Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons alive or dead is coincidental. The venue is fictional and any resemblance to actual bases, locations, is coincidental.
This story takes place in 1976 Canada and reflects the mores, traditions, customs, etc., of the times. I urge all of those who read this story to remember that what is "politically correct" today, was not thought of back then. If you are Lib-Left, politically correct and have jumped on the bandwagons of whatever causes are the fads of the month, please do not continue past this point. This also applies the so-called "Religious" Right and "Moral" Majority. I respectfully remind you that the "Good Book" also contains proscriptions, restrictions, do's and don'ts that I don't see or hear any of you thumping bibles about. Write me, I'll be glad to give you some excellent web sites. To all the anti-this and anti-that, Bible Thumpers, Libertarians and the ACLU, the bankrupt and increasingly irrelevant United Nations, please do not send me e-mails espousing whatever cause you're touting. I have no time for claptrap.
As this work contains scenes of explicit sexual acts of a homosexual nature, if such erotica offends you, please move on to a tamer site. If your mainstay in life is Bible-thumping cant, please move on. If you are not of legal age to read, possess or download writings of an erotic nature, or if possession, reading, etc., is illegal where you live, please move on.
This story is written in an age without worry, and as such unprotected sex is practiced exclusively. I urge all of you to NEVER engage in sexual acts without proper protection. The life you save will be your own.
I will respond to all e-mails (except flames).
The Phantom of Aurora: EPILOGUE
The Phantom lapsed into an uncharacteristic silence as they approached the trailer park that marked what passed for a suburb off the town of Comox. The Gunner did not disturb him. Phantom had had so much thrust upon him this weekend and had been catapulted from being a carefree, teenaged boy, into young manhood. The boy had found himself, had made love - always a seminal event - and had been made love to. He had learned a few patent truths about what life in general could do to a gay boy, and learned the realities of the cruelties that he faced. The Gunner well knew the turmoil that The Phantom was experiencing, a turmoil made heavier by his admission to himself that he, no matter how much he temporized, or rationalized, was different from the vast majority of his peers. He was a young gay man in a world that could not and would not accept him.
The silence of the car was broken by The Phantom's murmured request to pull over and stop. The Gunner acquiesced and nodded, then watched as The Phantom left the car and stood on the edge of the sloping beach, staring across the waters at the lights of AURORA. "What is going through his mind?" The Gunner asked himself. "Is he finally realizing what lies in store for him? Is he having second, third, or even fourth thoughts about what he is, what he has done?"
As he stood beside the car, watching The Phantom standing on a lonely beach The Gunner wondered if the same thoughts that had gone through his mind when he was 17 were going through The Phantom's mind; the self-doubt, the fear, the utter abhorrence of self. The Gunner remembered all to well the sleepless nights, the nights of tossing and turning, the days and weeks and months of denying, denying that the heft of the bulge in his team-mates baseball pants was more important that the heft of their arms when they threw the ball. Denying, denying the urge when standing next to another boy in the toilets to let his eyes slide down and peek at the small. . . or large . . . or medium length of flesh hanging from his pants. He thought of the hours spent on his knees, before bed, before Mass on Sundays, praying, begging, and pleading, with God to change him, to take away the feelings, the urges, the need. He remembered the whispered promises to be good, if only God would make him like the other boys, would save him from a fate he could not understand, and did not wish to accept.
Suddenly a flash of white streaked across the darkness of the summer sky, dimming the diamond sparkles of the stars, disappearing as suddenly as it had come toward the western mountains. The Gunner caught the fading corona out of the corner of his eye. "A shooting star," he thought. "A star to make a wish upon."
From the darkness The Gunner heard The Phantom's low chuckle. "A shooting star," The Phantom said softly. "Make a wish, Stevie."
"A shooting star. Make a wish, Stevie."
The Gunner started as the words evoked . . . A figure, vague and indistinct, appeared before The Gunner, hazy, a figure from his past, from the days of . . . home.
"Make a wish, Stevie."
