Sailors Tale

This story contains situations and scenes of graphic sex between consenting adult males. All legal disclaimers apply. If this topic offends you, do not read any further; and ask yourself why you are at this site.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental, although it may be loosely based on real events and people.

If you are under the age of 18 (21 in some areas) and too young to be reading such material or if you are in a locale or country where it is not legal to read such material then please leave immediately and come back when it is legal for you to do so. We'll be glad to have you back.

Copyright 2008 by John Ellison

A Sailor's Tale

Chapter Eleven

British Columbia, at least that part of it that I would eventually come to know so well, was a culture shock to say the least. Unlike Halifax, where all one had to do was wait an hour or so and the weather would change, from sunny, to rain, to sleet to a raging blizzard, BC was perfect. The sun shone almost every day, there was a breeze from the mountains and life was laid back and easy.

The people too, seemed to have a different mind set. What was the point of working when the sun was shining, and the beaches beckoned. Every afternoon it seemed that the people would forget the cares of the work place to throng the long, pristine, sandy beaches, to sun, to make out, and occasionally, to swim. My favourite beach was a narrow strip of sand underneath the cliffs on which perched the groves of academia that made up the University of British Columbia. This was Wreck Beach and bathing suits, or clothing of any description was optional. I would sit for hours, usually on a Friday afternoon, when all the sailors, or so it seemed, had either "Sliders" or a "Make and Mend", hopped the ferry from Victoria - a somewhat provincial town - and partook of the hedonistic delights of Vancouver, where bars and clubs catering to every taste flourished and never seemed to close.

Inhibitions seemed to be abandoned as the plane flew over the snowy peaks of the Rockies and boys who had never dreamed of appearing naked in public, would saunter on to the beach, drop trou, and let everything they owned hang out. They would sprawl on blankets, soaking up the sun, and think nothing of gently fondling sun tan oil onto their most private parts in full view of anyone looking, and more than one one-eyed monster stood proudly toward the ever shining sun. Wreck Beach was a voyeur's paradise, and being a voyeur of long standing I enjoyed myself every weekend.

Another aspect of Vancouver, the Lotus Land of the North, was the free and easy lifestyle. Sex in all its forms was available, with no one raising an eyebrow. Hastings and Main was fast becoming the stroll for women of all ages and ethnic groups. At night the streets became one huge meat market and the neighbours complained about the orgasmic moans that emanated from dark shadowy alcoves.

For those who rode a different bus, there were the clubs and bath houses of the West End. For the less discriminating, or those a little short of the readies, there was Gastown (not yet gentrified back then), where seedy hotels offered rooms by the hour, and young men in too short gym shorts and too tight wife beaters offered a hand job for $10.00, full service for $25.00, not including the room.

To me, fresh - more or less - from the free wheeling fleshpots of Saigon, Vancouver was a welcome haven from stodgy Toronto, and even stodgier Halifax, where they rolled up the sidewalks at midnight and the only cruising ground was Point Pleasant Park - not a pleasant place to indulge one's fantasy in the middle of an early winter blizzard!

I arrived in Vancouver in late September, stepping down from the JAL airliner into the sunshine of a glorious afternoon, a new man, a wiser man and still unsteady from the stay in hospital. I avoided the crowds and made my way down the concourse to the Pacific Western Airlines counter where I checked in and waited for the next stage of my journey to Esquimalt to begin.

At the time, the runway at Victoria Airport was too short to accommodate the large airliners, usually 747s, that flew the friendly Canadian skies. To reach Victoria, as I had to, one either took one of the puddle jumpers that PWA flew out of Vancouver International, or took the ferry across. As I waited for the shuttle I noticed that there were very few service men or women loitering about waiting for their flight out to the island. This in itself was not surprising, for the "Summer Training" period was over for the year.

CFB Esquimalt as it was now called (HMCS Naden having gone by the boards along with white caps and blue uniforms) was, in addition to being a functioning naval base with the usual complement of warships, a training base, primarily for Reservists from April to the end of August each year. I would become in a very short time a very insignificant cog in the training program.

I had been assigned to the Small Boats Unit (Pacific), a squadron of three ancient, but sturdy, Gate Vessels, that provided the main sea training platform for the Reserves, all of them from the Western provinces. There was a sister unit in Halifax that trained Reservists from Ontario east to Newfoundland, so I was more or less familiar with the routine that I would follow for the next year and a half or so.

The flight from Vancouver to Victoria took less than an hour, and when I arrived in Victoria I was met by an efficient van driven by an overweight and grumpy corporal who took exception to having to work after 1600, his normal quitting time. As a certified "veteran" I was not about to take his crap, and being just as grumpy, I "exercised my command authority" by tearing a strip off his fat ass and had him drive me to a nearby motel where I booked a room for the night. I knew that it was late in the day (after 1700 actually) and that all the offices I would need to visit to do my In Routine had secured for the day and I was not about to spend time schlepping my kit bag around to empty, locked offices. I also knew that the next day, Friday, would be a short working day for the clerks who would stamp and initial my In Routine. This was beautiful British Columbia and nobody worked on a Friday afternoon if they could help it. Being an old hand I figured I could parlay the In Routine into three or four pleasant days of inactivity, or as close to it as I could get.

The next morning I took a cab to the Dockyard, the sprawling naval base filled with Victorian buildings, trees and sailors. I checked in at the Head Shed, as the Headquarters Building was called, and began my trek. In the Ship's Office I was handed an oblong "In Routine Check List" - the Station Card had gone with the white caps. Printed double side, I would have to have every box checked, stamped and initialled before I could officially move in. I looked at the list and nodded to myself. This was going to be fun.

From the office I went to the Pay Office where I handed in my pay records and settled down to have my Route Letter audited. This was a multi-page document wherein one listed one's reimbursable expenses. Every item listed was automatically doubted and more often than not a great deal of haggling, and not a little shouting, was involved before the Pay Bob reluctantly handed over a penny.

Visiting two offices took four hours and I finished with the pay people shortly before noon. Knowing that the other offices would close for lunch I walked around for a bit and then headed out to the Fleet Club, which offered beer and a sandwich for a buck on Fridays. I dawdled, inspecting the local talent, and returned to the Dockyard where I managed to catch the Accommodation Clerk just before he closed down for the weekend. I was assigned a room in The Barracks, a huge, rambling, red brick Victorian structure and given a meal card. This took all of ten minutes - tops - as the clerk had Sliders and as far as he was concerned he was working on his time, and not the Navy's.

Knowing the futility of visiting the other offices, I returned to the Fleet Club, had another beer, watched two SIU knobs pretending to be ordinary Joes and then took a cab back to the motel where I took my meds and basically slept the weekend away.

Monday I returned to the Dockyard and meandered around, visiting stores and Sick Bay, amongst other places, and then grabbed a shuttle bus down to the jetties where I took a look at the ship where I would spend much of my time for the next year or so. I was not surprised to find the ship, HMCS Porte du Roi, deserted and locked tight. The training season was over and the crew apparently had better things to do than stand by the ship.

I will not dwell on my In Routine. I did it, and moved into The Barracks, my new home, and met my roommates. The room I was assigned was large, sunny, and had a delightful view of a leafy gully and across to the School of Music, which we called the School of Wind, which was all but hidden by the trees.

The room on the third deck slept four. It was clean, and everything was as neat as a pin - it had to be, as the living spaces were inspected every Friday morning by the Executive Officer and the Base Chief Warrant Officer. I had a bed, a desk, and a large wooden locker to keep my uniforms and possessions in. I noticed that my room mates had been there quite some time as there was also a television set, and a stereo, and two book cases filled with what passed for light reading: lurid novels and stroke books for the most part.

My room mates were an eclectic trio. First there were Timmy and Tommy. They were sons of La-La Land, both having been born and raised in Vancouver. They were both blond, both slim, and very solicitous of each other. They were alike as two peas in a pod, with the same peaches and cream complexions, the same mannerisms and even the same dicks! They were not related but they had grown up together, and were the best of friends. They had joined the Navy together, and gone through the usual trials and tribulations of Cornwallis and Stadacona. They were Boatswains, and assigned to one of the yard boats that provided taxi service between the jetties, maids of all work that trundled around officiously.

Quite good looking, Timmy and Tommy were hardly poster boys for the Canadian Armed Forces. They looked good, they kept their uniforms clean and their boots polished. They also drank like fishes and I never saw them do a stroke of work. They would get up in the morning, admire each other slavishly, comment on each other's morning wood, which pushed out the front of their tighty whiteys (which was the only underpants they wore) and then go off to shave and shower. If they were lovers I never saw them do anything really outrageous in the room, and there were no catcalls about "queers" or "faggots" following them when they walked down the street. The strangest thing I knew about them was that when one, or the other, was in his cups, and needed to use the heads, they both would go. If it was Timmy, Tommy would help him, lowering the front of his tightys and all but wiping the pink knob of Timmy's circumcised penis when he was finished. If it was Tommy, Timmy would perform the same service, although he would gently shake the last drop from Tommy's nearly duplicate penis. They were strange ducks and I often wondered why they didn't just throw each other onto the deck and have wild, animal sex and have done with it!

The third "critter", as he called everyone, was Mongoose. How he acquired his nickname I never knew. He stood six foot four, weighed at least 250, and had one tooth missing at the front. He had a strong, muscular body, which he enjoyed showing off nightly. He would return from the Fleet Diving Unit, where he maintained the respirators and whatever the divers used, and strip down to his briefs. If he was in the mood he would lie on his bed and gently masturbate, the pink, sculpted, circumcised head of his penis poking above the waistband of his tightys. He would grunt his way to orgasm, squirting all over the fine, gold coloured hair that covered his body from his navel on down, grin, and then lumber off to the showers.

Why Mongoose felt it necessary to advertise his upper deck fittings was intriguing because, quite frankly, he did not have all that much to show. For such a big guy he could muster, on a good day, about six and a half inches. He would however, show them off to anyone who walked into the room. Why he masturbated I also found somewhat intriguing. He was a Swordsman, First Class, and cut quite a swathe amongst the Fishing Fleet at the Fleet Club. He was handsome, a hunk if you will, and got laid almost nightly. Still, advertise he did, notably in the Junior Ratings Mess of the Victoria Naval Reserve Unit. He would get in the rats and, as pissed as a billy goat, perform his piece de resistance, a lecture in Slack Ball Navigation.

Slack Ball Navigation involves the angle of the dangle of one's penis in direct ratio to the hang of one's testicles. For some reasons whether one hung low right, or left, made a difference. Visual aids, in the form of one's genitals, are required, as is standing on a chair with one's trousers and drawers around one's ankles, and is best given when well in one's cups.

Mongoose's lecture was a sight. Unfortunately, his visual aids were somewhat lacking. His dangle wasn't bad, very neat and trim, with a smooth, dusky-pink, well defined mushroom head. The other two essentials, however, while nicely shaped, were encased in a tight sac which seemed greatly affected by the cool night air. Still, what he lacked in visual aids he more than made up for in enthusiasm, though I don't think that falling off the chair and breaking his wrist was part of his game plan. And you all thought that the only thing colourful about the Navy was its underwear.

Once prepared, Mongoose would then intone an old rugby song known familiarly as "The Angle of the Dangle", which opined that:

The angle of the dangle is proportional To the bootie of the cutie And the heat of the meat.

The angle of dangle is given By the throb of the knob. It's driven by the heat of the meat, As a function discrete: Get it on, or get off (then get shriven!)

The angle of the dangle In direct proportion to the heat of the meat Causes the size of the rise And the mass of the ass.

He would, with hand gestures and much thrusting of his pelvis, expand and expound for at least an hour, or until the bartender got tired of looking at Mongoose's dick and told him to park his fat ass, at which point Mongoose would sit down and drink, half naked, until closing time. He would usually leave with a cutie on his arm, and everybody agreed that at least Mongoose had a good pickup routine.

With my roommates in mind I was a little leery when I walked down to the SBU to meet my shipmates. Fortunately, or unfortunately, they were as dull as dirt, and not given to public displays or helping each other pee.

As time passed I settled into the routine of the ship, which was basically keep the thing afloat, don't blow anything up or set anything on fire. We performed minimal maintenance because we all knew that come the weekend the Reserves would be on board.

