Date: Tue, 6 Jun 2006 17:26:04 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: A Sailor's Tale - Chapter 4

"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 2006 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: 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.

WARNING: This story contains scenes of violence, graphic and abusive
language and graphic descriptions of male nudity. Discretion is advised.

I enjoy hearing from readers and try to answer all e-mails. If you have a
comment or a question please contact me at paradegi@rogers.com

Thanks to Peter, my sterling editor. Sometimes without him I would merely
be sending along pap!

A Sailor's Tale

Chapter 4


	I had been born and raised in a small town in central Ontario with
little to recommend it except for a posh school for boys at the edge of
town (it lost much of its glitter when it went co-ed a few years back). The
school would gain some fame (and notoriety) in 1977 when Prince Andrew
Windsor entered as a Boarder. He very much lived down his later reputation
as "Randy Andy" and was seldom seen in town. The students from the school
were rarely seen, usually only on Remembrance Day, when the school Cadet
Corps paraded to the Cross of Sacrifice erected in the town square.

	My world did not include a posh school. My world was a small town -
actually designated a village - of around 2,400 souls. Originally settled
by United Empire Loyalists, the town contained a mixture of late Georgian
and Victorian houses and buildings and was really quite pretty.

	The village had been built along the southward course of the
Otonabee River as it exited Katchewanooka Lake, both part of the Trent
Waterway system. Along Water and Reid Streets were the usual shops and
cafés catering to the growing tourist trade, a cinema - the films were
changed weekly, which was typical of the time and place - a small hospital
(where I had been born), a hardware store, an IGA supermarket where the
prices were raised every 24th of May - the start of the summer season when
the cottagers rolled in - and lowered on Labour Day, when the cottagers
went home for the winter.

	There was an inn, located across from the Marina, which served the
legions of boaters that travelled the scenic Trent system, several taverns,
and so on. We considered ourselves quite cosmopolitan in that there was a
Chinese restaurant, which had the best take away in miles, and an Eaton's
Catalogue Store, more a tea shoppe than anything. Here the town ladies
gathered to sip tea, nibble on dainty cakes, and leaf through the latest
offerings of Mr. Eaton's emporium. There were also a high school, two
elementary schools (one public, one Catholic), five churches, and a convent
housing the Sisters of St. Joseph who taught in the Catholic school. On
Reid Street was a staple of small town Ontario life: the Legion. My father
was a member in good standing and attended every Saturday afternoon for the
meat rolls and the cribbage or dart tournaments.

	Saturday was Market Day in the spring and fall, and the town square
would fill with Mennonites, who had a small colony nearby, offering for
sale home made pies and cakes and cookies, hand crafted furniture and
quilts, and fruit and flowers in season. There were holidays, Dominion Day,
the 1st of July, and Victoria Day, the 24th of May when there were parades,
picnics and fireworks in the park alongside of the lake. Life might have
been slow but, as I look back, it was never dull.

 	I lived in a large, rambling, red brick house that stood on ten
acres of land at the confluence of the lake and the river, and was really
much too large for my family. From my bedroom window, which was at the
back, I could see the range of the lake, and the bustling Marina across the
waters. The house, and much of the contents, had come down through my
mother's family, originally Southern Aristocrats, Tories, who had followed
the King's troops when they evacuated New York and Charleston after the
American Revolution.

	My father, who was the town druggist, was also descended from good
British stock, his people having left Charleston with their money, their
paintings, their silver, and their slaves. One of his ancestors had served
in Rogers' Rangers, a militia regiment formed in 1755, and followed the
King's Colours throughout the Revolutionary War. Loyalty to the King drove
him out of his native country and he settled on a plot of land outside of
Saint John, New Brunswick, as so many of what in time became "United Empire
Loyalists" had done. Later, when the Rangers were reformed as the Queen's
York Rangers (The 1st American Regiment), he travelled to Upper Canada to
help found the town of York, later to become the city of Toronto.

	My father was very proud of his heritage and every year attended
the Regiment's annual dinner and ball with my mother, and never failed to
append the initials "UE" after his name on any piece of correspondence.

	I was aware of my ancestry and heritage, of course. But growing up
that heritage meant little to me. I was much too busy being a boy. For me
there were far more important things to think about than who my ancestors
were.

	For me, life revolved around home, school, sports, swimming with my
friends and playing baseball in the summer, and hockey in the winter. I had
a pleasant childhood, I remember, although the only fly in my ointment was
the piano lessons my mother insisted I take.

	Every Thursday, promptly at six, Mrs. Mason, the local music
teacher, appeared at the front door, and I was allowed into the front
parlour. This was a large, square room filled with some of my mother's most
precious furniture, and the piano, more a pianoforte, really. Ordinarily
this room was reserved for visits from the parish priest, when my mother
served tea and little cakes from the bakery downtown, visits from my aunt
and uncle, my father's brother, whom I came to loathe, and funerals. There
was a funeral parlour in town that advertised "Chapels of Repose", and
boasted the only horse-drawn hearse this side of Ottawa. We weren't that
provincial, after all. However, proper funerals were always conducted from
home.

	Except for the piano lessons, where I drove Mrs. Mason to drink, I
think, and massacred Beethoven, Chopin and Brahms, I was never allowed in
the front parlour, where I might break something. If I felt the need for
relaxation, or there was homework to be done, I went to the back parlour,
which was also a large room, but filled with comfortable, lumpy,
overstuffed chairs and a huge sofa, perfect for afternoon naps. The room
also housed the latest, new-fangled invention, a television set. This was a
small-screened instrument housed in a large, ornate, wooden cabinet. We
only received one station, the CBC broadcasting from Ottawa.

	Not everyone could afford this expensive new novelty and I recall
that we usually had quite a crowd on nights when hockey was broadcast. This
did not last for too long and eventually, in the days before cable and
satellite dishes, it seemed as if every house in town had an ugly,
aluminium aerial cluttering up the skyline.

	Being young, and easily distracted as I was, the television held me
in its thrall for a while. As I grew older, however, the attraction grew
less until I only watched it on Saturday mornings (for the cartoons) and on
Saturday night, for "Hockey Night In Canada". The television was all right,
but in my mind I was not quite as spellbound as I was when all we had was
an ancient radio, always called a "wireless". I would sit on the floor in
front of it and listen, entranced, as Foster Hewitt described the plays as
the Maple Leafs took on the Habs, or the Bruins - there were only six teams
in the League back then. Foster's voice was always rising and falling as he
excitedly described the action.  I could see the action much more vividly
in my mind and I would rock back and forth, waiting as I envisioned the
grinding of skates, heard the grunts of men, thrilled at the swoosh of the
puck as it rocketed into the net. I would leap into the air as Foster
shouted triumphantly, "He shoots . . . He Scores!"

	However, watching the game did give me something to talk about with
my mates Sunday morning, after church, which we always attended, and which
was basically the high point of any Sunday. This was a day of rest and few,
if any, activities were scheduled - no one dared. Sunday was The Lord's
Day. Sunday was a day for family, when we all sat down to a traditional
luncheon of over-cooked roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, and
three vegetables, followed by a quiet day at home, reading, or solving
monster crossword puzzles. Growing up, this seemed to be the only thing no
one could complain about.

