Gage:A Bad Boy Military Romance

By: Cordelia Blanc




That’s all anyone stationed at Combat Outpost IQ-UA-14 cared about. Because at COIQ-UA-14, that’s all we ever got to do.

If your outpost got shot up by Hajjis, they sent you feel-better presents. PlayStations, computers, jack-off mags, that kind of stuff. When your friends get blown up by IEDs, they sent care packages filled with comforting things. Mostly liquor.

If they knew you were going to die, but you hadn’t died yet, they sent women.

Prostitutes. Hookers.

But you couldn’t call them hookers. “Exotic dancers,” was the technical term. The other soldiers called them Barrel Cleaners behind their backs, Desert Queens to their faces. Sometimes, someone would called them BCs and the other guys would all giggle because the dumb whores had no clue. I called them Barrel Cleaners to their faces, because that’s what they were, and I figured they didn’t give a shit one way or the other, seeing as they had no moral issues flying halfway across the world to fuck a bunch of strangers in uniform.

We got loads BCs at our outpost because they were waiting for the right moment to send us off to be killed. We were deployed as cannon fodder—a bunch easily expendable, low ranked nobodies. We were the ones they would send in first, to clear out the roadside bombs that the robots didn’t spot—or that they were too cheap to send robots out to spot (we were cheaper than robots). We were the ones they sent in to take shots from the snipers that the drones didn’t catch.

We were just waiting to be sent out on our first and last mission, and we all knew it.

But when we touched down in the Sandbox, the action had moved, and we became a camp of bored, forgotten soldiers. They kept telling us, “The action will move back this way. When it does, you guys will be the first ones out there.” So we waited.

The only guns anyone shot were the ones between their legs.

And HQ would was, “Any day now…” So we waited some more…

They were right. It was inevitable the war would make its way back to us at some point.


On the first of every month, a couple of birds would bring in two dozen Barrel Cleaners. On the fifth of the month, the birds would come back and take the girls away. Rules said we weren’t supposed to touch the girls, that they were “just for entertainment.” But that rule was just the army covering their asses. We had exactly twenty-four men stationed at our outpost. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the matching number wasn’t just a coincidence. When the girls arrived at the outpost, the higher-ups would turn their backs and play dumb.

Unlike the other twenty-three men at our outpost, I never cared about the BCs. The girls were anything but Desert Queens, more like haggard desert whores. Most of them stepped off those birds already high as a fucking kite on heroine and meth and God-knows what else. They always looked like the military just went down to the nearest Skid Row and filled a convoy with the first two dozen hookers they could find.

Most of them didn’t even have any interest in fucking. “I have a boyfriend back home,” they would say after bare-fist rubbing a Joe’s cock under the table. Occasionally, there was the true Barrel Cleaner, who would go door to door, trying to fuck every last Joe on site before her five days were up. Day six would roll around and everyone would be complaining about the itch. “The cunt had the clap!” No shit…

The fifteenth of every month was when they sent the creams and ointments, to get the troops ready for the next shipment of whores.

Not me.

I had no interest in fucking filthy prostitutes in the name of boredom. I didn’t want to catch the clap, or stroke any Barrel Cleaner’s fragile ego. Unlike the other guys, I didn’t want to stick my cock in some poor girl who only spread her legs because some military general back in the United States said some bullshit about it being “The American thing to do.”

I didn’t even bat an eye at the haggard whores.

Until one day, the first day of February, when the birds came in and dropped off a new batch of Barrel Cleaners.

She was the first to step off the chopper.

Her legs were long and she wore a pair of black, strappy heels. The other soldiers were whistling before they even saw her face step down from that helicopter. It was tough to see her face through her big, dark sunglasses, but I could tell right away she was different. This wasn’t just some girl they scooped out of some drug-infested alleyway. The chopper blew her skirt up and the crowd of twenty-three men erupted.

I wasn’t in the crowd.