In the winter months we did not live on board, but commuted from ashore or our rooms in The Barracks. We would store ship, lay out bedding, count life jackets and tin hats and so on, or apply a coat of paint whenever we felt the urge. On Friday we waited impatiently for the bus to arrive, and the Reserves, who would man the ship during the weekend. There would be a hasty turnover and we would depart, usually wondering if the ship would be more or less in one piece when we arrived on Monday morning.

In April we would all move down to the ship, check everything and start the summer training. We would take on stores, fuel, and booze, and a full crew of neophyte sailors from the Western Reserve Divisions, young men full of piss and vinegar, and raring to be SAILORS - or at least until the first swell started the ship to pitching, and everybody got sea sick.

We would sail north, through the Inland Passage, around Cape Scott and down the western side of Vancouver Island. We would steam and exercise the crew in the practical application of the theoretical drills they had learned during the winter months back home. Every evening we would pull into a secluded harbour, or one of the small ports that dotted the coast where we would invite the locals aboard for a beer, or frequent the local Royal Canadian Legion Branch, where we cadged beer and ogled the local dollies. Sometimes we would drop the pick and go ashore for a ship's company barbecue and banyan. We would cook steaks and salmon over a bonfire, drink and generally enjoy life.

It was a pleasant existence, and I enjoyed myself, at least until the morning the condenser blew up and I ended up at Albert Head.

I returned to ship on a Monday morning, all bushy eyed and raring to go. I wanted to see just what the dockyard mateys had done to make the old tub better, aside from installing a new engine room. As I pulled to a stop on the jetty I wasn't surprised to see that aside from a coat of paint, the old girl looked more or less the same. Once aboard I found that, in addition to a new engine room, and some cosmetic repainting in the Ratings Mess and the Gunroom (as the six-berth compartment at the forward end of the deck house was called) and the cobbled together Midshipmen's Cuddy adjacent to the mess, there had been little change at all.

What did surprise me was that the crew had been changed, from the Commanding Officer on down.

The kindly old duffer who had commanded had retired and had been replaced by a short, stocky, Lieutenant Commander named Elliot. I knew him - the SBU(P) was small, and everybody knew everybody else. Commander Elliot was the protégé of the Commanding, SBU(P), Commander Allguard.

The new "Old Man" was an up-and-coming, very professional seaman. He had a good reputation and was well known for balancing good seamanship with fairness toward his crew. As Commander Allguard's "boy" he was destined for better things, and those in the know opined that he would one day replace his rabbi (which he did) and after that take over from "Cap'n Billy" Willson, who commanded the Reserve Training unit. Cap'n Billy was the most respected officer on the West Coast, having a solid background in the RCNVR where he served in destroyers during The War and Korea and had the gongs to prove it. It was popularly thought that if you were in his good books you were as safe as houses.

For all his connections, though, Captain Elliot was one of the boys, a sailor with bottom, and I would, in time, come to respect him as a man.

The rest of the crew was also gone. Spud Murphy and Dusty Rhodes had graduated to the big leagues, having been drafted to HMCS Fraser, a more or less modern destroyer. This pleased them no end for, as they told me later when I met them in the Fleet Club, the mess decks were airy and comfortable, the food was varied and much better than they could ever hope to eat in a mere Gate Vessel, and the bar in the Main Cafeteria sold double anything for ten cents. There was also a beer machine!

Taylor Brown was on terminal leave, preparing for his shotgun wedding. He had somehow managed to impregnate one of the waitresses from the CPO's Mess, although how he managed, given the diminutive size of his organ was anybody's guess. Whenever his plight was mentioned, which was often, it invariably followed that someone would opine that it was not the size of the weapon, but the force of the attack that mattered.

Mushy had lucked out as well. Not only was his trauma being tenderly cared for by a nurse, he was now a part of the Engineering Staff at the RCN Hospital. Life was good for Mushy.

Not so for me.

The Coxswain and Chief Engineer had also been replaced. The Chief was a happy go lucky Newfoundlander who went through life laughing and in a haze of Newfy Screech, which his relatives in Newfoundland sent him in bulk. He spent most of his time in the Chiefs Mess, playing euchre with whomever he could find to join him.

The new Coxswain, however, was a piece of work, a man you hated at first sight and loathed as you got to know him better. He was short, squat actually, at least 100 pounds overweight, and looked like a cross between a cockatoo and the mess refrigerator. In addition to be being the sloppiest looking sailor I had ever seen, he hadn't a tooth in his head, was what I believe is called "edentate" (I think that is the term) and wore upper and lower dentures, well, sometimes. They were ill-fitting and hurt his mouth, so he left them in the top upper drawer of his desk, and only took them out to eat and for Ceremonial Divisions. This caused his rather large lips to flap, which hardly enhanced his appearance.

If his physical appearance was not enough to make a man hate him, the Coxswain had no sense of humour, thought he was the greatest NCO ever whelped, and gloried in his rank, which was only Petty Officer Second Class. He took credit for anything and everything that worked out, but when the shit hit the fan, as it always did from time to time, he was nowhere to be seen and always managed to lay the blame on one of his subordinates, usually me! We all called him "Fat Phil", and avoided him as much as possible.

As the ship had re-entered service after the training year had ended, I knew that we would have little to do until after the New Year when the Reserves would start their winter programme and we would have them every weekend. The routine was the usual blend of work in the morning, loaf in the afternoon. I spent much of my time supervising a gang of day men sent down from the Manning Office to help store ship, repaint the Hands' Mess, and rebuild the Midshipmen's Cuddy. Fat Phil would waddle about, ostensibly supervising me, but in reality looking for projects he could take credit for. To hear him talk he not only conceived the project, he also executed it. I never saw him do a lick of work and still he reported gleefully to Commander Elliot every morning on the progress of the stowage of the new mattresses and bed linens (it all had to be replaced because of smoke damage during the initial explosion), the new woodwork in the Cuddy, and so on. I paid him no mind for I knew that once lunch was over Fast Phil would be off on a "rabbit hunt".

A rabbit hunt was a voyage of discovery, which many sailors undertook. This was the pursuit of "shineys", little bits and pieces of gear and equipment that somehow managed to grow little feet and scamper far away from its rightful owner and end up in the hunter's ditty box. I admit that Fat Phil was an expert at hunting rabbits, which explains how the ship acquired a new fridge in the CPO's Mess and three new VCRs, with tapes. Fat Phil never revealed his methods and, as he had no conscience, as far as he was concerned it wasn't theft at all, unless he got caught, which never happened.

Another facility that Fat Phil possessed was the ability to trade for services not normally rendered. For instance, Commander Elliot was one day sunning on his "porch", as he called the gangway outside his cabin, sipping a pink gin and watching the goings on across the camber where a British destroyer was tied up. He particularly admired the canvas awnings that had been spread over the foc'sle, quarterdeck and waists to shelter the crew and guests from the weak winter sun and the rain.

Fat Phil, who was forever lurking in the shadows, overheard the Commander and he nipped down to the Spirit Locker, extracted three bottles of Pusser Rum, and signed the Duty Ashore Book. He returned later in the day with two ratings from the Sailmaker's Loft, who followed him about making notes of some kind. As usual, nobody paid him the slightest attention so we were all surprised when a truck appeared one morning laden with tightly wrapped bales of canvas. When unwrapped and opened the bales turned out to be awnings, white canvas and very expertly made, that shipped over the well deck, the foc'sle and the waists exactly. Fat Phil, never one to complain if he felt that he was short changed, grumbled that there was work to be done. Reefing lines had to be fitted to the even spaced brass grommets that would hold the awnings to the wire stays run through tall stanchions. He also felt that a little "fancy ropework" was in order, a little bit of decoration to line the edges of the individual awnings, so to speak.

Fancy ropework was something that hadn't been taught to Jolly Jack in years, and while every ship had its complement of decorated stanchions and so on, only the old hands seemed to know anything about tying bits and pieces of line into roses and bows. Fat Phil was of the opinion that I, as a Boatswain/Gunner should know about such things. I didn't. I knew the basic knots, knots we used every day, but the closest I came to a Double Matthew Walker was seeing the collection of knots adorning the passageway from the main room to the heads at the Fleet Club.

Not dissuaded at my protestations of ignorance, Fat Phil gifted me with a copy of Ashley's Book of Knots, a huge tome filled with detailed illustrations on how to bend every conceivable knot known to man. Knowing that Fat Phil never willingly parted with a nickel if he could find another way, I was not surprised to see that the book was stamped as being owned by the HMCS Naden Chiefs Mess Library.

Anyway, faced with the daunting task of decorating acres of canvas (okay, I'm exaggerating, but you get my drift) I read through the book, made a complete lash up of even the simplest knots, and ended up throwing the damn thing across the room in a fit of frustrated pique. It just missed Mongoose, who was lying on his bed, buck naked, and crooning to the not so Little Mongoose, prepatory to his daily masturbation routine. He spanked the monkey faithfully three times per day, once in bed after he woke up, once in the afternoon when he returned from the Dockyard, and once again in the shower after returning from wherever he'd spent the evening.

I knew that during the course of the day, and the evening, Mongoose would be the recipient of at least one blow job (from a Wren of his acquaintance who worked in the Head Shed), one hand job (from a civilian bartender in the Fleet Club) and, if he went out on what he called a "pussy hunt", which he did every night if he wasn't on duty, an upright in the alley behind the Junior Ratings Mess. How he stood the strain boggled my mind!

In the event, Mongoose naturally took exception to my assault on his most valued possession. Anxious to avoid seeing Big Mongoose aroused I quickly explained. He screwed up his face in what I took to be a thoughtful expression and then rumbled, "Fuck man, talk to Timmy or Tommy. They used to be Sea Cadets. They're the only critters who know about that shit." He then settled back on his bed and began whispering sweet nothings to the head of Little Mongoose.

As neither boy was present, I asked, "Where are they?"

Mongoose left off gently caressing the deepening pink head of Little Mongoose and sniffed. "In the shower."

I looked at my watch. It was only a little past 1700, and little too early in the day for the foolish fondling the boys usually engaged in. "Now?"

Mongoose, his hand now firmly gripping Little Mongoose, muttered under his breath and then grunted. "They have a date."

"A date?" I gasped. "With girls?"

Mongoose, who was now pumping gently, grunted again. "Marines, as in U.S. Marines. Studs." He stopped pumping and glared at me. "Can we continue this conversation later? I'm a little busy, ya know?"

Mongoose had a point, I guess, so I nipped down to the Mess Hall where I had a cup of coffee. I knew how long it took him to take care of business, so I dawdled for about a half hour before returning to the room.

I opened the door and found that Mongoose had been joined by the two boys. Mongoose was sitting on his bed, wearing only a pair of tighty whiteys, moderating a spat between Timmy and Tommy, who were bickering over whether or not they should go commando on their date. The roomed smell like a cathouse in distress as it seemed the boys had cornered the market on Aqua Velva Aftershave. I doubt they missed an inch of their slim young bodies when they splashed the stuff on themselves.

After opening the windows to air out the room I asked Tommy if he knew anything about fancy ropework. He grinned and poked Timmy's bare butt. "Sure do. Timmy and I won the Navy League Prize three years running."

Well now, pay dirt! "Okay, how . . ." I paused. I was about to offer them money, and then remembered that the last thing they needed was money. Timmy and Tommy, or at least their families, had plenty of gelt. They also had birth, breeding and position, for they were a part of Canada's "Secret Aristocracy". In British Columbia this was represented by sixty-six families; "The Sacred 66", some called it. They all lived in an isolated, leafy enclave of winding streets and verdant squares lined with Georgian, Adam, Regency and Palladian style houses and churches and called "British Pacific Properties". It was the type of place where Frank Lloyd Wright would have starved to death.

This little piece of England oozed low-keyed exclusivity. An outsider didn't have a chance, and while one could marry into this select group, the only true way was to be born into it, as Timmy and Tommy had been.

Much later I would become a part of this world, and I learned that money meant nothing. What mattered was birth, breeding and proper ancestry. The people who inhabited this world drove elderly Rolls-Royces, ancient Daimlers, dressed like the cook, and never let on that they had as much as a farthing in the bank. They played down their wealth as much as they could and while every house was filled with antique furniture, family portraits by Reynolds or Gainsborough, and the like, they acted as if the place had been furnished by Goodwill. Many a new bride had been put in her place when, after showing off her new digs decorated by the latest "name" in the interior decorating business, someone would murmur, "Very nice, but much too grand for the likes of us."

