Date: Sat, 7 Jun 2003 08:56:07 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Phantom Of Aurora: Epilogue

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).


The Phantom of Aurora: EPILOGUE


The Phantom lapsed into an uncharacteristic silence as they approached the
trailer park that marked what passed for a suburb off the town of
Comox. The Gunner did not disturb him. Phantom had had so much thrust upon
him this weekend and had been catapulted from being a carefree, teenaged
boy, into young manhood. The boy had found himself, had made love - always
a seminal event - and had been made love to. He had learned a few patent
truths about what life in general could do to a gay boy, and learned the
realities of the cruelties that he faced. The Gunner well knew the turmoil
that The Phantom was experiencing, a turmoil made heavier by his admission
to himself that he, no matter how much he temporized, or rationalized, was
different from the vast majority of his peers. He was a young gay man in a
world that could not and would not accept him.

The silence of the car was broken by The Phantom's murmured request to pull
over and stop. The Gunner acquiesced and nodded, then watched as The
Phantom left the car and stood on the edge of the sloping beach, staring
across the waters at the lights of AURORA. "What is going through his
mind?" The Gunner asked himself. "Is he finally realizing what lies in
store for him? Is he having second, third, or even fourth thoughts about
what he is, what he has done?"

As he stood beside the car, watching The Phantom standing on a lonely beach
The Gunner wondered if the same thoughts that had gone through his mind
when he was 17 were going through The Phantom's mind; the self-doubt, the
fear, the utter abhorrence of self. The Gunner remembered all to well the
sleepless nights, the nights of tossing and turning, the days and weeks and
months of denying, denying that the heft of the bulge in his team-mates
baseball pants was more important that the heft of their arms when they
threw the ball. Denying, denying the urge when standing next to another boy
in the toilets to let his eyes slide down and peek at the small.  . . or
large . . . or medium length of flesh hanging from his pants. He thought of
the hours spent on his knees, before bed, before Mass on Sundays, praying,
begging, and pleading, with God to change him, to take away the feelings,
the urges, the need. He remembered the whispered promises to be good, if
only God would make him like the other boys, would save him from a fate he
could not understand, and did not wish to accept.

Suddenly a flash of white streaked across the darkness of the summer sky,
dimming the diamond sparkles of the stars, disappearing as suddenly as it
had come toward the western mountains. The Gunner caught the fading corona
out of the corner of his eye. "A shooting star," he thought. "A star to
make a wish upon."

>From the darkness The Gunner heard The Phantom's low chuckle. "A shooting
star," The Phantom said softly. "Make a wish, Stevie."

"A shooting star. Make a wish, Stevie."

The Gunner started as the words evoked . . . A figure, vague and
indistinct, appeared before The Gunner, hazy, a figure from his past, from
the days of . . . home.

"Make a wish, Stevie."

The image sharpened and he saw his mother, beautiful in a long tartan gown,
her neck and ears glittering with the green fire of the emeralds she
wore. His mother, standing in the doorway of the screen porch of their
house back in Lakefield, his mother framed by the light spilling into the
darkness of that winter night so long ago, his mother silhouetted by the
light from the hallway behind her.

"Make a wish, Stevie."

The memory of that night, that dark, winter night, flooded back. It was the
night of the Rabbi Burns Dinner at the Legion. Saturday, the 23rd of
January 1965. The Gunner was barely two months past his 16th birthday and
he was busily scraping the ice and snow - the aftermath of the storm that
had broken the January thaw - from the windscreen of the family sedan.

"Make a wish, Stevie."

What had he wished for that night, the night that would forever change him?
The Gunner remembered looking at the scudding, snow-laden clouds as they
darkened the darker winter sky. What had he wished for? Had he wished for
the fear that plagued his every thought, that rent his dreams, would go
away? Had he wished that the terror, the sheer, mind-numbing terror that
his horrible secret would be discovered, would leave him and give him
peace?