The image sharpened and he saw his mother, beautiful in a long tartan gown, her neck and ears glittering with the green fire of the emeralds she wore. His mother, standing in the doorway of the screen porch of their house back in Lakefield, his mother framed by the light spilling into the darkness of that winter night so long ago, his mother silhouetted by the light from the hallway behind her.
"Make a wish, Stevie."
The memory of that night, that dark, winter night, flooded back. It was the night of the Rabbi Burns Dinner at the Legion. Saturday, the 23rd of January 1965. The Gunner was barely two months past his 16th birthday and he was busily scraping the ice and snow - the aftermath of the storm that had broken the January thaw - from the windscreen of the family sedan.
"Make a wish, Stevie."
What had he wished for that night, the night that would forever change him? The Gunner remembered looking at the scudding, snow-laden clouds as they darkened the darker winter sky. What had he wished for? Had he wished for the fear that plagued his every thought, that rent his dreams, would go away? Had he wished that the terror, the sheer, mind-numbing terror that his horrible secret would be discovered, would leave him and give him peace?
Or had he wished that the images of the boys, the beautiful boys that came to him in his fantasies as he masturbated, would become reality. Had he wished that Danny Tzotzis - short, compact, glorious Danny - would one day strip off his the skimpy Speedo he always wore when swimming, and reveal again his magnificent, four-inch penis, and low hanging perfect balls, and show him how big his plump, perfect weapon became, and if the circumcised head turned a darker pink than it normally was?
Had he wished that the feelings he felt, feelings that caused a stirring in his loins and his penis to harden, feelings that threatened to overwhelm him whenever he went skinny-dipping with his chums and saw Pauly Tralla's sleek, slim genitals, all pink and blond, bouncing as he went flying from the old tire they had hung by a rope from the branch of the tired old tree that overhung the waters of the swimming hole?
"Make a wish, Stevie."
What had he wished for? Had he wished that he would no longer lie in bed at night and wonder what it would be like to run his tongue along the smooth ridges of the head of Tommy Tiverton's dick while playing with the dark hairs that dusted Tommy's balls, balls that tightened and retreated as Tommy approached orgasm?
A low chuckle escaped The Gunner's throat as he thought of the other boys, his schoolmates, his playmates, the boys of his childhood, boys he secretly dreamed about, boys that he had lusted after: Jeffy Clarke, tall, rugged and who, at every ballgame, would bend over, his hands on his knees, waiting patiently to steal a base and not knowing that his uniform pants were so thin that they could never hide the outline of his briefs, or the ridges formed by the straps of his jock. Kevin Callahan, tall, dark, with movie star looks, who would, along with his best friend, Colin Mialik, grow tired of small town Canada and travel south to Buffalo, New York, where there was a U.S. Army Recruiting Office. Neither Kevin nor Colin would ever return to the small town of their birth, their young lives cut short in a strange, foreign land called Vietnam.
"Make a wish, Stevie."
Had he wished, then, that he could stop wondering what treasure lay hidden under the denim coveralls the Mennonite boys habitually wore when their worked their fathers' fields, wondering if the few Mennonite boys who had been born in the town hospital - as they sometimes were if the birth was too much for the midwife and neighbour ladies - had been circumcised as a matter of routine, as all the other boys were, or did the Mennonite religion forbid such a practice? Had he wished that John Adams, who had the roundest, plumpest behind in town, would spend as much time with him as he did with Bill Tsoukalas, a recent newcomer from the city, and was Bill really all Greek under the white tights, pleated skirt, and tasselled cap of the Royal Hellenic Guards that he had worn to the Senior Prom?
The Gunner had spent four of his first seventeen years lusting after boys he knew he could never touch.
"Make a wish, Stevie."
Whatever he had wished for on the deathly cold night was forgotten, because the next morning he had answered a knock on the front door and found the town Constable and his parish priest standing there. The Gunner pushed the horrible memory from his mind.