"The likes of us" considered themselves true aristocrats, which many of them were, being related to peers in Britain. While there was no official pecking order, everybody knew exactly where on the social scale one stood. At the top were the Levesons and the Arundels. The boys were actually cousins of a sort, three or four times removed. The families of Tommy, who was a Conyngham, and Timmy, who was a Lennox, were on everybody's Visiting Lists.

So, I wondered, what do you offer somebody who had everything? I explained what I needed and, once they had finally decided on what pants to wear, Timmy spoke up. "We'll do it, because we like you."

Timmy's tone was low key, and without a hint of insincerity. He saw the look on my face and continued, "Well, we do. You're a mate, and a mate never lets down another mate."

"So, can we finish?" asked Tommy abruptly. "Our dates are waiting."

After thanking the boys I decided to walk over to the Fleet Club. As I exited the Barracks I saw what could only be the boys' dates. Leaning against the railing that separated the Upper Parade Square from the roadway were two U.S. Marines wearing crisp, undress uniforms, all starch and knife-edged pleats and red rank badges. They were both young, contemporaries of Tommy and Timmy, and could have been poster boys for the Corps. I would later meet them and so I shall call them by their names.

First was Jack. He stood about 5'8" tall, had a muscular body, a square, firm jaw and dark brown, closely cropped hair. He looked younger than his years (he was, I believe, 19) but had the look of competence and steady resolve that all marines seemed to have. His buddy was named Miles. He stood a head taller than Jack, had a slimmer body, dark blond hair, and the peaches and cream complexion envied by women everywhere.

I gave both men an appraising glance as I walked by, and thought that Tommy and Timmy had found two prime Stud Muffins!

Feeling envious I went to the Fleet Club, little knowing that very soon my own little Stud Muffin would come into my life!

True to their word, Timmy and Tommy showed up and set to with a will, whipping line around the edges of the awnings. They set up shop in the well deck where they sat Indian style, chattering away, gossiping about their latest dates and pointedly ignoring Fat Phil. I'm sure that they would have loved to flip him the bird, but his rank gave them pause. Besides, they had been raised properly and never unknowingly gave offence to anybody, even low-lifes like Fat Phil.

I was only half-paying attention - the boys sniggering and reliving their "date" with Jack (who had a hairy ass, but very plump and lickable) and Miles (who had an eight-inch dick that had sent Tommy into the stratosphere) - and watching Fat Phil load cans of government-issued paint into his pickup. He was decorating his house in the Marriage Patch and saw no reason why he should pay for the paint. The Queen was rich, so let her pay for it!

I noticed a movement out of the corner of my eye and watched as a green-uniformed young man walked up the gangway, saluted the quarterdeck and handed a file of papers to the Corporal of the Gangway, a Day Man sent down from the Manning Pool - we were still shorthanded and a part time Barracks Stanchion was the best they could do.

The new arrival was short, 5'5" or so, with sandy hair and just a sprinkling of freckles across his face. He had an open, oval face with a firm chin, and soft, almost sultry eyes. He saw me and reached out to shake my hand.

"My name is Jim Weston," he said. "Glad to meet ya." His voice was quietly pleasant, not too high, with just a hint of boy to it.

The touch of his hand in mine was electric. A slight tremor rippled from my tightening ball sac. I felt my dick stir. I quickly introduced myself, released his hand and, with some difficulty, tried to regain a measure of control.

Fat Phil waddled up the gangway, took the paperwork from the Corporal of the Gangway, read it, and then nodded. "About time," he muttered as he glanced at the new arrival. "You're our new Engine Room Artificer?"

"Yes, PO," replied Jim, his eyes wide, looking as if he could not quite believe the apparition standing before him. Timmy and Tommy gave Jim an appraising glance, nodded and looked at me, grinning.

I glared back and listened as Fat Phil questioned Jim. He was fresh out of the Diesel Mechanics Course in Stadacona, and Pore du Roi was his first ship. Then Fat Phil led Jim around to the port side where the Coxswain's office was located. This was the former radio shack that Fat Phil had commandeered. He had managed to cram in a desk, a chair, and deck to deckhead shelving, where he stored his latest loot.

While we waited for Jim to return, Timmy said, "Not bad at all."

"Wonder if he has an eight-inch dick," said Tommy. He winked lasciviously at me.

"Maybe Steve will get lucky and find out," countered Timmy. The look he then gave me was even more lascivious than Tommy's.

"You two stick to your knitting," I huffed. Then I offered something I knew they were hinting for. "If you behave I'll get you on board the Kipper ship that's due in."

Both boys brightened. The looks on their faces made me wonder if I was doing the right thing - Timmy and Tommy loose on a destroyer with 250 unsuspecting Kippers . . .

"Don't worry, Steve, we'll behave," offered Timmy.

"Yeah, the Brits are nice, and fun to be with, but . . ."

"But what?" I asked, surprised at their lack of enthusiasm.

"Too many foreskins!" sniffed Tommy.

Before I could respond to this latest sally, Jim and Fat Phil reappeared. Fat Phil told me to take the new boy down below and show him the mess deck. He, like the rest of the crew, would be living there soon enough and as a member of the permanent crew he had first choice over the Reserves that would be coming on board for their weekend training.

Jim noticed the ropework and leaned down to admire it, showing a small, firm butt, outlined deliciously by his brief lines. I thought I was going to die. I quickly headed for the doorway and hoped neither Jim nor Fat Phil noticed the definite bulge in my crotch.

As I walked forward I made a quick adjustment, hoping that my erection was not too noticeable. There were times when I wished I was a briefs man. At least I would have had something to keep my rod tight against my belly. My boxers gave no support at all.

In a daze I took him down to the berth deck and showed him the private cul-de-sac where my bunk was. I didn't want to be too obvious so, while I pointed out that the guy he was replacing had slept in the bunk above mine, I told him that if he wanted another location he had a whole mess deck full of bunks to choose from.

Jim was more concerned about locker space. He knew that shortly we would move down to the boat, and live on board and said that he needed room for his uniforms, civvies, and whatever else he needed to make his life halfway comfortable. He pointed to the deep lockers underneath my bunk and asked if one of them came with the bunk. I assured him that one did, and even offered to loan him a lock until he could pick one up ashore. I also offered him an extra locker.

I think the extra space convinced him. "Hi, honey, I'm home". He grinned broadly, revealing his perfect white teeth.

I damn near creamed my boxers.

I left Jim in the care of the Chief Engineer, who had been skulking in the CPO's Mess, working on his planned maintenance program. The Chief was Jim's nominal boss and much of the work would fall on Jim's shoulders.

I went back up top and leaned on the bulwark, breathing deeply, trying to gain some measure of control, hoping that Jim hadn't noticed the bulge in my pants. Just standing talking to him had given me a raging hard-on. I had never reacted that way before. No man or boy had ever done to me what Jim unknowingly had done to me. I was weak in the knees, I felt as if I had been hit in the gut with a hammer. I was either in love or in lust.

My problem, of course, was what to do about it. I knew in my balls that I wanted Jim. I knew in my head, that having him would be impossible.

Timmy and Tommy, not as dumb as they pretended to be, noticed my discomfort and giggled.

Being friendly, Jim and I saw a lot of each other over the next few months, on board and most afternoons in the Fleet Club where we drank beer, sometimes alone, sometimes with Timmy and Tommy. They both found Jim beguiling, and would have crawled into his bed in a trice, had he been available and living in the Barracks. As it happened, Jim had a room in Nelles Block, the other accommodation block, a short distance down the road from the barracks.

Both Timmy and Tommy sensed my passion for Jim, and while they were both surprised - they thought I was as straight as an arrow - they for once minded their own business and didn't make too much of my state, although they insisted on looking at me and giggling. I had a week's respite from their snickering when HMAS Melbourne, an aircraft carrier and Flagship of the Royal Australian Navy, pulled in on a port visit. The boys disappeared for the entire time of the visit and returned looking flushed and, to quote Mongoose "All fucked out!"

Christmas time came and I flew home to Toronto. Jim was on the same flight with me, which did not help alleviate my yearnings at all. He was heading home to Hamilton for the holidays. We returned after the holidays and went back to our normal routine. Then, it was April, and the training season was upon us.

We would begin our summer training schedule with a trip around the Island, and a crew composed of Naval Reservists. Both Jim and I moved down to the boat and settled in. I felt a little more secure for there was no way I was going to try anything now. The close quarters, and shipboard routine prevented, or so I thought, anything approaching a relationship. People would be continually going on Watch, or coming off Watch. The Roundsman would be patrolling and every bunk would have a body in it. Each body had eyes and ears. Any sort of a relationship was out of the question.

Then there was Jim. He had not, in the short time I had known him, given any indication that he was anything but straight. He laughed at Timmy and Tommy when they chattered away about the Aussies, but he never accepted their not too veiled invitations to visit them in their room. For all intents and purposes he seemed to be as straight as I pretended to be. If he was straight, any attempt on my part to put the moves on him would be a disaster leading directly to the Dockyard Gates.

As I watched the draft of trainees straggling along the jetty, struggling with their kit bags and suitcases, I resigned myself to an indefinite period of looking but not touching. I prayed I could make it.

Fortunately for me, the training routine was such that I rarely had time to think about Jim, or anybody else for that matter. He stood Engineering Watches in the engine room and, when he wasn't on Watch, was busy maintaining the hundred and one different bits and pieces of machinery the department was responsible for. I was Deck, and followed a different routine entirely.

Whenever we entered or left a port or harbour I was Special Sea Duty. I was in charge of the foc'sle party, which meant I was in charge of raising and lowering the anchor, or making sure that the right lines went ashore when the bridge wanted them ashore. I also stood sea watches; four hours on, eight hours off. During the day I taught seamanship to the trainees. In my spare time I took part in, or supervised, the almost hourly drills and evolutions the training schedule demanded. To put it bluntly, I was busier than a dog trying to fuck a football. When I wasn't working, I was sleeping.

Not that there were not moments. Sharing a mess deck with 20 young males, not one of whom had any inhibitions it seemed, did not help matters at all. They walked around half-naked most of the time, and bared all when they changed. Wakey-Wakey brought a host of morning wood, much of it not hidden at all and usually was accompanied by admiring or deprecating remarks. To be honest, during the training season I saw more hard dicks than I ever thought possible!

Then there was Jim, who slept in the bunk above mine. Usually, when I finally managed to hit my rack, Jim was either in bed, or on watch. If he was in his rack, he slept on his side, butt outward, well covered by the blue-checked counterpane we all had on our bunks. He had a nice curve to his body, a slim waist that rose to that tight butt of his and tapered down to form his well muscled legs. How I wanted just to run my hand along his sleeping form.

Once, when I went down below to get something from my locker he was lying on his bunk reading, wearing nothing but his briefs. He had crooked his right leg, which stretched the elastic on the leg band on his briefs and hanging out was one perfect, oval testicle, with just a hint of the other one, both contained in a smooth, hairless sack, that I knew hung low, just below the tip of his penis.

Like most sailors the first thing Jim did on rising was to make up his bunk. Wearing nothing but his briefs he would stand on the lockers and make his bed. I would lie in my bunk, watching his slim form move back and forth, in and out as he adjusted the sheets and coverlet. How I longed to lean forward and press my face against the treasures outlined by the fabric of his briefs, to kiss and lick the soft, dangling flesh.

At night, when he climbed into his rack, he would swing one leg up. The fabric of his underpants would ride up the crack of his ass and I would see a soft, hairless, piece of butt. Once he lifted his leg as he was climbing into bed and the leg hole of his briefs stretched open, to review his perfect balls. All too often I would have to turn and bury my face in my pillow so he would not hear my moan of frustration.

Living as we did in such close quarters, there were no secrets. I knew that Jim was circumcised. I also had seen his morning woody. It was respectable, five and a half inches or so, and not too thick. I knew that his left testicle hung lower than the right. His pubic hair was a tight, nice light brown bush. I also knew that he jacked off - not too often, but often enough, which was to be expected. He was only 20 and since there were no females to help him, he used his hand.

He was a master of the silent jerk-off. He kept a small hand towel under his pillow (I know, I looked) and jerked off into it. I knew what he was doing by his breathing and the ever so soft moan he made when he shot his load. How I longed to get out of my bunk, lean over and take his throbbing rod into my mouth.

