Date: Thu, 21 Oct 2010 11:00:25 -0400
From: George Gauthier <georgegauthierdc@gmail.com>
Subject: Ship's Boy

			Ship's Boy
		 	The 17th Tale of the Daphne Boy, the Ultimate Twink
			by George Gauthier

Fair warning: This story contains explicit and graphic depictions of gay sex.

			Prologue, 44 BC

It was a dark and stormy night. Battered and bedraggled from the long
struggle with the unforgiving sea, I struggled ashore through the angry
surf and an undertow that threatened to drag me out to sea to a watery
grave. I crawled like a lizard, belly on the ground, leaving a drag mark,
pushing beyond the reach of the surf, then passed out from utter
exhaustion.

I came to my senses hours later stretched out on my belly, coarse gritty
sand under my face, the hot sun burning my back and bare ass. Getting up
unsteadily onto all fours, the best I could manage at the moment, I crawled
up the beach to the foot of a rocky cliff. Putting put my back to it, I
looked around and took stock of my predicament.

My prospects were not good. This shore was barren ground -- all rocks and
sand -- with no sign of fresh water nearby. For all I knew I was on an
island. I did know that I was stranded alone, naked, and unarmed. Moreover,
my body was dehydrated, exhausted, and sore, bruised and scraped by the
rocks that had holed my ship the previous afternoon, spilling much of her
cargo and me into the water. I had survived the night by grabbing the rope
handle of an empty water keg as waves tossed me about, wind and spume
making it hard to breathe.

Somehow I was still alive. I was sure that all of my friends aboard the
trade ship Astarte had drowned, the ship was so badly stricken. I could not
hold back my tears at the loss of so many good men and boys. I had spent
nearly four years aboard that happy ship, learning the ways of the sea, my
first experience as a sailor. In centuries to come I would return to sea
time and time again, whenever the quiet life paled, and I felt the need for
adventure.

			Chapter 1. Berenike on the Red Sea 48 BC

Four years earlier ...

After stints as a well-paid pleasure boy in brothels in Alexandria and
Antioch I went into trade and became a successful merchant. I was
well-suited to both pursuits. On the one hand, my physical beauty made me a
much sought-after joy boy. On the other, my cast of mind and sunny
personality were well-suited to trade and commerce. But after several
decades of doing much the same thing I was restless for a change. I wanted
to see more of the world. Time then for a wanderjahr.

I sought a fresh start, some place I was not known. That ruled out the
eastern Mediterranean seaboard and especially my old stomping grounds in
Alexandria where I might all too easily run into those who had known me
before. What explanation could I give them for not aging a day in the
decades since? My appearance was still that of a beardless boy rather than
the old codger that I should, by all rights, have become after some
sixty-four years on the planet.

I was born in the late second century BC in the German lands a bit
southwest of the mountain range that separates modern Bavaria from
Bohemia. For reasons I have never understood, some genetic quirk
presumably, I had stopped growing and aging some months after my
seventeenth birthday. Even today, I look just as I did: a stripling, a
short, slender boy in his late teens and prettier than any boy rightly
ought to be -- in modern terms, a cute twink.

I sailed from the river port of Antioch, where in the following century I
would spend four years enslaved as a Daphne Boy, a temple prostitute. The
ship cut across the corner of the Mediterranean to Alexandria-by-Egypt. I
passed through the city as quickly as I might. Besides the danger of
recognition, I feared the imminent civil war that loomed over Egypt's
capital. Queen Kleopatra and her brother King Ptolomey were contending for
power. So I hurried from the city just before the gates closed as the young
king's army laid siege, penning both the queen and her lover and ally, the
Roman general Caius Julius Caesar inside. History records what happened
then. By that time I was safely away from the turmoil. One thing I learned
early in my two millennia on this planet is the wisdom of steering well
clear of historic upheavals.

I sailed by river craft up the Nile to the town of Coptos. The Nile makes a
perfect water highway. The wind blows steadily from the North, propelling
sailing vessels southward upriver. The return trip is even simpler, just
furl the sail and float downstream with the current. From the river, I took
one of the regular caravans overland across the Eastern Desert to the port
of Berenike on the Red Sea. Through that city passed the trade between the
Egypt of the Ptolomies (the successors of my namesake Alexandros III,
called the Great) and Ethiopia and India.

After arriving in Berenike and poking around the docks for a few days, I
learned of a certain captain Aristokles, a young seaman with a good
reputation. His ship, the Astarte, had recently scraped a coral reef,
staving in her side. She barely managed to limp back into port. The Astarte
needed a complete refit which the captain could not afford. He was in
danger of losing everything. Here was my opportunity.

I looked him up at the shipyard of Magas the shipbuilder. Like me
Aristokles was dressed only in a low slung linen kilt, the typical garb of
Egypt, and went barefoot, as mariners usually do. With their voices raised
I had no trouble in hearing his argument with Magas, a powerfully built
grizzled man with a regretful expression on his face.

"Young Ari, your father Aristokles was one of my dearest friends, but I
simply cannot do the work on speculation, not even for his son. I must have
money up front so I can buy materials and pay my builders their wages. And
even then you would need a stake to buy trade goods. As a trader yourself
you can understand how risky that would be. Why your ship might be lost at
sea on the very next voyage or your trading efforts might prove
unprofitable. Where would that leave me?

"I am sorry, but the answer is no. If, in the end, you cannot get the
Astarte fixed, come back to the yard. There is a job here for you as long
as you want it."

"Thank you for that much Magas. I understand your position completely. No
hard feelings, and I may have to take you up on that job offer."

When young Aristokles turned around and I got my first good look at him. I
was thunderstuck, overwhelmed by a passionate desire for this stunningly
handsome young sea captain. He stood much, taller than I did by at least
two hand spans. Powerfully built, lean but muscular, he moved with the
grace of a panther. His face that was comely but in a manly sort of way,
with a square chin, dark hair and grey eyes. In short he was very much my
type. I badly wanted this potent male to make love to me.

Still, I was there on business, and it would not do for me to drool (much
less to tent out my kilt). Composing myself with difficulty, I raised my
arm to attract his attention. He turned his appraising gaze on me, looking
me up and down. A saucy grin broke out on his face. It was clear that he
liked what he saw in me.

And why should he not?  I have always been blessed with a lovely form and a
face that cannot but inspire admiration and lust in the heart of any male
who appreciates a beautiful boy. The short white kilt I wore did little to
conceal my fawn-like build, wiry musculature, and smooth hairless body. The
young captain's eyes twinkled with delight as he looked me up and down. He
wore a half smile as his gaze lingered on my delicate features. I like to
think my face has an elfin quality to it by virtue of the slight points on
my shell-like ears, high cheekbones, a chiseled jaw line, a straight nose,
and a narrow chin. My large green eyes were set wide apart under finely
arched brows, their lashes too long to have been meant for a boy. It did
not hurt that the wind was blowing my straight blond thatch into a
flattering halo.

