Aurora Tapestry

AURORA TAPESTRY is the third book in a series. It chronicles the lives and times of a group of men and teenage boys living in an age and an environment where being gay was to be despised, maligned and scorned. It is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, is purely coincidental.

My writing reflects the customs, mores, traditions, prejudices and attitudes of the times. The year is 1976 and it was a different world. Some of the attitudes will no doubt offend those who are so determinably politically correct that they are unable to conceive that others might have a different opinion or outlook. Others are so Liberal in their thinking that they make Hillary Clinton look like Attila the Hen! And then there are those that are into "causes". Please, do not write me hooting and hollering about your cause, prejudices, preferences or whatever. I am not into causes. I AM a grumpy old sailor and I do not suffer fools gladly. Be warned.

IN 1976 the AIDS pandemic was only just infecting North America. Condoms were used primarily to prevent pregnancy and gay men never gave a thought to having sex without a condom. Do not, I beg you, let what was common in 1976 influence your conduct today. Always practice safe sex.

As my writings detail scenarios of gay sex - tastefully, I hope - in sometimes graphic detail, I must warn that in some states, provinces, cities and towns reading, possessing, downloading, etc., is illegal, or if you are not of legal age to read, possess, download, etc., works of erotica, please move on.

I apologize to my readers for the lengthy delay in posting this latest chapter. My computer died a tragic death and while I had backups on discs and CD-ROMS, I had no computer until last week. Christmas intervened and as I am also trying to earn a living, my time was limited. I shall try to be a little more prompt with future postings.

As always I wish to thank Peter, my editor whose insightful, pithy comments and suggestions make what I write much better. We all owe him a debt of gratitude for this chapter. He struggled from his sick bed to edit, correct, amend, complain and compliment this chapter. BZ.

Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 3c

Joe was not aware of Gabe's past history. Had he known he might have been more sympathetic to the young man's foibles and strange - to Joe - behaviour. Gabe was a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out the reasons behind strange anomalies in the Order's accounts. He was also positively manic when it came to researching the files concerning Percy Simpson, and his activities in Germany before and, they suspected, after the war. Gabe left nothing to chance and left no stone unturned.

Sitting in his room, Joe almost smiled. Gabe's attributes were amazing. But what bothered Joe was that Gabe had given no hint of his being gay. Joe knew that Gabe had been Louis Arundel's page, yet he wore no ring. Not once in all the time that they had shared a room, and on occasion, a bed, had Gabe demonstrated in the slightest that he might be interested in having a little relaxing fun. Shaking his head, Joe poured himself a drink. Perhaps Gabe was asexual?

Joe thought about Gabe's personal habits. The man was clean; Joe would say that for him, and like all accountants, very precise in dress and deportment. He had a sense of humour and, except when they were reading the STASI reports on Percy, treated every document with a serious lightness. He was a very determined and unrelenting investigator. It was only at night that a strangeness came over Gabe.

After their day's work they would have dinner, review whatever files needed a second look, and then retire to their room. Gabe had made no objection to sharing a room with Joe. There were the Order's finances to be considered and why pay for two rooms when one would do? After whatever review had been finished Gabe would retire to the bathroom and prepare for bed. Joe, like many men of his generation, slept in his boxers and T-shirt, and showered and shaved in the morning upon arising. Gabe, on the other hand, showered in the evening and never allowed Joe into the bathroom while he was showering. The door remained firmly locked. When he emerged, Gabe would be showered, shaved, and dressed not only in flannel pyjamas, but wearing under the pyjamas, briefs and a T-shirt. Once Joe had seen Gabe packing his suitcase and had seen that all of Gabe's underwear was white: tighty-whiteys and white T-shirts, as were the stiffly starched shirts that he always wore.

Once in bed Gabe kept strictly to his side of the bed, and never made a move toward initiating an encounter - which Joe would not have minded at all. Gabe was handsome, with a ready, infectious smile, and once he lost his Gloomy Gus, dedicated investigator look, was really a nice guy to be around. Yet - there was a blankness in Gabe's eyes, a faraway look of hurt and pain that Joe did not quite understand, a look that suddenly blossomed into sparkling love whenever he made his daily telephone call.

The telephone calls intrigued Joe no end. Gabe, no matter where he was, or what he was doing, always paused and interrupted whatever they were doing to make a telephone call. At first Joe knew only that Gabe was calling to speak with someone named "Darren". Over the course of their being together Joe came to realize that the telephone calls were always made at 1900, Vancouver time. It did not matter where they were, Gabe always called at that time. Joe also came to understand that Darren, whoever he was, had the mental capacity of a child, a child that Gabe loved dearly.

Joe did not presume to intrude in Gabe's secret life, just as Gabe had never asked questions about Joe's life, and had not questioned Joe's request that Gabe take their final report to Vancouver. Joe had his reasons, of course, and while he did not divulge his reasons for wanting to stop in Regina, Gabe never questioned. He nodded his acceptance, bade Joe goodbye, and caught the first flight home.

Joe had never been to Regina, and in truth had had no reason to visit the Saskatchewan provincial capital before. The only reason he was here now was that his friend, his lover, had begged him to come. Joe had hoped that there would be confrontation. He and his lover had had a good, long run. But it was over and both of them had to say goodbye.

A light tapping at the door woke Joe from his reverie. He walked slowly across the room and opened the door, to find Brendan Lascelles standing there. Before Joe could react or protest he was in Brendan's strong arms, had Brendan's soft, sweet lips pressed against his, could feel the massive bulge in Brendan's khaki trousers pressing urgently against his crotch, and once again the feelings, the desires, surged through Joe, and struggle as he might, he could not deny those feelings. He responded, as he always did.

They broke their kiss and Joe led Brendan into the room. Both men were breathing heavily, their eyes filled with the desire they felt for one another. But Joe knew that their relationship was over and when Brendan tried to pull him down onto the sofa, he resisted. "Brendan, no," he said quietly.

Brendan looked quizzically at Joe. "No? You can't mean that, Joe! Please, you don't know how much I've missed you." He began pleading desperately. "I need you, Joe, I need to hold you and feel you and taste you."

Shaking his head, Joe sat on the other end of the sofa and looked at Brendan. Joe had to admit that the recently graduated RCMP constable was a fine figure of a virile young man. Brendan stood six feet three inches tall, had a muscular, well-formed body, twinkling blue eyes and carefully combed dark blond hair. In many ways Brendan was the poster boy for the RCMP Recruiting Office. He looked like the public's perception of what a Mountie should be. The effect was heightened when Brendan appeared in his red serge jacket, brown leather riding boots and Stetson. Little boys flocked to him and the recruiting officer swore that inquiries went up 20% whenever Brendan Lascelles manned the Recruiting Booth at the many fairs the Mounties attended.

Joe also knew that Brendan was just as fine looking with his clothes off. In high school they had played on the Junior and Senior Varsity teams, Brendan as Quarterback, Joe as a running back. They had showered together and Joe, along with the other team members, had admired Brendan's endowments. Later, after they had become lovers, Joe had admired those endowments up close. God had blessed Brendan with a thick, four-inch penis (which grew into an 8-inch shaft when he was excited, horny, or showing off to the boys in the team locker room) and large, oval-shaped testicles that hung low. Brendan was a smooth, toned, football jock, and like all jocks boasted of an active sex life with the co-eds and groupies that always seemed to follow the football squad from game to game, town to town, not all of them girls. Brendan had been popular, or so it seemed to Joe. Later, after they had begun what Joe thought was just another guy thing, he learned that Brendan was not quite the man everybody thought he was.

Just as Brendan's beauty was marred slightly by the fact that the head of his circumcised penis was flattened, and not at all like the smooth, domed acorns the other boys sported at the end of their dicks, acorns that Joe had become accustomed to seeing almost daily and lusting after almost nightly, Brendan's character was marred by his steadfast refusal to admit that he much preferred the company of men to women. This Joe could understand, for being gay meant being scorned, an object of ridicule. A gay man could never be accepted in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. A gay man could never be accepted in any government service, including the military. Gay men, if they were found out, faced the loss of jobs, of their homes, everything. All this Joe understood. What Joe could not understand was that Brendan would not admit anything, even when they were alone and insisted on perpetuating the lie that he was "bi-sexual", perhaps a little more attracted to men than to women, but steadfastly insisting that he liked women as well as men.

Joe knew that Brendan had boffed his way through high school with anything with a pulse and a willingness to spread her mattress on Brendan's doorstep. Well, not quite Brendan's doorstep, but certainly the back seat of his car. Joe, who had known of his own proclivities since he was nine or ten, had more or less kept a wide berth from Brendan. He did not want to risk having his head kicked in, or having his secret become known to all and sundry. Brendan Lascelles was untouchable and Joe almost had heart failure when one night, in their final year, after a team party, Brendan had offered him a lift home. What was even more surprising was that Brendan had not driven in the direction of Joe's house, but had instead pointed the nose of his Daddy's Studebaker toward the outskirts of town. Surprised, but at the same time intrigued at Brendan's strange conduct, Joe had said nothing, and had kept silence as Brendan drove his car onto a stretch of deserted beach . . .

"What are you thinking about?" asked Brendan, disappointed and puzzled at Joe's demeanour.

"I'm thinking about the first time we fucked!" replied Joe bluntly.

Brendan drew back. "Joe . . . we . . ."

Holding up his hand, Joe shook his head. "It's always been a fuck, Brendan. I realize that now," he said, his words cold and cutting.

In the dim light Brendan's face clouded with anger. "That's not true, damn it! I love you. That first time, yeah, maybe it was nothing more than a good fuck, but later, later when we were together, it was nothing like that!" He stood up and looked around the room. "I need a drink! Is there anything to drink in this place?"

Joe gestured toward the drinks table. "Gin, whisky, vodka, rum. Take your pick. And all I've ever been to you is a good fuck!"

Without answering Brendan poured a heavy drink of scotch, softened it with some water and resumed his seat. "You're a mean bastard, you know that?"

"And you are not?" asked Joe. "We've been lovers . . ." he pointed out with heavy emphasis, " . . . since we were seventeen. I thought that I meant something to you! Obviously I don't, and never have." He sobbed and looked at Brendan, his eyes brimming. "Was I never more that just another one of your bimbos, Brendan? How many times did you leave one of their beds and crawl into mine? Tell me, let's be truthful, you and I. Tell me how you really feel, tell me what the real Brendan Lascelles is like!"

Brendan downed his drink in one gulp. "Joe, I loved - no - I still love, you. I will always love you. If I could I'd marry you! But I can't, and you know it! I've wanted you, all of you, and I will go on wanting you." He waved his empty glass at Joe and proclaimed fervently, "And you were never a bimbo, never a Kenton Fowler."

At the mention of Kenton's name Joe could not help laughing softly. "So, he got you, too, did he?"

Kenton Fowler, a slim, willowy, effeminate young man, had been the team queer when both Brendan and Joe had been in high school. Everybody on the team knew that Kenton sucked dick, and everybody on the team knew that if their dates wouldn't put out, Kenton would.

Seeing the look on Joe's face, Brendan nodded. "On the road trip we made to Nanaimo, in our final year. Kenton managed to "miss" the bus back to Comox and begged a lift from me - I had my dad's car - and before I knew it he was on my cock, balls deep, and it was either pull over and squirt my load or wreck the car."

"So you pulled over," commented Joe, slightly miffed. He had never availed himself of Kenton's services and had gone out of his way to avoid the boy.

"And I ended up in the back seat of the car with him. I fucked his ass and made him cum. After that, until I met you, I'd see him as often as I could." He snorted disdainfully. "At least he was a better fuck than those bimbos, and he could give head like you wouldn't believe."

Joe was not amused. "So, you went from Kenton, to me, to your now fiancé. Quite the diversity of partners," he said waspishly.

"Please, Joe, don't," begged Brendan.

"Why not? In a few days you're going to get married to a girl that you do not love. Tonight . . . tonight you come in here, with your dick in your hand, wanting me to suck it! How in the hell does that make me feel? Tell me, Brendan, tell me why I shouldn't feel rejected, tossed aside? Tell me why I shouldn't just throw you out?" The anger and hurt was raging in Joe. "How could you, Brendan? How could you come from her bed and then try to weasel your way into mine? I thought that we meant more to each other than that!"

"I haven't been in anybody's bed but my own," snarled Brendan. "I wasn't with her tonight and I haven't slept with her since she told me that she was pregnant!" He looked pleadingly at Joe. "If you must know, I was getting my ass reamed - again - by the Deputy Superintendent of the college." Brendan hung his head and spoke softly. "Joe, I meant what I said about loving you! It's just that, well, I don't have a choice anymore. If I don't marry Belinda on Monday I can kiss my career goodbye. I am expected to 'do the right thing', for the good of the Force, and for her own reputation." He laughed caustically. "I have to be a man, take responsibility for what I did, and marry her!"

Joe gave a knowing nod. "You cannot bring disrepute to, or sully the good name and reputation of, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police," he murmured, thinking that was what was important to the Deputy Superintendent, and that Brenda's reputation was of little, or no, consequence.

"You got that right. I screwed Belinda once!" Brendan saw the look of disbelief on Joe's face and continued on. "That's right, once! It was after a barracks party. She was always around, always wanting to dance with me, always wanting to neck with me! I, well, I had too much to drink and I let her get my pants down. You know the rest."

"She came to you and told you that she was pregnant," supplied Joe. He looked at Brendan and asked gently. "Are you sure that the child is yours? If she was 'always around' it could be that you were not the first to take advantage of her charms."

"Charms? She wasn't even a good fuck," snarled Brendan uncharitably. "And I thought of that. We had a blood test and the doctor said it's mine." He looked scathingly at Joe. "You sound like my father!"

"Your father?"

"Yes, my father," repeated Brendan. He poured another drink and returned to his seat. "Dad is from the old school. He doesn't approve of me marrying Belinda and he's made no bones about it. He thinks she's not in our 'class', and was just waiting for a chance to catch a man. He thinks I'm a fool for plugging her and he won't come to the wedding. Dad, dear old dad, because he's so high up in the police department can't have any hint of scandal. Mustn't sully the family name, or throw mud on the Chief's sterling reputation."

"I'm sorry, Brendan," said Joe presently. "I didn't know."