I didn't, of course. What I did, when no one was around, was to steal his shot mat and bury my face in it. I would smell his used cum, taste the stiffened fabric and dream of the glorious rod that had produced the stains. Once, just once, I lucked out. Just after he had jacked off he was called to the engine room. After he had left I climbed out of my bunk and found his towel. There was a fresh patch of thick, creamy white cum on it. I tasted it, tasted the slight saltiness in it, and licked the towel clean. I sucked and licked that towel dry. It only happened the one time, but I jerked myself off at the memory of the taste of Jim's cum for weeks.

Fortunately I managed to keep myself under control. Since I knew booze would cause me to lose what little control I had when it came to Jim, I drank little, three beers at the most. I partied with the troops almost every night, but unlike them I stayed sober. I knew my limit and stuck to it.

Long before Jim's arrival I had intensified my new persona as a straight, normal male. I started by lying off the booze, which helped me to maintain my cover. I knew that booze loosened one's inhibitions and more than one sailor had taken one drink too much and ended up in the not so tender hands of SIU.

I returned to the character that had stood me in good stead back in Cornwallis and Stadacona. Stevie Straight-Arrow returned with a vengeance. I knew my shit and it showed. The hands and the officers loved me. I never made a mistake and they all knew that if they wanted something done I was the man. I talked to the ratings like they were young men, with intelligence, and never talked down to them. I yelled at them when they needed it, and I listened to their stories when they needed a shoulder to cry on. I told them my war stories, sang them all the dirty ditties I remembered, insulted them and encouraged them. I was straight and great. They even thought I was shagging a Wren from the Pay Office.

How this came about was quite simple. The Navy was deadly serious when it came to two things: queers and dopers. Drugs were easily available - more so than booze. Bar hours were regulated but you could buy a hit not ten yards from the main gate. The MP's made regular sweeps of the barracks blocks, and every so often came down and searched our lockers. When they weren't looking for users they were on the hunt for queers. Everybody hated queers and for the MP's a queer bust was an easy bust. A whispered accusation, a hint of impropriety was all it took. Before you knew it you were sitting in a bare room with two goons from SIU. No reading of rights, no lawyer. It was "march the guilty bastard in and get on with the grunt."

A smart gay developed camouflage. Try never to talk about your sex life. If you do, substitute believable female names for your lovers. I did this myself when I told my war stories about Nam. Matt, my ex-Marine lover would have been upset if he knew that as far as my stories went he was "Gabrielle". I even had pictures of her which I could pass around. Then there was Marge.

Marge was a very pretty, tiny little thing. She was a Wren who worked in the Pay Office. She was also a lesbian. She was as deep in the closet as I was, and until I came down the pike she had a reputation as a cock teaser, in that while she dated guys, she never put out. Dating guys was her form of camouflage. She knew, as I did, that while the MP's and SIU might be bastards to a fault when it came to gay males, the really went to town with lesbians. In fact, lesbians had it worse than gay men.

You must understand that women in the Armed Forces, on a more or less equal footing with the men, was new. Prior to 1969 they were not even a part of the Navy, really, forming a separate women-only force (The WRCNS or Wrens). Being forced to accept something they heartily disapproved of, the men soon accepted as gospel that any woman who joined the Navy was (a) lesbian, (b) a slut or (c) looking for a man to keep her.

A Wren was categorized before she ever set foot on a previously all male base. They either put out, all the time, every time, which made them sluts, or, if they didn't put out all the way but let a guy fool around and maybe get his rocks off, they were only waiting for someone to knock them up and buy them a wedding band. If a woman didn't put out or fool around, they were lesbians. Point taken, case closed with no appeal. So went the thinking.

Not true, of course, but that's what every right-thinking sailor thought.

If only for self-preservation Marge dated. She would, if forced, neck, and allow some petting. Two or three times she broke down and jacked off her date. But she would not go all the way and those she denied called her the Ice Maiden at best, cock teaser at worst, with a few more epithets thrown in. Straights can be so vicious when they don't get what they want!

We had met at a party held in the home of a mutual friend. We got to talking and, as there was a purge against women going on, she told me how afraid she was. I told her that I was gay and maybe we could help each other out. We decided to become an item.

We went to parties and dances in the Fleet Club as a couple, and a few house parties, and it did not take too long before it was accepted as fact that we were serious. It was very easy to fool everyone because we were doing exactly what were we were expected to do. I was expected to find a woman, marry, and settle down before I was thirty or so. Married men were stable and tended to be more reliable. A sailor over the age of thirty became suspect. Maybe he was one of them? How come he never seemed to be with a woman? You all get the picture?

So far as Marge was concerned, she was following true to form. She had found what she had joined the Navy to get: a man. Or so everyone thought.

It was a hoot. As our relationship progressed, people picked up on silly little things that we did and assumed (in their minds, at least) the best. For instance, when I went to sea Marge would use my car. This was fine with me so long as she didn't hit anything and kept it full of gas. Everyone assumed that she and I were serious. I let her use my car - only a guy in love would let a woman touch his car. We conspired to push the envelope and keep them thinking that way.

During the training season I was usually in port every other weekend and Marge would drive down the jetty in my car. I would throw my bag in the trunk, get behind the wheel (the "guy" thing to do), and off we would go, for what everyone thought was a wet weekend together. We did have a wet weekend, but not together.

What we really did was boogie on out Esquimalt Road, across the bridge and into Victoria, then down to the ferry docks, where we would take the first boat over to Vancouver. There I would drive Marge out to Surrey where her lover, a bull dyke if ever there was one, waited for her. After exchanging unpleasantries with Butch (her name was Ruth, actually, but I hated her and Butch she remains to me), I would drive out to Pacific Properties, where I hooked up my lover, Joel, a third generation Chinese-Canadian I had met. He was cute and young looking with parts exactly the way I liked them, nicely circumcised, not too big, and clean.

On Sunday, after my weekend with Joel, I would drive back to Surrey to pick up Marge. After exchanging snarls with Butch we would then catch the last boat back to Victoria and return to our life in the Navy world. Since I was always calm and relaxed after these weekends, everyone assumed I was plowing Marge. Since Marge was always calm and relaxed, after these weekends, everyone assumed I was keeping her happy, so to speak, or at least doing "it" right. It was a very convenient arrangement.

We played the game according to the rules. And we won, to the extent that the Commander Elliot congratulated me and ordered me to remember him when the wedding invitations went out. Even Fat Phil got into the act. He insisted on inviting me into the PO's mess where he bought me a drink.

It was great. Both Marge and I were firmly established in our little circle as straight. And everyone had helped us do it. All we had to do was follow the straight world's rules.

With my Stevie Straight Arrow reputation not only intact, but enhanced, I was now ready to face the rigors and tribulations of the summer.

That summer was actually quite pleasant. Every two weeks we loaded on a new crew and set sail, up the Inland Passage, around Cape Scott, and back down the western side of Vancouver Island to Esquimalt. Every day around 1600 we would find a quiet cove, or a peaceful harbour, and secure for the night. If we were at anchor the hands would usually go to Swimming Stations. They would all clean into skimpy, brief-like bathing suits and jump off the foc'sle into the sea. I would clean into a pair of oversized British Army shorts and an old, much too large tee shirt, which I wore outside my shorts. These hid my erection very well. I was always the shark guard so I would go up to the bridge wing with my trusty .303 and look for sharks. I never saw a shark. I did see a lot of tight buns and baskets. Some of the guys wore Speedos, which were as thin and revealing then as they are now, and left nothing to my imagination.

If we were alongside a jetty we would usually hold a barbecue. Since most of the little harbours had a population of less than a hundred people, we would rig the new awnings and invite the locals. Some of the local stuff was not bad. They lived an easy, relaxed lifestyle and they all seemed to be tanned and blond. They weren't, of course, but maybe I was influenced by a young stud islander.

We had tied up alongside a jetty leading to some picturesque little town, just a few houses, a marina, and a Legion, and he had come on board for our "show the flag" barbecue and beer bust wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and deck shoes. He sat spread-legged on a bollard. As he was wearing no underwear, everything he had was exposed, which was quite a bit. He had low hanging balls, and a thick dick, about six inches of soft meat with a pink mushroom head. A bit large for my taste, but what the hell. He did look nice and a new piece of meat made for a pleasant change. At first I thought that he was trolling. This thought was reinforced when he stretched mightily and his shorts rode up and exposed the mushroom at the end of his shaft.

I figured that a night ashore might be just the thing, and was trying to think of way to get together with him when he noticed me looking at him. He quickly crossed his legs. Show over. Whether from embarrassment or disappointment, he only stayed for another beer and left. His loss.

The first cruise of the summer was the cruise from hell. We seemed to have drawn every twit in the Naval Reserve, and from their level of intelligence I suspected they had spent the preceding winter with their noses stuck in beer bottles rather than training manuals. We came close to running aground on the rocks above Comox, and the bad weather set in. We had bad weather up in the Inland Passage and bad weather down the Pacific side of Vancouver Island. We hit a full gale north of Cape Scott and, most of the crew went down from seasickness, including Fat Phil, who was the Coxswain, after all. That left only two officers and me to con the ship. I spent ten hours on the wheel, with no chance to eat, and a pail beside me to piss in. You try pissing in a pail in forty foot seas. It ain't easy.

The balance of the cruise was just as bad. Nothing seemed to go right and by the time we reached Esquimalt I was dead tired, exhausted and totally pissed off, I talked myself into a real funk.

When we were finally secure most of the crew took off. Commander Elliot, the Chief and Fat Phil went home. The trainees were moving on to their permanent duty stations, so they left as well. I was stuck on board until the next day, as Duty Watch, with two disgruntled sailors to help, both Reservists who were booked on later flights out for home. I hadn't seen any sense in keeping Jim on board. We were hooked up to shore power so an Engineering type really wasn't needed, so he went off to visit some friends.

I didn't mind being Duty. Marge was away on a course, and Joel had flown down to California to check out the job prospects (he was into something called personal computers, and a whiz at it) my weekend ashore was a bust. Jim had gone off to meet some mates from his home town and, except for the duty watch, I was alone. I decided to visit the PO's mess, to which I was allowed access when Fat Phil wasn't around.

The PO's mess was a long narrow compartment beside the berthing deck. At the aft end was a long table flanked by built-in, padded benches. Just forward of the door were the bunks, two to starboard, with three athwart ship. Beside the inboard bench was the mess fridge. In the fridge was the mess stash of booze. I could help myself so long as I replaced what I drank. I took out a jug of dark rum, some coke and ice cubes, and switched on the TV that hung on gimbals from the deck head, and settled in for the night.

There are times in every man's life when all he wants is to be left alone, a quiet time, a time of solitude. This was my time. I was in my own little cocoon, snug and safe.

I drank, I watched TV, and idly eavesdropped on the duty hands. The scuttle above my head was open and I could hear them talking. It was not very interesting and seemed to involve the Corporal of the Gangway, a tall, husky, wannabe football player, built like a brick shithouse, and not bad if you liked them that way, getting, or not getting a blow job from his girlfriend. I think one of them had tried and she bit him. I really wasn't paying attention. Boy-girl sex did not interest me. I do remember thinking idly that he should have had a boy friend. Only a guy can really please a guy.

I tuned them out and continued to sip rum and watch the boob tube. Fortunately we could bring in Seattle, so I did not have to put up with the inanities of the CBC. Except for the murmuring of the duty hands and the quiet hum of machinery back aft the boat was as silent as a tomb. Which suited me fine.

Around midnight I heard another voice drift through the scuttle. In my somewhat drunken state I could not recognize who it was. I more or less dismissed the voices from my mind. I only hoped that whoever it was could negotiate the ladder from the foc'sle to the well deck. If it was a junior officer returning, he only had to negotiate the short walk aft, where the officers slept. If it was a junior hand, he then had to negotiate another ladder from the well deck to the berthing area. This ladder, while wide, was fairly steep. At sea it made for a sloppy descent. Tied up as we were, it could still be dangerous. More than one drunken tar had managed to slip down it. Which is exactly what happened. I heard a soft clatter, then a thump. Whoever it was had missed his step and fallen.

I got up and opened the door leading to the flats and saw a body lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. It was Jim. As he struggled to get up I leaned over and pulled him more or less upright. He was glassy eyed and stank of beer. He grinned drunkenly and informed me that he was pissed. I agreed solemnly with him and told him he should hit his rack. Since I doubted he could make it on his own I pulled his arm over my shoulder and held him by the waist. He leaned against me. I could feel his warmth and smell the sweet clean smell of him.

