Phantom of Aurora

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

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

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

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

I will respond to all e-mails (except flames).

The Phantom Of Aurora: Chapter 19

The Gunner stood outside the Guardhouse waving slowly as the last vehicle in the long convoy of buses, trucks, and vans passed. The last vehicle, a panel van carrying breech blocks and blank ammunition, had been preceded by seven large yellow school buses carrying almost the entire Ship's Company, two deuce-and-a half trucks carrying the field guns and limbers, the Commanding Officer's personal vehicle, in which rode Himself and the Executive Officer, and an additional van carrying the .303 Lee-Enfield rifles and Guard equipment.

Glancing at his watch The Gunner saw that, for once, the convoy had left on time at 0830, and would, with luck and barring accidents, fits of cadet distemper, sudden floods, crop failure or miscellaneous catastrophe, arrive in Victoria in time for lunch.

As he watched the vehicles navigate Comox Road and head into the town The Gunner reflected that with the exception of Little Big Man, who was his usual surly self, and not going anywhere any time soon, the cadets seemed happy, and in at least six cases, downright euphoric.

Tyler, who usually projected the stern-visage mien reserved for Master at Arms since time began, had been smiling and joking. Val had a jauntiness in his step and a twinkle in his eye. The Twins, who were perfectly turned out and sharp as only Gunnery Chiefs can be sharp, teased and mildly cajoled their gunners into actually enjoying themselves as they loaded the vans with blank shells and manhandled the heavy field guns into the trucks. Ray did not seem to mind at all being pestered by Joey and Randy, and actually smacked their bottoms playfully when he told them to get back to work. Thumper positively glowed and chivvied and teased Fred and Tyler, all the while grinning broadly.

Most surprising of all was the Chief PTI. Mike was essentially a no-nonsense Chief who firmly believed in physical training exercises in the morning, every morning. Mike had never been known, in the memory of all the cadets who knew him, to smile while on parade. This morning at PT not only had he smiled at the antics of the Sea Puppies (who were laughing at Harry, who had neglected to wear his jock again, having refused to get out of bed until the last possible minute), but he had actually cracked a joke.

Steve, The Baby Buffer, had appeared on parade, as he always did, looking very smart and Pusser in his blue shorts, issued T-shirt, and high top sneakers. To limber everyone up Mike had called for deep knee bends, which did the trick, except that Steve's testicles had managed to work their way out of the leg band of his briefs, a situation that he found most uncomfortable. When the exercise was over he and the rest of the cadets stood to attention. Steve then reached down into his gym shorts and made the necessary adjustments in his underwear. Since he was the only cadet moving, Mike immediately noticed him.

"Petty Officer LEE!" bellowed The Chief PTI.

"Chief?"

"Leave that thing in your underpants alone! If it falls off I'll buy you a new one!"

The cadets were so stunned that Mike had actually made a joke that they stood, transfixed, staring at Mike. Then, when the implication of Mike's joke sank in they laughed uproariously, pointing at Steve, who blushed furiously. Then they carried on and no one complained or joked for the rest of the exercise period.

The Gunner shook his head at the antics of the cadets, putting it all down to the their leaving the ship for a dirty weekend in the city, which promised not only hard work and a parade, but also plenty of time for fun and frolic. Either that or they had all gotten laid last night. Which was, of course, impossible. When the last vehicle disappeared The Gunner did a walk about, checking on the few cadets still on board, and visited with Chef and the Makee-Learns, who whined at having to miss out on all the fun. Then he was off, heading for town.

He visited the bank and withdrew what he hoped would be sufficient funds for the delicate and, if he knew the man he had to meet later in the day at all, protracted negotiations that would result in his purchasing sufficient uniforms and kit to outfit all the new Chiefs and Petty Officers.

After leaving the bank The Gunner drove out of Comox and turned south down the Island Highway, his destination Nanaimo, 70 miles away, and the ferry for Horseshoe Bay. He had debated following the troops into Victoria, but wanted some peace and relaxation before he tackled his contact in the Clothing Stores in CFB Esquimalt, and Joel. The ferry ride from Departure Bay, just north of Nanaimo, to Horseshoe Bay, which was really a part of West Vancouver, offered an hour and a half of peace in a nautical setting.

Shortly before the ferry was due to sail The Gunner guided his Land Rover onto the vehicle deck of The Queen of Tsawwassen, a white-painted, 400-odd foot vessel of almost 10,000 tons burden. After visiting the Upper Deck Restaurant to pick up a cup of coffee, he went on deck and found a bench where he could enjoy both his coffee and the passing seascape as the ferry slipped its moorings and began its voyage to the mainland.

At first The Gunner was the only passenger on the open deck. While the sky was overcast, the threatened rain had held off, though he could see dark storm clouds gathering along the horizon to the north and above the tree line to the west and the Nanaimo cityscape to the southwest. As the ferry left the lee of the land and the sheltering arms of the point to port and the harbour islands to starboard, she began to pitch, digging her nose deep into the four-foot swells. The open deck suddenly became a very popular place to be as many of the 200 or so passengers felt the effect of the sea, which did not bother The Gunner at all. He was one of those most fortunate of individuals in that he had been born with his sea legs and never got seasick.

Rather than watch his fellow passengers travel by rail, The Gunner returned to the restaurant where he sat and watched the grey seas passing down the side of the boat, and thought about his real purpose for being on board the ferry.

He had not heard from Joel for a month. His many telephone calls to the number that Joel had given him had gone unanswered and there had been no letters from Joel. The Gunner was convinced that whatever had been between Joel and him was now over and it was time to put paid to their relationship once and for all. If Joel was in Vancouver his cousin Michael would know where he was, and The Gunner knew where Michael spent much of his time.

The Gunner also thought about The Phantom and realized that somehow he would have to open an avenue of communication with the boy. He desperately wanted The Phantom to understand about his relationship with Joel; such as it had been, just as he also wanted the Phantom to know exactly how he felt about him. He loved The Phantom, and wanted to be with him. If they could just sit down and talk together they could work things out.

The Phantom, of course, was not making life easy. He had abruptly stopped the lunch hour lessons, avoided The Gunner when he came into the galley, and last night had refused his tentative overture, though he had reacted exactly the way The Gunner had hoped he would when he saw him kissing Harry at his wet down. The Phantom's green eyes had crackled and sparked with jealousy, and he had disappeared into the heads, probably to cool down.

The Gunner reasoned that he had at least two weeks in which to make his peace with Phantom, more if he took some leave time. He did not have to report to the Reserve Training Unit in Esquimalt until after Labour Day, and he could delay reporting if he took some leave. He sighed and stretched, and then stared into the slate grey waters of the Strait, thinking, "One step at a time, and one day at a time." First Joel, then the uniforms then, he hoped, The Phantom.

Because of the heavy sea and wind, the ferry was almost an hour late arriving at the Horseshoe Bay Terminal, docking just after 1530. Fortunately there was direct access to the Trans Canada Highway, which carried him south and then east, through West Vancouver and then via the Turner Street cut-off to the Lion's Gate Bridge, Stanley Park, and his final destination, Carrall Street, in the heart of Chinatown where he would, he hoped, meet with Joel's favourite cousin and onetime lover, Mike, who now preferred his friends and business associates to call him Michael.

As The Gunner drove along the Trans Canada Highway he debated if he should take the Eyremount Drive off ramp and drive into the Mayfair section of British Properties, a small enclave of English gentility and privilege, of manicured lawns, large, period houses on huge lots, vintage Rolls Royces and Bentleys, insular and impervious to change, proud of its heritage, a small corner of a forgotten field that would be forever England.

Leading north and west from Eyremount was St. James Street, which curved to form the southern boundary of Clarence Square. The Twins lived in a large, early Georgian-style brick and white stucco house at Number 2, Clarence Square. Similar houses, transplanted designs by Nash and the Brothers Adam surrounded the square, a large, private patch of greenery and flower gardens.

To the north was Kensington High Street, at the end of which, just as it turned sharply toward Hollyburn Mountain, Joel's family lived in a sprawling Regency mansion surrounded by the largest private park in the Properties. This availed them nothing so far as most, if not all, of the white denizens of Mayfair were concerned. Joel's father might be a world-renowned neurosurgeon, and his mother a mainstay of the Vancouver cultural scene, donating lavishly to the Philharmonic, the Opera, and the Museum, but they were only, at the end of the day, Chinese, and as such were forever barred from many of the grand mansions.

What surprised The Gunner was that the Twins, who had been born into and raised in this strange, prejudiced environment, were totally without any prejudices. They readily accepted all and sundry, judging the other cadets by the content of their character rather than the circumstances of their birth or race.

As The Gunner drove deeper into the city the traffic thickened and slowed, which was not surprising. Vancouver was the hub of the west, rich, saucy, and the lodestone of Western Canada, jealously dismissed as Lotus Land by anybody who lived east of the British Columbia border.

Shortly after 1600 The Gunner pulled to a stop in front of a large, three-storied, gabled building on Carrall Street directly opposite the Sun Yat-Sen Classical Garden. The building, which resembled a classical Chinese temple, complete with carved stone lions on either side of the entrance, housed the Imperial City Restaurant, place of business of Joel's cousin Michael.

Inside, the Imperial City Restaurant was the stereotypical tourist ideal of what an upscale Chinese restaurant should look like. Red lacquered pillars supported the main dining room. Moulded plaster wainscoting and cornices were gold-leafed. A faux Ming vase stood in every corner and Chinese export lacquerware furniture crowded the large room. Around the walls of the room were arranged red velvet upholstered banquettes. The china, silver, and crystal were of the best quality. The food was superb, and the restaurant boasted the finest wine cellar this side of the Empress Hotel.

As The Gunner expected, Michael was sitting on the second level, the sole occupant of a gold encrusted, throne-like booth.

Michael Wei-Ho Chan was tall for a Chinese, standing just over six feet in height. An aberrant gene from his Caucasian grandfather had given him his pink, healthy skin. He had high cheekbones and warm, dark brown eyes, with a slim, muscular body, which he clothed in the finest fabrics. He was a very handsome young man and his popularity with the ladies was legion, although at 29 he was still unmarried, which was unusual for a healthy, very eligible Chinese male.

Michael rose and greeted The Gunner warmly. "Stephen, how good it is to see you again," he smiled, speaking in the slightly nasal tones that bespoke a classical education in a very good English public school, which also accounted for his proper formality on any and all occasions.

The Gunner returned Michael's smile. He genuinely enjoyed Michael's company and chose to ignore Joel's dark hints of Tongs and Triads and furtive doings in the dark of the night. As The Gunner sat down Michael signalled for a tuxedo-clad waiter to approach the table. He chattered away in what The Gunner thought was Cantonese, the lingua franca of Chinatown.

"I've taken the liberty of ordering you a drink, Stephen," said Michael. "Scotch. Unless you'd prefer something else?"

"Thank you, Michael, scotch is fine," replied The Gunner. "And I must say, you've impressed me. I wasn't aware that you spoke . . . Cantonese?"

