Date: Wed, 16 Jul 2003 09:52:54 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Boys Of Aurora - Chapter 18

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons
alive or dead is coincidental. The venue is fictional and any resemblance
to actual bases, locations, is coincidental.

This story takes place in 1976 Canada and reflects the mores, traditions,
customs, etc., of the times. I urge all of those who read this story to
remember that what is "politically correct" today, was not thought of back
then. If you are Lib-Left, politically correct and have jumped on the
bandwagons of whatever causes are the fads of the month, please do not
continue past this point. This also applies the so-called "Religious" Right
and "Moral" Majority. I respectfully remind you that the "Good Book" also
contains proscriptions, restrictions, do's and don'ts that I don't see or
hear any of you thumping bibles about. Write me, I'll be glad to give you
some excellent web sites. To all the anti-this and anti-that, Bible
Thumpers, Libertarians and the ACLU, the bankrupt and increasingly
irrelevant United Nations, please do not send me e-mails espousing whatever
cause you're touting. I have no time for claptrap.

As this work contains scenes of explicit sexual acts of a homosexual
nature, if such erotica offends you, please move on to a tamer site. If
your mainstay in life is Bible-thumping cant, please move on. If you are
not of legal age to read, possess or download writings of an erotic nature,
or if possession, reading, etc., is illegal where you live, please move on.

This story is written in an age without worry, and as such unprotected sex
is practiced exclusively. I urge all of you to NEVER engage in sexual acts
without proper protection. The life you save will be your own.

I will respond to all e-mails (except flames). Please write me at my home
address: paradegi@rogers.com


The Boys Of Aurora: Chapter 18


The Phantom had little time to think about Mike and his relationship with
Phillip. There were 214 cadets to be fed their breakfast. Along with
Sandro, Joey and Ray he manned the steam line, dishing up the scrambled
eggs while at the same time keeping an eye on Matt and Nick, the Duty
Stewards. At first he found little to fault the two boys. Matt was much
quieter than normal, and moved with quiet efficiency, not missing a beat as
he served Val and Tyler. Nick, at first glance, seemed his normal self. He
always had a serious look on his face although underneath the Gloomy Gus
exterior he was actually quite a happy young man. His eyes, shining with
hidden laughter, always betrayed him.

As the breakfast ritual continued The Phantom noticed subtle differences in
Matt and Nick. Matt, while he managed a thin, wan smile at Val and Tyler,
barely noticed Todd and seemed to avoid serving him, leaving Nick to take
Todd's order and fetch it from the steam tables. Nick, for some reason,
kept shooting glances at the main door. When Chad entered the glances
turned into a long, penetrating look of, while not quite rage, certainly
controlled anger. Something was obviously bothering both stewards and,
while whatever it was did not affect their efficiency, their moodiness was
noticed by Tyler, and Todd had to know that something was bothering Matt.

The Phantom called for Randy to take over his station and motioned Matt and
Nick over. When both boys were next to him he looked at them sternly. "Now
look, Matty, Nick, I don't know what got you two off your feed but, please,
knock it off. We have a lot of work to do today and tonight. If you're
pissed off about something, or somebody, can you please settle whatever it
is? If I've done something, please tell me."

Both boys hung their heads. Matt was the first to speak. "It's not you,
Phantom," he murmured. He gave Nick a worried, sideways glance. Whatever it
was that was bothering him, Matt would not speak of it in front of Nick.

Nick was equally reticent about what was bothering him. He mumbled that he
was just out of sorts this morning, which was a lie. The looks that he'd
been giving Chad were a dead give-away. Whatever Chad had, or had not done,
obviously had pissed Nick off.

The Phantom sighed inwardly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tyler go
into the galley. There were a great many things that he and Tyler had to
talk about. He had no time to mediate, to stroke, or to slap recalcitrant
stewards. "Look, if I can help either of you with whatever it is that is
bothering you, I will. I'm here all day, so come by at Stand Easy and we'll
talk."

Both cadets nodded. Nick looked at The Phantom. "Maybe. Maybe later. It
depends on how the practice goes."

Matt agreed with Nick. "The Gunner is taking the parade. You know how he
is, what he can be like when it comes to parades."

The Phantom got the definite impression that both cadets were looking for
an excuse not to talk to him about their troubles. This was fine with
him. He would help both of them, if they would let him. If not, they were
on their own. "Whatever time is convenient," he replied. He would not press
the issue. "Just remember that from noon on you are here, helping set up
for the Dinner. If you don't want to talk to me, fine, it's not a
problem. Just get settled what needs to be settled by noon. Now go and put
out some more of the fruit salad and tell Chef we need more eggs, please."
When the two stewards disappeared into the galley The Phantom returned to
the serving line. He was not there more than a few minutes when Luke came
out and told him that Chef wanted him.

Chef was seated at his table with Tyler. Chef motioned for The Phantom to
join them and when the boy was settled Chef began going over the final
details for the Dinner. While they were talking, a florist's truck pulled
into the loading dock. The flower arrangements for the table had arrived so
Chef went off to complain to the florist. Tyler had to leave as well. The
Parade would be forming for Divisions and there were things that he had to
do beforehand.

Ray, Sandro, Randy and Joey came into the galley, each boy holding a plate
of eggs, bacon, sausages and toast. The Phantom marvelled at the amount of
food that the four skinny boys could pack away. Ray called over that
everybody had been fed, except for Little Big Man who, as usual, was the
last one to eat. He had just come into the dining hall and could serve
himself. Leaving the table The Phantom walked over and pushed the outward
turning door open. He saw Little Big Man seated at his usual place, the
table just inside the main door, chowing down on a huge plate of food. He
sniffed. Paul Greene was a greedy little man who always took more that he
could possibly eat.

The Phantom was about to close the door when two blond spectres slid into
the chairs on either side of Little Big Man. He was much too far away to
hear what the Twins were saying to Little Big Man but, as The Phantom
watched, Todd slid what looked to be a brown paper bag across the
table. There followed what appeared to be heated words. Then Cory handed
his brother a small, oblong, black plastic object, a tape recorder. It was
obvious that the tape recorder had been turned on. Little Big Man listened
to whatever it was that had been recorded, paled, and rushed from the Mess
Hall. The Twins quickly followed.

The Phantom slowly closed the door and walked over to where Ray and Sandro
were sitting. He helped himself to a cup of coffee from their carafe, a
small, satisfied smile curling his lips. The final skewering of Little Big
Man had begun.

******

As the morning progressed The Phantom was as busy as he had ever been in
his life. Just the basic preparations for the Mess Dinner seemed to take on
an all-consuming life of their own. While everybody else was busy with the
breakfast washing up, The Phantom armed himself with his copy of "Feeding
for Special Occasions", a sheaf of notes that Chef had given him, a vague
idea of what he needed to do, and set to work.

The first order of business, it seemed to The Phantom, would be setting up
the table. Tyler had finally given him the final figures. There would be 38
people dining: 35 cadets, including the Americans and the boys from the YAG
Squadron (Tyler, responding to a whining appeal from the Squadron Chief,
had added the five Buffers of the YAGS. Chef had acquiesced with as ill a
grace as possible), and three officers. Chef and Tyler had also agreed that
the best, and easiest table to serve would be one long one. The Phantom
cleared away the wooden folding tables from the far corner of the dining
hall and then set to work in forming the dining table. He manhandled the
six-foot, wooden tables into a long rectangle, six tables long by two
tables wide.

When the table was formed he stood at the end of the wooden expanse and
mentally began placing the chairs. There would be two diners at either end
of the table. The rest would be spaced along it, with Tyler, as Mess
President, and the Commanding Officer, as Guest of Honour, seated at the
middle of the side of the table closest to the far bulkhead. Directly
opposite them would be Val, who was Mr. Vice, and Andy, the Senior Foreign
Guest, who would be seated at Val's right.

A picture began to form in The Phantom's mind's eye. Down one side,
stretching from the far bulkhead would be portable screens, with a right
angle turn. Additional screens would be placed and a large, almost square,
dining area formed. Nicholas and his Signalmen would drape signal flags and
bunting over the partitions. In front of the two windows that pierced the
far bulkhead would go the Flags: the Canadian and American forming one set,
the Sea Cadet Ensign and the White Ensign forming another. Between the two
sets of flags The Phantom would place a table. Draped with crisp, white
linen and laden with whatever table silver he did not put on the main
table, the effect would be stunning. To his right the wall of the dining
hall stretched back, a bare, empty space pierced by four windows. Between
each pair of windows he would place a table, balanced with yet more tables
set against the partitions. These would serve as service islands for the
stewards.

The Phantom paced out the proper distances he felt that he would
need. There would be room enough for the stewards to serve, and a place for
the small band that would play during the Dinner. When he was satisfied
that he had his distances right, The Phantom stood back, nodding
approvingly, visualizing the table, set with silver and flowers, crystal
gleaming in the soft light of the candles set in the candelabra that would
be placed down the centre of the table. Between the candelabra there would
be gold, white and blue floral arrangements. The partitions, made colourful
by the signal flags and bunting, would balance the whiteness of the table
linen.

The Phantom wondered if he should place some flower arrangements on each of
the yet to be placed middle serving tables. Some of the larger pieces of
silver, perhaps? He had plenty of pieces to choose from and would have
loved to be able to put the Antwerp Centrepiece out. That, however, was
locked away in The Gunner's office waiting to have a provenance established
and The Phantom decided that he would have to make do with the silver-gilt
epergne.

There was so much to think about, so much work yet to be done. So much work
that The Phantom very quickly realized that he could not do everything
himself. Chef had warned him. A Mess Dinner was labour intensive. The
Phantom would need some willing hands before anything more could be
done. He would have the stewards, and a work party that Tyler had promised
to send over as soon as the practice for Ceremonial Divisions was finished.

With no help in sight until Stand Easy, at the earliest, The Phantom
returned to the galley where he began to take inventory. He first inspected
the massive amount of silver pieces and flatware. The larger pieces had all
been wrapped in a pale, pink tissue paper that Chef said was supposed to
prevent tarnish. The paper had, for the most part, succeeded. Still, the
pieces and trays could use a good polish.

The Phantom moved on to inspect the crystal glasses, all of which needed a
good wash and polishing with a soft towel. From the glasses The Phantom
moved on to the china. The Admiral's Plates, and the Minton service, which
he would use for the dessert course, would have to hand washed. The gold
decorations and flower paintings on the Minton would never survive in the
industrial-strength dishwasher that was normally used to clean the
dishes. The Wardroom china, heavy crockery, could be run through the
dishwasher with minimal effort and no damage to the decoration, such as it
was. The caterer had delivered the dishes that would be used for the Garden
Party on Wednesday.  Picking up one of the caterer's plates The Phantom
examined it closely. It was rather pretty, decorated with a pale lime band
edged with gold. Good, solid, honest, restaurant crockery. This service
could also go in the dishwasher. From the china and crystal The Phantom
walked to where the table linens were piled. The mammoth tablecloths and
napkins were all freshly laundered and starched. The linens were the only
things ready for immediate use.

Leaving the table linen he returned to Chef's table and sat down, preparing
to make a list of what needed doing, and the number of hands needed to
complete the tasks. His foot touched a small box on the deck under the
table. He reached down and lifted the box, shook it and heard a slight
rustling noise, and soft metal tings. He opened the box and found what
looked like miniature lamp shapes, cream coloured vellum decorated with
green swags of leaves of some kind or other, the swags joined by small, red
and gold ribbons tied into delicate, richly detailed knots. He puzzled over
the brass objects, which he had also found in the box, which looked like
lampshade holders without the shades, fitted into a small dome-like
base. The shades would go over the holders, which would go over the candles
which would be set into the candelabra and . . . The Phantom groaned
softly. Candles! He had forgotten the bloody candles! Did he have any? What
colour should they be? Red, white, blue? Sky-blue pink with fucking yellow
polka dots? Hell and sheeit, The Phantom cursed as he quickly added candles
to his list. Someone would have to go into town if Chef's ditty box was
empty of candles.

Grumbling to himself The Phantom tried to concentrate on his lists. Before
too long he gave it up. All around him the cooks and the Litany were busily
chopping, slicing, yapping and generally going about their business. The
noise level in the galley rose steadily as vegetables were chopped, meat
sliced, pots banged and oven doors slammed. When Chef began bellowing at a
custard that refused to set The Phantom, defeated, retreated to the dining
hall. He found a table as far from the galley as he could get, settled in,
and returned to his notes.

******

The Commanding Officer of HMCS AURORA was all but bouncing off the
bulkheads. A boy! A healthy, pink-cheeked, bouncy, baby boy! His mood was
euphoric as he entered the Ship's office and greeted Greg, slapping the
Yeoman on the back and offering him a cigar. In his office Father clapped
and rubbed his hands with glee. A boy! After three wives and six daughters,
a boy! A grandson to be spoiled! A boy!

He puttered around his office, finding the glasses that he kept in the
credenza behind the desk, and the bottle of Royal Navy rum that he had laid
down a lifetime ago to give a toast to his first born, which had, alas,
been a girl. Followed by five more girls.

Chuckling and smiling Father did a little jig of happiness. Now there was a
boy! A boy, with all the attendant noise and happy strife that a boy
brought, a boy to leave the toilet seats up, to litter the front hall with
cricket bats and rugby boots. Father stopped his dance. No, this was Canada
so there would be ice skates and hockey sticks, baseball mitts and wooden
bats, a sports bag stuffed with soiled jerseys and athletic supporters
smelling of boy!

Upstairs, a boy's room, littered with orphan socks and long forgotten
underpants lurking under the unmade bed; abandoned books strewn hither and
yon, the detritus of a young male making navigation into and out his room a
Blind Pilotage Exercise.

Father could see it all. He could hear the noise of slamming doors, the
cacophony of too loud stereos blaring the latest excuse for music. Posters
and photos would make the walls a montage of sports heroes and pop stars,
to be replaced, as the boy grew older, with scantily clad images of movie
sirens. There would be comic books and school texts and, if he knew boys,
hidden under the mattress would be forbidden magazines that would be
drooled and giggled over.

A boy! And such a boy! The lad had a set of upper deck fittings that would
give him bragging rights in every gymnasium he would ever enter, and make
him the envy of his peers. Father had heard about Harry and the Pride of
the Fleet. Well, Harry had better watch out because in a few years there
would be a contender for that title, even after the lad's refit, scheduled
for later in the morning. There was a light tap at the door and
Lieutenant-Commander Hazleton entered. Number One was grinning from ear to
ear. He held out his hand. "And a very well done, sir!" he said heartily.

Father returned the grin. "A boy, Charles! A boy!"

Number One, who was the proud father of two sons and the even prouder
grandfather of six grandsons, chuckled at Father's antics. He could not
blame the man. He well knew the deep, inner feeling that a man had, a
feeling that demanded a son. "A healthy boy, then," replied Number One with
a chuckle. "Mother doing well?"

"Resting comfortably is the accepted phrase, I believe." Father held out a
silver cigar box filled with King Edward cigars. He chuckled
quietly. "Actually, she threatened my son-in-law with emasculation if he
ever came near her again."  Number One accepted the cigar and joined in the
Commanding Officer's laughter. "She'll come 'round. My wife did."

Father gestured to the chair that sat in front of his desk. "Sit down,
Charles, and we'll have a wee dram to the lad's health."

Before the Commanding Officer could pour the rum Greg came into the office
and placed a large manila folder on the desk. "Morning mail, sir," he
mumbled.

As Greg turned and left the office Father's nostrils quivered. There seemed
to be a miasma of something trailing the boy. "What . . . whatever is that
. . . stench?" he asked when Greg left the office.

Commander Hazleton chuckled. "Greg," he replied calmly. "And you have no
one to blame for it but yourself."

"Me?" Father's eyes widened behind his spectacles. "However am I
responsible for that boy smelling as if he's gone and drowned himself in
sewer water!" He grimaced and shook his head. "He has to be wearing the
most foul smelling cologne it has ever been my misfortune to smell!"

