‘Wartezeit’

Jack Bordnick's sculptures and photography incorporate surrealistic, mythological and magical imagery often with whimsical overtones — aimed at provoking our experiences and self reflections. Aiming to unbalance our rational minds, the predominant imagery deals mostly with facial expressions of both living and “non-living” beings, and things that speak to us in their own languages. They are mixed media assemblages that have been assembled,
disassembled and reassembled, becoming abstractions unto themselves

Wartezeit

Leaving the Ardennes, tears dribbled down Jake’s cheeks … humiliating tears … tears ignored by his passenger.

The dense Ardennes forests hid the living and dead in secretive enclaves, retaining the festered wounds of two world wars and hosting restless spirits of slaughtered warriors and wounded souls. The locals referred to that ghostly restlessness within the forests, the invisible solace seeking, as die Wartezeit: the waiting time.

Jake Dixon, a guileless American airman, meandered through his 21st year an alien to his own inclinations. His chestnut toned hair crowned a rounded Celtic face, complete with hazel eyes that betrayed latent intelligence. Jake’s heavy frame, though underweight, functioned gracelessly, whether socially or athletically. Defined by convention, he longed for approval and affection. Had he mastered self-awareness he might have honestly accepted his alternative interests … avenues neither explored nor defined.

Though multiple suitors saw in him a pluckable fresh flower, he retained his virginity. As Jake chilled seductive advances, each pursuit ended in unfulfilled fancy. Fear trumped his natural desire for affection, fear of rejection and, of greater terror, risk of revelation. Fear engendered loneliness.

As the diesel roaringly protested the steep descent into the Pruem valley, the five-ton truck fought its approach to the German town below. Fiercely proud of his driving skills, Jake navigated the taxing switchbacks.

Marty Santoro, a Tennessee kid with classic Southern Italian looks, accompanied Jake. Marty resented the Vietnam era military hitch forced upon him, but found solace in persistent hashish use. His face revealed disinterest … an avoidance of realities confronted only during his infrequent periods of sobriety. Marty oozed seasoned sexuality, like jasmine blossoms overpowering and drawing pollinators to their reward … a scent that caused Jake unease. 

“We won’t cross the Belgian border, so it’s just a few miles ahead,” Jake announced, attempting to exude authority.

“Whatever you say, Sergeant Jake … lowlifes airmen like me just adapt.” Marty intriguingly diminished his military responsibilities without consequences. Cynicism dominated his inaction, but few foresaw possible conversion; hence, he accomplished little with remarkable efficiency.

“I heard we’re sharing a room,” Jake added.

“Maybe we’ll get to snuggle, Sarge!” Marty teased, suspecting Jake’s inclinations.

Guiding the truck out of Pruem and into the mountains beyond, Jake downshifted the transmission to changing grades. Conscious of Marty studying him, Jake’s vibe faltered.

“You’re pretty skillful with that big stick shift, Sarge!” Marty teased, proffering his bountiful smile.

Unnerved, Jake missed the clutch, grinding the truck’s gears.

“You dreamin’ of dick on that long shifter, sir?”

“Cut it, Marty!”

“Sorry; don’t court martial me, Sarge … just admiring your grinding skills.”

“Fuck off!”

“Not superior officer words, sir!”

Marty’s smile unnerved Jake … a smile accented by rose-colored and child-like lips. Jake eyed thick, forever mussed-up and nearly black hair that accented Marty’s unibrow. Marty’s mysteriously amber eyes appeared prescient … capable of perceiving his hidden soul. Jake was both fearful of and smitten by this creature, one a woman once labelled, one beautiful hunk of a man.

Arriving as assigned, Jake positioned the generators near the power-hungry communications vans. Jake mounted the truck bed and readied the generators for start-up. As he slithered down, he felt Marty’s hands cupping his butt. Adverse to human touch, Jake yelped, causing others to look his way. Marty stood by innocently.

“Nice buns, Sarge.”