The sea captain winked at the shipbuilder, then remarked in a loud voice:

"Well, well, well, what do we have here, Magas, but a vision of youthful
male pulchritude. Surely this is young Ganymede come down from Olympus this
day to grace us with his beauty. Hail immortal Ganymede!"

"I appreciate the flattery" I resplied, "but the name is actually
Alexandros, captain Aristokles, and I have a proposition for you."

"Not Ganymede! Alas, Magas, the pretty lad is only a rent boy after all,
though an incomparably lovely one. All right ... er, Alexandros, just name
your price, I can still afford a tumble with a comely lad."

I get that reaction a lot. One look and they peg me as a pleasure
boy. These days they would say kept boy or rent boy or maybe male model.

"That isn't what I am here to offer you, sir."

I put my proposition to the young mariner. For a one-third interest in the
ship and any profits, I would pay the shipyard for repairs and stake him
for his next voyage. In return he would take me on as his apprentice for a
term of years and teach me the ways of the sea.

"A commercial proposition then. Too bad, you really are my type, just
utterly scrumptious. Do you realize the effect you have on men who lust
after pretty boys?

"Anyway, to busienss. Young Alexandros, you hardly look to have that kind
of money, dressed as you are only in a worn linen kilt and unshod. I see no
sign that you are a man or should I say a boy of means, certainly not on
your person, no chains of gold nor jeweled rings nor any such portable
wealth. Also, a man with something to protect usually goes armed, but you
bear no weapon. Indeed, were one to strip that length of cloth off your
narrow hips, you would look no different than any naked slave boy of the
streets, though much better looking, certainly. You are really stunning, as
you must know."

"Thanks, sir. What you say is true enough, but I do not believe in drawing
untoward attention by a conspicuous display of tangible wealth on my own
person, especially while traveling. Suffice it to say that by letter of
credit, I can draw on monies due me by one of the leading merchants of this
city whose notes I bought from his correspondents in Alexandria. He stands
ready to cover whatever expenses we may incur."

"Hmmn. Look, Alexandros, I am just desperate enough to take your offer. The
gods know I have no other choice. But you must realize that part owner or
not, you can have no authority aboard ship. Even a youthful crew like mine
would never take orders from a mere slip of a lad like you, both a
landlubber and a beardless boy. You will have to work your way up, starting
at the bottom as ship's boy. And I do mean at the very bottom. Do you take
my meaning?"

I flushed then nodded, knowing only too well what was expected of a pretty
ship's boy on a long sea voyage. He meant that I would be an outlet for the
crew's sexual urges and would have to put out for everyone. As a veteran
pleasure boy, that prospect did not bother me. Nor did I mind that the
captain had referred to me as a slip of a lad and a beardless boy. That was
only too true. I did raise an eyebrow briefly at his lofty language. After
all, the handsome captain himself was short of twenty and clean shaven.

"Understand, Alexandros, that except with me as your captain you cannot
play favorites. Each man will have his way with you in turn. Mind you, I
run a happy ship. My crew will resent any reluctance or sullenness on your
part."

"I realize that, sir, and I promise you that I will be properly
enthusiastic with everyone. I am no shrinking virgin. No need to tell them,
sir, but I did start out in a boy brothel."

"Really? Well then, things should work out. Now let's see the rest of you,
Alex."

I slipped off my kilt and set it aside, holding my arms out as I spun
around slowly to display my back and my bum for the captain -- and the rest
of my audience. Workers in the shipyard lowered their tools to watch, and
passersby slowed their progress or stopped entirely to stare. Not that I
was really embarrassed to stand there entirely nude while everyone else
around me was clothed. As a former sex slave and brothel boy, I had long
since abandoned the body shyness inculcated during my boyhood among the
barbarian tribes of Germany. My abbreviated adolescence as a modest German
boy had ended upon enslavement at age fourteen when the Roman General
Marius destroyed the army of my tribe the Cimbri in 100 BC in Cisalpine
Gaul.

Classical civilization had little use for nudity taboos, and not only in
such venues as the public bath and the gymnasium and the gladiatorial
arena. Public nudity on city streets was quite common in the ancient world,
often an adaptation to practical necessity without any overtly sexual
meaning to it. Workers in any hot, sweaty, or dirty occupation labored in
the nude. Glass blowers, bakers, brick makers or potters firing their wares
in the kiln coped with the intense heat by working unclothed. Also workers
in dirty occupations worked naked to keep their clothing clean. Cloth was
expensive and soap and detergents non-existent. Nudity was also usual for
fleet footed messengers, males pulling carts through the streets, and
rowers on galleys. Many sailors did not bother much with clothing once out
to sea.

Still my nude body drew their attention with a physical beauty far beyond
the ordinary. I had the kinds of looks that literally turn heads. People of
both sexes often do double-takes, some shaking their heads in wonder, even
blurting out loud: "How can anyone could be that good looking?" Even those
men whose glances were disapproving would dismiss me with words that
implicitly acknowledged my comeliness saying things like: "Much too pretty
for a boy", or "Humph, someone's catamite or bum boy for sure".

So no wonder that Ari's smile grew wide in appreciation of my diminutive
but well-formed physique. I am fairly small, standing no more than five
foot five (165 cm) and weighing in at a mere 120 pounds (54 kg). Mine is an
androgynous if wiry physique, toned and taut from work and exercise. Some
would say I was skinny though I always describe myself as slender. The
tracery of veins on my forearms, calves, and belly showed how little body
fat I carried.

My twirl gave my audience a good look at my flat chest and corrugated
stomach and firm round rump with its deep cleavage. Only the marked
definition of my muscular development and my light tenor voice showed that
I was post pubescent and past my growth spurt. I like to think my manhood
is more than adequate but it wouldn't be scaring the horses. It takes both
my small hands to cover an erection, but only one when it was soft. My
naturally pale skin wore the tawny gold that results from habitual exposure
to the sun leaving my wiry physique sleek and smooth and deeply tanned.

The big man stepped closer, facing me, looming over me. I could catch his
scent: a heady mixture of sweat and salt and male musk. He reached out to
run his hands over my nude body while I stood there submissively, arms at
my sides. Ari squeezed my deltoids then reached around me to trail his
hands between my shoulder blades and along the bumps of my spine down to my
waist. That brought him very close, his kilt brushing my thighs. I had to
turn my head up to see his face. His questing hands skimmed lightly over my
ribs then slid down to touched the flare of my hips. His finger tips grazed
my belly then followed the grooves of my Adam's girdle, the back of his
hands actually brushing my genitals. My pulse quickened. I felt lightheaded
and hot. I realized such sensations meant that I might become physically
aroused right there and then in that public place, with so many men and
boys looking on while the captain made free with my trim body. But I was
already enthralled by his masculine appeal. I could deny the man nothing.

