Date: Mon, 13 Mar 2000 18:17:50 -0500
From: "John Ellison" <paradegi@home.com>
Subject: A Sailor's Tale - Part 1

Author's Note: This story is a work of fiction and bears no resemblance to
the author's actual Navy career.  This story contains graphic descriptions
of sex between consenting adults.  If gay sex offends you I suggest you
move on to a tamer site.  I make no claim to historical accuracy so please,
if you wish to comment on this first time effort, spare me the "I was there
and you wasn't" routines.  This is the first of a 3 part tale.  Comments to
paradegi@home.com



			      A Sailor's Tale
				 Part One

Chapter One

              More years ago than I care to admit, I was a sailor in the
Canadian Navy, serving in what was laughingly called a ship.  She was tied
up alongside the jetty in the dockyard of HMCS NADEN.

	NADEN (which is now called CFB ESQUIMALT) was, and still is, the
main Canadian naval base on the West Coast.  In the year plus that I was
there, it was not a busy place except in the summer.  During the summer
training season, which ran from April to September, we were busy training
Reserve New Entries, budding bosuns and eager engineers.  Our training
schedule was heavy and we were usually in port only long enough to store
ship and embark a new crew.  In the winter months much of the time we
stayed tied up along side, and only sailed on the week ends, when the
Reserves came on board for week end sea training exercises.

	The weather was always sunny, and, truth be told, the crew spent
most of their time at tanning stations.  The boat required very little in
the way of maintenance and, since we had Reserves on board almost every
week end, cleaning was a snap.  We usually worked until noon doing whatever
had to be done, and then took the rest of the day off.  Since we worked the
week ends, every week end, we figured we were even with the RCN.  "We", I
should explain, was the permanent force crew: 2 officers, a Chief, 2 Petty
Officers and 5 ratings (me included).  Since the boat had room for a crew
of 50, we had plenty of bunk space and lockers.  The cook wasn't too bad.
The Fleet Club was only a five minute walk from the jetty.  All in all, it
wasn't bad living.  We even got paid twice a month.  Throw in a little sex
and hell, life was good.

	The only problem was, I was heartily sick of the whole deal.  I was
29, and was 14 months away from finishing my "12".  I had joined at 17,
right out of high school and signed up for the maximum tour.  All too soon
I would have to sign on for a second tour of eight years, with a 20-year
pension at the end of it.  Or, I could say to hell with it and send in my
papers.

	The thing was, I couldn't make up my mind.  I was still young
enough to be thinking about a new career.  I had enough money saved to keep
me afloat for at least a year.  I was half thinking about going back to
school.  I was considering all my options because, always in my mind, was
the knowledge that sooner or later the law of averages would catch up to me
and I would be out on my ass. Sooner or later I would make a pass at the
wrong guy, in the wrong place and I would be sitting in NADEN glasshouse
waiting for my administrative release.  The RCN did not deal kindly with
faggots.

	Nor did the rest of the world.  This was in the days before the
Stonewall Riots, before Gay Rights, the days before.  Gays had no rights.
I could go on about it, but, what the hell, we've all been there.  As far
as the RCN was concerned, a gay was a security risk, and not employable.
The least that could happen was a quick discharge.  Depending on the
circumstances, it could mean jail time in Edmonton.  Not a pleasant
prospect at all, if you get my drift.  Any gay serviceman with an ounce of
sense was deep, deep in the and not about to come out any time soon.  Which
I was.  Gay, and very much in the closet.

	Being gay, and in the Navy, meant I lived a double life.  During
the day I was all macho, and while I played the silly games, and told the
anti-fag jokes, drank beer and smoked "with the boys", I lay in my bunk at
night, fantasizing about those same guys, beating my meat for all it was
worth.  I never touched any of them.  They were off limits.  They were in
uniform and guys in uniform, well, I couldn't take the chance.  Not in the
Mess, not in the Dockyard.  Not in Esquimalt after a large night in the
Legion or the Fleet Club.  Were there other gays?  Sure.  The signs were
all there.  I even knew a few.

	I wasn't all that bad looking, and for sure nobody was going to
keel over in a dead faint when I walked by, but I was well built and had a
good, muscled chest.  I kept in shape by swimming as often as I could, and
I played baseball and a little soccer.  I had a nice, firm butt.  I kept my
brown hair trimmed short, and, if I do say so, cut a pretty good figure
when I walked down Esquimalt Road.

	I had more than my share of come-ons, of side glances that glanced
just a little too long, of little rubs, against my arm, a hand lingering
just a minute too long on my knee, the guy "just making a point".  But I
had seen, and heard, what could happen if it got out that you were queer
and fucking a fellow sailor.

	Not too long before I returned to Esquimalt, a Sick Bay Tiffy
(Medical Corpsman) killed himself.  It turned out that he had fallen in
love with a straight guy. The straight guy turned the Tiffy down.  And
reported him to the MP's.  The bastards searched the Tiffy's locker and
found a very, very comprehensive diary.  He had listed, by day and date,
every guy he had sucked, fucked, or nibbled on.  It was pretty graphic and
the MP's made a killing in selling copies of the damned thing.  Needless to
say, the shit hit the fan big time.  Signals went out to half the fucking
fleet, the MP's went into a feeding frenzy.  About 60 guys, officers and
ratings, got the axe.  Two followed the Tiffy's example.  It was one
fucking mess and the word game down from the Flag Building - get the queers
and get `em out.  Since I was new to the base, and no one knew me, I was
not bothered.  Still, I piled a few more clothes in front of me and
burrowed deep.  I bought a book of fag jokes and memorized them all.  I was
so fucking homophobic I get sick to my stomach even now.  I was a piece of
work.  But I was also the straightest guy in the fleet to everyone I knew
or drank with.  I was a proper asshole.  But I was safe.

	For most of my early career it was easy to keep up the charade.
Most of the ships I served in were crewed by older guys, veterans of the
war and Korea.  The Navy was small - only about 2,500 all told, so most of
the recruits went into the Army or the more glamourous air force.  There
were not that many recruits, really.  With no draft, the Forces took what
they could get.  Every ship sailed with a short crew.  No men or boys to
man them at full complement.  To fill out the gaping blanks in the Duty
Rosters, the Reserves began a summer recruiting program.  Young high school
kids were brought in, given a uniform, given a taste of Naval training for
two months, and, hopefully, conned into joining the Reserves in September.
Which was ok for the Reserves.  But not ok for me.

	To give these new Reserves sea time, the Navy scratched around,
found some old anti-submarine net tenders, spruced them up and manned them
with an RCN training cadre.  These old tubs - which kept on steaming well
into the early `90s, were berthed for 50 men.  I say men because in those
days females could not stay aboard overnight. They could day steam, but at
the end of the day they were bused back to their own well- guarded quarters
(the chief guard of which was a high-rumped, frump of female Petty Officer
who thought her main job was to preserve the virginity of her "girls".  She
failed.  But that's another story).

	The Navy Manning Office, in its usual misguided wisdom, tried to
form the training Cadres with "sober, industrious" sailors, who would "set
the proper example for the young people".  Don't laugh, that is exactly
what the manning order said.  I guess my Stevie Straight Arrow routine
worked.  Out popped my name and off I went to the Reserve Training Fleet,
chock full of piss and vinegar, and hornier than a two-peckered owl.

Chapter Two

	I was drafted to HMCS PORTE DE LE ROI, 150 feet of rust held
together by God knew how many layers of pusser gray paint.  I was to teach
the "young people" proper seamanship.  Since I was a Gunnery Rating, and
the ship was unarmed (unless you counted the WWII issue .303 we kept for
shooting at sharks went the boys went to Swimming Stations), I suppose this
made sense to someone.



	The rest of the crew wasn't too bad.  The Captain, a
Lieutenant-Commander, was OK, laid-back, and no brass at all.  The Chief
and Second Engineers were older guys, both having served in Korea and just
waiting out their time for a full pension.  The Chief's Boatswains Mate
(the Buffer), was the only Nubian in the fuel supply.  He was grossly
overweight, sweated like at pig in any weather, and was as ugly as a pan of
smashed assholes.  He had a full set of dentures which he never wore,
except at Divisions in the morning.  With them in he was bad enough, with
them out he was down right scary! Behind his back the crew, including the
CO, called him "Fat Bill".  The Yeoman , Jeff, was a tall, skinny redhead
from Winnipeg.  He was also a borderline alcoholic.  All four were Petty
Officers and lived and slept in their own quarters off the main berthing
deck.

	Since I was only a Leading Seaman (a Killick) I slept in the main
berthing area.  This was a huge compartment that housed thirty-four men, in
tiers of bunks 3 high.  Lockers were jammed into every free space, and
lined the corridor leading to the cafeteria, aft, and along both port and
starboard bulkheads forward.  Stairs leading from the well deck separated
the berthing area from a small corridor that led aft to the cafeteria. At
the bottom of these stairs was a small, open area called the Mess Deck
Flats.  Forward of this was a small berthing area with four bunks, two on
each side of a solid bulkhead.  Separated from the bunks by a narrow space
was a bank of lockers which followed the curve of the boat's hull so that
forward there was only just enough room to open the locker door.  It was a
cosy area which offered a small measure of privacy to those who slept
there, and was reserved for the permanent crew.  Two junior stokers (Navy
slang for engineers) slept on the port side.  The Senior Stoker occupied
the starboard upper, with me in the starboard lower.  The Cook slept in
solitary splendor in the main area.

	Since all three of the stokers, and the Cook, were older men, and
not my type at all, I was not too worried. It also helped that, except for
the stokers and me, everyone else lived ashore and only slept in their
bunks when they had the Duty Watch or on the weekends when we had the
Reserves on board.

	So, here I was, Young Canada, all ready to make men of boys.  What
a crock of shit!  For ten years I had managed, for the most part, to keep
my dick clean, and here I was, in a pig boat, tied up to a jetty along
which every Friday night an ugly green bus would drive, stop alongside and
disembark some of the sweetest Canadian boy flesh in existence.  Since I
always met them on the focsle when they came on board, I got first look at
them.  First would come the Officers - usually a Lieutenant-Commander, some
Lieutenants, all older, seasoned men.  Then the Middies and Naval Cadets,
almost always university students, young and trying hard to look like they
knew what they were doing.  Then the Chief and some Petty Officers - like
the officers, usually older, seasoned men.  Then came the troops.  All of
them were 18 or 19 years old.  All of them were ripe.  Tall boys, short
boys.  Blonds, redheads.  Boys with brown hair. Boys with black hair.
Perfect specimens of young manhood.  Imperfect specimens of young manhood.
Clean cut, upstanding young men.  And, Jesus God, since almost all of them
wore briefs, the tight little baskets on them.  Night fantasies here I come
(or cum?).

	Since I was the Training Killick (Leading Seaman), I got to check
them all out as they came on board. Four Fridays a month I positioned
myself on the focsle.  Four Fridays a month the bus stopped.  Four Fridays
a month I popped a woody.  By the time my night duties ended (I had to make
sure they got their assigned bunks, were issued linen, and generally
squared away), the front of my boxers were soaked with pre-cum.  I wanted
most of them.  What I always got was a cold shower, some clean boxers and a
very quiet wank when the lights went out

	It got worse.  I lived on board in the main berthing deck.  Which
is exactly where all the young studs lived while on board.  I was assaulted
with mind numbing sights.  Boys in tight fitting briefs (usually white,
more often than not Fruit of the Loom), boys not in briefs, boys with
nothing but a towel wrapped around their waists.  Boys with morning woodys.
Boys without morning woodys.  Talk about frustrated.  At least once a day I
disappeared into the paint locker to stroke my dick.  At least once a night
I creamed my boxers as I watched them strip off, stretch, scratch, and
bend, their unfucked, virgin butts begging for my lips against their tight
little brownish-pink blossomed holes.

	All I could do was lie there and dream, and beat off.  For two
nights and the better part of two days I was surrounded by what I loved
best.  Hard bodied young men.

	I liked them young.  Seventeen to mid-twenty.  I had always liked
them young. With a nice hanging ball sac and a smooth, silky, circumcised
dick. Which most of them had.

	In those days there was none of the bullshit, I-was-raped when
-they-cut-me-without-my-permission-
back-to-nature-we-should-all-have-cock-cheese-for-dinner nonsense we have
today.  Almost every boy west of the Maritimes and Quebec was circumcised
as a matter of course.  It was heaven.

	I was not into big dicks and balls the size of my head.  I was into
sucking cock.  I loved to suck a well cut dick.  To caress it, to stroke it
with my tongue, to slowly wrap my tongue around a rosy mushroom head.  To
me the perfect guy was young, with a five or six inch hard on, the perfect
size for sucking lovingly.  A big dick, as far as I was concerned, was a
waste of good sucking.  Deep throating is OK, but I was never into it.  I
wanted the guy to feel my lips on his dick head when he shot his hot,
pearly load into my mouth.  I wanted him to feel the sensation of me
sucking his fresh shot dick clean.

	I was never into foreskins.  I know, I know, that's what God gave
us and all that crap.  I know, I know, that some very toothsome studs are
uncut.  Sorry, but I never liked the look of an uncut dick.  Some guys get
off on them.  Some guys will only suck uncut dick.  But not this little
brown PO duck.  I have only sucked one uncut dick in my life.  The guy
attached to it was a blond knockout and I don't regret it.  Still, I wish
The Hungarian had been circumcised.

Chapter Three

	The Hungarian was actually a Yank.  He had been born in some
God-forsaken town in the middle of nowhere.  Butt Fuck, Minnesota, I think.
He was a civilian employee at US AID in Saigon when I was there with the UN
Peace Keeping Mission.  Why I was there is a long story, too boring for
words.  Since I was a Gunnery type, I suppose I was supposed to count the
weapons each side had.  Since the VC, PLA, and the ARVN ignored the
Mission, I did very little counting.  I did do a lot of trolling.

	Saigon, Paris of the East, had had, before the US pulled out, an
active and notorious gay community.  For every red blooded American boy
getting his ashes hauled behind Mimi's Bar, there was another red blooded
American boy getting his dick sucked or his ass reamed in one of the many
villas scattered around the city.  So much for the anal-retentive "not in
my Navy" (or Army, Air Force or Marine Corps) routine. Half the bars in
town were pick-up joints where boy could meet boy.  In fact, the standard
indoctrination lecture given to all new arrivals included a section on gay
night life (and where to find it). Fuck me, if every gay in the US military
quit or dropped dead, the fucking Boy Scouts would be guarding the borders.
Which ain't, come to think of it, such a bad idea.