Jake reddened as he turned away, wrestling desire while concealing a blooming erection. His self-esteem collapsed.

Ever idle, Marty tuned a regional radio station and danced to early 70s tunes. Proficient in extracting his bidding, Marty bopped luridly toward Jake, taunting him with suggestive swag. Jake haltingly swayed his hips.

“Not bad for a honkey”, approved Marty. “Let’s toke it up … how’bout it?”

“Man, we’ve got to make sure the power’s ready.”

“Fuck it, Sarge; let loose once in a while!”

Past hash smoking caused Jake’s inhibitions to crumble, once leading Marty to laughingly spot his arousal.

“No dope for me, man.”

Marty chuckled dismissively.

Relieved from duty, the pair located their room at Gasthof Barbarossa overlooking the town square’s pink-stuccoed abbey. Opening the heavy wooden door, Jake noticed an enormous bed.

“Looks cozy in here, Sergeant Jake”, Marty offered. “You and me, all alone in that big bed. Hope you don’t sleep in the raw, man … kind’a weird.”

“Shit, Marty … enough room here for a squadron … besides, we’ll be working opposite shifts … you’ll have it all to yourself.”

“Too bad; I might get lonely,” Marty added sarcastically.

“Yea, then get a dog. Come on, let’s get a beer.” 

Though adept in camouflaging his wants, Jake was ill-equipped to decipher Marty’s. casual sexuality. Terrified by Marty’s influence, he weakly resolved to avoid temptation.

After a second beer, a nearby officer ordered Marty up to the mountain site for a night briefing. Thoroughly buzzed, Marty stood up and smiled brashly at Jake and, pursing his rose lips to full effect, he saluted Jake mockingly. Marty turned, offering Jake a full inventory of his pleasing posterior. Jake gawked … Marty nimbly noted.

Days passed … the two seldom interacted as their generators functioned flawlessly.

On the sixth night, Jake awakened after midnight to fumblings outside the room’s door. Ready to redirect a stranger, Jake beheld a thoroughly stoned Marty, seemingly incapable of operating the door.

“Howdy Sarge!” Marty chortled with a Cheshire cat grin. Without warning Marty smacked a lurid kiss on Jake.

“Hell, what if someone caught that? Besides, why aren’t you up on the hill?” Jake panicked.

“Don’t get your panties twisted, Sarge … everything’s okay.”

Marty plopped onto the bed, yanked a Jägermeister schnapps from his pocket, and consumed the full contents. He reeked of hashish.

“For fuck’s sake, are we in trouble?”

Oye como va, Mi ritmo, Marty belted out the title of a famous Santana tune.

“Fuck, you’ll awaken everybody. Shit, let me know how you got down here.”

“You’re funny, Sarge … I’m singin’ you love words, and you’re not even dazzled. If you must know, we’re fuckin’ free … mission’s over! It’s finito, gonzo, over and out … we’ve saved our country, so, let’s party, my studly man.”

Jake, unconvinced, left and found an irritated lieutenant who confirmed Marty’s claim. Pensively placated, he returned.

“Am I goin’ to Air Force prison, Sarge?”.

“Okay, you were right … now let’s get some fuckin’ sleep.”

Oye como va, Mi ritmo, Marty repeated. “Hey Sarge, I’m talkin’ sweet to ya … how’s that? Santana talks about his lovely stuff, his honey … you’re my lovely, Sarge; know what I mean?”

“Dammit Marty, cut it; you’re zoned.”

“Sorry, Sarge; I thought you’d like some sway … you don’t want me then?”

Riled, Jake slipped into the sheets, pulling the comforter over his head, remaining awake and sensitive to Marty’s presence. After a half-hour, Marty stumbled and switched off the lights.

Jake peaked over the coverlet. Marty stood motionless, his face and front outlined by street lighting. Jake remained frozen, scarcely breathing. Tense, he slightly turned to tweak his sights on Marty.