Number One was unfazed by the Commanding Officer's grumbling. "You ordered
the water turned off." He glanced at the array of glasses on the
credenza. "Boys, especially active boys, have a tendency to perspire. When
they perspire, they smell. The cadets all had PT this morning. They worked
up a sweat and all that so . . ."

Father nodded his understanding. "No showers afterwards," he muttered,
grimacing.

"You'll get used to it, old friend," replied Number One. He puffed on his
cigar. His little plan to get the water turned on was working. "You'll have
a boy in the house. Your lad can be washed and his little bottom powdered."
He blew out a huge ring of smoke. "Personally, I have no desire to try
powdering Greg's bottom!"

Father suspected that he was being manoeuvred into something, but let it
pass. He thought a moment and then grinned broadly, showing his tobacco
stained teeth. He picked up a small pile of flimsies, copies of signals
sent to the ship. "The world is coming to AURORA on Wednesday. I cannot
have the boys smelling like dockyard navvies!"

"We can't get around it," replied Number One. "The water is only on at
night. The boys are active during the day and always start off with
sports. Most of the time they have a game of something after their day is
finished." He raised an eyebrow. "It's either dockyard navvies or Rugged
Man After shave."

"I beg your pardon?" Father cocked his head. "Whatever is that?"

"Rugged Man After Shave?" Commander Hazleton grinned. "In addition to the
most disgusting underpants I have ever seen, the Canteen Mangler laid in a
supply of after shave when the water was cut off. I think he charges a
dollar the gallon for the vile smelling slop."

Father looked at Number One, who was smiling enigmatically. He glanced at
the flimsies again and made a sudden decision. "Open the taps,
Charles. Turn 'em all on. All I want to smell is soap and clean boy!"

"They can shower as much as they like, then?"

"Soap and clean boy, Charles, soap and clean boy." Father glanced at his
watch. "Now then, where is the rest of the staff? We have far too much to
do and . . ."  There was a soft knock on the door. The Gunner, together
with Doc, Andy and No "H", entered. Sub-Lieutenant Ramseur, the Band
Officer of the moment, Tyler, Harry, and Chef followed them into the
office. When everybody was settled the Commanding Officer waved the sheaf
of flimsies at the assembled staff. "Acceptances for Wednesday's
festivities." Father held up the top flimsy. "The Lieutenant-Governor has
accepted. He's old Navy to the bone." Another flimsy. "The Colonel
commanding CFB Comox." More flimsies. "The mayors of Comox and Courtenay."

Harry groaned softly. Each and every one of the dignitaries would require a
salute, a musical salute. He glanced at the Band Officer who had assumed a
look of martyrdom. The young officer's look said it all: Lot's of Band
practices coming up!

Father heard Harry's groan. "Quite right, Harry me lad!" He held up the
final signal. "And last, but by no means least, Vice-Admiral Sir John
Frederick Salisbury Stephens, Victoria Cross, KCMG, Royal Navy, Second Sea
Lord, with aides and hangers-on unto the ninth generation, is coming to
visit his favourite nephew!"

"His nephew?" asked The Band Officer. "Whoever is his 'favourite' nephew?"

"Regulating Petty Officer Fisher," replied The Gunner with a straight
face. "Tall, gangly boy. Always has a goofy grin on his face."

"Fred, to his friends," put in Number One.

"Whatever," growled Father impatiently, "the fact remains that we have an
admiral coming to call. He's asked for no honours, but since he's an
admiral he'll expect them anyway." He looked at the Band Officer. "Full
salute for the admiral, George." He looked at The Gunner. "The Guard?"

"Full Captain's guard. Forty-eight ratings, two Petty Officers, one
officer, one bugler."

Doc snickered. "You forgot the ship's cat."

Father glared at Doc, then carried on. "Now, Andy, Chef, you've everything
arranged for the Garden Party?"

Andy nodded. "The caterer is laid on. I've told him extra waiters and no
skimping." He nodded toward Chef. "In the event the caterer lets us down,
Chef will prepare something as a backup."

"Chicken curry," grumbled Chef. "Hot and filling, with lots of rice."

Father shuddered. He had a very good idea just where the chickens that
would be curried had come from. Fortunately anything curried gave him the
pip, so he did not have to eat it. "Warn the lads," he ordered. Then he
turned to Tyler. "Now then, Tyler me lad, your Dinner."

"We're getting there, I think," replied Tyler slowly. "I'm meeting with all
the senior hands as soon as I leave here to divide up the work. I'll send
as many gash hands as I can to the galley to help out. We'll be fine."

"Good. I'm looking forward to dining with my Chiefs and Petty Officers."
Father turned to The Gunner. "Stephen, I want you to make sure that the
lads have a good time this evening. Please, though, as you're the Wine
Steward, mind how they go. Make sure that they do not get too stupid with
the drink."

Chef squirmed uneasily in his chair and smiled weakly at The Gunner, who
glared at him. "I'll take care of them," said The Gunner, giving Chef a
dirty look.

"Everything is all ready to go," said Chef hurriedly, not wanting to be
reminded that he had forgotten to ask The Gunner to be Wine
Steward. "Phantom has everything in hand. He's a very well organized young
man, is Phantom." There, that should smooth stormy waters a bit.

Father nodded brusquely. "Well, it seems that you all have everything in
hand. I shan't bother you again. You all know what has to be done, so let
us make it so."

The others began to rise, preparing to leave. Father raised his hand,
stopping them. "Gentlemen, before you go, would you all join me in a glass
and toast my new grandson?" He turned and began to pour generous amounts of
rum into the crystal glasses that he had set out.

When everyone had been charged with rum, Number One raised his
glass. "Gentlemen, I give you a toast. To young Master . . ." he looked at
the Commanding Officer. "You've not yet told us how the boy is to be
called, sir."

Father's eyes, twinkling in merriment, swept the room. "Why, he shall be
called after me, of course." He raised his glass. "He shall be called
Francis Albert Edward Stockman, the Second." He wrinkled his nose and
swallowed his drink in one gulp. With the greatest reluctance he forced
himself to include the child's father's name. "Iturbide!"

The Gunner and Number One shared a look. They both knew that Father did not
care for his Spanish son-in-law. Chef, who was not aware of the animosity
between Father and his in-laws, raised his glass. "To the Sprog," he
bellowed. "A long life and a big dick!"

******

"Really, a long life and a big dick!" complained Tyler as he opened the
door to the Gunroom. "Trust him to say something like that!" He turned and
looked at Harry, who was following him. "And don't you get any bright ideas
about tonight. The only toasts will be the Loyal Toast, the Reply and the
Toast of the Day!"

"I wasn't thinking of doing anything of the kind," replied Harry, a hurt
look on his face. "I would never say anything like that!"

"Bullshit!" snapped Tyler as they passed the door to the Chiefs Mess. He
paused to pound on the door. "You buggers get up!" he yelled to the
American cadets who were still asleep inside the Mess.

Inside the Chiefs Mess Tony, awakened by Tyler's pounding, rolled over,
reached around Mark's warm, sleeping body and felt his lover's substantial
morning woody. "Mmm, if that's the Angel of Death, tell him to fuck
off. I've got one very important . . ." he paused and squeezed " . . . One
large piece of business to take care of before I shuffle off this mortal
coil."

Mark, who had awoken at Tony's touch, chuckled. "It's Tyler. He told me
last night that we have a meeting to go to this morning." He rolled over,
kissed Tony's wonderfully rich lips and slipped his hand through the slit
in his lover's boxer shorts, fisting Tony's magnificently tumescent
penis. He nuzzled Tony's neck. "Avante Italia!" he whispered.

Tony closed his eyes and moaned softly. "We'd better be careful," he
whispered. "Nathan . . ."

Mark raised his head and looked over Tony's reclined body. Nathan was lying
on his side, facing away from the other two boys and snoring
softly. "Nathan's asleep, sooo . . ." He ducked quickly under the thin
coverlet and took Tony's warm, delicious penis in his mouth. He began to
suck deep and fast, knowing just how to bring the dark, handsome Italian
boy off quickly.

Tony bit his lips, stifling his moans of pleasure. He reached down and ran
his fingers through Mark's soft, curly hair. Before too long he began to
breathe harshly and stiffened. Mark tasted the sweetness as Tony's cock
erupted.

When he had swallowed the last, final drop of Tony's nectar, Mark slowly
withdrew. He propped himself on one elbow and leaned forward, his tongue
depositing a small drop of the exquisite juice into Tony's mouth.

Tony grinned. "Beats bacon and eggs, anytime," he said when their lips
parted. "Now, it's my turn."

Mark returned Tony's grin but rolled away. "No, we'll save me for later. We
have to get a move on. Tyler could come busting in here any minute."

Tony nodded his understanding. He reached up and wiped a small drop of
semen away from the edge of Mark's lips. "I love you, and I hate pretending
to our friends. I hate having to love you in the shadows!"

"Tony, I love you more than life," replied Mark warmly as he stood up and
began dressing, "and I hate the pretence as much as you do. But it's what
has to be. You know what people would say if they ever found out about us,
if we ever came out. For starters, you could kiss your appointment to
Annapolis goodbye." He pulled on his shorts and looked for his
T-shirt. "Now, get up, and give Nathan a shake."

Tony rolled onto his side and reached down to shake Nathan. He wrinkled his
nose. Nathan smelled of booze. "He sure tied one on last night." Tony shook
the sleeping Nathan vigorously. "Come on, guy, it's time to get up."

Nathan muttered, growled, and shook off Tony's hand. He did not move.

"Stupid bastard has to blame no one but himself!" snarled Mark
unsympathetically. "He had a good thing going with Cory and he blew it."

Tony stretched and smacked Nathan's round, firm behind. "Actually, he blew
Jeremy Cohen. And Alex."

Mark gasped and stared at Tony. "Nathan and your brother . . .?"

Tony shrugged, crawled out of bed, and began looking for his clothes. "You
know Alex. He likes pussy but he thinks guys give better blow jobs. He got
drunk at the party. Nathan offered." He pulled on his shorts. "Alex told me
all about it the next morning. He says Nathan has a gifted mouth."

Mark snorted loudly. "Yeah, well, I heard some stories about Alex." He
knelt down beside Nathan and gave him a gentle shake. "Come on,
Nathan. It's time to get up." He looked at Tony. "Poor sod," he said
quietly. "He just can't pass up a hard dick."

"He better pass on yours!" growled Tony.

Mark stood up and smiled. "My hardons are all reserved for one guy."

"Yeah? Anybody I know?" Tony reached for the doorknob. "We better get
gone. Tyler is bellowing for us."

Before Tony could open the door Mark took him in his arms. "My hardons are
all reserved for some dumb Italian who has delusions of becoming a naval
officer. For him, only."

As Mark and Tony exited the Chiefs Mess they did not hear the soft sob that
rose from Nathan's throat.

******

" . . . Right, then. We're all agreed," said Tyler after explaining what he
wanted, and what needed to be done, to the assembled Chiefs and Petty
Officers. "Harry, you'll send your Sea Puppies over to the galley. Stuart,
you and Steve will help with the table set-up. Phantom knows what he wants
so it should not take too long. From there you help wherever and whenever
you're needed."

"And me and my boys will set up the partitions, and decorate them," offered
Nicholas.

"Good," replied Tyler with a nod of his head. He looked seriously at the
other cadets. "Tonight, please, watch the booze, at least during the
dinner. There will be lots of wine so for Christ's sake, take it
easy. Guzzling the vino collapso and puking in the middle of the dinner is
not considered good manners."  Harry snorted. "The Gunner is Wine
Steward. I sorta think he'll make sure that nobody gets too plastered."

"Me and Tony will go over and see what we can do to help. Mind you, Tony is
not used to manual labour," said Mark, grinning. "He thinks manual labour
is a Mexican."

"Droll, very droll," sniffed Tony. "Not one of your best, old son."

"What about Nathan?" interrupted Val. "I don't see his sorry carcass
about."

"He'll be there, and no danger," promised Mark grimly. "It's just that he's
feeling a little under the weather this morning. He'll be all right."

Harry chortled. "Give him the hair of the dog. Just the cure for Molson's
Flu!"  Tyler rolled his eyes. "That is just what I do not want to happen."
He glared at Mark. "Tomorrow we are having one of the most important
parades we will ever have. I do not want you clowns all hung over and
smelling of booze!"

"What parade?" asked Two Strokes. "The big parade is on Wednesday. What's
so important about tomorrow's parade?"

Tyler was aware that Two Strokes, while not as bad as Little Big Man, did
not approve of the Twins' homosexuality. However, there was the fact that
Two Strokes had railed loudly about the Twins earlier in the training years
and, while he had calmed down since then, Tyler still did not trust
him. "It's a full dress rehearsal," Tyler replied, not giving Two Strokes a
chance to say anything more. "Everybody will be on parade, including all
five YAG crews." He turned to Val. "I want you to concentrate on them,
Val. Stuart, Steve, all your Parade Staff, as well. The YAG boys think that
their shit doesn't stink." He smiled grimly. "They also think that they can
march. Make sure that they can!"

Val grunted. "Those lazy gits have done nothing but swan around all summer,
sailing and generally doing fuck all." He smiled at Stuart. "We'll ginger
them up."

Stuart nodded and grinned. He loved training the YAG crews, the useless
little gits!

"Tonight I do not want any of that crap," returned Tyler firmly. He looked
at Val and then at Stuart. "Whether we like it or not ten of them are
attending the dinner. Be nice and do not say anything about their
uniforms. Only the Squadron Chief has a set of Number 11s. The rest will be
wearing square rig." He remembered something and turned to Mark. "Tomorrow
afternoon, you'll have to take our uniforms into town and get them
laundered and starched. I think that the infants," he nodded at the other
cadets, "can manage to keep themselves clean for the dinner, and the parade
tomorrow. Unless, of course, one of them slops his food all over himself."

"You still haven't said why tomorrow's parade is so important," persisted
Two Strokes.

"No, I haven't," replied Tyler coldly. He had no intention of telling Roger
Home anything. He addressed the group. "Tonight, have fun. Try not to make
fools of yourselves. Mark, Tony, Stuart, Nicholas, Greg, please
remain. Also Harry, Todd and Cory. The rest, carry on, please."

As the other cadets filed from the Gunroom, Two Strokes gave Tyler a dark
look. He knew that something was going on, something that Tyler did not
want him to know about. Tyler pointedly ignored the glowering Regulating
Petty Officer.

With the others gone, Tyler folded his arms across his chest and looked
upward. He was not sure what he was going to say to the gathered cadets. He
wanted them to understand why the parade tomorrow was so important. At the
same time he could not tell too much. Phantom's reputation was at
stake. Tyler knew that his own credibility, and reputation, were at risk if
he betrayed too much. As he gathered his thoughts he began moving down the
Gunroom. When he came to the middle of the mess table he sat down on the
bench and motioned for the boys to sit down.

The Twins sat on Todd's bunk. Across from them Nicholas and Stuart sat on
Nicholas's bunk. Harry took Greg's hand and walked with him down to his
bunk in the corner. He gave Greg's hand a soft squeeze. Greg, beaming for
the first time in days, sat as close to Harry as he could. Mark and Tony,
wondering what was going on, sat on Greg's bunk.

Tyler looked at each boy in turn, a soft smile creasing his face as he
looked at the Twins, the irrepressible, rambunctious, wonderful Twins. He
regarded Greg, poor, foolish Greg, so wrapped up in his own problems and
imagined terrors that he could not think straight. He saw Harry holding
Greg's hand, and wished that Val were here. Tyler saw Harry squeeze Greg's
hand. Dear, wonderful Harry, who thinks that I don't know that he was in
the School of Wind last night with Todd. God, why didn't I ask Val to stay
behind! He looked at Mark and Tony. They tried so hard to hide their love
for each other. Tyler stopped himself from shaking his head. He was not at
all bothered that the two American boys were lovers. What bothered him was
the subterfuge; the sneaking about they had to endure. They tried so hard
to be loud, boisterous jocks, which Tyler knew was just a huge
camouflage. He had seen the looks they exchanged, and heard the soft
breathing in the night when they thought that he and Val were asleep. God,
he wanted Val!