Brendan waved away Joe's apology. "How could you? I never told you how dad felt, or how I feel."

"How do you feel?"

Brendan sighed heavily. "I made a mistake. I'm paying for it. I don't like it, but I'm paying the price." He glanced at Joe. "You're right, you know. I don't love her, and yes, I do have my doubts about the paternity of the child. But it is something I have to do!"

"Does being a Mountie mean that much?" asked Joe. "Does it mean so much that you are willing to sacrifice your whole life and, in a way, your family?"

Brendan nodded. "Yes, it means that much to me because you see, Joe, it was the first conscious decision I ever made, on my own, without my dad's prodding me into something."

"I don't understand."

Chuckling, Brendan deliberately took Joe in his arms. "From the time I was a little tyke my dad wanted me to play football. He taught me how to play, he kept at me to join the squad, and when I was on the squad he critiqued everything I did, every play I made. I wasn't his son. I was a projection of him. I played football to please him. Thankfully I was good at it. He wanted me to be a cop, and join the Courtenay PD. I wanted to be a Mountie. I had made up my mind about that, and that is what I am. Dad wasn't all that happy about my decision, but he went along with it. As he put it, at least I'd turned out okay, and not queer." Brendan chuckled ruefully. "Little did he know that the day he told me that I'd just come from giving Kenton the ride of his life!"

"Brendan . . ." growled Joe warningly.

"Well, you did ask," returned Brendan equably. "Anyway, he won't be at the wedding. I don't suppose you'd . . ." The look on Joe's face told Brendan not to travel down that road. "My mother is coming. No one else."

Joe thought a moment. "Not your brother? I thought that . . ."

"Whatever you are thinking, don't," snapped Brendan. "I can get along without my father, and I'll put up with my mother, but I will not have my brother at my wedding!"

The ferocity of Brendan's statement startled Joe. "Really, Brendan, he can't be . . . Does he feel as your father does?"

For a long time Brendan said nothing. Then he looked evenly at Joe. "I don't know how he feels. I have my reasons for not wanting Philip at my wedding."

Joe heard something in Brendan's voice that caused him to lean forward and look into his lover's eyes. He gasped slightly at what he saw. "You're in love with him!" he declared. "I can see it in your eyes!"

Brendan drew back, his lips curled into a snarl. "Don't be ridiculous! Whatever makes you say that? I have never, in any way shape . . . or form . . . or . . ." Brendan's voice trailed away in the face of Joe's determined look. Suddenly he buried his face in his hands and began to weep silently.

Joe clasped Brendan's shoulder and squeezed it gently. "So, it's true then."

Nodding, Brendan affirmed his love for his younger brother. He sat back and stared at the sitting room ceiling. "When he was born I was so happy, so proud to have a baby brother. He was, oh, I don't know, so special! He smelled sweet, and innocent, and God, Joe, was I smitten with him. He came home from the hospital and I held him and I swear, he smiled at me."

"He had gas," replied Joe sourly.

"No," insisted Brendan, "he smiled at me, and I fell in love with him. I forgave him everything, from the time he peed on me . . ."

"I beg your pardon?"

Brendan joined in Joe's laughter. "He was about, oh, six, seven months old, and my mother asked me to change him. I took off his diaper and I was putting on that cream you use to keep baby boys from getting a sore dick from peeing in their pants. I swear he giggled, Joe, and I know his little honker stood up tall! He seemed to like what I was doing so I rubbed him a little more and he cooed and then let loose like a fucking fire hose! Got me all down the front of my T-shirt!"

"How old were you then?" asked Joe.

"Oh, seven, I think. Philip is seventeen, so yeah, I think I was seven."

"And then what happened?"

Brendan swallowed, a little embarrassed. "He grew up. He was a brat at times, but I loved him even more by the time he was six or seven. I loved him when he told the parish priest that I had hair around my wienie . . ."

Joe collapsed in laughter. "He didn't!"

"He did," returned Brendan. "Later he told my father that he'd seen me doing strange things to my dick and that white stuff came out of it. He asked Dad if I was sick."

"He spied on you?" asked Joe, wondering if Mikey, or Calvin, had ever done the same to him.

"He was curious," replied Brendan with a smile. "Boys of that age are always curious."

Laughing, Joe had to agree with Brendan. "I wonder just how often Calvin has peeked through the keyhole."

"If he was anything like Philip, a lot!"

"Then whatever makes you feel so, well, antagonistic toward him? You seem to at least accept that he was a young, curious boy, like all boys. What did he do to you that makes you want to avoid him?" Joe shook his head and looked at Brendan. "Or is it all about how you really feel about him?"

Brendan stood up and walked to the window. He stared into the Regina darkness and then nodded. Joe had hit the nail on the head. "I fell in love with him!" he declared flatly. "I would look at him, and all these feelings would race through me. He was an innocent young boy and I was lusting after him!"

"So, because you felt the way you did you went out of your way to reject him!" replied Joe harshly.

"I had to," returned Brendan, wheeling and all but shouting. "I had no choice! I couldn't be in love with my brother! My father would have killed me!"

"Surely you exaggerate," said Joe.

Brendan sat down on the sofa and shook his head. "You don't know my father! I do! On the surface, to his friends, to his family, he's a good guy, fair and firm, fun to be around. Philip thinks Dad is the greatest thing since sliced bread. If only he knew!"

Joe's eyebrows rose slightly. "Knew what?" he asked.

Brendan took a deep breath. "Dad hates queers. As far as he is concerned the only good queer is a dead one. He keeps it low key because of the tourists, and he has this image he likes to project. On the surface he's everybody's ideal picture of a cop: fair, firm, dispensing the law without fear or favour. But underneath, dear God, underneath!"

Joe's face showed no reaction to Brendan's words. Inwardly, his mind was whirling. The Order liked to know its enemies, as well as its friends. Michael Chan would no doubt want to know all about Chief Tommy Lascelles. Joe decided to probe further. "A few chance remarks at an effeminate tourist hardly make a homophobe, Brendan."

Brendan snorted. "You know of Harcourt Bay?" he asked directly.

"Of course. It's clothing optional and rumour has it that it's a gay cruising ground." He shrugged. "You want tourists, you put up with their foibles. It's no big deal so far as I can see."

"Because you don't go there!" Brendan reached out and held Joe's hand. "Harry Jensen, who is a Comox cop, and my dad, my fucking dad, cruise the bay. They go out at night and bust the gays. It's another source of income for them. They bust the gays and 'fine' them on the spot, threaten them with jail time for public indecency, corrupting morals, the whole shebang."

"Again, hardly unknown," replied Joe. "Shaking down queers is a time-honoured tradition in most of our cities. The cops know that the gays will do anything to keep out of jail, pay any amount not to have their names published in the newspapers, not to have their secret exposed."

"All true," agreed Brendan. "But do the other cops deliberately goad their prisoners into protesting, and then use the protest as an excuse to beat the shit out of the guy?" He saw Joe's shocked reaction and continued. "It gets worse. If a gay protests too much, he gets slammed into the Comox Nick. Harry Jensen knows how to deal with smart asses and big mouths." He shuddered. "Harry knows how not to leave bruises."

"Dear, sweet Jesus!" ejaculated Joe. "And you still wanted to be a Mountie?"

"Being a Mountie has nothing to do with being a small town cop," replied Brendan with regimental loyalty. "I don't deny that there are bad apples in the Force - there always are - but I do know that there are damned few Queen's Cowboys on the take!"

"What?" Joe's eyes widened. He had no idea that such things were going on in such a small town as Comox, or such a small city as Courtenay.

"In addition to shaking down the gays at Harcourt Bay, my dad and Harry know all the restaurants and bars where gays meet, or at least where they're welcome. Every Christmas my dad gets cases of high- class booze from "appreciative" citizens for his good police work. Do you really think the owners of the bars and restaurants appreciate him that much?"

Joe nodded, understanding. "It's all a part of the payoff."

"You got it," agreed Brendan. "And now you know why I had to keep my true feelings well hidden, why I went along with what my dad wanted me to be. I did everything to make sure that so far as he was concerned I was the jock, the boy he wanted to have." He shrugged. "In reality, all I wanted was to be with Philip, which I couldn't be and which I didn't even dare hint at!"

"So, in self-defence, you rejected him."

"I did," admitted Brendan. He hung his head and then looked at Joe, a soft smile forming on his lips. "Philip thinks I never cared about him, about what he did, but I cared. I was there when he won his swim meets, when he ran the marathon. I was always there, but in the background, and he never knew it. I never let on how proud I was of him."

"It must have been . . . difficult, given the way you felt."

"Difficult is not the word!" replied Brendan. "I would lie in bed at night, knowing that he was next door, in his own bed, and it was all I could do not to go in there and take him in my arms. Oh, God, how I wanted to see those damned green eyes of his smile at me, instead of darkening with anger."

"So you dug yourself a little hole where he couldn't see you. And found Kenton."

"Kenton was available, liked being with me, and the sex was unbelievable. I didn't have to woo him, or take him on a date. I knew that he was screwing other guys . . ." He rhymed off a list of names, which caused Joe to stare in surprise. Kenton had been servicing most of the football team, had made inroads with the Junior and Senior Swimming teams, and was working on at least three guys on the Track Team.

A small gasp escaped Joe's lips. "Jesus, I knew that Kenton was a busy boy, but all those guys?"

"All those guys," confirmed Brendan with a slight frown. "Kenton liked dick, any dick, any time. What surprised me was that he managed to keep everybody happy at the same time."

Joe could not resist the temptation and grinned. "Perhaps he had an Appointments Secretary?" He snickered at his weak joke, then looked at Brendan and asked,

"And you?"

Brendan shrugged a "what the fuck" shrug. "Kenton wasn't a slut, Joe. Oh, he took on as many guys as wanted it, but he always did it one on one. There were no 'team parties' where he took on every guy in the room. It was all personal, if you know what I mean."

"It didn't stop the guys from giggling and snickering about it, though," Joe pointed out. "I heard the rumours, and the giggling."

Brendan shrugged expressively. "Come on, Joe, you know how guys are. They were getting their rocks off on a regular basis. Kenton never forced himself on anybody, really, and if a guy wanted to get laid, well, all he had to do was call up Kenton."

"I know, I know," replied Joe with a wave of his hand. "One guy gets laid and he just has to brag about it, if only a little, so he tells his 'best' friend, who just has to try Kenton out and the next thing you know . . ."

"True," relied Brendan with a slight nod. Then he leaned back and stared into the gloom. "Kenton had this, I don't know, knack, of making a guy feel as if he were the only one in Kenton's life. He never talked about the other guys, and never compared one guy with another. It was all just Kenton and the guy he happened to be with." His eyes glanced at Joe. "I liked being with Kenton, and to be honest, he helped me get over a few rough patches. He never complained, and always did what I wanted to do. When he was with me he did make me feel like I was the only guy in his life." He shrugged. "Then you came along."

Without thinking Joe reached over and brushed a lock of Brendan's hair from his forehead. "I wasn't Kenton, Brendan. You were the first boy I had ever slept with."

Brendan reached up and grasped Joe's hand. "I know. I knew that you were a virgin when we first made out." Brendan gently kissed the back of Joe's hand. "For some reason I felt, well, special." Then he giggled. "Mind you, I did wonder why you'd never visited Kenton. He had thing for you, you know. "Kenton would have . . ."

Joe interrupted Brendan's impending priapic tale of what Kenton would, or would not have done with, and to, him. "Brendan, I never slept with Kenton - and he did offer, on more than one occasion - because I couldn't, and wouldn't lose my cherry to some one night stand. I knew that he would probably give me the ride of my life but all it would have been was sex." Impulsively Joe leaned over and kissed Brendan gently. "I wanted my first time to mean something, I wanted my first time to be with someone I cared deeply for. I found that someone in you."

The deep gloom of the darkened room prevented Joe from seeing a deep blush come over Brendan's handsome features, nor feel the warmth that filled the handsome young Mountie's soul. He reached out and slowly caressed Joe's handsome face. "I'm glad, Joe. In a way I wish you'd been my first."

Joe said nothing, enjoying the moment, because he knew, as Brendan did not, that after tonight, they would never be together again.

Without warning Brendan pulled away abruptly. "I let my dick rule my brain - not for the first time - and ended up pounding Kenton every chance I got! I knew that with Kenton all I was doing was having sex. That's not to say that he didn't care for me, because he did. He really cared for me." A rueful smile crossed his face. "But then, he cared for all the guys he slept with. He fell in love for a little while, you see."

"Which you couldn't do," said Joe softly. "There was your brother."

"Yes."

"You are in love with him." Joe's voice was low, his words a statement, not a question.

Brendan sighed. "Yes, I am." He laughed a rough, harsh little laugh. "As he grew older he became so damned . . . beautiful. There were times I almost lost it." He sat up and leaned forward, clasping his hands firmly in his lap. "Philip grew up, and the older he got, the more beautiful he became. I tried not to notice, but I did. He was growing into a sweet, wonderful young man and I was dying." He passed a shaking hand across his face. "Sometimes, at night, I would sneak into his bedroom and just sit there, and watch him. I would listen to him breathe, and I could smell him. He has this - gosh, I don't know - this wonderful scent. It was all I could do not to reach out and touch him."

"You never did?" asked Joe, frankly amazed at Brendan's will power.

"I never did," replied Brendan. "Even when he kicked off the covers." Again he laughed ruefully. "He used to wear tightys, and God damn, God damn, could he fill 'em. Once, as I sat there, he got hard and the head of his dick poked up above his undies and I swear, I swear, Joe, I creamed myself."

"And still you never touched him?"

Shaking his head, Brendan said, "Never. I wanted to, but no, I never touched him. I treated him like shit and tried to avoid him. That's where Kenton came in. I'd call him and he'd come over, or more often than not I'd go to his place and we'd fuck. The sad thing was, Joe, was that I wasn't fucking Kenton. I was fucking Philip."

"And when you were with me?"

Brendan smiled and rubbed the back of his hand against Joe's cheek. "Kenton was sex, you were love. I truly am in love with you. When I am with you, when I am just loving you, I forget what I prick I've been, what a pervert I was for lusting after my own brother. You were the only one in my bed, or your bed, or the blanket on the beach."