Michael laughed. "Joel always said that you had a facility for languages." He nodded toward two very large Oriental men clad in dark suits who sat at a nearby table. "Many of my employees are from Hong Kong. Cantonese is all they speak. Which is just as well. Those who claim to speak English all sound as if they have rocks stuffed in their mouths."

The waiter brought their drinks and they toasted one another. "You look well, Michael, and, if I may, prosperous," said The Gunner presently.

Michael smiled modestly and nodded. "I have been fortunate. The gods continue to smile on my family." Then he frowned. "Although I question their sanity when it comes to Joel."

"Is he in trouble?" asked The Gunner, concerned.

"Trouble? "Michael shook his head. "No, not that I am aware of." He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and brought out a gold cigarette case. "I confess that I have become a slave to the noxious weed," he said as he offered The Gunner a cigarette. They smoked in silence for a moment or two. Then Michael looked directly at The Gunner. "Joel is not in any trouble. Quite the contrary. He has become involved in an enterprise that gives promise of being very profitable. He thinks he lives well. Actually he lives badly and will, sooner or later, come to a bad end."

"I don't understand," said The Gunner, mystified.

"Joel's proclamation of his homosexuality has devastated my family," replied Michael, his façade of politeness slipping. "His parents, my uncle and aunt, refuse to have anything to do with him. They have disowned him and he is not welcome in any of the family houses."

The Gunner noted his host's barely concealed anger and sighed. "Last month, when I saw Joel, he told me that his parents suspected that he was gay. He never mentioned that he would come out to them."

"He had no choice once he assumed his role as a crusader," replied Michael, his eyes flashing.

The Gunner had no idea what Michael was going on about. The thought of Joel as anything but a sybarite and a hedonist was surprising. Still, Joel, for all his faults, did not deserve banishment from the family. His face softened as he confronted Michael. "I understand your family's inability to accept Joel's being gay. He explained your traditions to me. But, really, Michael, to be fair, he can't help being what he is."

Michael nodded and signalled the waiter for another drink. "Stephen, please do understand that I do not sit in judgement of Joel. He is my favourite cousin and we grew up together. We shared many things and I am very fond of him. I have long known that Joel is homosexual and I long ago accepted his lifestyle." He sighed sadly. "I believe had Joel not chosen the path he now follows the family would, in time, also have accepted and understood. He is, after all, a son." He sighed regretfully. "If only he had been discreet . . ."

"Hide in the closet," The Gunner almost blurted out. Instead he said diplomatically, "Joel always had a flamboyant streak in him." Then he observed with a slight smile and shake of his head, "He is also as stubborn as an Army mule when he chooses to be."

Michael chuckled. "I am well aware of Joel's harmless idiosyncrasies. He has, however, chosen to become an activist. He proclaims his sexuality from the rooftops. He lives openly with another male. He is a thorn in the side of every newspaper editor, demonstrating and mounting protests against homophobia. He has made it quite plain to his employer in Seattle that he is homosexual and has no plans whatsoever to change his ways."

The Gunner was not sure if he was hurt or relieved at the news that Joel had a lover. "Joel was never one to hide his light under a basket, Michael."

Michael sighed slightly. "One admits that Joel is not about to live his life, what is the saying, in the closet?"

The Gunner nodded and thought of the two golden boys he had so recently proclaimed his sons in spirit. Todd was conservative and level headed. Cory was the opposite of his brother: brash, outspoken, and too brutally honest for his own good. Neither Cory nor Todd feared what they were. They were both all too aware of how life would treat them and they faced that awareness with courage, as Joel did, and as he and Michael did not. "Joel has a special courage that, I fear, I lack," confessed The Gunner evenly, looking directly at Michael.

"A courage that I too, lack, Stephen." Michael drained his glass. "I shall live my life observing the customs and traditions of my culture, just as you shall live your life observing the customs and traditions of your culture. And we shall both pay heed to the restrictions of those cultures." Michael returned The Gunner's look. "I am very fond of Joel, Stephen. I cannot deny that there has been a very special relationship between us, a relationship that has existed since we were boys. Unfortunately I must now deny that relationship, just as I must now deny him."

"I wasn't, that is, Joel, led me to believe that all that had ended years ago," The Gunner said carefully.

The look on The Gunner's face told Michael that the man was unaware of the depth of his relationship with Joel. He bristled, angry with himself for betraying one of his deepest secrets. The look of anger that had flashed across his face disappeared almost as quickly. Directing his anger at his guest would serve no purpose. "Joel was very wrong to mention as much as he did."

"Yes, he was," agreed The Gunner. He sensed that he had touched a nerve and tried to defuse a potentially dangerous situation. "But by the same token, you were not unaware of my relationship with Joel."

Michael nodded. "Joel's discretion, at times, is admirable. When you and he first met, and later as your relationship progressed, he was very happy, and he always spoke very fondly of you. After he returned from the Island, we spoke only twice, and he did not mention you at all. When I learned of his present situation it led me to believe that we are both now relegated to the dustbin of Joel's history."

The Gunner smiled. "I would still like to see him. Is he in town?"

"He is," replied Michael flatly. Then he pursed his lips, as if lost in thought.

"Joel keeps a flat on Ogden Street, across from the St. Roch Museum. A flat, I might add, that he has kept for quite some time, a flat that he uses to house his, shall we say, infatuation of the week." The Gunner was stunned. Michael sensed his discomfort and distress. "Joel has led a secret life for many years, Stephen," continued Michael, his voice gentle. "Our Grandfather made provision for him and me, so Joel is not without resources. For quite some time, years in fact, I have been aware that he has been keeping a young boy in his flat."

"You mean that when he and I were . . ." began The Gunner, not wanting to believe what he was hearing.

"Yes. While he was with you there was a young boy, a Czech I believe; after the Czech there was a very handsome Italian boy. Now the object of Joel's interest is a Rice Bowl Ricky."

The Gunner could not stop himself from laughing. "A what?"

"A young Chinese male, actually. He is fresh off the boat from Hong Kong and speaks no English." Michael shrugged expressively. "Joel speaks no Hakka, which is the boy's dialect. One assumes they communicate in other ways." He called for another round of scotch. "Joel's young men are all of a type, Stephen. Young, winsome, quite pretty in their way, if one cares for the type. More along the lines of a Sing-Sing girl than a quarterback."

"I never knew," muttered The Gunner, stunned at Michael's revelation.

"I thought as much," replied Michael, his muted tone sympathetic. Then his face hardened. "Joel cannot help himself, and sooner or later he will come to grief. You are well rid from him,"" he finished harshly.

The Gunner shook his head and smiled wanly. "I just can't dismiss him out of hand, Michael. Like you, I was more than fond of him."

"Even though he deceived you?" asked Michael.

"Joel will be Joel, and while I admit that I'm disappointed in him, now, I would still like to see him."

Michael shrugged and told The Gunner where Joel lived.

From the restaurant to Joel's apartment building was a 20-minute drive through downtown Vancouver, across the Burrard Street Bridge and light years away from the tourist kitsch of Chinatown.

The apartment building, an architectural excrescence of bronze, granite and glass, stood foursquare in the middle of the block in Ogden Street, an upright, oblong box housing tier upon tier of small square boxes, its stark, characterless outlines marring the sylvan beauty of Kitsilano Beach Park across the street. Set directly in front of the building was a small, modernistic, circular fountain of moulded concrete and stainless steel arcs that dribbled pathetic streams of water into a stagnant pool in which floated cigarette ends and assorted bits and pieces of paper and trash.

The Gunner shuddered at the sight of the building and was not surprised to see a small plaque affixed to the wall beside the main entrance announcing that the building had won some award for architectural excellence. The building's only saving grace was the stunning view of English Bay and the verdant greenery of Stanley Park, which those living on the upper floors undoubtedly enjoyed.

For all its pretensions to elegance and excellence, the lobby area was ill lit, sparsely furnished, and in need of a good Pusser scrub. There was no doorman on duty, nor was there a concierge behind the lobby desk. "So much for upscale living," thought The Gunner as he entered the elevator and pressed the button for the penthouse floor.

The Gunner's knock was answered by a short, willowy, black haired Oriental youth who looked to be about 12 years old, and was wearing only a pair of white briefs. Before The Gunner could speak Joel appeared, gasped, and quickly shooed the boy into another room. The boy shot The Gunner a dirty look and disappeared into what was apparently the bedroom. Seeing the look on The Gunner's face as he watched the young boy's retreat, Joel quickly asked him to come in and led him to a starkly modern sofa upholstered in violent green fabric. "He's not as young as he looks, Stevie," explained Joel without a trace of embarrassment. "He's actually well over 21."

The Gunner shrugged and sat on the sofa. "Does it matter?"

Joel sat in the overstuffed chair opposite. "Not really, no," he said evenly. "Obviously you've been to see Michael."

The Gunner nodded. "I tried calling, but there was never an answer. I went to see Michael and he told me where you were living."

"I've been in California, and Seattle," replied Joel. "Sheldon . . ." he nodded toward the closed bedroom door. "Sheldon's English is non-existent so he never answers the telephone."

The Gunner ran his hand over his face. "You're here now. I came to see just what our relationship had become. Now I know."

"Please, Stevie, don't be angry. And in fairness, I told you I did not intend to take up celibacy."

The Gunner's upraised hand stopped Joel's explanation. "In fairness, you did. But you did not, in fairness, bother to tell me about this place, or the boys you kept here. While we were telling each other how much we loved each other you had some rent boy stashed away. And where in hell did Sheldon come from?"

Joel was quite unfazed by The Gunner's somewhat heated outburst. "He has some unpronounceable Chinese name. It sounds like Sheldon, so I call him Sheldon," he explained. He stood up and walked to a white painted credenza on which stood an array of liquor bottles and poured a large scotch for himself and one The Gunner. "Stevie, I wasn't lying when I told you that I loved you," he said as he handed the drink to The Gunner. "I did then and I still do, please believe that."

"I believe you. But you still haven't explained your house guests."

"The boys? Stevie, I love sex. I want sex. Quite simply put, I give them a home; food, clothes, money, and they give me what I want. When I tire of a boy I give him some very nice parting gifts and find someone new. The boy gets what he wants, I get what I want." He took a small sip of his drink and smiled coyly. "It is a very convenient arrangement."

Joel put aside his drink and went to sit beside The Gunner. He took his former lover's hands in his. "Stevie, I was wrong to keep this part of my life from you. You may not believe me, but until I realized that we were not to be, there were no boys here. I was very happy when we woke up in the morning, with you lying beside me. But then you went back on duty in Victoria, and later, in Comox. I never saw you for weeks on end."

"You knew that I was in the Navy, Joel, and what that entailed," The Gunner pointed out defensively."

"Yes, Stevie," admitted Joel. "I did, and I am not using that as an excuse. Last month, when we finally agreed to part, I found Sheldon. When I was in California, and later, in Seattle, I thought about what we had talked about and realized that you and I could never be together, no matter how I felt about you." A sad smile formed on his face. "I love you, Stevie, but you will never be there every night when I come home, nor will you be there when I reach out in the middle of the night, wanting to feel a warm body next to mine." He stood up and walked to the huge picture window dominating the living room. He stared at the greenery of Stanley Park, not seeing anything. "So now you don't have to leave the Navy, to make the sacrifice," he said quietly.