Tyler looked over and saw Nicholas looking at him, a worried expression
marring his handsome features. Nicholas. A stunning boy who, if Tyler was
reading the signs right, had fallen in love with a beautiful
French-Canadian boy. Like the Americans, Nicholas and Andre tried to hide
their relationship, hide their love, hiding in the Flag Locker whenever
they had the chance. Poor Nicholas. Did he not know that the Flag Locker
could only be cleaned so often before someone twigged on what he and Andre
were doing there? Tyler wondered how far along Nicholas's relationship with
Andre had progressed. He wondered if they kissed. And he remembered the
kiss, the deep, warm kiss that he and Phantom had exchanged in the galley
locker room. Damn, he wanted Val!

Tyler looked at Stuart, tall, gangly, always happy Stuart. He remembered
the morning when he had told Stuart that Little Big Man was going to be on
his Slop Chit. He remembered Stuart throwing his boot at Steve. He also
remembered the look that had come into Stuart's eyes after he had thrown
the boot at his best friend. That look had contained a wealth of meaning,
much more meaning than Stuart realized. Much more than Steve
realized. Jesus! I have got to stop thinking about Val!

Running his hands over his face, Tyler began to speak. "Boys, tonight I'm
supposed to give a speech. To be honest, while I had thought about what I
was going to say, I had more or less decided to keep it simple, keep to the
basics." He smiled thinly. "You know, what a great thing it is to be a Sea
Cadet, and what a wonderful time we've all had being a Sea Cadet. I think
you all know the kind of speech. It was going to be the usual pap we hear
at every Inspection."

Todd looked at Tyler and nodded slowly, realizing that, for whatever
reason, Tyler was about to unburden and that what he was about to say would
be more than politically correct pap.

"So, guys, no speech. Instead, I'd like to tell you a story." Tyler's voice
was low, and it was as if he was speaking to himself. "When I was a little
boy," he continued, "when I was twelve or so, my Dad took me to the
Canadian National Exhibition. It was Warriors' Day and I was so proud of my
Dad, marching with his Legion branch, his back straight, with all his
medals up." He ran his hand across his face and a faraway look came into
his eyes. "To get to where we had parked the car, which was in the parking
precinct at HMCS YORK, we had to pass by this huge park. Coronation Park,
it's called, I think. Anyway, as you come to the road that leads down to
the barracks there's a baseball diamond. On the diamond, playing a scratch
game of baseball, was a bunch of kids. It was nothing fancy, just a pickup
game of baseball."

Tyler did not see Val, who had come into the Gunroom looking for
Stuart. Val heard Tyler's quiet voice and stopped just inside the door. He
listened for a bit and then sat down slowly on Fred's bunk.

"They were Sea Cadets," continued Tyler. "At the time I really didn't think
too much about them. They were playing ball, yelling, chucking shit at one
another, and having fun. You know what a bunch of loons we can be."

Several of the boys nodded their heads. Harry grinned at Cory, then at
Nicholas, remembering the afternoon ballgame where Nicholas had bared all
of Cory's family jewels to the world. Cory glared at Harry and growled low,
a terrier challenging a mastiff.

Tyler leaned forward and placed his hands on his knees. "Like I said, they
were Sea Cadets. A bunch of guys, some were as young as me, some were
older, just a bunch of guys, relaxed, having fun. Most of them had stripped
their jumpers. Some, the Peanut Gallery for the most part, hadn't. They
were wearing their caps every which way, on the back of their heads, pushed
forward, pushed to the side. A bunch of typical kids having a hell of a
time playing baseball." He sighed and smiled a short, sweet smile. "Most of
them looked like me, you know, skinny, with a brush cut."

Mark giggled. Tyler could be describing him when he'd been twelve. He could
also be describing a certain Italian boy who . . . He looked at Tony, his
eyes sparkling with their secret love.

"At first the cadets didn't mean much to me." Tyler was speaking
again. "They were just a bunch of kids in a funny uniform playing
ball. Happens every afternoon on half the sandlots in town." Tyler
snorted. "That's what I thought." His shoulders heaved. "Then I saw the
look on my Dad's face, and I saw the look in his eyes."

Once again Tyler scanned the Gunroom. "I saw a look that I had never seen
before. It took me a while to figure it out, but I did. It was a look of
sadness, a look of remembering, a look of such intensity that I didn't, at
first, understand it. It was a look of remembered days when he was in the
Navy, a look of compassion, of remembered courage, a look of remembered
sacrifice, a look of remembrance for all the boys he knew, boys who never
came home again. A look . . . a look of . . . what does the Book of Common
Prayer call it, a look of a love that passeth all understanding? Yeah, a
look of such love."

Greg lowered his head. He did not care what the other boys thought of
him. He slipped his arm around Harry's waist. Harry reached up and slowly
rubbed the back of Greg's head.

Cory slipped his hand into Todd's. He squeezed slightly and Todd squeezed
back, returning the love that Cory had for him.

Tyler's eyes widened. "I realized that my Dad wasn't seeing a bunch of Sea
Cadets. He wasn't seeing that bunch of kids playing ball, he was seeing his
mates, he was seeing other boys, loud, proud, boys playing pickup ball
beside the jetty in Halifax. Over their heads, he wasn't seeing a
building. He was seeing his corvette. He wasn't seeing Lake Ontario, filled
with sail boats and stink pots. He was seeing Bedford Basin, filled with
merchant ships, ships that he and his mates were going to escort across the
pond to Derry. He was seeing all that. But more than that, he was seeing
the love they all had for each other, seeing the unwavering determination
they all had, for their ship, for their Navy, for themselves." His voice
became a whisper. "My Dad was seeing again the boys he sailed with, the
boys who willingly gave their lives for him, for you, for me."

Val could feel the tears coursing down his cheeks. His brave, courageous
Tyler! He moved quickly down the Gunroom and sat beside Tyler. He put his
hand on Tyler's shoulder. "Tyler," he whispered through his tears, "Tyler."

Tyler smiled, looked directly at Val, and nodded slowly. He was all
right. "My Dad was seeing boys who had, wordlessly for the most part, sworn
their love and loyalty to him, and to each other. They were his messmates,
his shipmates. They came from all over the country. They hadn't known each
other until they were drafted to the ship. But they were my Dad's brothers!
Brothers!" He reached up and his hand covered Val's. "They were his
brothers, you see. And they were never coming home again."

Stuart wiped away the small tears that had formed in his eyes. Now he
understood why, every November 11, his grandfather would lock himself in
his den, reappearing later in the day with red-rimmed eyes.

Nicholas forced back a sob. Now he knew why his father would go to the
Cenotaph in the old cemetery with a bunch of flowers every Sunday.

Harry remembered his father, surrounded by his seven strong sons, a wreath
of poppies in his hand, weeping quietly as the Last Post sounded over the
War Memorial in town. He saw his father laying the wreath and, in turn,
embracing his boys. Harry's father had been with the Winnipeg Rifles and
now Harry understood the hugs, the kisses, the love that filled his home
and his young life.

With his hand firmly on Val's, Tyler continued. "I joined the Sea Cadets
that fall. I thought, maybe foolishly, that I had to follow in my Dad's
footsteps. I owed him. I joined the Sea Cadets and kept looking for
something I thought I would never see again. I was looking for my father's
brothers. I was looking for that special look in another man's eyes. I was
looking because I could understand. I could understand the devotion, the
courage, and the determination of one man to love his brothers so much that
he would do anything to protect them, to make them safe. A man who would
fight, who would pay any price to make sure that his brothers were safe."

Todd left Cory's side and knelt before Tyler. He took Tyler's free hand in
his. "Tyler, you don't have to do this."

Tyler's eyes were full of compassion and love as he returned Todd's
look. "Yes, I do" he whispered. "I have to make them understand what
happened, what was done for them." He looked again at his friends. "After I
joined the Sea Cadets, and the years passed, I began to understand more of
what my father was feeling, and why he was feeling the way he did. I began
to see the love, the bonding that occurs amongst men and, yes, boys like
us. Nobody understands how it happens, or why it happens, it just
happens. I began to feel that special love that exists between all of us."
He looked down at Todd. "I don't mean the love, the special love that
sometimes happens between boys. I mean another kind of love. A love that
makes a guy understand why some guys form special, wonderful unions, a love
that understands that we are all unique and individual, and a love that
forgives everything. A love that will never, ever, betray the trust and
warmth we all have for each other." He bent down and kissed Todd warmly on
the forehead. "A love that will make a man fight unto the Gates of Hell for
his friends. A love that until the early hours of Sunday morning I didn't
think existed anymore."

As Todd rose and returned to sit beside Cory, Tyler moved his hand and his
arm found its way around Val's slim waist. "I saw the love that does not
condemn, ever, a friend for being who he is. I saw something I thought only
existed in my Dad's eyes, in his soul. I saw the look! I saw the green
fire, I saw the determination and I saw the courage." He gave Val a slight
squeeze. "I saw that look in the eyes of a boy who, when we came here,
wasn't even one of us."

Harry turned his head and gazed with tear-filled eyes at the picture tacked
to the bulkhead above his bunk. "Phantom," he whispered.

Tyler's head jerked up. "Yes, Phantom. A boy we all, at first, dismissed as
nothing more than a civilian, a galley hand, a boy we all thought was just
another townie come to work. A boy who was just the kid in the Mess Hall
who cleaned up after us! Phantom."

Greg, who had been resting his head on Harry's shoulder, followed his gaze
and looked at the photograph of Harry and Stefan. He reached up and touched
his cheek where just a few days ago Phantom had kissed him . . . kissed him
and promised that everything would be all right. Greg looked longingly at
the photo of Harry and Stefan and now he understood why he would never be a
part of Harry's life.

"Mark, Tony," Tyler went on, "when we were in Victoria two weeks ago, we
learned that there was an enemy in our midst, a snake, who never learned
what it was to be a Sea Cadet, or a brother. He is part of an organization
that hates Jews, Catholics, Gays, Blacks - you name it, and he hates
it. Mark, you would his beau ideal, his poster boy, a blue-eyed, blond
haired white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant poster boy. Tony, you would be beyond
the pale because you're an Italian, and a Catholic."

Mark stood up abruptly. As he looked around the Gunroom he was struck by
the open displays of affection he was seeing. These boys truly loved each
other. They felt for each other. He looked at Tony, who was smiling at him,
and suddenly the years of frustration, of hiding, of sneaking about, became
too much to bear. Mark loved Tony, passionately and deeply, and Tony
deserved better than furtive and illicit sex in dark corners. Why should he
and Tony hide something that was so beautiful? Why could they not express
their love, as Cory and Todd expressed their love for one another, as Tyler
and Val were expressing their love?

Tyler had spoken of love, and courage, and determination, and Mark realized
that until now he had lacked the courage and determination to openly
express what he felt for Tony. He saw Tyler give Val a slight
squeeze. Tyler was not afraid to express his feelings for Val, nor was Greg
afraid to rest his head on the shoulder of the boy he was so obviously,
hopelessly, in love with. They all thought that Tony and he, and Nicholas
and Stuart, were straight. Still they were not afraid to show their true
feelings, their true selves to them, and for the first time Mark realized
that not only were they friends, but comrades, and, brothers. They trusted
one another, and understood one another, and suddenly the weight that had
pressed upon him for years fell away. He understood, now, the true meaning
of brotherhood and camaraderie. Mark understood, now, that none of those
boys would ever sail under false colours. As he had been doing for too
long.

Mark rested his hand on Tony's shoulder. He could not, and would not,
continue to sail under false colours. These Canadian boys had made him, and
Tony, their friend. He felt the warmth of comradeship fill him. A friend
did not lie to a friend, and he knew what he had to do.

"Tyler, I might be some crackpot's beau ideal. I might be a lot of things
to a lot of people, but of one thing I am certain," said Mark as he
squeezed Tony's shoulder, "I'm gay." He reached down and pulled Tony to his
feet and embraced him closely. "I've known since I was about 12-years-old
that I loved Tony. We had braces on our teeth and knobbly knees." He kissed
Tony on his cheek, and Tony returned the kiss with a look of support and
encouragement. "I love Tony, and we have loved each other and expressed our
love every way two boys can. We've kept it hidden, but not now. I know that
if what I've told you gets back to Seattle I'm dead meat at home. It does
not matter! I am tired of the lying, to myself, to my family, and to my
friends. I'm 19 and for half my life I've been hiding the way I feel. I am
not hiding anymore!"

Tony looked into Mark's clear, defiant eyes. He remembered the day that
Mark, a scrawny, buzz-cut, 80-pound, knobbly-kneed, frightened little boy
had come into his father's store to buy milk. Their eyes had met, and they
had fallen in love. He smiled at Mark and caressed his face. "I love you,
you damned fool!" Tony turned and faced the stunned cadets. "I'm like Mark,
I'm not hiding anymore. Like Mark, I have a lot to lose if word gets out
that I'm gay.  It doesn't matter. If it costs me my appointment to
Annapolis, fine. I'm gay. I love Mark. I've loved him from the day I first
set eyes on him. I'll love him until the day I die. So, gentlemen, I am
gay. I love Mark, and I am no longer going to try to hide it. If any of you
have a problem with that, let's step outside. When I've beaten your ass to
rat shit, I'll go home." Tony grinned, leaving no doubt in anybody's mind
that he was serious and could whip their collective asses if he had
to. "And remember one other thing. I said that I'd go home. I am not ever
going to go away!"

The Twins shrank back. While they had known that Mark and Tony were lovers,
and had abetted them in their clandestine meetings when they had last
visited AURORA, they exchanged a worried look. They were proud that Mark,
and Tony, had chosen now to declare their love. They wondered, however,
just what reaction that declaration would elicit from the others.

The Twins need not have worried because, surprisingly, it was Stuart, whom
they all thought to be straighter than a measured mile, who stood up and
confronted the Americans.  "You don't have to beat anybody's ass. You don't
have to prove anything to me, or to them." He jerked his thumb at the other
cadets, looking around the Gunroom, as if daring someone to prove him
wrong. "You guys all think that I'm just some goofy fuck who doesn't know
much about anything. Well, guys, I got news for you. I am not as stupid as
I look. I see things, and no matter how hard anybody tries, I know when two
guys are in love with each other." He looked directly at Tyler and Val. "I
even know when those same two guys don't know it themselves!"

Cory and Todd exchanged a glance. Tyler and Val?

"I want all here to know one thing about me. Maybe I am gay, maybe I am
not." Stuart shrugged and smiled slowly. "That's for me to find out in my
own time, in my own way. What I do understand, though, is what Mark and
Tony feel for each other, what they have together. As far as I am
concerned, I am proud to call them my friends, proud to call them my
brothers." He reached out his hand to Mark. "And if Tony goes outside, I'll
go outside with my brother and stand beside him!"

Mark snorted loudly and shook Stuart's hand. "Thanks, Stuart. It means a
lot."

"I ain't going to kiss you, if that's what you're looking for," growled
Tony, overcome. He shook Stuart's hand and then hugged him.

"I didn't ask you to," replied Stuart with a laugh. "Kissing me would only
make Mark jealous and then I'd have to fight him and whup his ass." He
pushed Tony away. "So, when's the wedding?"

Harry groaned loudly. "What a fucking thing to ask! Have you no couth?"

"More than you'll ever know, you big dumb farmer!" replied Stuart,
unrepentant. He looked at Tyler. "So, Phantom took out the snake."

Tyler looked at Todd. "Well?"