While I was almost as drunk as Jim I dimly realized that there was no way that I could get him into his bunk. He was as floppy as a rag doll and his bunk was six feet straight up. So I dragged him into the mess and managed to stuff him into the bottom bunk that stretched along the forward starboard side.

Since this bunk was barely three feet off the deck he didn't have too far to go if he fell out. He stretched out on his back and I rolled him over on his side, facing outward. This way if he barfed at least it would end up on the deck and not down his throat.

I returned to my seat at the table and took a little sip of my drink. Jim snuffled and grunted a bit in his sleep and rolled over on his back.

I stood up and walked to the bunk to turn him back on his side. I was about to turn him when I saw the bulge in his jeans. Without thinking, without considering the consequences, I moved my hand and felt the bulge. I gently ran my hand along the bulge, caressing the five and a bit inches hidden by the fabric of his jeans. As my hand moved towards his dick head he arched his hips slightly. This was all the encouragement I needed.

I popped the brass button just above his zipper, and slowly pulled it down. His jeans opened to form a wide vee, from his waist to his crotch. He was wearing briefs, light blue, with a white elastic waist band. His genitals were sharply outlined against the straining fabric, his dick pointing due north towards his navel. His ball sac hung down between his legs, his balls half hidden by the jeans.

As gently as I could I ran my finger along the underside of his dick. As my finger caressed the tender, sensitive underside of his head, he squirmed, rotating his hips slightly.

I withdrew my hand and looked at his sleeping face. His facial features had not changed and his breathing remained slow and regular. He was deep in sleep.

My hand returned. I pushed under the jeans at his crotch and felt along the bottom of his ball sac. As my finger ever so gently rubbed his balls they tightened perceptibly. I moved my finger slowly upward toward his neat helmet. Then I moved my finger slowly down toward the base of his dick again. He raised his hips slightly, then lowered them.

I added a finger and with two fingers I moved slowly down, then up, his dick. As my fingers approached the head of his dick a small, damp spot appeared on his briefs, just above where his piss hole would be.

Precum. I leaned over and my tongue flicked across the spot, tasting this little drop of his body fluid. I took my hand away and nuzzled his boner, sniffing and kissing it from the head to the base. I inhaled the incredible smell of a male, a unique combination of musk and body oils, of freshly laundered cotton briefs, the smell of a man, the smell than can only come from a man. I moved my head downward and buried my face my face in his crotch, drinking in the odour of his balls.

I began to kiss and suck his shaft through the fabric of his briefs. His cock quivered and jumped at the touch of my lips. His hips rose, inviting me to do more. I placed my hand under the band of his briefs and slowly drew them downward, exposing his erection. His dick, no longer held in check by his underpants popped up. With one hand I cupped his balls, kneading them gently. His dick was raging, the skin above his circumcision ring a deep pink, his smooth helmet leaking precum.

I lowered my lips and engulfed the head, slowly circling it, massaging it with my tongue. I took his head out of my mouth and slowly sucked on his tender spot. He moaned and I could hear his breath quicken. I took him in my mouth again and slowly sucked my way down his shaft, my tongue caressing the underside. Soon my nose was buried in his tightly curled pubic hair. Under my hand his balls tightened even more. As my mouth moved upward his dick thickened, he was close and I wanted to taste all of his cum.

He was breathing now in short, quick gasps. Suddenly his hips thrust upward, pushing his dick farther down my throat. A jet of thick cum shot down my throat. I moved my mouth and sucked on his dick head for all I was worth, tasting the sweet, thick cum that gushed from his hole. Another gout of cum, then another and another, I hungrily swallowed every drop of it. He moaned and I opened my eyes and saw that his face was contorted with pain and pleasure. He thrust again and a small, thick blob fell on my tongue. I swallowed and licked. When every drop was mine, I released him. His face was flushed with the afterglow of a blow job.

I continued to feel his balls, hoping for another go. But his dick was shrinking slowly. Too much booze. I withdrew my hand, straightened his clothes and zipped him up. After giving him a goodbye feel, I turned out the lights and went to bed.

Lying in my bunk I suddenly realized what I had done. What if Jim cried rape? What if he just whispered in the Captain's ear what I had done to him? I tortured myself with feelings of guilt. I was truly fucked if Jim opened his mouth.

I fell asleep eventually and when I awoke, feeling like death, worried sick, it was pouring rain, which depressed me even further. I got up and dressed quickly. A quick glance into the CPO's mess - the bunk was empty. I hurried to the upper deck. Maybe I could explain it all away. I could lie. Promise never to do it again. Where the fuck was he?

I found him on the quarterdeck, sitting on a bollard, throwing pieces of bread at the horde of seagulls that infested the port.

"Uh, Jim. . ." I began, "we gotta talk."

"What about?" he asked, throwing another piece of bread into the water.

"Well, about last night."

He stood up and stretched. I noticed that he was still wearing the clothes he had had on the night before. He walked towards me, placed his hands on my shoulders, brought his face close to mine and smiled.

"The only thing to talk about is when I get my next blow job."

Since we lived full time on board the boat, it was an easy matter to give Jim all the blow jobs he wanted. We managed to be together at least once a day. The spirit locker was one place. The ship's supply of booze and beer had to mustered (counted) weekly. As we didn't have a Supply Officer on board, and Fat Phil couldn't count above 21, I had been elected to do this. As I needed a second signature on the muster sheet I always asked Jim to help me. We always took our time doing the muster. We had to make sure that the count was correct, didn't we? Counting I did very well, sucking cock I did even better.

While cruising, when the Reserves were on board, we more or less had to behave ourselves. Mind you, I found ways. Once, when we were at anchor off Hornby Island, there was a movie in the mess. We sat side by each, our thighs touching. After the obligatory beer bust, the lights went out and the movie started. I ran my hand down the inside of Jim's leg. He was wearing sweats, with nothing underneath. I felt his soft dick and slowly stroked it to life. I caressed his rod with, long slow strokes, and before very long his leg began to tremble and his dick thickened and then exploded, soaking his nice sweats with his man juice. Since I couldn't move out of his way - I had an erection as big as I had ever had - he had to sit there with his cold cum gluing his sweats to his leg. He pretended to be pissed off but he still came down into the spirit locker the next morning.

Another time we were off Royal Roads, steering long lazy circles, waiting for the Reserves to get their act together and start a steering gear breakdown exercise. For this exercise Jim and I had been assigned to Tiller Flats, a small compartment right aft. A tiller, or wheel, was connected directly to the rudder. It was Jim's job to turn a valve that stopped the flow of the hydraulic fluid from the steering engine. When this happened the ship could not be steered from the wheel house forward. After much shouting and tumult somebody on the bridge eventually realized that we had no control and the order would come down to switch to hand hydraulic. Jim would connect the oversized tiller directly to the rudder. As many Reserves as could be crowded in would descend and the two biggest would turn the tiller under my direction. It sounds complicated. It wasn't really, just common dog seamanship.

For some reason every exercise was preceded by a lecture on how to do it. This day the lecturer, a blond, slim Subby, droned nasally on. Jim, in tin hat, anti-flash gear and headphones, was standing in the narrow oval hatchway that led from the quarterdeck to the flats. His folded arms were resting on the hatch combing and his chin rested on his arms, with three quarters of his body hidden from view.

I was sitting on a piece of machinery, waiting for the action to start. I was bored, and horny. Directly in front of me the part of Jim not sticking out of the hatch was bathed in soft sunlight. I could see the slight bulge of his genitals. I couldn't resist. I reached over and unzipped him. I pulled down his briefs (white, with two red lines woven into the waistband), and placed my mouth on his dick head. He swelled almost at once and I gave his dick a long, slow sucking. When he came he shot the biggest load yet, and I heard a strangled "Oh Jesus" in my headphones as he spurted clump after clump of salty sweet juice that I swallowed eagerly. As I was sucking him clean someone on the bridge asked if there was a problem. Since he couldn't very well say that the problem was me sucking his now shrunken helmet, he told them that he had banged his knee on the ladder, which was pretty good considering he was standing with his back to the ladder!

I had just finished putting his dick back in his pants and zipping him up when the alarm bells went. He dropped down, whacked me on the top of my head, called me a bastard and then kissed me hard on the lips. Since he had never done this before I figured that he had been well and truly blown.

In September we reverted to winter routine. We returned to living in barracks. At 1530 Jim would have us hooked up to shore power while I walked around securing the hatches and doors with padlocks and everyone would secure and go ashore.

While I enjoyed living with Mongoose, and Timmy and Tommy, communal life was beginning to pale. With Jim now in the picture, I decided to live ashore. I wanted a small place, somewhat isolated, and I scouted around and found a small house in Jordan River, a small town to the west of Esquimalt. It was a fair commute for me but I did not want to live anywhere there was a bunch a service people living. I wanted Jim to move in with me and I did not need people gossiping about two young sailors living together or carrying tales to the SIU.

My dreams of domestic bliss and constant sex were quickly shattered when Jim opted to remain in Nelles Block. He told me that he wasn't quite ready to have the kind of relationship I wanted. He wanted to be able to come and go as he pleased, when he pleased. This I could understand. I was asking a lot of him and thought that he would eventually come to live with me. I was also so infatuated with him that I would have agreed to anything to keep him.

I wish I could tell you that he eventually moved in with me. Alas, he did not.

At first, everything seemed fine. I would drive into the Dockyard and pick him up in front of the block and we'd drive down to the boat together. After work I would drive him back. Some nights we would carry on out to my place. Some nights he would ask to be dropped off at the Barracks and I would go home alone. When he did come home with me the sex was great. I'd be a liar if I said that I regretted one moment of the time I spent with him. The hardest part was driving him back and watching him disappear into the Nelles Block.

Because I was infatuated with him, it took me a while to realize that what we were doing was on Jim's terms. We never made love. We had sex. We were fuck buddies, and that was it. He was not in love with me because he would not allow himself to love me. I could kiss him and tongue him. I could lick every inch of him. I could blow him. He would not blow me. Though I really wasn't into it, and hadn't done it since my time with Matt, I offered to let him fuck me. This was a no go and the one time I dared to ask him to let me fuck him he stormed from the house and hitched back to the Base. To Jim, getting blown by a guy was okay. It was what guys did. No big deal. Sometimes guys got carried away and kissed each other. Again no big deal. What mattered was that guys did not fuck guys. Only fags fucked each other and therein lay the answer.

Jim would not admit that he was gay, would not give in to the tortured dark side of his character. So long as we did not cross the line what we did was just guy stuff. Not fag stuff. Sooner or later he would meet a girl, and prove that he was not a fag. When he did meet her he wouldn't have to do "guy stuff." Until then, he would come out to my place. Again, his visits were on his terms. Once I dropped him off at the Nelles Block there was no contact unless he called me. There were only pay phones available to the occupants, and they were always in use. If he was in the mood, he called. If something better was on offer, he didn't.

I suppose that had I not been so infatuated with him I would have picked up on the signals he was giving me. Our relationship, such as it was, lurched along until I realized by Easter that what we had was, at least on Jim's part, all but over. His visits had become increasingly infrequent, and when he did come out the sex was all slam-bam-suck-come and he'd be looking for a ride back to the Base.

I did not want this sort of a relationship. I wanted a long term relationship, something Jim would not give me. I wanted him with me at night. He would not stay any longer than it took him to blow his load. I wanted him to be my lover, and he would not be my lover.

I realized that one of us had to make the move so on Easter Monday I asked him to meet me at the Fleet Club. We were finished. It was time to say good-bye.

We found a quiet corner and talked. I told him how I felt and that if he could not meet me at least half way it would be best if we were just friends. No sex. When I finished I sat back and waited for an explosion which did not come. Instead he withdrew a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. He slid it across the table and motioned for me to read it.

The piece of paper was a Draft Chit, an order transferring him to another duty station. He was due in Halifax the following Monday.

I suppose he expected me to blow up. I didn't. What we had had was over. I shrugged, gave him back his chit, stood up, threw some money on the table to pay for the jug of beer, and left.