	Sundays were the most boring days of my childhood. Everything in
town was locked up tight. The cinema never screened a film on Sunday. The
local bars and the Legion were closed - no drinking was allowed on the
Sabbath! People might talk! My father always made certain that we would not
be having guests for lunch, and that no neighbours were expected to come
calling before he dared approach the drinks cabinet, where he kept the hard
stuff. A little wine was allowed with the meal, but having someone smell
hard liquor on your breath . . . People might talk!

	"People might talk!" The clarion cry of warning for anyone who grew
up in a small town, anywhere on the North American continent. In more ways
than one this warning ruled my life, and governed my conduct.



******



	The gossip of neighbours meant little to me. I knew that they
talked, of course. In a town as small as mine everybody knew everybody
else. Every foible, every misstep was seen, and reported. At the time of
which I write I was much more concerned with the changes that were
occurring in my body. I faced these changes alone.

	My parents and the Roman Catholic Church influenced my life. My
parents, being good Catholics, echoed the party line. They lived their
lives according to the Church's rule. I went to a Catholic school ruled by
nuns where the boys were strictly segregated from the girls. All of which
meant that, in the summer of 1957, when I was 12 years and eight months
old, I was totally clueless when it came to things sexual. And I was
terrified.

	Like most, if not all, boys, I was undergoing a strange and, while
at times very enjoyable, life change, I was completely unprepared for what
was happening to me. This change involved my penis, and its sudden and, to
me, inexplicable development of a mind of its own. I knew it was there, I
knew I needed it to pee out of, I knew that if I rubbed it long enough I
felt some very nice feelings. What I couldn't understand was why the damned
thing suddenly started to get hard, usually at the most inconvenient
times. If the bathroom window was open and I was standing at the toilet
having a pee, and a cooling breeze blew in from the lake, I'd get hard! If
I was swimming, I'd get hard! When I washed my crotch in the shower, I'd
get hard! In the morning I would wake up and there was my dick, hard, with
its pink head poking through the fly of my pyjama bottoms!

	While this was disturbing, what was even more disturbing was that
suddenly I found myself fantasizing about my friends and schoolmates,
particularly the boys I hung around with every day. We had been friends and
neighbours just about forever. We grew up together, played baseball
together, swam together, went to school together, did just about everything
together. We even dressed alike, usually in sneakers, blue jeans and a
white T-shirt. We even had the same haircuts: flattops. Every second
Saturday my father would hand me two quarters over and above my allowance
of $5.00. These I took down to Mr. Souly's Barber Shop. I would sit in the
chair, Mr. Souly would flash up his barber shears and my hair would be
cut. I never had to say a word.

	The one thing I was not sure about was what the other boys looked
like "down there". I would lie in my bed at night, fiddling and gently
rubbing my dick - my friends and I had gone through the usual naming rites,
from pee-pee, to wee-wee, to wiener, to pecker, and finally settled on
"dick" - and picture, in my mind's eyes, what my friends would look like
with their clothes off. I could only fantasize about their equipment
because I had never seen any of them completely nude.

	At the time, while I was a typical boy, and played sports avidly,
there had never been an opportunity to see what my teammates and friends
wore under their clothing. I had, from time to time, when we changed into
our play clothes or sports uniforms, seen a bit of pink, a hint of flesh,
but nothing substantial enough to build a good wank job on. When we went
swimming, we always showed up with our suits on under our clothes. Other
than some solid bulges, one or two big, but mostly just bumps, I really
hadn't seen anything at all.

	There were several good reasons why we remained more or less
androgynous to each other. When we passed the time on lazy summer
afternoons swimming, we did so in the lake, usually off the beach behind my
house, and sometimes in the river, although the beach was the most
popular. We had a long dock that all the boys jumped from, a floating dock
about 100 yards into the lake, and a small runabout that I sometimes used
for solitary cruises along the shore. My friends would show up with towels
draped around their necks and drop their shorts, stripping to their
swimming trunks. As there was no public swimming pool, with change rooms -
there was one in the high school, but it was not open to the general public
- I could only imagine what their tight trunks concealed. I usually worked
myself into frustration as I watched their lean, lithe bodies as they
jumped and dove into the water.

	Another reason was that while we did change before baseball and
hockey games, we never showered afterwards together. During these sessions
I was forced to once again wonder. I might see them wearing nothing but
their underwear but again all I ever saw were some anonymous lumps under
the most ubiquitous of undies, those bulwarks of morality: tighty-whiteys!

	We all wore them because our mothers bought our clothing, including
our underwear and while our underpants might have different labels, Hanes,
Stanfield's, or Eaton's house label, they were all to a general pattern,
tight, white, and with a double-layered pouch over the interesting bits and
pieces. How or why the manufacturers of these underpants had managed to
persuade generation after generation of mothers that white briefs were the
only proper underpants for boys I shall never know. I only know we all wore
them and a Christmas or birthday never passed without my receiving at least
one pair of the damned things, usually from an uncle or aunt too cheap to
spring for a decent present.

	The most important reason why we never stripped off in front of
each other was the Roman Catholic Church.

	The Church taught us, and our parents and the nuns enforced it,
that nudity was shameful. Good Catholic boys did not think about such
things, which was sort of difficult, since by forbidding it they gave us a
reason to think about it.

	Sex was simply not discussed, at home or in school. The human body
was not discussed. We were supposed to be pure in thought, word, and
deed. If we weren't, we were condemned to Hell.

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

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

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

	Needless to say, as I approached my thirteenth birthday I sinned -
a lot - and while I did sometimes sin during the day, I usually managed to
contain myself until I was in bed, when I could really go to town. In bed
the images of my friends would fill my mind. These images were never of any
particular boy, and they never followed the same pattern. Sometimes it
would be Danny Tzotzis, a short, compact, glorious blond who wore a Speedo
when he went swimming, a bathing suit so thin that his magnificent,
four-inch penis, with an obvious circumcised cap and tight, perfect balls
were clearly outlined. I all but drooled every time he came swimming.

	At other times it would be Pauly Tralla, another blond jock, who
wore a conventional suit, but gave promise of greatness if the lump in his
suit was any indication.

	Some nights it would be Tommy Tiverton, who I knew had hair. One
day. Just before school closed for the year, I had seen him in the boys
changing room. It was sports day and he had stripped down to his undies and
much to my surprise - and Tommy's - one of his testicles had slipped the
bounds of elastic, a most delightful testicle, dusted with short, dark
hairs! Tommy, noticing my shocked gaze, had quickly tucked himself away,
but I dreamed of that testicle for two weeks!

	There were others, of course. There was Jeff Clarke, a tall, rugged
boy with brown hair. He didn't have much in the pouch department, alas, but
he had a fine ass, and at every ballgame he would unwittingly give me a
thrill, bending over, his hands on his knees as he waited patiently to
steal a base, 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.

	There was Kevin Callahan, tall, dark, with movie star looks, and
his best friend, Colin Mialik, a well-muscled, dark haired boy. They were
all but inseparable, more like brothers than best friends, and did
everything together. Later, when I knew more, I often wondered just how far
their friendship went.

Another source of fantasy were the Mennonites. They all seemed to be tall
and strapping but they never played sports, and all I could do was wonder
what treasures lay hidden under the denim coveralls the Mennonite boys
habitually wore. I saw them only on market day for the most part, as they
all attended the public schools, and only until they were 16, when they
invariably left school to help out on the farms that dotted the
countryside.