"And now?" Joe left the sofa and poured himself a drink. "You won't have your brother at your wedding because you lusted after him; you tell me that you love me yet you're being married in what, three or four days?" He downed the drink in one gulp. "I don't understand you at all!"

Brendan looked crestfallen. "As far as my brother is concerned, call it shame, call it embarrassment, you can call it whatever you like. You can call it selfishness as well because I don't want him thinking that I'm a queer, some faggot after his hoop! I don't have much credibility with him and I don't want what shred of dignity I have left to be tossed aside." He left the sofa and poured a drink for Joe and himself. "I cannot and I will not have him witness my wedding," he said as he handed Joe the glass of whisky. He sat down and looked directly at Joe and said with all the sincerity he could muster, "As for you, I do love you, and I do want to be with you."

"Then why marry? You don't love her, and to be honest, I doubt you ever will," replied Joe harshly. "That is hardly a good foundation for a marriage!"

"Joe, please understand," began Brendan, almost pleading. "I must marry her. I have no choice. There are no fags or queers in the Mounties. Everybody is straight, and married. If I refused to get married I'd be unceremoniously dumped!" He glowered as he shook his head. "I was lectured like a little kid and told that I had to do the honourable thing. If I didn't I'd be shit-canned. No one actually said it, but I got the message."

"So, on Monday, you will marry."

"Yes."

Joe rested his hand on Brendan's shoulder. "Then you will understand why we cannot see each other again. You're going to be married, and you cannot have both worlds. I would stay with you, Brendan, and see you, and love you, if you weren't married. I will not, however, be responsible for the inevitable breakdown of your marriage. I will not hang around waiting until you get the urge for a man." He saw Brendan about to protest and continued. "You will, Brendan. You like being with a man. You can protest all you like, but the truth is the truth. Sooner or later you'll get out of your marriage bed and look around, and know that what your wife is giving you is not what you need to make you happy or, in a way, whole. You'll need to be with a man." He walked away and opened the hotel room door. "I just won't be that man."

Brendan stared, broken, at his former lover. His head drooped slowly. "I will always love you, Joe. I just have to do what I must do." He walked out of the room, paused in the corridor, and turned. "Please, Joe, try to understand how I feel."

"I understand," replied Joe, his voice a faint murmur. "I will always think of you, Brendan." "I will just not be in love with you," he thought as he slowly closed the door.

Michael Chan paced the length of his office mentally cursing himself for his loss of temper over the treason and thievery of Willoughby, Hunter and Simpson. He had always prided himself on his iron control. He never, ever, showed emotion of any kind. It had been drilled into him by Uncle Henry that to show anger, displeasure, humour, any kind of emotion, was a sign of weakness. An enemy could pick up on the slightest movement of the eyes, a barely raised eyebrow, any seemingly innocent gesture, and read into that gesture Michael's true feelings, his true opinion. That many times the gestures were misread was evidenced by three attempts on his life, attempts made not by known enemies, but by assumed friends and business associates. That Michael was attuned to those same gestures in others was evidenced by the very fact that he was still alive.

What also angered Michael was the fact that all his plans, all his hopes, all his dreams, would have to be put on hold, held back and more than likely, be cancelled in some cases, because the only motivation for many of the men he planned and needed to suborn was money. Money that the Order no longer had!

Resisting the urge to take a large drink from one of the bottles of liquor arrayed on the drinks table under the window, Michael continued to pace. From time to time he glanced around the room, his eyes taking in the superb antique furnishings, the paintings that adorned the walls. He could raise the money by selling off his collections but that would be like sending announcements to his enemies, to those who lusted after his power and position. No matter how discreetly he acted his "business associates" would pick up the scent sooner or later and pounce. He could never explain that he was raising money to keep an organization dedicated to protecting the rights and interests of homosexuals. His business partners would never understand and would see any attempt to raise funds as a sign of weakness. They would draw their own conclusions and . . .

More and more Michael wanted to leave his business. His conscience did not bother him at all and he gave very little thought to the morality of the way he made his money. Men were men. Chinese men lived to gamble. Michael provided them with an outlet. More and more people, particularly the young, were using drugs. Michael provided them with the means to satisfy their hunger. China, with its teeming hordes, and under the jackboot of the Communists, was busting at the seams and thousands of peasants, landless, existing for a few bowls of rice, yearned for the Golden Dragon, America, where the streets were paved in silver and gold, where fine jade and rubies adorned every man. Michael provided them with a means of escape. He also provided them with a livelihood in the form of piecework and near slave labour in the sweatshops he owned in half-a-dozen cities.

That the government in Ottawa, and the police in those same half-a-dozen cities did not look on his business interests in the same benevolent light that he did, bothered Michael not at all. He had perfectly legitimate businesses that provided him with the large, substantial income his accountants reported yearly to Revenue Canada and the IRS (Michael had well-established, legitimate businesses in the States, businesses that served as a cover for the large income he reported yearly). Large sums of cash, in used bills and untraceable, provided discreetly to the politicians and the police, insured a measure of protection. A vast network of well paid "associates" insured that every peccadillo, every sudden interest in underage girls and clandestine visits to "Boystown", was noted, and reported. Michael's eyes were everywhere and he never hesitated to remind those who opposed him of their all too human frailties.

Michael had never cringed at using the Tsangs. They were crude and illiterate, but they knew their business. A gesture, cruel, horrible, was sometimes the only way for certain members of polite society to be reminded that there were certain things best left alone, or certain actions best performed to Michael's satisfaction.

For some reason Michael thought of the "gift" that Uncle Henry had sent to the then Archbishop - he was now a Cardinal, in Rome - and the events that had grown out of that gift. Both Michael and his cousin Joel Chiang had been accepted at St. George's College School. Louis Arundel had his ward, Gabe, and Bertie Arundel had given Michael a gift more precious than all the Imperial Jade that sat on the shelves of the ornately carved gilt and rosewood cabinet that dominated one wall of his office. Bertie had called on Uncle Henry and from time to time the two men had collaborated on projects involving an organization that Bertie had always referred to as the Order. Their collaboration had involved nothing illegal, merely an exchange of information, or a special favour regarding a "friend" of the Order. Uncle Henry had never questioned why Bertie needed the information he requested, or why the "friend" needed assistance. But Michael had.

Uncle Henry had been obtuse and frankly close-mouthed about his dealings with Bertie Arundel. This Michael could not understand. As Uncle Henry's anointed heir Michael had been privy to everything. He knew who in Hong Kong and Taipei worked for, or with, Uncle Henry. He knew which Red Chinese officials, including one in the Politburo in Peking, protected Uncle Henry's interests on the mainland. He knew how opium was grown and purchased from the warlords of the Golden Triangle, where the narcotic was processed. He knew who controlled the gambling in the cities where Uncle Henry's influence held sway. Michael knew how the "Snakeheads" smuggled their human cargo into Canadian ports. He knew all about the "special" interests of the other 11 leaders of the Family Associations, knew which Tai Pan gambled too much, beat his wife, kept a mistress or visited the whorehouses of Gastown, knew that the Permanent Parliamentary Secretary to a very high ranking minister in Ottawa vacationed in Thailand not because of the scenery, but because of the boys. So many secrets, so many little secrets, most of them dirty, had Uncle Henry known. All were confided to Michael, all but one.

Michael, in his usual careful, methodical fashion, had remained stoic and seemingly content to honour Uncle Henry's reticence. Outwardly Michael said nothing, did nothing, to satisfy his curiosity. Covertly, however, Michael haunted the public library, the newspaper morgues, delving, searching, reading, making notes and nothing, absolutely nothing came of his amateurish investigation. There was no record, anywhere, of any secret Order. Bertie's official biography made no mention of membership in any strange order. Louis Arundel was a well-respected Professor at the University of British Columbia and his biography was as bland and innocent as his brother's. Eventually Michael gave up. Frustrated, he had bided his time, waiting for the moment when Uncle Henry would tell him the final secret.

Uncle Henry never did. Michael had been working with Uncle Henry almost constantly. He knew every little nuance, every gesture, every aspect of Uncle Henry and as he approached his 22nd birthday Michael began to notice a certain slowing down of activities. Uncle Henry was very old, of course, and beset with the aches and pains that beset all men in the seventh or eighth decade of life. It was only natural that Uncle Henry more and more turn to his favourite, his heir, in resolving business conflicts and problems. As the year progressed Michael became so involved in his uncle's business he quite forgot about the Order, dismissing it as one of those fraternal organizations that North American males were forever joining. He did not make the connection when his cousin, Joel, was arrested in one of the periodic raids on the bathhouses of downtown Vancouver. He had been much too busy to notice that while the raid had been mentioned in the newspapers, no names - as was the custom and usage of the time - had been published. Nor did he know that a late night telephone call to Bertie Arundel from Uncle Henry had led to another call, this one to an Assistant Deputy Superintendent of the Vancouver PD. What Bertie had said to the man Uncle Henry never knew. All he knew was that no one was held overnight in jail and no charges were ever laid against anyone, his scapegrace nephew Joel in particular.

Michael's 22nd birthday passed and he found himself in virtual control of Uncle Henry's business interests. The old man rarely left his nondescript, middle class house in Burnaby. As everyone knew, Uncle Henry was very old, and dying. Everyone knew it, and the jackals gathered. Michael proved himself to be just as ruthless as Uncle Henry, in many ways more so. The services of the Tsangs were frequently called upon, and Cousin Tommy spent less and less time with his wife and growing brood of boy children.

In the year that it took Uncle Henry to die, Michael consolidated his hold on all of Uncle Henry's business interests. Where he could Michael used persuasion, diplomacy, tact and vast amounts of cash. Where these tactics did not earn favourable results, the Tsangs were allowed to hunt. In Shanghai, in Canton, in Peking, men suddenly retired for reasons of health. In the heart of the Golden Triangle the head of Huang Shui Sha, the premier warlord, suddenly appeared on a stake in the middle of his supposedly impregnable compound. In Taipei a close confidant of the Chiangs left his house one morning and never returned. In Toronto Billy "No Dick" Trung, leader of one of the bourgeoning Vietnamese gangs, was found floating in the middle of the harbour, naked, and obviously beaten to death, his truncated penis (he had accidentally all but obliterated the lower third of his appendage when he thrust a loaded .45 down the front of his trousers and it discharged. The subsequent plastic surgery on the diminutive remnant of his appendage, a masterpiece of skill, Hippocratic perseverance and more than a little luck, had been written up in the "Lancet". The jokes about circumcision that had reverberated about the station houses of the Metro Toronto police did not, thankfully, make it into the public domain) on full display of the passengers of the SS Sam McBride, the Toronto Island Ferry, which had nudged the floating body as it plied its pedestrian way across the waters of Toronto Harbour.

In San Francisco Fat Sam Lee, Mayor of Chinatown, suddenly found himself explaining to the SFPD Vice Squad his interest in the Sun Yat Sen Home for Boys, and trying to explain to the Arson Squad just what had caused seven of his buildings to go up in smoke. No one had died, but the Arson Squad was very efficient and as two of the buildings had housed laboratories that contained chemicals that were needed to convert opium to heroin, agents of the Bureau of Alcohol, Firearms and Tobacco joined them in their investigation.

All these events paled in comparison, however, to what had happened at Uncle Henry's funeral. At the funeral home, as was the custom, floral expressions of regret and mourning poured in. Even before Uncle Henry's oversized, rosewood coffin was opened for viewing, the funeral home was overflowing with arrangements and wreaths, most bearing white ribbons, the Chinese colour of mourning. One arrangement, not the largest, not the smallest, a tasteful basket of roses and carnations in deep blue and gold, bore a small, crested card expressing the condolences of the Arundel Family. Another, larger, but nowhere near approaching ostentation, bore yet another crested card, this one bearing in dark, inky script, the simple lines: "The Grand Master, Council and Knights of the Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre."

As Chief Mourner, Michael was required to sit in attendance, acknowledging the expressions of very real grief as the people of Chinatown paid their last respects to a man who had, in his own way, given much to their community. Michael did not expect to see many of Uncle Henry's "business" associates. The street outside the funeral parlour swarmed with undercover agents from half a dozen law enforcement agencies, recording license plate numbers, snapping not so clandestine photographs of the men and women entering the ornate brick and marble building. Michael had understood the absence of the more important members of the Tongs and Triads, the Mafia, and assorted capos that Uncle Henry had done business with, just as he had understood that legitimate businessmen who, while they could and did send quiet messages of condolences and regret, could never publicly acknowledge their friendship or relationship with Uncle Henry. Michael, who had spent almost every waking moment - except when he was in school - in Uncle Henry's presence, understood and expected nothing. He was intrigued, of course, at the floral arrangements sent by the Arundels, and the offering of the Knights, whoever they were. Both were the accepted, low-key, discreet offerings any man in Uncle Henry's position could expect at his death.

Such a man could also expect that the mourners at his funeral would be family for the most part, which in Uncle Henry's case, guaranteed a full crowd and it was not necessary for Michael to hire the services of professional mourners. There were Changs, Chiangs, Lees and of course, the Tsangs, who keened and wailed with gusto. Their future was by no means guaranteed under the new regime and they wanted to make certain that the new Emperor knew of their loyalty and affection for the dead Tai Pan.

As was the custom, Uncle Henry would make one last procession through his realm, affording his subjects one last opportunity to pay their respects and to reconfirm their loyalty.

Michael knew that the appearance of Majesty, of power, was what counted in death as well as in life. He also knew that the denizens of Chinatown expected a show that would present to the world his feelings of love and affection for a well-loved uncle. Meanness of any degree would show disrespect and that could never be allowed.

Uncle Henry's last illness had been long and wasting. His bulk had been reduced to a shell and in truth his tired body could have rested just as well in a normal-sized coffin. However, Michael knew his people well and directed that Uncle Henry rest in an oversized, richly carved rosewood casket, the largest and finest the undertaker could procure. The other rooms in the funeral parlour were cleared and banked with flowers and in each room an altar was set up, as gilded, as lavish, and as bedecked as Michael could make it. Here mourners could make their traditional offerings to the gods for Uncle Henry's comfort and ease in the Celestial Kingdom to come. Bundles of paper money, hastily printed facsimiles of large denomination American bank notes, were handed to each mourner to ceremoniously burn before the altars, symbolic gifts of great wealth to ensure Uncle Henry's place in the afterlife.