Todd grinned. "Let's just say that as of this morning the snake no longer
has a head." His face clouded. "Phantom did something so wonderful, so
damned courageous . . . He gave us the ammunition we needed to make sure
that Paul Greene never bothers us again." He squeezed Cory's hand and
looked at his brother. "Phantom did something that Cory and I will never
forget. It was horrible, it was wonderful, and it was something that I
know, deep down inside, I could never have done."

"Nor me," said Tyler. He looked at his friends. "Phantom did it for us. He
thought of a plan, he executed the plan. He made us safe." He gave Val a
hug. "Afterwards, after the deed was accomplished, Phantom was not
alone. He was looked after, because he had to be. You don't have to know
all the details. All you need to know is that for a little while he had
. . . I think he'd all but lost his mind. So some of us, we looked after
him as he had looked after us." He smiled softly. "I was there,
afterward. And so was Val." He put his arm around Val's shoulder. "If there
is any fallout, I'll be under it."

Val looked at Tyler and smiled. "If there is any fallout, you'll have me
beside you."

"And me," said Nicholas, who had remained silent throughout Tyler's
monologue. "I was there, in Victoria, remember?" He stood up and dared
anyone to dispute his next statement. "I am just as gay as Mark, or Tony,
or Todd or Cory. I am . . ."

"Jesus!" Tony started to laugh. "Here we were, so busy pretending to be
such jocks, pretending to be such straight little boys, pretending not to
be gay, and now they're popping out of the woodwork!"

Mark roundly thumped Tony. "Damn it, Tony, these guys are our friends!"

"He's only telling the truth, Mark." Nicholas was very calm. "I am gay. I
found out that I was gay on the trip back from Victoria. I'm not sorry that
I'm gay and I am sure as hell not sorry that I fell in love with a guy!"

"Oh, Nicholas, get real!" sniffed Harry. "Tell us something we don't know."

"Nicholas's jaw dropped. "How do you . . .?"

"Nicholas, you and Andre have been popping corn in the Flag Locker ever
since you got off the bus from Victoria." Harry roared with laughter.

Cory gave Harry a hard look. "Shut up, Harry, you clown." He turned to
Nicholas and grinned "Andre is all over you like ugly on an ape and you
can't look at Andre without popping a bone."

Nicholas sat down abruptly and shook his head. "Poor Andre. He thinks that
nobody knows about us."

"Nobody will, outside of this room," said Tyler. "What is between you and
Andre is your business. So long as you and Andre are happy together . . ."

"Not to mention that Andre's zits have all cleared up," interrupted
Harry. "Nothing like nice, steady sex to clear up your zits!" Harry laughed
uproariously and gave Greg a squeeze. "You should try it, Greg."

Greg gave Harry a sour look. He did not have zits! "Harry, you can be a
real jerk at times." He looked at Tyler. "We owe Phantom for something that
he did. He told me, he promised me that he would make sure that everything
would be all right. That Steven Tyler . . ." he looked at Harry, "
. . . that Stefan, would be safe."

"He kept his promise to you, Greg." Tyler looked at the assembled boys. "I
cannot tell you what Phantom did to keep his promise. I can tell you that
he made a sacrifice that no man can ever ask another man to make. He did it
for us. For all of us, and now, my friends, it's payback time."

"Tyler, Val, Cory and I, we tried to come up with a way to at least express
to Phantom our gratitude for what he did," said Todd. "He's a funny guy. He
would much rather we forgot about the whole episode and he does not expect
anything in return. As far as he was concerned, he owed us!"

"It was his way of thanking us for loving him, Todd," said Cory. "He's got
this thing about not allowing his friends, the people he loves, to be hurt
in any way."

"As much as Phantom does not want anything in return, he's going to get
it." Tyler looked at Mark. "We are going to have a special parade
tomorrow. He does not know it, not yet, but he is going to be the
Inspecting Officer. He is going to see a parade that is so fucking sharp he
will never forget it. It will be so sharp that none of the cadets will ever
forget it. They won't know Phantom is being honoured. But he will, and we
will, and that is all that matters."

"Special music," rumbled Harry. "The tunes of glory and a special salute,
anything and everything we can do to let him know that we love him and that
we appreciate what he did for us." He shuddered, trying not to think about
what Phantom had done with Little Big Man. "I admire that man, more than he
knows."

"We all do, Harry," said Val slowly. "Phantom has the look that Tyler
thought he'd never see again." He patted Tyler's hand, which was still
firmly on his waist. "In case you think that I don't know what I'm talking
about, well, I've seen the look. I've seen it in my Pop's eyes. He came
over in 1919, just a baby, with his brothers. He was just old enough to
join up in 1939. He has the look. He was at Dieppe, and he made it back. He
was at D-Day, and he made it back. He's not much of a churchgoer, but every
year, on the anniversary of D-Day, and the battle of Dieppe, he goes to
church. He goes to a special Mass that he pays for. It's a traditional
Latin mass, and the bastard priests charge him, big time. He doesn't care
how much it costs. He pays what they ask. When the Mass is over, he stays
in the church. He says the rosary. All day, until the church closes, he
prays and says the rosary. Sometimes my mother stays with him. Sometimes
it's one of my uncles. Next year, I'll be with him."

There was a long, heavy silence in the Gunroom. Finally Harry broke the
spell. How, he wanted to know, did Tyler plan on getting Phantom into his
uniform and on parade. "It seems to me that the last time we did something
for him he ended up as naked as a baby," Harry finished with a
grin. "Unless, of course, you plan on having a nude parade."

"Certainly not," huffed Tyler, trying hard not to laugh. "All Phantom will
know is that he's going to have his picture taken. Nicholas, if Phantom
asks, will tell him that he's taking a Mess picture. Phantom's a Chief so
he has to be in the picture." He turned to Mark. "I'll need your car. I
want Phantom driven down from the Mess Hall to the dais. Todd has something
very special laid on and it happens while Phantom is going down to the
parade square. Can do?"

"Sure," replied Mark with a nod. "We'll even wash and wax the beast." He
turned to Tony and grinned. "Nathan has to pay for his keep somehow."

Tyler turned to Stuart. "We'll need a Piping Party. Three side boys and
. . ."

"We'll be your side boys," said Tony suddenly. "Me, Mark, and Nathan."

"But you're Chiefs!" exclaimed Greg. "At least you and Mark are." He was a
little stunned at Tony's offer. Side boys were always Ordinary or Able
cadets.

"And that, I suppose, means that the sun shines out of our asses?" returned
Tony witheringly. He stood up and placed his hand on Mark's shoulder. "As
far as I am concerned hash marks and eagles don't mean fuck all at a time
like this. You want to honour Phantom, and we want to honour him." He
shrugged expressively. "I don't expect that I will ever know what Phantom
did but I have to think that whatever it was he did was also for
us. Therefore, we will be a part of the parade. I for one have no intention
of standing on the sidelines."

Mark reached up and touched Tony's hand. "When we first came here, you guys
went out of your way to make us, all of us Americans, feel welcome and at
home." He laughed quietly. "Boy, did you make us feel welcome." He raised
his head and looked at the Twins. "More importantly, you accepted us. You
accepted us for who we are, not what we are. We told you our deepest,
darkest, secret and nobody batted an eye."

Harry, who thought that there was altogether too much sweetness and light
going on, and not at all wanting to admit publicly his relationship with
Todd, at least not yet, tried to change the subject. "Fuck man!" he boomed,
causing Greg to jump and Cory to give him another dirty look. "Stuart told
you! You're our brothers. You can tell us anything. We trust you, you trust
us!" He smiled slyly. "Also, you are of the fortunate few!"

"Fortunate few what?" asked Tony. He looked at the Twins who shrugged a
"don't look at us, Harry's gone nuts again" shrug.

"You have seen the Pride!" intoned Harry.

Stuart and Nicholas almost collapsed with laughter. "We've all seen the
Pride! And the Escorts," said Nicholas as he regained his composure.

"Fuck, Harry, you could fill a stadium with the guys who've seen the
Pride!" Stuart shook his head and continued laughing. "About the only ones
who haven't seen the Pride are the Sea Puppies!"

"They've seen it," said Nicholas with a huge grin. "They checked it out
when we were at the Base pool. Andre told me that they calculated how big
it gets when Harry pops a hard and had a contest to see which one of them
could come close. Evan won, I think."

"Nobody comes close," opined Harry loftily. "Certainly not some pimply-face
13-year-old Sea Puppy!"

Tyler coughed loudly. "It seems that we are getting a little off subject,
guys."  Nicholas looked at Tyler. "Yeah, we are," he said softly. He saw
Tyler's arm around Val's waist and thought that if Tyler had the brains
that God had given the Ship's cat he'd forget practicing the parade and
take Val into the Chiefs Mess and . . . He shook his head, dismissing the
thought of Tyler and Val together. "Tyler, I was in Victoria. I was there,
in your room, when you told us what Corporal Britnell had told The
Gunner. I know that Paul Greene's father wrote a letter to SIU. I also know
that before we left Victoria we all agreed, more or less, to just keep cool
and keep our powder dry."

Stuart nodded. "I was there, too. Personally, I would like to know what
made Phantom do whatever it was he did."

Val squeezed Tyler's hand. "Tell them, Tyler. Nicholas needs to know."

Tyler looked at Todd, who nodded slowly. He looked at Harry, who grumped a
bit and then nodded. "We found other letters," began Tyler. "Paul made some
accusations which, if made public, would have been devastating to a lot of
people." He looked at Mark and Tony. "He accused Val, and me, of going into
the barracks at night and molesting the Sea Puppies."

Harry growled in protest. Tyler silenced him with a glance and continued,
his voice full of emotion. "Paul accused The Gunner of having an affair
with Matt, who is Paul's brother. He used every innocent gesture, every
misplaced word, everything he saw or heard, to make us look like the
biggest den of faggots and queers since Sodom."

"The little fucking bastard!" Tony was outraged. "How could he do that? How
could he accuse you and Val of molesting little boys? You're not even gay!"
He shook his fist in the general direction of the Petty Officers
Mess. "Little fuck! It isn't enough that he rats out his mates, he has to
make up fucking stories! Who the fuck would believe shit like that?"

"Too many people, I'm afraid," replied Tyler. "People who, like him, hate
gays. He, and they, know that the easiest way to destroy a man is to accuse
him of being gay."

"Works every time," said Todd. "Little Big Man would have been believed, in
some quarters, at least until the accusations were disproved. Phantom's
worry was that while there was no doubt that Paul's accusations were
nothing but a pack of lies, if the wrong person heard them, and an
investigation started, the people Paul accused would suffer because the
cloud of suspicion would always follow them. I believe that the expression
'Where there's smoke, there's fire' applies." He looked at Tyler. "Yes, we
did, before we left Victoria, agree that we would not act because there was
a Special Branch investigation underway into Paul's father's
activities. Yes, we agreed that we would not, could not, jeopardize the
Special Branch Investigation and yes, we agreed to monitor the situation."
He sighed. "Phantom agreed with us until he read the final letter. He could
not allow The Gunner to be accused of molesting Matt. So, he acted."

Tactfully neither Stuart nor Nicholas mentioned that it had been Tyler who
had decided that they could not jeopardize the investigation. Harry,
happily but most uncharacteristically, also remained silent. Tyler was not
so dishonest as to let this pass.

"I made the decision. I made the wrong decision."

"So you made the wrong decision," replied Todd kindly. "We all make
mistakes."

"It ain't no big deal, Tyler," rumbled Harry. "You can't help being a dumb
Meathead."

"Harry!" Todd scowled at Harry. "Take that back!"

Tyler laughed ruefully. "No, Harry's right. I was a dumb Meathead. I should
have done something about Paul Greene a long time ago. I didn't, and
Phantom paid the price."

Todd could not allow Tyler to stand alone. "Phantom realized that even
though we could, and did, stop the letters coming from here, there was
nothing to prevent Paul from spilling his guts once he got home. Once he'd
read Paul's last letter he had to act. We, Cory and me, we knew what he was
planning to do. We did not agree with him, but you know what a stubborn git
he can be when he puts his mind to it. We went along and we helped him
before the event, and after. Frankly, he did something I don't have the
balls to do."

At the word "balls" Nicholas's head jerked up. He looked at Todd and his
eyes widened. He'd heard the late night talk in the Gunroom, and he had
heard Cory babbling on about Paul being a closet queer and . . . Holy
fuckin' shit!

Tyler had seen Nicholas's face and gave him a hard, warning look. "It does
not matter what Phantom did, Nicholas. What matters now is that none of us
have to worry about Paul carrying tales home."

Nicholas nodded. He would keep his suspicions to himself. He would not even
tell Andre. But, Jesus, Phantom had balls! If he was right, Phantom had
popped little Big Man's puppy. He had proven that Paul Greene liked dick!
That took balls! He could not, however, let it go by that he was not aware
of the danger he and Andre had been in. "Paul would have . . ." Nicholas
slowly shook his head. "Phantom did something which, if I am right, and I
think I am, makes me indebted to him for the rest of my life." He looked at
Tyler and Val. "Paul would have found out about Andre and me. You guys
noticed. It would have been only a matter of time before Paul noticed."

"Yes," said Tyler simply.

"Fuckin' prick!" snarled Tony. "Why the fuck can't people just leave us
alone!"

"Because, Tony, that's the way of it, sometimes," replied Nicholas, his
voice low. With uncharacteristic emotion he continued, "I am not ashamed of
loving Andre. I am not afraid to express my love to him, and he is not
ashamed to express his love to me." He grimaced and shook his head. "People
will make what we have into something dirty. It isn't dirty!"

"Of course it isn't," said Mark. "There is nothing dirty, or wrong in
loving another guy." He smiled at Tony. "What is wrong is that we have to
hide our love, to pretend. Frankly, I am glad that we came out to you. We
might not be able to tell the world, but personally I feel a lot better not
having to hide my love for Tony from you guys."

"For Christ's sake, Mark!" Stuart all but stamped his foot. "I told you,
man, you and Tony, you're our brothers. Harry told you the same
thing. Don't you get it? True brothers are not afraid to tell their
brothers anything."

Nicholas laughed. "Stuart is right. True brothers understand these
things. True brothers accept without question, and support their
brothers. Only a true brother would accept without question the love I have
for Andre, or the love that you have for Tony." He heaved sadly. "Which is
more than I can say for my own brothers if they ever find out. Elliott will
shit a brick! Patrick will giggle and my mother . . ." For some reason
Nicholas began laughing so hard he almost choked.

"What? demanded Stuart as he pounded Nicholas on the back. "What's so
funny?"

The other boys looked at Nicholas, who waved his hand. "I'm all right,
really." He fought to control his giggles. "I don't know what will piss my
family off more, me falling in love with a boy, or me falling in love with
a French-Canadian!" He slapped his knee. "I can hear my mother now." He
pitched his voice an octave higher and widened his eyes until they were the
size of saucers. "You are in love with a boy, Nicholas? You are in love
with a French boy, Nicholas? Whatever is the matter with you, Nicholas?
Could you not have found a nice English boy?"

When the laughter subsided, Tyler regained control of the Gunroom. "So,
guys, we are all agreed? Tomorrow morning is Phantom's?"

They all nodded.

"Well, then, I suppose that we had all better get our asses out onto the
parade square." Tyler stood up. He smiled at each boy in turn. "Thanks,
guys."

"Don't be an ass, Tyler," said Nicholas. "We all still love you, even if
you are a dumb Meathead."

The cadets filed from the Gunroom. Val held back and as Tyler turned to
leave Val reached out and touched his friend's arm. Tyler turned and face
Val. "Stuart was right, you know," said Val softly.

"I know."

"Are we going to at least talk about it?"

Tyler nodded his head. "Yes, we should. I want to talk about . . . us."

"When?"

"Tonight, I guess, after the Dinner. A pained look came over his
face. "Val, I . . ."