	All that ended when Nixon pulled the plug and the troops went home.
Now Saigon was almost devoid of US troops.  Except for the military out at
MACV, the US Armed Services were scarce on the ground.  I saw some from
time to time.  Mostly at the Embassy, which had a Marine detachment.  While
they were hunky, they were MARINES.  Which meant, at least publicly, they
had zero tolerance when it came to faggots and queers.  (I say publicly
because much later, back home, I spent a very interesting weekend with two
U.S.  Marines. But that's another story.)  Given the political climate most
Americans kept to themselves and stayed in their well-guarded compounds.

	There were still a few Australians and New Zealanders in town, the
last remnants of the SEATO Force, but, like the Americans they were much
too busy, for the most part, trying to wind down and get the fuck out of
Dodge.  They also had no use for anyone remotely connected with the UN
Team.  Little hope there.




	This left the local population and a few American civilian
nationals.  The other members of the UN Team were Poles and Indians, both
nations not noted for circumcising their males or for the personal hygiene
of their citizens.  Which left the locals.  Now, I admit that the young
Asian male can, and in many cases is, a fine, ripe specimen. They can be
beautiful, in the way only a man can be beautiful. But have you ever tried
to find a circumcised dick in a county that never heard of it?  Good luck,
Charley Brown.

	I had spent a frustrating day checking out the locals.  I saw a lot
of nice, uncut cock.  I saw some very nicely formed foreskins, some short
and covering about half the head, some long and wrinkled.  I did NOT see
one that I wanted and I did NOT see a rosy cut dick head.  I finally gave
up and took a cab to the Continental Hotel to check out the action in the
bar.  There was none.  The place was empty except for the bar tender, and
Gabrielle, a hooker who had definitely seen better days.  She was actually
White Russian, but, for business purposes, claimed to be French.  She
wasn't a bad broad, as broads go, and understood my problem.  She had come
on to me the first time I walked into the hotel bar, and, rather than lie
to her I told her that I was gay.  She pouted a bit, and then asked me to
buy her a drink.  I was the best she was going to get and she planned to
milk me (pardon the expression) for whatever she could get.  She ended up
conning me out of twenty bucks American.  We had been friends ever since.
I commiserated with her when business was bad (almost always).  She
commiserated with me when I complained about my fruitless hunt for a man
without a foreskin.  We made a good pair.

	"Cherie, you are a fool." she snapped when I sat down beside her.
"There is a whole city full of young men who will be your slave for a few
dollars."  She then proceeded to lecture me on the suitability, and
availability, of young Vietnamese.  "Not to mention, Cherie, they are a
hooker's dream."

	"How's that? I asked.

	"Small dick.  Comes quick." she replied sweetly.

	After I stopped laughing, and bought her another drink, she asked
me if, since I was obviously not interested in Vietnamese dick, would a
white one do? I told her that was not the point.

	"Look, Cherie, you want a man.  I know a gentleman who is of your
persuasion.  He is an American.  I cannot guarantee that he is without a
foreskin, a useless piece of flesh I admit, but he is lonely.  As you are
lonely.  At least meet him.  No one says you have to sleep with him."

	I thought about it.  It had been weeks since I had sucked a cock.
It had been weeks since I had felt a good set of balls.  I admit it.  I was
tempted.  Gabrielle sensed it and, calling for the telephone, made the
necessary arrangements.  Twenty minutes later The Hungarian came into my
life.

Chapter Four

	By any standards The Hungarian was a hunk.  He had wheat blond
hair, deep blue eyes, a muscular body with all the muscles in all the right
places, He had a ready smile and smooth, tanned face and arms.  We shook
hands and introduced ourselves and he invited me to dinner.  As we sat down
I couldn't help but but notice his basket.  Not large, but not all that
small.

	He was quite well- spoken, and I admit I was taken with him.  He
was a ring knocker - a graduate of Annapolis, an ex-Marine Lieutenant
(during the Tet Offensive he had help defend the Citadel at Hue), and was
now a government employee.  He also mentioned that he lived in the hotel.

	As he talked I was mentally filling in a check list, the results of
which would go far to determine whether or not we ended up in bed together.
American.  Point for.  Second born son of immigrants.  Point against. Born
on a farm in the middle of nowhere.  Point against.  Roman Catholic.  Point
against.  The odds were that he was not circumcised.

	My problem was that I had to make up my mind sooner rather than
later.  Curfew was fast approaching and the Vietnamese Military Police were
not known for their courtesy to foreigners - a French journalist had run
afoul of the curfew laws and had ended up dead.  If I delayed too long I
would either end up on one of the lobby sofas or in his room. Which on the
one hand I desperately wanted to do.  On the other hand there was the
distinct possibility that he possessed that fold of flesh I had so often
avoided in the past.

	You must understand that my attitude towards uncircumcised males
was influenced by two things, the social and religious atmosphere in which
I was raised, and what was, to me, at the time, a horrifying and traumatic
incident.

	I had been born and raised in a small town in central Ontario with
little to recommend it except for a posh school for boys at the edge of
town (it lost much of its glitter when it went co-ed a few years back).  My
life was influenced by my parents and the Roman Catholic Church. My
parents, being good Catholics, echoed the party line.  They lived their
lives according to the Church's rule.  I went to a Catholic school ruled by
nuns where the boys were strictly segregated from the girls.  All of which
meant that, in the summer of 1957, when I was 12 years and 8 months old, I
was totally clueless when it came to things sexual.

	The Church taught us, and our parents and the nuns enforced it,
that sex, outside of marriage was totally forbidden.  Nudity was shameful.
Good Catholic boys did not think about such things, which was sort of
difficult, since no one gave us any reason to think about it.  Sex was
simply not discussed.  The human body was not discussed.  We were supposed
to be pure in thought, word, and deed.  If we weren't, we were condemned to
Hell.

	The Church thundered against the sins of the flesh.  Masturbation
was a sin.  Thinking about masturbation was a sin.  Touching another boy
was a sin.  Thinking about touching another boy was a sin.  Seeing another
boy nude was a sin.  Exposing yourself and tempting another boy was a sin.
Just about every natural emotion was a sin.  If it made you hard, it was a
sin.  If it made you wet, it was a sin.  And that was just so-called normal
sex.

	Any sex except male/female sex was an abomination, a guaranteed one
way ticket to Hades.  To make matters worse no one ever made a direct
reference to what the hell they meant.  They talked about men lying down
with men, and so on - strangely women with women was never mentioned.  They
talked about inappropriate touching.  They talked about lewdness.  But they
never talked about it.

          The whole forbidden fruit theme was continued in our normal,
everyday life.  If we went swimming good Catholic boys wore their bathing
suits under their clothes. That way, when they took their clothes off, they
still had their privates covered by their suits.  Thus sin was avoided.  If
we played sports, we suited up at home and walked to the ball park or
soccer field fully booted and clothed.  Until the summer of 1957 I never
saw another boy naked.  The only body I had ever touched was my one and,
while it felt good when I did it, I suffered guilt pangs for days
afterward.  Believe me, a Jewish mother has nothing on the Catholic Church
when it comes to guilt.

	Until the summer of 1957 I thought that all boys looked like me
"down there."  I was very rudely awakened one fine summer afternoon.  The
horror of that day lived with me for years.

	The kid across the street was named Andrew.  My father called him
an "accident of war."  What he meant was that Andrew's parents had met in
England when his dad was stationed there during the War.  When the war
ended they came to Canada to live.  He was 13 and a bit, and, to my naive
eyes, quite worldly.  He was officially a Protestant, though I don't
remember every seeing him or his parents heading towards one of the
churches.  He smoked on the sly, swore, and was always making lewd remarks
about the girls.  He also talked about something called "corn holing" and
something called a "blow job" and when he wrestled with the other boys he
never failed to cop a feel.  He was everything we did not dare to be.

	I am not going to bore you with a long story about how or when came
to know that I liked other boys. There was no great epiphany when I was
seven or eight, or whenever.  I just did.  That I was terrified about doing
anything about my feelings goes without saying.  I didn't want to go to
hell.  I didn't want to be an abomination and be rejected by God.  Still,
like all boys I was curious , which explains why I accepted an unexpected
invitation to Andrew's house.

	My memory is vague about how and why I was invited.  I think it had
something to do with some magazines that Andrew's father kept hidden in the
downstairs closet.  Hell, I can't even remember what Andrew looked like.
What I do remember is we ended up in his bedroom, drooling over some very
graphic magazines.

	Andrew may have been looking at the tits and pussy.  I was looking
at the huge ropey dicks.  Since they were all hard, or nearly so, they all
looked like my dick.  I had a hard-on bulging in my briefs and a quick
glance at Andrew's crotch showed an even bigger bulge than normal in his
jeans.  After a few minutes he rubbed his bulge, looked down at mine, and
reached over and rubbed my jeans.

	"You like it?" he asked.  I wasn't sure if he meant his rubbing me
or the magazine. I nodded, too terrified to speak.

	"Have you ever touched another guy's cock?"

	I shook my head no.

	"Want to touch mine?"  He asked.  I nodded.

	Andrew dropped his jeans and pulled down his briefs.  To my
juvenile eyes - and with only my puny dick for comparison - he was huge.
Actually, about four and a half inches.  His dick was darker in color than
the rest of his body and, unlike mine, his head was covered in thick skin,
which ended in a wrinkled ferrule about a quarter inch beyond the head.
The whole thing was one long shaft of skin, without definition.  A few
scraggly hairs - which was more than I had - grew at the base of his
stomach.

	"Can I see yours?" he asked.  I nodded, unzipped, and pulled my
pants down.  My hard-on was pointing straight up under the thin cotton of
my briefs.  It didn't seem all that impressive compared to Andrew, but he
reached over and rubbed me.  It felt wonderful.  He rubbed a little more
then reached up and pulled down the front of my briefs, releasing my
throbbing cock.  It popped out and pointed upward at a good angle.

	"Hey, you're circumcised." he exclaimed.  "Look's nice."  Using two
fingers he touched me, then felt my balls.  "And you got big balls."  I
have to admit, I did, and do.

	"Mine are small." he explained, and cupped his sac.  They were kind
of small, and contained in a tight hanging, wrinkled bag.  He pushed my
briefs down over my knees and they fell to my ankles.  He pulled me toward
the bed, sat down, and fingered me again.

	"You like it?" he asked again.

	"Oh, yes." I breathed.  I sat down on the bed beside him.  The
warmth of his hand on my rod was great, and it sure felt a hell of a lot
better than when I did it.

	He began jerking me off.  I reached over and enclosed his dick with
my hand.  As I pulled down on his dick his mushroom was half exposed.  When
I pushed upward the head disappeared under a thick layer of foreskin.

	"Have you ever had a guy suck it?" he whispered.  I shook my head
no.

	Andrew bent his head and his tongue licked and washed my dick head,
sending an electric shock of pure ecstasy through my body.  My cock jumped.
Andrew took me in his mouth.  My cock filled his mouth and his tongue and
lips as he bobbed his head up and down along my shaft set my dick to
throbbing and sending waves of pleasure coursing through my body.  I moaned
and squirmed as every nerve ending on my dick went into overdrive.

	I kept my eyes closed as he worked on my hard-on.  I didn't care if
it was a sin.  If this was one way to get to Hell, well, fuck it, I was on
my way.

	Suddenly he let go of me.  I reached down and began to pump myself.
I heard him groan.

	"DO it to me." he demanded. "Suck mine."

	I opened my eyes and what I saw scared the living bejesus out of
me.

	He was lying flat on his back on the bed, his left hand grasping
the base of his dick, the thumb and two fingers of his right hand just
above, slowly pumping himself.

	His dick was long, thin, and, underneath the head a band of purple
red skin showed.  His dick head was exposed, and a deep purple
color. Underneath his mushroom were several blobs of creamy yellow
something.

	He lay there, his head pushed back, mouth open, eyes closed, as he
gave his dick short, quick little pumps.

	"Come on." he gasped. "Suck it."

	I put out my hand and touch the moist head.  It felt sticky, and I
quickly pulled my hand away.  I really didn't want to, but like a snake
mesmerized by the charmer's flute, I couldn't help myself.  I leaned
forward and caught a slight odor of . . .piss, and something . . .chalky.
My stomach churned.

	Suddenly every sermon, every horror story I had ever heard came
crashing through my head.  Not only was I going to hell but my dick would
swell, turn purple, and stink of piss and I didn't know what.

	I was so terrified at the sight of him I jumped up, fell ass over
elbow, jumped up again, pulled up my briefs and jeans and took off running.
All they way home I prayed to God.  I would never do it again.  I promised
God to be good.  I asked, I begged Him not to turn my dick purple and make
it smell.  I wouldn't touch myself, I swore.

	I ran across the road, into the house, up the stairs and into my
room.  I threw myself on my bed, pulled the covers over me and said every
prayer I could think of, including a couple in Latin. Please, God, Please,
don't make me like Andrew.

	I was so scared I had nightmares and shook uncontrollably whenever
I thought of Andrew's thing.  My mother thought I as coming down with the
`flu, or something, and made me stay in bed.  When I didn't improve she
took me to the doctor, who couldn't find anything wrong with me and
prescribed a good physic.  I was liberally dosed with castor oil.  All that
did was make me shit like a racehorse.  If only for self defense I finally
roused myself, and went about my normal routine.

	I recovered, of course.  I know now that all Andrew had been guilty
of was pulling back his foreskin and not observing the rules of basic
personal hygiene.  But to this day I cannot look at an uncut dick without
thinking about Andrew's monstrous, discolored cock.

	Andrew, for his part, never mentioned our little session in his
bedroom, and I was sure as hell not going to bring it up.  I avoided him as
much as I could.  I would see him coming toward me and my eyes would
automatically zero in on his crotch.  I would shudder, and try to think of
a good excuse to get away from him. Fortunately, for my sanity, his father
found a job in Peterborough and they moved away in August.

	In September I started high school.  The town couldn't support a
Catholic high school so I went to the same public high school as everyone
else in town.  In time, thanks to gym classes and swimming classes, I
learned that some boys were like me, circumcised, most not.  Most of the
boys born in town were.  Most of the boys born on the farms that surrounded
the town were not, I supposed because they were born at home with only a
midwife in attendance.  Unless something was wrong, like an infection, the
farm boys were never circumcised.  Which was too bad, because some of them
were prime pieces of boy meat.

