Date: Thu, 4 May 2006 08:56:02 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: A Sailor's Tale - Chapter 3

"A Sailor's Tale" is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead),
events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2005 by John Ellison

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or
by any means without the prior written consent of author, excepting brief
quotes used in reviews.

WARNING: While this chapter does not contain any depictions of sex acts of
any nature, the usual warning is offered: This story contains graphic
depictions of sex between consenting adult males and/or teenage
males. Please do not continue reading if you are offended by this genre of
erotic literature, if you are underage or if this type of story is illegal
where you live.

A Sailor's Tale

Chapter Three


	As I drove back toward the base my mind wandered and I considered
my situation. I was returning to a life I loved, a life I had wanted. I had
been drawn to the sea and despite the hatred, and the bigotry, the hiding
and the constant lying I wanted to be a sailor.
	The problem, I finally admitted as I approached Esquimalt Road, was
that deep down I was heartily sick of the whole deal. I think that
everybody, sooner or later, comes to a point in his life when he has to
admit the truth, and the truth was not at all pleasing to me.
	I was 27, and was 14 months away from finishing my "12". I had
joined the Andrew just five months shy of my 18th birthday, right out of
high school and signed up for the maximum tour - 12 years. All too soon I
would have to sign on for a second tour of eight years, with a 20-year
pension at the end of it. Or I could say to hell with it and send in my
papers.
	I drove past the gates to the Dockyard and swung onto Fraser
Street, driving down to Saxe Point Park. I parked the car and walked for a
bit, and then settled down on a body of water called, ironically,
Inspiration Cove!
	I settled down on the beach and tried to think. The thing was, I
couldn't make up my mind. On the one hand, I was still young enough to be
thinking about a new career. I had enough money saved to keep me afloat for
at least a year, and I was half thinking about going back to school. I
could keep my money and find a job in Civvy Street, although I could not
see too many career opportunities coming my way any time soon. I was a
trained gunner, but sadly 4.7-inch guns, the caring and feeding of, did not
look too impressive on a resumé, especially in the anti-war, anti-military
climate of the times.
	I absently skipped some stones across the placid waters of the cove
and smiled inwardly. If all else failed I could always join the Corps of
Commissionaires, a quasi-military security guard service that limited its
recruitment to former military personnel and ex-RCMP officers. This did not
appeal to me at all. The Corps was run on military lines and run by old
soaks that hadn't had an original idea since the Corps was formed back in
England in the 1840s!
	I was considering all my options because, always in my mind was the
knowledge that sooner or later the law of averages would catch up to me,
and I would be out on my ass. Sooner or later I would make a pass at the
wrong guy, in the wrong place and I would be sitting in Naden glasshouse
waiting for my administrative release.  The RCN did not deal kindly with
faggots.
	Nor did the rest of the world. This was in the days before the Gay
Rights movement. Gays had no rights. I could go on about it but what the
hell, we've all been there. As far as the RCN was concerned gays were a
security risk, and not employable in any capacity. The least that could
happen was a quick discharge. Depending on the circumstances it could mean
jail time in Edmonton if you were caught in the west, or Gagetown, if you
made a mistake in the east. Not a pleasant prospect at all, if you get my
drift. Any gay serviceman with an ounce of sense was deep, deep in the
closet and not about to come out any time soon. And I was right there with
them: gay, and very much in the closet.
	I thought of Brad being the belle of the barracks. The guy
obviously had a death wish. Keeping his barracks mates happy was one thing,
but Goddam, Goddam, blowing them in the heads was inviting trouble. What
irked me was that Brad didn't even bother to pretend! He was a skank, liked
dick and enjoyed living up to the accepted stereotype that a queer would
suck or fuck anything that showed hard. I couldn't then, and don't now,
understand people like him.
	Thinking back, I know I was being judgemental. As a gay man, I
should not have been, but I was. I didn't want to be associated with him,
or other gays like him. I was not the stereotypical gay man. I didn't act
effeminate, I didn't put the moves on the Fleet, and I sure as hell didn't
give out blowjobs in the heads. Again, thinking back, I was a right,
guilt-ridden prat! I had been hiding in the closet for so many years that I
failed to see the coming revolution on the horizon.
	The times were changing. More and more people were questioning the
prohibitions and demanding the right to live their lives, as they wanted to
live them. More and more people were turning their backs on the accepted
norms and poking society in the eye and saying: "This is me, this is who I
am. Accept me if you want, but if you can't, than fuck off and leave me
alone!"
	Sitting on that beach, seeing, but not seeing the placid waters of
the cove, I could have said to hell with it. But then, I thought, if I did
that, I would be giving up on myself, on my conviction that I could be just
as good at what I did as the "straight" sailors. In other words I would be
admitting defeat, and giving in to the prejudices - and that I could not
and would not do. The Navy might not want me, but I wanted the Navy.
	Was I being selfish? Probably, but damn it, I was good at what I
did, and it was not that I did not know what I had to do if I wanted to
stay in. Hell, I'd been doing for 11 years. More if you counted my
childhood and teenage years. I knew when I accepted the Queen's Shilling
what I must do to survive, to prove my worth, to prove, if only to myself,
that I was a man. I had determined a long time before that I was gay, but I
was going to make my career in the Navy. I knew the rules, and I obeyed
them. I didn't like the rules, but I obeyed them!