Sluggishly, Marty turned, bent to remove his boots, and then removed his uniform shirt. Marty fumbled at his belt clasp, unzipped, and dropped his pants. Jake shivered, relishing the sight of Marty’s broad shoulders, whitened in the streetlight. Wearing only white boxers, Marty patiently squatted to his side of the bed, lowering his outstretched arms over his knees as if praying. Jake’s breathing faltered, furtively ogling the scene before him like a common peeping Tom.

Marty suddenly re-stood and seductively wiggled out of the cotton fabric like a stripper trained to amplify lust. Once naked, he grabbed and erotically massaged his firm buttocks. Jake spied the dark hair gracing Marty’s backside and along his beautifully formed legs. Jake’s heart pounded erratically … entranced, transfixed, and unrelentingly aroused, he devoured the spectacle. Immobilized, Jake groaned as Marty turned toward him. Catching Jake’s vocal flurry, Marty nodded in consent, like a musician exacting his will on a violin.

Jake shuddered as Marty lazily approached, leering at the naked man’s plentiful pubic hair surrounding the base of his swelling member. As Marty erotically cupped his crotch, Jake crouched like an inexperienced predator preparing for a kill. Jettisoning caution, his longing set the course; however, before Jake pounced, Marty pranced proudly away and slithered sensually within the coverlet. Jake’s spirit tottered, tears blocked by inhibition.

Wounded and sleepless, Jake intently monitored his bedmate until, at last, Marty’s breathing subsided. Rasping snorts proved that Marty had, without bother, succumbed to hashish-induced sleep. Jake sporadically slept within uneasy recollections of the evening’s humiliation.

The twelfth bell from the abbey tower announced early morning hours … Jake awakened, laying on his side, back toward Marty. His fitful slumber fizzled with the startling sensation of Marty’s groin firmly planted along his buttocks. Marty’s right arm rested along Jake’s flank. Stirring with quickening libido, Marty’s embrace tightened, rubbing his furry legs along the length of Jake’s. Trembling with unaccustomed intimacy, Jake timidly placed his right hand on Marty’s as it rested on Jake’s thigh.

As if on cue, Marty reached over to Jake’s boxers, moved his hand inside the fabric, and firmly grabbed Jake’s erection. Marty slowly shifted his mouth over Jake’s right ear.

“Saluting, Sarge?”, Marty whispered. “A basic training trick, or are you just glad to see me, lovely?”

“Why call me that?” Jake pleaded, his voice weakening as he struggled. “Why this … holding me and using that name … why hassle me?”

“Lovely? Oh, don’t worry about your manhood, Tarzan. Ole’ Santana just meant ‘sweetheart’ in his song, like his lovely lady stuff. That’s what you’re gonna be tonight … my sweetheart, my stuff. And I’ll be your man. I wanna give what you’ve been wantin’, Sarge. Don’t ask questions … just lay back and go down. Just move like you jive danced by that friggin’ truck.”

Without warning, Marty roughly ripped Jake’s shorts, pushing the fabric to either side of his hips. Marty expertly moved his hands down the length of Jake’s naked legs, cupping his fingers slightly to optimize sensuality, and quietly purred into Jake’s ear. Jake writhed in erotic agony as Marty grazed his groin. Before reciprocating, Jake paused as Marty leaned down to caress and kiss his toes.

Returning to Jake’s ear, Marty murmured, “Like my strokes, Lovely?”

“Oh yeh … oh fuckin-eh yeh … why never before?”

Jake’s will to resist the burning risk of love evaporated as he abandoned the safety of virginity. Successes in masking his natural affiliations had blinded him from Marty’s perceptions and bent for seduction. Marty cunningly stalked Jake like a big game trophy hunter. 

Cornered and tranquilized, Jake capitulated to Marty’s designs.

With Jake submission, Marty roughly flipped him onto his belly, planted his knees on either side of Jake’s backside, and touched his lips upon the trembling face below him. As Marty feverishly kissed every plane of his prey’s skin, Jake yielded to increasingly forced advances. The night was Marty’s as he consumed his prize.