"I still will, I think," replied The Gunner. "Joel, please, look at me. I hate talking to your back."

Joel turned, but did not return to the sofa. "It won't matter, Stevie. I know you. You have the Navy in your blood. You can't help yourself. You might leave for a while, but one day you'll go back. You'll hear a band playing a march, or see a group of sailors in blue uniforms and something will go bang in your head and you'll be gone because your first love was, is, and always will be the Navy."

"So, it's over then, Joel?' asked The Gunner, even though he knew the answer.

Joel nodded. "I hope you find someone, Stevie, I really do. You're too nice a man to stay alone."

The Gunner smiled cynically. "I have met someone. We haven't done anything, and to be honest, I don't think we will."

Joel hurried across the room and sat down again on the sofa. "Now tell me just why you think nothing will happen."

"He's seventeen, and he's a Sea Cadet Chief Petty Officer in AURORA."

"Are you in love with him?"

The Gunner looked at Joel and nodded. "Desperately."

"Then do something about it. Take him away somewhere and make love to him. You are a very good lover, Stevie, as I know all too well."

"He's a boy, Joel. He's a boy who loves me, but he is a boy!"

Joel raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Oh, balls! If he loves you, then for Christ's sweet sake do something about it!" He gave The Gunner a dark, disgusted look. "You really are the most aggravating, insufferable, stuffy, son-of-a-bitch I have ever met!"

"But Joel . . ."

Joel waved away all opposition. "Stevie, if you love him, then it doesn't matter. I know how you feel about cadets, and subordinates. It's stupid, and it's silly. As silly as what is really bothering you about starting a relationship with this young man. It's the boy's age, and don't deny it!"

The Gunner had to admit that The Phantom's youth was a part of the problem.

Joel gave The Gunner a hard look. "It shouldn't be," Stevie, he said firmly. "If you keep thinking the way you are you'll end up a wizened old man, sitting in a rocking chair in the Old Sailors' Home, wondering how you could ever have been so stupid. Does he know you love him?"

"Yes. The feelings we have are entirely mutual. He wants to be with me, to love me and for me to love him."

"Then do it," said Joel firmly. "Love him, Stevie, for his sake, and for your own."

"You're not shocked, at his age?"

"Why should I be?" asked Joel. "Michael fell in love with me when he was 11. We slept together for years. We both knew exactly what we were doing and why we were doing it." He gave The Gunner a firm look. "And so does your young man. He knows he's gay and he knows how he feels about you. When I was 17 I was perfectly capable of making a rational decision about a great many things, including how I felt about certain people. If you'd admit it, so were you. And so is your young man, who is in love with you and not about to wait until he's 21 to do something about it." Joel's tone softened. "Love him Stevie. Let him love you. He is in love with you, and you are in love with him, and that, my dear friend, is all that matters."

The Gunner smiled tightly and he felt the residual anger that he had felt toward Joel for his duplicity ebb away. He did not doubt that Joel still cared for him. His words proved that. But Joel did not love him, and was not in love with him. What had been between them was over. Joel realized it and he now realized it. It was time for both of them to move on.

"Stevie, go to your young man," continued Joel, "Love him and be happy with him for the rest of your lives."

"God, I hope we can."

"If I have anything to say about it, you will."

"Michael told me that you've become quite vocal. He called you a crusader."

Joel laughed. "More of an activist," he exclaimed. "I'm tired of pretending and if demonstrating in front of the Vancouver Sun building means I don't have to live a life a deception, then I'll demonstrate. I'll write letters, I'll yell, I'll strip naked and sit on the City Hall steps, if that's what it takes."

"Michael would love that."

"No, he wouldn't. He might have been content with a furtive slap and a tickle in an out-of-the-way motel, where nobody asked any questions, but I wasn't."

"I might have put you in it. I wish now that'd you'd told me about him. I would have kept my big mouth shut."

Joel made a face. "It's his own fault. He never wants anyone to know his business. For more than one very good reason Michael is a very private person and very, very easy to piss off if someone tells his secrets. I couldn't tell you about him and me."

"I think I understand," replied The Gunner, thinking of the two obvious goons sitting in the restaurant. He decided not to mention Michael's slip or that he knew that Joel's family had disowned him.

"He's as big a coward as you are," said Joel. He laughed snidely. "Michael is to be married, you know."

"He didn't mention it. If he loves you, why would he marry?" The Gunner was not all that surprised at this piece of news. Michael had said that he would conform to the customs and traditions of his people.

"Because it's expected of him," replied Joel hotly, his voice edged with sarcasm. "He is to be married because it's time, because he's afraid of the love that dares not speak its name. He's afraid of what his business associates would do if they found out he really wants to sleep with me, and not the daughter of one of the richest men in Hong Kong."

"Poor Michael," sighed The Gunner. "Somehow I know exactly what he's going through."

"If you know, then you should realize how miserable he's going to be for the rest of his life. I don't want that for you, Stevie. I don't want it for him, but . . ."

"Michael will observe the customs and traditions of his culture," repeated The Gunner softly as he echoed Michael's remembered remarks. "When is the wedding?"

"Sometime next year. The prenuptial agreements haven't been settled. Not that I care. I doubt I'll be invited."

There was a loud crash from somewhere deep within the apartment. Joel giggled.

"It would seem that your friend takes exception to my being here," said The Gunner with a chuckle.

"He'll get over it. I'll give him some money to send to his avaricious family living in some hovel in the New Territories. He'll get all mushy and grateful and then we'll fuck each other's brains out."

"You've changed, Joel," said The Gunner sadly. The old Joel would never have spoken with such brashness.

"Crude? Rude? Loud?" asked Joel. "Or all of the above. I was nice for a long time, Stevie, and it got me thrown out of my home and disowned by my own parents and family. So now I say what I like, when I like. My new motto is fuck 'em all but six. One day I'll need pallbearers."

"I hope you know what you're doing."

"I do."

The Gunner hoped that Joel was right. There was a toughness in Joel that few saw, and if anyone could survive in a homophobic world, it was Joel. For all that, The Gunner had been around long enough to know that brashness and courage would sometimes not be enough. While he hoped that time would never come, he still cared enough for Joel to want to be there if he was needed. "Can we still be friends, Joel? Not lovers, friends."

Joel grinned and nodded. "Of course, Stevie. Why would you think otherwise? I might not be sleeping with you but that doesn't mean I don't love you." Joel accompanied The Gunner to the door.

"I better go, Joel, before Sheldon wrecks the place," said The Gunner with a glance toward the closed bedroom door.

"If he does he'll be out on his ass."

The Gunner kissed Joel lightly on the cheek. "You take care, hear? Let me know how you're doing. And where you are. You're hard to track down, sometimes."

Joel laughed. "Don't worry, I know what I'm doing." He grimaced slightly. "And never fear, Michael will know how to find me. He always does."

"He loves you, Joel, very much, I think."

"But not enough to accept me openly, or to admit what he is."

"He has his reasons."

"Don't we all, Stevie, don't we all."

As he rode down in the elevator The Gunner had a feeling of uneasiness. Settling with Joel was one thing. His future, if any, with The Phantom, was another. Would The Phantom allow him to love him? For that matter, did The Phantom still love him?

Stepping from the elevator and crossing the vacant lobby The Gunner thought of that day so many years ago when he had tried to give his love to another boy. He had been rejected then and, as he climbed into his car and headed for the ferry docks, he wondered if all that was waiting for him in AURORA was rejection. He started the car and as he navigated the busy streets the word echoed through his brain:

Rejection.

The ferry to Victoria had barely cleared Vancouver Harbour when the clouds closed in, the sky darkened and the sea picked up. An hour later, as the boat eased its nose into the berth in Victoria the clouds opened and the city was deluged with rain. Traffic immediately snarled and, rather than fight his way into the city, The Gunner travelled west and pulled into the parking lot of the CFB Esquimalt Junior Ranks Mess, where he went immediately to the Snake Pit, officially the Lower Deck Bar.

The Gunner ordered a beer and sat at one of the tables in front of the huge plate glass windows that overlooked Seal Rock. He was staring glumly out the window, seeing nothing, thinking of Joel's words and wondering what he was going to do about The Phantom when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw an old friend, who had his usual Jiminy Cricket smile creasing his face. The Gunner smiled wanly and indicated the empty chair on the other side of the table. "Pull up a pew, Danny," he said. "Buy you a beer?"

"You look like the crops just failed. And I have a beer." Danny held up his bottle. He was a short, heavyset man about the same age as The Gunner. He was dressed in his usual very soiled work dress uniform. "So, why so glum, Steve?" he asked.

"Too much work, too little time," lied The Gunner. He nodded toward Danny's uniform. "What's with the work dress? I thought you Supply types didn't work on weekends."

Danny snorted, "I've been working my fat little ass off all week cleaning out Clothing Stores," he explained.

"What brought that on?"

"Admiral's Inspection is what brought that on." Danny shook his head in disgust. "He did his inspection last Friday and the old fuck went ape shit when he found all the old blue uniforms still in Stores. He went ballistic when he saw all the Class II white uniforms. The word came down from on high: GET RID OF THEM!"

"And?"

"The blue uniforms I just transferred over to the Sea Cadet stores. The rest gets gashed."

The Gunner sat up. "What do you mean, gets gashed?"

Smiling inwardly, for he had noticed The Gunner's reaction to his news of the fate of the old uniforms, Danny assumed a melancholy look. "As far as the Supply Officer is concerned everything else has no resale value. So we gash it." Then he smiled slyly. "Unless you know somebody who could use 50 brand new Number 11 Chiefs' white uniforms, plus shoes, and caps?"

Danny had known The Gunner for many years, and knew his man well. The Gunner was an Old Guard sailor, and was always going on about the old uniforms, and what a shame it was that so much had to be thrown in the local dump. Like all Storekeepers Danny was a businessman with an Aladdin's cave of undocumented treasures, carefully garnered over the years. He was also a man with a harpy of a wife who believed in conspicuous consumption, and the father of six children, all of whom needed food, clothing and, like their mother, absolutely had to have the latest fashion, fad, or toy they saw advertised on television.

As a businessman Danny knew that The Gunner would not rest easy if he allowed any part of the Old Navy to end up in a garbage dump. He had baited the hook with the Number 11 uniforms and let a little of his fishing line out. What he did not know was that The Gunner had heard certain rumours, which was why he had called in the first place.

"Yeah, Stevie, it's sad," said Danny with feigned regret. "Those green bastards just can't stand to see anything that reminds them of our heritage. I'm sure going to hate to get rid of some of the stuff I have." He smiled sadly.

"What stuff?" The Gunner asked, trying to sound casual. He was not quite as naive as Danny perceived him to be. "Let him think I'm eyeing the baited hook," he thought.