Michael had not forgotten the procession through the streets of Chinatown. He ordered that a catafalque be constructed, a simple structure at first, but when draped with white, gold-embroidered mourning palls, magnificent. This would be carried shoulder high by sixteen men, eight in front, eight in the rear. To find the bearers Michael's people scoured the streets. The cousins were examined, the sons and nephews of business associates perused, and in the end Michael had what he wanted: sixteen men of uniform height and build, all Chinese, all young and all frankly handsome. These men were reminded of the great honour bestowed on them, given a whacking great "remembrance" in Uncle Henry's name, and sent off to Mr. Leung, the tailor, to be fitted for their mourning suits. They were then passed into the hands of Richard Meinertzhagen, a no-nonsense, stern-visaged, former Royal Marine major whom Uncle Henry had recently hired (on the recommendation of Bertie Arundel) to examine changes in his security systems. The Major (as he was known to all and sundry), experienced in such things, drilled the men in the proper way to carry a coffin-laden catafalque shoulder high. Michael even hired a band.

Uncle Henry went to his last resting place will all the pomp and circumstance of the Emperor he had been. His coffin, adorned with a blanket of white roses and borne shoulder high by the now professional bearers wearing white sashes and gloves, was carried from the funeral home preceded by a gaggle of Taoist monks who chanted their mantras and clanged miniature cymbals to warn the gods that a great man was coming to join them. Michael would have preferred a dignified service in the Anglican cathedral, but as Uncle Henry had never worshipped at any temple, except that of power, Michael had decided that paying lip service to the ancient gods was the best that could be done.

Michael, as Uncle Henry's heir and eldest nephew, followed. He also wore a white sash and white gloves. He carried a large photograph of a smiling Uncle Henry, so that all might know whose body rested in the coffin. Behind him came the undertaker and his assistants, each carrying a funeral wreath or mourning basket.

Expecting to see no one other than the people of Chinatown and his relatives, Michael stopped dead in his tracks. Waiting at a respectful distance to join the procession were Bertie and Louis Arundel. Beside Bertie was his wife who, as was her husband, was dressed in mourning attire, a watered black silk dress and coat, with a hat and wearing her pearls. Later, at the wake, Michael would learn that the flowers sent from the Arundels had come from her garden and a collaboration that would last until the end of their days began. Louis, resplendent in black cutaway and white-piped vest, stood beside his ward, Gabriel, who wore a black suit and stiffly starched white shirt.

Michael had, until that moment, been in complete control of his emotions. He had never expected Bertie or Louis, or members of their family to attend Uncle Henry's last rites. Both were men of substance, of probity, aristocrats of the first rank and their small offerings of flowers had been more than enough. To see them here, on a narrow street in teeming Chinatown, prepared to follow Uncle Henry to the border of his realm, was so important to Michael that tears of gratitude and respect formed in his eyes. He paused and bowed to the Arundels. It was then that he noticed that draped over the shoulders of each man was a jewelled, gold collar. Diamonds and rubies sparkled in the mid-morning sun around Bertie. Emeralds and enamel shone and glinted from the collar draped over Louis' shoulders.

As the band struck up a slow funeral march and the procession began its march to the borders of Chinatown, Michael glanced at the silent crowds that lined the narrow street. Uncle Henry was being given a fine send-off. Sadly, as Michael knew so well, many in the crowd were there out of fear. He also knew that the mourners trailing him, his parents, his brothers, his cousins and aunts and uncles, all the family, were there out of altruism and a definite need for perceived self-preservation and a continuation of the fat allowances Uncle Henry had settled on them. Michael knew that there was no real sense of loss felt by anyone, except himself. Uncle Henry had been a wise and patient teacher. Michael would miss him.

As for the others, only the Arundels seemed genuinely touched by Michael's grief. Michael would never forget their concern and consideration. He vowed that somehow he would show his appreciation to the Arundels. Their sons, and their sons' sons, would be ever safe so long as Michael lived.

With Uncle Henry safely in his ornate, and so Michael thought, ostentatious, crypt, a wake was held in the reception room of the huge, aging building on Carrall Street where Uncle Henry had kept his business office, a building that Michael would shortly renovate and turn into one of the best restaurants in Vancouver.

The finest caterers in town had been summoned and special dishes were prepared. Liquor and wine, only the finest vintages and brands, were on offer. No one would ever say that Michael Chang was derelict in his duty toward his deceased Uncle Henry, or niggardly with the funeral meats.

Michael held court in Uncle Henry's old office. Here, in one long and tedious procession, came the movers and shakers of Chinatown, the men who held power, but not so much as Michael, the men who knew what had happened to those who had made the futile attempt to fill Uncle Henry's shoes. Each man -and they were all men - made his kowtow to Michael, acknowledging his sovereignty. Each left a small gift of gold or jade to show his loyalty.

As the line grew shorter Michael motioned for Cousin Tommy to attend him. Tommy, who had been Michael's friend and minder for many years, bent low and kissed his benefactor's hand. Michael, who ordinarily had no time for such flummery, allowed the gesture. The men gathered to pay their respects nodded. Tommy was showing his respect and he was marked as Michael's man.

"Are the Arundels still here," Michael asked in a low voice as Tommy leaned forward. "And I will get you for that hand kiss, dear cousin."

A smile played on Tommy's thin, well-formed lips. "The peasants expect it. And yes, the Arundels are still here."

Michael nodded. "When the crowd thins out, ask Bertie Arundel if he would care to join me for a quiet drink. Also, speak privately with Mrs. Arundel. I wish to take lunch with her and discuss roses."

"Roses?" asked Tommy, a trifle confused.

"Mrs. Arundel is a connoisseur of roses. I wish to know more about her hobby."

Shrugging, Tommy went off to convey the message.

The house was silent. All the guests, save one, had finally departed. Bertie Arundel sat in the small office, sipping a superb Remy Martin while Michael expressed his thanks for Bertie's presence at Uncle Henry's funeral.

"Uncle Henry was a friend. He was very helpful in matters of some concern to me," replied Bertie, his tone bland and non-committal.

"I would like to continue the arrangement, if I may," said Michael calmly. He had no idea just what Bertie Arundel had been involved with, or what role Uncle Henry had played in the "matters of concern" to Bertie.

Bertie showed no surprise at Michael's request. He had been expecting it. Uncle Henry had warned Bertie that Michael would not stand for loose ends, for secrets kept from him. Bertie carefully placed his drink on the desk and gazed levelly at Michael. Bertie was well aware of the Chinese attitude toward homosexuality. For many in the Chinese community a homosexual son was disaster. He could not carry on the family line, he would not be able to take care of his parents in their old age, and he could not, under any circumstances, participate in the ancestral worship so important to Chinese culture.

In retrospect, Bertie thought, the Chinese were just as bigoted as the westerners when it came to homosexuality. As Uncle Henry had explained, a gay son could not be admitted to. There was too much family honour to be lost, to much "face" to lose. He had also explained that it was not uncommon for a gay son to be shipped back "home", to spend his days under watchful guard in some remote village. Gay sons were bad, very bad.

Unsure of Michael's reaction to gays in general, and constrained by his oath of secrecy, Bertie was somewhat at a loss. Uncle Henry had understood Bertie's position, and asked few questions. Michael, however, was younger, and smarter, and from what little he knew of the man Bertie thought that Michael would not be fobbed off with platitudes and half-truths.

Bertie was on the horns of a dilemma. As a non-member of the Order, Michael could be told very little. Yet Bertie needed Michael, or more importantly, he needed Michael's connections in the Chinese communities that had spread across North America. There were men there who could and would report on anything Michael wanted them to report on. Bertie needed those reports if only to fight the fires of oppression that seemed to spring up with frightening regularity. It seemed that every day gay men were being beaten, jailed and, in extreme cases, murdered, simply for being gay. The list of outrages against gays went on and on.

While he hated to admit it, Bertie knew that he needed Michael just as much as he had needed Uncle Henry because Michael, as Uncle Henry had done, could provide the information, and as necessary, the muscle, to help the Order attain its primary goal: the protection of homosexuals. Bertie knew that he certainly wasn't about to obtain any assistance from the very organization he supported so well.

The Order was moribund. Except for some dodgy Pages put forward by existing members, there had been no new knights created in years. The Provincial Houses in France, England and Germany were gone. A man who spent little time on the Order's business ruled the Priory of Lower Canada, based in Montreal. Bertie also suspected that the man helped himself from time to time to the Order's bank accounts. A self-seeking, venal man who spent most of his time counting his dividend cheques and chasing underage German "nephews" around the swimming pool ruled the Priory of Upper Canada. Only in British Columbia, the smallest of the Priories, was there anything being done to attain the goals of the Order, and that due to Bertie and Louis Arundels' influence and money.

Things were so bad that the Grand Master, in whom had rested such great hope, and proven such a frail vessel, had all but abdicated his powers to Bertie - who was not homosexual! The Order survived, but barely, and Bertie wondered if Michael could be the salvation of it.

Sighing, Bertie made a decision. "Michael," he began slowly, "Uncle Henry and I had an accommodation. I, too, would like to continue our relationship. However . . ." he looked closely at Michael. " . . .You must understand that certain things are, shall we say, of a delicate nature. It is not that I do not trust you, and I assure I do." He held out his hands in a placating gesture. "Please understand, Michael, that I do not want to involve you in anything that might, and I mean this with respect, offend you, or that you find morally repugnant."

"Perhaps if you told me what you and Uncle Henry were involved in?" suggested Michael, wondering just what was so terrible about Bertie's organization.

"Michael, you are aware that your cousin, Joel, is homosexual?"

Nodding his acknowledgement Michael allowed a small frown to darken his face. "I am aware of it."

"And obviously not pleased with it," replied Bertie. He reached out and retrieved his glass of cognac. "When Joel was arrested in that bathhouse raid Uncle Henry called me. I made arrangements for Joel to be released. I also contacted some . . . friends . . . and ensured that no names would be published. I did this in my capacity as a member of the Council of the Sovereign Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, an order of Knighthood dedicated to mitigating and alleviating the plight of homosexual men found in situations not of their making. That is what I represent, Michael."

Michael stared long and hard at his guest. "Uncle Henry never told me."

"The Order has a long history of discretion and secrecy. Uncle Henry understood."

"What I do not understand is why Uncle Henry would support such people," said Michael without emotion. "Surely you are aware that homosexuals are despised in my culture."

"As they are in mine," replied Bertie firmly. "They are hated and oppressed and that has got to stop. It is not right, and well you know it!"

Michael, who thought of himself as a man of honour and integrity, could not deny Bertie's words. He had seen how Joel had been used by the other boys in school, had heard the jibes and name-calling. He sighed heavily. "I know."

"Uncle Henry also knew," said Bertie quietly. "He knew that Joel, and other boys like him, could one day be in trouble. He could send Joey Tsang to keep an eye on him, but neither he nor the Tsangs can protect Joel from the bigots and rednecks." Bertie leaned forward and stared earnestly at Michael. "I have twin sons. They are the joy of my life. I will do anything in my power and use any vehicle, any friend, to protect them. If one of them turns out to be homosexual I will love him, cherish him, and fight to the death for him." He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "I have seen the horrible treatment, Michael, heard the screams, the curses. I must do everything in my power to change the present climate." He smiled weakly. "Of course, you would not know of these things, not being homosexual."

Michael stared through hooded eyes at his guest. Bertie was wrong for Michael did know all about the way society treated homosexuals. Michael knew because he made it a point to know everything. Michael also knew because Michael was . . . homosexual.

Bertie Arundel was also wrong in that Michael, as a homosexual man, was very aware of and concerned with society's attitude and condemnation of gays. Just being homosexual made Michael aware. And Bertie could not know that Michael was protected from feeling the sharpest barbs of abuse by his closely closeted sexuality and his tightly controlled emotions. Michael's protection was also strengthened by the iron discipline of celibacy. Only one other person knew of Michael's sexuality and that was his cousin, Joel.

Michael sat behind his desk and looked sadly at the small, silver-framed photograph of Joel and himself. He remembered the day it had been taken. Michael sighed. So many years ago, so many years to love, so many years lost. Joel . . .

If Michael Chan had been a dishonest man, he would have blamed Joel, or his mother and his Aunt Eva. They were sisters and both had given birth to boys, first Michael, then Joel. As was often the case in Chinese families, the two sisters were close, and shared a large townhouse overlooking Strathcona Park. As Michael and Joel grew older, the cousins could have been brothers for they slept together in the same bed, were bathed together, and in almost every way thrown together. Michael would have a companion and friend in Joel, as Joel would have a companion and friend in Michael. That at least had been their mothers' intention. It had not quite turned out that way.

As both boys grew older they began, in the manner of small boys, to discover themselves, and the subtle differences between boys. Not that Joel was all that much different from Michael. Both were handsome, dark-eyed, and intelligent. They shared many characteristics, which was to be expected, both having slim, well-formed bodies, dark, smouldering eyes and black, shiny hair. They even had look-alike circumcised penises and small, pea-sized testicles.

In the manner of small boys Michael and Joel examined each other in the safety of their bedroom. They had slept together, snuggling as close as newborn puppies, almost from the moment they could walk. They exchanged confidences, and whispered secrets to each other, more often than not cuddled close. For a long time both boys wore the ubiquitous pyjamas mothers all over the world seemed to think little boys should wear to bed. As they grew older, both boys began to complain about their nightwear and by the time they were ten or so would, after their nightly bath together, don fresh, snowy white briefs, another garment that mothers all over the world seemed to think to be the only underpants little boys could wear. They would lie together and talk, cuddling and snuggling. Their nightly chatter soon died away as they both realized that something very pleasant was coursing through their bodies, especially when they held each other close and rubbed the front of their underpants together. Not knowing exactly what was happening to them the boys giggled as their "boners" throbbed. Sometimes a great wave of indescribable ecstasy coursed through each boy's immature body. Sometimes only Joel enjoyed the experience, sometimes only Michael. They did learn that if they pumped their hips rapidly together they could both experience the pleasure sooner.

