Date: Sat, 3 Jul 2004 18:48:14 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 12

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

My writing reflects the customs, mores, traditions, prejudices and
attitudes of the times. The year is 1976 and it was a different world. Some
of the attitudes will no doubt offend those who are so determinedly
politically correct that they are unable to conceive that others might have
a different opinion or outlook. Please, do not write me hooting and
hollering about your cause, prejudices, preferences or whatever. I am not
into causes. I AM a grumpy old sailor and I do not suffer fools gladly. Be
warned.

In 1976 the AIDS pandemic was only just infecting North America. Condoms
were used primarily to prevent pregnancy and gay men never gave a thought
to having sex with a condom. Do not, I beg you, let what was common in 1976
influence your conduct today. Always practice safe sex.

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

My thanks as always to Peter; whose editing skills bring everything
together.

To any of you who wish, please write me at paradegi@rogers.com. I respond
to all e-mails, except flames, unless I am in a particularly grumpy mood,
and then I flame back. Be warned!

The galley proofs of The Phantom of Aurora are now done and with the
publisher. Publication date is still unknown but I will make certain that
all my readers know when and where to obtain a copy.

Aurora Tapestry

Chapter 12

"Today I am a man." The Phantom laughed quietly at the brave words spoken
to Chef. "Am I really a man?"

The question echoed through The Phantom's brain as he sat dejectedly on his
bollard with his hands clasped between his knees and his head down. He
thoughts returned again and again to his love affair with The Gunner. In
many ways he knew that he had forced the issue. The Twins had connived to
help him, but at the end of the day The Phantom had to admit that he had
forced The Gunner into their affair.

And at the end of the day it had been a mistake. The Gunner was a man of
strange moods, and stranger actions. He was also a man of complete
dedication and the more The Phantom thought of it, the more he came to
realize that while The Gunner wanted, and needed, someone close to him, he
could never totally give himself over to that person. The Gunner had at
first given his life, and The Phantom suspected, a part of his soul, to the
Navy. Now, he had given what was left of his soul to the Order.

The Phantom had no idea what was going on, and doubted that in the great
scheme of things he would ever know. He only knew that The Gunner had been
true to his word. Always he had said, "One day I shall leave you." Always
he had warned that he would be called to duty and now, now that it had
happened, The Phantom realized that all The Gunner's strong warnings had
been to one purpose: to prepare him for today.

Standing, The Phantom's eyes scanned the harbour, taking in the dimly lit
sailboats anchored there and, far across the dark waters, the brilliantly
illuminated stretch of bars and restaurants that was the esplanade of
Comox. Again his eyes drifted to the Government Jetty, where the gate
vessel lay. He forced his eyes away. He must not think of Colin. Why start
something that could only be transitory? Why start something based, solely,
on sex?

Which was what his relationship with The Gunner had been, really. As Ray
would have said, sex with The Gunner had been brilliant. He had pleased his
young lover in every way he could, except one, and that was giving himself,
totally, completely, to The Phantom. The Gunner might be in love, but he
could never, ever, commit himself totally to that love. And The Phantom now
realized it. No matter what happened in the future they would never be
together. They might share a life for a few months, perhaps a few years,
and then The Gunner would be called away. He would go away, leaving the one
true love of his life to mourn his leaving. It was the way of it, and The
Phantom knew it.

"And so, I must be a man," he thought. "I must now walk alone until the day
comes that our paths cross again. I must walk tall, walk proud, and be the
man The Gunner knows me to be, the man Chef tells me I am."

Turning his back on the brightness and revelry of Comox, The Phantom walked
down the long jetty. He would walk alone.

******

As he passed the Essex, The Phantom saw Jeremy Cher sitting at the bottom
of the wooden gangway with his elbows on his knees and his chin cupped in
his hands. The young man looked sad and The Phantom stopped to ask him if
anything were wrong.

"Oh, no," replied Jeremy Cher brightly. "I'm just a little bored."

"Well, shift your buns and we'll chat for a while," returned The Phantom
with a smile. He looked out of the corner of his eyes and gave Jeremy Cher
a nudge in the ribs. "Nice night, isn't it. Gettin' any?"

When the full impact of The Phantom's jesting words sunk in, Jeremy Cher's
jaw dropped, then clicked shut. "Phantom!"

"Well, are you?" asked The Phantom with a laugh.

Realizing that The Phantom was pulling his pisser, Jeremy Cher returned The
Phantom's laugh. "Only from Mrs. Fist," he admitted seriously. His face
grew sad. "Always with Mrs. Fist, dammit!"

The Phantom laughed heartily. "Why Jeremy Cher, what a dirty minded thing
you are!"

