Psych Ops of the Sexual Kind in an Army Barracks

arvan's picture

I would like to talk about a psychological experiment I conducted on my fellow soldiers, involving sexuality and beauty.

When I was in the Army, I was every bit the smartass that I am today, if not substantially worse.  My tastes in politics, arts, music, food and just about everything else did not fit the the 'culture' and mindset of my fellow ranks.  I grew up in Chicago, NYC, NJ and was into punk rock, new wave, tattoos, piercings, literature, art films, science, reason.  I was a smartass who had a chip on his mental and physical shoulders.

So many people in the military give the impression that they are all from some town in Alabama where the cultural hightlights include: Jack Daniels, bass fishing, NASCAR, strip malls, pickup trucks and Lynyrd Skynyrd.  Even people who were not from such places seemed to adopt the mores, values, likes and dislikes of that demographic.  It was often very hard to find any original ideas, tastes or opinions.

When it came to talking about women, most conversations were no different than chatter in a high shool locker room.  A chorus of juvenile, unoriginal fantasies of strippers combined with farmer's daughters bandied about with alcohol induced bravado and inexperience.  I did my best to avoid such conversations by either leaving the post or drowning the roar of the amateurs with headphones and alcohol. 

In the service, as in locker rooms - guys like to talk about what a bad-ass they are.  In reality, most of these guys had been with only one or two mild-mannered girlfriends and probably only when both parties had been completely drunk.  It was enough of a hell to be stuck on a post in the middle of nowhere, but to listen to a bunch of low-speed Romeo's chattering about sex they'd never had - was too much. 

It is very common for men to hang a pin-up girl on the inside of their lockers.  That tiny wall space is all that most of us have to display anything.  It's always milquetoast and usually consists of a famous swimsuit model in a wet bikini.  Mass produced and mass consumed, these images are the elevator music of erotica.  The world is full of billions of individual people, unique, special and beautiful.  To look at the lockers around me, you would think that the planet has less than 10 women - each wearing all-american-girl outfits or a bathing suit.  Blecch.

I was fairly certain that most of them didn't know the first thing about sex or beauty.  So, I set out to test my theory.

One day, I got a wild hair up my ass and decided to fuck with these guys. I thought to myself that this crap is not erotic.  My attitude is that if I'm gonna look at sex, then I want to look at sex.  I went to an adult book store and bought a tall stack of the nastiest, hard-core 1980's porn magazines I could find.  Hard, spewing cocks, double-penetration, orgy, spit, cum, anal, close up detail, big tits and so on.  Any act between men & women that you could think of that was available in that store - I bought it. 

Then, I went back to my locker and cut out all these pictures.  I made a giant collage that covered every square inch of space on the two doors of my locker.  There had to be at least 300 images in this pile.  Then, I waited for the reactions.  Over the next weeks, every troop in the building would come and stare at my locker until they had examined every single image.  None of them could admit that they were turned on or that they approved, but every single man would stand there, examining every single image. 

They would all make comments about me, of course - to pretend that this was not about them staring at those pictures for a really long time.  And I chuckled every time. 

"You're sick."

They would tell me, but I wasn't the one gaping at the pictures with my jaw hanging to the ground for 30 minutes at a time.

My biggest kick was when the super-religious guys would show up.  They tended to stay the longest and tell me how disturbed I am in the greatest detail.  There were plenty of return visits as well - just making sure, I suppose.

So, after about a month of their lingering and malingering, I purchased a stack of fall fashion magazines - all the big ones and took them back to my barracks.  These were the most beautiful women, the most stylish images in beautiful locations - castles, luxury homes, runways, beautiful cities and lush, pastoral settings.  Their make-up and hair were flawless, their skin and muscle tone impeccable and the clothing was the very best, most elegant of the season.

I tore down the porn and put up a new collage of all these gorgeous, clothed and stylish women and waited for the responses.  To a man, there was a complete lack of comprehension.  All my regular, leering visitors filed by to see what I had done, took a quick look, scanning silently for porn. 

As they would each turn to leave, with disappointment a full lack of the enthusiasm they had shown for the previous exhibit, they would say:

"I don't get it."


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