	I never acted on my impulses because I never really had an
opportunity. I also did not have a clue what I was supposed to do even if
opportunity came pounding on my door. I was so naïve that I did not think
that what I was doing at night was a sin. I had consulted Webster's
Standard Dictionary and discovered that masturbation was "manipulating the
penis to orgasm", which sounded interesting, but I wasn't doing that. I was
rubbing my little member, and further research led me to believe that the
magnificent, body shaking, mind numbing results of my rubbing (sometimes
three or four times in one session, depending on whom I was fantasizing
about) could not be orgasms because an orgasm was supposed to result in the
"ejaculation" of "sperm". Well, that certainly never happened. My little
dick might throb and jump under my pyjamas, but it never produced anything
other than good feelings.

	Then it happened.

	I had gone to bed, as usual, and played happily, as usual. A new
boy had moved into the neighbourhood and I had seen him, a tall, strapping
redhead wearing only a pair of gym shorts, busily mowing the lawn in front
of his house. He was gorgeous! I had not stopped to say hello (I was
meeting my mates for a pickup game of soccer and was, as usual, late) but
made a mental note to stop by later. As luck would have it, he wasn't
around when I returned home but I had seen enough to make him the main
feature that evening.

	After two or three rounds, I fell asleep. I did notice, before my
eyes closed, a wetness, a stickiness on the head of my penis. I thought
nothing of it, as that had been happening a lot lately.

	That night I had a wild, glorious dream. I was cavorting, naked,
with Pauly, and Danny, and Jeffy, with Mennonite boys, and the new boy, all
of them naked! I don't remember all of the details, but I do know that at
some time during this wild, mythical orgy all their dicks, which looked
exactly like mine in the dream, and my dick, squirted streams of white
. . . stuff! I awoke the next morning and had the fright of my young life!

	Not only were my pyjamas wet and grungy, the head of my penis,
redder that I had ever seen it, was poking out of the slit in the pyjama
bottoms and covered in a slimy goo! At first I thought my dick had exploded
but a quick examination proved otherwise. I had everything I had gone to
bed with the night before, which was a relief! What was not a relief was
the unholy mess I had made. How, or why I had made it, I didn't then
understand. I also did not have time to dwell on what had happened because
before I could even think straight I heard my father pounding on the door
demanding that I get up and get dressed. It was Sunday and if I didn't get
my act in gear I would make us late for Church!

	Still in a fog, I left my bed and went into the bathroom where I
stripped off - a no-no, but who wants to walk around in stained and grungy
pyjamas? I didn't have time for a bath so I ran the washcloth over my
dangling bits, buried the soiled pyjamas at the bottom of the laundry
hamper, and returned to my room to dress for Church, which for me meant
clean briefs, a stiffly starched white shirt, a tie, a dark blue suit and
brightly shined oxfords. Dressing for Church in those days meant something.

	After being rebuked for keeping them waiting, and for thundering
down the stairs, my parents and I walked sedately to Mass, greeting
similarly clad families on the way. After Mass we lingered with the rest of
the congregation, the adults gossiping about who had been seen down at the
Blue Goose, a low dive on Highway 28 just outside the village limits, or
whose daughter was "stepping out" with whose son. The kids, myself
included, talked about baseball, the impending terrors of attending high
school, the older boys sniggering about girls, and all of us bored out of
our minds.

	Eventually we retraced our steps home, stopping to greet neighbours
along the way, a most formal ritual. We were all dressed to the nines, my
mother in a light, bright frock, wearing white gloves and a hat, my father
in his black, three piece suit, tipping his hat to the ladies.

	Once home, we settled into our normal Sunday routine, which was
every bit as boring as Mass had been. I was not allowed to change into
something comfortable, or play outside. Sunday was the Lord's Day, and I
was expected to OBSERVE it, as any good Catholic boy would. I could read, I
could watch television, but only if the program was enlightening. Since we
only received the one channel - the CBC feed from Ottawa - this was not
difficult. I usually fell asleep in the chair halfway through whatever
witless programme was being broadcast. After lunch I could look forward to
a short drive into the countryside, where my mother would buy freshly
picked vegetables and flowers. Usually, by the time the sun had set I was
more than ready for my bed. On this particular Sunday, however, I was
summoned into the back parlour. It was time, my father informed me, for The
Talk.

	Anyone who grew up in the '50s knows what I am talking about. There
was no such thing as "Sex Ed" in the schools. We did endure a rambling,
barely coherent talk by one of our male teachers, mostly involving personal
hygiene and not very informative at all. Sex, it was generally held, was
the province of one's parents and not the school system. Mothers would have
quiet talks with their daughters, and fathers would call their sons into
the back parlour for a long and rambling explanation about "The Birds and
the Bees". In the straight-laced, anal-retentive 1950s why anyone bothered
at all escapes me.

	Sex was not something that "nice" people talked about - ever! The
media, all of it, when forced to allude to sexual activity, danced around,
and never really printed anything offensive, relying on clichés and stock
phrasing. In the films, and on television, married couples never shared a
bed. They slept in twin beds, and when it was necessary to show a bedroom
scene the actors all dressed for the next Ice Age in flannel pyjamas or
concealing robes. That sometime during the night they might migrate was
never mentioned and when the storyline demanded that they "express their
love", the screen would always fade to black. In retrospect, I rather liked
that. Imagining what the actors did next was so much better than watching
two people fumbling around simulating having sex, the actresses flouncing
their sagging boobs and the actors showing off their short comings. Some
people would be better off keeping their clothes on.

	Men did not have dicks or cocks, they had penises. They did not
have balls, they had testicles. What women had was a great mystery! All I
knew was they did not have upper deck fittings.

	The churches, all of them, railed against fornication and adultery
and preached that sex was permitted only in marriage, which was between one
man and one woman and while they might "cleave together", they could never
cleave apart. Divorce was frowned upon, and numberless couples lived cold,
miserable lives rather than risk the opprobrium of divorce.

	Boys were taught not to touch themselves except when peeing - it
was dirty. Boys were frowned upon if they made childish reference to their
"pee-pees" or whatever name they used. This too was dirty. The lists of
prohibitions went on and on. In one way or another I heard them all.

	By and large I had the impression that any mention of sex, boys,
girls, and so on, would be delayed until I was old enough to understand
what I was being told - around 35 I suspected - but events forced my father
to take action. It seems that while I was sprawled on the back parlour rug,
reading the latest "Archie" comic book my mother had decided to collect the
soiled clothing and bed sheets for pickup by the laundry the next day. She
emptied out the laundry hamper in the bathroom, stripped the sheets from my
bed and, while folding the items, was faced with irrefutable proof that her
little boy was becoming a man.

	After mother whispered in my father's ear, with much shocked
gasping on both their parts, my father closed the door and launched into a
long, ambling, all but incoherent discourse on boys who had reached
puberty. I was assured that my penis had not exploded, and that what had
happened was perfectly natural and to be expected. I will not bore you with
the details, except to say that my father told me that I was now in
puberty, and confirmed my suspicions that not only had I had an unconscious
orgasm, but that I was now capable of producing sperm. Suffice it to say
that I left the parlour more confused than ever, and with the definite
impression that having a wet dream (as my father called it) was much
preferred to masturbation (which was a sin).

	I was so confused and disoriented that I did not play with myself
that night as I tried to sort out what my father had told me. This did no
good at all so I decided to seek out the font of all knowledge for pre-teen
boys: the schoolyard.