	Despite my prayers I lusted after my school mates and couldn't wait
for gym glass.  Swimming class was even better.  When I was thirteen and a
bit I hit puberty, and masturbation, sinful as it was, became a nightly
activity.  I fantasized about all the cut dicks I had seen. I had a mental
picture of every boy I came in contact with and dreamed of jerking and
sucking their hard dicks.  None of the uncut boys were ever in my
fantasies.  These boys I put out of my mind.

	As my teenage years passed I continued to look but not touch,
slowly drawing myself into the closet I would inhabit for many years to
come.  I never approached anyone.  No one approached me.  We didn't
dare. No one wanted to be labeled a queer. The worst schoolyard insult was
to call another boy a queer.  All things considered, it was better to be
dead than to be a queer.

	My fears and terrors were buttressed by two events that rocked the
town to its foundations.  One did not involve the town at all.  One of the
masters at the private school was accused of doing something to one of the
boys.  Tongues wagged, there was a police investigation, the local papers
had a field day, and the parish priest let loose with one hell of a fire
and brimstone sermon.  It didn't matter that the poor man was later
exonerated.  Nor did it matter that we didn't know any of the boys who
attended the school.  We only saw them on Saturday, when they came to town
to shop, or on Remembrance Day when their Band and Cadets paraded to the
local Cenotaph. As far as the town was concerned there was something going
on out there!  The rift between town and gown widened, and never really
closed, even after THE GREAT SCANDAL.

	The local priest died, which was not surprising since he was close
on to 90, and was replaced by a young priest.  He was good looking, pretty
tame when it came to giving out penance after confession, and loved
hockey. He started a church team, and was really quite a good coach.  All
the girls fell in love with him, and all they boys practically creamed
their Fruit of the Looms when the saw him racing down the ice on a
breakaway.  He was very popular with everyone.  Even me.  No, not that way.
He was a priest for Christ's sake.  Priests didn't do things like that.  Or
so we all thought.

	One afternoon I came home from hockey practice, dumped my skates on
the porch and went into the kitchen.  My parents were at the kitchen table,
talking very quietly. I thought I heard my father say something about the
Church, but when I entered the kitchen they both shut up.  I had expected
my mother to be there.  She stayed at home - in those days that's where a
mother was expected to be.  My father, however, never came home in the
middle of the afternoon.  He was a druggist, and the store he owned was
very busy.  I knew at once that something was up.  I also knew that hell
would freeze over before they told me what they were whispering about.  My
parents firmly believed that there were things in life that a good Catholic
boy did not need to know.  Since I knew I wasn't going to get anything out
of them I had a glass of milk and retired to my favorite listening post.

	I scampered around to the back of the house and squatted under the
open kitchen window.  With me gone, and out of earshot, my parents resumed
their conversation.  Because they spoke in such low tones I really didn't
get much information.  I did get that something was happening down at the
church and that the new priest was involved. I heard my mother saying
something about "that boy". What this meant I couldn't figure out.  He was
always in a crowd, with parents and such, and, except for the altar boys at
morning Mass, had little contact with any of the boys who attended the
church.  Since I knew all the altar boys, and since they had never said
anything, I was totally at sea.  After a while I heard their chairs scrape
across the tiled floor, followed by the screen door slamming.  I got up and
wandered off looking for something to do.

	That night the Church Council met in our living room.  Dad was very
high up in the K of C, and Secretary to the Council.  I was banished to my
room, and the doors leading to the living room firmly closed.  I could hear
loud, muffled voices.  I had to go to the john and as I passed my parent's
bedroom I saw my mother in her chair, saying the rosary.  It had to be
serious if she was doing that.

	I was so consumed with curiosity that when I went to bed that night
I didn't even beat off.

	The next morning in gym class rumors were flying thick and fast.
Those boys whose fathers were on the Church Committee compared notes.  It
didn't take long for the word "faggot" to be uttered.  Since the Protestant
boys didn't have a clue as to what was going on, and the Catholic boys
weren't about to enlighten them, or give them ammunition to use against us,
we kept what little we knew very close to our chests.  All we knew for sure
was that the new priest had a yard boy - a kid about 18, I'd seen him
working around the rectory.  He didn't go to school and kept pretty much to
himself.  The kid was supposed to be the priest's nephew and lived in the
rectory with him.  To my mind this was not all that unusual.  The last
priest had had his widowed sister living with him.  I didn't think it was
any big deal.  My parents, and the Church Council did.

	A very low keyed whispering campaign began.  For some reason
everyone was more than willing to believe the worst.  I underwent a mild
interrogation from my father.  I could truthfully tell him that I hadn't
set foot inside the rectory, that I hadn't been asked by the priest to take
anything off but my hat, and he hadn't touched me except to show me how
stick handle a puck.

	For about a week this went on.  Whispered conversations, closed
door meetings and so on.  Eventually the Bishop of Peterborough put in an
appearance and the young priest, and his nephew, were gone.  I never did
get the whole story, but I did hear that the kid was not the priest's
nephew and that the good father was teaching him more than just the
Stations of the Cross.  I did get a round of lectures about men who touched
young boys down there and how I was to avoid that at all costs.  It was
pretty heavy and I took my prayer stool.  No way was I ever going to be one
of them.

	Once The Great Scandal died down life more or less returned to
normal.  Since the faggots had been driven from the town everyone settled
for slagging off the blacks (whom we called colored people back then) and
the Jews.  Since there were no colored people, or Jews within a hundred
miles, I couldn't see the point but, what the hell, people had to talk
about something.

Chapter Five

	In January, 1962 my cozy world crashed around me and I took the
first steps towards what was to ultimately lead me to self-recognition as a
gay man.

	On Rabbi Burns night my father, with my mother in the car beside
him, both of them stuffed with haggis and awash in single malt whiskey
forgot that there was a turn in the road leading to Main Street, and drove
into the lift lock at the end of Legion Street.  The car plummeted straight
down onto concrete bottom of the lock.  They died instantly and I was an
orphan.  I was 17 years and 2 months old.

	My only living relative, my father's brother, drove up from Toronto
and for three days we endured the insincere platitudes and sympathy
expressed at every funeral.  After my parents had been laid to rest in the
churchyard, and the last mourner had left, my uncle told me how I was going
to live the rest of my life.  He had it all planned for me.  In a fit of
rebellion I told him what I was going to do.

	I'm afraid I let him have it.  All the repressed fear and anger at
what I was, at my parents' death, everything I took out on him, even though
he was only trying to do what was best for me, what my father would have
wanted for me.  He was so stunned that he agreed to everything I wanted.

	Since I was only four months away from graduating high school, I
would stay in the house I had been born in.  Once I had graduated I was
going into the Navy, which was something I felt I had to do.  I believed
that if anything would rid me of my demons, and make a true man of me, it
would one of the branches of Her Majesty's Armed Services.  The Army did
not appeal to me.  The Air Force was too effete for my taste.  This left
the Navy and into the Navy I would go.

	Which is what happened.  Under the watchful eye of the local
Anglican Vicar and his wife (my uncle had converted and did not trust
anything connected with the Catholic church), I finished high school.  The
Monday after I graduated I rode the bus to Toronto and met my uncle who
drove me to the Navy Recruiting Office, then located in the Naval Reserve
Barracks located not far from the CNE grounds. There I was poked, prodded,
made to cough, and, ultimately pronounced fit for service.  Since I was
four months shy of my 18th birthday my uncle had to sign my enlistment
papers.

	A week later, along with 20 other new recruits, I was on a train
bound for Montreal, where I would catch another train for HMCS CORNWALLIS,
and 18 weeks New Entry (Recruit) training.  We were in the custody of a
Chief Petty Officer who wore ribbons from both Wars and Korea.  He sipped
beer all the way from Toronto to Montreal and, since there was a four hour
wait there between trains, he hit the taproom of the Windsor Hotel.
Eventually we boarded the train for Digby, Nova Scotia, and CORNWALLIS.
The Chief sipped his way to Digby. He was pretty blasted by the time we got
off the train, but he was a CHIEF, so could get away with it.

	Arrived in Digby we left the train and were set upon by what seemed
liked a hundred screaming demons. These were the "GI's" the Gunnery
Instructors, who would be our tormentors and teachers.  We were formed into
fours and forced to run all the way to the base.  There we were herded into
a cavernous Mess Hall, fed one cold egg sandwich, a carton of not quite
fresh milk, and allowed to take one piece of fruit.  This was to sustain us
until lunch.

	Together with the recruits who had arrived the day before - about
120 all together - we were hurried and harried from building to
building. In one we underwent another medical - presumably to assure the
powers that be that we hadn't been damaged in transit.  The Navy would have
no truck with damaged goods.  Next we went to the barber where we all got
shorn.  From the barber to Clothing Stores, where we were piled high with
clothing and gear.  The Navy left nothing to chance and to ensure that we
would from now on be uncontaminated by anything civilian, outfitted us from
the skin out.  From clothing stores we were herded into the barracks, known
as Cape Scott Block, that would be our home until we graduated or got sent
home.

Here we were given 5 minutes to clean into sports gear, negative jocks
(which the Navy had supplied).  We wasted a minute wondering what the hell
this was.  Someone found a sheet of paper on which was written each order
of dress (we all had one, we just didn't know it. My copy was folded in my
socks).

	A couple of the guys started to pull their shorts over their
briefs.  This elicited a howl of rage from the GI.  The Navy had issued us
drawers, and we would bloody well wear them.  These articles, known as
drawers, cotton, white, were BVD's, with a draw string.  One size fit
all. We were about to exchange the snug security of boyhood for the
swinging dick freedom of manhood.  Off came our jockeys, white, cotton,
(for the most part) or briefs, cotton, colored (one daring individual had
on paisley).  On went our new underpants, dark blue shorts, a white cotton
tee with blue banding around the arms and neck, white socks, and black high
top running shoes (known as "Pusser Gummers").  Thus attired we stampeded
out of the Block and onto the Parade Square.  Since we were late we were
forced to do 25 pushups.  Since we were the worst examples of Canadian
manhood the Chief GI had ever seen we did another 25.  And, since we had
had the gall to trespass on HIS Parade Square - it turned out we were never
allowed on the Sacred Ground except for drill, Divisions, and Evening
Quarters - we did another 25.

	We staggered to our feet and began our first drill class.  When
that was finished we doubled to the Mess Hall for lunch.  After lunch, more
drill.  After that, kit indoctrination.  Class followed class in a whirl of
doubling, sitting, doing push ups and being yelled at.  We doubled
everywhere.  We also stayed off the Parade Square.

	After supper we were doubled over to Stores and issued Volume II of
the Seamanship Manual.  We were doubled over to the Block, told to clean
into "night clothing", told to "read that bloody manual" and to be outside
ready for Evening Quarters at 2020.  We all stumbled into the Block.

	Our sleeping arrangements were primitive.  Down each side of the
room was a row of double bunks, 20 to a side.  Beside each set of bunks
were two lockers.  The block was built in the form of an "H", with the
short cross bar section housing showers and shitters.  Each bunk had a
small card affixed to it, on which was typed the name and rate (OD) of the
occupant.  I had drawn a lower, about halfway down the block.  On each bunk
was a "Station Card" - actually a small book in which were recorded our
vital statistics, including our drinking eligibility - "G", which meant we
could draw a tot of rum a day, "T", for Temperance or U/A, underage age,
and not legal to drink.  Since we were all of an age - I think the average
was 19 - we were all UA.  Each book had a white, red, or blue cover.  This
told us which Watch we were assigned to.

	We changed, or "cleaned" into night clothing, blue serge bell
bottoms, starched, white, blue-piped gun shirt, horribly scratchy grey
socks, and gun boots.  I lay on my bunk and promptly fell asleep.  The next
thing I knew someone was shaking me awake and I stumbled out to the Parade
Square, where the whole school was assembled for Evening Quarters.  Once
formed up, we watched the Band march out and take its position.  The Band
played "Sunset", the flag came down, and we were finally dismissed. I was
so tired I stripped down and crawled onto my unmade bunk.  I heard nothing
until the next morning when we were all rudely awakened by the Band blaring
out its own rendition of Reveille.  We showered in cold water, dressed in
the Rig of the Day, and were off.

	The first week we were taught the rudiments of drill and kit
maintenance. Everything we had been issued had to marked with our official
number.  Except for the back of our detachable blue collars, which were
stenciled, everything had to have our numbers sewn on in red thread,
including the warm wool blanket folded at the end of our bunks.  We were
issued a handful of brass studs which were to be hammered into the soles of
our boots.  We had all been issued a sewing kit, with thread and needles.
We set to with a will and, very soon everything I owned was properly marked
with my official number, 64675-H.  The boots were a problem.  There was
exactly one hammer for 40 guys, and it took me three days, and 180 pushups
before I got the fucking studs nailed in.

	Eventually, we got ourselves sorted out.  The guys in my term were
not a bad lot.  They were all very young, and represented a good cross
section of Eastern Canada.  There were guys from Ontario, the Maritimes,
and a Newfoundlander.  The guys in my Term were all reasonably intelligent,
though only the guy in the bunk next to mine and I had high school
diplomas.  They were also all white. There were very few people of color in
the Navy then, and, in fact, a mere ten years earlier there had been none.
Until 1952 Naval recruits had to certify that they were of "pure European
descent", which was interpreted as whites only, no Jews or Colored need
apply.  Racism and prejudice was not confined to small town Ontario.  There
were also no Frenchies in our Term.  Most of the came from the wilds of
Quebec and couldn't speak English.  They were in another Term and lived in
their own Block.

	Except for the guy who slept above me, all of my Term mates fit the
bill.  The guy above me, Fettuccine Alfredo, was 2nd generation
Italian-Canadian.  He was the stereotypical Italian male, short, squat,
with long black hair all over his body.  He also had a thick, uncut, veined
dick, of which he was inordinately proud.  Anyway, he talked a good fuck.
Every week his mother sent him a food package, so he was very popular.

	Despite my prayers and good intentions I checked them all out -
which was easy to do.  We all showered, and changed together.  Nakedness
was a part of life, and we all learned very quickly that shyness was not.
All the guys from the cities - Hamilton, Toronto, and English Montreal,
were circumcised, except for the Italian.  All the guys from the Maritimes,
and most of the farm boys, were not.