Suddenly, Jeremy Cher, realizing what he had said, blushed. "Well, a guy
gets tired of . . . never mind."

Still laughing, The Phantom put his arm around Jeremy's shoulder. "Your day
will come. You're a good looking guy, and I know at least two girls who
would jump your bones in a New York minute."

"You do?"

"Sure," replied The Phantom with a nod. "Of course, their trails have been
well travelled, but never mind."

As The Phantom's voice trailed off, Jeremy Cher looked at him. "Is
something wrong?"

"No. I was just thinking that you're too nice a guy for the two harpies I
had in mind." The Phantom turned his head slightly and a smile formed on
his lips. "Believe it or not, Jeremy, your very first time should be with
someone you care about."

"Sort of like when you get married," asked Jeremy Cher.

The Phantom smiled whimsically. "Sometimes, yes. It's supposed to happen
that way, you know. You meet someone, you fall in love, and then you get
married."

"But sometimes not," said Jeremy. He looked at The Phantom and smiled
softly. "She dumped ya, huh?"

"What?"

"You got dumped," said Jeremy. "You're sitting out here, where you never
come, and staring off into space. You got dumped. Been there, done that."

"Why do they always equate love with a woman?" The Phantom asked
himself. For a moment he thought about how he was going to reply to Jeremy
Cher. He could lie, but then he had sworn so many times before that he
would not lie about his true feelings. He could make a joke, or he could
simply change the subject.

"Been dumped then, have you?" The Phantom asked in mocked seriousness.

"Yup." Jeremy seemed very proud of the fact that he had loved and lost. He
took great care to add, however, "But we never did anything. I mean we
necked, and fooled around a little, but . . ."

"You didn't even get to first base, did you?" asked The Phantom as he
looked seriously at Jeremy.

"No . . . I . . . how did you know?" asked Jeremy, blushing.

"Lucky guess," returned Phantom, laughing softly.  Jeremy made a face. "You
know, I sometimes think that I'd have a better chance around here than I
would back home."

The Phantom looked at Jeremy and snickered. "Jeremy, I really hate to tell
you, but there's nothing but guys around here."

"I know," replied Jeremy easily. "There's a few who wouldn't mind getting
their hands on Little Jeremy."

"Big Jeremy, or so I've heard," replied The Phantom with a snicker. "The
Squadron's answer to the Pride of the Fleet."

Jeremy laughed and nodded his head vigorously. "It's pretty big, but I'm
not interested." There was no braggadocio behind Jeremy's words. He was
straight, and simply had no interest in boys.

Still, The Phantom could not resist. "What, you never let Big Jeremy out to
play? Never even been tempted? Not even a little?"

A serious look came over Jeremy's face. "Well, yes, I have been
tempted. But Phantom, I am just not interested."

"Has anyone been pestering you?" asked The Phantom, his voice cold. "If
they have, I'll . . ."

Jeremy Cher lightly placed his hand on The Phantom's leg. "Phantom,
nobody's bothered me. Oh, they fool around, you know, asking to see it, and
feel it - which I don't let them do - but really, no."

"Well, if they do, you let me know and I'll sort them out."

"You would?"

"Sure. Why wouldn't I? If somebody bothers you, and you don't want to be
bothered, well, then that's the end of it. It's your dick, and you're the
one who lets it out to play."

Once again Jeremy's boyish laughter drifted over the jetty. "Oh, Phantom, I
wish you were ours!"

"Pardon?"

Jeremy regarded Phantom and smiled. "You know, I wish you were part of the
YAG Squadron. It's nice to have a Chief I can talk to!"

"What's wrong with the Chiefs you have? They seem to be a pretty good lot,"
returned The Phantom. "Chief Anders is an upright guy. He wouldn't let
anybody touch you."

Nodding, Jeremy considered The Phantom's words. "Yes, he is. But he's
always so, well, standoffish, if you know what I mean. The rest, well, some
of them just don't seem interested, and the others, well, they just pat my
bum, or worse, ruffle my hair - I hate it when they do that - it makes me
feel like I'm the Squadron poodle!"

"I'm sure they don't mean to."

"Well, maybe not," conceded Jeremy. "But they just don't seem interested in
just talking about things. They all seem to be too busy and they all seem
to keep together."

The Phantom had heard this tune before. When it had been played in the
barracks and the Gunroom, Operation Warm Fuzzy had resulted. He wondered if
he should have a quiet word with Sean. He looked at Jeremy. "I want to tell
you something, Jeremy Cher. I am one of you, and I am yours. You can talk
to me anytime you like. I'll listen, and if you have a problem, I'll help
you."

"I know."

"You do?"