Being properly raised young Chinese boys neither Michael nor Joel had a clue as to what was happening to them. Being boys they knew that the small appendages between their legs were fonts of wonderful feelings if manipulated properly. Neither thought anything of it, really. They were only having fun after all. In later years Michael could never remember the exact circumstances of their first coupling, their first time. He would always remember, however, Joel leaning over and kissing him as he slipped his hand down the front of his cousin's briefs. Michael, surprised, had responded and before both of them knew it they were naked, kissing, fondling, grinding their rampant erections together. Both of them had been so excited that their dry orgasms, shattering, mind-blowing avalanches of pleasure, quickly followed.

At first, Michael tried to tell himself that what he and Joel were doing was just experimenting, just something boys did and sooner or later he would stop. He would discover girls - as his parents and cousins were always telling him he would - and he would stop. But, try as he might, Michael could not explain away his yearning to look at other boys, his overpowering need to reach out and hold Joel, to feel Joel's warm body against his. He ached to feel Joel's lips against his, and longed to taste Joel.

As the boys grew older and puberty approached Michael became aware that Joel, although a year younger, was light years ahead of his cousin in sexual matters. Joel had a measure of freedom that Michael could never hope to have. Michael, after all, was the heir, and had to be protected and coddled. Joel, on the other hand, was just another boy cousin. In time, if their Uncle Henry thought him worthy, Joel might be brought into the family business. Then again, he might not. While Michael was gently led down a path that would lead him to succeed Uncle Henry, Joel was free to roam, and explore, the surrounding streets and parks. He learned a great deal in his wanderings, and at night Joel would relate everything to Michael.

One night Joel pulled down Michael's undies, positioned himself between his cousin's legs, and then bent down. Michael gasped as Joel's mouth engulfed his penis, sucking gently. Michael had never felt such happiness and before he could stop himself he was bucking and thrusting, willing his rock-hard penis to expel something his body could not yet produce. Michael had been 10.

In the world of pre-pubescent boys payback was always in order. Joel had given Michael his first blowjob. The code said that Michael had to reciprocate. Michael reciprocated.

It did not take long before the boys were pleasuring each other almost hourly. Joel learned a few tricks on the streets and taught Michael the mysteries of what he called "a 69". It was very enjoyable. Joel then taught Michael what he knew about "fucking", which consisted of basically lying on top of his cousin and pumping his hips in a frantic rhythm. Another method was to rub his penis up and down the crack of Michael's bottom. A third method was to have Michael close his legs tightly. Joel would then slowly push his penis between his cousins closed legs, under his testicles, and hump manically. Orgasm always came quickly and, as neither had reached puberty, both were fully primed and ready to experiment within what seemed like minutes after their first orgasm.

Sometimes, after he and Joel had pleasured each other into near comas, Michael would lie in bed and wonder what it would be like to have sex with one or more of his other cousins. He had plenty to choose from, for boys seemed to run in the family, and since they all more or less lived together, Michael knew exactly what his cousins looked like with their clothes off, from Cousin Tommy, who was ever so much older, down to Joel's baby brother, Jackie. Both Michael and Joel had ample opportunity to inspect their cousins for they lived in a city where the climate was wonderful and swimming an almost daily occurrence. Cousin Tommy, usually trailed by two or three of the less offensive Tsangs, was charged with keeping the older boys out of mischief. This was easier said than done, although Tommy found that taking the boys to the local pool, or to the beach, usually meant an afternoon free of tension, at least it would if the boys paid attention, did as they were told, and none of them drowned.

It never ceased to amaze Tommy that somehow as the boys reached a certain age, their inhibitions flew out the window. Little boys who ran and hid when they had to change, or securely locked the bathroom door when they went to pee, suddenly thought nothing of stripping down and waving their underpants in the air, or strutting about the change room so that their soft genitals were on display. He noticed that the older boys, those who had reached puberty, were more than willing to expose to their admiring brothers and cousins their low hanging testicles and thin, silky skinned penises. They thought nothing of comparing dick size and girth, the amount of black, straight or curly pubic hair that adorned each set of genitalia, laughing and giggling and pointing out the growth of each organ as if it were a contest. The boys also delighted in teasing Tommy who, as he had been born in Hong Kong, had not been circumcised, as had all the other cousins. At least, Tommy thought, while he might have a foreskin, he had a decent length of dick to hang it from, which was more that could be said for the hapless Tsangs who, while large, broad-shouldered young men, could boast of nothing, having mere wrinkled folds of skin peeking out of a massive forest of wiry, unkempt pubic bushes. Joel wondered how they managed to pee and whispered to Michael they probably had to squat, like a girl.

While Michael admired his better-endowed cousins, and ignored the miniscule offerings of the Tsangs, he said or did nothing to indicate his interest in the other boys. He had known for quite some time that he had no interest in girls, enjoyed his sessions with Joel, and frankly wanted to spend some time with other boys. While he knew, Michael dared not show that he was queer. In his culture being queer was not to be countenanced. He knew that if word ever got out that he preferred boys to girls he could never succeed Uncle Henry. The 12 families would disown him, the Triads would be insulted, and everybody would lose face. Michael kept his own counsel, and never, ever, by act, word or deed gave the slightest hint that he was gay.

Joel, on the other hand, had no such inhibitions. He frankly enjoyed being gay. He put the moves on everybody and swimming with him was like swimming with a gay octopus, with all eight tentacles fondling, squeezing and groping cousinly cocks and balls. Michael was not stupid and suspected that Joel was sneaking off with one or another of his cousins. Michael also suspected, although he could not prove it, that Cousin Tommy had been visiting Joel's room. There were certain looks exchanged, a certain style of body language when the two were together, that led Michael to convince himself that Joel and Cousin Tommy were giving new meaning to the term "kissing cousins".

Michael had been prepared to ignore Joel's promiscuity and continue to visit his bed nightly, if Joel had kept his forays in the family. None of the cousins would talk. Cousin Tommy, who was ten years older than Joel, would have suffered a horrible fate if Uncle Henry learned that he was fooling around with one of his nephews. The Tsangs, while they knew all, said nothing. It was not their place to question the actions of their betters and they closed their eyes and ears.

What led Michael to sever his affair with Joel had been the whispers and rumours that followed both boys around the school. They had left the lower school and were now "Gentlemen Scholars", members of the Upper Fifth. As seniors they were given access to private rooms and facilities, notably the huge, wood-panelled library, a common room of their own, and a study. St. George's College believed in making life as comfortable as possible for its students.

On more than one occasion, when the other boys thought no one around, Michael overheard conversations, salacious conversations that revealed Joel's private escapades. Joel had managed to find several hidey-holes and was systematically working his way through the 280-odd boys in the Upper School. He was always visiting Charlie Bowes, older brother to Spencer Bowes - another of Joel's conquests - who was the Head Prefect and had his own rooms in Leveson House, ostensibly to discuss school business, although what business could be discussed with the lights turned low and Sinatra on the turntable Michael could never fathom.

Then there was the matter of Joey Tsang.

Uncle Henry, ever mindful of the dangers that lurked for a man in his position, had insisted that that Joey accompany the two boys to school. Uncle Henry knew all too well that the sons of the established aristocracy - which they all thought they were - looked upon Chinese boys as little better than offal. Joey's presence would guarantee that the prejudice each white boy had in him remained well hidden. Joey was also to make certain that neither Michael nor Joel did anything to cause trouble, to cause the family to lose face. Joey tried in his own way, to obey his instructions.

Michael hated the huge, hulking, lumbering, barely literate Joey, who from the wrinkled appearance of his clothing, apparently slept fully clothed and seemed to have dressed in the dark. He also smelled of body odour, ginger garlic and things that did not bear thinking about. Michael tolerated Joey's presence only because Uncle Henry had decreed it.

Joel, while he did not hate Joey, certainly felt frustrated whenever the man was around. Before Joel was a school full of willing, throbbing penises. Each boy was different, and each boy was deemed fair game so far as Joel was concerned. Joey Tsang's presence was intimidating and whenever he was around the other boys avoided both Michael and Joel as if they had the plague. Joel could not and would not let matters rest. He needed sex, he wanted sex, and every day he had at least six guys willing to give him what he wanted. He took the bull by the horns, as it were (actually he took Joey Tsang by the penis) and led him into a disused, out of the way storeroom off the school gymnasium. It did not take Michael long to realize that Joey spent much more time with Joel than he did with him, and that when he did he had a silly smile on his face and smelled worse.

Two events brought the matter of Joel's rampant promiscuity to a head. The first occurred after a family dinner when Uncle Henry took Michael into his study for a long talk.

The family no longer lived in Chinatown. The narrow streets, the noisy, bustling crowds, were a security a nightmare. Uncle Henry had a small house in Burnaby, but felt that he, and the family, needed a more secure location so he had moved everybody into a huge, rambling cantonment on the northern edge of British Properties, an old-fashioned enclave of privilege and wealth to the north of Vancouver. The presence of so large a Chinese contingent did not sit well with the aristocracy that inhabited the period houses that lined the tree-shaded, winding streets of the sub-division. Uncle Henry ignored the bleats of outrage and sent Cousin Tommy and two or three Tsangs to visit the more vociferous of his neighbours. Having quiescent neighbours certainly made the area seem more bucolic and quiet, which Uncle Henry enjoyed, although he kept the house in Burnaby as place of refuge when he could no loner stand the noise and confusion of living under the same roof as a hundred chattering relatives.

With Michael always close at hand Uncle Henry had taken to having long chats every evening with the boy. Michael would leave his large, comfortable apartment and walk over to Uncle Henry's rooms where he would have dinner with the old man, and then they would talk. Mostly it was about business, and Michael's coming place in the family's interests. Uncle Henry was teaching his heir how to run the business, and how to live in what was, in many ways, an alien and hostile society.

"Michael, you must understand that the secret to our success is to adapt," Uncle Henry said one evening. "We, as Chinese, are a foreign and in many ways, despised community."

Michael nodded his understanding. It had not been so long ago when all Chinese immigrating to Canada - and they were kept deliberately few in number - were forced to pay a "Head Tax", which was made even more demeaning because the Chinese were the only ones required to pay the tax.

"By adapting, by conforming to the mores and customs of the culture in which we live, we become less visible, and more accepted," Uncle Henry further explained.

"But Uncle," protested Michael quietly, "The Tsangs have lived here for as long as our family. They still cling to the old ways."

Uncle Henry grimaced. "And look at the way they live!" he exclaimed. "They are despised by their own people as illiterate peasants and by the whites as typical Chinks!" Uncle Henry's three chins wagged angrily. "They are ignored and derided by everyone. They refuse to change and in doing so they will never amount to anything. They will always be thugs and petty criminals. Bah!"

"Yet you use them," Michael pointed out.

Uncle Henry smiled warily. Sometimes Michael was too perspicacious. "Of course. By using the Tsangs, I pander to the whites' fears. They, the Tsangs, take attention from me, from you and from our family."

Michael thought a moment. "We have adapted, most of us. We attend English schools, and we speak English as our first language. With each generation we grow more westernized. Many of the second and third generation Chinese have accepted the Western religions." He shrugged expressively. "There are some of the whites who will never accept us, being the bigots they are. Most are more than happy to work with us and take our money."

Uncle Henry nodded. Michael was learning. "Our family is a part of mainstream Canadian life. This is true and it is the way I wish it. The more westernized we become the less they look on us as Chinks!"

"There are still our cousins in China and Hong Kong," observed Michael pointedly.

"Who live their lives as westerners, not as traditional Chinese," countered Uncle Henry. "They dress like westerners, they communicate in English and they are smart enough to know where the money is."

Michael did not reply. He had heard much of Uncle Henry's words before. Which meant that the old man was up to something. Michael sat back in his chair and waited.

Uncle Henry sighed inwardly. His nephew was waiting for him to get to the heart of their little talk. It was most embarrassing, really. He hated discussing such unsavoury matters. Still, for Michael's sake, it must be done. He cleared his throat and looked at Michael. "When I said that we must conform to the mores and traditions of the society, the culture, in which we live I should have added that we must honour their taboos as well, many of which are also a part of our own ancient culture."

Michael slowly sat erect. Uncle Henry knew! Someone, somehow, had whispered in Uncle Henry's ear.

Uncle Henry leaned forward and placed his hand on Michael's trembling knee. "I am an old man, and I have seen many things. I have many nephews and I know that at times adolescent boys form 'special attachments'." He smiled knowingly. "This is not necessarily a bad thing, Michael. In many ways these youthful attachments form the basis of firm friendships in later life."

Ashen faced, Michael nodded slowly.

"Michael, when I was young there were very few Chinese women available. It was primarily a masculine society. Sometimes, out of necessity, men formed strong friendships with other men. We all of us knew that our culture forbade such attachments, but being men we ignored that which was forbidden. I did not participate in such attachments, but I knew of them and I turned a blind eye to them."

Michael gripped the arms of his chair. "I . . . please, Uncle Henry . . ." he began, his voice trembling with the very real fear he felt.

Holding up his hand Uncle Henry silenced his nephew. "It is not my purpose to question your friendships. What I want you to understand is that a man is judged not only by his conduct, by his sense of duty and honour, but also by the friendships he has formed. You are too young to understand these things, but you must understand this: friends, no matter how close, must never know what you are thinking, must never be in a position to know what you are doing."

"Trust no one, no matter how close," muttered Michael.

"Trust no one," repeated Uncle Henry. He waved his arm, his gesture encompassing more than just the room they were sitting in. "I have no wife, Michael. I have many acquaintances, but I have no friends. I have wealth beyond counting, yet I am a poor man." His probing eyes bore into Michael's. "I make no excuses, offer no apologies for who I am, for what I do. It was a life I chose to live."

Michael swallowed heavily. "And you want me to live that life?"

Uncle Henry nodded. "You know what we do. If you are capable of living a life of loneliness, of giving every waking moment, every ounce of willpower, all the fibre of your being, yes. You will gain much honour, have great wealth, but you will be lonely."

"You are asking a great deal," replied Michael. He had always known that this moment would come. He had always feared the moment, and now he must give his answer. "I must give my answer here, now?" Michael asked, stalling for time, hoping for a reprieve.

"It must be now," replied Uncle Henry unhappily. "You are old enough to understand what is required of you, and old enough to make a decision." He saw the fear and trepidation on his nephew's face and add kindly, "You will not be punished if you say no, Michael."