	I looked, I did not touch.  I kept my own counsel, and made no
comment on shape, form or ball size. I also mastered the art of the silent
jerk off and always went to bed with a handkerchief.  We all did.
Masturbating was a chargeable offense, the evidence of it being cum stains
on our sheets, which we changed once a week and which were examined
carefully by the PO Storekeeper for suspicious stains.  Beating off in the
showers in the middle of the night was dangerous.  If the Night Roundsman
caught you, only God could save your ass.  Anybody who jerked off in the
middle of the night was suspect, he might even be one of them.  One guy who
did it, from another Block, got caught and spent a week in Sick Bay
explaining his "deviant" behavior to the Medical Officer.  They didn't turf
him, but he spent two weeks peeling potatoes and for the rest of his Naval
career was called "Thumper".

	In 18 weeks I learned basic seamanship, how to march, how to shoot,
signals recognition, in short all the basic skills I needed for the next
phase of my training.  I also learned never to express my true feelings to
anyone, to keep my own counsel, and to pretend to be something I was not.
It was in CORNWALLIS that I began to develop and nurture my alternate
persona.  Stevie Straight-Arrow, the Navy's answer to Captain Canada was
born in CORNWALLIS.  He almost died there.

	When I entered CORNWALLIS I was a virgin.  Except for the one brief
encounter with Andrew I had never had sex with anyone.  Knowing full well
the atmosphere of hatred and contempt the Navy had for gays, I determined
that no matter what, I would act and be straight.  Unfortunately, I fell in
love.

	The boy who slept in the bunk next to mine was, was, by any
standard, hardly a hunk.  He was tall, and very thin.  He had long, black,
straight hair, a thin face, and almond-shaped eyes. His ancestry was
German.  He wasn't all that big where it counted (I was bigger, which isn't
saying much), but he was cut and had a nicely formed set of balls.

	At first we were just Barracks mates.  As the weeks passed, we
became closer, and bonded. We became "wingers".  We did everything
together, spent all of our free time together, studied together, swam
together.  Before I knew it, I was truly, deeply in love with him.  So much
so that even now, forty years later, I keep his picture close to me.

	We never did anything that could remotely be classified as sexual.
I never touched him, he never touched me.  Even on the weekend before our
graduation, when we were given our first, and only leave pass.  We went to
Halifax, about 20 of us, and shared a room - two beds, 4 guys.  I spent the
night in bed with him, not sleeping a wink, too afraid to sleep for fear I
might do something to him, or touch him in my sleep.

	To be fair he never, at any time, gave any indication that he was
gay.  He was just as homophobic as everybody else in the term, and
participated in the same homo-erotic silly games they all played. Guy
stuff.  No harm done, no harm meant.

	That I was living alone in my dreamworld he brought painfully to my
attention the afternoon of our Graduation Parade.  He also made me aware
that I had contravened one of the gay Prime Directives: never, ever, make
the first move unless you are absolutely, without question, certain that
the other guy wants what you want. I broke the rules.  I would pay for it.

	We graduated in the morning, visited with our guests (neither he or
I had any), and after lunch went to the Ship's Office to pick up our Duty
Assignments, the "Draft Chits" that told us the ships or bases where we
would put our classroom training to practical use.  To my surprise I was
assigned to the Fleet Gunnery School, in Halifax. He was drafted to a
destroyer, but in Esquimalt, clear across the country.  I was told that a
bus would take me in to Halifax.  He was given a handful of travel
warrants.  His train left at 1500 from Digby Station.

	We packed our kits, and he said goodbye to the other guys.  I asked
him if I could go with him to the train station, and of course, he said
yes.  I couldn't bear to think of him leaving me.  I had to tell him how I
felt.  He hoisted his bag on his shoulder, said "Come on, then", and off we
went.

	We left the base and walked through the park bordering the Bay of
Fundy, towards town and the train station.  As we walked I asked him if we
could keep in touch.  Of course we could, we were wingers.  Encouraged, I
stopped him, and blurted out my true feelings for him.  I told him that I
loved him, and that I wanted to be with him always.

	He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at me.  I realized that I
had made one very big mistake.  By telling him I loved him I had,
unknowingly, assaulted his morals and insulted his manhood.  I should have
expected his reaction.  Had I been older, or wiser, I would have.

	He dropped his kit bag and glared at me, hate filling his eyes.  He
sputtered a bit, then reach out and put his hands around my neck.  I
grabbed his wrists, but he was very strong, and I could not pull him away.
As he squeezed the breath from me he called me every filthy, venom-soaked
name he could think of.  I was called a cock-sucker, a bone eater, gearbox,
butt fucker, you name it, he called me it.

	I didn't flinch, and I didn't beg him not to hurt me or to forgive
me.  I knew instinctively that I had crossed a line that I should not have
crossed.  I had tried to bring my world into his, a world where people like
me did not exist, ever.

	My silence, I think, confused him.  A queer did not act this way. A
queer moaned and cried, and begged not to be hurt. A queer was a coward.
He dropped his hands from my throat and raised his fist.

	"You disgust me." he spat, and punched me square in the balls.  As
I lay writhing on the ground and vomiting my lunch, he gave me a kick in
the ribs, and spat on me.  He kicked me again.

	"Fucking fag." he ejaculated.  "Fucking, fucking, fag!"

	He gave me a final kick, picked up his kit bag, and was gone.  I
would never see him again.

Chapter Six

	Eventually the pain subsided and I was able to stand up.  I cleaned
myself as best I could, and dragged myself back to the Block.  I never
reported to Sick Bay.  The bruises on my chest and back I could explain
away.  My bruised and distended scrotum I could never explain.

	I left CORNWALLIS with more than bruises.  I left with the
determination that I would prove to the straight world that I, as a gay
man, would beat them at their own game.  I would be, in their eyes,
everything a man should be.  I would become a square jawed, true blue,
courageous, honest, upstanding example of young Canadian manhood.  I would
do manly things in manly ways.  I would unflinchingly, and without
complaint accept every job assigned to me and do it better than anyone had
ever done it.  If they wanted faultless uniforms they would get it.
Spits-shined shoes.  No problem.  You would be able to shave using the
mirror polish of my boots.  The straight world wanted a man.  They would
get a man.

	I began my campaign almost immediately.

	HMCS STADACONA, the official name for the Halifax Naval facility,
is entered off of Gottingen Street.  One enters through the main gate, past
a large guard house.  To the left is "A" Block, Atlantic Block, the
accommodation block for Junior Rates.  To the right is the gymnasium and
pool.

	I checked into the Block, got my room assignment, and, towel and
trunks in hand, headed for the gym.  Since sports seemed to be such a very
big part of a straight's life, I had decided to start here.  I figured that
the Physical Training Instructors (PTI's) would be looking for bodies to
fill out the teams that were always part of Service life.  I checked out
the notice board, and saw the sign up sheets.  I could take my pick from
hockey, to lacrosse, to baseball, to football (English, not that American
abomination), swimming, the list seemed endless.  My chances of getting on
as many teams as I wanted to were pretty good.  Guys would sign up for the
duration of their courses, them, more often then not, ship out to one of
the ships down in the dockyard, where they would sign up for the ship's
teams.  I decided to go slow, and bide my time.

	I went into the pool change room, changed, and went into the pool
area.  I was a pretty good swimmer, and, since I had lost 20 pounds in
CORNWALLIS, I was pretty slim.  I dived into the pool, swam a few laps, and
climbed out.  I wasn't tired, but I had noticed the inevitable PTI lurking
at the other end of the pool.  He was dressed like every gym teacher I had
ever known in high school: shorts, tee shirt, with a whistle on a cord
around his neck and a clipboard in his hand.  Like any good coach he was
checking out the talent.

	I walked to the diving board and dove in - a move that did not do
my bruised nuts any good.  I swam up to the surface, and sat down at the
edge of the pool, pretending to knock the water from my ears.  Within
minutes I felt a tap on my shoulder.  I looked around.  It was the PTI.

	He introduced himself.  I sat to attention and introduced myself.
He told me to relax.

	"What school?" he asked.

	"Gunnery, P.O." I replied.  I would be around for 8 months, ten if
I went on to Quarters Rate training.

	I could hear the gears turning.  Baseball coming up, maybe hockey?

	"Like to swim?"

	"Yes, P.O."

	"Any good?"

	"Got a Letter for swimming, in high school.  Also one for
baseball."  Which was true.  I had swum with the school team, and played
shortstop, also for the school team. We weren't very good and, sadly we
lost every year for 5 years.

	"Done your In Routine?"

	"Tomorrow, P.O."

	"See me then."

	I didn't have to ask.  I was on the swim team.  Within a week I was
also signed up for the Ball Team, and, since it was only one day a week -
Sunday, and got me out of Church Parade - the soccer team.

	It took me a while, but I developed a persona that fit perfectly
the ideal everyone had of the ideal, normal sailor.  My uniforms were
pressed.  My gun shirts starched and ironed to perfection.  My cap talley
was a joy to behold.  My boots were mirrors.  In class I was polite, and
correct to a fault.  My grades were mostly B's, an occasional C - don't
stand out, but don't hide your light under a basket.  My rifle and parade
routines were faultless.  Much to my surprise I found that I could lead,
and when in charge I projected calm authority.  I had my shit together and
it showed.

	With my room mates, and class mates, I was polite, told jokes, and
bought a round now and then.  Unlike them, I never talked queer, and,
never, ever, talked about sex.  I could, and did, admire the local female
talent.  Unlike my classmates I was not overt about it.  A slow, sidelong
glance, a slight smile of approval was all I gave.  If asked I would
comment on the young lady's attributes, usually agreeing, sometimes
disagreeing with the questioner.  Before very long I was firmly established
as an ok guy who liked women, at least to look at, which was the most we
could do, anyway.

	I tolerated the high jinks and grab-ass they all got up to.  Up to
a point, I went along with what was going on.  When it got too rough, or
too gay - as sometimes happened - I left.  It was guy stuff, it was
harmless.  I never had to come out and say anything.  My reactions, my body
language, said, hey, guys, play all you like, but, really, that sort of
stuff is not for me.  Two incidents firmly established my straightness.

	One of the guys - call him Don - was gay.  He never broadcast it.
Since queers were not allowed in the Navy, no one ever asked him if he was
gay.  We never talked about that.  He was, actually, a good guy, and looked
perfectly normal, not effeminate at all He was also a soft touch and by
payday half the class owed him money, which he never made any great effort
to collect.  He was as smart as hell, and led the class academically and in
practical gunnery.  He was always ready to help the slower learners. He
also made no bones about his admiration for all things male.

	It has never ceased to amaze me that straight guys with good bodies
and big dicks and balls thought nothing about other guys admiring them.
Don would flatter the hell out of the hunks and they acted as if he was
only giving them their due.  When they woke up with a hard-on, as we all
did at one time or another, they would call Don's attention to it, and he
would comment approvingly. When they cleaned into their tight, ass hugging
Number One's they asked Don how they looked.

	"Tight enough in the chest, Don?"

	"Just right."

	"O.K. across the butt, Don?"

	"Perfect, you'll knock `em dead."

	Even the not so hunky guys got into the act.  That old blue uniform
was the best uniform ever made for showing off your body.  It was very
tight, very form fitting, and, since we all wore pusser shorts, those who
had it got to flaunt it.  There's more than a grain of truth in the old
lyrics that say all the nice girls love a sailor.  Bad sailors, and a
marine or two, as well.

	I knew exactly what Don was up to.  I also knew that it was only a
matter of time before one of the hunks, or even the not so hunks, would ask
him to help them with their lessons.  Sooner or later Don would get what he
couldn't get in Halifax - a city totally devoid of a gay presence thanks to
the ever vigilant Halifax P.D.  Sooner or later one of the lads would ask
him to stay behind and help him study while the rest of us hit the North
End Tavern.  He was playing a dangerous game but no one made a fuss about
it.  They liked him, tolerated him because they liked him, and would,
sooner or later, use him.

	We were a very close knit crew, and very loyal to one another, to
the extent that Fettuccine Alfredo, the Italian boy who had been in my Term
in CORNWALLIS and was also training to be a gunner, would smack Don on the
ass with a towel and announce that while he might be a queer, he was our
queer. Don had bonded with us and we would not rat on him.

	I made no comment.  I cultivated a quiet, calm demeanor.  I was
polite to him.  I joked with him.  But I did not get close to him.  I was
prepared to tolerate him.  I was not prepared to judge him. I treated him
exactly as I treated the rest of them.

	One night we went out for beer and pizza.  Fettuccine Alfredo
stayed behind to study with Don.  When we got back they were both in their
own beds.  Fettuccine was snoring loudly, lying on his back with a huge
tent in his covers.  Don was on his side, snoring softly. He sounded
exactly like a purring cat.

	The other guys ragged them unmercifully for days, but I noticed
that Fettuccine wasn't the only one who needed help with his lessons.  I
made no comment to any of the participants.  So far as they knew, I was
indifferent to what they had done. It was not my place to comment or do
anything about it.  I was part of the Mess, one of Nelson's Band of
Brothers, a man of integrity and honor who played the game fair and square
and who would never squeal on a mate.

	My reaction, or lack of it, bothered Don and he tried to explain
himself to me.  I stopped him cold and made the only statement anyone would
ever get out of me.

	"Don't get caught."

	I could also be counted on to keep my mouth shut.

	The second incident almost ruptured me.  As part of our training we
went on board a destroyer and played with the guns for a week.  The second
night out to sea I was on the Quarterdeck with a bunch of the guys,
admiring the seascape and the sunset.  As always happened, we chucked shit
at each other, and some of them got playful.  I was not paying attention
and didn't notice when someone - to this day I don't know who - snuck up
behind, reached up between my legs and gave my cojones a squeeze.  I was so
shocked I leapt like a seal, did a gainer over the starboard torpedo tubes,
right into the TASI, who had just come on deck.  He broke my fall, made
sure that I hadn't done myself an injury, and laid into the jokers, and
demanded to know who had done the dirty deed.

	Since I didn't know who had done the dirty on me, I couldn't tell
him. The guys didn't know this so this further established me as a guy who
wouldn't rat on a mate to the PO.  When they apologized to me I accepted
with a good grace, and never again referred to it.  I was now established
as a good guy who didn't hold a grudge.

	I went from triumph to triumph.  The Chief Gunnery Instructor (who
sat at the right hand of God) told the Master at Arms that I was "for Whale
Island."  The Master at Arms told me that I had impressed the Chief and
that when anyone impressed the Chief they impressed the Deity Himself.