The wink which the young captain gave me showed that he understood my
emotions. This public foreplay was a deliberate affirmation that I had
fallen under his spell and henceforth belonged to him. I was his, rent boy
or not.

"You are mine, now. Aren't you, little Alex? You would fall to your knees
and worship my manhood or let me bend you over and fuck you right here and
now in front of everyone, wouldn't you?"

"Yes sir," I agreed fervently. "Do with me whatsoever you will."

"All in good time, all in good time. My, what a pretty little thing you
are, Alex, and impressively muscled for such a slim lad. Yours is one of
those physiques that are more about quality than quantity. Such a firm rump
too, like a pair of melons. Still short as you are, so fine-boned, and
impossibly comely, no one could take you for more than fifteen years. I
don't like to take advantage of a boy so young, no matter how willing."

"I am actually seventeen, sir," I replied, which was, in a way, the truth
-- if not the whole truth. "So I am of age."

The age of consent for sex was only fifteen in those days (a rule that
applied only to free persons). At seventeen I was also old enough to enter
into a valid contract. He reached down to my groin, cupping and weighing my
genitals. Rolling one of my balls between his fingers he added:

"Seventeen yet still totally smooth. Nothing on your chest or arms or lower
limbs or even here at the fork of your legs. Aren't these things working?"

That line was delivered with an eyebrow raised theatrically. Ari was poking
fun at me, calling my manhood into question, making me blush from the
humiliation of it all. He deliberately played to the crowd, quite
successfully too. His witty sally brought a chorus of chuckles from the
audience making me blush furiously. His ribald humor was not meant to wound
but was an assertion of his psychological dominance over me which he
reinforced physically by standing very close to me, looming over me. He
wanted everyone to watch him take charge of me by his thorough and intimate
physical inspection.

I left his somewhat rhetorical question unanswered. I saw no way to explain
that while working at a brothel in Alexandria I had taken up the Roman
habit of having all my body hair, little as it was, plucked with
tweezers. It took several decades of plucking, but afterwards my body hair
stopped sprouting. So I was completely smooth and would stay that way
forever. Also, since I had stopped aging before my beard grew in, I have
never had to shave.

By this time I was fully erect and dripping, my member throbbing with the
beat of my heart. Ari tapped the tip of my glans with a finger, held it up
before my nose, then brought the drop of seminal fluid to my mouth. I
parted my lips and suffered him to coat my tongue with my own pre-cum. He
repeated the action, twice more. The third time he gripped my chin, using
his thumb to coat my pouty lips thrusting his digit in and out of my mouth
in a lascivious manner.

I heard voices counseling the captain to put me on my knees and set me to
worshiping his cock. I would have done so willingly. Instead, he bent his
face toward mine and kissed me full on the lips, his tongue darting into my
oral cavity, his tongue thrusting and dueling with mine. I put my arms
around him and tried to smile and kiss him back at the same time. Then his
hand reached down between us to stroke me some more, his thumb circling the
head of my cock, a finger rubbing the sweet spot just below the flange of
the glans.

It was all too much: the physical stimulation, his closeness and manly
scent, my shameless public nudity and arousal. My balls drew up tight to my
belly, my breathing quickened and before I could pull back or ask him to
stop I started spewing my boyish juices all over my belly and onto his
kilt. Spent and trembling, I sagged in his embrace as onlookers
applauded. He held me up, hands under my buttocks, pressing my nude body to
his. I could feel his erection through his tented out kilt.

"Whew, Alex. You are quite the sexy little thing aren't you. But look at
the mess you have made. Naughty boy!"

I blushed and hung my head in shame. Ari turned me around, putting an arm
over my shoulder proprietarily then pointed me away from the docks.

"Better we continue this at my lodgings."

With that he gave my buttocks a firm smack propelling me in the desired
direction. I looked toward my discarded kilt, but Ari only shook his head.

"No, Alex. Clothes are not for you, not any more. As ship's boy you will go
naked at all times, whether at sea or in port. Better get used to it. You
will be spending the five years of your apprenticeship totally nude."

"I'll bet that would suit you just fine, Alex, shameless boy that you
are. You like people to see every part of your lithe body, your smooth
limbs, your shapely manhood, and that pert rump that twitches so fetchingly
when you walk. Admit it. You like the way I have taken charge of you,
stripped you naked with everyone looking on, then forced you to a public
orgasm. And now they all know that from now on, you will be running around
town entirely bare ass in my service."

I look up appealingly at the man, choked with emotion, so I could only nod
to acknowledge my confession. Yes, it was true, A wanton bum boy cum
shameless showoff like me did not deserve the decency of clothing. I should
not have any right to cover my nakedness, no matter how embarrassing the
occasion. I realized that made me no different than a naked slave
boy. After all, who could tell the difference, except that I didn't bear
any whip marks.

Suddenly I was apprehensive.

"Sir, may I ask, as the most junior member of your crew, what punishment I
might draw for any infraction of the rules. Would you take a whip to my
back or ass. I would not care to be marked with the scars of the cat."

"Don't worry lad. The Astarte is no military ship. We never take the cat to
a man. When you meet the crew you will see that none of them bears
scars. Oh, if you misbehave, I might very well take a tawse to your bare
rump, or, in view of your tender years, I might turn you over my knee and
spank you. Hmmn, an over-sexed youngster like you might enjoy it. In which
case, I would assign tedious fatigue duties as punishment, like digging the
latrine for our nightly stops along the shore. For anything serious, and I
would just put the man ashore and pay him off."

Somewhat reassured and rather intrigued by the thought of the handsome
captain's calloused hand spanking my bare butt in earnest, we went off to
his lodgings in a small inn near the docks. It was no dive for drunken
sailors but a decent establishment that offered clean accommodation to
those with modest purses. The main room was nearly empty as we passed
through it and up the stairway, though I did draw stares. The barkeep
merely shrugged at the sight of a nude boy in the arms of the tall
captain. One customer, evidently an acquaintance of the captain, smiled and
gave him a thumbs up.

			Chapter 2. Ship's Boy

Young though he was, Ari was an experienced and enthusiastic lover. I was
clearly not his first boy. He knew just what to do to satisfy a submissive
bottom boy like me, and, for my part, for our first coupling, I tried to
give him the best sex of his life.

Just short of twenty, Ari had the strong strong sex drive of a randy
teenager. Nevertheless, our first kisses were tentative, even shy, but our
hormones soon took over and we went at it with a will. He rolled me onto my
back, so we could lie face to face, and threw my legs over his shoulders,
pulling my ass into his groin. I appreciated his solicitude in keeping most
of his weight on his own knees and arms instead of pressing down on
me. Large men often forget that we boys have to breathe.