Michael was sixteen. His whole future lay ahead of him. He was afraid of that future if he followed Uncle Henry's path. Yet, he had been groomed for that path, trusted beyond all others because Uncle Henry assumed he would follow that path. He alone, of all the cousins, had been chosen. He had not asked for that choice. He had never wanted, really, to be the chosen one. Yet here he was, and he could either follow his destiny, or refuse the offered hand, and suffer whatever the consequences might be. He was being offered two of the most powerful aphrodisiacs known to humankind: power and wealth.

Rising, Michael paced the small office, occasionally glancing at his Uncle, whose stoic, placid face betrayed no emotion. For a long time Michael paced, thinking. In many ways he would be an outcast, considered a thug and a criminal. That he had never injured anyone, never killed anyone, would be of no consequence. People would think what they wanted to think. Uncle Henry had said that others judged a man by the friends he kept near to him as well as his conduct. Michael did not need any help in divining Uncle Henry's meaning about special attachments and friendships. Uncle Henry's gentle words meant only one thing: he knew about Joel, he knew about Michael's relationship with Joel, and was giving fair warning that Joel would never be a part of Michael's life if he chose to walk Uncle Henry's path.

Uncle Henry had long had patience drilled into his psyche. He was asking a great deal of his favourite nephew. It was well that Michael was not rushing to judgement. He was being offered much, and asked to give up a great deal. Such a decision could not be taken lightly.

Suddenly, Michael made up his mind. "I understand, Uncle, what you ask of me." He knelt before Uncle Henry and kissed his hand. "I will do what is asked of me, become what I must become."

Uncle Henry nodded. He was pleased at Michael's decision. Still, there was a note of uncertainty in the boy's voice. Uncle Henry knew what lay behind that uncertainty. He stood and pulled Michael to his feet. "Joel will not be harmed," he promised sincerely. He gently kissed Michael on each cheek. "But you must say goodbye to him."

Michael nodded glumly. "I know, and I will. Tonight."

Reseating himself Uncle Henry thought a moment. "It is always difficult to end a friendship, and more so when you have grown up with the object of that friendship. Still, it must be done."

Michael was overcome with emotion, his heart all but breaking. He had been in love with Joel ever since they had been young boys. He needed Joel in his life, and now he had just said that he would give Joel up. "You promise?" he asked through his tears. "No harm will come to Joel?"

"He will not be harmed. He will be allowed to live his life as he pleases." Uncle Henry scowled. "I fear he will not be a credit to the family."

"He is what he is, Uncle," temporized Michael. "He cannot be blamed for something he cannot help!"

"Perhaps," conceded Uncle Henry. "And I cannot dictate to him." He smiled weakly. "He is a most obstreperous young man and very independent. He does what he wishes to do." Uncle Henry glanced out of the corner of his eye. "As you well know."

Michael nodded and recalled the conversation he had overheard in the library. "I know," came his whispered reply.

"Then in the knowing you will find comfort when you say goodbye to him," said Uncle Henry blandly. He stood up and walked to the door. "I am going to the restaurant for a few hours. There is business to be done." He looked upward. "Joel is waiting for you in the small guest suite. No one will bother you."

Michael gave his uncle a dark look. "You arranged it all, then?" he asked waspishly.

"Of course. I knew that you would see reason."

"I will do what you ask. I will speak to Joel, and say goodbye. After tonight I am a man, uncle, and I expect that I will be treated as a man."

The harshness in Michael's voice gave Uncle Henry pause. The boy was a man! "And that means?"

Michael looked icily at his uncle. "I no longer wish to live with my parents. I will attend school, I will do whatever you wish, but I wish to have my own place. I am tired of being a Chinese son. I am tired of living in the middle of a Chinese village! I will be the son, the man, you want me to be, but I must do it in my own way."

"Your parents have been grumbling about their living arrangements. They wish to move back into the city. It will be arranged," replied Uncle Henry, secretly pleased at the steel in Michael's voice. "You may remain in the apartment, do whatever you like with it," he said as he opened the door.

"There is something else," growled Michael.

Uncle Henry turned. "And that is?"

"I realize that I must have guards. It is the way of our business and I accept them. However, I do not wish to be surround by Tsangs!" His eyes glared angrily. "I do not wish to have Joey Tsang hovering over my shoulder, frightening the friends I do have at school. I wish to choose my own minders."

A bit surprised, Uncle Henry nodded. "If you wish it. I shall make arrangements."

"No, I shall make arrangements," replied Michael firmly. "I know whom to contact." Once again he glared at his uncle. "And Joey Tsang?"

Uncle Henry shrugged. "Joey was unhappily derelict in his duties. He will not be 'hovering' around you anymore."

"Good."

Michael's calm acceptance of Joey's departure surprised Uncle Henry. He knew that the boy had hated the man, but still . . . "You are not interested in what Joey did? Or of his fate?"

"I know what he did," returned Michael. Joey had allowed himself to be seduced by Joel, and in the seduction given up any claim to trust. "Joey forgot about business, forgot about what he was supposed to be doing." Michael shrugged. "Perhaps a few years in that dismal ancestral village of his will teach him to pay attention to his duties."

"Joey is not in China," said Uncle Henry grimly.

"He isn't?"

Uncle Henry shook his head. "The Italians have a saying."

"The Italians have a lot of sayings! Don Giovanni is always quoting one or the other," replied Michael with a smile.

"Then perhaps he might have used this one: Joey Tsang sleeps with the fishes."

Uncle Henry wheeled and left the room, leaving a stunned and terrified Michael staring after him.

Joel was in heaven. It was the only word he could think of for what he was feeling, and who was making him feel it. He was lying on his back, his legs in the air, on the massive four-poster that dominated the bedroom of the small guest suite. Between his legs, thrusting gently was his sweet, lovely cousin, Michael. As Michael thrust inward and his penis brushed against Joel's prostate Joel raised his hips and moaned loudly. He clasped his legs around Michael's waist in an iron-grip and snaked his arms under Michael's arms and around his back. Dear God did Michael know how to make love!

Michael lay on top of Joel, his hands under Joel's shoulders as he grasped the younger youth's shoulder blades. Michael's face was buried in Joel's neck, his hot, almost drooling lips sucking and nipping and the skin of Joel's shoulders. With each inward thrust he growled low, murmuring endearments to his cousin, to the only boy he had ever had sex with; to the boy he had loved beyond all others.

Deep within his rectum Joel could feel the classic mushroomed head of Michael's penis enlarge slightly. Joel was a master at making other boys experience the ultimate in orgasms. He raised his hips, meeting his cousin's urgent thrusting, and clenched the muscles of his ass, sending a rippling wave of pleasure down Michael's shaft. Michael groaned, and moved his head. His lips found Joel's and their tongues began to duel. Michael's orgasm, climactic and overpowering, exploded.

Joel felt the explosion and gasped around Michael's long, firm tongue. A wave of ecstasy cascaded from Joel's balls as his own penis erupted, sending long streams of semen shooting outward, splattering Michael's closely held body, scattering across Joel's abdomen, dripping into his neatly trimmed pubic bush.

As Joel's orgasm subsided Michael continued to thrust gently, his tongue ravaging Joel's mouth. Joel, determined to prolong the joy of it as much as he could, manipulated the muscles of his love chute. It was, alas, no use. He could feel the fullness of Michael diminish and all too soon Michael's softened penis fell away. Joel rolled to the side, his chest heaving, his eyes closed. He would lie there for as long as it took him to recover from what had been the most awesome orgasm he had ever experienced.

Joel lay on his side, looking tenderly at his cousin. Michael was by all measures, a very handsome young man. His high cheekbones, and smooth face betrayed his heritage to be sure, but there was gentleness to Michael's face. Joel's eyes wandered downward, past Michael's deep brown, dime-sized nipples, past the small "innie" navel, past Michael's naturally neat patch of black pubic hair and devoured the wonderfully shaped, beautiful organ that had just given him so much pleasure. Joel smiled as he saw that the gently curving dome of Michael's thick penis was smeared with the residue of their lovemaking. He wanted to lean forward to kiss and lick Michael clean, but that was one pleasure he was denied. Like so many of his other lovers, Joel had quickly learned that Michael was untouchable after sex, the head of his penis so deliciously sensitive that he leaped like a fish if he were touched.

Joel continued to gaze fondly at Michael, his eyes taking in Michael's firm, hairless thighs. Michael was a natural athlete, and had the legs and butt to prove it. Mentally Joel pictured Michael in the tight briefs he habitually wore. Michael was a beautiful, glorious specimen of young manhood and had a body made for Jockeys. Joel's eyes returned to Michael's soft, pale pink dick. Like so many of his countrymen Michael could hardly be called a bull. His dick was thick, though, and tonight it hung gently over walnut-sized balls contained in a hairless sac. Michael might not be all that big, but he did know how to make love. Which was, Joel thought, more than could be said for his legion of other lovers.

Joel knew that he was a slut. He made no pretence about it, actually. He loved cock, and had seduced or lured into his web a goodly number of his schoolmates. He had also discovered that the undergrads that infested the green lawns of UBC, which was located directly across the street from St. George's, also enjoyed a little extracurricular activity. College boys could be so much fun.

Unfortunately, college boys also tended to be like high school boys. They were good for a fuck, and little else. Joel's brows creased a little. Of all the boys he'd been with, only Michael was love. Chris Owen was a close second, but he had always made it clear that he was not in love with Joel. Sighing, Joel closed his eyes in disappointment. Chris was a boy Joel could have fallen in love with. Joel never tried to understand his attraction for Chris, who would never win a beauty contest. He had flaming red hair, white skin, and was skinny, not scrawny, but frankly skinny. He was not handsome, and with his thin, angular face and protruding ears, bordered on homeliness. Nor would he ever boast about the size of his equipment. Chris' dick, which was as long and thin as his body, was a delight. Joel stifled a giggle. When excited the upper third of Chris' dick, above his circumcision line, turned a deep, glorious scarlet, his curving glans shining like a Burmese ruby.

While Chris was not handsome, did not have the biggest dick in town, with ears that stuck out something fierce making him, on a windy day, an endangered species, he did make LOVE to Joel. Chris was as gentle as Michael, although a little more aggressive as he approached orgasm. And unlike some of the other boys, he never spoke down to Joel, never spoke dirty when they had sex, and never avoided him and pretended that the time they spent together had not happened. Chris treated Joel, when they were together, like a king - or was it a queen? Joel was all too aware that he projected the feminine side of his character far more than the masculine.

If all of his lovers had treated him as Michael and Chris had, Joel would have been supremely happy. Unfortunately they did not. Michael and Chris made love to him; the others fucked him, period.

If only one of them would respond in kind! None of them, except Michael, had ever taken Joel's dick into his mouth, had never lain back and allowed Joel to rim him, to make love to him. Michael was in love, which explained his actions. Michael adored Joel, and wanted to experience everything he could, to explore every boundary of their love.

Chris was not in love with Joel. He cared for the young Chinese, but there were boundaries he would not cross. As far as Chris was concerned Joel was someone to cuddle, to hold, to confirm his masculinity. He would fuck Joel with gentleness and consideration. He would not take Joel's penis into his mouth, nor would he allow Joel to worship his sweet, pink and slightly wrinkled opening. He was not queer, and he would not do anything he considered queer. Making love to Joel was just two guys who cared for each other expressing that caring. To Chris, Joel was a special friend that every guy needed at this time of his young life.

The other boys had no such feelings.

To the others Joel was nothing more or less than a receptacle for their sperm, a means of experiencing the ultimate pleasure a boy could have. Most treated him with indifference once they were finished. They would ignore him until the next time, until they needed release. Then they would be all hail-fellow-well-met, all buddy-buddy. They would show him their hard bulges under their uniform pants and smile anxiously. Joel could have told them that there was no need to doubt. He loved dick, and the red light was always on.

A case in point was Charlie Bowes, the Head Prefect. Joel had fucked Charlie's younger brother Spencer, and it had not taken long for the word to get back to Leveson House, where Charlie lived in isolated splendour. Joel had not been at all surprised when the door to the Head Prefect's rooms opened, revealing Charlie Bowes wearing nothing but a tatty old bathrobe and a smile.

Charlie was no Michael, nor even a Chris. He did, however, allow much more intimacy than the other boys, which Joel put down to the influence of the works of Lord Byron, which Charlie was studying in his English Class, and everyone knew Byron was very romantic.

As a romantic Charlie always had a light supper waiting on the candle lit table. They would eat, drink some wine, and retire to Charlie's bedroom where they would make out. Joel would suck Charlie's handsome, circumcised dick, which was at least eight inches long and thick, with a magnificent flared head, and which stuck straight out from his unruly pubic bush, to the point of orgasm. He would tease and suckle Charlie until the lad could barely stand it and begged for release. Then they would fuck.

Unlike his brother Spencer, Charlie did not object to the missionary position and he did have a certain finesse when he fucked Joel. He thought it ever so romantic to gaze longingly into his lover's eyes as they made Byronic love. Which was more than could be said for Spencer Bowes.

Spencer Bowes, who was almost as big as his older brother, was a bull, behaved like a bull, and would not kiss, cuddle, fondle or nibble. He would only fuck Joel doggy style and not once had he so much as reached around to give Joel's hard penis a friendly stroke. Spencer never engaged in foreplay. His usual practice was to come off the football pitch, sweaty and smelly, seek out Joel, and when whey were safely locked in the small room where Joel always took his special friends, drop his football shorts and jock, and present his dick for servicing. Joel loved it!

The trouble with Spencer was, well, he was a bull, and while he used Joel, Joel used him because there were times when Joel needed a bull, needed to feel the head of Spencer's crisply circumcised penis assaulting his ass and prostate, needed the roughness that Spencer brought to every session. There were times when Joel needed to suck the curving length of Spencer's dick, tonguing it, loving it, making Spencer feel as if his dick was the only dick in the world that could satisfy Joel.

Then there was Joey Tsang. Joel shuddered inwardly whenever he thought Joey. With his clothes on Joey gave promise of being a bull. He had a massive chest, strong, muscular thighs, and a killer ass. Sadly, with his clothes off, Joey was a great disappointment. He had the dick of 10-year-old, all foreskin and little substance. Joey also had little or no knowledge of personal hygiene. Before any session with Joey, Joel insisted on supervising a cleanup of Joey's little appendage. Only when Joey was as clean as could be would Joel suck him off. He never fucked Joey, no matter how much Joey whined and pleaded.