Once again Jeremy's head nodded vigorously. "Just because I'm buried down
in the Dockyard it doesn't mean I don't know who is who on the base. And I
saw you on Yochim Island. That was a very brave thing you did, Phantom."

"I only did what you, or any other guy would do," protested The Phantom.

"No. I saw how you protected Matt Greene and the two cooks. A lot of guys
would have panicked and tried to save themselves. You saw that tree coming
down and you protected the others. A lot of guys would have run away."

"You give me too much credit," objected The Phantom.

"No. I've heard about you. I heard how you took care of Joey and Randy. I
also heard that you rang that little prick, Paul Greene, for six. Not once,
but twice." Jeremy smiled. "I also heard you got big balls!"

"Figuratively or literally?" returned The Phantom with a laugh.

"Well, unless you drop your drawers and show them to me, I'll never know,"
replied Jeremy honestly. "I'll just imagine that they're bigger than mine
and wish that mine grow as big as yours." He put his arm around The
Phantom's waist and hugged him. "Phantom, you're somebody I want to have as
a friend."

"You already have," replied The Phantom quietly. "No matter what, Jeremy
Cher, I'll always be around for you, for all the other guys."

Jeremy sighed happily. "Somehow I knew you would say that." He raised his
head and looked into The Phantom's eyes. "You know, if I ever did decide to
fool around, to take Big Jeremy out for a stroll, it would be with you."

"Me?"

"Figuratively speaking, of course," snickered Jeremy.

******

Jeremy's hero-worshipping had at once embarrassed The Phantom and buoyed
his spirits. He had not believed Cory when he had said that he had this
effect on other males and as he walked out of the Dockyard and back toward
the Mess Hall, The Phantom realized that he had friends. He would never be
lonely. There would always be someone, a Jeremy perhaps, a Cory, a Todd or
a Matt, who would want to walk down the path of life with him. It was, The
Phantom realized, time to move on. He could not change the events of the
past few days. He could never, he knew, change The Gunner.

He stopped and looked into the star-studded sky. There would be no
campfires. Shaking his head, The Phantom went into the Mess Hall.

******

While he had accepted that his love affair with The Gunner was over, The
Phantom still wanted to be alone. He decided that he would go home for the
weekend. Tomorrow was Sunday, and he would have spent the day mooching
around, doing nothing. Or listening to the Twins bicker, or watch Harry
strutting about and flashing the Pride, or fending off Matt, who seemed
determined to climb into the sack with him again.

Deciding to take some of the silver pieces from the Admiral's Dining room
home, The Phantom walked through the galley towards Chef's office, where
the keys for Dry Stores, which was where the silver pieces and flatware had
been hidden, wondering what he was going to do about Matt. As he opened the
top drawer of Chef's desk, The Phantom wondered what Matt was
doing. Probably asleep, he thought as he moved aside some papers to locate
the keys.

******

Nicholas grunted loudly as his orgasm overwhelmed him and he thrust firmly
upward, emptying the last of his seed into the body of Matt Greene, who
writhed under him. He felt Matt's arms snake around his neck and pull his
body forward. Their lips touched and as his orgasm waned Nicholas kissed
Matt open-mouthed, as deep a kiss as he had ever received.

When he drew away, his still hard penis imbedded in Matt's rectum,
Nicholas' soft, satisfied sigh coursed through the stuffy air of the
Armoury Office. Beneath him, Matt smiled. "Not bad, for a bunting tosser,"
he said, although his eyes were bright with the satisfaction he felt.

"How many bunting tossers have you fucked?" asked Nicholas as he tried to
pull away from Matt. He felt the muscles of Matt's rectum tighten around
his penis and Matt's hands pull him close to his body.

"You're still hard," replied Matt with a grin.

"And you haven't cum," returned Nicholas. He began a gentle, rhythmic
thrusting. Deep in the back of his mind he knew that he should feel guilty
being with Matt. He was in love with André, had committed himself to the
French-Canadian boy and he shouldn't be doing this, but Goddamn, Goddamn,
was Matt a good fuck!

Matt groaned loudly as the head of Nicholas' penis brushed against his
prostate. He seemed to know what Nicholas was thinking but said nothing. He
pushed back to meet Nicholas's thrusting hips and tightened his grip on the
Yeoman.

Nicholas pants came faster and faster as his movements sped up. This would
be his third trip around the buoy and he knew that he would not last long.

They had barely closed the door to the office when Matt had kissed Nicholas
and thrust his hands down Nicholas' shorts, cupping his testicles and
feeling his already hard penis. Before both of them knew it they were on
the deck, sixty-nining, and Nicholas, who had not had sex since André had
left, had exploded in Matt's mouth in what was for him, record time. He had
tried to apologize but Matt had merely fumbled around in the pockets of his
shorts and withdrawn a small tube of Vaseline. He had calmly, and
wordlessly, spread the lubricant over Nicholas' penis and lay down, with
his legs in the air. Nicholas knew what Matt wanted, and had given it to
him.