	I had noticed before school closed that as soon as the nuns turned
their backs little knots of curious boys would form and exchange
confidences. I also noticed that more and more were nattering on about
girls, and sex, and whether or not they had started to "squirt", and sex,
the size of their dicks, and whether their balls hung high or low, and
sex. I actually learned quite a bit, not the least of which was that my
night time fantasies, and my growing attraction to my mates, was forbidden,
never to be spoken of, territory. Such things were only done by "fags" and
"queers", so it was, in that long, hot summer of 1957, I began my long,
lonely exile.

	Two boys unwittingly helped me. One was gay, the other
straight. Both I will always remember.



******



	 Every neighbourhood has them. The first is the stereotypical "gay"
boy. He is slim and fey, very feminine, and more often than not
beautiful. Where other boys grunge around in blue jeans and buzz cuts, he
wears dress slacks, penny loafers, and always a crew neck sweater,
sometimes draped over his shoulders, sometimes tied around his waist. He is
usually very smart, always at the head of the class, and excoriated as a
"teacher's pet" in addition to being a queer. He almost always plays piano,
or the flute. He loves play-acting, and is, in high school, in every
student production. He assiduously avoids sports and hates to undress in
front of his classmates. Swimming classes, which he tolerates with all the
grace of St. Lawrence on the grate, gives him an excuse to assume the role
of a martyr. He is the butt of every scatological joke, and always the
object of scorn. He is the neighbourhood fag.

	James (never Jim, or Jimmy) ffynch-Douglass (yes, two lower case
"f"s - it was a family thing) was our neighbourhood fag. I know I made it
sound as if he were a horrible person, but I learned that he wasn't,
really. He could be sarcastic, and usually was, having been born with the
tongue of a viper. But he could be kind, considerate, and very
compassionate. In truth, he had a heart of gold. In time I did become his
friend, but only that. James and I never fooled around. To be honest, I
would not have minded, for he was hung like a horse, putting just about
everybody in the Senior Class to shame, even the ones who bragged about how
big their dicks were. It never happened because he never offered and I was
much too afraid to initiate anything.

	James's family were the wealthiest people in town. They were also,
like my family, United Empire Loyalists, and his parents were snobs,
"crashing snobs" my father called them. They lived in a huge, Georgian
house - hell, mansion would be a better word to describe it - set in
wonderfully tended gardens just to the north of the marina, on the east
side of the lake. The house was crammed with museum quality furniture,
family portraits, silver and the finest antique china and crystal, every
stick of it having made the journey from South Carolina to Halifax to our
village.

	The ffynch-Douglasses were the local gentry, and no argument. They
were staunch Conservatives, which was not surprising as they had been
staunch Tories way back when. Mr. ffynch-Douglass waxed lyrical at the drop
of a hat, regaling anyone dumb enough to listen to him with his family's
history, and usually bemoaning the loss of ancestral acres in Carolina
where they had owned vast plantations on the Ashley, slaves, a town house
on the Battery in Charleston and ships. In December of 1782, with the
Colonial rabble pounding at the gates of the city, the British evacuated,
taking with them their loyal supporters, including the first
ffynch-Douglas, who owned two of the ships in the evacuation fleet, both
packed with his household goods, silver, money and slaves. They first went
to Halifax, where they were given land, prospered and then migrated to
Upper Canada, where they acquired more land, most of which eventually
became the site of our village.

	As gentry, the ffynch-Douglasses were devoted to good works and
making sure that everyone knew that they were better than everybody
else. James's parents were on every charitable and social committee going,
from the hospital committee to the Remembrance Day Parade Committee. I will
give them their due, though. They donated time and money, which stood them
in good stead, but always advertised their charity, which did not. They
also flaunted their wealth. This took many forms. Mr. ffynch-Douglas never
drove anything as plebeian as a Ford, or a Chevy. He drove a long, black,
Chrysler Imperial, traded in on a newer model every two years (the old one
being sold to the local funeral parlour, which Mr. ffynch-Douglas
owned). Mrs. ffynch-Douglas would not be caught dead shopping at the
Eaton's Catalogue Store. When she felt the urge she would travel to Toronto
where she frequented only the most exclusive shops. Peterborough was
closer, but too provincial for her tastes. The whole town knew when she'd
been shopping, as she would stroll downtown in her new finery. When one of
the town ladies would stop her for a chat, she would, in the artlessly
artful way of the rich, manage to ensure that the lady walked away knowing
exactly where the new frock had been purchased, the designer of the new hat
and so on. She also managed to convey the thought that such finery was very
expensive and quite beyond the reach of lumpen-proletariat.

	Both Mr. and Mrs. ffynch-Douglass were pieces of work, and I didn't
care for either of them.

	Given their much advertised superiority in all things, one would
never have expected that any of their sons - James had two older brothers -
would be given into care and custody of the Ontario public school system
and be forced to mix with the riff raff. As mentioned, there were two
public schools in town, the elementary school and the high school. There
was also the Catholic School, St, Paul's. There was no Catholic high school
as the province only supported the Catholic system through Grade 10. For
the succeeding grades, 11 through 13, you went to a private school, usually
in Toronto, sometimes in Peterborough. These were fees paying boarding
schools and nobody in town other than the ffynch-Douglasses could afford
the expense. Consequently, everybody else went to the public high school.

	There was a private school, located on the edge of town. It had
been around, in one form or another since 1879 and I was not surprised to
learn that James's father was an alumnus. The school was very posh, in the
Anglican tradition, and every bit as snobbish as James's parents.

	At first I could not understand why James attended the Catholic
school. His family were Anglicans, attending St. John's - where they had a
pew - a large, well-appointed church on Queen Street with a towering spire
symbolizing, one supposes, the superiority of "The Established Church" over
the lesser religions, and with a large, treed churchyard and gardens where
the church held an annual garden party and a fête, where I once won $25.00
at Tambola. James should have followed his brothers to the private school
but he did not for the simple reason that his father despised him, and
never let an opportunity to ridicule his queer son go by.

	Given their pretensions, and sense of superiority, James's parents
could not bear the thought that there was homosexuality in the family. That
homosexuality existed in all cultures and societies, and had since the
first cave man patted another cave man's behind, was immaterial. It did not
matter that there were gays in the best families, including, or so it was
rumoured, the Royal Family, whom the ffynch-Douglasses had elevated to the
status of Gods, and emulated whenever they could get away with
it. Whispered gossip had it that the Duke of Kent was not only homosexual,
but also a drug user, sniffing cocaine with the best of them. Gossip also
had it that the Duke had been forced to marry Princess Marina because he
had fallen madly in love with Noel Coward, who reciprocated and went into a
decline when the Duke was killed during the war.

	For James's parents, having a queer son was the ultimate
humiliation. In their eyes having deviant son lowered them to the level of
the rabble milling about the manor house gates. What also galled them was
that there was nothing they could do about it. Why they didn't send him
away to school eluded me, until I realized that to do so would, in their
eyes, advertise the fact that they had produced an aberration. James was
very effeminate and to have him flouncing around a prestigious school
attended by the scions of some of the most prominent families in the
province, simply was not on. Whether they liked it or not, James's parents
were stuck with him. They could not throw him out. The law frowned on
parents abandoning their children and they were responsible for James until
he reached the age of 18. That was one reason they kept James at home,
feeding him, clothing him, giving him a bed. The other reason, so far as I
was concerned, was that they feared what the neighbours would say. No one
likes the neighbours gossiping about them, particularly the very rich or
the self-appointed "leaders" of a town's society. The last thing the
ffynch-Douglasses wanted was to set the local gossips to clucking. They
also would never admit to having a faggot in the family. Since they had to
educate their son, they did so, sending him to the Catholic school, where
the education was better and discipline strict. They put it about that
James was "delicate" and keeping him at home, where they could monitor his
"health", rather than sending him to a boarding school, was really best for
him.