	One night in the Junior Rates Mess I drew Don's name in some draw
or another.  The Bartender, a notorious homophobe, muttered that had he
been doing the drawing that name would never have come up.  I responded
that Don had won the draw, and to return his ticket to the drum would not
be right.  Don got his money - $ 27.50, a small fortune back then.  Since
Stevie Straight Arrow had been holding court for months in the place, this
incident helped make me blessed when the Bartender pointed at me and loudly
proclaimed "There sits the straightest man I have ever met!"

	Jesus, was I good.  And, Jesus, was I miserable.  I was Young
Canada on the hoof, brave, steadfast, and, thanks to the Chief, who
proclaimed himself to be my Rabbi, destined for great things.  I played by
the rules of the society I lived in and was being rewarded.  It was all a
fucking lie.  What I really wanted to do was stay behind with Don one night
and muckle on to his beautifully cut, shapely dick, and suck on him until
his head caved in.

	I left STADACONA as I had entered it.  Frustrated, horny, and a
virgin.  I went to sea in ST. LAURENT frustrated, horny, and a virgin, and
was paid off two years later, still frustrated, still horny, and still a
fucking virgin.  I left Canada for England, bound for Portsmouth and HMS
EXCELLENT, Whale Island, the Holy of Holies for Naval gunners, a virgin.
There I found that there were more than Naval guns to be fired off.

When I came home in 1967, my Navy was systematically being dismantled by
unification.  But I was no longer a virgin.

Chapter Seven

	Before Unification of the Armed Services, Canada had an exchange
program with England.  As part of that program young sailors went to
England to be trained and serve with the Royal Navy.  I was sent to Whale
Island to perfect my trade in the finest gunnery school in the world.

	The first thing I was told was that I was to forget all the
colonial codswollop I had been taught .  I would be taught all over again,
from scratch, how things were properly done.  The second thing I was told
was to get a haircut.  Some things are the same in every Navy.

	I was called names, I doubled again for the first time in years,
and was pressed, polished and buffed into a prime example of a Whale Island
trained Naval Gunner.  I loved it.  I felt as if I had come home at last.
Hell, I even had a prime piece of Canadian manhood to drool over whenever I
felt the need for it.

	The students in the school were formed into "Terms", each named
after a British Admiral - mine was Collingwood.  Each term was in charge of
a Lieutenant, who was, in theory, our guide and mentor, and someone to
provide a shoulder to cry on when we needed one.

	Our Term Lieutenant was a Canadian, who, although he gloried in an
ancien regime string of names that began with Edouard and ended with du
something de something else, was actually from Westmount, and had not a
drop of French blood in him.  His family had come over with Wolfe in 1759,
and married into the English Canadian oligarchy.  He was, bi-lingual, as
could be expected, but his French however, was perfect, Parisian-accented
and not the quaint patois of his native province.  He in fact held native
Quebecker in total contempt - they were, as far as he was concerned,
semi-literate peasants and not worth his notice.  He considered himself, by
birth and schooling, to be an English Aristocrat and did everything he
could to enforce that appearance.

	He affected a drawling English accent, kept a white linen hanky
stuffed up the left sleeve of his uniform jacket, and wore a gold pinky
ring incised with his family's crest.  His uniforms were tailored by
Gieves, his suits by Poole.  He was so determinedly posh that his charges
accepted as gospel the rumor that he slept on silk sheets and wore
monogrammed underpants.

	Yet, for all his faults, he was no effete dandy. He was tall,
red-headed, and had a well-muscled body with a shapely, patrician face.  In
keeping with his education - Jesuit prep school and Dartmouth Royal Naval
College - and the mores of his class, sports played a very large part in
his life, and, when not on duty, led a huntin', fishin', shootin'
existence.

	He had class and style, and no what we called "side" at all.  If in
the morning he could be found standing in front of the King's Company
resplendent in starched shirt, well cut uniform, patent gaitors, polished
boots and a sword with a gilt hilt, in the afternoon he could be found on
the playing field, dressed in grubby shorts, singlet and boots, wallowing
in the muck and mire with the football First XI, or, in greased stained
work dress and battered gun boots, grunting, straining and cursing with the
Gun Run Team. If he made a mistake in his drill orders - which he did from
time to time quite deliberately just to keep up the side - he bought the
beer.  He even had a reputation as a "risky fella", which is posh speak for
a risque kind of guy.  He even had a nick name, which we all learned within
minutes of meeting him and which none of us dared call him.  At least to
his face.

	When he was in his final year at Dartmouth he succumbed to a
totally out of character Canadian fit of pique when he was told to climb
the College Mast for the umpteenth time for no apparent reason.  This he
did.  At the mast top was a small platform on which he was supposed to come
to attention, salute, and start back down.  Instead, once up there, he
stripped off all his laundry, and, as naked as a jaybird mooned and flashed
all those who passed by down below, two of the passers by being the
Captain's wife and teenage daughter. There he stayed for three hours, too
terrified of the Chief GI, who stood at the bottom of the mast hurling
maledictions and threats at him, during which time a lashing rain storm
blew up from the Solent.  Driven, finally, from his perch, he descended,
suffering what the Surgeon-Commander diagnosed as "a severe chilling of the
fundamentals".  His prank earned him a proper bollocking from the Chief GI,
7 days Confined to Quarters from the Captain, and the nick name "Blue
Balls" from his term mates.

	Because he was considered a man's man, and because he was
everything I thought a man should be, one fine evening I let him seduce me.

Chapter Eight

	The road to my seduction began quite innocuously with a request
from the Term Lieutenant that I accompany him to Scotland, where he had
been invited to do some grouse shooting.  He needed someone to "do" for
him.  Since he would be out on the grouse fields, or moors, or whatever the
fuck they were called, he needed a valet to unpack his things, lay out his
dinner clothes, and so on.  This was not a new thing on his part.  With his
connections he was usually invited somewhere every weekend, mostly up to
London, but every so often to one of the great country houses that dot the
English shires.  In fact, only the month before he had been over to
Broadlands, to visit with the Clan Chief of the Royal Navy, Lord Louis
Mountbatten, and the guy who had "done" for him had had a hell of a time.

	Most of these weekend parties put a great strain on the Staff
working in the houses - 20 guests plus the family was not at all unusual.
It was considered on form to bring one's own servant - valet or maid - who
could help out around the place during this busy time.  Anyone actually
willing to work in one of these houses was handled with kid gloves.  Their
employers went to great lengths not to upset their Staff.  An extra hand
was always welcome and, if you played your cards right and helped out, you
got a share of the tips - usually 20 pounds or so.  If there was a willing
maid, or footman, it was a bonus.

	As he was the Company Commander of the most elite unit at the
school - the King's Company (and yes, I had been seconded into the King's
Company.  As far as I was concerned all it meant was a hell of a lot more
work, but what the hell, it looked good on my Service Record) - he always
asked these men, in strict rotation.  I guess my number had come up.
Nobody made much of it.  After all, he'd done it before and he was only
doing what we expected of a proper English gentleman.

	Since it isn't done to say no to your Company CO, I of course
agreed.  Actually, it was a chance to get off of Whale Island, and out
Portsmouth, and see some of the country.  I was told to borrow a steward's
jacket - no rank badges - and acquire a pair of straight-legged uniform
trousers.  I was also handed a BRN Training Manual for Stewards and told to
swot up on the chapters on serving at table.

	The next morning I took a cab to the Term Lieutenant's house and
helped the cabby load enough luggage to last the average man a month.  When
we had the cab loaded he strolled from his house and got into the back
seat.  Something told me that I had better sit up front with the cabby.  I
did.

	Arrived at the train station, the cabby and I unloaded all the
luggage, and stowed in the baggage van, he strolled down the platform,
entered the First Class carriage, settled himself in his compartment and
opened a book to help him while away the fatigue of first class British
Rail travel.  I went to the Second Class coach, and settled myself onto a
lumpy seat, and opened my book, to help me while away the fatigue of second
class British Rail Travel.

	As we traveled north I swotted up and read my manual.  It was
really quite interesting and I deliberately forgot to return it.

	When we arrived at our destination - a small country station - we
were met by a car and driver.  While the driver and I unloaded the luggage
from the van, and loaded it into the boot of the car, he nonchalantly got
into the back seat of the car and read his bloody book.  Once again I sat
up front with the driver.

	When we arrived at the big house there was a footman waiting.  He
was a big strapping man of about 50, and he helped me unload the car and
hump everything up to the room assigned to the Term Lieutenant, who had
sauntered into the house without a by-your-leave to visit with his host and
hostess.

	The footman, whose name was Tom, took pity on me and helped me
unpack those fucking bags.  When he told me that they didn't dress for
dinner the first night I stared at him blankly.  I hadn't a clue what he
was taking about.

	"First time, is it?" he asked.

	I replied in the affirmative.

	"Not to worry, I'll give you a hand."  Which he did.  He also gave
a crash course in what the well-dressed gentleman wore for any given
occasion and how I was to lay out the proper clothing.  When we were
finished he took me down to the servants wing and showed me the tiny
cubicle where I would sleep.  When I asked where the bathroom was he
pointed down the hall.  When I returned from doing my business he asked me
if I would help him with "the other gentlemen."  For the next hour I helped
Tom lay out suits, blazers, and assorted jackets, and unpack cases and
bags.  Shortly after five we went down to the kitchen for our "tea".

	"You'll be needed soon," Tom said, glancing at his watch.  "They
won't eat until 8:00 but your lad will want his things ready.  Remember,
blazer, tie, flannels and tie-up shoes."

	I told him that I remembered. "What about me?  What do I wear?" I
asked.

	"Got a proper jacket?"  I assumed he meant the steward's coat.  I
told him yes, but I only had one and I didn't want to wear it if I didn't
have to.

	"Not to worry, cobber.  We'll have it all nice and clean in time
for dinner tomorrow."  With that he tucked into his meal.

	Finished eating, I hurried back to my room. I desperately wanted a
good wash.  I would have preferred a shower, but the bathroom held only a
tub, sink, and toilet.  No shower heads.  I shaved, used a washcloth as
best I could, changed into my waiter rig, and went upstairs.

	I laid out the clothes Tom had told to me to prepare.  For good
measure I put out clean socks, and clean underpants, which were Egyptian
cotton, and not monogrammed.  I unpacked his silver backed brushes, and
laid a fresh hanky on the dressing table.  I had just finished when the
Term Lieutenant walked into the room.

	He surveyed my work and nodded approvingly.

	"You've been busy, I see." he said as he removed his jacket.

	"Idle hands, sir." I said, taking the jacket and putting it on a
hanger.  I turned and stowed the jacket in the closet.  When I turned
around he was emptying his trouser pockets of change, and a key ring, which
he held up.

	"I'll need my mess kit for tomorrow night.  Miniatures, and the
gold links for the shirt.  They're in the box in my case.  This is the
key."  He placed the ring on the dressing table, undid his belt, took off
his trousers, and handed them to me.  I hung them up and once again turned
around.  I saw a perfect specimen of a naked male backside as he headed for
the bathroom. He might have looked good with his clothes on, but, by Jesus,
he looked better with them off.  He had very shapely, muscled legs, covered
from ankle to butt in short, dark red hair.  His ass, very well formed, was
hairless.

	I heard him turn on the shower.  I busied myself in finding his
shoes and giving them a quick buffing with a cloth I found.  He had left
the door open and I could hear him humming as he showered.  I couldn't see
much for all the steam.  Like all sailors, he liked his showers hot.  And
like all sailors his shower was short.  You learn very quickly never to
waste water, no matter where you are.

	After about five minutes he came back into the room, toweling his
hair dry, not wearing a robe.  One look and I popped a boner. Fortunately
his head was covered by the towel.

	He was a brother of the ring, not too big, but certainly not small.
His balls were average, and hung quite low, thanks to the heat of his
shower.  His pubic hair, quite a lot of it, really, was the same color as
the hair on his head.  He had tiny nipples centered in light brown
aureoles, surround by bright red, wispy curls of hair, which traveled
across his chest and met in a thin thicket in his breastbone.

	"Pour me a drink, will you?" he asked as he finished drying his
hair.  "Whiskey, just a little water."

	I hurried to the drinks tray and poured his drink, taking the
opportunity to make a quick adjustment.  I thanked God my jacket covered
the bulge in my pants.

	"When you've done that, you had better get on down to the dining
room." He said over his shoulder.  "They'll be looking for you."

	"Aye, aye, Sir." I said.  "I've poured your drink."  With that I
hurried from the room and went downstairs.

	Since I had never served a dinner before, I was relegated to
pouring the wine that accompanied each course. I spent most of my time off
to the side, bottle in hand, waiting to top up the glasses as needed,
watching every move the more experienced footmen made.

	When dinner was over the diners retired to the drawing room for
music and games.  I helped clear up the table, and with the washing up.  We
finished about ten.  I joined the other footmen in a beer and a chat, and
then, I suppose it was around eleven, took my leave.

	I needed to lay out his nibs' clothing for the morning.  I also
desperately needed a shower.  I nipped into my room, grabbed a clean pair
of shorts, some socks, and a tee shirt.  From past experience Tom had told
me that the fun and games in the drawing room would go on until all hours,
so I figured that I could grab a quick shower in the Term Lieutenant's
bathroom, lay out his clothes and be in bed before midnight.

	I laid out his tweeds, stout boots, and a thick shirt.  I put three
ties for him to choose from beside his shirt, I figured he could look after
his own drawers and socks.  Then I headed for the shower.

	I stripped off, turned on the water and stepped in.  It was heaven.
The water pulsed and assaulted my body, washing away the fatigue and strain
of the day.  There was a bar of scented soap in the dish, so I soaped up,
scrubbing myself and, to tell the truth, doing a number on my balls and
dick.  I figured since I was already in the shower, I could take care of my
other problem.  I hadn't beat off in more than a week, and thought, what
the hell, I need it, so I'll do it.

	I slowly stroked myself and my cock rose stiff and thick.  The soap
was a great lubricant, and I was so wrapped up in beating myself off I was
off in another world when suddenly I felt two hands reach around and rub my
hard nipples.  I also felt something hard nestled in my butt crack.  I felt
someone nuzzling my neck.  Fuck, I thought, this feels great.  GREAT?
. . .What the fuck. . .