Or had he wished that the images of the boys, the beautiful boys that came
to him in his fantasies as he masturbated, would become reality. Had he
wished that Danny Tzotzis - short, compact, glorious Danny - would one day
strip off his the skimpy Speedo he always wore when swimming, and reveal
again his magnificent, four-inch penis, and low hanging perfect balls, and
show him how big his plump, perfect weapon became, and if the circumcised
head turned a darker pink than it normally was?

Had he wished that the feelings he felt, feelings that caused a stirring in
his loins and his penis to harden, feelings that threatened to overwhelm
him whenever he went skinny-dipping with his chums and saw Pauly Tralla's
sleek, slim genitals, all pink and blond, bouncing as he went flying from
the old tire they had hung by a rope from the branch of the tired old tree
that overhung the waters of the swimming hole?

"Make a wish, Stevie."

What had he wished for? Had he wished that he would no longer lie in bed at
night and wonder what it would be like to run his tongue along the smooth
ridges of the head of Tommy Tiverton's dick while playing with the dark
hairs that dusted Tommy's balls, balls that tightened and retreated as
Tommy approached orgasm?

A low chuckle escaped The Gunner's throat as he thought of the other boys,
his schoolmates, his playmates, the boys of his childhood, boys he secretly
dreamed about, boys that he had lusted after: Jeffy Clarke, tall, rugged
and who, at every ballgame, would bend over, his hands on his knees,
waiting patiently to steal a base and not knowing that his uniform pants
were so thin that they could never hide the outline of his briefs, or the
ridges formed by the straps of his jock. Kevin Callahan, tall, dark, with
movie star looks, who would, along with his best friend, Colin Mialik, grow
tired of small town Canada and travel south to Buffalo, New York, where
there was a U.S. Army Recruiting Office. Neither Kevin nor Colin would ever
return to the small town of their birth, their young lives cut short in a
strange, foreign land called Vietnam.

"Make a wish, Stevie."

Had he wished, then, that he could stop wondering what treasure lay hidden
under the denim coveralls the Mennonite boys habitually wore when their
worked their fathers' fields, wondering if the few Mennonite boys who had
been born in the town hospital - as they sometimes were if the birth was
too much for the midwife and neighbour ladies - had been circumcised as a
matter of routine, as all the other boys were, or did the Mennonite
religion forbid such a practice? Had he wished that John Adams, who had the
roundest, plumpest behind in town, would spend as much time with him as he
did with Bill Tsoukalas, a recent newcomer from the city, and was Bill
really all Greek under the white tights, pleated skirt, and tasselled cap
of the Royal Hellenic Guards that he had worn to the Senior Prom?

The Gunner had spent four of his first seventeen years lusting after boys
he knew he could never touch.

"Make a wish, Stevie."

Whatever he had wished for on the deathly cold night was forgotten, because
the next morning he had answered a knock on the front door and found the
town Constable and his parish priest standing there. The Gunner pushed the
horrible memory from his mind.

"At least," The Gunner thought grimly, "Phantom does not have to run away,
as I did."  His rueful chuckle became a deep mocking laugh. He had run away
after his parents died, to become man. He had joined the Navy because the
Navy would make a man of him, make him into the being God would
not. Everybody knew that there were no queers in the Navy. If he joined up,
took the Queen's Shilling, he could not be queer.

The Navy would make a man of him. Everybody said so. So he had travelled to
Toronto and, with his disapproving uncle at his side, had presented himself
at HMCS YORK, and signed the papers.

