It was the summer of the Naranjito World Cup, of the Pope's visit, of the Falklands War... And I had to live it all in a depressing barracks in a sad provincial town.

Due to all the grand events happening in our country, the barracks were almost empty; Some were guarding strategic points in the city, others patrolled the streets - the military feared a possible attack - and many more (this was the worst that could happen to you) were doing maneuvers in Los Monegros. I had been spared that terrible fate, but instead my life was limited to standing guard day in and day out, hardly ever leaving the barracks.

I had been there for about ten days and it seemed like I would finally be able to go on leave for the weekend. I showed up on time for roll call: Standing at attention, in the middle of the courtyard, under the scorching midday sun, a few soldiers were hoping to escape from that sinister confinement. The officer of the day conducting roll call was Lieutenant Furia - also known as "la Susi". A completely crazy guy who would shoot the rats in the alley with his standard-issue pistol, and it was said that it was better to stay away when he called you for some "service".

And that day la Susi was in a bad mood. When he reached my post, he stood behind me. He ran his finger through my neck to check the length of my hair and didn't approve. So he pushed me back and restricted me to the Company until further notice.

Furious, I returned to the barrack that served as a common sleeping area, game room, and living room for about fifty soldiers. I burst into the room like a madman, shouting something like "Damn fascist son of a bitch!!". Fortunately, almost no one heard me. There was only the barracks corporal and two or three soldiers who were so poor that they never went out to save money.

I lay down on my bunk, desolate. I had the bottom bunk in the last bunk, at the opposite end of the entrance area and recreational area, where a black and white TV always broadcasted "Verano Azul" (Blue Summer). So I thought I was completely alone in my corner. And I broke down: I started crying and sobbing hysterically.

Suddenly, a rough, insulting voice: "Stop crying and get out of here, you faggot, I'm jerking off!!".

Surprised, I turned my head back and discovered, on the bunk opposite mine in the same double row of bunks, the seminude body of the owner of that loud voice.

It was Sebastian, a soldier from the fifth call-up, the tough and troublemaking ones. A twenty-year-old kid with a body that looked like he had worked in the fields and on the scaffolding since he was a child. Semi-literate, with a thick beard, six feet tall. Barefoot and shirtless, with work pants halfway down and his dick hanging out, holding a copy of the Lib in one hand while gripping his balls (solid, beautiful, hairy balls) with the other.

"Excuse me," I said, "I didn't mean to bother you, I'll go..."

I ...