"Oh, let's see," replied Danny, pretending to be remembering his stock. He actually knew exactly what was in stores, where they were kept and, like every good businessman, the current market value of all the shiny bits and pieces. "The uniforms aside, gold wire badges, all trades, all ranks up to and including P1, all original and still in the box. Three Naval pattern swords with belts, in rosewood boxes - they used to hand them out to the officers at Royal Roads, you know. And ten sets of Chiefs buttons and crowns, gold, from Spink's." The line was fully extended, and from the look in The Gunner's eyes, the fish was about to take the bait.

The fish was nibbling, tasting the richness of the bait, swimming warily. What the fisherman did not know was that the fish had been swimming in the pond for a long time and had learned from bitter experience how real business in the Navy was conducted, and had early in its youth learned the lesson that no matter how tempting the bait, it always concealed a steel barb.

"Well, Danny, I'd really like to help out," countered The Gunner sympathetically. "But I really don't know anybody who would want so much stuff. A jobber, maybe? There are at least four, maybe five Army/Navy surplus stores in town. They might be interested."

Danny shook his head. "Too much paperwork," he said with a grin. He grinned his Jiminy Cricket grin. "You know how I hate to do paperwork."

The Gunner nodded, smiling inwardly. Danny hated paperwork because documentation of any kind could be traced, and would lead directly to whatever bank the chubby storekeeper hid his loot in. The Gunner also knew that if Danny found a buyer in Civvy Street dumb enough to take undocumented Naval Stores, he might, on a good day, get ten cents on the dollar, so he assumed a helpful look. "Well, I might be able to take some it off your hands," The Gunner offered in an off hand manner. "I know a few of the old Chiefs might like to have a new uniform to be buried in."

Danny chuckled. "And make a little profit, eh?"

The Gunner smiled. Danny now understood that he (the Gunner) knew exactly what was going on. Danny had a load of shineys that he wanted to dispose of as quickly, as quietly, and as profitably for himself as possible. "Danny, why would I want to make a profit?" asked The Gunner. "I have more money than I can spend. I live on board ship, so I don't pay rent. I get three squares a day, so I don't have to buy food. I don't booze it up, so, I say again, why would I want to make a profit?"

Danny ran his hand over his face. The line was out, the hook was baited, but the fish had just turned up its gills and was swimming fast in the opposite direction.

"Well, then, if you're not interested," Danny muttered. He downed his beer and was about to leave the table when The Gunner stopped him.

"I didn't say I wasn't interested."

Danny hunkered down. The Gunner had said the magic words. He motioned for The Gunner to continue.

A cagey look came into The Gunner's eyes. "I might, just might, be able to take some of your merchandise of your hands." Now he was dangling bait. "I'm much too much of a traditionalist to let you flog them piecemeal to some junkman and see some street punk dressed up as an admiral or something, panhandling in a white uniform."

Danny nodded. "I can give you a good price." He thought a moment. "Let's say $600.00 for the uniforms."

"Let's say three hundred, and you throw in the caps and shoes," offered The Gunner, who knew the going rate for surplus uniforms.

Danny glared. "I have expenses you know," he lied blatantly. "Five fifty."

"Yeah, a wife and six kids," replied The Gunner coldly. "Three fifty, and you still throw in the caps and shoes."

"Cash?"

"In my wallet. Small bills, just the way you like it."

Danny nodded. "The badges, now, 15 of each and every trade and rank, plus three boxes of gold wire GC's. Since we're such good friends, I could let you have them for, say, $100.00."

"Since you brought it up, we were very good friends, before you got married. $50.00." The Gunner grinned a wolfish grin. The fish had stolen the bait from under the nose of the fisherman. "Another beer?"

Danny nodded, then smiled nostalgically. "A low blow, Stevie, very low, even for a gunner. Get the beer." When The Gunner returned Danny nodded. "Okay, $50.00 for the badges. But I get a hundred apiece for the swords and presentation cases." He held out his hand and with the other pretended to be punching numbers into a hand calculator. "Seven hundred, plus fifty to sweeten the pot."

"What about the Chiefs buttons?"

Danny grinned. "You always were a sucker for the good stuff. Tell you what; let's not fuck around. You want what I have, right?"

The Gunner nodded.

"And, since, as you pointed out, we were very close once upon a time, you can have the lot for, let's say, a grand. Cash, no cheques."

"I don't carry that much with me. It's . . . shit, it's four o'clock on a Saturday afternoon. I can get the money to you on Monday." The Gunner had exactly $650.00 in his wallet.

Danny shook his head. "Sorry, Stevie, as much as I like to remember us in the old days, and I do remember," he said with smiling emphasis, "business is business. Monday the Supply Officer comes back and the stuff had better be loaded on a truck heading for the dump or shifted. I can make some calls; see what's out there. I might even . . . no, I will get more. The fucking Chiefs' buttons and crowns are hallmarked gold."

The Gunner knew that Danny was right. He was being offered a bargain. He drained his beer and stood up. "I'll meet you in front of the warehouse in an hour."

"Where are you going?" asked Danny, visions of a lost sale flashing through his head.

"The Bureau de Change in the Empress Hotel."

"Why there, it's all the way downtown?"

The Gunner pulled out his wallet and fished around a bit. Then he held up a small, green, plastic card. "Don't leave home without it."

Two telephone calls later The Gunner had what he needed, plus a little extra. Danny always held something back. As he got in his car he thanked God and American Express.

When he arrived at Clothing Stores he found that Danny had everything ready. When the back of The Gunner's car was loaded he handed over Danny's money. As he did so he saw three oblong boxes sitting on Danny's desk and asked what was in them.

"Midshipmen dirks. Ivory handles, finest Sheffield plate blades, gold-plated hilt, $75.00 per and no argument."

As The Gunner handed over the extra cash Danny asked him what he planned on doing with all the gear. "Oh, I'll find a use for it, and no danger," replied The Gunner enigmatically.

When The Gunner paused to open the door to his motel room he could hear music. The television was on and he could see a small strip of light glowing under the closed door. He was somewhat disappointed. Obviously Andy, or Kyle, or both of them, had decided to have a night in. He had hoped that they would find something to occupy themselves because he was not, after today, in the mood for company.

Much to his surprise The Gunner found the Twins sitting on the sofa, watching television. There were two empty beer bottles on the coffee table and each boy held a bottle of beer in his hand. "Make yourselves at home," he said sarcastically as he put his sea bag, which he had carried in from the car, on the deck beside the far bed.

"We did, thank you, sir," said Todd with exaggerated politeness. Strangely, neither cadet rose when he entered, which was a minor breach of protocol. The Twins were well-raised boys and were always unfailingly polite. Being Sea Cadets they had always observed proper protocol.

"I see you found the bar," The Gunner replied.

"We did, yes, sir." Cory pointed to four one-dollar bills on the table. "We left the money to pay for the beer."

"That's really not necessary, Cory." The Gunner smiled at them. He lost his smile when he saw the look on their faces. "I, um, I think I can stand for a beer or two."

"We would rather pay for our own, thank you, sir," said Todd stonily.

The Gunner sat in the chair facing the Twins. He regarded each hard face. "Jesus", he thought, "Are they pissed off about something!" He nodded toward the door. "May I ask how you got in here?" he asked quietly.

Todd fished in the pocket of his blue shorts and withdrew a green plastic card. "I believe the company advises one not to leave home without it, sir," said Todd, his tone icy.

The Gunner noticed that both boys were sitting with their legs closed and their knees primly touching. Usually they sprawled all over the place, not caring if their well formed tackle, or their underpants, which they seldom wore anyway, showed. "What's with the 'sir' routine? You two are awfully formal."

"With respect sir, we are always formal with someone we consider to be a big shit!" Cory's voice was firm.

The Gunner started from his chair. "Why you, impudent, insubordinate pups. How dare you! You break into my room, you drink my beer, and you have the gall to call me a shit?"

"We have paid for the beer," Todd pointed out. "We admit we broke into this room."

The Gunner sat stunned. "You . . . you little . . ." he sputtered.

"We are many things, Gunner, but we at least stand by our friends." Cory had a sad look on his face. "We love you, and we respect you, but after what you did to Phantom . . ."

"What in the hell has Phantom got to do with this?" The Gunner roared. "And what business is it of yours?"

Todd looked at Cory, who nodded. "Phantom is our friend. He told us what happened," said Todd quietly. "Frankly, sir, as your sons in spirit, we are ashamed of you."

"Be careful, Todd. Be very careful because, as your father in spirit, I can tell you that you are not so big that I can't turn your uppity ass in the air and give you the hiding you've been deserving."

"It would have been better had you done that to Phantom, sir," replied Cory, ignoring the threat. "You could not have hurt him more."

The Gunner stared at the Twins. He was very angry at their interference, and was fighting to keep his temper under control. "It was not my intention to hurt Phantom. Since you two seem to know our business permit me to tell you that had he given me the opportunity I would have explained my words."

"Phantom loves you. You refuse to love him. He also believes you lied to him." Todd placed his empty bottle on the coffee table. "Did you?"

The Gunner stood up and began to pace the floor. "Boys, I am not going to lie to you. I love Phantom. I love him." He took a deep breath and continued on, not caring if the Twins knew of his love. "I would never lie to him and I did not lie to him. He saw a photograph; he put two and two together and came up with five. I repeat, I did not lie to him. I would never lie to him."

"Then the young man is not your, um, lover, sir?" asked Cory delicately.

"Cory, please, no more of the sir crap." The Gunner resumed his seat. "What happened between that young man and me is our business. Not Phantom's and certainly not yours."

Todd nodded. "We can understand that. What you must understand is that Phantom believes you have a lover. He also believes you deliberately hid that lover."

"Todd, there was nothing to hide. Nothing! What was between my friend and me was over, is over. I didn't tell Phantom because it did not seem important." The Gunner shook his head sadly. "I suppose now, I should have told him. Then maybe he wouldn't hate me."

Todd and Cory exchanged a look and then stood up. It was now time to put into effect the second part of their plan, which they had hatched on the bus coming down to Victoria, and refined in their motel room. The first part of this plan, deliberately confrontational, had established to their satisfaction that The Gunner was sincere, and that he did indeed truly love Phantom.

Both of the Twins were mature enough to realize that The Phantom might just have been more emotional than the situation between him and The Gunner warranted. Now satisfied that The Gunner was playing his cards straight and from the top of the deck, it was time to convince him to get up off his ass and declare himself to Phantom. And to convince him that making love to Phantom would not bring the world to a shattering halt. They sat on either side of The Gunner and hugged him.

"Phantom does not hate you, Gunner. He loves you so much he can't eat. He doesn't sleep. All he thinks about is you." Cory rubbed his head against The Gunner's shoulder.

"He's also feeling a little guilty." Todd rubbed The Gunner's back.

"Why would he feel guilty?"

Todd looked at Cory. "Tell him, Toddy, he has a right to know."

"When we found him, he was so angry with you that he told us everything. He was so angry that he and us, well, you know."

"He wanted you to be the first." Cory kissed The Gunner's cheek. "You should have been his first."

"Yes, I should have," agreed The Gunner. He could not fault The Phantom for seeking solace with the Twins. "I was a stupid, pigheaded asshole." He put his arms around the two boys. "You two know I love you. You also understand why I can't sleep with you. Phantom doesn't understand that."