Once again Nicholas' grunting filled the office and he collapsed on top of
Matt. He could feel his heart pounding and his dick shrinking and when it
fell away from Matt's body he rolled aside. He ran the back of his hand
across his sweat-drenched forehead. "Jesus, Matt," was all he could say.

Matt lay, satisfied and sated, for a few minutes and then sat up. He
stretched and reached down to feel his still dilated rectum. Then he felt
the crimson head of his penis, idly wiping away a small drop of precum that
had oozed out of the slit. Shuddering, he looked at Nicholas and smiled
warmly. He reached out and gave Nicholas' sensitive penis a
squeeze. Nicholas jumped and Matt giggled. "Sorry. Forgot how some guys get
when they blow."

"I blew three times," Nicholas reminded Matt. He raised himself up on one
elbow. "And you still haven't got off."

Shrugging, Matt lay back down. "So what? This is not a contest. I wanted to
be fucked. You fucked me, so we're even."

Nicholas was shocked. "Matt!"

Matt returned Nicholas's look of outrage. "Don't read anything into what we
just did," he growled. "You wanted to fuck me, I wanted fuck you. You don't
owe me anything." Then he sat up again and ran his fingers through his
close-cropped blond hair. "Nicholas, I like you. I've always liked you and
I consider you a good bud. I'm not trying to put a downer on us being here,
but we both know why we're here. You're in love with André, period. I asked
you here because I knew that, and because I knew that nothing serious was
ever going to happen between us. I suppose, to be honest, I wanted a fuck
buddy, nothing more."

"And to be honest, so did I," replied Nicholas. He snickered. "Never
thought it would be you, though."

"Well, I am," returned Matt. He snuggled against Nicholas and began
fondling his nipples. "I'm gay, and I like sex. You're gay and you
definitely like sex. We're not going to set up housekeeping, so let's not
get all mushy."

"Just two guys, huh?"

"Would you have it any other way?" asked Matt.

"No," replied Nicholas. "As much as I enjoyed fucking you, I just need
. . ."

"A fuck buddy."

"Yes."

"Okay then." Matt reached down and began rubbing the palm of his hand
across the sex-flushed head of Nicholas' penis. "We'll have some fun, and
both of us will be happy. Fair enough?"

"Nope," replied Nicholas. He rolled over and straddled Matt. "You still
haven't cum!"

"Nicholas, it's not necessary."

"Oh, yes, it is!" returned Nicholas firmly. "Fuck buddies take care of each
other. That's the whole point of being fuck buddies."

"It is, is it?" asked Matt, a huge smile breaking his face. "Well, if you
insist."

"I do."

"In that case, get off of me and lie down on your back."

Matt positioned himself between Nicholas' legs and pushed them up and
back. He could see Nicholas' brown and pink hole and said, "Have you ever
done this before?"

Laughing, Nicholas nodded his head. "Of course." He glanced over and saw
the pink head of Matt's penis and snickered. "Mind you, you're a lot bigger
than André."

"Yeah? Well maybe I'd better get you ready." Matt drew back and lowered his
head, his tongue flicking outward.

Nicholas squealed and bucked as Matt's tongue crossed his opening.

"What's the matter? Have you never done that?"

"Jesus, no," Nicholas gasped. "Do it again!"

Matt responded to Nicholas' gasping request and then curled his tongue into
a tube. Nicholas did not know it, but tonight he would receive the
education of his life.

******

As he pushed aside the papers, The Phantom noticed the hastily written
words that filled the pages. He saw The Gunner's name and shamelessly began
to read. The more he read the more intrigued he became. He lowered himself
into the chair and his green eyes scanned the pages filled with Chef's
crabbed, but still neat, handwriting.

When he was finished reading, The Phantom carefully replaced the
documents. "Holy fuck!" he ejaculated profanely as he closed the desk
drawer. "Holy fuck!"

******

When Michael entered his office he found the Major waiting patiently for
him. Their words had been heated, but not vicious. Michael, as much as he
felt distaste for the Englishman interfering in his private affairs, knew
that deep down the Major was only looking out for what he thought were
Michael's best interests, and in a way Michael felt responsible for the
Major's interference. He had never really explained his feelings, his sense
of dedication to the Order.

What had surprised Michael was that the Major had not backed down, not a
whit, standing his ground, his eyes flashing and his back straight. But
then, the Major had faced the Chinese army in Korea, and Communist
guerrillas in Malaya. He glanced at the Major, who was reading a thick
file. The Major looked up, nodded, and went back to his reading.