******

	Being gay, and in the Navy, meant I lived a double life. During the
day I was all macho, and while I played the silly games, and told the
anti-fag jokes, drank beer and smoked "with the boys" I would lie in my
bunk at night, fantasizing about those same guys, beating my meat for all
it was worth. I never touched any of them. They were off limits. They were
in uniform and guys in uniform, well, I couldn't take the chance.  Not in
the Mess, not in the Dockyard. Not in Esquimalt after a large night in the
Legion or the Fleet Club.  Were there other gays?  Sure. The signs were all
there. I even knew a few.
	I wasn't all that bad looking, and for sure nobody was going to
keel over in a dead faint when I walked by, but I was well built and had a
good, muscled chest.  I kept in shape by swimming as often as I could and I
played baseball and a little soccer.  I had a nice, firm butt.  I kept my
brown hair trimmed short, and, if I do say so, cut a pretty good figure
when I walked down Esquimalt Road.
	I had more than my share of come-ons, of side glances that glanced
just a little too long, of little rubs, against my arm, a hand lingering
just a minute too long on my knee, the guy "just making a point". But I had
seen, and heard, what could happen if it got out that you were queer and
fucking a fellow sailor. It was not a pleasant prospect.
	Not too long before I returned to Esquimalt from an ill-fated tour
with the UN in Vietnam, a Sick Bay Tiffy (Medical Corpsman) killed
himself. This in itself was not uncommon. For any member of the military
the isolation, the back biting, the unrelenting pressure, all took their
toll. Some, hell, many, took refuge in the bottle. Others, an increasing
number, sadly, sought solace in the contents of little dime packages sold
by furtive, sly-eyed pushers on half the street corners in town. Others
kept their secrets hidden, coping as best they could with their hidden
fears. Some managed, some did not.
	The death of any member of the Armed Forces, whether on duty or
not, under what were described as suspicious circumstances was always
investigated by the Special Investigations Unit, the SIU, the investigative
branch of the Military Police - politely called the MPs, but also known as
"Meat Heads" for their perceived inability to function above the level of
an aspidistra or, in our politically correct, bi-lingual service, "Têtes de
Viande".
	The members of SIU spent much of their time ferreting out gays and
other "undesirables".  They never seemed to notice that the Barracks reeked
of marijuana, or that not ten feet from the main gate an enterprising
gentleman would sell you anything from meth to little blue pills that would
make you happy for a week! SIU seemed to have a one-track vocation and, as
the saying went, you could beat your wife but if you sucked the wrong dick,
you were for it!
	A collision at sea can ruin your whole day, but finding the pecker
checker hanging from a rope in the cable deck can ruin your whole year!
	The Duty Roundsman around 0230, halfway through the Middle watch,
had discovered the tiffy. The MPs were called, as was to be expected, and
after the poor guy was declared dead, and shipped off to the RCNH for an
autopsy (standard procedure, I learned later, even though the cause of
death was more than apparent) and the MPs started asking questions. They
spoke with the man's shipmates, the officers and, since the tiffy had been
a very private person, got nowhere.
	At first the MPs were only going through the motions. The popular
perception was, and I suppose still is, that all tiffys are as gay as
ducks, closely followed by the stewards. Still, they had to make a report
and they searched the dead man's personal effects, and his locker. What
they found in that metal locker changed many lives and had a profound
impact on me.
	At the bottom of the locker, hidden under dirty shitnicks and some
magazines that were only sold in tiny hole in the wall shops and carried
away in brown paper bags, they found the tiffy's diary, and all was
revealed.
	It turned out that the tiffy had fallen in love with a straight
guy. The straight guy turned the tiffy down and then reported him to the
MP's. The diary was very graphic, and very comprehensive. The tiffy had
been very active and discovered the secret gay underground that existed,
had recorded, by day and date, every guy he had sucked, fucked, or nibbled
on. As they read selected entries the two investigating Meat Heads realized
they that had struck the Mother Lode. They headed for the Ship's Office,
and the photocopier. Then they called SIU. The MP's made a killing in
selling copies of the damned thing and SIU had a field day.
	The shit hit the fan big time. Signals went out to half the fucking
fleet and SIU went into a feeding frenzy, names culled from the diary in
hand. About 60 guys, officers and ratings, got the axe. Two followed the
tiffy's example.
	The whole thing became one big fucking mess and the word came down
from the Flag Building - get the queers and get 'em out. SIU was more than
happy to oblige and, as half the names in the diary were those of officers,
it made the hunt all the more enjoyable.
	One of the tactics that SIU always used was guilt by
association. If it turned out that your best friend was queer, SIU reasoned
that you might be one too! They also worked on the premise that their
victim was guilty as not charged, or why else would they be involved? A
name in a diary might just be a name, but it also just might be three, or
four or ten more notches in the SIU belt. The whole base was turned upside
down for a month as SIU questioned anybody remotely connected to the men
named in the tiffy's diary. Training schedules were disrupted as SIU hauled
in the usual suspects and questioned relentlessly.
	Ships could not sail because essential personnel were at the cop
shop being brow beaten. The PMO, the Principal Medical Officer, told the
admiral that if SIU didn't leave the hospital tiffys alone he would either
a) close the hospital or b) castrate the next SIU jerk that walked in the
door! The Wardroom Manager cancelled three weddings and a testimonial
dinner for the admiral himself - the stewards were much too upset to serve!
The admiral put the hammer down, but then he didn't have too much of a
choice. He could stand the carping of the PMO and the whining of the
Wardroom Manager. What he could not ignore was the flame of outrage that
stretched from Ottawa to Esquimalt. It seems that the son of a powerful MP
had been implicated. The Member of Parliament roared, the son retired with
honour, and life returned to normal. Special privileges for special folks,
I guess.
	Since I was new to the base, and no one knew me, I was not
bothered. Still, I piled a few more clothes in front of me and burrowed
deep. I bought a book of fag jokes and memorized them all. I was so fucking
homophobic back then that I get sick to my stomach even now. I was a piece
of work. But I was also the straightest guy in the fleet to everyone I knew
or drank with. I was a proper asshole. But I was safe.

To Be Continued In Chapter 4