Todd leaned down and kissed The Gunner full on the lips. When he withdrew he looked deep into the man's face. "I love you, Gunner, almost as much as Cory loves you, but not near as much as Phantom loves you. All Phantom knows is that he's in love with you. You are in love with him, and you'd better do something about it or you'll lose him. Forever."

Cory ran his fingers through The Gunner's short hair. "If you love him, you'll forget your damned, stupid, code. He's not one of us, really, even if he thinks he is. Why condemn yourself to a world of hurt when you can have the love of a wonderful boy?"

"How do I make him understand that all I was doing was trying to protect him?" asked The Gunner, his voice filled with despair. "You two, of all people, must know what it's like to be gay in a straight world." He felt Cory rub his knee. "Don't get any ideas. It isn't going to happen. Besides, it would be incest."

Cory grinned. "You can't knock a guy for trying. And no it wouldn't. It doesn't count between sons in spirit and their father in spirit."

Todd chuckled and motioned for Cory to leave The Gunner alone. They returned and sat on the sofa. "Gunner, Phantom is going to have to learn how to survive in the straight world. He's also going to have to learn how to survive as a gay man in the Navy." Todd motioned toward the beer fridge. The Gunner nodded. After taking out three beers Todd handed one to The Gunner and one to Cory. The Gunner noted that Todd put no additional money of the coffee table. Obviously he had been forgiven his sins.

"I think the Navy is no longer on Phantom's agenda," said The Gunner. He held the bottle of beer tightly in his hands.

"It will be if you tell Phantom to do it." Todd slipped his hand down the front of Cory's shorts. Cory did the same with Todd.

"I can't tell Phantom anything. He's the one who has to decide what he wants to do. And what, may I ask, are you two up to?"

"We think better this way," explained Todd. "It's not sex."

"Thank God for that," replied The Gunner, relieved. "Does this mean I'm no longer a big shit?"

Todd and Cory nodded. "For the moment. It depends, really, on what you do next," said Cory.

The Gunner stood up and tossed his room key to Todd, who caught it and stared at it. "What I'm going to do next is take a drive," he said, undoing his shirt.

"A drive? It's pouring with rain," said Cory.

The Gunner undid his trousers and stepped out of them. He began rummaging in his ratty sea bag and pulled out a pair of chinos.

Cory cast an admiring look over The Gunner's firm behind. "See, I told you plaid boxers were the in thing these days," Cory said to Todd.

Todd nodded. "Nice taste in undies, Gunner."

"Thank you, I think." replied the Gunner pulling on a watch sweater. "I'm going, in case you'd like to know, to Comox. I'm going to see Phantom."

"It's 150 miles. And it's raining like hell out there," protested Todd.

The Gunner leaned down and kissed both of the Twins. "Boys, do you love each other?"

Todd looked at Cory, who looked at Todd, and then they looked at The Gunner. "Yes!" they replied in unison.

"Then you understand why I would drive 1,500 miles if I had to," said The Gunner with passion. His eyes sparkled with excitement. "In rain, fog, sleet or hail. Hell, I'd drag my sorry balls across hot coals and broken glass if I had to."

The Twins roared with laughter. "Phantom would not like it if you showed up with a burned dick and slashed balls," laughed Cory.

"Cory, you do know how to spoil a sentiment," sniped Todd.

The Gunner joined in their laughter. "Well, you know what I mean." He opened the door and was about to step into the hall when he turned and pointed toward one of the beds. "Use my bed, boys. I won't be sleeping in it tonight. If you see Andy or Kyle, tell them, will you?"

When the door closed Todd turned to Cory. "Well, brother of mine, do you want to?"

Cory beamed. "Do bears shit in the woods?" He pushed his brother back onto the sofa and slowly pulled Todd's shorts down, exposing his hardening penis.

Todd saw the sparkle in Cory eyes. "Uh, Cory, just what are you going to do to me?" he asked.

Cory licked his lips and kissed the tip of Todd's penis. "Take you across the river," he murmured as he lowered his head.

As The Gunner very quickly learned, getting out of Victoria on a Saturday night, just at the dinner hour, in a driving rain was, while not impossible, damned difficult. The streets were jammed with cars and buses. The small city was full of tourists, in town for the three-day holiday. In addition to the usual Sandy Bottom sailors assigned to the ships and offices in the Esquimalt Naval Base there seemed to be hundreds of white-uniformed sailors wandering around in the rain, which was to be more or less expected. There were two Yank destroyers and a supply ship in port, as well as a Kipper frigate and an Australian fleet tanker. Victoria was an important and very popular liberty port with Jack Tar and his mates.

With increasing frustration The Gunner navigated his way out of the city and, finally, managed to reach the Trans Canada Highway, where he pointed the nose of his car northwest, heading for Nanaimo and Provincial Highway 19, which would take him into Comox.

Once out of the city the driving was not as bad as The Gunner thought it would be. Traffic was slow, as he expected, but most of it was heading in the opposite direction. As he drove toward the junction of the two highways The Gunner tried to think about what he would say to The Phantom. He wanted the boy to understand that their relationship would have to be secret and that he, Phantom, would have to understand that for the foreseeable future they would meet only when, and if, they could. He would also have to understand that if he entered The Gunner's world, circumspection and discretion would be the order of the day. The Phantom had to understand that their relationship would be further complicated if The Phantom decided to join the Navy. He had to be made to understand how to act, when to act and, above all, that he could not, in any circumstances, say or do anything that could in any way jeopardize his career.

As The Gunner drove north his mind reeled with dos and don'ts, and answers to unasked questions. He realized that a simple solution would be for him to leave the Navy and wait until Phantom was old enough to enter into some form of permanent relationship. This could only come after Phantom had graduated university. The Gunner planned on being adamant on that point. Phantom was a very intelligent young man and he could not be allowed to waste that intelligence.

Phantom was 17, soon to be 18 and in September he would enter his final year of high school. With luck, he would then enter university and, all things being equal, in May or June of 1981 he would graduate. Five years plus away. Five long years plus a few heart-wrenching months.

The Gunner considered his own future. In December he would have logged 10 years in the Andrew. Not enough time for a pension, but then he hardly needed money. The proceeds from his parents' estate, the house, his father's drug store, the insurance policies, had all been invested in safe, gilt-edged stocks by his uncle, who, with the usual conservatism of a banker, had made certain that while the returns on investments would not be spectacular, they would be steady. No, money would not be a problem. They would find someplace. There were gay communities forming in all the large cities, tight, insular, self-contained villages that gave hope of safety, and acceptance. He would go wherever Phantom wanted them to go.

Nanaimo passed, then the small outlying villages, and he drove into Comox. The rain had driven most of the tourists inside, and while the bars and cafes seemed crowded and lively, with music blaring from the open doorways, the sidewalks were empty, and only an occasional car passed down the rain drenched streets.

He pulled slowly into the driveway leading to The Phantom's house. There were no lights showing, though he could see a dim, flickering light shining through the window behind which he knew was the family living room. He walked slowly up the walk and onto the porch where he stood before the front door, hesitating to knock. "What if he won't have me?" The Gunner asked himself quietly. Then he rang the doorbell.

The Phantom sat staring at the dancing images on the television set. The volume had been turned down low and he was barely aware of the drivel emanating from the glowing, rectangular tube, hearing only the harsh patter of the rain as it continued to pour down. He sat quietly, smoking a cigarette, something he rarely did downstairs, inhaling the tobacco smoke and wishing he were anywhere but in this room, in this house, where he had spent the entire day, wandering, dressed only in boxer underpants and a white T-shirt. He had tried to eat, but could not. He had tried to sleep, but sleep would not come. His brain reeled as his memory replayed time and again that last, awful, time in The Gunner's apartment. He was also feeling just a touch guilty for having spent half the previous night with the Twins.

For all his denials to the Twins, whom he loved deeply, The Phantom was still stunned at what he thought was The Gunner's betrayal. He smiled weakly, admitting to himself that the Twins had a way of taking his mind off his troubles and he wished that they were here with him, instead of down in Victoria, terrorizing the town.

Groaning his despair, The Phantom rested his head on his chest, the images whirling through his brain. His chest heaved and his hands hid his face as again and again he replayed the memory of what he thought had been his rejection by The Gunner. He was so engrossed in self-pity and anger that he was barely aware of the sound of the doorbell ringing insistently.

Startled from his wallow of self-pity by the angry sound of the doorbell The Phantom hurriedly composed himself and went to the door, wondering who would be calling at this time of night. It was long past midnight and for a moment he was afraid that some accident had befallen his parents. He opened the door and his green eyes clouded. The Gunner, wet and dishevelled, was standing there. "Oh," whispered The Phantom.

"May I come in?" asked The Gunner with a slight smile.

The Phantom half closed the door. "My parents aren't home. I'm not sure that . . ."

The Gunner pushed the door open. "Phantom, I just drove 200 miles in a howling cyclone to see you! Please, I know you are very angry, but can I please come in out of the wet?"

The Phantom nodded slowly and motioned The Gunner inside and into the living room where The Gunner sat in the overstuffed chair. The Phantom resumed his seat on the sofa. "I can light the fire, if you like," said The Phantom, breaking the silence.

"I'm okay, thanks," replied The Gunner.

"I can get you a drink, if you want, a beer, maybe? There's liquor, if you want that," offered The Phantom.

"What I want, what I now realize was all I ever wanted, is sitting in front of me."

The Phantom stared for a moment, open-mouthed. "You mean that?" he asked doubtfully.

"I mean it, Phantom. Despite what you think, I do love you." Before The Phantom could reply he held up his hand. "I fell in love with you the day you spilled that pot of vegetables all over the place."

"It was a pot of potatoes. Chef was really pissed off," grinned The Phantom. Then he sniffed loudly. "That's when I fell in love with you."

The Gunner chuckled softly. "Phantom, we love each other. What do you want to do about it?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"No lies?" asked The Phantom quietly.

"There never were any lies. I never lied to you. You never gave me chance to explain. You just blew your top and pedalled away into the night." The Gunner left the chair and sat beside The Phantom. He embraced the shaking boy. "I am totally, hopelessly, completely, entirely in love with you, you jug-eared, green-eyed little monster. I want to be with you, I want to feel me inside of you, and to feel you inside of me. Always." He pulled The Phantom to him and kissed him passionately.

When they pulled away The Phantom grinned widely. "You mean that?"

The Gunner nodded. "I meant every word of it. Is it what you want?" The Phantom nodded, and then he burst into tears. "What's the matter? What did I say? Did I do something wrong?" asked The Gunner, totally at a loss.

"No, no," wept The Phantom, his harsh sobs filling room. "When I, oh, God, Gunner, I wanted you to be the first. I wanted it so bad. But when we had that stupid argument, then you went and kissed Harry, and I . . . the Twins, we . . . we . . ."

The Gunner shushed him, and pulled him close. He could feel The Phantom's tears on his on his face as he stroked the boy's head. "Phantom, please, don't cry. It doesn't matter. What is past is past. What matters now is that, finally, we've found each other."