Michael advanced across the office and saw that on his desk lay the
Marriage Contract, a huge piece of vellum, more an illustrated manuscript
than a legal document, decorated with vivid reds and gold, and replete with
dragons and mythical Chinese beasts. The bold, black, Chinese hieroglyphs
seemed to be engraved rather than written in ink. Beside the document was a
small pot of black ink, a brush, and the ancient, wooden box that held
Michael's personal chop, his seal, a large, square, engraved slab of
jade. Along the bottom edge of the contract, attached with red, imperial
crimson ribbons, were a series of silver, gold-lined containers, ready to
be filled with wax and imprinted with the seals of the witnesses.

The document had been prepared in Hong Kong by the bride's family, and
contained the terms of their marriage, which had been agreed to more than
six months before. Michael had delayed and delayed signing the paper. Now,
he must. He sighed explosively.

The Major slowly closed his file and adjusted his tie. "It must be done,
Michael."

Nodding, Michael stared at the document. "I know," he said presently. "I am
aware that by marrying I bind myself closer to my cousins in Hong Kong and
on the mainland, in Shanghai." He laughed sarcastically. "I will marry a
woman whom I have never met, and will never love, all for the sake of
conformity."

"Conformity?"

Michael regarded the Major, his eyes dancing with self-deprecating
laughter. "I once told our Chancellor that both he and I would conform to
the customs and mores of the cultures in which we live. I wonder, in light
of what we ask of him, and of what I am about to do, if either of us
appreciates the irony of that statement!"

The Major, who sympathised with Michael, nodded his head slowly. "Michael,
you demand too much of yourself." He held up his hand before Michael could
reply. "I understand your reasoning, I understand why you feel you must be
. . . alone, why you have chosen to dedicate your life to the Order. I make
no comment and I neither condemn nor condone. I do wish that you would
. . ."

With a way of his hand Michael silenced the Major. "It is to be done, and
there is to be no more discussion." Abruptly he went behind the desk, sat
down and with the brush affixed his signature to the document.

The Major watched Michael's every move and when the contract had been
signed he rose slowly, walked to the desk, opened the box and withdrew
Michael's seal. Carefully he pressed the jade block into the centre of the
paper. When he stepped back he saw imprinted, in vivid red, Michael's
personal chop. The matter was settled and Michael would marry.

"Have you given any thought to the witnesses?" the Major asked as he
returned the seal to its box.

"You, Laurence, and Patrick," replied Michael.

"Patrick?"

Smiling, Michael nodded. "Our friends in Hong Kong will expect that you
will witness, and Laurence. They know that you both enjoy high positions in
my household and expect that I would show favour to you. As for Patrick
. . ." He ran his hand over his face and his eyes softened. "Patrick will
be my companion, my friend, perhaps my secretary. I wish it to become known
that he his very important to me, and sits in my council chamber." He gave
the Major a serious look. "Patrick will not be my consort. I have
disappointed him and I wish to make up for that disappointment."

"Your friends will be raising their eyebrows when they see the signature,
and seal, of a Tsang on your marriage contract."

A low chuckle rose from Michael's throat. He pushed back his chair and
said, "But then, their eyebrows will rise to the heavens when they see him
come off of the aircraft with you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Major, Patrick will accompany you to Hong Kong. Seeing a Chinese face will
appease my in-laws. It will also send them a signal that the Tsangs have
been raised to a new level of importance. It will signal that Patrick, and
his family, are no longer peasants."

The Major's reply was a non-committal grunt.

"You do not approve?" asked Michael, prepared to defend Patrick, but not
wanting to set off another row.

"Of Patrick? Of course I approve. I chose him after all."  Michael
laughed. "Did you really examine him as if you were purchasing a gelding?"

"Hardly a gelding," retorted The Major with a sly grin. "It is just that I
had an idea to have him help Laurence with the new lad."

"The new lad? A staff member?"

The Major nodded. "But not as a footman, or house. Outside security
perhaps."

"Ah, the boy our Chancellor recommended to us."

"Yes. He arrived this morning."

******

Logan Hartsfield had switched off the television set in his room and padded
into the bathroom. He stripped off and turned on the shower. He really did
not know what else to do. He had no idea where he was, other than that he
was in Vancouver; he had no idea why he was ensconced in a room so
luxuriantly appointed that it made him afraid to touch anything, even the
huge bed, which looked as if it had been made for a king at the very least,
and not some piece of Comox trailer trash.