Ari bent forward to lick my nipples then bit down on them gently. He had
realized from my reaction at the shipyard that they were one of my most
sensitive erogenous zones. Still he did not linger at foreplay. Our earlier
encounter had satisfied him on that score. No, this was the main event. He
intended to impale me on his alarmingly large virile member.

Yet Ari was a considerate and careful lover. He had no wish to cause me
pain -- quite the opposite -- so he took some time getting me ready,
lubricating my hole with olive oil, stretching me open, priming me for the
fuck. With his turgid member in his fist he addressed my cleavage, moving
the head of his cock along the length of my perineum, poking at my ball sac
and the inside of my thighs, then prodding and poking the anal ring.

With our passions aroused, nothing could stop our joining. Powerful hip
muscles drove his fleshy rod into me. I felt him stretch my anal ring as
the head of his cock penetrated the first sphincter, paused briefly then
slowly sank to the hilt. Bending forward and putting much of his weight on
his arms, he started pumping into me, falling into a rhythm, sliding in and
out, his shaft pushing, prodding and probing, driving me wild with
desire. My eyes lost focus and rolled back sightlessly as I surrendered
himself to the good feelings coursing through me. I was lost to rational
thought for the time, my body tempest-tossed on a sea of sensation, the
blood pounding at my temples, my own boy cock at maximum rigidity.

As the invading shaft stimulated my prostate, my whole body shuddered
helplessly, my guts clutching in an internal orgasm. My lithe torso rippled
in a wave that started at our joining and traveled all the way up to my
head and shoulders. Every time he slid out halfway, I caught my
breath. Then he slid in again and I shuddered and shook. He had taken total
control of my body and my sexuality.

One thing I liked about his lovemaking technique was that he tried to
synchronize his orgasm with the boy he was fucking. His thrusting set my
small boyish body to shuddering again and again till I climaxed, shooting
all over my chest. My orgasm set off his as my spasming ass muscles
clutched at the intruding member, clamping down and squeezing the invader,
massaging and stimulating it. That set him off only a second after I
started to come. As he climaxed, he shot his masculine juices deep into my
body. I could feel him flooding my innards with his warm
wetness. Afterwards, he rolled onto his back pulling me onto him, still
joined, my sticky belly pressed to his. I was happy, content that I had
given him a good ride. I had so much wanted our first experience to be
memorable.

Can I give a good fuck or what? That is especially true when I respond to
powerful males like the young sea captain, men who use their size and
strength to dominate me, to take control. Sex with a taller and powerfully
built male is like a craving; I cannot get enough. With a big man I go all
weak in the knees and submissive, head hung low, ready to drop to my knees
and worship as a supplicant or to bend over and offer him my ass. That is
the way I am: an abject bottom boy at heart, a natural submissive (at least
in sexual matters).

I always respond well to powerfully built men who know how to dominate a
boy in bed without unnecessary roughness. I also like sex with boys who
look like me. The difference is that when I have sex with another pretty
boy, I am having fun with an equal. We usually trade off taking the more
active role. Sex with another boy is a delight. Sex with a big man like Ari
is a craving, a need. With a boy, I feel energized as we jump into
bed. With a man like Ari I go all weak in the knees and submissive, ready
to drop down and worship.

Along the way, I don't mind a little physical and verbal humiliation either
though not in excess, please. I am a submissive but not a masochist. (The
caution induced by my long centuries of life experience make it impossible
for me to submit to bondage except with someone I trust implicitly. It
reminds me too much of episodes of captivity and slavery.)

Ari visited the shipyard daily during the refit. I ran errands for him and
helped with the work, learning something of the structure of our vessel. He
took me around to their lodgings and introduced me to his crew. Everyone
understood that I would not be on duty, as it were, till we put out to
sea. That gave me the chance to get to know them as people before I became
their boy toy. They certainly liked what they saw, and they could see
everything about me, naked as I was. Meanwhile they had the typical
distractions that a major port offers to sailors: food and drink, girls,
and gambling. The belligerent sort would engage in roughhousing. Maybe it
is just me, but I have never quite grasped the concept of recreational
brawling. (Except for the hilarious bar fights in John Wayne movies.)
Perhaps my small physique has something to do with it.

Eventually, one fine day we put proudly out to sea. The sail caught the
wind propelling the Astarte at a respectable five knots. Old Magas had
worked wonders with the ship. She was faster than ever.  The young captain
stood at the rear near the steering oar. Dressed only in a breech clout,
legs wide apart, wind whipping his black locks, he looked magnificent. I
crouched beside him, holding on to the rail, trying to keep my breakfast
down but finally having to spew over the side. Fortunately that was my only
experience with sea sickness. In short order, I got my sea legs under me
and settled into my new existence as a ship's boy.

The crew numbering twenty-eight was young, their ages ranging from a couple
of kids my own age to one guy in his mid thirties. Most of the experienced
older hands who formerly sailed with her had taken berths on other ships
while the Astarte was laid up. Much of the crew had never done any deep
water sailing or gone out on long voyages. For the most part, they had
worked fishing boats, barges, and lighters in local waters, waiting for a
chance to take part in one of the more lucrative trading ventures. Those
other jobs just paid wages. A sailor on a trading voyage earned only modest
wages but was in line for a potentially lucrative share of the profits, one
quarter of which went to the crew with the rest to the captain and owner.

The only grizzled old salt aboard was the irascible cook, Horemhab, a man
of forty and five. When he learned that I was a landlubber, he grumbled:

"A skinny boy like that is more trouble than he is worth -- too small to
pull an oar and likely to be seasick the whole time. I won't have him
spewing the tasty comestibles I work so hard to prepare. Not for him or for
the rest of you ingrates!"

I found out later that his bark was worse than his bite. His acerbic
profanity was laced with real wit, which most of us found entertaining. So
everyone put up with his largely feigned tantrums. I came to like him a
lot. He was a terrific cook too -- considering what little he had to work
with.

Once we put out to sea, I was made available to everyone, taking four or
five every evening in turn. Regardless of the tarts or girlfriends or even
wives they left behind, virtually all of them took advantage of the
situation. And why should they not? Compared to a worn out tart or drab, I
was a walking wet dream, a comely lad available free of charge, already
unwrapped so to speak, conveniently to hand right there among the crew, a
boy known to be shamelessly promiscuous, and one supremely practiced in the
amorous arts. There all wanted their chance to clutch my taut body, to feel
it all slick with sweat, tugging, pulling, and squirming, orifices plugged
and at work, pleasuring them better than any boy (or girl) had ever done
before.

It wasn't a free-for-all or an orgy every evening. The sailors took me in
rotation and no more than five a night. A couple of men weren't interested
in "sea pussy". The cook was satisfied with oral service only. With me on
my knees, down there between his legs, my pouty lips closed around his
turgid cock, I looked little different to him than a pretty girl giving him
a blow job. Actually he admitted that I was prettier than any girl he had
ever known.