	James might have been delicate, but he was no pushover. He might
sashay around town, he might have the limpest wrist in town, but he marched
to his own drum. He knew, I eventually realized, what he was. He had
accepted what he was, and he was not going to put up with the crap dished
out by the local bullies and bigots.

	As I watched James, I grew to admire him. He gave as good as he
got, usually enduring the taunts, the vicious, cutting slurs and
name-calling with a slight, condescending smile. However, when pushed just
a little too hard, he retaliated.

	Schoolboys can be the most callous, vicious, mindless creatures on
earth. I admit now that I was one of them, although I must also insist that
I was not as bad as some. From the moment James walked into the school he
was inundated with the name calling, the filth that only boys can think
up. He bore this with equanimity. He seemed to be saying that if his peers
could not accept him for what he was, well, too bad, their loss.

For some reason, while they always loudly demonstrated their
"straightness", some of the boys always ended up offering to let James suck
their cock. They would grab their crotches, leer at James, and taunt him,
describing mythical beasts that lurked, waiting for him, in their
undies. Usually James would sneeringly retort that he was not in the mood
to service little pink mice, always emphasizing the "little", and walk
away. This only confirmed the perception that "queers" not only threw a
baseball "like a girl", they were afraid to fight, too cowardly to do
anything but run away and cry. James's refusal to be goaded usually drove
the other boys into a frenzy. They were, after all, not queer, and his
ridicule of them cut deep. Being one-upped by a fag was the ultimate
insult. Some of the boys would have liked to pound the shit out of James,
but they did not dare. The nuns, stern-visaged, grumpy harridans in wimples
and black veils, patrolled the schoolyard wielding long yardsticks or
wooden pointers which they did not hesitate to apply with gusto to hands or
buttocks. As James never attended any sporting event, and never went
swimming with the guys, this venue was also out.

Unable to demonstrate their superiority, or their callow attempts to cow
James, the boys usually lapsed into furious mutterings, vowing that one day
they would make James pay for the insult. For his part, James seemed to
understand that the other boys hated him because they had been taught to
hate him. Just as he was what he was, they were what they were, ignorant
Neanderthals, and something to be borne as gracefully as possible. But
there was a limit.

	One day, for some reason, James had enough.

	As the last days of the school year waned the nuns and teachers had
to find some way to keep their charges busy and off the streets. They, like
their students, were just marking time until the bell rang for the last
time and summer holidays began. To fill in the empty hours we were treated
to field trips, to Ottawa, to Toronto for the day, or to sports days, where
everybody played ball, one class vying against another for blue ribbons and
small, gimcrack trophies. It was all good fun, and while there were the
usual rivalries, nobody got hurt and the day passed quickly.

	James, as usual, rarely participated. He would sit on the
sidelines, reading a book, and minding his own business. The nuns, for all
their insistence on rigid discipline and "participating", seemed to
understand that James was different, and let him be. They also made sure
that his classmates left him alone. James was quite content with the
situation. Others were not.

	The new boy in town, the tall, handsome redhead that I lusted
after, had, in the manner of all boys wanting to fit in with the herd,
joined the mob in taunting James. Terry Willis was not quite as bad as some
of the other boys, but bad enough, and during the period when the scores
were being tallied, and the winners determined, he decided to have a go at
James.

	Sauntering, thinking that he was exuding his masculinity (he was,
so far as I was concerned), he walked up to James and snarled something
about James being the town queer. At first James ignored him. Terry,
encouraged, pushed ahead and opined that perhaps James would like to suck
his cock. Terry announced that he had a great cock, and he knew that James
would want to suck it.

	Usually, James would say something cynical, and walk away. This
time, however, he did not. He carefully closed his book, placed in on the
ground beside where he was sitting, and stood up. He faced Terry. His eyes
never wavered and, much to everyone's surprise, he whispered, "All right,"
and his hand reached for Terry's zipper!

	Nobody knew what to do! Poor Terry didn't know if he was punched,
reamed, or bored! The rest of us stood in shock as James slowly pulled down
Terry's zipper and reached into his jeans. Terry's mouth dropped as he felt
James's hand gently squeeze his soft genitals through his tightys. For what
seemed like hours Terry just stood there, gaping. He couldn't admit that
having his dick and balls fondled felt good, and that James's touch was
giving him a bone! He would never admit that because that would make him
queer! Terry just stood there and then, suddenly, pulled away. Much to my
surprise, and I am sure the surprise of my schoolmates, Terry didn't haul
off and belt James. He stared, and began muttering, "He touched my dick! He
actually touched my dick!"

	It was then I chose to exercise a newfound talent for making a
smartass crack. "Well," I said, snickering, "You did ask him to suck your
dick. He can't very well suck it without touching it!"

	Terry glared at me, called me a prick and a pervert, and walked
away. He didn't speak to me for a week, and carefully avoided James. As did
most of the other boys. I kept my distance. While I would not have minded
having my dick fondled by James, or anyone else for that matter, this small
incident brought home the very real fact that had I, or Terry, allowed such
a thing we would have been guilty by association. We would have been
labelled "queer" - and that I could not, and would not, allow.

Fear of ridicule, of isolation, drove me to begin cultivating a new
persona. I would watch James and in my own mind swear that I would never,
ever, be like him. I was not effeminate, I played sports with ferocity - I
was a jock! I was a normal boy. I did everything I could to convince people
that I was a typical, normal boy. I joined, obliquely, in the homoerotic
play of boys, but I always managed to come across as slightly disapproving.

At the same time I refused to engage in baiting James, and tried to avoid
those whose purpose in life seemed to be to castigate and ridicule
him. When I could not I developed a look that said while I was not one of
them, and wouldn't think of having sex with another boy, I was not about to
join in their bigotry. Fair play for all was my unspoken message. I was a
sanctimonious, self-righteous little man, firmly in the camp of the
straights. I wanted to be something else, yearned to be something else, but
in truth what I wanted to be was something I could never be, so long as I
hid in my closet. I wanted to be a good man, but I was not.



******



	Shortly after the incident with Terry, there occurred another, a
much more influential, incident. This involved James, and the other boy who
had a great, traumatic effect on me. This was Piers Gaveston. Piers seemed
to think that he had been born to bring queers and faggots to heel. Piers
never let up on poor James. He pushed and pushed, and eventually, his
hatred was expressed, as it always is, with violence.

	Piers was the son of the town engineer, the man who kept the water
flowing and the sewage treatment plant working. Piers was tall, very blond,
and the things wet dreams are made of. He was also a jerk.

While Piers lived only two houses down the road, I really did not know him
all that well. My father called him an "accident of war." What he meant was
that Piers's parents had met in England when his dad was stationed there
during the War. When the war ended they came to Canada to live, first to
Newfoundland, where Mr. Gaveston had been born, and then to Ontario, by way
of the "Newfy Bullet", the train from Halifax to Toronto.

The Gavestons were a large, loud, rambunctious lot. They all, except for
Piers, seem to have the inborn insouciance and love for life and people
that all Newfoundlanders seem to have. Mrs. Gaveston was a loud, blowsy,
unkempt woman who always seemed to be laughing or yelling at her children,
of which there were many, and she always seemed to my adolescent eyes to be
pregnant. She was always outside, participating in everything her kids did,
and always inviting the neighbours in for some of her wonderful cooking,
and what she could do with a slab of salt cod - which she had sent to her
two or three times a year, was nothing short of miraculous.