As he showered Logan thought of what had happened to him after he had
stepped off the bus from Comox. He had puzzled all the way from the town of
his birth about Brian, Brian Venables, the Sea Cadet who had befriended
him. Brian had shown genuine concern for him, and had listened to him as he
poured out his heart to him. "Could Brian have spoken to someone who had
spoken to someone and . . .?"

Logan had stepped off of the bus and had been met by a formally attired
Chinese man, who had introduced himself as Eddy Tsang. At first Logan, who
had heard stories about men who loitered around bus terminals waiting for
the country bumpkins, had drawn back. He was not afraid for he knew that
the slightly built, handsome young Chinaman would be no match for him. He
had perfected his skills as a street fighter in every dive in Comox, and a
few points in between.  Eddy Tsang had hastened to put Logan's mind at
ease. He was, he had informed Logan, a friend, a friend who had been sent
to meet him and to conduct him to a place of safety. Logan was also
informed that he was not to worry, as he enjoyed the patronage of a friend
of the Serenity.

Logan had no idea who or what a Serenity was. All he knew was that he had
allowed himself to be led to a long, low, black limousine and driven to a
massive house in Victoria's Chinatown and into the middle of a chaotic and
cacophonous Chinese festival!

Eddy Tsang had at first been miffed at being called out in the middle of
his second born son's sealing. All around him his relatives, cousins,
aunts, uncles, were stuffing themselves with every delicacy his shop
offered. Outside in the street a Dragon danced, and drums
pounded. Fireworks were exploding and those of his neighbours who had not
been invited to the reception - and had long since given up trying to
fathom the doings of the Tsangs - were being treated to a barbecue. Long
tables had been set up in the street, which had been closed to vehicular
traffic and a mountain of roast pork, chickens, ducks and assorted
comestibles were being devoured and an ocean of beer being drunk. The
Chinese loved a party as well as their white neighbours, and Eddy Tsang
made sure that nothing was denied, no corners cut, nothing stinted and
nothing that could give even a hint of meanness.

Inside the house the guests had been forced to wait impatiently for Eddy to
return from his errand. They did not, of course, object in any way. They
were, most of them, Tsangs, and quite accustomed to being called at the
most inopportune times to serve their Emperor. It was to be expected and
Tsang Su Shun, Clan Elder, Eddy's father and grandfather of the boy child
about to be sealed to the Serenity's service, had looked stern when Eddy
had tried to pass off the job to his younger brother, Paulie. Paulie, the
father had sternly informed his elder son, had not been called. He, Eddy
had, and he was to do what was asked of him.

Eddy, his father's admonition still ringing in his ears, had gone off to
fetch the ferengi, the foreigner.  With Eddy's departure, Su Shun had
assumed the role of host. He was very aware of the very special attention
paid to Eddy's newest son, and the very special place the Tsangs now held
in the Imperial Household. Unkindly, old Shun thought that Eddy might hold
a Bachelor of Commerce degree from UBC, but at times he could be the
dumbest Chink ever to walk down the gangplank!

Shun had worked long, and very hard, to ingratiate himself with Michael
Chan, and before him Uncle Henry Chan. He had forcibly dragged his
disreputable relatives into the 20th Century, cleaned house and locked that
womanizing drunkard, Tsang Tso Sheng away. Shun's conscience was untroubled
at his dethroning of his brother. Sheng had been a fool who had clung to
the old ways, refusing to recognize when Michael Chan succeeded Uncle Henry
that the family would have to change, to move forward. Sheng had been
content to live off of the crumbs from the Imperial table, drinking his
life away, sticking his pizzle into increasingly disreputable harlots, and
bringing shame to his wife, his children, and the Clan.

Shun had watched his brother's dissolute lifestyle with distaste. He knew,
as Sheng had seemed to have forgotten, that the Clan lived and died,
existed, at the pleasure of the Serenity. As the font of Honour and Favour,
Uncle Henry could be generous. As an angry patron Uncle Henry could be
ruthless.

Not having any great desire to return to some mud-walled village in China,
where he would cultivate rice fertilized with cow dung and human shit, Shun
had bided his time. He had ingratiated himself with Uncle Henry and, when
it had come time for him to marry, had petitioned the old man for a
bride. Uncle Henry, who understood such things, and flattered at the
attention being given him, and pleased that there was at least one Tsang
around who understood the necessity for the Clan to come in out of the
rain, had provided a sweet, docile, and quite pretty maiden, chosen for her
serenity of character and obvious fertility. He had even provided a more
than generous dowry.

Nine months and eight days after his wedding, Shun held in his arms his
firstborn, a son, and a new idea formed in his mind.