Then there were the youngsters, the cousins Daphnis and Leander, two boys
my own age but with typical Mediterranean features: slender, dark curly
hair, limpid brown eyes. Much as I respond to dominant males, I also love
sex with twinks of my own sort, small and slender and preciously cute. For
me such sex play is an absolute delight. I feel energized as we jump into
bed and roll around kissing and laughing and touching. When I make love to
another pretty boy, or even better two at once, we pleasure each other
equally and in much the same way as we are pleasured. The three of us
aboard the Astarte took turns at the more active role or sixty-nining.

I loved it especially when the cousins double-teamed me, thrusting into my
fundament while the other boy fed me his cock. They liked to bend over me
and kiss when they came, often at the very same time. I had to swallow
one's boy's cum while his cousin shot into my innards.

At times the lads drove their cocks into my ass as the same time. With
Daphnis lying on his back full length, I would straddle his hips then sink
to my knees to impale myself on his upright virile member. Daphnis would
embrace me pulling me to his chest and kissing me. Then Leander would kneel
behind and insert himself into my hole alongside his cousin. Taking two
cocks at once can be painful, so we had to be careful but once we got
going, it was incredibly exciting. OK, maybe that makes me a cock slut, but
you should try it before you pan it.

Occasionally a brave soul would straddle Daphnis facing me, demanding I
suck his cock too. I called him brave because, with the pain of a double
penetration, who knows, I might bite down accidentally. Oops!

Regardless of the rotation, the captain always had me last, then made sure
I got my full rest. After our nightly sporting, we would talk softly till
we fell asleep, often with me spooned to him, his member still lodged up my
butt.

Putting out for the sailors was no worse than what I had done at the tavern
and these were all men I worked with daily and had got to know as
individuals before hand. Also they were mostly young and all were muscular
and fit. That was generally true of the males of earlier times when muscle
power counted for so much, especially compared to today's push button world
where obesity is a serious health problem. In the first century BC few but
the rich could afford to be overweight.

Not everyone was gentle but nobody got really rough with me either. The
lusty sailors took me every possible way: on all fours, kneeling, on my
back, astride a sailor's hips, sometimes at both ends at once, pumping for
all they were worth into the warm depths of the sexy blond youth who, as
ship's boy, was everyone's toy.

As for my apprenticeship, Ari taught me the science and the art of
seamanship, just as his father, old Aristokles, had taught him. Actually
"old" Aristokles had been younger than the cook when a fever carried him
off two years earlier. I learned about lines and knots, winds and currents,
gauging the weather, navigational stars, caulking and carpentry, you name
it. It laid the foundation for all my future adventures at sea.

The good ship Astarte was a clinker built merchant galley with ten oars on
each side. Though the ship sailed with the wind in open water, it relied on
its oars for propulsion into and out of harbors and anchorages or simply
when the wind died down. Despite my small size, I was expected to work an
oar myself. Everyone needed to know how to row in tandem in case of
emergency. With a new hand like me, the captain did not set me to the oars
for the trickier approaches but trained me when the wind fell away and we
had to use the oars to keep going.

You might think that rowing was tedious, the same movements repeated time
and again: bending forward as you lift the oar out of the water, feathering
the blade as it swept forward, dropping the blade cleanly into the water
with nary a splash, then leaning back on the oar, legs braced on the block
in front of you, pulling with the full strength of your legs and buttocks
and back and shoulders, your rump almost coming up off the bench as you put
your weight into it.

But the rhythmic movement engendered a very real feeling of teamwork,
satisfaction, and shared accomplishment. We synchronized our movements to
the rhythm of the sea chanties that the captain or the steersman sang for
us. Oh the men might groan theatrically when told to sit down to row, but
such grumbling was a sailor's prerogative. I myself seldom complained. I
liked to row, at least once I developed thick calluses on my hands.

Some of the sailors were skeptical at first that a small nude lad like
myself, a beardless and hairless pleasure boy, could wield an oar and keep
the tempo with the other rowers, but I soon proved the doubters wrong. I
may be small but my wiry build makes me a lot stronger than you might
think. All the sailors came to enjoy the sight of me working my big oar,
the muscle bundles on my arms and shoulders and back outlined under my
tawny skin, abs heaving with my exertions and deep breathing, the long
muscles of thigh and calf standing out like a classical sculpture of an
athlete, and my pert buttocks rock hard as I braced myself and pulled on
the oar.

As I got better at it, I learned to use my strength economically, without
any wasted motion, flexing forward and back like a long bow flexing in the
hands of an archer. To do this right, you have to move in time with the
other rowers, careful not to entangle your oar with anyone else's. Maybe I
couldn't impart as much impetus to the ship as the bigger males could, but
no one could fault me for not giving it everything I had.

I soon found myself falling in with the daily routine on the small ship. It
was crowded but we usually put in to shore every night and cooked and slept
on land. Ancient sailors had few navigational tools. Longitude was just a
guess based on dead reckoning and latitude only crudely measured. So ships
mostly remained in sight of the coast. the easier to navigate from landmark
to landmark. Such practices kept ships close to ports for trade, and they
could take advantage of coastal currents and and on-shore and off-shore
winds different from the prevailing winds farther out. Another reason for
galleys to remain near the coast was the need to refill their water casks
for their large sweating crews. The Astarte's shallow draft allowed us to
put in to small bays or beach the ship, to travel up rivers, and to operate
in water only waist high.

The Astarte plied the waters of the misnamed Red Sea, so-called not for the
color of its waters, but because it bordered the Red Land, as the Egyptians
called the deserts that surrounded the Black Land of the Nile
valley. Separating Africa from the Arabian Peninsula, the nearly landlocked
Red Sea is larger than you might think, measuring fourteen hundred miles
(2250 km) North to South and over 200 miles (320 km) at its widest, East to
West. It is the northernmost tropical sea with coral reefs dotting its
extensive shallows. Its waters are more saline that those of the open ocean
due to high evaporation in the hot climate.

This was the first time in my long existence that I was totally naked for
years at a time. I found I hardly missed clothing except during a few
memorable excursions ashore. Galleys have to put in for water
frequently. Sometimes they filled their casks from streams flowing into the
sea at other times from village wells. Regardless of the villagers all
around, my uniform of the day, every day, was just my tanned hide.

I did sometimes feel embarrassed carrying or rolling a water cask through a
village, while the villagers smirked at my naked body. With the bigger type
of cask I had to bend over to roll it along the dusty street giving
everyone a fine view of my pert rump, the crinkly whorl between my
buttocks, and my dangly bits as they swayed with my movements between my
slender thighs.