Val put his arm around Tyler's shoulder and together they began walking
from the Gunroom. "We'll talk tonight. Tyler. There's just one thing,
though, that I need to tell you now."

"What's that?"

Val grinned slowly. "That maybe I feel about you the way you feel about
me."

******

Harry waited for Tyler outside the barracks. When Tyler and Val emerged he
noticed that somehow the two boys had finally realized what they felt for
each other. Tyler had a slightly stunned looked on his face and he was
blushing furiously. Val looked very pleased and was grinning a world-class,
shit-eating grin. Harry suppressed his own smile. It was about time that
those two dipsticks realized that they were made for each other. As the two
boys came down the steps from the barracks Harry asked if he could speak to
Tyler, alone. Val saw the serious look on Harry's face and took the
hint. "I have to go ahead and set up the parade. You two chat," he said. He
looked at Tyler, smiled, and hurried off.  Tyler waited for Harry to say
something as they walked towards the parade square. He was not at all sure
that he could face Harry if his friend was going to say something about him
and Val.

"I need you to do something for me," said Harry presently. "For Todd,
really."

Tyler let out a deep breath of relief. "What about him? He's not in any
trouble, is he?"

Harry shook his head. "No, he's not in any trouble, nothing like that," he
replied hurriedly. "It's just that I, well, I need you to go with me when I
talk to The Gunner."

"Harry, why do you need me to go with you to see The Gunner? And what has
Todd got to do with you seeing The Gunner?"

"If you're with me The Gunner won't ask me any embarrassing questions."
Harry blushed a deep red. He saw the quizzical look on Tyler's face and
swallowed hard. "I can't let The Gunner know about me and Todd."

Tyler was well aware that Todd and Harry had spent most of Sunday night in
the School of Wind. He had not commented because he trusted both of them to
be careful. He suspected that they had done more than pick out some
music. Harry was a normal, healthy male. Todd was a normal, healthy
male. If they had decided to be together, so what? It was their business
and as long as they were discreet Tyler had no problem with it. He regarded
Harry, who was blushing and wringing his hands like a love-struck
schoolboy. Tyler felt he had to say something before Harry peed his
pants. "Harry, it's all right by me, if you and Todd . . ."

"We're lovers," Harry blurted out. "Oh, shit, Todd will kill me!"

Tyler chuckled knowingly and gave Harry a playful punch on his arm. "Harry,
you dog! You and Todd?"

Harry nodded, a stupid grin on his face. "We, um, yeah. Oh, Tyler, last
night we made love. It was the most wonderful experience of my life." His
face fell. "Please, Tyler, don't be disappointed in me."

"Harry, you are one lucky fucker," returned Tyler. "I'm not disappointed in
you. Frankly, I think it's about time you got over Stefan and got on with
your life."

"You do?"

"I do," replied Tyler sincerely. "Todd is one of the finest boys I
know. He's a wonderful guy."

Harry ducked his head blushed again. "Yeah, he is. I don't know what he
sees in me. I can be such a jerk at times." He smiled happily. "God, Tyler,
he is, well, shit, man. I'm as bad as Nicholas! Every time I look at Todd I
bone up! Shit, Tyler, the Pride is aching all the time.  Every time I look
at him I just want to hold him and hold him and . . ."

Tyler laughed and held up his hand. "I get the picture, Harry. Sounds like
you are well and truly in love."

"Oh, fuck, yeah. I mean he probably thinks that its only sex, but it's
not. I'm in love with him. I'm so in love with him that I can't stand it
when he's hurting or upset. I have to do something to make it right."

"Which is why you need to see The Gunner?"

Harry nodded. "I need to see him but I can't see him alone. He'll start
asking me why I want this favour from him and I'll have to lie to him, and
I don't want to do that."

"Why lie? The Gunner has been around the Horn, and he knows how you felt
about Stefan."

"I can't tell him that I'm sleeping with his son, Tyler." Harry saw the
questioning look on Tyler's face and began an explanation. "Todd and Cory,
The Gunner says they're his surrogate sons. He loves them as much as they
love him. I just can't walk into his office and say, 'Hey, Gunner, I'm
sleeping with your surrogate son and he's hurting and I need you to help.'
I just can't."

Tyler rubbed his chin and watched as Val and his Parade Staff brought some
semblance of order to the assembled cadets. He glanced at Harry, who was
still wringing his hands. "Val has his work cut out for him with the YAG
crews," Tyler observed. He gave Harry a small smile. "Tell me what the
problem is."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He liked Tyler, and he knew that Tyler
would never betray a confidence. "Todd wants to be First Prefect," he
said. "Of his school."

"First Prefect?"

"Yeah. You know, the head boy, or whatever."

Tyler thought about that. "It's a very responsible position. He's the
buffer between the Headmaster and the students. I always thought it was a
thankless job, myself. Too much politics and ass-kissing for my liking." He
shrugged. "However, there's no accounting for taste."

"That's as may be, Tyler, but Todd wants to be First Prefect and he can't
be because some asshole is blocking his nomination."

"Really? One of the alumni?"

Harry shook his head. "He was the First Prefect last year." Once again
Harry blushed. "He's blocking Todd's appointment because, well, last year
they sorta slept together. Had, you know, sex."

Tyler could not help himself. He giggled. "Harry, you do not 'sorta' have
sex with another guy.  You either do, or you don't."

Harry assumed an injured look. "I do not see the humour at all, Tyler! This
guy is using his position to make sure that Todd doesn't get the job. Todd
deserves the job. His father was First Prefect and Todd should be First
Prefect. It's a tradition and this jerk off is stopping it. Todd says that
the guy is doing it because he's ashamed that him and Todd had sex, and
he's using Todd's being gay as an excuse to make sure that he's never First
Prefect."

"I can see that happening. What I can't see is what The Gunner can do about
it. He's not a part of the school."

"No, he isn't," agreed Harry. "But, he knows people. He has connections. I
thought maybe he could talk to some of his friends, or talk to Todd's
father."

Tyler thought of the conversation that he had had with The Gunner as they
sat in the middle of the open field next to the Comox Ranges. "You are
absolutely sure that Todd is being discriminated against because he's gay?"

Harry nodded enthusiastically. "It's what Todd told me, and he never
lies. You know that."

Tyler rubbed the seat of his bell-bottoms. In the back pocket was his
wallet and in the wallet was the piece of paper that The Gunner had given
him. He looked at Harry a moment, and then grinned. "Qui descendunt mare in
navibus facientes operationem in aquis multis," he quoted.

"I beg your pardon?" Harry had not really known what to expect from
Tyler. He did know that he had not expected a Latin quotation.

Tyler gave Harry's arm a squeeze. "Harry, first let me say that I am very
happy that you and Todd have decided to be . . . special friends. So long
as you are discreet, it's nobody's business. I also want to warn you. Todd
is one of the finest guys I know. You treat him right, you hear, or you'll
have me to deal with!"

Harry puffed up. "I intend to!"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist. I'll help you. You don't need The
Gunner for this."

"I don't?"

"Well, maybe if what I plan to do doesn't work. Then we will need him."

Harry gave Tyler an exasperated look. "Really, Tyler, sometimes you do talk
in riddles. What are you planning to do?"

"Plan? I plan to find a telephone immediately the practice is over. I plan
to make a telephone call. If all goes well, you won't have to tell The
Gunner anything." He thought a moment. "But, then again perhaps you and I
should go see him."

"You're doing it again," growled Harry. "First you say I don't need to see
The Gunner. Now you say I should. Make up my mind!"

"Okay, we are going to see The Gunner."

"Why?"

"So you and him can have a talk about a very special thing," replied Tyler
enigmatically.

"Special thing? What special thing? I've seen his special thing and believe
me, Tyler, it ain't all that special."

Tyler, laughing, shook his head. "All will be revealed in due course. Now,
go on. The Band is waiting for you." He shaded his eyes. "They look
cranky."

"They ARE cranky," said Harry with a grin. "Half of them have heat rash and
the other half is on heat. It's very trying at times, Tyler, having to deal
with horny horn blowers . . ."

Before Harry could finish what he was saying one of the service jitneys, a
small, open-cab Japanese truck with a flatbed piled high with green gash
bags, put-putted behind them. Both cadets turned and watched as the
dark-haired driver pulled to a halt in front of the Headquarters Building.

"That guy looks familiar," said Harry. He studied the black-haired,
slim-waisted boy as he began piling more bags of trash onto the already
loaded jitney.

Tyler thought a moment. "That's the guy that Brian decked. The kid from the
Laundromat."

Harry looked again at the boy. "So it is. Looks like he found other
employment after all."

******

Logan Hartsfield slowly pushed the door to the Petty Officers Mess open and
stepped inside.  He listened intently but could hear nothing but the
distant thumping of the Band as the cadets practiced for some parade or
other. He advanced deeper into the long, narrow chamber, his sharp, dark
eyes taking in everything. To his left was a small, walled off cubicle
containing a bunk. He noticed that one of the lockers that formed the wall
of the cubicle faced inward and, while there was a large combination style
lock fitted through the hasp, it had not been closed. To his right,
stretching down the length of the room was a line of five bunks. Each bunk,
like the bunk in the private cubicle, was neatly made up. Between the bunks
were twin six-foot, metal lockers, none of which seemed to have locks. Two
of the locker doors were ajar. Logan smiled at that. Stupid kids, leaving
their lockers open like that. You never knew who might come wandering
in. He looked at the stout wooden chests that stood at the foot of each
bunk, and smiled. Only the two chests at the end of the row had locks
fitted through the hasps.

Logan had not been at all sure what he would find in the barracks. Money,
he hoped. Or a decent watch, a ring perhaps, anything of value that he
could pawn, or sell to one of the tourists in town, anything that would
bring a few dollars from the man who ran Baillie's Box, a man who asked no
questions as to the origins of the bits and baubles that Logan brought to
him from time to time. As he glided silently to the first set of lockers
Logan hoped to find something of value that would bring in a buck. He
needed money desperately.

The sixty bucks that he had earned at Harkness Bay was long gone. His car
was running on fumes and making a hell of a racket. His old man might be
the town drunk but come the end of the month, if Logan did not pony up his
share of the rent money, he'd be out on his ass.

Since his run-in with the cadet Logan's luck, never good, had gone from bad
to worse. Miss Margaret had watched him like a hawk and when she saw him
stealing from the change machine in the Laundromat she had fired him out of
hand. Harkness Bay had been deserted the two times Logan had returned to
the desolate, rock-strewn cove looking for custom. The desolation of
Harkness Bay meant only one thing. Constable Jensen was back on duty, damn
him, and rousting the queers.  Logan hated Constable Harry Jensen, a cruel,
small-minded man who delighted in maintaining an iron discipline in the
Comox nick, a foul, dank building where Logan had been a guest of the Queen
on four occasions. Jensen's ideas of discipline were enforced with a wooden
billy club. Logan's fear of Constable Jensen had driven him to the job
centre where he'd been given a lecture on the Christian work ethic and a
job working as a minimum wage day labourer for the contractor who collected
the military's trash, emptying the honey boxes at HMCS AURORA. Logan drove
a small pickup from building to building, dressed in a hot, dark blue,
too-tight gabardine uniform, collecting the weekend's accumulation of
trash.

As he was making his rounds, Logan noticed that all of the barracks blocks
were deserted. He also noticed that there was a canteen, with a small shop
that sold cheap underwear, cheaper colognes and after shaves, razors,
blades, candy and an assortment of the junk food that appealed to the
average teenage male. A grumpy, stumpy little man, who had eyed Logan every
minute he was inside the canteen collecting the bags of trash, manned the
canteen. Logan ignored the old poop. A canteen, with goods to sell, meant
that there were customers with money. And all those customers were at
present marching up and down the dusty parade square.

Logan stopped from time to time during his rounds and watched the
cadets. There were a hell of a lot of them, three hundred or more if he was
any judge, tramping about the large, open square of hard-packed earth. He
wondered where the cadets would keep the money they obviously had. They all
lived in one of the ten barracks that dotted the base, which meant that
they all had lockers to store their gear, their uniforms and . . . wallets?
A wallet carelessly tossed into a locker last night when the owner
undressed for bed, a wallet forgotten this morning when the same owner
rushed about getting dressed to go on parade, a watch maybe, or a gold High
School graduation ring. With luck, with luck . . .

As quietly as he could Logan opened the first metal locker and peered
inside. There was a transverse metal shelf from which was suspended a
clothes rail. Hanging from the rail were uniforms. One set of the blue
uniforms had white rank badges - a crown set in a wreath - sewn on the
sleeves of the jumper; the other set had gold badges. Both white uniforms
had dark blue, almost black badges sewn on. There was also a white uniform
jacket fitted with three gold buttons on the sleeves, a set of combats and
what looked to be blue denim pants and shirts. The lower half of the locker
was fitted with shelves holding more pieces of uniform. As if laid out for
inspection were heavily starched gunshirts, rolled socks, neatly folded
squares of cotton underpants (briefs for the most part and, except for some
pale blue jockeys, all white). Logan smiled, thinking so much for the
saying that the only thing colourful about the Navy was its underwear.

He continued his snooping. There were folded T-shirts, some notebooks and a
BRCN (Cadets) on physical training exercises. There was nothing of value,
so Logan closed the locker and opened the one next to it. It was almost a
mirror image of the first, full of uniforms and personal clothing. On the
top shelf there was a cheap, disposable razor, a can of shaving cream, a
stick of underarm deodorant and, which brought a smile to Logan's lips, a
jar of Vaseline.

Leaving the lockers Logan moved to the chests that stood at the end of each
bunk, carefully opening the first one. The lid squealed loudly in the empty
room and Logan froze, waiting for someone to ask him what he was
doing. When nothing happened he relaxed and looked into the chest. He found
more T-shirts; some folded blue jeans, a pair of polished black dress
oxfords in a shoebox and, which was a real surprise, what looked to be a
sequinned jock strap. Snickering quietly he knelt down and began to feel
around under the clothing. His fingers touched a round object. He felt
along its length. It was a bottle, obviously a bottle of booze of some
kind, and from the shape of the bottle, rum, or maybe rye whiskey.

Straightening, Logan closed the lid of the chest with a soft thump and
moved on to the next wooden box, not knowing that a sly, fox-like face was
peering through the slightly ajar door that led to the heads and washplace,
or that steel-grey eyes were watching his every move.

******

When he arrived in the Dockyard, Little Big Man found that there was
nothing for him to do. Normally, when he wasn't hiding or goldbricking, one
of the YAG Buffers, or the Squadron Chief, Anders, a banty little prick if
ever there was one, would set him to cleaning and polishing, scrubbing or
painting. This morning, however, all five crews were on the parade square
practicing for Wednesday's dog and pony show. All the boats had been
secured, with cabin doors locked and hatches dogged from below.

Left to his own devices, and with absolutely no intention of participating
in the practice or in Wednesday's festivities, Little Big Man returned to
the Petty Officers Mess where he lay on his bunk, staring at the barren
deckhead and stewing. His encounter with the Twins at breakfast had left
him angry and frustrated. Angry because he had allowed himself to be
seduced into an untenable situation, and frustrated because there was
absolutely nothing he could do about it except keep his end of the evil
bargain he had made with the Twins. Unconsciously he slipped his hand under
the belt of his denim work dress trousers and began to rub the smooth knob
of his penis through his soft cotton briefs.

Paul Greene had never pretended to be the sharpest tack in the box. He knew
his limitations better than anyone else. He also knew when to give up the
fight. The Twins were not given to making idle threats. Everything they
said they would do, they would do. They would destroy him if they had
to. They would also, if he kept his end of the bargain, keep his
secret. The Twins had given their word and while they might be faggots,
they were honourable faggots, and they always kept their word. Rubbing
himself slowly, Paul decided to accept the situation and move on. There
were more important things to think about.