"At least," The Gunner thought grimly, "Phantom does not have to run away, as I did." His rueful chuckle became a deep mocking laugh. He had run away after his parents died, to become man. He had joined the Navy because the Navy would make a man of him, make him into the being God would not. Everybody knew that there were no queers in the Navy. If he joined up, took the Queen's Shilling, he could not be queer.
The Navy would make a man of him. Everybody said so. So he had travelled to Toronto and, with his disapproving uncle at his side, had presented himself at HMCS YORK, and signed the papers.
He had not counted on the feelings intensifying, or the urges all but overwhelming him as he struggled to sublimate his true self while living in a barracks filled with young, handsome, virile boys who exhibited their charms constantly. He had not counted on the Enderly brothers, one 18, the other 19, farm boys who thought nothing of parading around the barracks naked, exhibiting their fine, sleek wares, or "Spud" Murphy, or "Tinker" Bell, who played soccer for the Base team, city boys who knew the score and gave each other a hand job behind the barracks every night before going to bed. He had not counted on Richard "Irish" Thomas, with flaming red hair on his head and crotch, and the peaches and cream complexion that only Irish genes produced, and a long, slim, cream and pale pink penis that ended in a perfect, arrowhead shaped rose-coloured knob. He had not counted on impish, pudgy little Gordy Spatas, whose dick, a round-headed knob for the most part, gave him his nickname of "Stubby". He had not counted on "Fettuccine" Alfredo Trastavere, a muscled, devilishly handsome Italian from Toronto's Little Italy, who had a thick, sheathed dick with, when he pulled back the thick foreskin, a huge, bell-shaped, plum-coloured head. He had not counted on fey, blond Don, who lusted after his messmates, and whose messmates lusted after him. Don would gain a certain notoriety for not only taking Fettuccine Alfredo as his lover, but for holding the longest short arm inspections in the history of the RCN after remustering to Sick Bay Tiffy, and for dressing as a Barrington Street girl, crashing the Base Christmas Party and sitting in Santa's lap (the Base Chief Gunnery Instructor), who was decidedly not amused.
What was worse was that The Gunner had not counted on mistaking the hand of friendship for the hand of lust. He had not counted on falling in love and he had not, in all his dreams, expected the rejection, and the manner in which the rejection was so violently expressed.
Thinking now, The Gunner realized that he had learned his first lesson of survival in CORNWALLIS: never, ever expose your true self to anyone. Build a wall, project an image, hide, never reveal. He had not lied to The Phantom, really. He had become a right shit, Young Canada, the straightest thing on two legs. And lay in bed at night listening to the whispers and the muted moans as Don pleasured one of his barracks-mates and wishing, wishing that Don would creep through the darkened room and stop, and reach down, and touch . . .
The Gunner shook his head violently to clear the images of his youth from his brain. It did no good to dwell on the past, on what ifs or might have beens. He needed to think of the future, of Phantom's future, of their future together. Teach him, David Clayton had said. Teach him to survive. Teach him that there is a life for him.
In many ways The Gunner felt a great sadness. The long days that rolled beneath the deep blue sky, the days when Phantom did not have a care in the world, had come to an end. Phantom's days of innocence were over. In two short days he had learned some very hard truths, about himself, about the world beyond Comox. The Gunner had told the Twins that day on Texada that they were about to enter a world of men. Phantom, too, was entering that horrible world, where there were no places untouched by men. But The Phantom would not know the torments of self-doubt and self-recrimination that had so plagued The Gunner. The young man would make his way in full knowledge of himself, his sword would never sleep in his hand and he would, amidst the dark satanic mills, build a Jerusalem in Canada's green and pleasant land.
A soft wind blew from Heron Spit, setting the ground clutter of twigs and dead leaves to skittering around The Gunner's highly polished shoes, and bringing to The Gunner a sense of . . . contentment. He no longer feared what lay ahead because now he was no longer alone. There was a calmness in The Gunner's soul, because now he knew that the waters ahead, while strewn with rocks of hatred and shoals of bigotry, were calmer, and that more than one hand would be on the helm that led his ship, and The Phantom's, to a safe haven. How many hands there would be he did not know. How many hands would grasp the tiller of hope he could not know, just as he could not know how many hands would lose their grip and slip away into the maelstrom of self-doubt and despair. What The Gunner knew, would never doubt, was that together, with The Phantom at his side, they would reach safe waters.
