking cock.
The only way he knows the guy's about to lose it is the way he stills suddenly, like he can feel it building and wants to hold on to the edge of the wave just a few seconds longer. John's own dick is aching in neglected sympathy. Then the hot, viscous rush fills his mouth. The guy sags back as John releases him.
He spits into his hand, uses the slickness to bring himself off an embarrassingly short time later.
He's back on his feet, cleaning up with the handkerchief he'd tucked in a pocket expressly for that purpose, while the guy's still leaning there stunned. Marathon runners don't blow as hard as he is, chest laboring with the strain of drawing those too-rapid breaths. It would be flattering, except John's pretty sure that in the pantheon of the guy's sexual experiences, John doesn't have much competition.
He tucks himself away, fastens his pants, and smooths his uniform, making sure as best he can in the low light that he's presentable. Then he reaches out to cup the guy's cheek in his hand. There's stubble under his palm; he runs his thumb over the guy's lips in a gesture that's possibly more intimate than a kiss. "Thanks. I needed that."
The last time he ever sees the guy is the second before he turns to walk away.