Mr. Gaveston was a loud, profane man who called every male "By", which is
Newfanese for "Boy". He enjoyed being with his kids, and thought nothing of
giving his wife an affectionate pat on the ass whenever he felt like it, or
she needed it. He didn't give a damn what the blue-nosed neighbours (my
parents amongst them) thought, and on warm summer nights, and Sundays, when
he was not out mowing the lawn with his shirt off, he usually could be
found in the Legion, or on his front porch, drinking beer and having a
helluva time.

I liked them both and wished that my parents could be more like the
Gavestons.

Then there was Piers. He was 13 and a bit, and, to my naive eyes, quite
worldly. He was officially a Protestant, though I don't remember ever
seeing him or his parents heading towards one of the churches.  He smoked
on the sly, swore, and was always making lewd remarks about the girls. He
also talked about something called "corn holing" and something called a
"blow job" and when he wrestled with the other boys he never failed to cop
a feel. He was everything we did not dare to be. He was also a certified
homophobe. When James was around, Piers never lost any time in letting him
know that he wasn't wanted, that his was a waste of space, that he was
damned to hell, that God hated him, and on and on and on.

	James stood it all, until one day . . .

	It was a hot, muggy, humid day, the kind of day when dogs seek the
nearest shade, when the birds perched in the trees and panted. It was a
day, we all agreed, when it was too hot too fuck! But not to fight.

	We were gathered, as we always seemed to be when the temperature
rose to the high 90s, in front of my father's drugstore. In addition to the
usual items found in a drug store, my father had a soda bar, dispensing ice
cream sundaes, cones, and all of the iced creations so beloved by boys on a
hot summer day. We were all squatting in front of the drugstore, bitching
about the heat and arguing about whether or not we should go swimming and
eating extra-large ice cream cones (it pays to have a dad who owns the ice
cream bar). Piers was, as usual, waxing lyrical about some mythical tryst
he'd had with one of the farm girls, when James came down the
street. Unlike the rest of us, who were wearing the absolute minimum of
clothing, just shorts and sneakers, James was fully dressed, his slacks
clean and pressed, his shoes shined to brilliance, his open neck, white
shirt - his only concession to the heat of the day - stiffly
starched. Piers took one look at James and the war was on.

	Piers started in by calling James a faggot. Nothing really new
there. Then he offered James his dick to suck. Ordinarily, James would
sniff disdainfully, as if he had some hidden secret knowledge of what
Piers's dick looked like. Again, nothing new there. But something happened
on this sultry afternoon, which stays with me to this day.

	Piers witty attempt at repartee was more or less ignored by the
rest of us. We'd heard it all before and, as I have said, it was just too
hot to fuck, and James never reacted to Piers's goading and barbed
remarks. We expected that James would carry on into the drugstore and that
would be the end of it.

	Not so!

	James regarded Piers a moment and then his face took on a look of
. . . a look I can only describe as sultry lust. Having heard James's sharp
tongue before, I suppose we all should have expected something, but this
time James's retort left us bug-eyed.

	"Why Piers, sweetheart," James cooed. "How could you say such a
thing to me, after last night?" He then reached down and slowly ran his
finger along Piers's bare legs. "Remember how you moaned, and squirmed when
we rode to Nirvana?"

	Piers's face turned crimson and you could have heard the half-dozen
clunks as jaws of the rest of us hit the sidewalk. We all looked at
Piers. We didn't know what in the hell "Nirvana" was, but damn it sure
sounded like one helluva place!

	James's finger continued on up the leg of Piers's shorts, the tip
eventually hitting Piers's dick! We didn't know it at the time, but Piers
was not wearing underpants - going bare balls, we called it. Piers grunted
and glared at James venomously as his hand pushed the intruding finger
away.

	"Why, Piers," James continued on in a low, sultry voice. "You
didn't do that last night." He gave Piers what seemed to us, watching
avidly, to be a knowing smile. "I did so enjoy our time together," James
continued, his voice low and dripping with honey, "but Piers, sweets, you
talk a good fuck, and that's fine, but Piers, do you really want all the
boys to know that you're built like a stud budgie?"

	"Holy shit!" whispered Pauly Tralla after what is politely called a
long, pregnant pause. "Piers fucked James!"

	The implication of what Pauly had said was devastating for
Piers. He was now, by implication, guilty of doing something that was
beyond forbidden! We all began to shuffle away from Piers. That what James
had implied might not be true did not occur to us. All we could think of
was that Piers, the man, so to speak, had not only let James suck his dick,
but he had fucked James! Piers Gaveston, whose balls clanged when he
walked, had actually had . . . SEX . . . WITH JAMES . . . well, that meant
only one thing.

	Seeing the looks on our faces, Piers blew a gasket. He leaped to
his feet and roughly pushed James away. "Take it back!" he shrieked at
James. He looked pleadingly at the rest of us. "It's not true! He's lying!"
he wailed. "We never . . . I never . . ." He turned to James, his fists
clenched, his lips curled into an animalistic snarl. "Take it back!" he
demanded.

	James would not. He reached out and gently squeezed Piers's
organ. "But Piers, why would I want to lie?"

	For a moment I thought that Piers's head would explode, so red was
his face. He took a step back and raised his fist. "You COCKSUCKER!" he
howled.

	We all saw Piers's fist, we all saw his uncontrollable rage, and
expected that three days later we'd be attending James's funeral. We did
not expect James to expertly duck Piers's avenging fist, nor did we expect
James's fist to fly outward, hitting Piers dead on the nose and sending him
flying backward into us.

	James, rubbing his hand - he had broken his knuckles - regarded the
sprawling mass of legs and arms as we tried to untangle ourselves and push
Piers, who was bleeding like a stuck pig, away. James's eyes were deadly
calm. He looked at each of us in turn, at Pauly, at Kevin, at Tommy, at
Jeff, at Terry, at Colin, and at me. He said nothing, but his eyes conveyed
the contempt he felt for all of us. Then he walked into the drugstore to
have my father look at his hand. Father sent Malcolm, the soda jerk, out
with a towel and a bag of ice for Piers's nose, and the suggestion that
Piers head for the clinic to have his broken nose tended to.

	Eventually James came out of the drug store. He looked neither to
the right nor the left. He had won this battle, and in the winning had
gained something he never thought would be given him: respect. As he walked
off down the street, his back straight and his head high, I watched him
go. I watched the town queer and suddenly a phrase my father used often
came to my mind: "Evil flourishes when good men stand to one side and do
nothing."

	It was then that I realized that I had watched, and listened, as
James had been vilified, insulted, belittled and threatened, and done
nothing. I was not a good man.



******



	I learned several lessons with the incident between Piers and
James. First, if it was not spoken about, it never happened. We all knew
that Kevin Callahan and Colin Mialik were closer than close. They were
always together and at least every other night or so Colin would spend the
night at Kevin's house, or vice-versa. When we changed for swimming, Colin
and Kevin always changed together. They seemed to be joined at the hip. I
saw nothing, and my chums saw nothing, no touching, no more than the usual
grab-assing or homoerotic remarks, to give us any reason to suspect that
Colin and Kevin were an item. I suspected they were, as did some of my
other friends, but we said nothing. I suspected that Colin and Kevin were
getting it on, and I envied them. They were two normal boys at the height
of their sexuality, and if they were as horny as I was, I didn't blame them
at all for experimenting or just fucking each other silly! Had I not been
such an anal-retentive, frightened jerk, I might have done the same
thing. What matters though, is that while every member of the little gang
of hellions thought that Kevin and Colin were doing "it", we never voiced
our suspicions. It was something not talked about.