All the way home, and later, as I sat in my own living room, I took stock of my life, and myself. I finally realized that I was sick and tired of my double life. I was gay, and nothing I could do would ever change it. I had to live with it and it was about time everyone else learned to live with it. I did not have to convince myself that I was a bloody good sailor. I knew my job. I did it well. I could lead. I had presence. I wasn't just good, I was great. I knew it. My peers knew it, and the Navy knew it.

Up until that time in the PO's mess with Jim, I had never forced myself on anyone. I did what I did with guys who wanted to do it with me. In a way I was just as bad as Jim. He refused to admit that he was gay. I refused to admit to the straight world that I was gay. If the Navy, or my peers, could not admit that my being gay had nothing to do with how I conducted myself and did my job, and that my sex life was MY sex life, then fuck 'em, and the horse they rode in on. The next day I told Commander Elliot that I would not be re-upping, and walked over to the Manning Office.

The Manning Chief was an old friend - a friend, not a lover. He was not too surprised to see me. A lot of guys, fed up with the way the Andrew was going, were getting out. I was just the latest in a long line.

He looked up my file and told me my release date. I would be a free man on Christmas Eve Day. If I wanted, I could go earlier. I had leave time due me, and 30 days termination leave, and could be gone by Thanksgiving, if I wanted.

The Chief's tone gave me pause, however. I had known him well enough to know that while he wasn't going to talk me out of pulling the plug, he was going to try to talk me into doing something he wanted me to do.

"Okay, Chief," I asked. "What do you want?"

"I need you to do me a favour."

"Which is?"

"Take over as Barracks Chief, just until I can get a replacement. I can bump you up to acting Petty Officer. . ."

Since I knew the Chief, and knew that he would not ask me if he was not in a bind, I agreed, but not before putting the shaft to him and turning it.

"With Petty Officer's pay, Chief?"

He smiled and shook his head. "You always were a smart little bastard."

As part of my deal with the Chief I took seven days leave. Jim's leaving, and the manner in which he left, had hit me harder than I realized. I wanted, needed, to get way from it all for a few days. Also, since I had to live in the Barracks, I needed time to clear out of the house in Jordan River, and the ship.

This took me a day. I cleaned out my lockers in the ship, loaded up my car, said my good-byes and drove off without a backward glance. I hauled everything out to the house and packed boxes for another day. When everything was packed I called the agency that had rented me the place, told them to find someone to sublet, and took off for Vancouver.

I could have stayed at Joel's place. I had a key, and it was sitting empty. He was still in California and from the tone of his latest letter to me he was going to pull up stakes and move there permanently. He had hooked up to a company that was starting make something called microchips - whatever the hell they were - and was just waiting for them to make an offer. He wanted me to come down and live with him.

I was of two minds about this. While I liked Joel, and he was a warm, compassionate lover, my experience with Jim made me hesitate. While I was half in love with Joel, I did not love him as much as I should have. It was more than sex - we were definitely not just fuck buddies. My problem was that I was not sure that I wanted to spend a good part of my life with him. I was sure that I did not want to string him along with false promises, nor would I, being an independent SOB, take advantage of him. I decided to take a room in a small hotel on the edge of Chinatown. It was clean, and the management (one of Joel's uncles, actually), kept the riffraff down to a minimum.

For three days I did the tourist thing and explored Vancouver. A few blocks away from Chinatown was Gastown. As it is today, it was then; Gastown was a tourist attraction and a place to get blow or blown. Drugs of any and all kinds were readily available. Sex, in all its forms, was there and available. All I needed was some money.

I did not use drugs, period, and I was not about to buy sex from any of the male prostitutes that loitered in the side streets leading from Gastown. While AIDS was not yet a horrible part of gay life, most of these unfortunates were users, heroin being the drug of choice. To support their habits they took on as many tricks as they could and, let's face it, God only knew what they had picked up along the way. I was not interested in the Gastown, down market, meat racks.

If I had wanted sex, which I didn't, I could have gone to any of the bath houses that had opened in the area of town that even then was becoming known as Gay Town. I could have gone to Stanley Park, which was well known as a gay pickup area. Vancouver's gay population was large, and growing, so finding a man or teen to suit may taste was not a problem.

Since I was not into smoky bars and steamy bath houses, nor anonymous sex in the bushes, and, to satisfy the voyeur in me, I went to Wreck Beach where you could strip off and laze around bollocks to the breeze if you wanted, or keep your clothes on. To a lot of tight-assed straights it was the "daring" place to go. At the time Wreck Beach was probably the only public beach in Canada where you could strip off and not have to worry about a cop arresting you for indecent exposure.

The beach is nothing to write home about. I mean a beach is a beach. It was directly under the bluffs on which the UBC campus stood. There's usually a good crowd on the weekends. During the week, though, when the UBC crowd was supposed to be in class, and the young professionals were at work, it was pretty bare. The day I went there the beach was all but empty, just a few die hard naturists, mostly elderly and wrinkled, some pros - of both sexes - doing the stroll and hoping for a little custom, two very bored VPD cops, and a gaggle of UBC undergrads strutting around comparing dick sizes and trying to hide the beer from the cops. I admit that the undergrads were not bad, though three of them could have used the services of a good mohel, but the rah-rah college boys act they were putting on turned me off. I didn't even get a tingle in my willy so I left and went back to my hotel.

I returned to Esquimalt on Friday morning and drove through the Dockyard to the Barracks where, as a Petty Officer (Acting, Unpaid, Non-substantive) I would work and live until December.

The Barracks was a red brick, four-story, building. It was designed to house, at peak capacity, 450 sailors. It was a strictly enforced, male only building. It was the first in a row of barracks blocks that stretched along the west side of the Parade Square. There was Nelles Block, another males only barracks, a barracks for the Wrens - guarded and off limits to anything with balls, the Wardroom Annex, which was where junior Officers and Officer Cadets lived, and a cavernous Mess Hall.

Across the Upper Parade Square were the utilitarian buildings found on any military base, including the Petty Officers Mess where I should have been living. Unfortunately it was undergoing yet another refit, so I would have to make do with the "Chief's Rooms" in the Barracks.

I parked my car in the reserved spot designated for the Barracks Chief and walked up the broad steps and into the Barracks Lobby. Directly ahead of me was a wide flight of stairs. To my right was a small desk manned, if that is the word, by a skinny, blond kid wearing wire rim spectacles. He was sprawled comfortably in a chair, reading a fist book, a much tamer publication than one finds today, mostly beef cake in posing straps, with just enough slightly out of focus nude shots to make it interesting - and legal. They were published as "art" or "body building" magazines.

I rapped on the counter top. For a minute I thought the kid was going to have a stroke. He jumped up, quickly rolled up the magazine and stuffed it into his back pocket. He was blushing deep red. He had been well and truly caught drooling (figuratively speaking) over a magazine full of pictures of seminude and nude men. Tsk. Tsk.

He came to the counter and I introduced myself, which caused him to sputter a bit, obviously nervous and wondering what I was going to do about his fist book.

As an art lover, I intended to do nothing. I couldn't, for his own good, let it go by. Possession of such a book would be, if it came to the notice of the wrong people, like the MP's, enough to get him neck deep in shit. If he wanted to look at the damn thing the main desk of the Barracks was not the place to do it. You never knew who would wander in.

"If you want to read that stuff," I said, "you should do it in your cabin." I winked lasciviously at him. "Besides, you keep reading those things, son, and you'll have to get stronger glasses."

He blushed a deeper red and sputtered about "someone leaving it in one of the cabins". It wasn't his, honest.

I pretended to believe him, told him not to be so obvious the next time, and could I have my cabin keys, please.

He quickly found the keys, and handed them to me with a thick envelope. "We really didn't expect you until Monday", he pouted.

"Yeah, well, I like to get a head start on things".

As an afterthought I asked him if he was permanent or duty staff. He assured me that he was duty and that he was only filling in. I very quickly realized that I had a situation on my hands.

This was Friday, just after lunch. The office should have been open and a permanent staff member at the desk. Was the Block Chief around? No, he'd left the day before.

It did not take the brain of a nuclear scientist to figure out what was going on. The Cat (the Barracks Chief) had buggered off and was, in fact halfway to his next duty posting. The mice (the ratings assigned to Barracks Staff) had decided to play. Being naval ratings they knew a good thing when they saw it. With the former Boss gone, and me not expected until Monday, there was no one to keep tabs on them. Another inch stretched to the inevitable mile.

"Gave themselves a make and mend, did they?" (In the old says of sailing ships this was a half-holiday to make and mend clothing and personal equipment. A bit of Navy trivia. Use it as you will).

The Kid (his name was Ron, actually, but he looked about 12 so The Kid he remains) nodded. Since there was absolutely nothing I could do about it, I decided deal with it on Monday - when I was supposed to report anyway - and went to my new quarters.

I was pleasantly surprised when I opened the door. I was about to take up residence in a spacious suite of rooms. There was a large living/dining room, a bathroom, and a bedroom.

The living room had among other amenities a large color television set, a comfortable looking sofa and two chairs, and, in the kitchenette, a stove and a large fridge - empty except for a can of coke. Against one wall was a large desk - piled high with papers - over which hung a Barracks State Board - a plan of the building. This I studied with some interest for this large, square, diagram showed in some detail what was to be my own little kingdom for the next few months.

On each of the four floors above ground was a central core of heads and wash places. Ranged along either side of this central core were cabins (bedrooms). The top floor housed the senior ratings in two-man rooms. Junior ratings (AB's and below) were on three in two- or four-man rooms. The second floor was reserved for personnel on courses at the Fleet School, all four-man rooms. Each of these three floors were identical in configuration. The first, or main floor was different in that right off the lobby were two large rooms, separated by a wide corridor, which was know as Ankle Biter Alley because these two rooms housed the Sea Cadets that were constantly coming and going. The cabins on this floor were used to house transients - men going to or coming from ships or courses, and only needing overnight accommodation. On the other side of the lobby were the reception desk, Barracks office, Linen Stores and my quarters.

In the basement were the laundry rooms and a rec. room (a TV, dart boards and ping pong and pool tables.). At either end of the block were emergency staircases. It was a compact, well-ordered building. My job was to keep it that way.

I wandered down a short corridor, passing the bathroom, and walked into a large bedroom. It had two of everything, two triple wooden lockers, two small desks with chairs, two bedside tables (with lamps), and two single beds, one made up, with a neatly folded pair of sweat pants on it. At the foot of each bed was a steel sea locker. The one at the end of the made up bed had a lock on it. It appeared that I would be sharing the room.

I heard a scuffling of boots and turned to see The Kid. He had an armful of linen and blankets. "Your bedding, PO" he explained.

I asked him who had the other bed and he told me that it was being used by the Killick writer who worked in the office. He was "away" up island, and was not expected back until Sunday night.

Seeing the look on my face The Kid placed the linen on what was to be my bed and fled. I had expected to be living alone. I should have expected something like this. The only man in the Navy who lives alone is the Captain. Everyone else shares.

I returned to the living room, settled myself on the sofa and opened the envelope and began to read the contents. It was the usual stuff: Station Orders, Standing Orders, muster sheets listing all residents and so on. There was also a Fleet Movements Report which listed not only where the Canadian ships were and what they were doing, but also listed what foreign Navy ships were in port. There were two: a Kipper (English) destroyer in transit from Hong Kong back to England, and a Yank supply ship, just in from Fleet Exercises with the Canadian Navy. Interesting.

I suddenly felt the urge for a beer.

The Fleet Club was a large, multi-storey brick and glass horror overlooking the sound. I parked my car in the empty lot and entered, waved to the Duty Mess President and entered the Upper Deck Bar. It was, as I expected, empty except for the bartender polishing glasses. This was the unofficial couples bar and not a bad spot to have a quiet drink. It was also the place where the Wrens drank. The DMP and the bartender kept a tight reign on things and the girls knew that they could drink in relative peace.

A long curving staircase joined the Upper Deck Bar to the Lower Deck Bar. This was a long narrow room with wide plate glass windows overlooking the beach. It was filled with rough wooden tables and padded chrome chairs. It was THE place, home to hard-core drinkers, sailors on the make, Wrens on the make, and a large sound system usually pounding out what passed for music in those days. It was, on a good night, loud and smoky. It was, on a bad night, very loud and very smoky.

Since it was a work day, the place was relatively empty. In one corner was a horde of Kippers, all starched white shorts and shirts. In another corner was a horde of Yanks, all in starched white summer uniforms. The tables they sat at were overflowing with beer bottles, half-consumed jugs of beer, glasses and ashtrays brimming with fag ends. The air reeked of the distinctive odour of American made cigarettes.