"You're not angry with me?" asked The Phantom as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

The Gunner embraced him and then began kissing the boy's warm, wet lips. "I could never be angry with you, my sweet Phantom," he whispered between kisses. "Tonight I don't want to think about anything else but you and me, together."

The Phantom pulled away and grinned shyly. "I want us to, you know . . ." They stood up and The Phantom took The Gunner's hand. "My room is upstairs," he said softly as he led the man he adored from the living room and up the steep staircase.

When The Phantom awoke the morning sunlight streaming through the window gave promise of a glorious day. In the distance the gulls whirled and dived, screaming their displeasure at anything and everything. For the first time The Phantom knew total contentment. His head lay on The Gunner's shoulder; The Gunner's strong left arm was around his body, holding him close. He could hear the soft, quiet, rhythmic sounds of The Gunner as he slept.

The Phantom raised his eyes and gazed at the face of the man he loved, wanting to retain in memory this moment. He saw the long, dark curving lashes that lined the man's closed eyelids, his straight, aristocratic nose, his thin, slightly parted lips, his full, strong face unlined, his square, firm jaw darkly shadowed with his overnight growth of rough, black, beard.

Rubbing his morning woody across the sun-bleached hairs dusting The Gunner's muscled thigh The Phantom shuddered with delight. He rubbed his cheek across The Gunner's neatly muscled chest, smelling the morning smell of a man. The Gunner stirred and his other arm reached over and embraced The Phantom. He snuffled and snorted, then resumed his quiet breathing.

The Gunner was sleeping on his back with his head turned slightly away. His legs were slightly parted, his left leg straight, his right leg crooked, as if to allow ample room for his soft genitals. The Gunner's testicles, very large ovals, hung low between his legs and his soft penis, tan and pale pink, with a thin discoloured line separating the two-toned flesh, lay across his thigh, the distinctive helmet-shaped tip still flushed from their night of undiluted passion.

While he desperately wanted to have sex again, The Phantom was content to lie there, safe in The Gunner's strong arms, occasionally rubbing his hardon against the firm flesh of The Gunner's leg.

The Gunner changed position, mumbled and then reached down to feel his testicles and rub his soft penis which, much to The Phantom's delight, caused his dick to thicken slightly as it began to form The Gunner's morning woody. The Phantom watched entranced as the skin of The Gunner's smooth helmet darkened and his dick lengthened. As The Gunner's dick grew longer the skin of his penis began to tighten, stretching tautly so that the upper third or so appeared translucent.

The Gunner's penis rose majestically and slowly and then, like a backward turning clock, moved back and for a brief moment rose straight out from his body, rising from the thick, dark curls of his pubic hair, then fell back with a soft, quiet plop to rest against the slight treasure trail of hair leading to his navel.

The Phantom smiled delightedly for he had never before actually see anyone get a hardon, not even the Twins. He had seen guys with hardons in the showers after gym class, and had seen his schoolmates in the showers; their soft genitals hanging seductively pink and flushed from the hot water washing down their smooth bodies. He had sucked guys from softness to rigid sweetness but he had never actually seen the transition from soft, warm beauty to hard, sleek magnificence. Somehow, watching The Gunner's erection rise without any stimulation or encouragement made event . . . beautiful!

As The Phantom watched The Gunner's balls tightened a bit, rising and falling slightly as he breathed. A small jewel-drop of precum seeped from The Gunner's slit and as much as he wanted to reach down and taste the clear fluid, The Phantom's own body had other demands. He moved as slowly as he could, not wanting to wake the sleeping man, and left the bed. He hurried down the hall to the bathroom where, legs spread, ass muscles clenched tightly, he had his first pee of the day. When he was finished he hurried back to bed and snuggled tightly against The Gunner. He reached out and lightly stroked the underside of The Gunner's erection.

The Phantom's touch caused The Gunner to stir and open his jade green eyes. He blinked rapidly, as if trying to remember where he was. Then he groaned, stretched mightily and hugged The Phantom. Then, smiling, he jerked his head slightly, and opened his arms. The Phantom scrambled and laid his body on top of The Gunner's. Their hard dicks pressed close together and their warm balls touching gently. The Phantom moved his head and his lips met The Gunner's. They kissed deeply for what seemed like forever and then The Gunner pulled away. "Phantom," he began, his pale jade eyes sparkling, "unless you want a very warm bath, I suggest you let me up."

"A warm bath?" asked The Phantom, puzzled.

"At the risk of being crude, and corrupting your sweet, young, mind, I must tell you, my dear, wonderful, adorable Phantom, that I have to piss like a racehorse."

Laughing, The Phantom rolled off The Gunner, who hurried into the bathroom. When he returned The Phantom saw that his hardon had become a semi. He patted the bed and The Gunner lay down, his legs spread. The Phantom positioned himself between The Gunner's legs and slowly ran his stiff cock along The Gunner's warm, beautiful dick, which quickly hardened.

The effect of The Phantom's slow, precise movements was electrifying. They both groaned with the pleasure at the frictioning motion and as The Phantom thrust The Gunner pulled him to his chest and nuzzled his soft neck. Then The Gunner rolled and pushed The Phantom off of him. He positioned himself between The Phantom's legs, kneeling, his arms straight, with his hands on either side of The Phantom's head. "I love you, Phantom," he murmured, lowering his head and kissing the boy, their tongues entwined, each sucking softly.

As they kissed The Gunner moved his hips back and forth, his warm cock sliding through The Phantom's rough bush of pubic hair and along his thick, six-inches of hard flesh, helmet teasing helmet. The Phantom, his arms free, ran his hands slowly and carefully over The Gunner's back, then down, caressing The Gunner's firm butt, his fingers tantalizingly soft. "Lie still, my Phantom," whispered The Gunner.

The Phantom let his arms drop to his side as The Gunner slowly kissed his face, his eyes, his lips, then, with his tongue, tracing the fine contours of the boy's face. The Phantom, his eyes closed, moaned softly as The Gunner's warm, wet mouth, followed the outline of his neck, licking and nibbling gently at the firm teen flesh. He moved slightly and licked his way down to first one, then the other, of The Phantom's sweet, brown nipples, sucking them to hardness. The Phantom arced his body and moaned.

The Gunner licked and sucked his way down The Phantom's stomach, pausing to lightly suck his navel, then lapped at the small pool of precum that had puddled just beyond the end of The Phantom's crimson glans. His tongue slowly circled The Phantom's spongy, warm helmet, cleaning the clear, thick, liquid that seeped slowly out of the widening, red-rimmed slit. As his dick jerked at The Gunner's touch The Phantom groaned loudly. He thrust his hips upward as The Gunner moved on, licking the insides of The Phantom's thighs, pausing deliciously when he sucked and nuzzled The Phantom's tightening ball sac. "Turn over, Phantom," The Gunner whispered.

The Phantom did as he was told and rolled onto his stomach. He felt The Gunner's tongue touch the back of his neck, and groaned as The Gunner's warm lips followed the knobby outline of his spine. The Phantom whimpered and began to slowly hump the mattress as The Gunner sucked and licked and nibbled his way downward, pausing briefly to nuzzle the sweet valley separating The Phantom's peach-soft, downy buttocks. As The Gunner retraced his route The Phantom sobbed in delight and raised his hips, groaning as the underside of his erection rubbed slowly across the cotton sheet covering the mattress.

"Be still, Phantom," breathed The Gunner as his lips

"I can't, it feels too good, Gunner," moaned The Phantom, giving the mattress another hump. The soft, sensitive underside of his hard cock screamed as The Phantom involuntarily rubbed it across the smooth cotton sheet.

"Don't you cum on me, not yet," ordered The Gunner.

"Oh, God, Gunner . . ."

The Phantom gritted his teeth and thought of England, determined not to shoot his load.

The Gunner turned his attention to The Phantom's round, firm, ass, licking in small, concentric circles, his tongue barely caressing the warm, curving orbs. As his tongue traced The Phantom's deep, sweet crack he felt the boy shudder and squirm with delight.

The Phantom had never been pleasured this way before and was lost in lust, moaning loudly as The Gunner's tongue traced its way around his entrance, then along his love trail, the wet tongue soaking the soft, lightly furred path as it found and then began washing his balls, causing their protecting sac to wrinkle and pull tight against his body.

The tip of The Gunner's tongue, heavy with saliva, pressed against The Phantom's hole. The Phantom felt the tongue, very wet, flicking back and forth across the sensitive, slightly puckered skin of his entrance and he writhed, all but overcome with pleasure as the tongue entered him and his hole snapped closed, trying to hold the warmth forever. Again and again the tongue crossed and re-crossed his throbbing entry.

The Gunner continued to pleasure his lover with his tongue, moving it into, then around The Phantom's pink hole, then again slowly caressing The Phantom's love trail, lapping gently at The Phantom's hairless balls, which were pulled so tight that they resembled two halves of nicely sized eggs bulging below his throbbing, leaking dick. The Phantom groaned and thrashed as The Gunner repeated his movements. Finally The Phantom could stand it no longer. He rolled on his back, his legs spread, his hips raised invitingly. The Phantom opened his eyes. They gleamed and sparkled with emerald light. "Now," he moaned. "Please . . . NOW!"

The Gunner nodded and reached out, his hand finding the tube of Vaseline. He gently spread a dollop of lubricant over and around The Phantom's corona, then lay on top of him, kissing him, tongue deep in The Phantom's mouth, his hand sliding up and down The Phantom's hard cock. The Gunner's dick, leaking pre-cum, slid across the top of The Phantom's thigh. The kiss lasted barely a minute before The Gunner moved down the bed. He held The Phantom's legs and pushed them out and back against the boy's chest.

The Gunner buried his face in The Phantom's butt, his tongue once again probing and entering him. The Phantom gasped as a massive jolt of pleasure flashed through him. "Soon, soon," murmured The Gunner as his lubed fingers slid into The Phantom's body, rubbing gently against his prostate. With slow deliberate movements The Gunner stimulated the sensitive gland hidden deep within The Phantom's body.

The Phantom bucked with each pass of The Gunner's finger along his prostate. He felt The Gunner's hand wrap around his throbbing boner. He screamed silently as The Gunner used his thumb to terrorize the soft, small, lump of scar tissue directly under the slick, leaking helmet of his dick. The Phantom felt The Gunner's fingers press a large wad of Vaseline into him. Then he felt the tip of The Gunner's dick pressing gently.

The Gunner applied just enough pressure and the tip of his dick slid easily into The Phantom who, close to orgasm, bucked and pushed back, gasping in ecstasy as The Gunner's length plunged into him. He moaned and wrapped his arms and legs around The Gunner, pulling him close. He felt the roughness of The Gunner's pubic bush against his love trail, heard the soft slap, slap, slap of The Gunner's balls as he began this ultimate act of love. The Gunner pressed his lips against The Phantom's while his hand stroked the boy's hardon in time with his own thrusting. They both moaned through tightly pressed lips.

The head of The Gunner's dick stimulated The Phantom's prostate with each piston-like thrust of his hips. The Phantom arced and bucked as his body pulsed with pleasure. He could feel his orgasm building, giving promise of monumental proportions.