Groaning softly, Little Big Man thought of what he would have to do when he
got home. He would have to be very, very careful in how he handled his
father and that fat little prick, Tumbrel, but at the moment, he had not a
clue as to what he would tell them. Not that it mattered. He had failed in
his mission and they would see to it that he was suitably punished. They
would keep it in-house, so to speak, but he would be punished. Thinking of
the punishment that threatened him, Little Big Man's brows lowered as he
thought of the traitorous Matt. Little Big Man knew that he would have to
protect his brother. But, damn and fuck, how in the hell was he going to
keep Daddy off of Matt's back? He had to protect Matt because if he didn't
he would suffer the wrath of Todd and Cory Arundel, and whatever
organization (and he was convinced that there was such an organization),
they had backing them. Grimacing at the thought of what he had to do, the
grovelling he'd have to do, Paul slipped his hand into his underpants and
felt the warm, curving, slightly sticky helmet that topped his
short-shafted penis.

Deep within him the Beast stirred fitfully.

Little Big Man lay quietly, toying idly with his hard penis, breathing
quietly, watching the dust motes swirling slowly in the vibrant ray of
sunlight that streamed through the window over his head, thinking
further. Matt was a traitor and sooner or later he would pay for his
treason. And pay a heavy price! They would be leaving for Germany soon,
certainly before Christmas, and when they were there . . .

With unconscious deliberation Little Big Man unbuckled his trousers and
then, raising his hips, pushed his trousers and his underpants down to his
knees. His hand rested on top of his boner. He could feel the warmth of his
organ under the palm of his hand. He felt the slimy stickiness that coated
his rosy glans and with his fingers began to toy idly with the special spot
just under the curve of his mushroom where it joined the staff.

Deep within him the Beast began to growl.

Little Big Man began to masturbate. Using his thumb he rubbed the precum
that flowed from his pee slit over and around the throbbing glans of his
pulsing hardon. Waves of pleasure began to roll through him and he forgot
all about Matt and the Twins, remembering instead the details of what he
had experienced in the early hours of Sunday morning, remembering,
remembering and grunting as his body began to shake slightly. His heart
began to pound and his breathing became raspy as his emotions overwhelmed
him, a swirling, conflicting confirmation of the sheer, raw SEX he had
experienced.

Deep within him the Beast roared.

As much as he wanted to deny what had happened, as much as he wanted to
deny the feelings of ecstasy that had rampaged through his body, Little Big
Man could not and as his penis jerked and spasmed under his methodical
caresses he could not deny the feeling of . . . emptiness, an emptiness
that was deep within his body, an emptiness that had been replaced by such
feelings of extravagant fullness by a slim, smooth . . .

Deep within him the Beast rampaged out of control.

Without thinking Little Big Man slipped his free hand between his legs and
probed for the small, twitching, distended orifice. He rubbed his fingers
across the wrinkled opening in his body and rimmed his bunghole, groaning
softly as even more pleasurable sensations slashed through him. He bent his
middle finger and pressed the tip of it against the soft, silky hole. His
body jerked at his touch and his finger slid in. As he pushed deeper Little
Big Man's eyes flew open and his jaw dropped, amazed at the avalanche of
indescribable pleasure that roared and crashed through him with each thrust
of his finger. With his other hand he rubbed and rubbed his knob and from
deep within . . .

The Beast began rising, howling.

Little Big Man squealed, convulsing as ecstasy overwhelmed him. His hips
jerked viciously, then jerked again, and again, and again. Ropey stream
after ropey stream of his watery ejaculate flew from the swollen head of
his dick, spattering across his denim work shirt, dripping into his sparse,
blond thatch of pubic hair, dribbling down the shaft of his spasming
hardon. Squealing, his hips jerking, Little Big Man continued his mad
rubbing until finally . . .

The Beast subsided, slowly sinking back, returning to its hibernation.

******

A deep, distant boom jerked Little Big Man back to reality. His eyes flew
open and he sat up abruptly, silently cursing himself, raging inwardly at
his stupidity for allowing his feelings of forbidden lust to so overwhelm
him, angry to distraction that he had so lost his self control as to beat
off, in his bunk, in a barracks! He looked down at his body, which was
still flushed from pleasuring himself and swore softly. Fuck, look at me!
Look at me, covered in spunk! Shit and Jesus, it's all over my balls, my
crotch, and my fucking shirt! Fuck, fuck, FUCK!

Another distant boom caused Little Big Man to swear again. He never beat
off during the day. Never! Back home he was so careful that he never even
beat off at night in his bed. He shared a room with Matt, who did beat off
whenever he thought that his brother was sleeping. Little Big Man never
gave his younger brother an opportunity to point a finger and always saved
himself for his morning and evening showers, always careful that the
bathroom door was locked and the water running full tilt and muffling his
noises of delight when he popped his nut against the tiles of the shower
stall.

There was another distant boom and the sound of brass band music. Little
Big Man sighed in relief. At least the troops were still fucking around on
the parade square and there had been no witnesses, this time, to his
lust. He listened as the guns roared in sequence, thinking that Todd was
really putting his field gun crews through their paces. Little Big Man lay
for a while, enjoying the fading afterglow of what had been a monumental,
ball busting orgasm, massaging his cooling semen into his skin, resisting
the urge to lift his fingers to his lips, to taste . . .

Abruptly, disgusted at the thought of eating his own cum, Little Big Man
swung his legs over the side of his bunk and stood up. He pushed his
trousers and underpants down and stepped out of them, then stripped off his
soiled shirt and threw it into the corner. He felt gritty and soiled and
needed a wash. Opening his locker Little Big Man grabbed a pair of clean
briefs and, naked, hurried into the washplace.

******

Little Big Man stood before one of the sinks in the washplace and turned on
the hot water tap. He was rewarded with a thin trickle of lukewarm water
and snarled an unhappy oath. God, did he want a proper shower. A long,
scalding shower! Which was, of course, a no go until 2130, when the water
would be turned on and the cadets would be allowed to wash their bodies for
all of three minutes, every minute under the gimlet eye of Phillip, or
worse, Mal. He hated showering with the other cadets, and had ever since
that morning last year when he had boned up at the sight of Harry and the
Pride. The other cadets never let him forget that morning, and never let
slip an opportunity to insult him and point out, as Willy put it, all his
shortcomings.

Looking at his reflection in the mirror fixed to the bulkhead over the sink
Little Big Man frowned.  He thought that he had a zit coming in. Not that
it mattered a damn. Nobody gave a shit if his whole body turned into a zit.

He splashed the tepid water over his crotch, wiping away the residue of his
morning's foray into pleasure, then scrubbed his pits. He'd forgotten to
bring a towel so he used some of the rough paper towels from the dispenser
to finish his ablutions, slipped on his clean underwear and walked to the
door, wondering idly as he pushed the door open what he would do with
himself for the rest of the day. It was then that Little Big Man heard it,
a soft thump, a sound of something closing. He started and quickly backed
into the washplace. Somebody was in the Mess. Somebody had come into the
Mess, somebody who was not supposed to be there because all the cadets were
on the parade square.

Little Big Man pushed the door open a crack and peered into the Mess where
he saw a slim back of a tall youth, a youth dressed in the dark blue
uniform pants and shirt worn by the men who picked up the gash and policed
the grounds, one of the day workers, slowly sifting through the contents of
Phillip's sea chest. Paul's heart skipped a beat. A thief! There was a
thief in the Mess!

******

Logan closed the lid of the chest he had been rummaging through and swore
softly. Shit! Don't none of the little bastards have anything but uniforms
and ratty underwear? He was about to head toward the next set of lockers
when he heard the sound of a door being opened. He turned and saw a short,
blond, skinny boy dressed in his underpants, staring at him.

"Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing in here?" Little Big
Man snarled dangerously.

Logan began to stammer a reply. "I'm . . . I'm . . ." He swallowed
hard. "I'm just collecting the garbage," he managed.

Laughing cruelly, Little Big Man glared at the slim-bodied youth. "You're a
fucking liar!" He took a deliberate step forward. "You are a thief! You're
a liar and a not very good thief because you got caught!"

"Please, no trouble!" Logan held out his hands, palms outward in a begging
gesture. "Please, I'll just go."

Little Big Man's lips curled into a sneer. "Go? Go so you can go rifling
through some other barracks?" He stared coldly at the slim, black-haired,
white-faced youth. He felt no fear, felt no anger. His eyes slipped lower
and he examined the well-packed bulge in the front of the youth's uniform
pants. He grinned and the slumbering Beast awoke.

Logan wanted nothing more than to get out of this place. He was not afraid
of the skinny kid confronting him. He was afraid of what would happen to
him if the kid reported him to the authorities. He was deathly afraid of
what would happen to him when the MP's dragged his sorry ass into the Comox
Lockup, what would happen to him if he wound up in the custody of Constable
Harry Jensen.

"Look, please, I made a mistake," Logan whined. "I didn't take anything,
please, you . . ."

Little Big smiled evilly. He felt a tingling in his balls and the more he
stared at the youth's crotch the more his dick hardened. He saw the look of
fear on the youth's face and realized that this teenage interloper was his!
The dark haired teenager was afraid of him, Paul Greene, afraid of what he
could do to him. An adrenaline rush of power surged through Little Big
Man's thin body and his dick strained against the fabric of his briefs and
the Beast within roared. "You made a big mistake sneaking in here," said
Little Big Man with an icy chuckle. He licked his lips. "A big mistake," he
repeated, his voice raspy.

His eyes wide with fear Logan regarded the skinny boy only a foot or so
away from him. Christ! The kid's white briefs were tented; his hardon was
clearly outlined under the thin fabric! Shit, he's getting off on this!
He's got a fucking HARDON! Logan returned the kid's stare, wondering what
was going to happen to him. He tried to stare the kid down but the
steel-grey eyes continued to bore into him. Logan swallowed hard. The kid
was not afraid of him and he was not going to back down. As Logan watched,
slack jawed, a small patch of dampness appeared on the front of the kid's
Jockeys, a damp spot just about where the head of the kid's hard dick would
be. "Please, just let me go, okay?" Logan wanted OUT of here. "I'll do
anything . . ."

Almost immediately Logan regretted his choice of words.

Little Big Man did not reply. He continued to smile his evil smile, his
eyes taking in the youth's curly black hair, his firm, broad face, his
muscular young body, and the thick bulge in his gabardine pants.

The Beast was awake, roaring and clawing.

"You're a thief," hissed Little Big Man. "One word from me and you go to
jail." He laughed coldly and his hand flashed out and found the bulge in
the youth's trousers. He squeezed gently, feeling the firm flesh hidden by
the synthetic fabric. "A pretty boy like you won't do very well in the
glasshouse, now will he?"

Logan, who knew all too well exactly what would happen to him in the
"glasshouse", gulped, his face a mask of tortured surprise. The kid could
not possibly want him to . . . The kid's hand, gently squeezing his dick
and balls told him exactly what he wanted. "I . . . please . . . stop," he
begged, panic in his voice. "I'm not . . ."

"Shut up!" snapped Little Big Man. "You're a thief and unless you do
exactly what I tell you, you'll go to jail." He looked at the youth, who
was sweating and gulping nervously. Another rush of power flooded through
Little Big Man him and his dick pulsed. He had this youth. He leaned
forward and pushed his face into Logan's. "You will do exactly what I want
you to do," he said with slow deliberation, "because if you don't, I'll
scream rape." He continued to squeeze and fondle the youth's crotch,
feeling the youth's penis harden. "I'll tell them that you broke in here,
that you were trying to rob the place and that when you saw me with nothing
on but my underwear you attacked me, you molested me!"

"You . . . you wouldn't . . ." gasped Logan.

Little Big Man squeezed the youth's dick harder. He had learned the lesson
of fear from two very good instructors. He felt the hard column of flesh
and smiled grimly. "Oh, but I will," he whispered.

"Why are you doing this?" Logan was almost weeping from fear and shame. He
could feel his penis responding to the slow manipulation of the kid's
hand. "I'm not . . . I don't . . ."

"You're not a queer? A Nancy boy?" Little Big man chuckled a low, dangerous
sound that sent shivers of fear up Logan's spine.

"No," replied Logan, his voice quavering. The hand on his crotch began to
knead his balls and Logan moaned quietly. He bit his lip, trying to will
his erection to subside. He hesitated just a few seconds too long before
answering the kid. "I'm not . . . I'm not a fag!"

Once again the quiet of the Mess was broken by Little Big Man's harsh,
caustic laughter. His hand squeezed Logan's parts and he looked directly
into Logan's eyes. "You can lie, boy," he whispered cruelly, "but your cock
can't lie. It's stiff and its probably dripping juice. Yeah, your cock
can't lie. You've had another guy's hand on your dick before."

Not waiting for an answer Little Big Man quickly undid the belt of Logan's
trousers, unzipped them and pushed them and his boxer underwear down,
exposing his hard dick and large, low-hanging balls. Little Big Man looked
down and examined the heavy piece of flesh that he was fondling. The
youth's uncircumcised penis was darker than the rest of his tanned body,
heavily veined, and rose out of a thick, dense forest of curly, black pubic
hair. The head of his penis, which was large and flared like an arrowhead,
was covered by a smooth sheath of skin that ended in a small ridge of
wrinkled flesh. As the youth writhed Little Big Man slowly pushed the
youth's foreskin down to reveal the dark pink, wet looking head.

Logan gasped and moaned slightly. Nobody had ever touched him like this
before.

"I thought so," sneered Little Big Man. The Beast was raging in him. His
dick was harder than it had ever been before and the front of his briefs
was soaked with precum. He began stroking the hard tube of flesh. "You've
been this way before."

Little Big Man chuckled evilly as the youth's dick, eight inches of strong,
hard, thick, heated flesh, pulsed. He continued to massage the youth's
cock, seeing the veins that criss-crossed the dark flesh thicken, and the
foreskin retract, the smooth, hard head peeking out of a reddened ridge of
flesh.

Logan, who had never expected to be sexually molested in this citadel of
masculinity called AURORA, tried to pull away from the crazy kid. He felt a
sharp stab of pain scream from his balls. The kid was squeezing his balls,
squeezing hard. He looked into the kid's cold and merciless eyes. "Please,
you're hurting me!"

"I wouldn't have to, if you'd do what you're told." Little Big Man returned
to his fondling. He was totally in control now. The youth would do anything
he wanted him to do. He glanced down at the huge weapon jutting out from
the youth's body. Once again he pulled down the foreskin. "This better be
clean," he warned.

Logan could not believe what he was hearing, what was happening to him. He
could feel his dick, his balls, his body, responding to the manipulating
hand. His cock, hard as steel, and oozing small rivers of precum, screamed
for him to let the fondling continue. His brain demanded that he do
something else, to protest, to stop this craziness. "You're nuts!" he
managed to say through clenched teeth as another wave of exquisite pleasure
flashed through him. "There are . . . the other cadets . . ."

Little Big Man cocked his head and grinned. "You hear the drums beating?"
Logan nodded. "That's the Inspection music," Little Big Man explained. "The
Ceremony has only just started. Everybody will be out there for at least
another hour, maybe more if they fuck things up the first time. No one is
coming in here."

Logan's eyes darted quickly around the Mess. He wanted to be away from
here, but knew that until the kid got what he wanted there was no way that
he would be allowed to leave. He knew now what the kid wanted. He stared
into those eyes boring into him with icy calmness. The kid wanted
sex. Those eyes told Logan nothing and the kid's calmness frightened
him. The kid wanted to get laid and Logan knew that nothing he said or did
would prevent that from happening. "What do you want me to do?" he asked in
a frightened whisper.

"What I tell you to do," replied Little Big Man enigmatically. He pulled on
Logan's huge erection. "I asked you a question. Is this thing clean?"

Logan nodded. "I . . . I took a shower before I came to work. I always
clean . . . down there."