The Gunner turned his eyes to the harbour and he saw the distant lights and he knew, now, that there was no need to make a wish. Across the dark waters there were others, and he knew his destiny. He stared at the boy he loved above all endurance. He would help Phantom; he would lead him, and guide him. He would accompany Phantom down the long road and by God's grace together they would both attain their goals and a certain place in the sun.
The Phantom stared across the black waters that separated Comox from AURORA, his sharp eyes watching the flitting shadows that blocked the bright lights that lined the AURORA jetty. From time to time he could pick out a gleam of white and visualized the member of the Dockyard Duty Watch as they went about the business of shortening lines and bringing in the gangways of the YAGs. The tide was on the flood and before it peaked upwards of 9 feet of water would fill the harbour. Later, when the tide ebbed, the cadets would lengthen the lines and push the gangways out again, completing the never-ending cycle of neap and floodwaters.
The Phantom experienced a feeling of déjà vu. He had stood here, on the shore of Comox Harbour, not so very long ago with the waters creeping slowly down the sloping beach, watching and breathing heavily with anticipation. A thought crossed his mind. The pathway that led from the road to the treasure houses of AURORA would be obliterated now, the waters rising to scant inches below the rim of the raised roadway, the sand and sea grass reclaimed and returned to the sea by the rising waters.
A pathway he would no longer travel.
Everything had changed. He had changed. Less than a month ago he had stood and watched, and listened, barely able to contain his lust and anticipation. Barely a month ago he had looked on the cadets not as beings, but as objects, warm, breathing things attached to warm, indescribably desirable cocks. It had not mattered who was the owner of the thing he desired most. It had not mattered, then, where the boy was from, what his hopes and dreams and fears were. None of that mattered, then.
A soft sigh escaped The Phantom's lips. Now, now those same cadets were friends and lovers, possessors of souls and hearts and minds, boys who feared and hoped and dreamed. He no longer thought of them in terms of lust or overwhelming desire. The Twins were still his golden knights, earthbound children of the gods, touchable, no longer ethereal beings to be dreamt of. He owed them a great deal. They had laughed and joked about him losing his cherry, about him no longer being a virgin. In those vulgar, laughing terms, Todd had fucked him - God how that word grated. The Phantom had made love to Cory, and therein was the difference. Before Todd, The Phantom thought his actions, his movements, the things he did, crude, cold and calculating. Now, after Todd had made him feel love for the first time, he understood the enormity of the gift Todd had given him. He understood the enormity of the gift that he had given Cory, the gift that he had refused Ray. Three nights ago Todd had made love to him and taught how to love. Three nights ago The Phantom had made love to Cory with intensity and consummate tenderness. Because of the Twins he now knew the difference between sex and love.
The face of Ray swam into his consciousness, Ray, sweet, adorable, Ray, his first love, the boy who had unknowingly claimed a place in The Phantom's heart that not even the Twins could fill. The dark-haired, dark eyed boy who would always be in love with him. The boy who so desperately wanted The Phantom to make love to him, the boy who was infatuated to the point of desperation. The Phantom unconsciously shook his head. He would make love to Ray one day. They would give each other the gift of each other. They would exchange that gift one day, when Ray had learned to love.
The Phantom thought of the other boys, of Sylvain and Andre, of Anson, who was no longer just a sturdy boy with a thick dick and huge balls that hung low and inviting. He thought of Brian and Dylan, of Ryan and Rob and David, of Thumper - the thought occurred to The Phantom that he did not know the boy's actual first name. He must have one, but everyone called him Thumper so Thumper he would remain - and he thought of Tyler and Val, strong, vibrant, god-like in their own way because they represented the best of their breed and kind, young men of respect and for that alone The Phantom loved them. He thought of Mike, a gentle, tormented boy who hid his fear and humiliation with quiet dignity and iron-willed determination. He thought of Harry, huge, loud, blustery and boastful, a little boy entombed in the body of a man, a little boy who loved long and deeply.
