Owing to difficulties I've tweeted about in other storytime threads, I was on details for a while. I'd spend weeks hanging out with dudes and then they'd get pulled to do their actual jobs and then I'd have to become acquainted with new dudes. One such dude, we'll call Whitman.
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Whitman was one of those bigger guys that nevertheless had a sort of nerdy obnoxious face. He looked like a young Robert Carradine but smoother and whiter and every segment of his body more oblong. His voice was like Curtis Armstrong's but with all the character sanded out of it
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Maybe kind of like Rizzo the Rat's voice, nasal and raspy, but bland Midwestern affect replacing any actual flavor. Anyway, I didn't really think much of him at first. Random cornfed white boy airman, friendly but not exactly awash in intellectual curiosity. Pretty common sight.
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I guess we hung out a few times. By this point a few things had happened. I finally had an entire suite to myself after years of sharing it with one or two dudes. The last guy I roomed with nearly lost his career from sexually harassing a woman in public and later became a MAGA
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So, I was—as I so often am—lonely. Whitman wanted to partake in a lot of the various social activities around base. He asked me to come with him a few times. Honestly I don't remember what we even did together. It was all pretty bland and inoffensive military recreation shit
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There were some warning signs I would have noticed in hindsight. Some things about _myself_ I know now in hindsight. The first is that Whitman REALLY wanted to hang with me, like a lot. Originally I didn't realize he was kind of aggressive about it but he came by my suite often
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The second is that Whitman was... a bit effete, we'll say. And there was kind of a... slightly unusually tactile, overfamiliar quality about him. I let him into my room once to show him my gaming setup and he kind of just helped himself into my bedrobe and sprawled across my bed
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Like it was kind of that languid Playboy bunny pose? In my bathrobe. I mean. I didn't have a second chair. But he kinda... took liberties.
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And like—on my end, nobody had ever actually clued me in to how delicate and feminine MY mannerisms were. This was also before I found out I was intersex, or understood that I still looked like and had the body of a teenager Basically, I didn't grok that I looked like a twink
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(I could p much do a microthread just about all my clueless encounters with cis gay men basically being "chasers" before I even came out, particularly the guy when I worked at Best Buy who couldn't stop telling me that I "smelled good", but just know I found them confusing)
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Next time, on Nasim Pedrad's Chad
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