The Gunner was a considerate lover and he desperately wanted The Phantom to experience the excruciating pleasures that he felt. He used short strokes, slowly sliding his dick into, then out, until just the head of it was inside of The Phantom, then pushed forward slowly, bringing the boy just to the edge, causing him to almost weep when the hard flesh withdrew.

The Gunner removed his hand from The Phantom's erection and lowered his body onto the Vaseline and precum slicked organ, slowly rubbing the screamingly sensitive underside of The Phantom's throbbing erection with his treasure trail. In three long, deep thrusts The Gunner brought himself, and The Phantom, over the edge. As The Gunner moaned and spasmed, his dick spurting huge jets of his sperm deep into The Phantom, the boy came, his dick shooting jet after jet of his hot seed onto his belly. The Phantom, feeling The Gunner's dick pulse and thicken as it pumped, tightened his ass muscles, which so intensified his orgasm that his eyes rolled back, his heart all but stopping.

The Gunner gave one last, intense thrust and collapsed, breathing harshly. He waited until his breathing slowed and his heart stopped its racing beat and then, reluctantly, pulled out. He held The Phantom close to him. "God, I love you," he moaned softly. The Phantom felt warm tears spot his neck as The Gunner wept softly, murmuring, "God, dear God, Phantom, how I love you."

They showered together and while they fooled around and soaped each other all over, it was too soon after their session in the bedroom. As they dressed he saw The Gunner drawing on his jeans without putting on his boxers.

"Going natural, are we?" joked The Phantom.

The Gunner chuckled. "No, we are not. Have you forgotten what we used last night to clean up with?"

The Phantom giggled, remembering the untidy pile of semen-soaked underpants lying on the floor beside the bed. "Oh, yeah, and boy did we have to clean up!"

"All my clean clothes are at my place," explained The Gunner, ignoring The Phantom's attempt at witticism. "When I left Victoria I didn't pack anything. I just came."

"Boy, did you ever," snorted The Phantom. "Four times, not counting this morning."

"Phantom!"

The Phantom laughed aloud and ran from the bedroom. Seconds later he was back, a pair of bright blue silk boxers in hand. "These are my brother's. He's about your size." The Phantom giggled again, sighing theatrically as if disappointed. "Waist and height, I mean. He has real monster dick."

The Gunner shook his head, stripped off his jeans and pulled on the boxers. "Christ, Phantom, these things are horrible. Do they glow in the dark?"

The Phantom shrugged and sat on his bed. "I never saw Brendan in them." He reached out and slipped his hand into the shorts. "Brendan's dick is bigger, but yours is a lot nicer. It feels nice, too. Brendan's is real thick and, well it's got all these veins on it, and his top is sort of squished down, you know, sort of flat looking."

The Gunner pulled The Phantom's hand away, pulled him to his feet, and kissed him. "Phantom, I don't need to know what you and your brother did together."

The Phantom pulled away and threw himself on the bed, rolling with laughter.

"Well, I don't think it was all that funny," grumbled The Gunner. "There's nothing funny about two brothers getting it on together. It happens all the time . . . Phantom, stop laughing, damn it!"

With difficulty The Phantom managed to regain some measure of control. "You've got it all wrong, Gunner. Brendan and I, we never did anything together. He doesn't like me, and I sure as hell don't like him. I wouldn't have let that big fool within 20 feet of me. He crawled off the bed and draped his arms around The Gunner's neck. "Now, a certain Chief Gunnery Instructor, he doesn't get 20 inches away from me." His hand found the slit in the blue boxers.

"I was thinking of taking you out and buying you some breakfast," murmured The Gunner as The Phantom continued to stroke him. He groaned as tremor of delight passed through him. "How about some nice hot bacon and eggs, maybe some buttermilk pan . . ."

The Phantom's probing tongue silenced him. They stood close together, kissing passionately. The Gunner's hand caressed The Phantom's naked chest, and then moved, pushing his boxers down. He lowered his body, kneeling before the boy and took all of The Phantom's honey coloured, hard penis, into his mouth.

The Phantom groaned loudly. "I was sort of wishing I could do that to you," he murmured.

The Gunner raised his head, stood up, pushed Brendan's boxers down and stepped out of them. His hand reached out and found the tube of lubricant sitting on the bedside table. He squeezed a generous quantity from the tube and spread the lubricant liberally over The Phantom's twitching, leaking organ. Then he lay on his back on the bed and held out his arms.

The Phantom gulped and his dick jerked. "You want me to . . .?" he breathed. The Gunner nodded. "Love me, Phantom. Love me."

They ate breakfast in a small, rustic, highway cafe a few miles west of Comox. When The Phantom asked why they were eating so far out of town The Gunner told him that it was his first lesson to be learned. "What?" asked The Phantom, mystified.

"You have to understand, Phantom, that from now on we live a double life. You live in small town where everybody knows everybody. There are too many people all too willing to ask what this grown stranger is doing alone with the handsome young son of the Courtenay Chief of Patrol."

The Phantom blushed and smiled shyly. "I'm not all that handsome."

"To me you are."

The blush drained from The Phantom's face and he sighed. "So, we have to hide. I'm not sure I like that."

"We do not have to hide, Phantom, but we have to be discreet," replied The Gunner digging into his pocket for enough money to pay the breakfast tab.

They left the restaurant and got into The Gunner's Land Rover. The Gunner started the car and as they drove toward his small apartment he tried to explain what their life must be like. "You have to always dress the way people expect you to dress, nothing flamboyant, nothing too colourful. You are lucky in that you are a teenager and you dress like a teenager. You give the straight world what it thinks it wants. That way you never draw attention to yourself."

They turned into the apartment parking lot and got out of the car. The Gunner opened the back and began to hand the boxes he had loaded in Victoria to Phantom. "People around here know what I do for a living so it's reasonable for them to see me with a Sea Cadet. Your haircut is okay, but a gunshirt and a white cap would help." He piled The Phantom's arms high with boxes and then opened the door to the apartment.

"So, we're just two sailors bringing in supplies of some kind," said The Phantom as he dumped the boxes on the sofa.

The Gunner nodded. "Out there, yes. In here, now . . ." he reached out and pulled Phantom to him. His lips found The Phantom's. Then he pulled away.

"Hey, you just can't start something and stop," complained The Phantom.

"Yes, I can," returned The Gunner. "I have to get the car unloaded, I have to change, and then I have to think about getting back to Victoria. The cadets have a practice run this afternoon and I have to be there. If I wasn't, it would totally out of character."

The Phantom pushed the boxes aside and sat on the sofa. He thought a moment. "So, you just do what people expect you to do. No nonsense, no calling attention to yourself. At least not too much, and what happens when we close the door, who knows?"

"Basically." The Gunner sat beside The Phantom and put his arm around the boy's shoulders. "You they expect, as a teenager, to hang out with teenagers, tease the girls, take one out occasionally, do all the things a teenage boy does. At the end of the day, when you go home with one of your teenage male friends, maybe tossing a baseball back and forth, maybe carrying baseball bats and mitts over your shoulder, it's what people expect to see. That once you get to your house, or his, you might end up in bed together, they wouldn't even consider. All they see are two normal, teenage boys doing normal, teenage boy things."

"So I just do what I normally do."

"Yes, you develop a public persona. The real you is kept well hidden."

The Phantom gave The Gunner a deep look. "That way you keep the real you hidden?"

"Yes, Phantom," replied The Gunner, nodding. "The way all gay men keep their real selves hidden."

"Does he . . .?" The Phantom looked around the room. "His picture, where is it?" he asked suspiciously.

"It's been replaced. I keep the new one on the table beside my bed."

"Can I see it?"

The Gunner motioned toward the bedroom. "Fill your boots."

The Phantom left the living room and went into bedroom, where he let out a yell. "Hey, it's me!" He returned carrying a small picture of himself dressed in his steward's uniform. "It was beside your bed," he said quietly.

"It's been there since just after the Captain's Anniversary Parade. I would have shown it to you, had you let me."

"So, you and him, you're finished?" asked The Phantom.

The Gunner nodded slowly. "We realize now that we will always just be friends. We both thought we had something, but we don't, and we didn't." He stood up and motioned for The Phantom to follow him. "The car won't get unloaded by itself, Phantom," he said, moving toward the door.

They finished unloading and as The Gunner changed The Phantom sat on the bed, watching hungrily as he stripped off his jeans and Brendan's boxers.

"Don't get any ideas, Phantom," warned The Gunner. "I have to get you home, or are you working?" The Phantom pretended to pout, sticking his bottom lip out as far as he could. "You better hope your face doesn't freeze in that position," grinned The Gunner.

The Phantom returned the grin. "I don't have to work. It's Sunday. I offered, but Chef said that Joey and Randy and him could manage. There's just a Corporal's Guard out there." He brightened. "Since I'm all alone this weekend, can I come to Victoria with you," he asked.

The Gunner considered this. "Remember that I said we had to be discreet?" The Phantom nodded.

"Well then, consider what would happen if I showed up with you. I can fudge you being there, but where would you sleep? I'm sharing a room with Kyle and Andy."

"I can always bunk in with the Twins," giggled The Phantom.

"They'd love that," grumped The Gunner, not at all angry. The Phantom's whispered, sobbing confession that he had been with Cory and Todd had not surprised him. Phantom was a normal, sensual teenager and there would be other boys who would want to take him in their arms.

"I can sleep with you. Kyle and Andy won't mind," said The Phantom, blithely unaware of The Gunner's thoughts. He was feeling playful again so he placed his arms around The Gunner's waist and began pushing down The Gunner's shorts.

"You seem awfully sure of that," muttered The Gunner as The Phantom's hands pushed his boxers down.

"I am, and that's all you need to know." The Phantom slipped his hand under The Gunner's T-shirt and began rubbing his flat stomach. "Nobody knows about them but me." He leaned forward and began licking The Gunner's chin and lips.

"How do . . . Jesus, Phantom, don't you ever get enough?" The Gunner breathed.

"No." replied The Phantom truthfully. He sank to his knees. "And neither do you," he said with sly and knowing grin as he slowly lowered his head.

As they drove from the apartment The Gunner asked The Phantom why he was so sure that Andy and Kyle would have no objection to their sharing the room, and the bed. "Let's just say that neither one of them will object. How I know is simple. I listen." replied The Phantom truthfully.

"Pardon?"

"I'm a fixture. Nobody notices me. When I go out to clean the tables at lunch or dinner everybody is so busy talking, and so accustomed to seeing me, it's like I'm not there." The Phantom grinned. "You'd be surprised what I hear."

"Remind me to keep an eye on you the next time I eat in the Mess."

"Oh, I never tell what I hear," said The Phantom truthfully. "I just watch and listen. I know who had his first blowjob, who . . ."

The Gunner's jaw dropped. "Phantom, you can't mean that!" he gasped.

"Of course I do," replied The Phantom with a huge grin. "You think you're the only one getting his ashes hauled around here?"

"Um, Phantom, I don't think I want to hear about it."

"You won't, because I don't plan on telling you," replied The Phantom smoothly.