	I realized I was not alone.  I turned quickly, my dick shrinking.
Standing in front of me, his dick stiff, bedewed with droplets of shower
water, was my TERM LIEUTENANT. I fucking near fainted.  My knees buckled
and if he hadn't caught me, I would have fallen.  He lifted me upright and
reached down and fingered the knob of my soft dick.

	"Heard the shower.  Thought I'd join you.  Hope you don't mind."
He said.  He was smiling, fingering my dick head with one hand, and
stroking his not unimpressive hard-on with the other.

	"I . . .really don't. . .uh, mind." I stammered.

	"Sir." he corrected.  He his fingers circled my cock and it began
to stiffen.

	"Sir", I replied and kissed him.  His lips opened and our tongues
met.  He moved as close as he could to me and our dicks rubbed together.  I
felt him reach around and finger my butt hole.  His hand moved and my
cheeks got a good rubbing.  His touch on my body was electrifying.  I held
him close to me.

	Finally we parted.  He caressed my face and then knelt down.  He
took me into his mouth, sucking gently, working his way down the shaft.  I
jerked involuntarily at the feel of his warm, moist mouth massaging my
boner.  I'm not normally a groaner, but he made me groan.  I knew that if
he didn't stop he'd very soon get a week's worth of built up cum.
Thankfully he released me and began kissing my balls, my groin, and then
worked his way around my hips to my ass.  He kissed and sucked my cheeks,
then, after he had worked his way behind me, spread my cheeks and licked my
puckered hole.  I shuddered with pleasure and bent forward.  His tongue
rimmed me with rapid movements, then entered my hole.  He tongue fucked me
and his mouth sucked noisily.  This alone nearly brought me over the edge.
When he paused for breath I turned and presented my dick to him.  He kissed
the piss hole and licked the pre-cum oozing from it.

	As the hot water pummeled my back his tongue licked and washed my
mushroomed head.  He took everything I had in his mouth and my shaft
disappeared down his throat.  His head slowly bobbed up and down, and his
lips and tongue found every nerve ending under my head and down my shaft.
The sensations I felt were so intense I moaned softly.  His mouth left my
dick and he began to lick and kiss my balls.  He teased my large ovals with
his tongue, then took one, then the other in his mouth.  I felt his hand
move under my balls and up to my puckered hole.  He moved his finger slowly
over and around my aching hole.  Then he slowly inserted his finger, slowly
massaging me.  I just about lost it as the combination of getting my balls
sucked and my asshole finger-fucked sent an electric shock of pleasure
surging through my body.  He moved and wiggled his finger deep inside me,
and I quivered with ecstasy.

	He returned to my dick, sucking the top of my now extremely
sensitive head.  He sucked on the most tender part of a circumcised male,
the small bit of scar tissue just under the rising dome where it joined the
shaft.  He teased and rolled my balls in his hand as his mouth took the
upper third of my dick fully.  I could feel my balls tighten, and a feeling
of intense pleasure began to fill by body.  My dick was throbbing as he
continued to suck, and I couldn't hold back.

	". . .cuming, I'm cuming," I warned him.  I could feel his hot
breath on the lower part of my dick as he sucked faster.  His finger moved
in and out of my asshole, keeping pace with his sucking.  My orgasm coursed
through my body and erupted.  A flood of cum blasted from my dick and into
his mouth.  Blast after blast pulsed from my dick and he swallowed eagerly.
He continued to suck on me even when I had no more to give.  My dick head
was so sensitive from his mouth working on it I had to pull away.  My knees
buckled and I slid down and sat with my back against the wall, mouth open,
gasping for breath, my eyes closed as I my slowly shrinking dick continued
to tingle and spasm from the pleasure he had given me.

	The water stopped running and I opened my eyes.  Directly in front
of me was his 7 inches of rigid, magnificent meat, which rose from a small
thicket of red, curly pubic hair, which curved and narrowed into a thin
line ending just under his navel.  His dick had thickened and turned a dark
pinkish rose above his ring line.  His balls had tightened against his
body.  I reached out and my hand encircled him.  I pulled him towards me
and my lips encircled his dick head.  My tongue moved slowly over the
smooth, hot skin of it.  With my other hand I reached up and kneaded and
stroked his sac, which was so tight his balls had all but disappeared into
his crotch.  I began to slowly pump and suck him and he began to throb in
my mouth.  His hands grasped my head and he tried to push his dick down my
throat.  I resisted and he backed off.  I was sucking a wonderful tasting
dick, and I wanted to savor all of it.  I left his balls and, using the
side of my hand I stroked and rubbed his asshole.  He squatted slightly, to
give me more room.

	He was breathing heavily and a slow moan rose from his throat,
rising in tone as his dick thickened, and lengthened slightly.

	"Sweet Jesus." he exclaimed as his dick pulsed and a massive load
of cum blasted into my mouth.

	"Sweet, sweet Jesus!" he moaned as another, then another load pulse
into my eager mouth.

	I swallowed and swallowed, marveling at the load of cum his balls
had produced.

	I sucked and licked him clean and let him go.  He sat down so
abruptly I thought he might have hurt himself.  He hadn't.  He shook his
head vigorously, and looked at me, his eyes shining.

	"I thought I gave good head." he breathed. "But you, my lad, have a
gift."  He reached down and held my semi- hard dick in his hand, and rubbed
his thumb over the head.

	I returned the favor.

	I like this." he said. "The most beautiful part of a man is a
circumcised dick."

	The thought of Andrew's purple-colored cock flashed through my mind
and I shuddered.

	I stroked his now stiffened dick and wiped a small drop of pre-cum
from his piss hole.  "Your's is beautiful."

	He smiled at my adoration of his body, took my hand, and led me out
of the tub and into the bedroom.

	We lay on the bed, holding one another and kissing passionately.
Our hips ground together, our dicks rubbing and scraping together.  He took
both our dicks in his hand and pumped them slowly. The feel of his cock and
hand sent a thrill of overwhelming pleasure through me.

	He kissed my eyes, my mouth, my neck, and began licking his way
down my body, pausing to suck my nipples and rim my navel.  He snuffled
down the thin line of hair from my navel to my thick bush of public hair,
breathing deeply, moaning at my sent.  He kissed my cock, then my balls,
licking his way around and over me.  He moved to the end of the bed and
positioned himself between my legs. He reached down under my knees and
pushed my legs back.  I knew what was coming and without him having to ask
I raised my hips as high as I could.

	He bent his head and I felt the incredible sensation of his tongue
probing and sliding into my asshole and setting the nerve endings just
inside afire with incredible pleasure.  His tongue slid in and out, and
then around.  My cock began pulsing and I was afraid I was going to blast
all over myself when he withdrew. I heard him searching in his case, and
then felt the cool, oily jelly as he applied it around and inside my
fuck-hole with his finger.

	He positioned himself and with his hand guided his raging cock and
I felt his smooth head against my puckered hole.

	"Your first time? He asked gently.

	I nodded.

	He began to guide me through the love act.  "Just relax your
muscles when I go in, then push down when I ease it in, ok?"

	He pushed firmly, but very slowly, a little bit at a time.  The
pain was the worst I had ever experienced and I wanted to cry out for him
to stop.  I lay with my head back, breathing heavily.

	When he was about halfway in he stopped.  "Just relax and it will
go away.  I'm almost there."

	I relaxed my ass muscles and the pain began to subside, a glowing,
warm, pleasure replacing it.  He began to push slowly and I pushed back.
The pleasure I felt as his thickened cock continued its course swirled and
eddied through my body.

	He stopped pushing and I opened my eyes.  He was staring down at my
me, a look of ecstasy slightly contorting his face.  He was breathing in
short gasps.  He was holding back with some effort.

	"I'm all the way in.  You ok?"

	I nodded.  The pain had subsided as my channel became accustomed to
his length and thickness.  I tightened in pleasure, pressing and clamping
on his engorged muscle.  I swear I could feel the shape of him, from the
smooth, well defined glans to the thick base.  He groaned and I released
him.

	He leaned down and sucked on my neck and his wet tongue probed my
ear.

	Very slowly he moved his hips and slowly pulled his cock about half
way out, then pushed forward.  I felt the flame-colored, thick bush of his
pubic hair brush against the skin of my filled hole.  He began pumping with
long, slow strokes.  I became overwhelmed with lust, totally mesmerized at
the fusion of our bodies.  I wrapped my arms around his neck and my legs
around his waist. He pulled out until only his round head was inside of me,
then pushed in again, totally filling me.

	My dick pulsed and jerked as the soft hair and skin of his body
brushed against the underside of it.

	He was moaning and groaning his lust and pleasure, and dripping
sweat onto my chest.  Several times he pulled all the way out until just
the top of his mushroom rested against my hairless hole, then thrust back
in.

	His voice came in a harsh whisper. "Oh, aah, fuck, fuck. . .Fuck
. . .AAH. . . Sweet Je. . .SUS . . ."

	He pumped his slippery dick faster and faster.  I was getting close
to the edge, his sweat soaked stomach brushing back and forth against my
dick had me close to a ball clanging orgasm.

	I was over come with delirious passion, pushing my mouth against
his.  Our tongues joined and probed each other.  I was very close and
tightened my arms and legs.

	"It's . . .I'm cuming . . ." he moaned.  His hips pumped quickly,
then he thrust savagely forward and I felt cock explode a torrent of hot
cum deep into my body.  He pumped and pumped, sending a huge stream into
me.  I couldn't hold back and I crashed over the edge, sending a thick
stream onto my chest.  He moaned and buried his head in my neck again.  He
continued to pump in short, quick strokes, each stroke shorter than the
other, until his balls had emptied.  He lay on me, breathing in heavy
gasps, sucking and licking my neck.

	I felt his dick shrinking and he pulled back, and I felt him leave
me, and his soft dick rested against my hole. He lay on me for a few
moments, catching his breath, then moved and silently knelt between my legs
He reached over and used his finger to wipe the blob of cum off my chest.
He raised his finger to his lips and sucked greedily.  I looked at his now
soft cock and saw that his bush of hair was bedewed with small drops of my
cum.  I pulled myself up, rolled to one side, then sat on my knees.  I
leaned forward and snuffled and licked his pubic hair, cleaning him.  His
dick began to lengthen as I licked and kissed his rod clean.  For a while
he let me enjoy myself.  He finally gently pulled me away, bent down, and
kissed me.

	"We have to stop now." he said quietly.  "Let's clean up, shall
we."

	"Will we . . ." I asked tentatively.

	He nodded vigorously.  "As surely as the sun will rise tomorrow.
Now go and shower."

	The next morning Tom shook me awake at the crack of dawn.  I had
had barely two hours sleep and felt like shit.  My dick was sore and my
balls felt drained.  Absent shower facilities, I settled for a stoker
shower - I washed my face and chest, then scrubbed my armpits and crotch.
I put on fresh drawers and dug out a clean, starched, gun shirt.  At least
I looked presentable, although I felt grubby.

	Last night had been wonderful.  I suppose I was still aglow with
the sex.  I had received, and given, my first blowjob.  My ass was no
longer cherry and I had been fucked for the first time. The butt fucking
was ok, and I could handle it.  I realized, however, that I loved sucking
his cock.  I ran my tongue around my mouth, imagining that I could still
taste him.  I was looking forward to future meetings with him.

	I carried his morning tea tray up to his room, knocked lightly on
the door and entered.  I put the tray on the table and opened the curtains,
filling the room with pale morning light.

	He was lying in bed, on his side, his back to me.  He had pulled
the covers half off of himself and his bare ass was exposed.  I resisted
the urge to stroke it and shook him gently by the shoulder.

	"Time to get up, Sir.  The guns will be off shortly."

	He groaned, rolled over, wiped the sleep from his eyes and thanked
me.  He sat up and stretched.

	"I'll need you to help me dress before dinner.  Until then you
might want to help out around the place."  He reached for the cup of coffee
I had poured for him.  He sipped it, and then went on instructing me as to
his needs: a bath prepared for him when he came in from the shoot, a
complete change for tea, then his dinner clothes.  He was quite matter of
fact and made absolutely no mention of the night before.  It was as if
nothing had happened.  Somehow I knew that last night was last night.
Today was today and even though we had fucked each other silly, we both had
a role to play.  I was the Leading Seaman, he was the Lieutenant.  This
would be our pattern every morning after the night before.

Chapter Nine

	I spent the rest of the day making myself useful.  I polished
shoes, pressed trousers, and helped Tom and Derek, the second footman, set
the dining room table, a long, polished piece of wood that was eventually
laden with flowers, crystal, silver and china.  It was a long, tedious, and
very meticulous process, and we had barely finished before I had to nip
upstairs and run the bath the Term Lieutenant had asked for.

	At 4 the guns came in and went to their rooms to bathe and dress
for tea.  The Term Lieutenant greeted me and chattered away about the bag
while he undressed.  He never mentioned the night before, though I think he
lingered a bit.  I was, admittedly, quite obvious in my admiration of his
nakedness.

	While he splashed away in the bath I cleared away his shooting
clothes, and laid out fresh underpants, clean socks, and the clothes he was
to wear at tea.  When I had done that I poured a drink for him.

	When he entered the bedroom he had a towel draped around his neck
and a raging hard-on.  He was either very excited or had been practicing in
the bath, for his ball sac was tight against his groin. He smiled
invitingly.  I knelt down, licked the underside of his rosy mushroomed
head, and then took him in my mouth.  Within two or three minutes he had a
crashing orgasm. He pulled my head forward, and thrust his hips, forcing
his dick to the back of my throat, pumping a stream of warm, sweet cum into
me.  With each jet of cum his body spasmed and he had to bite his lip to
stifle his cum-cry.

	I continued to suck after he had finally finished and he pulled
himself away, laughing quietly.

	"Enough," he commanded.  "I have to dress."  He moved away, and,
still breathing heavily, he began to dress.  The grin on his face told me
that I had satisfied him.

	He pulled his shorts on, then reached over and stroked my face.
"Run along, you have to get ready for dinner." He kissed me tenderly.  "
And I do believe I shall want you afterwards."

	I was happy to oblige.

	After tea had been served he returned to his bedroom where I was
waiting for him.  I had polished his Wellingtons to a mirror finish and was
laying out his mess kit as he entered the room.  He picked up one of the
boots and looked at it.

	"Is there nothing you can't do well?" he asked with a grin.

	"Not much." I said with a total lack of modesty.

	He chuckled and undressed.  For some reason I had no desire to
repeat our pre-tea actions.  I knew that he wanted to look great, and I,
strangely, wanted the same thing.