As a young man Shun had been special minder to various and sundry Chiang
boys and their Chan cousins, and seen that each Canadian born male had been
given the mark of nobility. He therefore petitioned Uncle Henry to allow
that his son, who would one day lead the Clan, be given the special mark
that would, in the eyes of the other Tsangs, and the Clan Elders, proclaim
not only Uncle Henry's favour, but that he, Tsang Su Shun, stood high in
the council of the Serenity. Uncle Henry, being a perspicacious man, and
recognizing the importance of fostering elitism, and to shut Shun up, had
agreed. As a special mark of his favour he had send a small gold cup, and a
jewelled seal to the hospital where Eddy, squalling, had been "sealed" to
his service and, much to his surprise, the doctor who circumcised Eddy
found a small packaging containing an exquisite piece of Imperial jade
carving on his desk.

Andy had followed Eddy, and Paulie had followed Andy, in turn followed by
Patrick, who even now was living, living, in the Imperial Precincts of the
Forbidden City!

Each sealing had become more elaborate, moved from the hospital to a
special altar-like table set up in the Tsang mansion that dominated Keefer
Street in Vancouver's Chinatown, and was as far from the family compound as
Shun could manage. Each sealing had brought, for the boy, a gold cup and a
jewelled seal. The doctor, who could not believe his good fortune, saw his
collection of jade increased, two pieces for Paulie, three for Andy, and
four magnificent specimens for Patrick.

As the years passed, Uncle Henry's largesse, and pleasure had been shown in
many ways, not least of which had been the "living" given to Shun to
provide for his family. At first glance a grocery store had seemed a small
thing. But . . . Inside of Shun's first store were provisions and
delicacies from every province in China, provisions and delicacies that
only he offered for sale. No other shop, no matter how influential the
owner, no matter who his friends were, could offer, at first the people of
Chinatown, and later the populations of Vancouver and Victoria such a
widely varied variety of luxury food and wine.

In return, the Tsangs had provided, as they always did, special services to
Uncle Henry, later to his heir, Michael Chan. Some of these services had
been onerous, others not so. It did not matter, the Tsangs, particularly
Shun and his sons, obeyed the will of the Serenity, who showered them with
gifts and wealth, and forgave them the one aberration. Joey Tsang had
betrayed the family honour, and paid the price. The Clan continued, as it
always had.

And now, displayed as if they were holy relics, on a table surrounded by
flowers, were a new gold mug, and an even more magnificent seal. The
doctor, son of the original "sealer", waited patiently, for he had seen the
gift of gold awaiting him when he performed the procedure. Michael Chan
knew when to continue a tradition.

The appearance of a white man in Eddy's house was not commented upon. It
was enough that Logan enjoyed the favour of Michael Chan. He had been
welcomed, invited to witness the sealing and then asked to participate in
the festivities.

Logan, not quite understanding what he had been brought to, had managed to
deport himself with a small modicum of dignity. A very smart suit, white
shirt and tie, a gift from Paulie Tsang, who was almost exactly the same
height and weight as Logan, had replaced his clothing. While there had been
oceans of liquor on offer, Logan had confined himself to soda water. He had
eaten sparingly and simply watched.

Later, as he lay in a bed in one of Eddy's Tsang's guestrooms, he had told
himself that he was no longer in Comox, Toto.

******

The day after his arrival, Logan had been informed that it was the
Serenity's wish that he live as quietly as possible. He was given
employment as a shop assistant in Cousin Eddy's grocery emporium. An
apartment, small, but very clean and furnished, had been provided, as had
been a new wardrobe more in keeping with Logan's new station. When Logan
expressed the desire to enrol in the Army, he had been personally driven to
the recruiting office by Eddy, and assured that letters of recommendation
would be provided if required. Logan was, after all, in the favour of the
Serenity and all things would be his. All he had to do was ask.

Logan thought the whole clan was nuts. He accepted that someone, somewhere,
had determined that his basic needs were provided for. He suspected that
Brian Venables had a hand in it, though how a kid could command such
obvious power, or know people of such obvious influence, escaped him. Why
Brian, or whoever would do this for him Logan did not know and wondered on
more than one occasion if Brian, or this Serenity, or whoever, was queer
for him.

As he stepped from the shower Logan snickered. He most certainly thought a
lot of himself! Logan knew that he was handsome, with a smooth, muscular
body, and a hefty set of goods between his legs. More than once, as he
served customers in the shop, male and female, he felt the same invisible
signs of lust that he had felt when he walked Harkness Beach. He had not,
however, acted on those feelings. He had not, in fact, done anything sexual
since arriving in Victoria. Nor had he had anything to drink, or smoked
dope. He was clean, and he planned on staying that way.

