Sharing a Cigar with a Doughboy (And how I made friends with a ghost) (fant smoking oral mast)
by mcgarguy
Last Memorial Day, I wandered up to the old soldiers' cemetery to pay my respects. I don't know exactly why I do it year after year, but it is quiet up there, and peaceful among all those endless rows of silent stones, and the breeze can feel pleasant on a sunny day in May.
Somehow, all those names on all those markers just seem to speak to me.
So every year I roam solemnly from area to area, and from era to era, as though roaming back through time, all the way back to where a couple Civil War soldiers lay, their names all but invisible.
And in front of some of those lonely stones, I pause and say hello.
But last year, something special happened; I actually met a ghost. I had circled around to the bottom, down close to the woods, down to where the veterans of World War One are interred. It is a secluded place. The memorial at the head of the row reminds visitors of "The Great War", of Belleau Wood, and Argonne Forest, and other distant battlefields long forgotten, but the graves remain almost entirely unnoticed.
And so, behind that large memorial, away from all the markers, I sat down on the warm grass to think.
And there, suddenly, right in front of me, I saw the ghost appear before my eyes.
He appeared almost from the air, and almost as though rising from the ground, and at first his image was translucent and gray so that I could see right through him like he was a cloud of smoke, but as he looked at me, he gained color, and he became solid and real.
And no, I was not afraid.
"Hi," was all he said to me, and "hi" was all I said back. And I looked at him closer.
He was wearing a uniform from The Great War, all tan canvas, olive drab wool, and cotton. The buttons were tarnished heavy brass, and on his arms there was some faded insignia. His trench boots looked ancient, and on his head he wore a dusty, dented helmet from that war, oh so long past.
Doughboys, I think they called them, though I never understood why. He was a young soldier, far too young to have had to witness the front lines of Northern France, and yet there he had been. And he was dirty, caked with dried grime and blood and sweat like he had just exited his trench on the hottest day of August. In fact, I could almost hear the fading sounds of cannon and machine gun fire in that distant land long ago.
In his hands, he still gripped his gas mask and kit.
And the doughboy smiled at me a sweet smile and dropped his mask and kit to the ground. "Mind if I join you? I'm awfully tired."
Yes, he sure looked tired. And his hair under his helmet was matted, and his dirty, freckled face was covered with unshaved stubble.
And as he sat heavily down next to me, I tried not to stare at his ripped tunic, or the dried blood, or the ugly wound below his shoulder. He didn't say a word about that wound. And neither did I.
But was he real? Oh yes, he was real.And he sure smelled real. He smelled real dirty and sweaty and his scent was almost overpowering, but I didn't mind because I knew where he had been, and I knew where he had just come from. And so I offered him my water bottle which he accepted appreciatively. It was the very least I could do for him. He drank down almost half.
And while I watched this young, war torn soldier from the past at last begin to relax, he pulled an enormous cigar from the breast pocket inside his jacket, and held it under his nose, moving it back and forth, looking at it, and chuckling to himself. And the soldier mused "The corporal got a whole box of these cigars in with the last shipment. He gave me this one just last night, and I was going to save it for later ? but I guess I might as well smoke it now. I mean, there's no reason to wait for ?later? any more, now is there??
No, I guess there wasn't.
After a silent moment, he asked me ?Do you have a match or some flint?? and I jumped up and gladly dug out my old Zippo and offered it to him. The mechanism was new to him, so I showed him how to use it, and the little gizmo made him smile again, and it was a wonderful smile.
And then he held the flame to the end of that great, fat cigar of his and the leaf took fire, and he puffed on it, and he rolled it, and the smoke began to swirl up from his lips.
The doughboy knew what he was doing, that was for sure. The kid knew just how to handle his cigar. And it was an immense one, too; a heavy, dark, hand rolled, rough leafed cigar, Cuban perhaps, from a time early in the last century when tobacco plantations had covered that country. And the aroma was just so rich and so right, circling us both as my exhausted soldier lay back in his antique uniform, crossed his boots, and let the smoke curl from his mouth.
And seeing him with his tired eyes, his look of fatigue, and his wound, I decided I should do something good for him.
So without asking permission, or even saying a word, I went down to his boots and began to remove them. They were big old heavy trench boots made of roughout leather, well worn with holes, and caked in stinking, drying mud. But to get to them, I first had to undo the lacings at the bottom of his dirt crusted trousers and the leather laces practically broke in my hands. Then I untied the boots and eased them off and saw that his feet were wrapped in moldy rags, so I turned my attention to the rags.
And my soldier boy didn't mind me doing this at all; no, he watched me complacently, and seemed relieved to have the boots off, and he just continued to contemplate his cigar, and puff on it slowly, while I saw to his poor aching feet. It was the very least I could do for him.
So I proceeded to unwrap the rags, and his feet were filthy. But I had the bottle of water and I had my own shirt to use as a cloth, and so I cleaned them off, and I dried them off, and then I began to massage them, one at time, working out the knots, easing the pain, and rubbing away the tension.