He had not counted on the feelings intensifying, or the urges all but
overwhelming him as he struggled to sublimate his true self while living in
a barracks filled with young, handsome, virile boys who exhibited their
charms constantly. He had not counted on the Enderly brothers, one 18, the
other 19, farm boys who thought nothing of parading around the barracks
naked, exhibiting their fine, sleek wares, or "Spud" Murphy, or "Tinker"
Bell, who played soccer for the Base team, city boys who knew the score and
gave each other a hand job behind the barracks every night before going to
bed. He had not counted on Richard "Irish" Thomas, with flaming red hair on
his head and crotch, and the peaches and cream complexion that only Irish
genes produced, and a long, slim, cream and pale pink penis that ended in a
perfect, arrowhead shaped rose-coloured knob. He had not counted on impish,
pudgy little Gordy Spatas, whose dick, a round-headed knob for the most
part, gave him his nickname of "Stubby". He had not counted on "Fettuccine"
Alfredo Trastavere, a muscled, devilishly handsome Italian from Toronto's
Little Italy, who had a thick, sheathed dick with, when he pulled back the
thick foreskin, a huge, bell-shaped, plum-coloured head. He had not counted
on fey, blond Don, who lusted after his messmates, and whose messmates
lusted after him. Don would gain a certain notoriety for not only taking
Fettuccine Alfredo as his lover, but for holding the longest short arm
inspections in the history of the RCN after remustering to Sick Bay Tiffy,
and for dressing as a Barrington Street girl, crashing the Base Christmas
Party and sitting in Santa's lap (the Base Chief Gunnery Instructor), who
was decidedly not amused.

What was worse was that The Gunner had not counted on mistaking the hand of
friendship for the hand of lust. He had not counted on falling in love and
he had not, in all his dreams, expected the rejection, and the manner in
which the rejection was so violently expressed.

Thinking now, The Gunner realized that he had learned his first lesson of
survival in CORNWALLIS: never, ever expose your true self to anyone. Build
a wall, project an image, hide, never reveal. He had not lied to The
Phantom, really. He had become a right shit, Young Canada, the straightest
thing on two legs. And lay in bed at night listening to the whispers and
the muted moans as Don pleasured one of his barracks-mates and wishing,
wishing that Don would creep through the darkened room and stop, and reach
down, and touch . . .

The Gunner shook his head violently to clear the images of his youth from
his brain. It did no good to dwell on the past, on what ifs or might have
beens. He needed to think of the future, of Phantom's future, of their
future together. Teach him, David Clayton had said. Teach him to
survive. Teach him that there is a life for him.

In many ways The Gunner felt a great sadness. The long days that rolled
beneath the deep blue sky, the days when Phantom did not have a care in the
world, had come to an end. Phantom's days of innocence were over. In two
short days he had learned some very hard truths, about himself, about the
world beyond Comox. The Gunner had told the Twins that day on Texada that
they were about to enter a world of men. Phantom, too, was entering that
horrible world, where there were no places untouched by men. But The
Phantom would not know the torments of self-doubt and self-recrimination
that had so plagued The Gunner. The young man would make his way in full
knowledge of himself, his sword would never sleep in his hand and he would,
amidst the dark satanic mills, build a Jerusalem in Canada's green and
pleasant land.

A soft wind blew from Heron Spit, setting the ground clutter of twigs and
dead leaves to skittering around The Gunner's highly polished shoes, and
bringing to The Gunner a sense of . . . contentment. He no longer feared
what lay ahead because now he was no longer alone. There was a calmness in
The Gunner's soul, because now he knew that the waters ahead, while strewn
with rocks of hatred and shoals of bigotry, were calmer, and that more than
one hand would be on the helm that led his ship, and The Phantom's, to a
safe haven. How many hands there would be he did not know. How many hands
would grasp the tiller of hope he could not know, just as he could not know
how many hands would lose their grip and slip away into the maelstrom of
self-doubt and despair. What The Gunner knew, would never doubt, was that
together, with The Phantom at his side, they would reach safe waters.

The Gunner turned his eyes to the harbour and he saw the distant lights and
he knew, now, that there was no need to make a wish. Across the dark waters
there were others, and he knew his destiny. He stared at the boy he loved
above all endurance. He would help Phantom; he would lead him, and guide
him. He would accompany Phantom down the long road and by God's grace
together they would both attain their goals and a certain place in the sun.