Seducing Joey Tsang had been necessary. Uncle Henry had set the big lug on them and Joey reported everything Michael or Joel did back to his master. Michael took his schooling seriously and spent most of his time immersed in his schoolwork, studying in the library. Joey had very little to report so far as Michael was concerned. Michael, on his part, loathed Joey with a passion and ignored him as much as he could.

Joel, who was as smart as whip and never studied, spent most of his time seducing the student body, paying particular attention to the Sacred Sixty-Six, the soccer team, his form mates and two gorgeous Australian ex-pats in the Fourth Form, boys with sun-brushed golden hair, lithe bodies and baskets to die for. Joel definitely did not need Joey Tsang hanging about, drooling and scratching and reporting his misdeeds to Uncle Henry. Given that the Chinese culture abhorred homosexuality, as did every other culture, Joel knew what would happen to him if his conduct were reported to Uncle Henry. There would be no scandal - Uncle Henry could not under any circumstances risk word leaking out that one of his nephews had managed to bed most of the sons of the most prominent families in Vancouver, Victoria and the Western Provinces. There would be no scandal; there would be shame, a tremendous loss of family honour, loss of "face". This could never be allowed. There would also be retribution.

As a member of Uncle Henry's family, Joel was expected to comport himself accordingly. He might be a poor relation, but he was a relation nevertheless and his conduct reflected on Uncle Henry. While Joel cared not a whit about "face" or family honour, he did care about his health and physical well being. He had no desire to spend the rest of his life hidden away in some dismal village in China - or worse. To avoid such a fate, and to make sure that knowledge of his little escapades with the other boys never made its way from Joey's mouth to Uncle Henry's ear, Joel deliberately, with malice aforethought, seduced Joey Tsang,

Taking care of Joey had been ridiculously easy. Joey, as Joel later learned, had no sex life to speak of. His female cousins, a most convenient, if incestuous outlet for most of the Tsang males, would have nothing to do with him and laughed and giggled and gossiped about his under endowment. The prostitutes that patrolled Gastown were equally scornful whenever Joey appeared and laughed at him. They were also expensive. Joey had been ripe for the picking and Joel, metaphorically holding his nose and willing his churning stomach to remain still, picked.

Thinking of Joey, Joel wondered where the big oaf had got to. Yet another Tsang, Patrick, had suddenly appeared and announced, without explanation, that he was replacing Joey. Joel was not displeased at this turn of events. At least this Tsang resembled a human, and was, in fact, not bad looking at all, which was unusual for a Tsang. And he didn't stand around drooling and squeezing his crotch. Patrick also smelled of fresh youth - he was only 18 or so - and didn't pollute the air or attract flies.

Joel was wondering if he would be forced to lure Patrick into a compromising position when he heard Michael's breathing return to a semblance of normal. He left the bed and padded, naked, into the bathroom, returning with a soft washcloth and a bowl of warm water in which he had sprinkled some attar of roses. He knelt between Michael's outspread legs and slowly, gently, began to clean his lover. Michael had never demanded this service, for he was a basically a self-effacing, gentle young man. Joel offered the service because he was in love with his cousin.

Gently, softly, Joel washed away the residue of Michael's orgasm, cleansing the short shaft of his soft penis and the curving, still rosy dome that crowned it, removing with deft strokes the small clots of semen that dotted and clogged Michael's black pubic bush. Michael's penis stirred, but remained soft as Joel wiped the underside of it, and traced the dark ring that marked Michael's circumcision. Joel had a similar ring - it seemed that all Orientals had a clearly defined ring while the English boys, the Anglo Saxons, tended to have pale, and in many cases, barely discernable rings. Joel thought that it had something to do with their ethnicity. Certain races tended to scar more deeply that others. Not that Joel minded. At least there was no sickening odour of piss and cum spoiling the mood, no wrinkled fold of flesh marring the glorious beauty of Michael's penis, or Spencer's or Charlie's, or Chris's.

Michael's eyes remained half-closed as he watched his cousin perform his act of worship. Cleaning his body was not something Michael had ever wanted, but it pleased Joel to do it, so he allowed it. It was a pity that after tonight there would be no more lovemaking.

Finished cleaning his own ejaculate from both his lover and himself, Joel set the bowl and washcloth on the bed table and snuggled close to Michael. His hand drifted down to touch the soft column of flesh that draped Michael's wonderfully large testicles. His fingers began to gently caress the head of Michael's dick and he was about to lower his head when Michael abruptly rolled away and stood beside the bed. "We have to talk," he said, his tone serious.

Joel watched as Michael began dressing. Tonight Michael had chosen dark navy boxer shorts with a wide white band, a fashion faux pas so far as Joel was concerned. He adored watching Michael pull tight, white briefs over his loins. Michael had the body, and the basket, that cried out to be covered with tight, white, Fruit of the Looms. Joel frowned slightly as the blue cloth covered Michael's strong, firm buttocks and hid his perfect genitals. Joel sighed. Another lecture, he thought unhappily. "About what?"

Michael stared evenly at his cousin. "I will not be coming to see you anymore," he said flatly.

Joel thought, so, that explained the fierceness, the near desperation of their lovemaking. "Why? Uncle Henry busting your balls?" he asked flippantly.

Michael's face clouded. "You really don't know, do you?" he asked sadly.

"Know what?" Joel slid off the bed and searched around for his white briefs. Finding them draped over a chair he slipped them on. He had no idea what Michael was upset about, and in truth, cared little. He stared back at Michael, waiting.

Michael cleared his throat and then glared at his cousin. "You've got to stop, Joel. You have got to start remembering who you are! It's time that you thought about the consequences of your actions."

Joel sniffed. "What consequences? What actions?" he flopped down onto the bed and gave Michael a dirty look. "As to 'who I am', well I know who I am. I'm the son of the poor side of the house. I won't be asked to join the family business. I'm a Chiang remember? We can't be trusted. We are tolerated, an inherited nuisance." He waved his hand angrily. "So don't think that you can come in here and fuck me, and then dictate to me! It ain't gonna work!"

Before Joel could react Michael had bounded across the room. His hand clutched Joel's throat and for the first time Joel saw the murderous anger that Michael was capable of. "You little fool," hissed Michael. "Don't you know what you're doing? Don't you understand the shame you bring to your house, to the family?" He shook Joel fiercely. "It is over, do you understand? No more boys!"

Joel wrenched Michael's hand away. "How . . . who . . .?" he growled, his fists clenched. "Just who the fuck do you think you are, telling me 'no more boys'? How dare you!" He rubbed his bruised neck and skittered to the head of the bed. "You came in here, you fucked me, and now you have the gall to tell me something like that?"

Michael felt immediate remorse. "I did not mean to hurt you. I should not have grabbed you like that. I apologize."

"Not accepted!" returned Joel, his eyes flashing. "I'm not some Tsang that grovels at Uncle Henry's feet, or quakes whenever the old bastard growls in their direction. You can stuff your apology and you can get out and leave me alone!" He quickly gathered the soiled sheet around his shoulders and glared at Michael. "Go on, get out!"

Michael shook his head and sat in the chair. He allowed his breathing to slow, gaining control of his emotions. When he was ready, he spoke softly. "I meant what I said. From now on, the boys at school are off limits." He cocked his head toward the door. "Patrick Tsang will not succumb to your wiles, and you are not to even try to seduce him."

"Why, you want him for yourself?" asked Joel cruelly.

Michael shook his head, ignoring the harsh, and hurtful question. "Patrick will not allow himself to be seduced. As for the others, the Bowes brothers, Chris Owen, the Australians, all the others you managed to drag into that little room you've sequestered, it is over."

Joel thought quickly. So, Michael, and Uncle Henry, knew of the boys at school. He wondered if they knew about the undergrads of UBC, or that he haunted the bathhouses down on Nelson or Davie Streets. Vancouver was filled with sleek, tasty dicks, not all of them resident in St. George's College School. "I really don't care for your tone, Michael. Nor do I understand why, not ten minutes after getting your nut off, after fucking me, you suddenly decided to make me join a nunnery!"

"You are not asked to join anything. You are being asked to remember that your actions reflect on Uncle Henry . . ."

"And you!" snarled Joel.

"Yes, on me," replied Michael sadly. "And our family."

Joel sniffed loudly. "Michael, I'm a fag, a queer, a fairy! I suck dick, I get fucked in the ass! I like guys. I have no intention of embracing celibacy! I am what I am and if you, or Uncle Henry don't like it, well too fucking bad."

"Joel, Uncle Henry is not joking and he is deadly serious about this. You either start practising discretion, and leave your schoolmates alone, or . . ."

Joel all but leaped from the bed. He waved his fist at Michael. "Or what? You'll cut off my balls? Send me to China to live in some dismal hovel with the Tsangs?" He laughed mirthlessly. "Hey, you could put me in the same hut with Joey. Joey would like that, the fucking traitor!"

Michael's face was stony. "Joey is not in China," he said quietly.

"Oh? Then where is he?" Joel's anger had ebbed when he saw the look on Michael's face. Michael, or more than likely, Uncle Henry, had . . . Joel's eyes widened and his face grew as white as the sheet he had wrapped around his slim body. "You . . . Uncle Henry . . ."

Michael held up his hand. "What is done, is done," he said icily. The chasm that would distance him from his cousin opened. "Joey betrayed the trust placed in him. He has paid for his betrayal. That is all you need to know."

Stunned, Joel sat abruptly back down on the bed. For a long time he stared at his cousin, then spoke, his voice filled with the fear he felt. "Joey's dead," he whispered.

"What is done, is done," replied Michael emotionlessly, non-comittally.

"You killed him!" Joel spat. He glared at his cousin through narrow, hate-filled yes. "Joey didn't deserve that!" He cowered against the headboard and hurled an accusation: "And you'd do the same to me!"

Michael's face remained blank. "I will do whatever is necessary to defend the honour of the family." His eyes became slits. "Do not stand in my way, Joel, do not fight me on this matter." He rose and turned to leave. Then he looked at Joel, the fire in his eyes lessened. "I will always love you, my sweet cousin. But when I leave this room I begin a new life. You cannot be a part of it, ever. I will miss you more than you will ever know. You do not understand, but I do. There are times when we must make sacrifices."

"How noble of you," Joel sneered.

Shaking his head, Michael spoke again, his voice soft, his face calm. "Joel, it is the nature of our life, of our family, that we do things that are not usual to us, and which we would rather not do. Nobility has nothing to do with it." He sighed sadly. "We must conform and maintain the family honour. What we do in private must remain private. We must live a secret life if necessary."

Joel all but burst into tears and bawled, "You'd kill me? After all we've meant to each other, after tonight?"

Sighing sadly, Michael looked at Joel. "You are to leave the boys at school alone. What you do with the cousins can be explained away, dismissed as something teenage boys do. There must be no more scandal, no more flagrant seductions."

"You didn't answer my question," snarled Joel. "If I don't 'conform', if I don't stop making the boys at school happy, will you kill me?"

Michael coughed. "I will never harm you," he replied, his voice filled with determination. "I will see to it, however, that you spend the rest of your days away from the family, in an environment where your natural urges will have no outlet."

"And yours? What about your 'natural urges'?" demanded Joel. "You like dick just as much as I do."

"I am in love with you, and I have enjoyed being with you. You are the only boy I have ever been with," returned Michael. "When I leave here it will be the end of us. There will be no other boys, or men, in my life. I will do as Uncle Henry wishes." He shrugged. "You at least have the baths. There you are just another anonymous Chinaboy getting his rocks off."

Joel's mouth gaped. "You know about . . .?" he managed to gasp.

"In many ways Joey Tsang was a good and faithful servant. He saw everything and he reported what he saw. It is unfortunate that he allowed himself to give in to his baser urges."

"As you did!" Joel hurled the charge at his cousin. "As you did!"

"Yes, and as I would again, if such an option were open to me. When I leave this room tonight, I will have no options. You will have the baths, and the frat boys you manage to pick up."

Joel sensed a concession on Michael's part. "I don't have to be celibate?"

"No."

"You won't kill me?"

"No." Michael opened the door. Before entering the corridor he said firmly, and quietly. "You will not seduce Patrick Tsang. You will not service or seduce the boys at school. So long as there is no scandal, so long as there are no names, you may do what you wish." His voice hardened. "Be warned, Joel. Those are the terms, the rules. Break the terms, trash the rules, and you will regret it. I will regret having to do something if you do not moderate your life and practice discretion. I will regret it, but I will do it."

With that Michael motioned for Patrick Tsang, who was loitering outside, and closed the door.

In the here, in the now, Michael sat in his office and stared into the darkness. Up to a point, Joel had kept his word. He ceased bothering the other boys at school, refusing to be lured into compromising positions and from that day until he graduated from St. George's Joel maintained a low, and very respectable profile. Of course, being Joel, he could never leave his sexuality in the closet. Michael heard reports that his cousin visited the bathhouses, and sunned every day on the clothing optional beach under the bluffs on which UBC perched. Michael also knew that Joel had visited several undergrads at UBC, ostensibly to be tutored, or to tutor one of the frat boys. As for the cousins, well, what went on behind the closed and locked bedroom doors of the family cantonment was overlooked.

As he grew older Joel had learned discretion at least. When he reached his majority he left the compound, establishing himself in a penthouse flat overlooking Kitsilano Beach Park. He still haunted the bathhouses, still took homeless young boys into his house. But, as he had no connection to the family business and was, at least on the surface, keeping faith to the bargain made so long ago, he was left alone. Joel was a free agent and, since his last name was Chiang, few made the connection to the Chans.

Michael's eyes fell on a small statuette, a small representation of one of the gods of the Chinese Pantheon, a miniature work of exquisite art, and part of Uncle Henry's legacy. The statue was carved in gold, one of many that Uncle Henry had collected over the years. A thought came to Michael. He switched on the lamp and walked to a large, glass and wood cabinet that dominated one wall of the room. The shelves were laden with statuettes, almost all of them carved from Imperial Jade. They were all ancient works from the old Imperial Dynasties, and many had graced tables and shelves in the private quarters of the Emperors of China in the Forbidden City. Some had been carved for the Yuans while others, the majority, for the Mings. Each was the work of a master carver and each was worth a small fortune.