"We'll see," replied Little Big Man with a snort. Still holding the youth's
hardon he pulled him into his cubicle. "Push down your pants and then sit
down," he ordered brusquely.

Logan obeyed. He pushed his boxers and trousers down until they were
bunched around his ankles. He sat on the bunk, staring at the skinny kid's
crotch, staring at the darkly outlined, hard penis hidden under the thin
fabric of the now soaked cotton briefs he was wearing.

Nodding curtly, Little Big Man walked to the end of his bunk and opened his
sea chest. He searched a bit and then straightened. In his hand he held a
small jar of Vaseline. "My mother, kind soul that she is, always packs this
for me." He snickered and handed the jar to the youth. "She thinks I use it
when I get chaffed or wind burned."

Logan watched, mesmerized, as the kid pushed down his underpants and
stepped out of them. His reddened penis throbbed and dripped. His scrotum,
as red as his penis, had drawn up into a small, wrinkled pouch. As Logan
watched the kid's dick bounced slightly as his breathing became heavy. "I
won't suck your dick!" Logan exclaimed abruptly, trying to gain some
measure of control, trying to regain a small part of his dignity.

"I don't recall asking you to suck my dick," replied Little Big Man with
alarming calmness. This boy had to be shown who was in charge. His hand
flashed out and he slapped the youth's face.

Logan, more startled than hurt, fell back against the wall of lockers and
rubbed his cheek. "What the fuck did you do that for?" he demanded.

"You were not told to suck my dick. You were told to SHUT UP!" Little Big
Man's steely eyes bore into the youth. "Now shut up and do what I tell you
to do. If you don't . . ." His voice was diamond hard and the look in the
youth's eyes told him that he did not have to continue with his threat. He
pointed to the jar of Vaseline that the youth had dropped on the bunk,
turned around, and bent over. "Grease me up," Little Big Man ordered over
his shoulder. "Use lot's because you've got one big dick there." His face
grew hard. "Be very careful when you grease me, understand?"

Logan's hand was shaking as he dipped his fingers into the thick
lubricant. This kid was crazy! "You want me to . . . fuck you?" he asked,
his voice quavering.

Little Big Man nodded. "Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Now do
what I told you to do! Grease me up!" He shivered as the youth's Vaseline
smeared fingers slowly circled his brown pucker. "Stick your finger in and
twirl it around," he ordered as waves of pleasure slammed from his rim. He
glanced down at the youth's throbbing member, which seemed to have gotten
bigger and saw that the huge, purple head was fully exposed. He shuddered
in anticipation.

Logan slowly, very slowly, inserted his finger into the kid's bum hole. His
one, his only experience with anal sex, so many years ago, had never
included sticking his finger up . . . Christ, he couldn't remember the
guy's name! He could remember that he'd never stuck his finger up the guy's
bum. Not that such a thing was unknown to him. He knew that some guys loved
sticking their fingers up their ass as they jerked off. He'd seen one of
the faggots doing just that when he was patrolling Harkness Bay. Some guys
got off on that sort of thing. Logan had never tried it and frankly did not
want to.

"Deeper! Fuck me deeper! FUCK ME WITH YOUR FINGER!" growled Little Big Man.

Logan moved his finger in and out of the kid's butt hole, each time feeling
the tip of his finger touching something soft and smooth, something just
behind the kid's balls. Whenever his finger bumped whatever was up there
the kid jerked and squealed.

Each time that the youth's finger brushed his prostate Little Big Man felt
a jolt of exquisite electricity arc through his body, causing his painfully
hard dick to jerk and squirt out small geysers of precum. God, he wanted to
be fucked, to be filled with that huge piece of meat that the youth had
sticking straight up in the air. He wanted to be fucked so badly! He could
feel his asshole expanding, relaxing, and he prepared to accept that
wonderful shaft.

"Two fingers," gasped Little Big Man. He felt the single finger being
withdrawn and quickly replaced by two well-lubricated, stiff fingers. He
groaned louder. As the two fingers brushed his prostate the feelings within
Little Big Man deepened and intensified. In his lust filled mind he
realized that if he continued he would shoot his wad. He did NOT want that
to happen. Not Yet. "Stop," he ordered through clenched teeth.

Logan quickly withdrew his fingers. The kid turned around, a look of wild
abandon on his face, which was pale and broken by an almost insane grin of
desire. Logan stared at the kid's dripping, pulsing dick. He was no
stranger to circumcised cocks. Hell, every boy in town, except for him and
the Indian boys from the reserve, had been circumcised. He saw them every
time he'd gone to gym class or changed to go swimming in the town pool. But
never had he seen a dick like this one! The top of the kid's shaft, above
the pale brown ring, was so red that the knob looked as if it was on
fire. The kid's balls had retracted until they were barely apparent, and
the sac was almost as red as his dick.

Wordlessly, Little Big Man snatched the jar of Vaseline from the youth's
hand. He dug out a huge blob of the lubricant and began to masturbate
Logan, spreading the lubricant slowly down the length of the youth's
penis. His hand pulled down the youth's foreskin and he rubbed a large
dollop of Vaseline around the curving glans. Logan sucked in his breath and
bucked. He groaned loudly. Jesus did that feel goood! He watched as the kid
tossed the jar to one side, and then climbed onto the bunk. He began to
breath harshly when he realized what was coming. The kid straddled his
hips, reached around and fisted his roaring hardon.

"You're going to fuck me, and fuck me hard," snarled Little Big Man.

Logan nodded dumbly, not quite believing what the kid was forcing him to
do. "It's awful big," he groaned in warning as the kid lowered himself. He
felt the flared head of his penis bump against the hot flesh of the kid's
hole.

Little Big Man, his eyes glazed with lust, ignored the youth's muttered
warning. He lowered his body, feeling the huge head probing his hole. He
pushed down and felt a sharp stab of pain roar through the sensitive
membranes of his anus. He ignored the pain knowing that soon, God soon,
pleasure would replace the pain and the emptiness would be replaced with a
wonderful fullness.

They both gasped as Logan's arrowhead broke the barrier ring of Little Big
Man's chute. Their groans grew louder as Little Big Man, with excruciating,
exquisite slowness, lowered himself until his ass cheeks and balls were
buried in the forest of public hair that surrounded the huge dick that was
fully inside of him. He moaned and clenched his fists, breathing harshly as
his ass muscles clenched the hot shaft.

Logan had never, in all his young life, felt anything so tight, so warm,
and so gloriously wonderful. Instinctively he began to thrust his hips
slowly, working his dick in and out of the grasping, twitching hole.

Little Big Man, slack-jawed, his body convulsing with lust, growled and
moaned with each thrust of the thick dick that filled him, sated him,
overwhelmed him with sheet lightning flashes of raw pleasure. "Fuck me," he
growled. "FUCK ME! FUCK ME HARDER!"

At first Logan was determined to get this whole unpleasant fuck over
with. He knew that he could, had he wanted to, hold off cumming for a long
time. He had wanted, at first, not to hold off, to get his rocks off as
quickly as he could, to get out of this place, but not now, sweet Jesus,
not now! Logan was being transported into a place so glorious that he could
barely think straight. He wanted the feelings that were coursing through
his dick as he rammed it as hard as he could into the kid's ass never to go
away. Every time he thrust into him the kid's ass muscles contracted and
sent darts of exquisite pleasure into his body. Radiating pulses of
exquisite JOY spread from Logan's groin. He wanted to cum, he wanted to
fill this kid and . . . Sweet Jesus, not now! Sweet glorious JESUS!

"Fuck me, fuck me deeper. DEEPER! MAKE ME FEEL IT!" Little Big Man was
jerking up and down, plunging downward to meet the up thrusting cock that
was savaging him. "Stick it up me! Fuck my ASS!"

Logan, his balls approaching detonation, his dick spasming and pulsing,
thrust viciously, ravaging the kid's clutching hole. His heart was pounding
as it had never pounded before. His breathing was hard and laboured. With
each deep thrust he grunted loudly, wanting to hold back, wanting to
prolong the pleasure, WANTING to fuck this kid into oblivion.

With each savage thrust of the youth's dick Little Big Man's entire body
quivered and shook, so ravaged by the exquisitely painful pleasure that he
wanted it to never end. His insides felt so wonderfully on fire that he
lost all reason, his whole body becoming one huge, pulsing, steaming
orgasm. He felt the indescribable feeling, a pressure dome of body searing
ECSTASY overwhelming his consciousness. Suddenly the dome blew apart and he
began cumming, squealing as long, ropey strands of his semen squirted from
his quivering dick, his cum spattering across the youth's work shirt,
forming a line of ragged pearls from his chin to his waist.

Logan, so engrossed in the overpowering sense of wonder that had replaced
his very soul, did not hear the kid squealing nor did he see the kid's dick
erupting and spewing his hot fluid. All he knew was that he was
experiencing the most viciously intense orgasm he had ever had! Jesus GOD!
Needlessly, he began his mantra of pleasure. "Cumming . . . I'm fucking
CUMMING!" he moaned as his cockhead thickened and began ejaculating
powerful, almost endless jets of his semen deep within the kid's body. As
wave after wave of fiery glory smashed through him he leaned forward,
grasping the kid around the waist, thrusting mightily and grunting his
mantra.

Little Big Man, the Beast rampaging through him, continued to pump his hips
up and down as he nuzzled the youth's neck. The raging Beast within him
wanted more. Clutching the youth tightly he bounded madly, rubbing the
secret spot under the head of his dick against the fabric of the youth's
shirt. He ground his raging, hard penis into the cloth and all too soon he
squealed loudly as another, stronger orgasm devoured him.

Logan, beyond all caring, continued to thrust his hips, nuzzling the kid's
chest, biting the kid's sex-hardened nipples, thrusting and thrusting,
unable to control himself. He heard the kid squeal and felt the hot wetness
spreading across his shirt. Within seconds of the kid nutting, Logan
experienced a second, more explosive orgasm, so explosive that he lost all
sense of reason.

Overcome, both boys growled and moaned until finally, they released each
other. Logan fell back, banging his head on the lockers that formed the
wall of the cubicle. His heart was beating so fast that it threatened to
tear through his chest.

Little Big Man raised himself from the youth's softening organ. He smiled
happily and fingered his soft dick, jerking at the wonderful sensitivity of
his crown. For several long minutes he enjoyed the afterglow of sex until,
too soon, he felt the pleasure ebbing. Slowly he regained his reason and he
moved from the bunk. He stood and gazed icily at the sex-flushed youth
sprawled on his bunk. "You can go now," he said, his tone hard, without a
hint of remorse or gratitude.

Logan returned the kid's look. He knew that the kid had used him. The kid
had given him the most glorious fuck of his life and he still felt
used. Those eyes told him that he was nothing but a fuck, a means of
getting off and he felt like the lowest hooker to ever stroll the
waterfront. He caught his breath and nodded slowly. He looked down, first
at his shirt, and then at his soft, slimy cock. "Can I at least clean up?"
he asked quietly.

Little Big Man shrugged indifferently. "The heads are around the corner of
the lockers." He snatched up his soiled underpants and began to clean
himself. "Be quick about it."

Logan pulled up his underwear and pants and hurried into the heads. He
scrubbed his cock and balls as clean as he could with cold water and then,
using a paper towel, wiped the evidence of the kid's lust from his
shirt. He could not look at himself in the mirror that hung on the wall
over the sink. Feeling disgusted and worthless he left the washplace and
began walking toward the door, wanting to put all of what he had done
behind him. The kid's voice pulled him up short.

Little Big Man had wrapped a towel around his waist. On the bunk he had
laid out a pair of fresh white briefs and a clean gunshirt. He gazed at the
youth, a mean look on his face. "You're a good fuck." He held out his hand.

Logan saw the $20.00 banknote the kid was holding out to him. He shook his
head, no.

"Go ahead, take it," snapped Little Big Man. "It's what you came into the
Mess for, isn't it?" He smirked knowingly. "You needed money. I needed to
get fucked. A fair exchange, don't you think?"

Sadly, the kid was right. Logan did need the money. He hesitated. Every
instinct told him to just get the hell out of barracks. But he needed the
money. He reached out and took the banknote, thinking that at the end of
the day what was the difference between taking this kid's money or trolling
Harkness Bay and letting some queer pay him for the privilege of sucking
him off? Either way you looked at it, he was a whore. Logan rolled the note
into a tight, small ball and shoved it into his pants' pocket.

Little Big Man nodded smugly. "Too bad I'm leaving on Thursday. You could
have made some more of that." His face hardened as he said coldly,
"Remember, this morning never happened."

Logan nodded and returned the kid's stare. He never wanted to be reminded
of this morning again. His lips were dry and his heart was pounding. He
knew deep within his being that this kid, whoever he was, was
dangerous. "This morning never happened. I was never here," Logan replied
slowly. "Can I go now?"

******

When the practice was finally over and the equipment carefully secured,
Todd dismissed the gun crews and Cory walked off the parade square, heading
for the Gunroom to change.

As Cory passed the breezeway flats he saw Two Strokes sitting on one of the
benches nursing a Coke. Cory walked over, sat down beside Two Strokes and
nudged him with his elbow. "Buy me a beer, sailor?" he murmured
seductively.

Two Strokes gave Cory a sour smile. "You're not old enough to drink. And
don't start anything."

"Hey, treat me right. You might get lucky," returned Cory. He leaned
closer. "Tiger."

Pulling away, Two Strokes glared at Cory. "Go away, Cory. I'm not in the
mood."

"Suit yourself." Cory shrugged and stood up. If Two Strokes wanted to sulk
he could damn well sulk alone. He started to walk away.

"Wait!" Two Strokes waved his can of Coke, beckoning Cory to return. "I'm
just being an asshole."

Cory wanted to say that he agreed with that particular statement. However,
he said nothing and returned to sit beside Two Strokes. He waited
patiently, humming tunelessly and beating a soft beat with his fingers on
his knees.

"Tyler thinks that I'm a jerk and an asshole," said Two Strokes
presently. "He doesn't like me."

Cory shook his head slowly. "I don't think he doesn't like you . . ." he
began tentatively.

"Then why won't he tell me what is going on?" Two Strokes slammed the empty
Coke can into the gash bucket that stood beside the canteen door. "Why
won't he tell me, no, why does he refuse to tell what tomorrow's parade is
all about?"

"Perhaps he doesn't want to?" Like Tyler, Cory did not entirely trust Two
Strokes and he was not about to tell the thin boy anything.

"Why?" demanded Two Strokes indignantly. "I'm part of his Regulating Staff!
I might need to know!"

"Obviously Tyler feels that you don't." Cory shrugged with pretended
indifference. "Have you tried asking Tyler what is going on?"

"I did!" Two Strokes held up his hand and waved two fingers at
Cory. "Twice! I asked him twice what the parade was all about and both
times he blew me off!"

"Then take the hint, Roger. Tyler isn't going to take you into his
confidence. Forget about it and just go with the damned flow!"

Two Strokes gave Cory a dirty look. A light of understanding came into his
eyes. "You stayed behind, after our meeting. You know what's going on!"

"Yes." Cory returned Two Strokes' hard look. Today had been a day of shared
confidences, of friends trusting friends. He would not tell Two Strokes why
tomorrow's parade was so important, or why it was being performed because
he would never have understood this morning's events. Two Strokes would
never have accepted the love and trust that existed between the cadets this
morning. And that was exactly why he could not be trusted.

"We're supposed to be friends, yet nobody trusts me," said Two Strokes
angrily. "What the fuck have I ever done . . .?"

"Why do you only tolerate me, Roger?" asked Cory softly.

"What? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means what it means." Cory looked into Two Strokes' eyes. "You want to
know why Tyler doesn't confide in you. Think about the question I just
asked you. Then you might understand."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" blustered Two Strokes. "What the
fuck! Tolerate? How can you say that I only tolerate you? I resent that!"

"I said it because it's the truth," returned Cory bluntly. "You're my
friend, I think, but at the end of the day you only tolerate me. And Todd."