I sat at the bar and ordered a beer and checked out the action.

The Kippers were loud and blustery, as only Kippers can be. From the wreckage on their table I figured they'd been there for a while. Mind, they weren't pissed. They were used to drinking good, strong, English beer and ale. Our less potent Canadian beer didn't faze them. They were having a rollicking good time.

My interest in them was strictly platonic. Don't get me wrong, Jackie Tar was usually young, tanned, and ranged from fair to great looking. He worked hard and played hard. He was humorous, and outgoing. He liked a good time. He was also, from my point of view, off limits for under the starched shorts and Y-fronts they were all knights of the long foreskin. Which was a pity. There were a couple of nice baskets I would have loved to open.

The American table was quieter than the Kippers'. Their table was just as loaded with empties and jugs as was the Brits, but unlike the Brits, who were drinking and having fun, the Yanks were just drinking, which comes, I think, from the fact that there is no booze allowed on board their ships. They always seemed to feel obligated to make up this lack when they came ashore.

There were ten of them grouped around the table. Like their British counterparts they were all young and white, their trim bodies packed into tight bell-bottomed pants and jumpers, zippers down and opened, exposing the white tee shirts they all wore. Also, like the Brits, they were not a bad looking bunch, with, thanks to their tight white pants, a crop of great looking baskets. Unlike the Brits (whose mothers should have known better), I knew that it was more than a good bet that under the uniform pants and issue boxers, were at least seven, perhaps all ten, neatly circumcised dicks.

The problem with Yanks, though, is that they are all of them flagrantly homophobic, or at least they pretend to be. It's almost a national pastime. Which is odd. The randyest critter on earth is a young American male. There were rumours about gay circles on board all their ships, and, if they were so down on gays, why were there those lectures in Nam where young gay American servicemen were steered toward clean, honest, queer sex? Why tolerate a gay, and then turn around and beat the shit out of him if he made a pass at you? A typical Yankee reaction.

Since they were God's chosen on earth, the Yanks told themselves that anything or anyone that wasn't God-fearing, all-American, clean living and clean thinking was an abomination. From the day he was born the average American male was bombarded with homophobic propaganda, from his father, from his teachers, and more often than not, from his pastor. Straight was great, and God loved you. Queer was bad, God hated you and your family threw you out and scratched your name out of the Family Good Book.

Yet at the same time the average service male was an expert in talking queer. At every sporting event I swear the athletes spent more time smacking each other on the ass than playing the fucking game. In the morning, in every barracks, in every ship's berthing area, you could see more hard dicks than you'd see in a month in a Hastings Street bath house.

I suppose it all comes down to the "guy" thing. Guys are randy. Guys are crude. Guys do manly things in manly ways. It's all good, clean, fun. No harm meant, no harm done.

This did not mean that I would not have slept with an American. I already had. You'd be surprised at the number of American studs who had no problem at all lying back and having their dicks sucked. Or their asses fucked. When push came to shove the average American was just as horny and eager to get his end wet as the next guy. They were eminently fuckable. All you had to do was let them make the first move. Always let them make the first move.

Anyway, I listened and looked, had another beer, and, heeding the call, headed into the gents. I pushed open the door and was confronted with a skinny, redheaded Yank, standing at a urinal, his dick in his hand, wiping it with a wet paper towel. I don't know who was more shocked. I'd seen a few sights in the men's pisser, but this was a new one on me.

The Yank gaped at me, stuffed his pecker in his pants and pushed past me.

"What the hell," I thought," maybe he just likes to keep it clean."

I had my piss, washed my hands, and returned to my seat at the bar. I saw the redhead looking at me. I smiled knowingly and nodded. I swear to God the guy blushed.

I turned away, feeling quite pleased with myself. I can be such a bitch when I put my mind to it.

The next thing I knew he was standing beside my bar stool. He leaned against the bar and asked the attendant for a pack of cigarettes.

Now, I have to tell you that there are two types of guys that I have always been a sucker for: redheads and the average-looking, run-of-the mill Joe. All my lovers, tricks, one night stands, whatever you want to call them have never been what you would call spectacular. I mean, pretty boys, all muscles and teeth, are okay and all, and I've had my share of them, but give me Joe Average and I'm done for. If they have red hair, well, that's a bonus. Now Joe Everyman was standing beside me.

As I said, he had red hair, deep red hair flecked with gold. He was only about 5'3, and slim. Not skinny, just slim, with a narrow hips and a so-so butt. His face was ruddy, full, with a firm jaw, jade-green eyes, and thin, pouting lips. His white uniform fit him perfectly. His shoes were black, and huge, real gunboats. I recalled an old wives tale that the size of man's dick was directly related to the size of his feet I glanced at his tight crotch. No basket, to speak of. No hint of a bulge and so much for old wives tales.

The bartender brought the cigarettes and Red paid for them. He asked in a not unpleasant voice if he could join me. He had a definite southern accent, controlled, and not too broad.

"Fill your boots". I replied, indicating the stool beside me.

"I feel I should apologize." he began, sitting down. "I mean, I wasn't beating off, or anything." His voice was soft, slightly drawly, with a hint of the Old South.

"I didn't think you were," I said. "Guys wipe themselves like all the time in there" I told you I can be a bitch when I want to.

I don't think he believed me, but offered to buy me a beer anyway. I accepted. He waved the bartender over and ordered two beers.

When the beer came and the bartender moved away, he insisted on explaining that he was only wiping himself "that way" because beer made him piss a lot, and if he didn't dry his wang (his word, not mine), he'd end up with a yellow stain on his pants. Since this was a perfectly logical, if strange, explanation for wiping yourself in the men's room, who was I to question it.

I told him to forget about it and asked him how long he and his mates would be in port.

"We leave tomorrow" he replied, gulping his beer. "Diego, then Panama, then Norfolk, then home."

"Seems a long haul."

"Yeah, but then I go on leave." He turned around on his stool and surveyed the room. "Pretty dead in here."

I told him that it got livelier later on when the band came on.

"Any gash?" he asked.

Now, this struck me as a pretty odd question. If I read the signs right, he was coming on to me. When he sat down he had ever so casually spread his legs until our legs were touching. As he talked he fiddled with the unopened pack of cigarettes and every so often his hand brushed against mine. I deliberately did not move, wondering where, if anything, this act of Red's was leading.

"Not until later. The place is usually jumping by 2100 or so."

At this point our conversation was interrupted. One of Red's mates yelled that they were leaving and if he was coming with them he had better get his skinny ass in gear. Red slid off his stool.

"Well, got to go." he said. He rejoined his mates. There was a scraping of chairs and they all clattered up the stairs.

So much for that, I thought. I ordered another beer and moved to a table by the windows. The first sail boats had appeared, and as they cruised by the windows the occupants waved at us poor unfortunates stuck ashore. As each boat sailed by the Kippers hooted and carried on. They were ogling the bikini clad girls which seemed to crew each boat. I would have liked to, but didn't, hoot at the scantily dressed guys who also crewed the boats.

I glanced at my watch and saw that it had just gone 1600. Quittin' time on the old plantation.

The place began to fill up as ratings and Wrens closed down their offices and drifted over to the Club. The Kippers were having a hell of time greeting everyone, someone cranked up the juke box, everyone seemed to be talking at once, and the bartender was pulling pints and filling jugs at a good rate.

I hung around for a while - hey, there was some pretty good young stuff on display - sipping beer. I had plenty of time to kill and while I figured that odds on I wouldn't connect with anyone, I could at least admire the view.

A couple of guys I knew drifted in and we played catch-up. Just sailor talk. Just guy stuff. I was enjoying myself, relaxed, pacing myself. We had a jug, then another. When that was finished I threw some money on the table and excused myself. I had had no lunch and was starting to feel the beer. Time to go. I walked through the Upper Deck Bar and into the lobby. And stopped dead in my tracks. Seated on the sofa by the door was the redheaded Yank. He stood up, smiled at me, his perfect teeth flashing.

"I've been waiting for you."

He followed me out into the parking lot and stood beside the passenger door. I opened the driver's door and looked at him.

"Where're your friends?" I asked, leaning against the roof of the car.

He duplicated my move on the other side. "Don't know. They were going up to Victoria. They're looking for something I don't want."

"Which is?" I asked, getting in the car. I reached over and flicked the door lock. The passenger door opened and Red got in. He looked at me and smiled crookedly.

"What I want or what they want?" He draped his arm over the back of his seat and with his free hand reached over and felt my crotch. "What I want has upper deck fittings. Like these." He squeezed my balls.

"For Christ's sake," I said, pushing his hand away. "This is the parking lot. Someone might be watching."

He pulled his hand away and looked around. "Sorry, but you look like you might be interested." He straightened up and stared straight ahead.

"I am," I replied as I turned the key and steered the car out of the lot. "But not here. Too fucking dangerous. Didn't your see those windows? Half the place could have seen us."

He nodded his agreement. Still he reached over and started rubbing my leg. Since it was dark I let him. What the fuck, I hadn't had a guy come on to me in a long time and a free feel is a free feel. The traffic was light, and coming from the other way, anyway. Every so often his hand would drift down my groin and rub my sac. I have to admit, he had a light touch and it felt great. I could feel me my dick starting to stiffen.

We drove in silence until I approached the Highway 14 exit. I pulled over. Red pulled his hand away and reached into his jumper. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered me one. We lit up and I figured, now is the time to fish or cut bait.

"I have a place out in Jordan River. It's pretty far out." I still had the keys to the house. "When do you need to be back?"

"Zero-six-hundred. Next stop Diego." He reached over and ran a finger along my chin line. "Can I get a ride in the morning?"

One way to stroke a guy's ego is to send out the vibes that say I want you. Being horny helps too. I was horny.

I pointed my chin toward the BC Liquor Store across the road. "I can pick up some booze. I don't have any at the house. Beer? Hard stuff?"

He grimaced. "No more beer. I'd just end up pissing like a racehorse. And no hard stuff. I was raised on bourbon and water. Never could handle it. Some wine? I like wine."

I nodded, got out of the car, and went to the liquor store. Once inside I realized I had forgotten what kind of wine he liked. I picked out six bottles - three red, three white - all imported. I figured that if he wasn't good lay - done in four and lights out - at least I could enjoy the wine.

I put the wine on the back seat, got behind the wheel, started the car and made the turn onto 14.

As we motored along I asked him about himself. I mean, here we were, chugging along, with not much else to do. The highway was well lit all the way to Colwood and well patrolled by the local cops.

He told me that he was from Charleston. He emphasized that it was the South Carolina Charleston, not the one in West Virginia. His family lived "south of Broad" - wherever that was.

"Born there, raised there, got my first blow job there." He laughed and shook his head. "I'll probably die there."

"You like getting blown?" In for a penny in for a pound, I thought. "Or you just gay until the sun comes up." I shrugged. "Some guys are like that."

We had passed Glen Lake, and the last of the overhead highway lights. There was no moon and the night was as black as pitch.

Red reached over and felt my crotch. "I ain't one of them. I've known I was into guys since I was eight. Me and the gardener's son used to play with each other in the coach house. Jeez, you got big balls."

Which was true, but beside the point. "Your people had a gardener? And if you keep doing that you'll find out what else is big."

His hand moved, found my dick, and gave it a squeeze. "Yeah, once a week for years. Cuban." He started rubbing my erection. "Not bad. You cut?"

"Isn't everybody? Yeah, nice and smooth."

"Good." He pulled down the zipper of my jeans. "Enrique - that was the guy's name. He wasn't. He was a pig." He reached into my boxers and pulled out my cock. He rubbed his thumb up the underside of it and over the knob. "I used to make him clean it off before I'd touch it." He rubbed his thumb under the head of my dick. "No skin," referring to the thin membrane that attached the foreskin to the underside of an uncut dick. "Can't abide a guy who isn't cut."

I had found a kindred spirit!

I reached over and felt his crotch. Through the fabric I felt his balls. They weren't as big as mine, but still a good size - a good mouth full. I felt for his dick. What I could feel was hard, but, sitting as he was, it was bent downward, between his legs. I bent my hand back and pulled down the zipper of his pants, reached in through the fly in his boxers, and pulled out his dick. It was rock hard, not quite six inches, and not too thick. Just the right size. I felt the underside of his cock head.