His sore muscles loosened up in my hands, and he eased back comfortably in the grass, removed his helmet and placed it under his head for support. And then he put his great fat cigar back between his teeth and he smiled at me, and blew a big cloud of smoke that hung above us for a time.
He looked so beautiful lying there, with that sensuous, freckled, dust covered face, and gleaming eyes behind half closed lids. And as I ran my fingers firmly around his softening feet, my soldier boy had his eyes on me, and he grinned around his cigar and said ?that feels real nice,? and he sighed happily so I went further.
I went down on my stomach and put my mouth to his toes and I proceeded to run my tongue around them and through them and I followed the arch of his foot up to its heel. And I didn't stop. And he didn't ask me to stop. He was floating relaxed and enjoying having my mouth all around his feet, making love to his feet, and I watched him as his crotch grew up into a hard bulge.
And he reached down to his trousers and innocently unbuttoned the fly.
It was just one of those moments, I think, when two men, two strangers from different worlds, connect and know it's ok. He pulled his cock out and it was long and hard and he began to run his one hand up and down as he took his cigar with his other, and dropped the ash on his foot for me to enjoy. He laughed a little as I lapped the ash up.
And after watching him masturbate for a minute, I moved my mouth up to within an inch, to within a touch, and he allowed me to take him in, and so I took him in deep.It was the very least I could do for him.
And his cock was firm and long and reached all the way back.
And his crotch was hairy and dirty and sweaty and smelled as bad as the rest of him, only much, much worse, and I was loving it. So I gave him my best without any thought of reciprocation. And he moaned and said "oh, that's good. I haven't had anything like this since -- well since my friend Jamie got sent to the front." My soldier's voice slowed a little: "He's gone now. I guess you know what I'm saying." And I did know what he was saying, and so I gave him even more.
Oh, my poor soldier friend. Where have you been and what horrors have you had to see? What life have you had to endure? I licked the head and went back down and he gasped.
Presently, my friend pressed me away and took a hold of his cock again, now all lubed with my spit, and he began to pull it to climax. Faster and faster he beat, so I positioned my face just above, with my eyes closed, in hopes of feeling the reward. And I was not disappointed.
He jerked and shot, and his warm cum hit my face full, and splashed on my forehead, and began oozing down my cheek and chin. And we both looked at each other and he laughed his sweet laugh, and placed his great big cigar back between his lips, and then, seeing his cum dripping all down my nose, he smiled at me a big smile. "Boy, you look a fright," he muffled around his cigar, "but thanks. That was great."
And then he picked up my shirt and helped me wipe off my face.
And so we sat there together behind the monument, my new cigar buddy and me, and we shared his cigar, and we talked of life, and of war. "Funny thing," he said, "I don't really remember what we were even fighting about." But isn't that so often the way?
And he looked around at all the tombs and added "I guess I'm probably not buried here anywhere. I suppose they left me over there in France." It was sadly true. Somewhere over there in some forgotten graveyard, he lays beneath some forgotten marker, forgotten by everyone, even his family.
"But Hey!" he suddenly cheered, "The important thing is that I've found a new friend and a great new cigar sex buddy!" And he slapped me hard on my back and it made me feel so good. I think I almost cried.
And he even taught me the words to "It's a Long Way to Tipperary", and we sang it together, and we sang it loud and long, and I'm sure our voices were heard by others way up the hill, though no one curious ventured down to find us there. And he asked me to teach him a song too, a song from my own time, but I couldn't think of a single one worth teaching, so we sang his yet again, even louder.
But by now the sun was setting, and his cigar was getting low, and we knew it was time for him to go. He knocked the mud off his boots, and he put them back on.
And I asked him if he could stay, but we both understood that was not to be.
So we shook hands, and we hugged. And then he realized something funny that made him grin from ear to ear. And he reached inside his jacket, and pulled out another fresh cigar, another big fat beauty just like the first, in fact, absolutely identical to the first. "Here, this is for you! I guess I'll find an infinite supply of these in my pocket from now on!" And he waited a moment, and then reached in and pulled out yet another and gave that one to me too, and he laughed. "You know, this ain't gonna be half bad!"
In exchange, I offered him my old Zippo which he was glad to receive. It was the very least I could do for him.
Then he picked up his kit and his mask, and he stuck his helmet back on his head, and he began to fade. He became translucent as I watched, turning to a wispy, smoky gray. And his last words were "Meet me here again next year!" And with a playful wink, he added "It will be my turn to suck you off. I think I owe you one!" And still wearing his sweet smile, he waved and simply faded away.
But thinking of the wound in his chest, I said to myself: "No, I still owe you."
So I placed his cigars safely in my pocket and began my way home -- and I am enjoying one of them right now as I write this.
And it is an immense cigar, too; a heavy, dark, hand rolled, rough leafed cigar, Cuban perhaps, from a time early in the last century when tobacco plantations covered that country. And the aroma is just so rich and so right.
And I'm thinking of him, and I'm remembering him, and I'm looking forward to seeing him again next year. In fact, I will look forward to sharing a cigar with my new friend every year.
END