Inevitably this drew taunts from male teenagers and unmarried young men
centered at my complete nudity, small size, and hairlessness even at the
fork of my legs. Unfortunately their dialect was close enough to those I
already spoke that I could follow their meaning. I was humiliated, not
because I was body shy, but of loss of status. Nudity in that context made
me seem no different than any galley slave. Naked as I was, who could tell
the difference between a free boy and one liable at any time to suffer the
lash of a taskmaster? Watching me bent over as if on all fours, more than
one cruel boy compared me to a farm animal or a dog, more specifically a
bitch. Several made shrewd guesses about how I spent my evenings,
entertaining the crew. They called me unflattering names like bum boy,
whore boy, or catamite.

When no one else in the crew was around, some of the more aggressive locals
would step forward to smack my bare rump or to take a switch to it. One
time I had to be rescued from a all-out gang-bang. A half-dozen boys
grabbed me, disabled me with a nasty kidney punch, and hustled me among
some rocks where they bent me over a boulder. One guy straddled my neck and
locked me in place with his thighs. Another twisted an arm behind my
shoulder blades while the boy standing behind me grabbed my ball sac and
squeezed my nuts to subdue me. One by one they fucked my ass till they shot
their juices into my bowels, then walked around in front to present their
slimy cocks for me to clean off with my mouth. They mocked me as I licked
them clean and swallowed their cum and my own ass juices. I was glad when
my rescuers thrashed them soundly, though the sailors were careful to
inflict no permanent harm. No point starting a minor war.

My service aboard the Astarte occurred during my first lifetime, when I was
an especially easy target, a natural victim for bullies and rapists. To
aggressive and sexually dominant males it seemed only natural to oppress
slightly built lads like me especially given my mild disposition and
submissive sexual proclivities. Small as I am, outnumbered, and
overpowered, I could offer no effective resistance when they ganged up on
me and forced me to submit.

It was only in succeeding centuries that I started the training that turned
me into a deadly combatant with a blade and even later that I synthesized
various schools of unarmed combat into an eclectic system best suited my
physique and capabilities. Since then, I can give as good as I get. Better
in fact.

Regardless of such occasional unpleasantness, I have fond memories of my
life aboard the Astarte. I am eternally grateful to young Ari and to all my
friends among the crew. It was a happy ship and a successful one. In the
four years I sailed with her I more than recouped my investment, putting my
profits to work with a trustworthy merchant in Berenike who bought shares
in my name in the ventures of other captains and vessels. My fortune seemed
assured.

Then a storm came upon us while we traversed the dangerous strait at the
southern end of the Red Sea, the aptly named Bab-el Mandeb, the "Gate of
Tears" and I was washed overboard.

			Chapter 3. Slave Boy

As I sat with my back to the rocks, disconsolate, I heard the scrape of
sandals. I turned to see five big men in robes, all carrying staffs with a
big hook at the end. They leered at me while speaking among
themselves. From their Semitic speech I realized I had touched shore in the
Yemen, the land the Romans called Arabia Felix for its wealth and
prosperity which was based on the cultivation and trade of spices and
aromatics like frankincense and myrrh. These were exported by camel caravan
through Arabia and to India by ship.

"Well, well, well, you never know what the sea will cast up on shore after
a storm".

"Aye, Banzar, the best kind of flotsam and jetsam, a pretty boy."

"Water ... please." I croaked.

One of them handed me a water skin. I drank deeply then handed it back. The
leader, the big hairy fellow named Banzar, held up his peculiar staff.

"We are a salvage crew, boy, walking the shore after a big storm, checking
the beach and the shallows for salvage. You would be surprised what he have
dragged out the surf with our hooks. Today is our lucky day, taking
ownership a fine looking slave boy. That means you, little one."

"What?? But I am not a slave!" I sputtered.

"You are now." he answered flatly.

They closed in on me. I could offer only feeble resistance, exhausted and
outnumbered as I was, as they bound my wrists behind my back.

"What a catch! Just look at him men. He'll fetch a high price at the slave
market. Brothel keepers and rich men will drool over a chance to bid for a
catamite like him. He is perfect: so young and small that he is still
smooth at the fork of his legs. Pretty as a girl too and with hair the
color of wheat. A rarity in these parts."

I tried to protest but got cuffed for my presumption. I had to stand there,
lips bleeding, helpless while Banzar tied a leather thong around my ball
sac as a leash. Holding the other end firmly, the man led me up the rocky
slope. I dreaded what fate awaited me in the slave market.

In those days virtually no one carried any kind of identification or
papers. I could not prove my free status. A naked boy in bondage, one
evenly tanned all over from constant exposure to the sun, would simply be
presumed by the authorities to be what his captors claimed he was: a slave.

What a reversal of fortune! Once again I found myself captured and destined
for the sex trade. That was to be the pattern of my existence for the next
millennium and a half: salad days of wealth and freedom alternating with
periods of captivity and sexual slavery.

The truth is that all my long life I have been both blessed and cursed by a
lovely form and face that inspire admiration and lust in the heart of any
male who appreciates a beautiful boy. I am small and pretty and uniformly
bronzed from habitual nudity. So I look entirely too much like everyone's
ideal of a catamite or pleasure boy. With my androgynous if wiry physique
and fine-boned features I fell far short of normal male standards in
height, muscular development, and secondary sexual characteristics like
beard and body hair. I was smooth even at the fork of my legs. Since I had
stopped aging before my beard grew in I have never had to shave. The upshot
of it all was I often wasn't taken seriously as a male. They saw me not as
a man but as a mere boy, hence fair game for capture and taming.

Now I am not complaining. I like my looks just fine. I have never cared to
be taller or more muscular, or to grow hair on my chest nor anywhere
else. I like myself just as I am: a short slightly built, smooth skinned
pretty boy, a super-cute twink in modern parlance, and quite obviously, a
bottom boy, a "beta male" if you will. Yet, there is a definite downside to
looking like a perpetual seventeen going on fifteen. It does not help that
I am something of an exhibitionist and seize on any excuse to strip off and
run around stark naked, often alone and always unarmed. To alpha males of
the ancient world, that made me a target of opportunity. As was to happen
all too often in the centuries to come.

I would have shouted my protest to the heavens, but I had long ago
abandoned belief in the gods of my youth. As an unbeliever all my adult
life, I have had no use for rituals or creeds or cults of any kind.

My captors led me to their compound situated on a stream that the thirsty
earth drank dry before it ever reached the sea. There I was fed, and
allowed to rest to recoup my energy. The men wanted me fresh and perky when
they frolicked with me. Banzar looked at me shrewdly and remarked:

"A boy as preternaturally beautiful as you, Alexandros, cannot have
remained a virgin till now. Blessed as you are with that lovely form and a
face you must have been deflowered quite some time ago. That is so, is it
not?

I nodded. No point in playing the shrinking virgin with these hard men.

"Good! Of course we will want to test the quality of the new
merchandise. Give you a test run, like any new filly."

"A filly? I am a male."

"All right, a colt. There, you see, I am so pleased with our good fortune
that I am indulging your impertinence -- but only this once. Understood?".