James, however, had opened Pandora's box. In doing so he taught me my
second lesson: people leap at the chance to label other people, to gossip,
to insinuate something that might or might not have happened, actually
happened.

They were also willing and able to believe in the validity of such an
accusation if the person involved was not liked . . . and Piers was not
liked. He was a tall, arrogant, loud, profane boy, a boy whom every adult
in town, except his parents, prophesied would "come to a bad end". If he
had not been as obnoxious as he was, he might have been given some
slack. Since he wasn't, by the time the sun went down, and the news of his
defeat by James had had time to percolate all over town, Piers was
labelled. He could hardly walk out of his house without one, or more, of
the neighbours giving him a look and pulling their smaller children,
especially their sons, closer. It was disgusting, it was unfair - he and
James had not had sex, of any description - but Piers was guilty by
assertion.

	James gave no indication that he was sorry for what he had done. In
fact, he became just a little arrogant, basking in the newfound glory that
punching Piers in the nose brought him. James had stood up for himself,
which was good. But he had done it at the expense of an innocent boy. I
will give James his due, he didn't boast or brag, but he made it plain that
anyone who wanted to go a few rounds with him was welcome. He fought, he
won, and this was the third lesson. If you stand up for yourself, if you
fight the bigots and the haters, they leave you alone, and offer,
reluctantly, grudging respect. I know that James won more than the fight:
it shut his father up, and the old man began to look at his son in a
different light, so much so that in September James left our school, his
father having decided that James could attend a proper public school in
Toronto.

	The fourth, and final lesson I learned was that never, under any
circumstances, was I to indicate, by thought, word or deed, that I was
homosexual. I began to burrow into my closet.



******



I am not going to bore you with a long story about how or when came to know
that I liked other boys. There was no great epiphany when I was seven or
eight, or whenever. I just did. I never dreamed about girls, I never
wondered what it would be like to have sex with a girl, and in fact the
thought of sex with a girl was stomach churning. That I was terrified about
doing anything about my true feelings goes without saying.

I didn't want to go to Hell, as the Church said I would. I didn't want to
be an abomination and be rejected by God. I didn't want my friends to leave
me, or the neighbours to draw aside and point their fingers at me. I didn't
want to become a pariah, or be labelled.

Still, like all boys I was curious, which explains why I accepted an
unexpected invitation to Piers's house.

The gossip about Piers and James eventually died down, and Piers tried
everything he could think of to prove that he wasn't queer. He dated girls,
he threw himself into sports, into doing "guy" things. He toned down his
venom somewhat, but made it very clear that he hated queers. Because of my
new persona I suppose he thought he'd found a kindred spirit and while we
never became close, he and I did hang out together.

While Piers and I became "buds", our friendship had been more or less
low-key and we never had sleepovers, and while I had invited him home for
supper, and I had eaten at his place, we kept our relationship very public.

>From time to time Piers had hinted about certain magazines his brother
kept hidden under a pile of rancid laundry in a corner of his bedroom
closet. Piers called them stroke books. I had never seen any of these
books, although I knew about them. I also knew that they were not for sale
in any of the shops in town. According to Piers these magazines had graphic
pictures of naked people doing the dirty, and showed everything! He would
titillate all of the gang with descriptions of raw, naked sex. Of course we
all wanted to see these books, but Piers never brought them out of his
house. He claimed that if his brother found out he'd kill Piers first and
then hunt us down like dogs.

Given the genre, I couldn't blame Piers's brother. Only perverts read them,
and while we were perverts, we were second-rate perverts. Besides, given
Piers's graphic imagery, and our equally graphic imaginations, who needed
books?

I was therefore pleasantly surprised (or so I thought at the time) when
Piers whispered to me that his brother had some new books, and asked if I
would like to see them? Of course I would!

It was a day or two after the August Bank Holiday. Piers and I had been
hanging out. Most of the guys had yet to return from the long weekend, and
I suppose that Piers, I being his good bud, thought that I could be trusted
and allowed a glimpse of hidden treasure.

For those of you who are not familiar with it, the first Monday in August
was a holiday negotiated by the provincial and federal employees' unions to
make up for the extra day Quebekers enjoyed - St Jean Baptiste Day. God
forbid that proper, British Canadians should be upstaged by a bunch of poxy
Frogs! Much later the day would be designated "Simcoe Day," in honour of
John Graves Simcoe, who had been the founding father of Upper Canada and
the town of York, later the city of Toronto.

Many people took advantage of the three-day weekend by going to the
cottage, or visiting out of town relatives. The Gavestons were no
exception. They all piled into their father's ratty old Ford and motored
off to Toronto, where they had brothers and sisters, and there was a large
colony of Newfoundlanders. I suppose the trip gave them all a chance to
return to their roots. Mrs. Gaveston always came back with a bun in the
oven and crates of salt cod. Piers's brother always came back with the type
of magazines you couldn't buy in the IGA. These magazines, which Piers's
brother purchased while strolling the "Strip", were usually enclosed in
plain, brown paper bags.

The strip was that section of Yonge Street in Toronto that was notorious
for strip joints, hookers, hole in the wall shops that offered "peep"
shows, panhandlers, raunchy cinemas offering "adult" movies, and bookstores
that had their windows soaped and large signs on the doors warning that you
had to be an adult to enter. Yonge Street hasn't changed all that much.

After making sure that the coast was clear, Piers led me upstairs to his
bedroom, an evil smelling, dishevelled lair if ever there was one. He
disappeared for a few minutes and returned with the books hidden under his
T-shirt. After locking the door, and lowering the shades, he pulled the
magazine out and handed it to me. On the cover was a naked woman, with
impossibly huge breasts, licking clean an impossibly huge dick that was
weeping what I had learned to call "cum". My eyes bulged and Piers
encouraged me to turn the pages.

I had never seen such pictures! How anyone could actually sell the things
without breaking the law I could not understand. There were naked men going
at naked women doggy style, women sucking dicks, men licking women's
pussies! The more I paged through the magazine the more I drooled.

Piers sat beside me on his bed, also drooling and from time to time rubbing
the front of his jeans, which had pooched out considerably. He also kept up
a running commentary on the models, extolling the wonders of what the photo
depicted. He was almost as graphic as the damned pictures! He also,
although I did not twig on it right away, let slip a secret. We came to a
picture of two men having at a blowsy, bottle blond. Piers sniggered and
pointed at one of the dicks and whispered that the guy was almost as big as
he was. I put it down to Piers's usual bragging. Then Piers pointed at the
other dick and muttered that it looked something like James!

My subconscious failed to take in Piers's comments. I was quite frankly
much too busy looking at the naked males to notice anything Piers
said. When you have never seen another dick, other than your own, you never
let the chance to see dick, if only in a photograph, go by. So, while Piers
was looking at the tits and pussy, I was looking at the huge ropey
dicks. Since they were all hard, or nearly so, they all looked like my
dick. I had a hardon bulging in my briefs and a quick glance at Piers's
crotch showed an even bigger bulge than normal in his jeans.