"That's not true!" Two Strokes was becoming very angry. "How can you say
that, think that, after all we've been through?"

"What exactly have we been through, Roger?" Cory looked upward, gathering
his thoughts. "We share the Gunroom. We slept together, naked, when we were
on the sailing trip. I took a splinter out of your dick." He smiled,
remembering the happy times. "All true. All things that friends do together
and all totally innocent. But Roger, please, be honest with me for once. I
know, and you know, that deep down inside you only tolerate me, and people
like me. I can understand that. You're here, I'm here. We have to live
together so we do. You take the easy way out and while you tolerate me, you
do not accept me."

"Damn it, Cory . . ."

Cory held up his hand. "Tell the truth, Roger. If you were back home would
you even associate with me, or Todd? Would you go out of your way to
welcome me to your school? Would you invite me into your home, ask me to
have dinner with your family, spend the night? Would you?"

As much as Two Strokes hated to admit the truth, Cory was right. As much as
he had deep feelings for Cory, and Todd, as much as he wanted to deny
Cory's words, he could not. "I live in Orangeville, Ontario," Two Strokes
began slowly. "You've heard of the Orange Order, the Lodge? We're not
Orangemen, but . . . Shit, Cory, I live in redneck country!"

"That is a very convenient excuse, Roger. It is not a reason. There is a
reason, though, so do not insult me by expecting me to believe that you
cannot accept me because you live in 'redneck country'."

Two Strokes saw the hurt in Cory's eyes. "Cory, I want to be your friend. I
really do! But, I can't! I just can't."

The anger left Cory. Two Strokes was struggling between feelings of real
friendship and something deeper, something that prevented him from being a
true friend. Cory wondered if it was fear, or conditioning, or his
upbringing and education? Not that it mattered. In the world that Two
Strokes lived in friendship with a gay boy was not an option. "You cannot
accept me, Roger, and that is why Tyler does not trust you," Cory said, not
unkindly. "Tyler accepts me, and Todd, and the others, for who we are, not
what we are. He accepts us for all our differences. Tyler accepts. You
merely tolerate."

Two Strokes closed his eyes and shook with embarrassment. He wanted to be
Cory's friend, yet he could not, and he struggled to find the words to
express his true feelings. He wanted to deny Cory's assertion, but he could
not, because . . . "What you do, what you and Todd do together . . . it
disgusts me!" he blurted out.

Cory nodded slowly. At last, the truth was emerging. But, what was the
truth? He cocked an eyebrow. "As much as what you did on Texada and
Harwood?" he asked in slow, measured, tones.

"I . . . what . . ." Two Strokes tried to sputter a denial. Cory could not
know what had happened on Texada and Harwood Islands!

Cory looked directly into Two Strokes' eyes and his protest died. Cory's
voice was cool as he said, "Please, Roger, don't bother. I do know the
difference between a cold Swiss Army knife and a hot, stiff cock." He
smiled coldly. "Especially if the cock is up the crack of my ass!"

Two Strokes wanted to die right there. He hung his head, shamefaced, then
turned to look at Cory. "You never said anything. Not about Texada, or
Harwood, or when I blew after you took the splinter out of my dick. You
never a word . . ."

"Come on, Roger," said Cory with a loud snort. "Do you really think that
you are the first guy to get all horned up when he's in bed with another
guy?" He chuckled. "At least you had the courtesy to roll away when you
squirted." He saw the confused look on Two Strokes' face. "You're a heavy
breather and you grunt and jerk like a mad thing when you squirt," he
explained.

Two Strokes gave Cory an angry look. "What did you do, take notes?"

Cory laughed quietly. "Hardly. You're like everybody else. You've convinced
yourself that you've mastered the silent jerk off. Frankly, I wish you
could master it. You, and all the others. It would make sleeping in the
Gunroom a hell of a lot easier. And quieter."

Two Strokes felt humiliated. "I'm sorry about that, Cory. Really, I don't
know what happened."

"Roger, please, you have no reason to apologise. I told you, you're not the
first guy it's happened to. You won't be the last." He thought a moment and
his face softened. "Besides, it's me who owes you the apology."

"You do?"

Cory nodded slowly. "When you shot your load after I took out the splinter?
I made you do it. I knew just how to do it so I did it. I did it quite
deliberately."

"You made me cum?"

"Yes, I deliberately manipulated your dick and yes, I made you cum." He
laughed ruefully. "At the time I wanted to prove a point."

"A point! You jerked me off, you manipulated me into blowing a wad, to
prove a point?"

"Yes, I did," admitted Cory with a curt nod. "I did not, on Texada, or on
Harwood, or in the Gunroom, particularly want your dick. I did not want it
then, I do not want it now." His voice grew stony. "I pulled your pud to
prove to myself, and to you, that straight boys, given the right
circumstances, the right place, will bone up, play, and never give it a
thought in the morning!"

"I thought about it! I thought about what happened between us," protested
Two Strokes. "Don't you ever think that I didn't! Shit, for a while I
thought that you were trying to turn me queer!"

Cory stiffened. "DO NOT ever use that word around me again, Roger, or I'll
forget our friendship." He was quivering with rage. "You're just like all
the rest! You think that just because I like you as a person all I'm really
interested in is getting into your pants!" He stood up and pointed a
shaking finger at Two Strokes. "You think that I'm incapable of having a
friendship with a 'straight' guy, a relationship based only on true
friendship. Sex, it always comes down to sex! Because I like you, and want
to be your friend you won't let me, because I'm gay and everybody knows
that all gays want is to suck a straight guy's dick or get a straight guy
to fuck them!"

Cory was much too angry to stop. He'd had enough of this nonsense. "Well, I
have a news flash for you, Two Strokes," he continued, wanting to hurt the
confused boy. "I am not like that. I do not open my mouth or spread my ass
cheeks every time a guy whines that he needs a buddy to help him with his
'problem'. I won't deny that I've had my share of one-night stands. Hell,
it comes with the territory!" He all but shook his fist at the amazed Two
Strokes. "But, let me tell you this, Roger, there's a guy down in the
Dockyard who wanted to be my 'buddy' because he wanted to get laid! There's
another guy passed out in the Chiefs Mess who could have been my lover, but
isn't, because he liked dick too much. Any dick! Anywhere!"

"Cory, please, I didn't think that at all!"

"Yes, yes you bloody well did!" raged Cory. "You told me yourself. You
thought that I was trying to turn you queer! You give me no credit for
having feelings that do not involve sex! You as much as said that all you
think about me is that when I'm with a guy all we do is fuck! Well it
doesn't work that way as far as I'm concerned." He turned to walk away,
then turned back. "I want you to know something, Roger. I accept you, I
accept you with all your faults, all your phobias, all your prejudices and
all your mythical beliefs about gays! I accept you just as Tyler accepts
me, accepts Todd, and Jon, and Chris, Nicholas, all our messmates. I accept
all of them for who they are, Roger. Tyler accepts them for who they
are. But you, Roger, you just tolerate them and that, my friend, is why
Tyler will never take you into his confidence!" He turned on his heel and
left the flats.

******

Two Strokes, stunned at Cory's outburst, watched his friend's retreating
back. He had never known how Cory really felt about him, or how he felt
about other boys, and Two Strokes now realized that he had allowed his
bigoted beliefs, his stupid accusations, and his cutting words to blind
him, to not see the real Cory. He had insulted and hurt Cory. He had
insulted a true friend, a friend that was walking out of his life, which he
did not want to happen. He jumped up abruptly and chased after Cory. "Stop,
Cory," he yelled. "Please, stop!"

Cory stopped, turned around and regarded Two Strokes, who was hurrying
after him. "Why should I stop?" he asked coldly. "I disgust you, remember?
I want to turn you queer, remember?"

"STOP!" yelled Two Strokes, his face a mask of pain. "Stop saying that!" He
shook his head violently and was close to tears. "Please, Cory, don't
freeze me! Please, I want you to be my friend!"

Cory was calmer now. "Why?" he asked. "I'm gay. I was born gay. I will die
gay." Shaking his head Cory went on sadly. "Friendship is a two-way street,
Roger. I cannot, and will not, be friends with someone who thinks that one
night I'm going to crawl into his bed and rape him!"

"I don't think that," murmured Two Strokes. "I never thought that!"

Cory waved his hand. "That's as may be, Roger. The fact remains, though,
that you want a friend who will go down a nice, straight arrow street with
you. If that's the case, then I suggest that you go see Little Big Man."

Two Strokes' faced clouded. "Don't ever even think that! I am not like
him. I never was!"

"No, you're not," sighed Cory. "I apologise for saying it. It was unfair,
and unkind." He smiled thinly. "I also apologise for manipulating you into
an orgasm without your knowledge or permission. I should not have done
that, and I am truly sorry."

Two Strokes giggled. "Well, you did prove your point. You also got me to
thinking about myself, about . . ."

"You are not gay, Roger."

"I know. Still, I thought about it."

"Good. Did it perhaps get you to thinking that what I do with Todd and yes,
what I've done with other guys, is no more disgusting than what you did
with that girl last summer?"

Two Strokes thought a moment. "Well, I suppose if you put it that way,
yes." He smiled sheepishly. "I also think that you enjoy what you do a hell
of a lot more that I did that night!"

Cory returned Two Strokes' grin. As they slowly walked toward the Gunroom
he put his hand on Two Strokes' shoulder. "I understand, Roger, how you
feel, and, in a way, why you feel the way you do about gays," he began
slowly, choosing his words. "But, I would also ask you to understand and to
accept Todd and me for who we are, not what we are, and to try to
understand that we do not form a friendship with the idea of getting into
the guy's pants." He laughed scornfully. "If anything, the opposite is
true."

"You mean guys just want to be your friend so that you can . . ."

"Suck him off? Let him fuck me?" Cory finished Two Strokes' thought. "Yes,
I mean exactly that. Guys find out that I'm gay and they think that I'll
roll over and let them have what they want." He looked around and nodded
toward the parade square. "It hasn't happened here, which is surprising
because every previous time I've gone to camp somebody has tried to be my
good buddy and the next thing I know he's standing in front of me with his
pants down and his pecker up!"

"Then you know that what happened on Texada and Harwood . . ."

Cory grinned. "Was totally innocent. You snuggled up to me, against a warm
body. You responded, your body responded to the stimulus of my body. You
did not crawl into that sleeping bag with a hardon, or with the intention
of doing anything other than sleeping."

"My dick was soft," muttered Two Strokes.

"I know that," returned Cory. He gave Two Strokes' shoulder a
squeeze. "And, except for two totally understandable lapses, it stayed
soft." He smiled sadly. "Which is more than can be said for some of my
so-called friends."

"It must be pretty bad, being gay and having guys want to . . ."

"It happens all the time, Roger," interrupted Cory. He smiled a small,
wicked smile. "Now, I'm not denying that a few times I went along. Let's
face it, sometimes when it's offered, a guy just can't say no."

Two Strokes nodded and returned Cory's little smile. "Sorta like me, last
year. She offered, I accepted."

"Exactly. That's another thing that pisses me off with you straight
guys. You all think that it's fair ball to boff any girl who is willing to
put out. Nobody thinks anything about it. Yet when it comes to gays, well,
that's horrible and disgusting. We do have urges, you know, and yes, we do
respond to opportunity. But, and as much as I hate to question or dispel
the myths of your childhood, I must tell you that more often than not I did
not, and do not, take up what is offered."

"That is not what I thought," insisted Two Strokes, "I mean, I've known you
and Todd for what, four years? You never tried anything that I know of."

Cory chuckled. "Then you are one of the few who think that way. Which is
what I am trying to get you to understand, to realize that while you now
know that I am not what you thought I was, you did believe the myth that
all I was interested in was getting into your drawers. A lot of guys that
I've roomed with believed the same thing and all they ever ended up doing
was meeting with Mrs. Fist and her daughters."

Two Strokes laughed. "Like that guy you mentioned, the one in the
Dockyard?"

Cory nodded. "We were in Kingston, and shared a room in the Stone
Frigate. He was so straight acting and never even hinted that he wanted
something from me. Then, one morning, he wouldn't get out of bed. We were
late for parade and the little dickhead wouldn't get out of bed. Stupidly I
told him that if he didn't get out I'd be getting in. He looked at me and
pulled back his covers. He had a tent in his Fruit of the Looms and a gleam
in his eye. I got the message."

"And sent it back?"

"Yes, Roger, I sent it back." He shook his head. "See, you're doing it
again. You're thinking that I would have jumped the guy's bones. I
didn't. He was only 14, he was horny, and he really didn't care about
anything other than getting his rocks off. Also, I was going through one of
my periodic fits of morality. He wasn't a bad guy, and I didn't want him to
start something he might regret later. I didn't want to be responsible for
him discovering that he was gay. Call me silly, call me nuts, but I just
could not do what he wanted me to do. I laughed it off, treated it like it
was a joke, and left. He never mentioned it again. Never really bothered
with me after that. He still all but crosses the parade square to avoid
me."

They entered the Gunroom and went to their lockers where they began to
undress. Two Strokes was relaxed and happy that he and Cory had talked. He
understood now what a terrible burden Cory and Todd lived with. He had
never imagined what it was like to be gay, to have people know that you
were gay and try to take advantage of your being gay. He also understood
that what he had thought about gays was wrong. He stripped off his
gunshirt, shaking his head at his stupidity. Cory had been right. He had
only tolerated the Twins. He had believed what his father had told him,
what his older brother, the other kids in school, and the minister in his
church, had told him about gays. Their words had clouded his judgement and
warped his reasoning. They had been wrong. But what was not wrong was that
he wanted Cory to be his friend. He had to make his peace with Cory.

"Cory?"

"Roger?"

Two Strokes stepped out his bell-bottoms and carefully hung them in his
locker. He looked at Cory over his shoulder. "If I told you that I love
you, as a friend, would you believe me?"

Cory, who was in the process of stripping off, thought a moment. "Yes, I
would. I know you feel a kind of love for me." He pushed down his boxers
and stuffed them into his dhobi bag. "Though you might want to rephrase the
words."

Two Strokes turned and looked at Cory who, not unexpectedly, was naked. In
his hand he held a pair of issue shorts. Cory always went regimental under
his shorts so Two Strokes was not surprised that he was naked. "Why?" asked
Two Strokes, colouring slightly as he spoke. "I can say I love you, you
know,"

Cory grinned. Two Strokes was standing beside his locker wearing nothing
but his white briefs and grey socks. "Well, dressed like that, you might
want to reconsider saying that you love me," he chuckled.

Two Strokes laughed and pulled back the sides of his underpants, showing
the outline of his penis and testicles. "I meant what I said! I love you as
a friend and my dick is still soft!"

Cory raised his hand and placed it against his brow. "Another hope
crushed!"

Two Strokes laughed quietly. Then, much to Cory's surprise, Two Strokes
walked over and embraced him. He looked into Cory's clear, blue eyes, then
leaned forward and pressed his lips against Cory's. As they embraced the
classic tip of Cory's naked penis brushed against the equally classic tip
of Two Strokes' penis hidden under his underpants.

As their helmets touched a small tremor of electricity rippled through
Roger Andrew Home's body and a small seed was planted, a seed that would,
in time, germinate and, as the years passed, flower and bear fruit.

With effort, Two Strokes ignored the feelings coursing through him. He
smiled slowly when their lips parted. "That was only a kiss of friendship,
from an accepting, confirmed, straight boy to a gay friend. He hugged Cory
again and whispered in his ear, "Tiger."

Cory knew that something special had happened. He was not, however, going
to let Two Strokes know that he knew it. Two Strokes would have to find and
walk his own path to the future. Still . . . He reached down and squeezed
Two Strokes' soft dick. "And that," he said, laughing quietly, "is a quick
feel of friendship from a confirmed gay boy to a straight friend." He
waggled his eyebrows and growled, "Tiger."