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Dear Sir:I am a young college student thinking about joining the Marines but I'm afraid of the recruit haircuts. My sun streaked hair is blond, straight and just to my collar in back, and covers my forehead in front. I'm afraid I'll get a hardon when my hair is being cut, and that everyone will notice. Are any of the recruits ever humiliated by their first Marine cut?---Nervous
Dear Nervous:Don't know why you'd be afraid of the procedures raw recruits are subjected to their first day of Boot Camp. All that happens is three D.I. 's jump the bus and start hollerin' and tossin' guys out the door. You'd just be one of a bunch of harassed civilians grabbing your luggage and hustling to line your feet up with a pair of painted markers next to all the other dumbass Who enlisted with the entirely misplaced hope of being turned into something other than slug civilians
Then you gotta march double-time (but they don't tell you where), and all over the base squads of guys a little more salty than you are are pointin' at how cute it is to see you try to keep in step. You get 10 seconds to stow your gear and hump over to the medical center, where you get stripped down, lined up again, marched through a cold shower, examined, vaccinated and sent nekkid (but in alphabetical order) to the military barber. By now all your civilian rags and geegaws have been locked away and won't be returned until you get exiled from the Corps or matriculate.
You don't have your uniform, O.D. shorts, or boots yet. First you have to submit to the buzzing razor m the hand of the big, mean-looking Marine barber. He is going to remove all the hair from your head, and he's not going to be gentle. That sloppy civilian hair cut stands between you and integration into a unit of like-minded men devoted to one another's survival and united in their desire to destroy the enemy. It cannot be tolerated any more than insubordination toward a superior officer or an inability to make up your cot properly and clean your rifle.
You are seated naked in the leather-covered chair where millions of bare recruit butts have been pressed down and held down until they are completely shorn. With one smooth gesture, the uniformed barber's muscular arm tilts you back at just the right angle for the first sweep of the buzzing clippers. They look like dog clippers. You were not the first in line, so they have gotten a little hot. He takes the first cut right down the middle. Even if you got up and ran you would only look ridiculous now. And you'd be easy to spot and retrieve.
Of course you get anxious when you feel your pecker start to rise. The eyes of your three DIs and every other recruit in the platoon are riveted to you. You are the center of attention. And the barber himself is staring over your shoulder. Now he has an evil grin. He has met your type before, and he knows what to do. The clippers seem to be ripping skin off your head. You have never felt so exposed, so helpless. Then he puts one of his big hands around your throat and holds you back while he shaves your left nipple. The clipper feels like it might take the erect tissue off with it, but instead all it does is make it throb. You know your tits are now as hard as your dick. The removal of your hair proceeds relentlessly. When your chest is completely bare, your belly fur is also mowed away.
The senior D.I. has moved closer. He is not pleased. "Got ourselves a live one: " he tells the barber. "Give him the full treatment!" He uses the tip of his leather-covered swagger stick to lift your dick up and pin it to your belly. You are afraid he will strike your erection if you move or protest. Now your balls are being stretched to the breaking point. Your nuts are simultaneously lifting toward your body out of fear and arousal, but being dragged down by the barber's fist and by the heat of his electric razor.
Surely, you think, this is the ultimate humiliation, to have the hair that is a private token of your basic manhood removed in public. Then why are you so shamelessly aroused? Some of the recruits are also hard. The bravest ones are openly jerking off. But it doesn't stop there. The barber proceeds to shave your arms and legs, while the assistant D.I's pin you to the chair. They are stroking their flies and telling you they know how to treat a boy who can't control his dick, who gets a hard-on when he feels other men handle him. When you are completely smooth, you are tossed out of the chair and forced to service them while a gang of recruits press in around you and beat off madly at the spectacle.
As soon as the officers cum, they throw you to the pack, and you know you will never be treated like a buddy by these men, but like an animal, their communally held male sex-slave. They force you to push your dick down between your legs, which is painful, but nobody wants to look at a pussy-boy's boner, just his spread open butt-cheeks, which you have to display by crawling down a gauntlet of hard-bodied men whacking off over you, cumming all over your face and back and ass and shoulders. The fresh, hot spunk burns on the baby-tender skin that has just been abraded and made raw by the barber's rough handling and overheated clippers. You stink of sex, and you lick the dripping cream off wherever you can reach it, like a dog cleaning himself. By now, the other recruits have all gotten their regulation haircuts and are ready to be herded away to be issued uniforms. You can only huddle in a corner and shiver and wonder what they are going to issue you.
Shit, I don't know what you're nervous about. The Marines are just looking for a few good men. See ya on the fryin'pan squid.---
The Old D.I.
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