Michael opened the cabinet and studied the figures. In many ways he had reason to feel gratitude toward Joel, who had shown him, Michael, his true self. Joel had never wavered in his determination to never allow his sexuality to interfere with his life, or his goals in life. Joel had given Michael the courage to admit, if only to Bertie Arundel, that he was a homosexual, Chinese male. Of course, Joel had also taught Michael how not to let the world know that he was a homosexual, Chinese male. In the end, criticism of Joel had deflected any criticism of Michael. There were some that said that not removing Joel permanently, and cleansing the family honour was a stain, a sign of weakness. This Michael ignored and dismissed. This was 1976 and changes were taking place every day. Besides, it was much too late to do anything about Joel now.

There was also the help that Joel had given his cousin in ferreting out information from Willoughby's bank and Hunter's counting house. Michael, a Luddite when it came to the new-fangled computers, had turned to Joel who, being somewhat of a whiz at the damned things, had been sequestered with Gabriel Izard and Joe Hobbes. When Michael had asked what they were doing all either man would say was that every computer program had a back door. Michael had not really understood but had not asked questions. All he knew was that Gabe and Joe had managed to open more than a few "back doors".

Michael was a man of honour and for his help Joel would be rewarded. He could not be given money, for he had more than enough to last his lifetime, and would look upon such a gift, even if contained in a red envelope (for luck), as an insult. No, it must be something so exquisite, so beautiful that Joel would know the true depth of Michael's gratitude, and his still true love.

His hand touched first one, then another of the small statues. Michael smiled. He would send Joel a gift, a small token, but one that could not be refused. He wondered which statue would best reflect his gratitude. Should he send the image of Hu-Tu, Goddess of Fertility? No, that would be an insult in that Joel would never father a child, and would never need that particular divinity's services. Kuan Yin, perhaps, the Goddess of Compassion? Joel was always dragging home boys. But no, there was no compassion in that particular act. Joel was looking for a bed partner for a few weeks. When he tired of the boy he would thrust wads of bank notes and small treasures of gold jewellery at the boy. And then go out and find another.

There was Hsi Wang Mu, Goddess of Immortality. Sadly, no man was immortal. Then Michael's hand found the perfect gift. A wry smile crossed his lips. Perfect, he thought, a gift that Joel would appreciate. He held up the image of Chuang-Mu, a perfect carving in jade decorated with gold and small, precious gems, created during the Qing Dynasty by a carver of exceptional talents. Chuang-Mu, Goddess of Sexual Delights. Perfect!

Cousin Tommy Chan rang the doorbell and waited impatiently for the ring to be answered. He had no desire to be here, and wanted to be as far away from this place as he could get. He had a normal life now, and what had happened to him behind this very door was best left to the dustbin of forgotten memories.

Tommy was not at all surprised when the door was opened by a slim, handsome, broad faced, blond-haired young man. Joel was always taking in strays and Tommy assumed that this young man was just one more in a long line of rent boys. He wondered, briefly, what had happened to the last boy, a Chinese illegal. He shrugged mentally. No matter. The boy would have been amply compensated for his time and trouble.

As Tommy was about to speak a soft, almost musical voice seemed to float across the huge living room of the flat. "Who is it, Pawel?" Tommy looked up to see Joel, as beautiful as ever, dressed in an oversize terry cloth robe exiting the bedroom, towelling his hair dry.

Pawel stood aside and Tommy entered the flat. Joel stopped his towelling and grinned lasciviously. "Tommy!" he exclaimed. "How wonderful to see you again."

"Michael sent me," Tommy replied glumly, his tone and demeanour telegraphing his displeasure at being here at all.

Ignoring Tommy's attitude, Joel waved toward the young man. "Have you met Pawel? He's Polish."

Tommy shook his head.

Pawel nodded, all too aware at the animosity Tommy was generating. "It is best I go," he said, looking at Joel.

Joel sighed theatrically. Pawel had been a most pleasant companion this past week. He deliberately walked up to the young Pole and kissed him on the lips. At the same time he ran his hand down the front of the very substantial bulge in Pawel's blue jeans. "Do you have enough money?" he asked as he continued to fondle the boy's crotch.

Pawel nodded. "I meet you at club later?" His eyes darted toward Tommy who was trying hard not to look at the scene unfolding before him.

Deliberately, Joel squeezed Pawel's impressive bulge. "I'll be there as soon as I can, sweets. Don't get too drunk, you hear?"

"I am better when I am drinking," returned Pawel. He raised his arm and closed his fist. "Like steel for hours."

Laughing, Joel backed away from the Pole. "Don't I know it!" he sighed dramatically. "Still, you must be on your way." He looked at Tommy. "Some business, I think."

Nodding, and once again gaining Joel's assurances that they would meet later, Pawel left the apartment. As the door closed Joel gestured toward the snow-white expanse of the sofa. "Michael sent you?"

Tommy nodded and held out the small package he'd be carrying. "He said to give you this and to thank you for all your help. He said that you'd know what he meant."

As happy as a child at Christmas, Joel began ripping away the brown paper wrapping of the package. When he discovered the small statuette laughed delightfully. "Oh, Michael, how well you know me," he said as he placed the statuette on the table. He looked at Tommy, who had not moved, and was rubbing the palm of his hand on the side of his suit coat. "How are you, Tommy," Joel asked as he arranged himself on the sofa. He was careful to drape the folds of the robe seductively so that Tommy could not fail to notice that he was wearing nothing under the robe.

"I'm fine," replied Tommy, his eyes darting about the room. "What happened to the Rice Bowl Rickey?"

Joel's tinkling laugh filled the room. "He began to bore me, so I sent him away." He patted the seat beside him. "Come, sit down. I don't bite, you know."

Tommy swallowed and shook his head. "I, um, I better get going." He smiled weakly. "The family, you know."

With slow, deliberate movements Joel left the sofa and walked to where Tommy was standing. He looked into Tommy's deep brown eyes and smiled. "I have missed you, Tommy."

Tommy knew what was coming and tried to prevent it. "That was a long time ago," he managed. He was breathy rapidly and beads of sweat spotted his forehead. "I'm married, Joel. I have three kids, a wife."

"Boys, or so I've heard," replied Joel with a soft moue. He ran his hand down the front of Tommy's starched, white shirt. Tommy was a damned handsome man, slim, with cleanly defined muscles. "Still, I missed you, and this," whispered Joel as he moved his hand down to feel Tommy's soft bulge.

Tommy tried to push Joel away but his massaging fingers were doing what Joel intended them to do. Tommy could feel his penis hardening. "I can't, Joel. Please, I'm married." Joel's arm snaked around Tommy's neck. Tommy's eyes closed as his lips met Joel's. "Damn you," he thought as the special warmth that Joel had always managed to generate in him crept slowly from his crotch.

"Do you remember the last time you came to see me," Joel asked, his voice a husky whisper. "Do you remember who you spent the night before your wedding with?"

"I remember," growled Tommy as Joel's hand continued its ministrations.

"Do you remember that I did this?" asked Joel. He slowly unbuckled Tommy's belt, unbuttoned his trousers and slowly pulled down the zipper. He slipped his hand into Tommy's trousers and felt the thick, heavy bulge hidden under Tommy's white briefs.

Tommy groaned as Joel's hand squeezed his hard cock. "We shouldn't," he muttered.

Joel ignored him. "And do you remember what I did next?" he asked as he pushed his hand under the hem of Tommy's underpants and found the turgid member. He pulled Tommy's penis out and stroked it gently. "You are still a beautiful man, Tommy," Joel whispered. He began to push Tommy's underpants and trousers down, not stopping until the garments were gathered in an untidy pile around his ankles.

Joel slowly lowered himself to his knees. He leaned forward and gently kissed Tommy's dick. Then he pulled back, examining the thick, six or so inches of hard flesh. Tommy's dick was smooth, the light purple head half hidden by his thin, blue-veined foreskin. Joel slowly retracted the sheath of skin, revealing the smooth, wet-looking, domed glans in all its glory. Tommy shuddered as his dick throbbed. He moaned as Joel's warm mouth engulfed him and groaned as Joel's hands slowly fondled his tight balls.

Sucking contentedly for several minutes, Joel listened to Tommy's groans and felt the light thrusting of Tommy's hips as he pushed his erection deeper into Joel's mouth. Joel smiled around Tommy's dick and continued to suck and tongue his cousin. Joel knew exactly how to bring Tommy off quickly and was quickly rewarded when Tommy let loose a long, low squeal, thrust his hips forward and a flash flood of his semen volleyed down Joel's throat.

As Joel continued to suck, draining every drop of Tommy's essence, Tommy's knees buckled and he slowly collapsed. His head came to rest in Joel's crotch and, just as Joel knew it would, Tommy's mouth closed over Joel's circumcised member. As Tommy gave in to his inner self and suckled him, Joel smiled knowingly. This was only foreplay. Tommy would be spending the night. He eyes fell on the smiling Goddess and he winked at the statue.

In the private room at the rear of the Pink Triangle Club, Pawel retracted the foreskin covering the angry purple head of his massive, 9-inch penis and slowly coated it with Vaseline. Before him, on his hands and knees, offering his tight hole, was a bronze-skinned young man, an Aboriginal, or so he had told Pawel.

As he slowly pushed the plum-sized head of his dick into the not so protesting hole Pawel could not help but marvel at the variety of men available in the New World. There was an infinite variety of men panting to taste or feel his massive pole of good Polish sausage. Not like home, where men such as he had to hide, and meet in dank cellars. Here, in Canada, and earlier, in New York, Pawel had quickly learned that there were literally dozens of baths and clubs where every sexual taste could be catered to. Pawel, being a lusting young Pole, had many tastes and he intended to savour them all.

Thrusting and grunting, Pawel long dicked the young Indian boy, who had been paid $100 Canadian dollars for the honour of servicing the young Pole. It was money well spent so far as Pawel was concerned, for the boy was pretty in a rough-hewn sort of way, and very tight.

Pawel did not begrudge the money it had cost him so far this evening. Fifty dollars had gained him entry to the club, another hundred to the "Members Only" back room, and the hundred for the boy. Pawel had plenty of money. The Chinaman, with whom he had spent the last week, had been very generous and Pawel's wallet was filled with bank notes. When the money ran out he would either return to the Chinaman, or do what he did in New York after he jumped ship: he would wander the dark corridors of the bath houses, his naked pride tall and hard, and charge accordingly. Not that Pawel expected to cash in. This was Canada, Vancouver, and not New York.

"Ah, New York," Pawel thought with a huge smile. He had jumped ship when the "Stefan Batory", the liner in which he worked as a steward, had stopped there. The ship had been loaded with well-heeled dignitaries and East Europeans determined to have as good a time as possible and help the United States celebrate the Bicentenary.

Thinking back Pawel grinned wickedly. My God had the week he'd spent in New York been fun! The city had been filled with lusty, willing, horny SAILORS, many off the warships that crowded the bay. New York was en fete and ships, grey-painted ships of war, including an aircraft carrier, the USS Kennedy, the "tall ships", sailing vessels from half a hundred countries, filled every berth or lined the harbour. Then there were the men, all sorts of men, men old, men young, men in between. There were boys of every age and description, and they all crowded the streets of New York.

Pawel, young, good looking, and with a dick that had earned him extra money on every trip, had slipped ashore and found Greenwich Village. He had also found a bathhouse where nothing was forbidden. He had indulged every deeply hidden fantasy - even, or so he thought at the time, being fucked by a Jew. Later he learned differently.

He had been in some now forgotten private room in a bathhouse in a cul-de-sac behind St. Vincent's Hospital, enjoying what had literally been a fuck to end all fucks. His partner, a tall, moustached, young man with wheat blond hair, had laughed and laughed at Pawel's ignorance when Pawel had observed that there were so many Zhids who liked boys. The man, a French-Canadian who shared Pawel's profession (he was a flight steward with Air Canada), had explained through his laughter that most of the men were not Jewish, although certainly a few were. This Pawel did not understand. The man then explained that circumcision was widely practiced, particularly in America, although he himself, being French-Canadian, was still intact. With a laugh as he flourished his dick at Pawel, the young man advised that a dick was dick so Pawel should just lie back and enjoy it.

Pawel recognized the truth in the man's statement. He was surprised because in Poland, in fact in all of Europe, only the Jews (of which there were damned few these days) and the Muslims (who were more and more cluttering up the countryside and turning well-kept neighbourhoods into slums) were circumcised. In the end he had to agree though, that it really didn't matter at all what was covering, or not covering the end of a knob. It was the knob that gave the pleasure.

Satisfied at last, Pawel pulled away from the young Indian and lay back on the hard-cushioned couch. Pawel's dick was still hard so he reached into his pants and pulled out his wallet. He extracted a twenty and waved it at the boy. "Clean me," he ordered brusquely. "Then suck."

As the boy's tongue began to slowly trace the length of Pawel's huge penis the Pole hoped that the Chinaboys would not be all night. The younger, skinny one, Joel, was a great fuck, and gave wonderful head (an expression he had learned in New York). Not like this son of a bitch of an Indian, though. "Watch teeth," snarled Pawel.

Joel groaned softly as his dick pulsed and a stream of his ejaculate coated the inside of Tommy's chute. Normally, Joel was more than content to be the bottom. He enjoyed the position and never tried to assume the more assertive role in any of his lovemaking. Tommy, however, wanted it. He wanted Joel inside of him and Joel had happily agreed.

As he continued to squirt Joel pumped Tommy's erection and was delighted when Tommy gurgled incoherently and a huge stream of semen flew from the slit of his angry penis. Groaning, Joel continued to thrust rapidly, not giving a thought to anything except what he was doing to Tommy.

Later, Tommy would give Joel the pleasure he needed. They would spend the night and part of the next morning together, neither man giving thought to the small statuette that stood on the coffee table in the living room. What neither man knew at the time was that Michael had given Joel the wrong Goddess.

In later years Michael would glance at the small statuette that had come back to him and shake his head sadly. Chuang-Mu had given Joel, and Tommy, and many others the gift in her power, a gift that brought a plague of great suffering and ultimately, death. Better, Michael would think in later years, better that he had given Joel the statue of Meng-Po-Niang, who stood at the Gates of Hell and administered to each passing soul a magic potion so that they would forget their past, forget the suffering and horrors of their life before entering the Celestial Plain.

To Be Continued In Chapter 3d