I nodded. No point irritating the man who held my fate in his hands. I
spent the afternoon and evening entertaining my captors with my sweet body
and my expertise in the amatory arts. That only confirmed the men in their
intent to sell me into sexual slavery. They were not overly rough with
me. After all I was valuable merchandise destined for transport to the
slave market the following day. Still their standards of personal hygiene
were deplorable, to say the least. I felt dirty and soiled both inside and
out. They delivered me to the auctioneer who had me bathed, primped, and
scented to present me in the best possible light for potential
purchasers. I dare say I looked stunning standing up there on the auction
block for all to examine.

Banzar was right about the high price I would bring in the slave
market. The auctioneer put it about that I was a complaisant lad not yet
fifteen, the former pampered catamite of a rich merchant, the only man who
had ever enjoyed my charms. As he was carried off by a sudden illness, his
heirs decided to sell me for what I would bring. My small stature, elfin
features, and smooth hairless body seemed to confirm this fabricated
history.

The bidding was lively though it swiftly concluded when one man called out
a very high bid that discouraged those who coveted me for their personal
use. The winner in the auction, my new master Faisal, was the owner of an
upscale brothel in the port of Mocha (from which the coffee bean takes its
name). He knew that my exotic looks meant I would command fees counted in
silver rather than in copper coin.

And so it turned out to be. My early customers sang my praises to their
friends and acquaintances. Word of mouth spread my reputation. In short
order I became Faisal's biggest earner with many repeat clients. Travelers
came to his establishment expressly to seek me out. I gave them value for
their coin, always ready, seemingly eager and energetic in our couplings. I
was never reluctant or resentful, no matter what I felt inside. Outwardly I
was ever perky and cheerful. Sullen slave boys lose custom for which
infraction they get switched by their masters for their presumption.

For my part I knew better than to resist or try to run away. That would
only lead to whippings and short rations. I had no funds, no friends, no
weapons, not even clothing -- Faisal kept me naked, often sending me on
errands around town. He knew that a comely nude boy was the best sort of
advertisement for his establishment especially the way I stood out from the
crowd thanks to my long blond hair. Men often stopped me in the streets and
asked if I were available. I would reply that, yes, of course I was
available -- for a fee of two silvers at Faisal's -- during afternoon and
evening hours. The bolder of them would get a preview of my charms by
copping a feel. I knew better than to object no matter how forward they
were with their questing hands.

But you cannot please everyone. For every potential customer, there were
those who were much less tolerant of a pretty bum boy running around town
stark naked.  That was especially true of men dressed in full robes. My
total nudity offended their sense of modesty. I found myself berated as I
threaded the narrow streets and lanes:

"Cover yourself, shameless boy!" or "Your master should take a switch to
you, running around like that." or "Bum boy with a bare bum, ply your trade
elsewhere than among decent people."

I knew better than to talk back, but what did they think. That it was my
idea to troll for custom bare ass? It's not like I got paid. My fees went
to the man who owned me.

I spent a year in that brothel, biding my time, hoping for a lucky break. I
cannot say life there was particularly onerous. Faisal was no nonsense, a
firm disciplinarian, but never mean for its own sake. As a man of his time
he saw nothing immoral in keeping young males captive and renting out their
sweet bodies to boy lovers. Keeping a boy brothel was just as legitimate a
business as any other. And he had a vested interest in keeping his boys
clean, healthy, and reasonably content. So my year in his brothel was
tolerable.

Certainly I was better off than slaving away in the mines or chained to an
oar in the galleys. Still I had to service so many men whom I would not
otherwise have chosen as sexual partners. That is the worst part of sex
slavery: the loss of freedom of choice and the sheer number of males who
fucked me every day -- at least a score -- except for a few religious
festivals when I got the day off.

I have always hated slavery having lost my liberty so many times myself. In
my periods of freedom and prosperity, I never owned a slave. All my
servants and employees got paid fair wages. Yes that meant less money for
me but that was the price for a clear conscience.

In the fullness of time, a new customer visited Faisal's establishment,
drawn by gossip passed from port to port of Faisal's new blond beauty. I
saw him enter: a tall, dark, lean seaman. It took me a moment to realize it
was Aristokles. He was alive! I nearly shouted with joy but caught his
signal to dissemble. He did not want Faisal to realize that we were not
strangers.

Just as if he were no more interested in me than any other customer, he
calmly paid my fee and followed me upstairs. Once the door closed, I flung
myself into his embrace. We held each other a very long time, tears rolling
down our cheeks.

"How???" I finally asked, trembling with relief, and utterly
flabbergasted. He shook his head.

"From the saucy stories that reached Berenike. I was sure it must be you."

Ari was all smiles as he told of how the Astarte, badly holed though she
was, managed to stay afloat long enough to ground herself on the African
shore of the Red Sea. Most of the crew had survived though he did lose both
the cook, crusty old Horemhab, and one of the young cousins, sweet
Leander. Since I had already mourned them, I did not let this news detract
from my happiness at being reunited with Aristokles.

We fell into bed affirming our love with the most passionate lovemaking
that Ari and I ever shared. We were upstairs so long that Faisal banged on
our door complaining that Ari's time was up. He tossed the man a gold coin,
enough to rent me for the next several days, most of which we spent in bed,
though I did get to show him the town.

Ari's arrival held out the prospect of imminent freedom. In my youthful
enthusiasm, I assumed that Ari planned some dramatic rescue. I imagined he
would have me slip out a window at midnight and cross the rooftops to the
docks where his ship which would cast off immediately to frustrate pursuit.

That was not the case at all. First off, he was only the mate on his
current ship, not the captain, though much of his old crew served with him
and were personally loyal. No, he intended to purchase me with the wealth
that had been accumulating for me back in Berenike. The amount was more
than enough to buy me from Faisal and to set me free. Technically I was
Ari's slave for a time, but he manumitted me once we got back to his home
port.

I resumed my career as a sailor, though now as a seaman in full, no longer
a ship's boy, no longer required to service the entire crew. My
apprenticeship over, Ari became my only lover. In time he was promoted to
ship's captain and later bought a new ship, also named the Astarte. We
lived happily together for another seven years. Then it was time to move on
before everyone wondered how I could look so young when I was supposed to
be nearly thirty. Our parting was bittersweet, since he did not want to
lose me, but I had to leave. I will always remember my lover Aristokles the
sea captain with fondness and gratitude.

			Epilogue

When I recall these events of my first century, I wince at how naive and
vulnerable I was in those days. My life experience till then was so
limited. Yes I had lived nearly the proverbial three score and ten but not
like other humans. I did not pass through the various stages of life. I was
a beardless boy throughout. That limited my interaction with the rest of
society. By apparent age, pretty boy looks, and, often lowly status as a
slave, I could not participate fully in the growth and maturation that
normal humans experience during their single lifetimes.

