...Or I'll Beat you with a Dead Horse!

Today is the 40th anniversary of when I would have arrived in Vietnam for my first of four tours of duty, had I not french kissed a psychiatrist at my draft physical.

I had a whole day to screw up my courage to commit this dastardly deed. You have to realize that as a very ardent heterosexualist, with a family crest of an erect penis rampant on a field of hardwood bolts, that kissing another man, with or without tongue, was as close to being impossible as was the thought of being away from women for a year or more. (Although I had read The World of Susie Wong, I didn't make the gymnastic mental leap needed to figure out that sex was going to be even more available in 'Nam than it was in Provo, Utah, which is saying something!)

During the back and forth debate that raged in me that day, there were times I just knew I couldn't kiss another man, even to save myself from a year in Vietnam. And during these interludes I would imagine myself as enjoying military life. I pictured myself as a beautiful killing machine, all smiles and death. I could see myself as a drill instructor, loathed but respected by my men, and I rehearsed speeches to platoons of new recruits. And because I've never been a swearer or a taker of a god's name in vain, I had to come up with effective invective so as to instill respect and fear in my recruits. And that's when I invented, "... or I'll beat you with a dead horse!"

But it was all for naught. The psychiatrist was not a bad looking man and I kissed him, deeply, lingeringly, but not passionately. The whole time my arms embraced him and my lips were on his, I was thinking of Paula Bunker. Yeah, Paula Bunker, the one who got away, the one who hurt me so badly that I refused to make love to another woman with that first name or those initials. To this day, when my wife asks me if I want a PB&J for dinner, I cry. Yep, it's almost been 50 years, but the thought of Paul Bunker and Jelly still makes my eyes moist.