	As he showered I found his case and brought out his studs and
miniature medals.  When he came out of the bathroom I was ready for him and
handed him his shorts and a thick, plain, white tee shirt.  I handed him
his doubled starched, plain front, shirt and we began the lengthy process
of dressing him.

	A Naval mess kit is a beautiful thing, but complicated.  Everything
that isn't starched is pressed to knife edge crispness.  The shirt is not
fitted with a collar, so one is attached with gold studs.  There are to
buttons on the plain front shirt (no pleats - only Chief Stewards and
American officers wear pleated shirts) so more studs, always plain gold,
hold it together.  The waistcoat also has no bottons, which are fitted with
grommets and looped into the pre-sewn holes. The trousers are held up by
suspenders, which are buttoned to them, not clamped.  Everything is stiff,
and sometimes difficult to fit together.  The whole process is less like
dressing a man and more like working on a building site.  The result,
however, is worth it.

	There is nothing that sets of a well-built male's body than a Naval
Mess Kit, with its bum freezer jacket, tight, butt hugging gold-laced
trousers, white, gold-button waistcoat, black, hand-tied bow tie, and
mirror polished boots.  On the right body the effect is stunningly
magnificent.

	I pinned his miniatures to the lapel of his jacket. I wiped
imaginary pieces of lint from the two gold rings and circle, the marks of
his rank, on each of his jacket sleeves, then stepped back to admire our
handiwork.  He looked glorious, with his still slightly damp, dark red
hair, clean, pink complexion, flashing eyes and broad chest.  I was almost
overwhelmed with the sight of him.  He was a stunning, magnificent man.

	I grinned and nodded approvingly.  He looked over his shoulder and
contemplated the smooth, perfect curve of his butt under the tight fabric
of his trousers.

	"Not bad, huh?" he asked.

	I cocked my head and nodded my agreement.  "Not bad at all."  I
reached down and patted his smooth, flat crotch.

	He gently pushed my hand away.  "Behave, wanton."  He cupped my
chin and gently kissed me, smiled, and left the room.

	It took all my self control to get through serving dinner.  My
jacket had been washed and starched and ironed to perfection.  I had shaved
and Derek had given me a quick trim, so all in all I looked pretty good.
Knowing my limitations, Tom allowed me to serve the fish, pour the wine,
then serve the pudding.  I managed not to make a fool of myself, which was
more difficult.  Every time I served the Term Lieutenant, or poured him
some wine, I could smell the sweet, clean, slightly starchy smell of him,
and my dick quivered. I didn't dare think of the taste of his cock.  Still,
I managed, and dinner finally ended.

	Since there was no butler (he had quit in a huff the month before)
Tom and Derek did duty in the drawing room, serving drinks and such.  I was
relegated to the kitchen to help with the washing up.  Cook, and two
helpers, both well endowed country girls hired for the night, decided to
take the mickey out of me.  When I took off my jacket Cook commented on my
"manly chest".  One of the girls opined that I had a very nice bum.  As the
Cook cackled merrily the other one wondered aloud what else I had that was
very nice. I knew that they were just having a bit of fun at my expense so
I went along with the joke.  I gave as good as I got, and I was actually
having a hell of a good time when Tom came in, grumbling about some people
not pulling their weight while others had to work.  I took the hint, pulled
on my jacket, goosed the Cook and took off running as she reached for a
large cleaver.

	It was a long night.  I served drinks, emptied ashtrays, and
generally made myself useful.  The Term Lieutenant was in his element. He
was charming, urbane, and very sophisticated.  I saw several of the ladies
- and one of the men - cast admiring glances his way.  His hostess, an old
friend I later learned, conned him into playing the piano.  He was very
good, and played quite a few pieces - all classical.

	At one Derek wheeled in a large table on which were saucers and
cups, a huge silver coffee urn, and several plates of small, sweet cakes.
This I learned was the signal that the party was over.  Derek poured and
began passing the coffee.  Tom picked up a plate of cakes and whispered to
me to get off as I would no doubt be wanted shortly.

	I went upstairs and into his room, took off my jacket, poured a
drink and settled into the armchair, sipping and waiting for him to return.
Before very long he entered the room.  I stood up and went to him.

	He smiled and kissed me and then began undressing.  I help him off
with his jacket and waistcoat.  He reached over and pulled my gun shirt
from my pants and while I was taking the studs out of his shirt he reached
under my shirt and massaged and tweaked my nipples.  He pressed against me
and I could feel his hard-on bulging under the fabric.  When I had his
shirt and undershirt off he pulled my gun shirt over my head and began to
kiss and suck me.  I unbuttoned his pants and found his hard-on poking out
of the slit in his shorts.  I cupped and fondled his balls through the
fabric and then thumbed his dick head.  He was slick with pre-cum and his
shorts were wet from it.  He unbuttoned me and my pants fell to the floor.
My dick was throbbing under my boxers.  He felt me and then put his hand
down my shorts and pulled my dick up, so that just the head was poking over
the waistband.  He bent down and began to suck just my smooth, domed head.
Then he stood up and pulled me tight against him.  He wrapped his arms
around me and our hard cocks touch and ground together.  I felt his hot,
hard flesh against mine.  I reached down and fisted both our dicks.  His
lips touched mine and we tongued and sucked as I pumped our dicks.  A low
growling came from his throat as he massaged my back, up to my neck and
then down to my ass.  His hands began pushing my shorts down so I stepped
back, pushed them all the way down and stepped out of the pile of clothes
at my ankles, then reached over and did the same for him.

	Naked , we moved to the bed and lay down.  I molded my body to his
and we began sucking and fondling every part of each others bodies.  His
tongue and hands found places on my body that I never knew existed and
moaned and writhed with excruciating pleasure.  Both our dicks were leaking
pre-cum which I used to lubricate his throbbing meat, slowly stroking him.

	He pulled away and began to kiss his way down my body.  He took my
left tit in his mouth, and I writhed and bucked as he sucked it, then the
other.  With his tongue he slowly worked his way down my chest to my
stomach, then my bush, then my cock.  He tongued the head of my dick,
licking the pre-cum then ran his tongue along his lips, tasting it.  He
worked his way down my throbbing shaft to my balls, licking and kissing
them.  They tightened at the touch of his lips.  He sucked one ball, then
the other, then took both huge eggs into his mouth.  I could feel his
breath on the underside of my dick and I reached down and began to pump it.
The head was slick with pre-cum and I slowly spread it down, until my shaft
and head were slick with it.  Waves of pleasure coursed through me as I
slowly stroked my dick to a thick, pulsing, iron hard rod.

	He loosed my balls and straddled my waist.  He raised his hips and
slowly lowered his brown, puckered hole to meet my mushroomed head.  He
reached around and guided me into him.  I felt my domed head probe his
hole, then enter.  I thrust slightly and every inch of me was in his tight,
moist, warm fuck tunnel.  My balls bounced as he began moving his well
muscled legs, his hips moving up, then down, then up, drawing my dick
almost out of his hole, then sliding it deliciously back in.  His balls
were resting on my stomach, his cock, stiff and leaking pre-cum, pointing
at me like an arrow.  I reached down and lubricated him.  My fingers found
his shaft, my thumb his mushroom.  I wanked him in time with his movements
and felt his balls tighten against my skin.  His eyes were closed, his brow
covered in sweat.  He was breathing heavily through his nose. The tip of
his tongue peeked out of his closed lips.  He was moaning with the heft of
my dick in him.  He began to move faster and tensed his muscles, tightening
on my dick.  He groaned and his dick jerked in my hand.  He was very close.
I pumped him and he threw his head back.

	"Oh, yes," he groaned. "Oh yes, fuck . . . fuck me . . .fuck
me. . ."  I thrust my hips upward, very close to erupting.  "Oh Jesus,
YES. . .YES . . ."

	His pulsed in my hand and a massive glob of creamy man juice blew
out and spattered across my chest.  I pumped faster and another load shot
out, hitting me in the face.  I felt the massive pain/pleasure of my orgasm
rising in my balls and I let loose a small yelp as my dick thickened,
jerked and shot load after load of my cum into his bowels.  As he finished
shooting he collapsed onto my chest, writhing with pleasure, spreading his
warm cum across his chest and stomach.  He sucked madly on my neck and
shoulders.  My dick softened and plopped out of his ass.  He moved down
until his dick and balls were resting on mine.  He laid there, with his
head on my chest, slowly licking his own cum off of me.  His dick was warm,
still aglow with our sex.  He sighed heavily, got off me and went into the
bathroom.

	I heard the water running, and then he returned with a warm, wet
towel in his hands.  He slowly, with great tenderness, wiped me clean.  I
reached for the towel, wanting to do the same for him.  He shook his head
no, wiped away the evidence of our sex, and dropped the towel on the floor.

	He lay beside me, on his side, slowly stroking my face.

	"Do not fall in love with me, Young Canada.  I'm not worth it."  He
slowly ran his finger along my lips. "I'm much too much a bastard.  I like
my young men."

	I turned my head and looked at him.  He was quite calm, smiling
gently.  I decided to tell him the truth.

	I told him that I admired him, that he had a great body, and the
sex was beyond belief.  I didn't love him, and I had no intention of
falling in love with him.

	"I don't want any ties.  When we're done, we're done." I continued.
I propped myself on my elbow and took his face in my hand.

	"You're a great lay.  You're also an officer.  I'm not and never
will be." I shrugged.  "Different worlds.  You're an aristocrat.  I'm not."
I kissed him.  "Too many differences.  Besides . . ." I told him about my
friend in CORNWALLIS.

	He listened patiently. When I was finished he moved and assumed the
classic position. He kissed the end of my soft dick.  "Silly fucker doesn't
know what's good for him." he said and took my dick in his mouth.

	Thank Christ we could sleep late the next morning.  Attendance at
Church was optional and anyway after lunch we were expected to be gone.  I
crawled out of bed, and groped for my shorts.  Fuck, I never sleep raw, and
here I am balls to the breeze.  I sat down on the bed abruptly, the memory
of the past night flooding back to me.  I groaned, partly in pain, partly
in pleasure.  My balls were sore and my cock raw. I was feeling pain in
places where no Christian should ever feel pain.

	I dressed and, after visiting the head wandered into the kitchen
for a cup of something.  Cook was slamming around, preparing the buffet the
churchgoers would eat when they returned.  She told me that the Term
Lieutenant was off to Church and that the car was ordered for noon.  I
finished my coffee, stole two pieces of ham, and went upstairs, where I
packed for him, then carried the bags down to the front door.  I returned
to my room, changed into my traveling rig, packed my own bag and left.

	I hung around the kitchen, cadging food, and then, a little before
noon, left the house and walked around to the front.  The car was
waiting. Within minutes the front door opened and the Term Lieutenant
walked out and into the car.

	We traveled back to Portsmouth as we had traveled from it.  He was
in First, I was in Second, and I expected nothing more.

Chapter Ten

	Our relationship, such as it was, lurched along.  I was immersed in
my courses, and he his other interests. We met as often as we could, always
away from the school.  Mind, getting together was an exercise in itself.
If he wanted me to visit him, asking me was easy enough - hell we were
together every day, in class, or on the Drill Field.  Getting off Whale
Island was easy enough since my evenings were free and no one kept track of
us.  However, since he lived in a small villa set in a large garden in
Southsea, and I didn't have a car, I had to take the bus.  I had to travel
in civvies, which meant keeping a locker in the railway station and
changing in the gents.  Then I had to catch the bus, which was usually
loaded to the gunwales with dockyard mateys, housewives, and, that most
obnoxious of creatures, workingclass English school- children. When I got
to the end of the line I had to walk half way to fucking Shangri-La before
I finally got to his house. Mind, what happened after I got there made it
all worthwhile.  The illusion was sort of ruined though when he got all
testy about paying my cab fare back into town.

	He was as tight as a frog's arsehole when it came to parting with a
buck.  He'd shell out for his own pleasure quick enough - he spent more on
clothes than I made in a year.  Yet let me put the bite on him for ten bob
to take a cab back to the Island and he carry on like a whore done out of
her trick money. In the three months we carried on together he never laid
out a penny more than he had to.  He complained that I dressed like a
navvy, yet never lashed out for so much as a hanky.  When we were in his
house, and I spent just about every weekend with him, we usually wore
nothing but our shorts.  This set him off on a lecture about my "shocking
taste in undies."  I promptly went out and bought the loudest pair I could
find - all reds, and greens, yellows.  They were terrible, but it shut him
up and I resumed wearing my clean, but drab, white boxers.

	I realize, now, at this distance of time, that he was merely a
product of his class and upbringing.  He had been raised into certain
beliefs and opinions and would never change.  He was a racist, as were many
of the English Aristocracy and the well-monied Canadian oligarchy.  For him
"all things bright and beautiful" meant white, and "all things wise and
wonderful" meant Anglo Saxon.  Blacks, if he thought of them at all, were
relegated to category of "barely human", of no consideration.  Orientals,
the Chinese in particular, had little purpose in life, except for the women
"to cook and wash the floors"and the teenage boys "to service their white
betters when needed".  He was an anti-Semite, and the Jews were determined
to destroy the "white race".  It did no good for me to point out, when he
was in the middle of one of his Josef Goebbels routines that, as he was
circumcised, in certain quarters he might be thought a Jew.  He thundered
that his ancestors had been "circumcising their male children a hundred
years before the first Hebrew foreskin was separated from its rightful
owner", and besides, I didn't know what I was talking about.  He even,
every so often, took a swipe at me, bemoaning my lack of breeding and
"family", reminding me that his ancestors "were building cathedrals" while
mine were "prancing about the Black Forest wearing feathers and furs with
nothing on their minds but rape".  I might be sucking his dick but I was
till a peasant and from time to time had to be put in my place.  Since he
was sucking my dick, and doing a damn good job of it, I put up with his
nonsense.

	For all his faults, I was fond of him.  I didn't love him, but I
enjoyed his company and in his own way he taught me quite a bit about
living a gay life in a straight world.  I new that I must never talk about
gays, not ever, to anyone.  To the straight world, gays were outcasts and
so long as no one mentioned the subject, they would continue in ignorance
thinking that we did not exist.  I knew enough not to make the first move,
ever.  He taught me that there were two of me - the man I was at night and
the man I had to be in the morning.  He was an prime example of this.  At
night, when we were together, he was a gay man having sex.  In the morning
he was a Naval Lieutenant.  At night we were lovers.  In the morning I was
just another student, to be treated like any other student.  Our intimacies
could not and would not be mentioned outside of his house.  I was not to
expect, receive, or give, preferential treatment just because we were
lovers.  I was never, by thought, word, or deed, to intimate that I was one
of "them".  Talking queer was acceptable because it was acceptable in a
closed male society - in particular the military.  Overly familiar gestures
were not.  It was better to let the straights pat your fanny or slap you
with a towel - to them it was just good, clean, fun between guys.  The key
was to conform in every way to what the straight world thought its men
should be.  Follow the rules, and you just might survive.