The Phantom recalled The Gunner's words as they drove down to Victoria, of how The Gunner needed a special something, a special appeal, before he would seek solace in another man's arms. He recalled The Gunner's words and knew that no matter how close he became to Harry, no matter how much he loved Harry, no matter much Harry loved him, they would never be lovers, would never know the joy of each other. The special spark of desire, the special intriguing something was not there, just as it was not there with Jeff Jensen, or Robbie, or a hundred other boys.
The image of Matt suddenly popped into The Phantom's view and he suddenly realized that deep within him a small flame shone. Matt evoked feelings of love, of protection, of nurturing. The Phantom could not understand the way he felt about Matt. He only knew that Matt was someone he wanted to be near, and with, and to hold. Matt evoked feelings not of desire, although that would come, he thought. No, Matt was someone to be loved and cherished.
Thinking of Matt brought a frown to The Phantom's face because it made him think of Little Big Man, a seeming nonentity who, poisoned by fairy tales and myths, would use his brother to revenge himself on his imagined tormenters. Strangely, The Phantom did not hate Paul Greene. He pitied him, yes, and loathed everything the thin, scrawny boy stood for. The Phantom's lips curled into a sneer and he snorted because in a perverse way Little Big Man could be trusted . . . trusted to continue to be predictable in his bigoted and hateful ways. Paul would never change and would never be a friend. He would always be an enemy that one day, and The Phantom suspected in the not far distant future, would have to be dealt with and he wondered if Paul's predictability, and his hatred, could be used against him. Just how he would bell this particular cat he did not yet know. He only knew that he would do it.
The more he considered his growing relationship with the other boys, the young men of AURORA, the more The Phantom realized that each of them had, in his own way, contributed to his growing feelings of love and real trust. They were, with one exception, his lovers, his brothers, his friends. He thought of The Gunner asking if he, The Phantom, would place his trust in those boys. He knew now that he would trust them, love them, cherish them, protect them and help them, his brothers, his friends, and his lovers. All save one, for no matter the inducement, no matter the reasons, the flame did not burn for Sylvain. There was no reason for it; there was no rhyme of it. He did not trust the boy, and he could not understand the nagging, gnawing seed of doubt deep within his soul whenever he thought of, or was near, Sylvain.
The soft clunk of a car door being closed broke The Phantom's reverie. He turned to see The Gunner smiling softly at him, The Gunner, his lover, his friend; his protector, his mentor; his teacher. The Gunner, the man he knew above all others to be his soul mate, the man whose life was predetermined to be entwined with his, the man who had promised him nothing but would move heaven and earth for him. The Gunner, the man he would walk down the long road of life with, a life of days watching the clouds roll by and the grasses wave in the wind; a life too, with threatening skies and torrential rain, but a life together, united and unafraid.
The Phantom realized that his childhood was over, for he had learned to care and he had learned to love. He was a man now and it was time to put away childish things. It was time to take on the mantle that seemed destined for him. It was time . . . so he returned The Gunner's smile, took a step forward, and reached out his hand.
"Did you make a wish, Gunner?" asked The Phantom. "You saw the shooting star?"
"I saw it, and no, I did not make a wish, Phantom," replied The Gunner quietly. "There was no need to wish, because I know that wishes will not make the things that we must do happen."
The Phantom nodded and followed The Gunner's look to see the twinkling lights of AURORA. He squeezed The Gunner's hand. He held his head high, for he knew that he and his Gunner were destined to never again allow hatred and prejudice to rule their lives, to never again allow fear to enter their souls, to never again hide in the shadows.
He was strangely calm, standing beside his Gunner, at peace even though he knew that his life was inextricably entwined in the lives of the beautiful boys whose love he held close to his heart, the laughing, sparkling, wonderful . . . Boys of AURORA.