Had I actually paid attention to Piers's reference to James, I might have
expected what came next and realized that Piers had an ulterior motive for
inviting me into his room to look at stroke books.

After a few minutes of alternately looking at the pictures and then at me,
Piers rubbed his bulge, looked down at mine, and reached over and rubbed
the front of my jeans.

His touch was electric and I damned near had an accident in my Fruit of the
Looms! Nobody had ever been so blatantly obvious before! My mind reeled as
I asked myself if Piers was really "one of them." But I didn't push Piers's
hand away.

He continued to rub me, and then asked, "You like it?"

I wasn't sure if he meant his rubbing me, or the magazine. I only knew that
his hand on my hard dick felt wonderful. I also knew that I should make him
stop, but it felt so damned good I couldn't. I nodded, too terrified to
speak.

"Have you ever touched another guy's cock?" Piers asked as he slowly left
off his rubbing and pulled down my zipper. His hand entered and felt my
erection under my briefs. This felt even better and I was so overcome that
I could not answer him. I could only shake my head, no.

"Want to touch mine?" Piers asked as he rose and stood in front of me. I
looked at him and saw the strangest glint in his eyes. In the back of my
mind I knew that Piers and I were going to fool around. My Catholic
conscience tried to kick in, but I ignored it. I was not about to let an
opportunity to see another guy's dick slip by.

Piers dropped his jeans and pulled down his briefs. To my juvenile eyes -
and with only my puny dick for comparison - he was huge. Actually, he was
about four and a half inches. His dick was darker in colour than the rest
of his body and, unlike mine, the head was covered in thick skin, which
ended in a wrinkled tassel about a quarter inch beyond the head. The whole
thing was one long shaft of skin, without definition, sort of like a
sausage. A few scraggly hairs - which were more than I had - grew at the
base of his stomach. I was so mesmerized that I barely heard Piers's next
question: "Can I see yours?"

I nodded, stood up, unzipped, and pulled my pants down. My boner was
pointing straight up under the thin cotton of my briefs. It didn't seem all
that impressive compared to Piers's, but he reached over and rubbed me.  It
felt wonderful. He rubbed a little more, then reached up and pulled down
the front of my briefs, releasing my throbbing cock. It popped out and
pointed upward at a good angle.

"Hey, you're circumcised!" Piers exclaimed. "Look's nice."

Until that moment I had never realized that there was a difference amongst
dicks. I had a vague recollection about circumcision and made a mental note
to consult Webster's Standard Dictionary the first chance I got.

Piers continued to fondle me and then, using two fingers he touched me,
then felt my balls. "And you got big balls," he breathed huskily.

I have to admit, I did, and do.

"Mine are small." Piers complained with a frown.

I had to agree. They were kind of small, and contained in a tightly
hanging, wrinkled bag. I didn't have time, however, to dwell on the size of
Piers's balls as he pushed my briefs down over my knees. They fell to my
ankles and Piers pulled me toward the bed, sat down, and fingered me
again. "You like it?" he asked again.

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

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

"Have you ever had a guy suck it?" Piers whispered.

I shook my head no. What happened next shocked me even more than the
pictures.

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

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

Suddenly he let go of me. With my eyes closed I reached down and began to
pump myself and I heard him groan harshly.

"DO it to me!" came his snarling demand. "Suck my dick!"

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

Piers was lying flat on his back on the bed, his left hand grasping the
base of his dick, the thumb and two fingers of his right hand just above,
slowly pumping himself. His dick was long, thin, and, underneath the head a
band of purple red skin showed. His exposed dick head was a deep purple
colour. Underneath his mushroom were several blobs of creamy yellow
something. He lay there, his head pushed back, mouth open, eyes closed, as
he gave his dick short, quick little pumps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

My relationship with Piers came to an abrupt end. I also reinforced my
belief that in our own hypocritical way we believe that if something is not
talked about, it never happened. Piers never mentioned our little session
in his bedroom, and I was sure as hell not going to bring it up.

I avoided Piers as much as I could. I would see him coming toward me and my
eyes would automatically zero in on his crotch. I would shudder, and try to
think of a good excuse to get away from him. Fortunately, for my sanity,
his father found a better job in Peterborough and they moved away in the
last days of August.

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



******



In September I started high school. As mentioned, the Catholic community
could not support a Catholic high school, so I went to the same public high
school as everyone else in town. In time, thanks to gym classes and
swimming classes, I learned that just about every boy in town was, like me,
circumcised. The exceptions were, the for the most part, the boys born at
home, down on the farm. Even back then doctors did not make house calls and
most farm babies were born with only a only a midwife in attendance. There
was also the cost in those pre-OHIP days. Neonatal circumcision cost
$75.00, which was a lot of money. Unless something was wrong, like an
infection, the farm boys were never circumcised. Which was too bad, because
some of them were prime pieces of boy meat.

As for the Mennonite boys, they never appeared nude, at any time. Which was
a pity.

High school was a very trying time for me. I had finally come to the
realization that I was gay. I didn't want to be, but I was. Despite my
prayers I lusted after my schoolmates and couldn't wait for gym glass.
Swimming class was even better. When I was thirteen and a bit I hit
full-blown puberty, and masturbation, sinful as it was, became a nightly
activity, I fantasized about all the dicks I had seen. I had a mental
picture of every boy I came in contact with and dreamed of jerking and
sucking their hard dicks. The memory of Piers, and his weeping erection,
remained with me, however, and none of the uncircumcised boys were ever in
my fantasies.  These boys I put out of my mind.

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

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

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

One afternoon I came home from hockey practice, dumped my skates on the
porch and went into the kitchen. My parents were at the kitchen table,
talking very quietly. I thought I heard my father say something about the
Church, but when I entered the kitchen they both shut up.

I had expected my mother to be there. She stayed at home - in those days
that's where a mother was expected to be. My father, however, never came
home in the middle of the afternoon. He was a druggist, and the store he
owned was very busy.

I knew at once that something was up. I also knew that hell would freeze
over before they told me what they were whispering about. My parents firmly
believed that there were things in life that a good Catholic boy did not
need to know.  Since I knew I wasn't going to get anything out of them I
had a glass of milk and retired to my favourite listening post.

I scampered around to the back of the house and squatted under the open
kitchen window. With me gone, and out of earshot (or so they thought), my
parents resumed their conversation. Because they spoke in such low tones I
really didn't get much information. I did get that something was happening
down at the church and that the new priest was involved. I heard my mother
saying something about the new priest and "that boy".

What this meant I couldn't figure out. The priest was always in a crowd,
with parents and such, and, except for the altar boys at morning Mass, had
little contact with any of the boys who attended the church. Since I knew
all the altar boys, and since they had never said anything, I was totally
at sea. After a while I heard their chairs scrape across the linoleum-tiled
floor, followed by the screen door slamming. I got up and wandered off
looking for something to do.

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

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

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

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

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

I did learn, much later, that the priest had not been punished. The Church,
in its own hypocritical, self-seeking way, had decided that he was guilty
of a moral lapse, and sent him off to a rest home of sorts, where he was
counselled, prayed over, declared once more filled with grace, and returned
to pastoral duties.

******

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

They were not talking about me, thank God. I was the model straight boy. I
even dated girls, although I used the old excuse that only bad boys tried
to make it with girls. I was a good Catholic boy, respectful, pure in
thought, word and deed. I played sports with a vengeance, I roughhoused
with my mates, I did everything I could think of to firmly establish myself
as a normal, very normal, boy. And I was miserable.