I still sail, though these days only recreationally. I keep a twenty-five
footer named (inevitably) "Daphne Boy" at a marina on City Island, in the
Bronx. I love to watch their faces when I explain to interlocutors what
that phrase means. For some, the implication is that I am a modern day
equivalent, either a rent boy pure and simple or some rich New Yorker's
kept boy.

That was what Fred, the elderly doorman at my building on Central Park
West, assumed a couple of years ago when I moved in all by myself. It did
not help that the purchaser of record was one of my shell companies. He was
sure that the corner apartment, formerly occupied by a nice Jewish couple
he had known for years, had just become a gay love nest. Not that Fred is
bigoted about our sort. He just doesn't like idlers, people who think the
world owes them a living just because of their looks, their blood line or
inherited wealth. (Neither do I.) So at first he pegged me for a "social
parasite". (Fred is an old style Marxist. He grew up in the Amalgamated
Houses in the Bronx.)

The marina's location at the extreme northeastern edge of the city gives me
immediate access to the sheltered waters of Long Island Sound and avoids
the worst of the commercial traffic in and around the great port of New
York. City Island is like a New England fishing village moored just off the
mainland. Great seafood restaurants! It is buffered from the built-up areas
of the Bronx by the greenery of the largest park in the city.

Did you know that a quarter of that unfairly maligned NYC borough is in
parks? Its largest economic sector by number of jobs is health care -- all
those hospitals and nursing homes. Then there are the colleges and
universities and upscale enclaves. But don't get me started. Suffice it to
say that I am a big fan of the Bronx these days, though admittedly there
are blighted areas you have to steer clear of.

I regret that I had to leave Ari behind sooner than either of us would have
liked. However, it was (and still is) dangerous for me if others realize
that I am effectively immortal. Some would seek to slay me as an
abomination. Powerful men feeling their years weighing upon them would have
me seized and tortured for my supposed secret. Alas, I do not know the
formula for the elixir of life nor the location of the legendary fountain
of youth. My peculiar vitality is just a quirk of nature, a genetic sport,
perhaps something to do with self-repairing or replicating telomeres in my
chromosomes. (I keep an eye on scientific research into aging.)

Today even liberal governments would likely incarcerate me in some secret
laboratory and treat me as a human guinea pig. My rights would be
ignored. After all, I really am an illegal alien with false papers, a
stateless person everywhere in the world. I like to think that makes me a
citizen of the world though I have my favorite countries including this
American republic in which I now live and the prosperous European
democracies.

I still have a special fondness for Germany, the land of my birth. These
last couple of years my visits have become more frequent as I fly in to
catch one of the shows featuring that exquisite German boy, Eike von
Stuckenbrok, who calls himself an "equilibrist". His act melds music,
showmanship, athletics, and dance into an exciting and erotic
spectacle. Until you see it, you cannot believe that such a slightly built
boy could be so strong and agile. Never mind the handstands and tumbles and
leaps and such. With arms straight, the boy can hold his entire body out
from a pole like a flag!

Incredibly cute, this sexy lad has a physique just like mine. Yum, yum. It
helps that he usually performs in skimpy outfits. Would that they were
non-existent! His web site does feature a portfolio of tasteful nude photos
plus videos of his performances. By all means, check him out at this
address: www.handbalance.de/pages/intro.php.

And here I thought I was in good shape with all my running, swimming,
weight training, yoga, martial arts, and athletic pursuits like parkour and
volleyball. He inspired me to start working with a private trainer so I can
duplicate some of Eike's feats.

I get a real kick when Germans try to place my accent. Unlike in Britain,
where everyone is conscious of class accents, in Germany, the attention is
on regional accents, those of the various homelands or heimats. (Strong
regional loyalties are a big part of the reason Germany is organized as a
federal republic rather than a unitary state like France.) My original
language was a Germanic tongue but one as far removed from today's standard
High German as Anglo-Saxon is from modern English or Latin from Italian. I
do get miffed when native speakers take me for a foreigner, maybe
complimenting me on my command of their language, but recommending that I
work on my weird accent. Hey! I have been speaking various forms of German
for two thousand years.

Today's united and democratic Germany is quite a decent country. I much
prefer Catholic southern Germany, -- land of Gemutlichkeit and the
Okbtoberfest -- to the more northerly regions inhabited by dour Protestants
-- the land of Weltshmertz and Schadenfreude. I think Munich would be a
fine place to settle down for a while, but I am reserving that for my next
incarnation.

Englischer Garten, here I come!

Only recently could I write of these things, choosing, from caution, to
cast them as fiction, a series of fanciful tales of an immortal youth
written under a pseudonym. My secret is safe for no one in these days of
modern science will believe it. In this tale, all of the names are
real. The events described really did happen just as I have written

			Author's Note

This is the seventeenth in a series of tales about "the ultimate twink", an
undying youth named Alexander who bears the sobriquet "the Daphne Boy". The
other stories in this series so far are 'Antebellum', set in the American
South just before the Civil War, 'Daphne Boy', set in Roman Syria, 'El
Dorado', about the conquistadors, 'The Erythraean Sea', set in Arabia just
before the rise of Islam, 'Stupor Mundi', about the Sixth Crusade,
'Ferghana', a tale of the Silk Road in Central Asia, 'Zulu' set mostly in
Southern Africa during the Anglo-Zulu War, 'Sol Invictus' set in the Roman
Empire during the reign of the dissolute androgynous and sexually
insatiable gay emperor Elagabalus, 'Reniassance' set in Italy around 1500,
'Gupta' set during the Golden Age in India in the Vth century AD, 'Palmyra'
set during the crisis of the IIIrd century that nearly destroyed the Roman
Empire, 'Tobago', set in the Caribbean and South America during the middle
of the XVIIth century, 'The Apostate' set during the age of the Roman
Emperor Julian the Apostate in the mid IVth century, 'Marlowe', set it
Elizabethan London, 'Isfahan' set in XIth century Persia, and 'Delos', set
in the Mediterranean during the Ist century AD.

These stories can be read in almost any order. The first story has
extensive flashbacks detailing the character's origins. The second story
explains how he came by his appellation of the Daphne Boy, the term for a
comely youth enslaved as a prostitute at the temple of Daphne in ancient
Antioch in Syria.

This tale is as historically accurate in its setting as I could make it,
with only minor poetic license for the sake of the story. This tale, after
all, is fiction. It is not a historical monograph. The characters are not
intended to resemble any actual person living or dead.

Readers who like these stories might want to try my 'Jungle Boy' series of
tales in a modern setting, posted in the Gay/Authoritarian section of the
archive. See also my series 'Naked Prey' in the historical section, my 'Mer
Boy' series in Gay/Beginnings, and the 'Track and Field' series in
Gay/College. For links to my stories, look on the list of Prolific Authors
on the Archive.

Comments and feedback welcome at georgegauthierdc@gmail.com. I always write
back.