	Eventually my course ended and it was time for me to leave.  The
class picture was taken, all of us buffed and polished, staring manfully
into the lens.  The class party had been held.  My bags were packed and
ready.  My flight home was booked. The only thing left to do was to say
goodbye to him.

	I walked `round to his office.  He was sitting at his desk,
signing some very official looking papers.  He looked up when I knocked and
walked in.

	"Just come to say goodbye, Sir." I said, putting out my hand.  "And
to say thanks for everything."

	He stood up and shook my hand.  "Good luck to you, then." he said.
He sat down and returned to his papers.

	I turned to leave when his voice stopped me.  I turned back to look
at him.

	His face was expressionless.  "Survive."

	And so it ended.  No names. No pack drill.  A clean slate.

Chapter Eleven

	I returned to Canada and was immediately assigned to the Fleet
Gunnery School, where I taught the new Gunners and behaved exactly as they
expected me to behave towards them. When I had to be I was a proper prick
of a G.I., but I knew my stuff and usually managed to make them laugh, at
me, at themselves, and at the Navy, which wasn't the Navy anymore.

	Unification was in full swing, and out went the old uniforms and
traditions.  We were all one big Armed Force, with new uniforms - green,
with plastic gold-colored buttons.  We had new ranks - Army - and I was now
a Corporal.  We kept the old rules, however, and just being gay was still a
crime.  You didn't even have to do anything. A fist book of nude males was
enough to get you investigated.  Even a hint of suspicion meant trouble.

	I avoided the obvious pitfalls and temptations.  Halifax had a
small gay population.  The smart ones kept their heads down and kept to
themselves.  There was a gay bar, but the Halifax police and the MP's kept
a tight and careful watch over it.  There wasn't a baths in town, so that
hunting ground was out.  Not that I hunted.  I didn't have to.

	If I was discreet - and I was - there was sex to be had.  Just
because the Navy said it was so, it didn't mean that it was so.  There were
gays in the Navy, to be sure.  Like me, they lived a double life and, like
me, went to great lengths to prove their straightness.  There was no gay
underground, no secret meetings of like thinking guys.  We were just there,
and, from time to time, our paths crossed.  When they did, we had sex.  Not
often, not enough.  When I couldn't stand it anymore I took some leave and
flew to Toronto.  There were bath houses there, full of young men willing
to give me what I wanted.  I always came back refreshed and ready for bear.

	It occurred to me one day that the main purpose in keeping a
standing Army, or Navy, was to defend the country.  Defending the country
meant fighting in a war.  What better, and nobler, way to prove your
manhood than to go to war.  The only problem was, there was no war.
Canadians hadn't fired a shot in anger since 1952 (and wouldn't until the
Gulf War).  There was Vietnam, and Canadians were fighting in Nam - as
American soldiers.  I had no objection to going to war.  I did object to
being shot at and wasn't all that keen about it.  I had all but given up
further proving my manhood when along came the Paris Peace Accords, and
Canada was asked to provide observers to ensure that all sides kept to the
rules.  That no one did is a matter of record.  The United States pulled
out, and the VC, PRA and ARVN kept shooting at each other.  To my way of
thinking it was just dangerous enough for the UN observers to qualify as a
war. I opened my big mouth and then next thing I knew I was sitting in the
dining room of the International Hotel having dinner with the man I called
The Hungarian.

	As we ate we played by the rules.  We didn't talk about sex.  We
didn't give any indication that we both wanted sex.  We chatted about the
war.  We chatted about his job.  We chatted about Gabrielle.  Finally
dinner ended and he asked me up to his room for a nightcap.  I mentioned
the curfew.

	"There's an extra bed in my room, or the couch. . ." he offered.

	I could accept the offer or leave, and return to my own quarters.
If I accepted the offer, and missed curfew, I still had the option of not
sleeping with him.  I wasn't desperate - yet - and he intrigued me, so I
accepted.

	He had a large suite just below the now closed roof garden bar.
There was a large balcony and we sat outside, watching the light show as
the ARVN shelled the VC somewhere in the countryside out by Tan Son Nhut.
The night was warm and very humid, and I was sweating heavily.  He seemed
as cool as the iced vodka and tonic he was drinking, but then he had been
in-country a long time.  We avoided talking about his role in what was
going on, and mine.  We weren't spies, of course, but he was technically
still a belligerent. I was a neutral, of course, but suspected of working
for the other side so it was best not to talk about the war.

	The siren sounded and I knew that it was too late too leave the
hotel.  He leaned over and put his hand on my thigh, just close enough to
my crotch so that I got the message.

	"Looks like you're stuck here for the night."

	I looked at his hand, but didn't move it away.  "Looks like." I
agreed.

	He took his hand from my thigh, got up, went inside, and returned
with fresh drinks.  I took the drink and raised it towards him.

	"You don't have to get me drunk, you know."

	He shrugged.  "You in the mood?" His pants had tented out, but not
too much.  At least, I thought, he's not a horse.  He was definitely in the
mood.

	We went inside.  It was like walking from an oven into a
refrigerator.  We began stripping.  He took off his soaking shirt.  His
chest was magnificent, with well defined pecs and a flat stomach.  His
chest hair was very white, a heavy scattering of very curly hair crossing
his chest.  He dropped his pants.  His dick was sticking straight out of
his boxers.  It was stubby, only about 5 inches, and very thick.  He pulled
down his shorts and his cock bounced up and down.  At the base of his shaft
his pubic hair was a thick bush of dark blond hair, trailing upward to his
navel.

	At first I thought he was circumcised.  Then I noticed that the
skin was all one color, without the hint of a ring.  There was a small
collar-like ridge of skin around the ridge of his fully exposed head.  I
felt his dick and pulled downward.  My thumb felt the thin Y shaped web of
skin that connected his foreskin to the underside of his mushroom to where
his foreskin began.  I looked closely and saw the coloration above his
foreskin line.  It was very pink, not at all discolored.  It looked healthy
and very clean.

	When I was naked he reached out and felt my hard shaft, and juggled
my balls.  The he fell to his knees and I felt his warm, wet mouth engulf
the head of my cock.  I felt his tongue lapping and slurping on my shaft
and head, then his teeth as he gave me gentle little nips.  The whole
effect was electric. I could feel by balls swelling, the cum boiling.

	"I starting. . ." I warned.  If he wanted to pull back and let me
cream his face, now was the time.  He ignored me and began to suck harder.
I crested and blew about a month's worth of cum down his throat.  He sucked
and swallowed every drop, then licked and swallowed me clean, leaving no
trace of my cum on my cock.  I pulled out of his mouth and dropped to my
knees.

	Up close I saw the thin line of skin leading down and curving
around his thick cock, the line of his foreskin clearly defined.  I took
him in my mouth and sucked all the way down to the base of his shaft.
Surprisingly it was tasteless, like the taste you get when you suck your
thumb.  He kept his dick so clean he had scrubbed away the oils and musk
that give each dick its distinctive taste.

	He pumped his hips slowly, fucking my face.  His hands clasped the
back of my head and I felt his fingers rubbing the stubble.  Then he pulled
away and together we walked into the bedroom.  I lay on the bed and watched
him fumble in the drawer of the night table and bring out a tube of
lubricating jelly.  He liberally oiled his dick and it glistened in the
light of the overhead fixture.  I lay on my stomach and stuck my ass in the
air.  His fingers, thick with lubricant oiled my anus and rectum.  I had
half expected some foreplay, a rimming at least, but he was obviously
having none of it.

	I felt his fingers withdraw and then his dick head as he positioned
himself.  In one sharp, violent thrust he was in.  I could feel his balls
slapping against my ass as he began to pump.  His dick was so thick I
didn't have to tense my muscles, and I have to admit there was no pain and
it packed my ass so tightly that every stroke frictioned me to a delightful
level of pleasure.  My dick had stiffened and the tip of it rubbed against
the bedcover with every stroke and thrust.  He moved in and out, thrusting
harder and harder.  My pre-cum oozed and puddled under my dick head and I
began to feel it tingling, the cum rising in my balls.  He began pumping at
an amazing speed and he started to groan, low, at first, then rising to a
full bull roar as his dick thickened and he drove his dick home.  His dick
swelled and I felt his cum filling my ass.  Within seconds my second load
spewed forth, ejaculating onto the covers.  The feeling in my dick was
indescribable.  I matched him load for load.

	He kept thrusting me hard, and with each thrust he shot more cum
into me and groaned noisily.  He thrust a final load into me, whimpered,
and collapsed on my back, breathing heavily, and I felt him panting in my
ear. I had shot within seconds, He lay there, mewing like a kitten as his
cock softened in my ass.

	When he was completely soft he pulled out and rolled off me, and
lay on his back, his arm covering

his eyes.

	"Oh, God, that was good." he rasped.  He was still breathing
heavily from the exertion of fucking me.  I reached over to touch his dick,
thinking to start round two.  It was slick and glistening with lubricant,
his cum, and my ass fluids.  His head was almost completely covered with
his thin foreskin, with only a small, neat circle revealing his piss hole,
his glans clearly outlined under the blue veined skin.

	He pushed my hand away.  "Sorry."  He got up quickly and went into
the shower.  I heard the water running so I put on my shorts and rummaged
around for the booze cabinet, which I found, and poured a hefty drink.  He
was an obvious a one shot a night wonder.  But I figured, what the hell,
I'd gotten my rocks off, he'd gotten his rocks off, so we were even.

	When he returned I noticed he had pulled his foreskin back.  He put
on his shorts and helped himself to a drink.  He sat down and smiled
ruefully.

	"Sorry about that.  It's just that once I'm gone, it's over.
You're not mad, are you?"

	I shrugged.  "Happens with some guys.  No big deal."

	He chugged his drink and stood up.  "Well, me for bed.  You
coming?"

	I shook my head.  "Think I'll stay up a bit, if you don't mind.  I
need a shower , anyway."

	He nodded and headed for his bed.  I showered and went out onto the
balcony where I sat in my boxers, drinking vodka and tonic, watching the
on-going festival of lights.

Chapter Twelve

	Our first night together set the general pattern for the next four
months.  Every day we would meet, sometimes at the Cercle Sportif, where we
could swim and check out the bronzed, oiled, slim-bodied sons of the local
Vietnamese elite.  Sometimes we met in the Bar of the hotel.  It depended
on his day. He was busy trying to wind down his country's involvement in
Vietnam and actually worked a full day.  After drinks we had dinner, for
which he insisted on paying.  He was very generous, unlike my last partner,
and I really had no complaints.  After dinner we would go up to his room.
He would blow me.  I usually sucked him a bit before hand, to get him lubed
up, and then he would fuck me.  We were usually finished well before the
curfew siren sounded.  There was no use in trying more than once.  In all
the time we were together he only came twice on one occasion.  After our
first go round he put a video in the machine he had borrowed from his
office - they were just coming on the market then, and usually only
government offices had them - and played a fist film, all young studs and
hard dicks. He jacked up as we watched so I took him in my mouth and sucked
him to a crashing orgasm. He collapsed on the couch and wouldn't let me
touch him for the rest of the night.

	When we were finished, and if it was early enough, I would take a
cab over to the bar in Tu Do Street where the last remnants of the Aussie
and New Zealanders hung out.  I'd found out that most of the Aussies were
circumcised.  Some of the New Zealanders, mostly those from the city, were
also cut. Since the place was a well known pickup joint it was obvious why
they were there.  As an extra service the bar owner rented out the rooms
upstairs, mostly by the hour, but, if things got hot and I picked up a real
winner, I could get a room for the night.  It cost me a small fortune in
booze and room rent, but I don't begrudge a penny.  The Aussie guys were
great in bed and gave as good as they got, enjoying every minute.  The
Kiwis were too uptight about it.  It was usually a quick blowjob , and then
their conscience got the better of them and they were gone.  The only
problem was that every day there were fewer of them.  They were being
shipped home as the war wound down and the Vietnamese took over all the
fighting.  The day finally came when the place was occupied only by locals.
I turned around and never went back.

	The Hungarian and I saw each other as much as possible and on the
weekends we tried to get out of the city.  About the only place safe to go
to was China Beach, a pale shadow of its former self when the bar of the
Officers Club was notorious for the action to be found there.  We would
swim, drink, and eat in the restaurant before retiring to the villa we had
rented.

	It was in the restaurant of the Officers Club at China Beach where
I ate a polluted lobster and ended up spending the next three months in one
hospital or another.  I'm afraid I scared the shit out of The Hungarian.  I
had barely finished the lobster when I started vomiting and convulsing. He
thought I was dying.  He took charge and got me back to Saigon and into the
American hospital, where they pumped my stomach and my ass full of
antibiotics.  I was so bad I had to be medevaced to Japan, to another
hospital.  I spent two weeks in intensive care and was so badly off I was
given the Last Rites of the Episcopal Church.  Vatican II was, to me,
another betrayal, and I wanted nothing to do with the Catholic church.
Fortunately, I was young, and strong, and I had no intention of proving the
doctors right by dying.  My recovery was slow, but I made it.

	I had been in Japan about a month when The Hungarian breezed
through one afternoon, hauling a huge gift basket of fruit and gourmet
food, none of which I could eat.  He was on his way home and would not be
back.  He filled me in on all the latest gossip.  Gabrielle had hooked a
French planter with more money than brains, and had gone off to France with
him.  For her sake I hoped he had a small dick.

	When I told him I couldn't eat the food he'd brought me, The
Hungarian gave the basket to the head nurse, who I think knew that we were
two lovers saying goodbye and left us alone.  He gave me a gold ID bracelet
with my name engraved on it.  I apologized for having nothing to give him.
He leaned over and whispered that I'd given him the best sex he'd had in
many years, which was more than enough.  I reached down and copped a feel.
He kissed me tenderly on the forehead and left the ward.

Two weeks later I was back home in Canada, a Draft Chit for Esquimalt in my
hand.  I had returned to the real world.