Fly away

A trickle of sweat rolled down my back, god I hate to sweat. I should be used to it for fucks sake, I am from Alabama.

Standing there at attention on the red bricks, my feet are going numb, I think we’ve been out here for what seems like an hour, though I know it has probably only been twenty minutes.

Rank upon rank of young men wearing dress whites, all at attention while waiting for the company officer to walk down the ranks for personnel inspections.

It’s my second year at the Naval Academy. I can hear that asshole Lieutenant yelling at some plebe, god I remember how bad it sucked to be a plebe, at least I had that over.

The guy in front of me, from Long Island, is melting in the Annapolis sun. His white shirt yellow with rancid sweat, I could see it dripping from his knuckles pressed loosely against the seam of his white pants. Two little puddles adjacent to his feet, that’s not going to go over well with the LT.

Glancing up I see the contrail of a jet, I’d only flown a few times, but that jet trail represented freedom, a way out of this sweaty hell.

My mind drifts, back a week to my girl, back home, sweaty kissing in my car. we were pulled way off the road on a dirt logging trail. Tasting the sweat on her lips, bodies slick in the heat of the day.

The jet trail continues, it’s vapor dissipating like my memory. Fuck me! I wish I was sitting in a window seat looking down on me right now.

God Damn It, I’m hungry lets get this shit over and march to lunch. Another drop if sweat, slowly tracing a ticklish path down my back. Feet aching. Stomach growling.


©The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2013, written entirely on my iPhone.

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3 Responses to Fly away

  1. Kayla Lords says:

    I hate sweat too…and I’m from Florida.

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