******

The Phantom stared across the black waters that separated Comox from
AURORA, his sharp eyes watching the flitting shadows that blocked the
bright lights that lined the AURORA jetty. From time to time he could pick
out a gleam of white and visualized the member of the Dockyard Duty Watch
as they went about the business of shortening lines and bringing in the
gangways of the YAGs. The tide was on the flood and before it peaked
upwards of 9 feet of water would fill the harbour. Later, when the tide
ebbed, the cadets would lengthen the lines and push the gangways out again,
completing the never-ending cycle of neap and floodwaters.

The Phantom experienced a feeling of déjà vu. He had stood here, on
the shore of Comox Harbour, not so very long ago with the waters creeping
slowly down the sloping beach, watching and breathing heavily with
anticipation. A thought crossed his mind. The pathway that led from the
road to the treasure houses of AURORA would be obliterated now, the waters
rising to scant inches below the rim of the raised roadway, the sand and
sea grass reclaimed and returned to the sea by the rising waters.

A pathway he would no longer travel.

Everything had changed. He had changed. Less than a month ago he had stood
and watched, and listened, barely able to contain his lust and
anticipation. Barely a month ago he had looked on the cadets not as beings,
but as objects, warm, breathing things attached to warm, indescribably
desirable cocks. It had not mattered who was the owner of the thing he
desired most. It had not mattered, then, where the boy was from, what his
hopes and dreams and fears were. None of that mattered, then.

A soft sigh escaped The Phantom's lips. Now, now those same cadets were
friends and lovers, possessors of souls and hearts and minds, boys who
feared and hoped and dreamed. He no longer thought of them in terms of lust
or overwhelming desire. The Twins were still his golden knights, earthbound
children of the gods, touchable, no longer ethereal beings to be dreamt
of. He owed them a great deal. They had laughed and joked about him losing
his cherry, about him no longer being a virgin. In those vulgar, laughing
terms, Todd had fucked him - God how that word grated. The Phantom had made
love to Cory, and therein was the difference. Before Todd, The Phantom
thought his actions, his movements, the things he did, crude, cold and
calculating. Now, after Todd had made him feel love for the first time, he
understood the enormity of the gift Todd had given him. He understood the
enormity of the gift that he had given Cory, the gift that he had refused
Ray. Three nights ago Todd had made love to him and taught how to
love. Three nights ago The Phantom had made love to Cory with intensity and
consummate tenderness. Because of the Twins he now knew the difference
between sex and love.

The face of Ray swam into his consciousness, Ray, sweet, adorable, Ray, his
first love, the boy who had unknowingly claimed a place in The Phantom's
heart that not even the Twins could fill. The dark-haired, dark eyed boy
who would always be in love with him. The boy who so desperately wanted The
Phantom to make love to him, the boy who was infatuated to the point of
desperation. The Phantom unconsciously shook his head. He would make love
to Ray one day. They would give each other the gift of each other. They
would exchange that gift one day, when Ray had learned to love.

The Phantom thought of the other boys, of Sylvain and Andre, of Anson, who
was no longer just a sturdy boy with a thick dick and huge balls that hung
low and inviting. He thought of Brian and Dylan, of Ryan and Rob and David,
of Thumper - the thought occurred to The Phantom that he did not know the
boy's actual first name. He must have one, but everyone called him Thumper
so Thumper he would remain - and he thought of Tyler and Val, strong,
vibrant, god-like in their own way because they represented the best of
their breed and kind, young men of respect and for that alone The Phantom
loved them. He thought of Mike, a gentle, tormented boy who hid his fear
and humiliation with quiet dignity and iron-willed determination. He
thought of Harry, huge, loud, blustery and boastful, a little boy entombed
in the body of a man, a little boy who loved long and deeply.