Four bells sounded from the Abbey. Jake briefly awakened, troubled by flashbacks, yet comforted by the warmth of nakedness. His head rested astride Marty’s chest, Jake relished the muskiness of a wooly armpit as the spicy aromas of burnt hashish delighted his senses. Edgy from recollecting the night’s ruthless tryst, Jake was suspended in perplexion as he reached over and splayed his hand along Marty’s chest. Sleep returned, but not without reflection.

Jake awakened in morning light, expecting a lover’s warmth … the space aside him had emptied. Questioning, he located Marty sitting, undressed, at the bed’s edge. Seeking intimacy, Jake shuffled across the bed, atypically naked, and straddled his legs around Marty’s butt. After tenderly petting Marty’s tangled hair, he began caressing Marty’s unshaven face … a move uncharted in his life of emotional distance.

As if assaulted, Marty leaped from Jake’s touch, scowled frighteningly, and relocated, clearly rejecting Jake’s overture. Jake was stunned. 

“What’s that all about? I just wanted to touch you, man.” Jake pled.

“Look, man, I don’t need you hanging around, drooling and gawking, okay? Just get into your threads, for shit’s sake, and get down to breakfast …  I wanna be alone, and now, understand!” Marty barked.

Reassessing Marty’s ominous mutation, Jake rapidly dressed and stormed out, slamming the door behind him, feeling rebuked and unwanted.

Driving that afternoon, Jake fearfully turned toward Marty.

“So, what should we do with our situation?” Jake begged naively, with muddled emotions.

“Fuck it, Sarge, you just don’t get it, do you? There ain’t no situation … we’re not gonna do a damned thing about anything!”

“But last night … what about what we had together?”

“Hell, ain’t you ever had a good fuck with nothing but a sloppy kiss good-bye and sore balls the next morning?”

“Nope.”

“Figures! Look, Sarge, I’ve had chicks up the ying-yang wantin’ to get into my pants, and lots did. That’s the cool thing about it: most chicks just want a good fuck that their men won’t or can’t give’em. But it’s out the door afterwards.”

“Besides, sometimes the same ole’ poke gets boring, you know, like gettin’ steak every day. So, Sarge came along, like a good fried chicken or a juicy burger, a different way of gettin’ laid. But today, maybe something different…….”

“But you said last night that you loved…….”

“Don’t go with that love shit, Sarge. From the get-go I saw your eyes strippin’ me naked … I couldn’t move without you gawkin’ at my butt ... I had you figured real quick. So, it was just a matter of time. I wanted a good-lookin’ dude, and I got one … that’s all there is, okay? You’re not my first dude, man.”

“Come-on, you like dick, but you damned sure didn’t know how to get it … I did all the work for you … be happy. But love? I loved your ass and maybe how you wiggled, but love’s for pussies. Men don’t love … they fuck!”

“Hey, be cool: you were a good bang … good sex, man. You’re a tasty hombre but, man, are you mixed up … don’t know who you are and what you want. But how you figure that out is up to you, and it ain’t gonna’ include me; so, get over it, dig?”

Alone the following day, Jake recalled his first intimate entanglement. He longed for Marty, regardless of rejection, roughness, and lack of tenderness. His hunger and neediness wandered unceasingly, setting up potential abuse at the hands of another wooing voice. But Jake’s night in Pruem instilled a formidable want, something pursued at any cost.

Ensnared within his own trap, Jake rambled, flutily structured for a random resurrection of lust letting. Like a sightless creature seeking sustenance in ocean depths, he stumbled toward the possibility of unconditional love, a chance of loosening his fetters. But now, accompanying the lost souls of the Ardenne, he strayed: die Wartezeit.

Michelo Isola resides in Georgia with his husband of twenty years and three needy dogs. He is a later life writer who relishes stories about marginalized people.