"No skin." Two can play that game.

"You betcha," he replied. "Only coloured and ethnic don't do it." He wiped the drop of precum from the head of my dick with his thumb and raised it to his lips. His ran his tongue along the ball of his thumb. "Tastes nice."

I fisted him and he slowly pumped his hips twice. "Jesus, that feels good," Red groaned. He reached over and grabbed me again. "This feels good, too. Wonder how it tastes."

He leaned down and before I knew it my hot mushroom was in his mouth. His tongue did a slow circle around and under the head, then over the curving dome. He kept this up for a minute or so, and then worked his way south until his nose was buried in my pubic hair. I felt his breath on my balls. It felt wonderful and I could feel the momentum building in my balls as he moved his head up and down. I didn't want to cum just yet.

"Red, you keep that up and you'll taste something better." I said, flexing my hips, drawing back. Fuck, he was doing a dynamite job on me, I didn't want him to stop. But I didn't think shooting my load into a guy's mouth while trying to keep a car on the road was such a good idea. I tried to pull out, but he clamped onto me. "For fuck sakes, Red. I'm trying to drive."

He mumbled something, which I didn't understand. You try understanding a guy trying to talk with a mouthful of cock. It ain't easy.

"What?" I asked.

Red let my cock slip out of his mouth and lay back against the back of the seat. "I said my name is not Red. It's Sean." He seemed hurt. "Ever since I was little I was called `Red.' My name is Sean, okay?"

I didn't know what that was all about. "Okay, Sean it is." I replied. "It's just that I want to save it until we get to the house. I didn't mean anything by it." I reached over and gave his semi-hard dick a stroke. "Besides, we're coming into Sooke." I indicated the lights ahead.

We drove through Sooke in silence. I guess you could say the mood was broken. It was pretty silly, the pair of us, silent, with our soft dicks draped down the front of our pants. I couldn't help myself and I burst out laughing. He looked at me as If I had lost my mind.

I reached down and lifted my dick up and waggled it at him. Then I reached over and flicked the end of his knob. He looked at my piece, then at his own, rolled his eyes and laughed.

"Yeah, I get you." He put his hand over his crotch. "Hope no one sees us."

I told him not to worry. With only the reflected light from the overhead highway lamps, our crotches were in deep shadow.

Once clear of Sooke, and back into the darkness, he started tweaking and rubbing me.

"Look, I'm real sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. But, all my life folks called me `Red'. I got a name. It's my name. Back home folks say I got the family look. Course I do. Fuck, in my family cousins have been marrying cousins since 1700. No wonder I look the way I do. Usually they name their kids after a relative. They didn't with me. They named me Sean. All my kin have got red hair. All my kin look like me. My name is the only thing I got that's really mine. "

"You're not bad looking, Re . . . ah, Sean" I interrupted. "I kinda like the way you look. And I like your name."

"Bullshit. I'm skinny. I got this fucking red hair. I'm small. Hell, even my dick is small".

"No, I mean it." I said forcefully. "Besides, I don't have anything to brag about. I might make six-and-a-half on a good day and with a finger up my ass." Hey, helpful is my middle name. Besides, I was still horny.

He laughed and looked at me. "You mean that, for true?"

"For true", I nodded. I reached over and rubbed the back of his neck. "I like 'em small. In about five minutes I'm going to show you just how much I like 'em small. I'm gonna take that little thing of yours in my mouth and I'm gonna suck it dry." I reached down and fisted his stiffening prick. "And then I'm gonna suck it dry again."

Sean reached over and fingered my dick. "Funny, that's just what I was aimin' to do."

I pulled the car into the driveway of my little house. We quickly entered and as I closed the door Sean turned to face me. I leaned forward and pressed my lips against his. They were warm and moist, and slightly ajar. I pushed my tongue between his lips and tasted him.

Sean's hands moved across my chest and down to my waist, unbuttoning my shirt. I unzipped his jumper and felt his warm flesh under his white tee. I felt the touch of his hand as he undid the button of my pants, and slipped between my body and the waistband of my shorts. His hand found my raging organ, then moved downward to my tightening balls. He cupped them, felt them, massaged them. His touch was smooth and soft. With his other hand he slowly pushed my pants and boxers down, and then reached around to rub and stroke my ass.

I pushed the jumper off of Sean's shoulders, and then reached under his T-shirt. Our mouths parted and I pushed the tee up and over his head. When it was free I let it drop to the floor and began to stroke his chest and sides. His skin was warm and very smooth. His chest was hairless but well formed. I pinched his nipples gently and I felt a shudder pass through his body.

He pulled away and leaned down and began to suck on the tough little nubs of my nipples. He kissed them, nipped at them and then ran his tongue down my chest. He bent his knees and lowered his body until he was on his knees. He pushed his nose into my bush of pubic hair, his tongue licking at the top of the base of my dick. As I stood there, he began to kiss and lick his way around my tightening ball sac. He took my dick in one hand and with the other reached around and squeezed and rubbed my ass.

I felt his tongue against my piss hole. It probed and then began washing my mushroom. He opened his mouth and slowly worked his way down my shaft until his face was buried in the curly bush of my pubes. He played with my balls, pulling them down, squeezing them.

His head moved slowly upward, and I took it in my hands and ran my fingers through his hair. As he slowly sucked me I could feel my dick begin to pulse with pleasure. Sean was an expert cock sucker and it took all my control to keep from sending a blast of cum down his throat. I wanted to taste his sweet meat; I wanted him to cum first, so I pulled his head away and gently pulled him to his feet.

"My turn," I whispered.

We quickly shucked our clothes and I led him by the hand into the bedroom. "Lie down on the bed, Sean." I said. I wanted to pleasure him badly.

He lay down on the bare mattress and spread his legs. I lay down, my head buried in his crotch. In contrast to the hair on his head, his pubic hair was a bright, fiery red. His dick was very smooth, and neatly formed, the head of it neat and clean, in line with the shaft. His ball sac was hairless, neatly framed by the tight curls of fire that traveled down his inner thigh.

I began tonguing him, licking that delicious knob, then under and around it. I licked my way down the underside of his shaft, then stroked his balls with my tongue. I sucked one ball, then the other, then both, taking them in my mouth and sucking gently. Sean writhed and bent his legs.

I released his balls and sucked the little strip of skin between his sack and puckered brown hole. I ran my tongue around his hole as gently as I could. Sean bucked upward and I slipped my tongue in, rimming and sucking. As I rimmed him Sean moaned quietly and his hands clenched and tried to grasp the bare mattress.

As I moved my tongue quickly in and out of his hole Sean's balls tightened against the bottom of his dick, two half ovals encased in wrinkled skin. He was close to cumming, breathing in quick, harsh, gasps. I returned to his dick, mouthing him and slowly moved down the shaft, swallowing all of him. His dick thickened slightly and I moved my head upward, drawing my tongue slowly along the shaft. He pushed his hips upward, and began to moan.

"Shit . . .shit . . . shit . . . SHIT . . . SHIT. . ." he groaned. He thrust again and his piss hole opened, and a great gout of thick cum slammed against the back of my throat. I sucked rapidly on his head as his body convulsed and his balls pumped another, then another blast onto my tongue. I swallowed rapidly, tasting every drop of fluid. His dick continued to pulse as I sucked and licked him clean.

Sean was thrashing his head back and forth as I continued to minister to him. "Stop . . .stop . . .stop . . ." He begged. "It feels too good. Too good."

I loved the taste of him. The unique combination of musk and body oil, and sweat, too, I guess, makes every man taste different, unique, unlike any other man. Sean's taste was glorious. I reluctantly released him and crawled up the bed to lie beside him.

I leaned over and kissed his closed eyelids. He smiled. His hand reached along my thigh and found my hardness. He thumbed it and then began to pump it. He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at me. "No one, I mean no one, has ever made cum like that."

"Told you I was going to suck you dry." I smiled.

"I ain't dry, yet." he replied. "And neither are you."

He quickly bent over and took me in his mouth, deep throating. I could feel the back of his throat as he slowly sucked and tongued me. His hand massaged my balls.

He slowly moved his head up my shaft, sucked the knob, and moved back down, a slow, gentle suck that set every nerve-ending on fire. I began to feel the pleasure building deep within my balls, then traveling upward toward my piss hole. Sean sensed that I was close. He continued his slow, long sucking. I felt my climax building, ready to explode out of me. I'm not a moaner, or a screamer. I had to warn him.

"Sean . . . I'm . . . going . . .to . . .cum . . .Sean . . .Sean!" I warned.

I thrust my hips hard. A wave of pleasure I had never felt before crashed over me. My dick thickened, my balls pulsed and the first of I don't know how many blasts of cum erupted into Sean's mouth. He sucked the upper half of my dick, lapping and swallowing as I filled him with my cum. I swear each time I blasted my heart stopped as an indescribable feeling clutched my cock and balls.

I lay back on the bed, panting, not believing what I had just felt. Sean released my dick and moved upward. He placed his lips against mine. There was a small ribbon of my cum dribbling from the corner of his mouth. I licked my own cum. A little salty, but nice.

"Told you." he said, as he kissed me again.

"Told me what?"

"I'm gonna suck you dry." He reached down and squeezed my soft dick. "This thing gonna work again?"

I reached over and squeezed him. "Depends. You sure this thing is gonna work again?"

"Money in the bank." he stated firmly. "Money in the bank."

That night was one of the best I ever had. Sean might not have been the best looking lay I've ever had, but sure as dammit he was one of the best. We had some wine, made love again, had some more wine, and made love again. Each time he filled me with a massive load. I came so much I couldn't believe my body could produce cum in such quantities.

We eventually went to sleep in each others arms. I fell asleep with Sean's head on my shoulder, his warm breath washing over me. I had never felt so contented.

Some time later I awoke with a bit of a start. Sean had moved during the night and was lying on his side, his back to me. I propped myself on one elbow and looked at my watch. Fuck. Four in the a.m. I had to get Sean back to his ship. I didn't know what would happen to him if he was adrift at 0600, but I knew that in my Navy it was good for up to 10 days Number 11 - confined to ship, no leave. I leaned back and ran my hand along his smooth body.

"Sean, time to get up."

He reached back, took my hand, and drew it down to his crotch. He was rock hard. I snuggled up to him, forming my body to his. My dick rose and I lay there, with my hand caressing his hot bone, my dick nestled snugly in his butt crack. He reached back, fisted me, and then guided my shaft toward the light brown hairless hole I had washed and sucked only hours before. He pushed his ass back and my knob touched his hole. He pulled me close to his body and I entered him.

As I entered him I felt him tense. I stopped pushing and he relaxed. I pushed some more and was all the way in, my balls flush against his ass, feeling the tight hairs that covered it against my naked flesh. I slowly pumped, withdrawing almost all the way, then pushing forward. Sean tensed his muscles and my dick began to swell. I wanted us to cum together, so, as I pumped his rod I matched my thrusts to my hand movement. I felt Sean's dick thicken, and he began to mutter his cum ritual.

I pumped faster and faster and when Sean gasped out his final "SHIT" I let go, filling his cavity with my thick spunk. Sean jerked once, and shot a stream across my hand and onto the mattress. He matched me spurt for spurt, his cum covering my hand, my cum oozing out of his hole. We both began to soften so I pulled out and released him. He rolled on his back and stretched.

"You sure know how to please a fellow." he said. He saw me slowly licking his cum off my hand. He smiled, reached down and with his finger wiped the smear of my cum off his hole. He raised his finger up and slowly licked my cum off it. He smiled, as if to say, two can play that game.

We showered together, just fooling around a little - we didn't get too hot and heavy, we didn't have the time.

I drove him back to the jetty where his ship was tied up. He got out of the car and gave me a slow, sad wave of good-bye. The last I ever saw of him was his back, as he walked slowly down the jetty.

We had promised to write, to keep in touch, but we never did. About fifteen years later I went to Charleston on business and the devil in me made me walk down the street where his family's house was located.

I never saw Sean, but I did see a black woman dressed in a maid's uniform. She stood in the doorway of a large house and shooed two boys, one about 10, the other a year or two older, down the steps. Both boys had slim, trim bodies, with dark red hair flecked with gold. And huge feet. As they passed me on the street I saw that they both had jade-green eyes. They nodded a friendly greeting and passed on.

I walked away wondering if Sean had kept to family tradition and married a cousin.