The Phantom recalled The Gunner's words as they drove down to Victoria, of
how The Gunner needed a special something, a special appeal, before he
would seek solace in another man's arms. He recalled The Gunner's words and
knew that no matter how close he became to Harry, no matter how much he
loved Harry, no matter much Harry loved him, they would never be lovers,
would never know the joy of each other. The special spark of desire, the
special intriguing something was not there, just as it was not there with
Jeff Jensen, or Robbie, or a hundred other boys.

The image of Matt suddenly popped into The Phantom's view and he suddenly
realized that deep within him a small flame shone. Matt evoked feelings of
love, of protection, of nurturing. The Phantom could not understand the way
he felt about Matt. He only knew that Matt was someone he wanted to be
near, and with, and to hold. Matt evoked feelings not of desire, although
that would come, he thought. No, Matt was someone to be loved and
cherished.

Thinking of Matt brought a frown to The Phantom's face because it made him
think of Little Big Man, a seeming nonentity who, poisoned by fairy tales
and myths, would use his brother to revenge himself on his imagined
tormenters. Strangely, The Phantom did not hate Paul Greene. He pitied him,
yes, and loathed everything the thin, scrawny boy stood for. The Phantom's
lips curled into a sneer and he snorted because in a perverse way Little
Big Man could be trusted . . . trusted to continue to be predictable in his
bigoted and hateful ways. Paul would never change and would never be a
friend. He would always be an enemy that one day, and The Phantom suspected
in the not far distant future, would have to be dealt with and he wondered
if Paul's predictability, and his hatred, could be used against him. Just
how he would bell this particular cat he did not yet know. He only knew
that he would do it.

The more he considered his growing relationship with the other boys, the
young men of AURORA, the more The Phantom realized that each of them had,
in his own way, contributed to his growing feelings of love and real
trust. They were, with one exception, his lovers, his brothers, his
friends. He thought of The Gunner asking if he, The Phantom, would place
his trust in those boys. He knew now that he would trust them, love them,
cherish them, protect them and help them, his brothers, his friends, and
his lovers. All save one, for no matter the inducement, no matter the
reasons, the flame did not burn for Sylvain. There was no reason for it;
there was no rhyme of it. He did not trust the boy, and he could not
understand the nagging, gnawing seed of doubt deep within his soul whenever
he thought of, or was near, Sylvain.

The soft clunk of a car door being closed broke The Phantom's reverie. He
turned to see The Gunner smiling softly at him, The Gunner, his lover, his
friend; his protector, his mentor; his teacher. The Gunner, the man he knew
above all others to be his soul mate, the man whose life was predetermined
to be entwined with his, the man who had promised him nothing but would
move heaven and earth for him. The Gunner, the man he would walk down the
long road of life with, a life of days watching the clouds roll by and the
grasses wave in the wind; a life too, with threatening skies and torrential
rain, but a life together, united and unafraid.

The Phantom realized that his childhood was over, for he had learned to
care and he had learned to love. He was a man now and it was time to put
away childish things. It was time to take on the mantle that seemed
destined for him. It was time . . . so he returned The Gunner's smile, took
a step forward, and reached out his hand.

******

"Did you make a wish, Gunner?" asked The Phantom. "You saw the shooting
star?"

"I saw it, and no, I did not make a wish, Phantom," replied The Gunner
quietly. "There was no need to wish, because I know that wishes will not
make the things that we must do happen."

The Phantom nodded and followed The Gunner's look to see the twinkling
lights of AURORA. He squeezed The Gunner's hand. He held his head high, for
he knew that he and his Gunner were destined to never again allow hatred
and prejudice to rule their lives, to never again allow fear to enter their
souls, to never again hide in the shadows.

He was strangely calm, standing beside his Gunner, at peace even though he
knew that his life was inextricably entwined in the lives of the beautiful
boys whose love he held close to his heart, the laughing, sparkling,
wonderful . . . Boys of AURORA.