"All I will say is that I hear a lot. I see a lot that others do not see. What I hear, what I see, I do not talk about."

As they pulled into the driveway of The Phantom's house The Gunner nodded. "That's as it should be. When, or if, Andy and Kyle want to let you know that they're gay, they'll tell you."

"You know about them?" asked The Phantom, surprise registered on his face.

The Gunner shrugged. "Yes, I know. I've known since Texada. Like you, I keep my own counsel. What Andy and Kyle do, or do not do, is their business, just as what you and I do is our business. Most couples don't go around bragging about their sex life, now do they?"

The Phantom grinned. "Are we a couple?" he asked.

"Only if you promise to behave and wash behind your ears."

"Gunner! Come on, I want to know," pleaded The Phantom.

"Phantom, we are a couple. We can't live as a couple for quite a while, but we are, just the same, a couple. You are not some rent boy, and I am not your sugar daddy. What we are is two people starting a relationship. We'll have some good times; we'll have some bad times, just like any other couple. Now, consider yourself kissed and get out of the car. I have some things I want to do."

"Where are you going?" asked The Phantom as he got out of the car.

A smiled broke The Gunner's face. "Do you still want to go to Victoria?"

"Hey, shit yes."

"And are you, or are you not, the Chief Steward of the Royal Canadian Sea Cadets?"

"Well, yes, but . . ."

"Well, shut up, go and pack, and remember to bring white underwear," ordered The Gunner. He reached over and closed the passenger side door. "Remember, white underwear and make sure it's clean."

The Gunner had barely turned off Comox Avenue and onto Highway 19 when The Phantom started grumbling. It was well past one o'clock, he was hungry, and wanted to be fed, please.

"I don't know how you could be hungry, Phantom," replied The Gunner, unable to ignore the boy's rumbling stomach. "Not two hours ago you wolfed down a breakfast that would kill a horse."

The Phantom shrugged. "I'm a growing boy so what can I say? And don't forget, first we unloaded the car, then we stayed at your place, then we went to my house. I'm hungry. Aren't you hungry?"

"What I am is damned near exhausted!" The Gunner grinned. "When we finally start living together I hope you're not planning on jumping my bones every time I walk in the front door."

The Phantom whooped and leaned over and hugged The Gunner. "You mean it?" he yelled. "Do you really mean it?"

"Phantom, be careful," cautioned The Gunner. "You don't want to make me lose control do you?"

"Depends what you mean," replied The Phantom with an evil snicker. He settled back in his seat. "But you really mean it, about us living together."

The Gunner nodded. "It's what you want. It's what I want. But we have to be realistic about it, Phantom. Our living together is far down the road." As they passed through the small town of Union Bay The Gunner glanced at The Phantom. "We have to be careful and think about what we're going to do. I want to be with you, and you want to be with me. We both have to understand that for the foreseeable future all we'll have is a long distance relationship and, before you start yelling at me and throwing things, hear me out."

The Phantom giggled. "I wasn't going to throw anything."

"Good. First off, whether you like it or not, you're going to school. UVic, UBC, or the University of Timbuktu, for all I care, but you're going to get an education. Have you decided what you want to study?"

"I still have to graduate high school. In January the school guidance counsellor comes around and we all talk about what we plan to do after we graduate. I'll think about it."

They remained silent until they were passing the outskirts of Fanny Bay when The Phantom turned and looked at The Gunner. He cocked his head. "Well?"

"Well, what?" asked The Gunner.

"When does the other shoe drop?"

"There is no other shoe." The Gunner stopped at the only red light in town and whistled tonelessly.

"You mean I don't get one of your patented, Queen and Country lectures? No Kipling?"

The Gunner shook his head. "Nope. You have to decide what you want to do. I can't tell you what to do and I won't make that decision for you."

"So, if I decide not to join the UNTD programme you won't get all bent and twisted out of shape?"

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed. The Navy has been my life for almost 10 years. It's all I ever wanted to do, all I ever dreamed of doing. "

"The Navy is not the whole world, Gunner."

"No, it's not," agreed The Gunner. "But it's my world and I had hoped that it would be your world. But if it is not what you want, it is not what you want. Besides, after October, it might not be my world anymore."

"You're getting out?" asked The Phantom, hoping that he had nothing to do with it.

"My Navy is dead and gone. Yesterday I rescued a small part of it, which is what was in all those boxes, uniforms, badges, and a few other things. It's all green now, with few traditions, and those we have left are going fast. It's just a job, now and I think it's time to send in my papers." His fingers drummed the steering wheel. "I can get out after ten years, or I can wait and do my twelve." His eyes slid over to The Phantom. "It's not a matter of if, but of when."

"But what will you do?" The Phantom was genuinely concerned. "I don't want you to leave something you love, Gunner. I love you too much for that!"

"I know that, Phantom, and I want you to know that any decision I make will be down the road a bit. As for what I will do?" He laughed ruefully. "Right now I don't have a clue. Being able to strip down and rebuild a 4.7-inch naval gun is not what I consider to be a marketable skill. Since I refuse to sit around on my ass doing nothing I think I'll go back to school. In the event, I'd want to be able to be close enough to at least see you once in a while. Which will be difficult."

The Phantom reached out and placed his hand on The Gunner's leg. "Why won't we see each other? We have to see each other!"

"Phantom, consider this for a minute, okay? Monday is the 2nd of August. On the 18th we close down and I go back to Victoria, to my regular job. >From the 1st of September onward I'll be sailing every weekend with the Reserves, so any days off I get will be during the week when you're in school. If I stay in past October I'll be committed to the summer training programme starts, which starts in April. That means I'll be in port once every 14 days, and then only long enough to change crews and store ship."

"You mean we won't see each other?"

"We will see each other," emphasized The Gunner. "No matter what, we'll see each other. We just won't see each other very often. I'll come up to Comox when I can."

"You better."

The Gunner laughed. "Phantom, you're very cute when you get angry."

"I'm not angry. I'm still hungry," returned The Phantom, dropping the subject of The Gunner's leaving the Navy for the moment. "And I am not cute."

"You are to at least one person."

"Yeah, and who might that be? And are you ever going to stop this thing? Not only am I hungry, I have to pee. Come on, Gunner, stop somewhere."

Since The Phantom insisted that he had to go bad, and The Gunner did not want to have him whining all the way to Victoria, they pulled into the parking area of a small roadside fast food joint, just past Parksville where, after The Phantom had visited the bathroom, they ordered lunch.

They sat in the small picnic area adjacent to the restaurant where The Gunner watched in awe as The Phantom devoured two double hamburgers, a double order of fries, and the largest milk shake on offer.

The area was, except for a small group of teenagers, three boys and three girls, empty. The Gunner smiled as he watched the tall, tanned boys preen and strut and grandstand for the tall, tanned girls, hoping for a smile at worst, a quick feel at best.

The Phantom seemed to be paying no attention the teenagers, concentrating on his food. Until one of them, a tall, well-muscled boy with red-gold hair passed their table. While The Phantom kept his head straight ahead, his eyes followed the boy as he passed by and into the restaurant.

The Gunner leaned forward. "See something you like?" he asked quietly.

The Phantom blushed and choked on his food, with caused The Gunner to roar with laughter. "Damn, it, Gunner, you trying to kill me?" said The Phantom, wiping his food-splattered T-shirt.

"Don't blame me. You were the one looking at that stud," chuckled The Gunner. "Not that I blame you."

The Phantom took a huge drink of his milkshake and belched loudly. "There's no law against looking. As long as I don't touch, I don't see where there's a problem."

"Phantom, your manners, like your language, leaves a great deal to be desired." He looked directly at The Phantom. "As for touching, well, I doubt you can sit there and tell me that there isn't at least one guy in Comox whose pants you wouldn't mind getting into."

"Gunner!

"Don't look so shocked. There must be at least one guy." The Phantom thought of Jeff Jenson. "There is one guy," he admitted. "But we haven't done anything, honest."

The Gunner shook his head. "Phantom, you are a normal, healthy, teenage boy. I would expect that sooner or later you'd get together with someone your own age. It won't mean sweet bugger all. It will just be sex, two guys getting off. I can probably go through the whole scenario for you."

The Phantom snorted. "You seem awfully sure of yourself."

The Gunner raised his eyebrows and intoned, "I am wise in the ways of teenage boys, having been one myself. Then he grinned. "Do you want me to tell you what will happen?"

"Can I stop you?"

"No." The Gunner leaned forward and smiled evilly. "You and he will be alone, probably by the pool, either at his house or yours. You will have had a beer or six, and will be sitting around, chewing the fat. The talk, as it always does, will turn to sex, almost always his lack of it. You with me so far?" The Phantom nodded. "He will moan and whine about how he's always so horny, and his girlfriend won't put out, and all the while he'll be rubbing himself. He'll lean back in his chair, or whatever, his legs spread, making sure that you see that he has got a hardon. Now the scenario changes slightly."

"Do tell," snorted The Phantom, actually rather intrigued.

"He'll hint that you and he can get each other off, just guy stuff. Or, he'll wait for you to start feeling him up, or he'll put his hand on your crotch and from then on, whatever happens, happens. And no matter what you end up doing with him he'll keep telling you that he's straight, man, that he's never done this sort of thing before and, well, he's really straight, and he's only doing what he's doing because he's sooo horny."

The Phantom started laughing at The Gunner's facial expressions. "Will he respect me in the morning?" he asked.

"He won't mention it. He'll act like absolutely nothing at all happened. Until he remembers what a good time he had. Then he'll come back all hail-fellow-well-met, with a dick so hard it will cut diamonds."

At that moment the teenager walked back towards his friends, his arms laden with food and drink. "He's either hung tight or he's wearing briefs," murmured The Phantom, his eyes following the young man.

The Gunner winked at The Phantom. "Briefs. You're not the only one who looks." Laughing they got back into the car and pulled back onto the highway. Five minutes later, just after they had passed through the village of Coombs, The Phantom moved closer to The Gunner and put his hands up his shorts.

"Phantom, what are you doing?" asked The Gunner as The Phantom's hand gripped his hardening penis.

"Feeling your dick," replied The Phantom, matter-of-factly.

"Phantom, while I enjoy what you are doing I feel that I must remind you that we are in a motorcar, on a dual carriageway, doing 70 miles per hour. Not to mention there are other cars on the road. Don't squeeze so hard."

The Phantom giggled. "The closest car is a mile and a half ahead of us. It's a blue Ford wagon. There's a red pickup a half mile back." He squeezed gently. "I like feeling your dick." He grinned widely. "It's a very nice dick, and eminently feelable."

"You have a seaman's eye to be able to judge distances like that," groaned The Gunner.

The Phantom's hand began a gentle, squeezing rhythm. "I might I have seaman's eye, but you have a seaman's dick." The Gunner, fully erect, moaned loudly. He saw a logging road up ahead and turned sharply into it.

"Where does this road lead to?" asked The Phantom as he slowly stroked The Gunner.

"I don't know, but when I find a place to park this thing I'm going to show you what happens to teenage boys who feel up a sailor's dick!"

The Phantom snickered. "Funny thing, I don't hear the sailor complaining."