Which led him to wonder, as he left the bathroom and donned his boxers,
just what in the hell he was doing here. He had seen enough to know that he
was in a large house, a house that was surrounded by gardens and a
wall. The man, or woman, who owned the house, obviously had money to
burn. The grounds, which he could see through the wide windows of his room,
were immense, and filled with groves of trees and bed after bed of
colourful flowers. While this was hardly cause for alarm, the security did
give Logan pause. He had noticed that while all of the servants were male,
and white, the grounds were roamed by what seemed to be a small army of
Chinese. He had also noticed as the car drove along the street on which the
estate sat, that there seemed to have an inordinate number of strolling
tourists, hikers, and horseback riders, all of whom were male, and white.

Shaking his head, Logan settled into his bed. While it was latish, he
really could not think of anything else to do but sleep. There were books,
at least a dozen of them, sitting on the bed table and the small tables
that flanked the fireplace. Logan was not a reader. He could have watched
television, but late night TV was boring and consisted primarily of reruns,
or talk shows, none of which interested him. He had been tempted to step
outside, and sit on the terrace, but something held him back. No one had
told him that he could not leave the room, or the house for that matter. He
had been treated with deference and as an honoured guest, well, except for
the Kipper who had led him to his room and gone away muttering about a
"nice bit o' crumpet for the old bastard".

Logan had mulled over the cryptic comment all day, and was still mulling it
over when there was a knock on his door. He left his bed and opened the
door, to be confronted by a tall, spare, quite handsome man dressed in a
red jacket. Logan's eyes widened at the sight and wondered if this was the
"old bastard" come to call the tune from a most reluctant piper.

******

"Good evening," said the Major as he entered Logan's room. Laurence and
Patrick Tsang followed and moved silently to one side as the Major
introduced himself. "I am Richard Meinertzhagen. May I sit down?"

Unable to speak, Logan nodded and pointed to the sofa that stood against
the far wall. As he was wearing only his boxers, he instinctively lowered
his hands, guarding his crotch.

The Major saw the movement but said nothing. This young man had acted
instinctively, protecting what were to him his most precious
possessions. That would change.

The Major held out his hand and Laurence handed him a slim dossier. Making
a great, and unnecessary production out of reading the file, for he had
read it, and memorized the contents, the Major gathered his thoughts and
then regarded the young man. "You are Logan Hartsfield?" He paused and then
added, "No middle name, I note."

"Um, yeah, I mean yes, I'm Logan Hartsfield." Logan glanced at the two
other men, who remained impassive, even when he added, "My father was too
drunk to come up with more than one name."

The Major's eyebrow shot up but he merely commented, "Born on the 12th of
October, 1958, in Comox."

"Yes," replied Logan, confused and a little frightened at the continued
silence of the two other men.

The Major nodded slightly and Patrick walked forward, seeming to confront
Logan, who returned the young Chinese's stare. In what seemed to be the
blink of an eye, Patrick's right hand flashed out, to be met with Logan's,
who again had acted instinctively. The Chinese had telegraphed danger and
Logan had sensed it. All his street smarts suddenly activated, all the
danger signals sounded and as the hand flashed toward him his own flew up,
capturing it.

Within seconds Patrick's left hand moved, only to be captured, made
immobile by the strong fist of the young white man. They stood, facing each
other, straining, their hands pushing slowly forward and backward, each
trying to gain the advantage of the other.

"Enough," came the Major's firm voice.

Patrick released Logan, stepped back, nodded, and then said with a
smile. "He is strong, this one."

"He will need to be," answered the Major. He regarded Logan and motioned
for the young man to sit.

"You have been treated well?" asked the Major as Logan settled himself on
the bed.

"Yes, very, thank you," replied Logan politely.

"Do not thank me just yet," replied the Major enigmatically. He regarded
Logan balefully. "It is my understanding that you are a child of the
streets, a denizen of a trailer park, who has lived by his wits for many
years."

Embarrassed, Logan hung his head. "Yes."

"You sold drugs?"

"Yes."

"And, I suspect, prostituted yourself?" the Major finished delicately.

Logan knew better than to lie and though he felt like weeping, he nodded
and answered truthfully. "Yes."

"Had you not been truthful you would have been returned to Victoria and
your employment with Eddy Tsang."

"And now?" interrupted Logan. "What are you . . .?"

"Young man, you seem to enjoy the patronage of the Chancellor of the
Sovereign and Noble Order of St. John of the Cross of Acre. You have also
the friendship of one who is close to the Chancellor." The Major stood up
and confronted Logan, his eyes level. "You are therefore offered a position
in the service of the Grand Master of the Order. Your natural talents will
be honed and when the time comes, you will be asked to perform a
service. If you give your word . . ."

"What good is the word of a thief, a liar, and a part time hooker?"
demanded Logan bitterly. His mind was reeling, and he could not understand
what was happening to him, could not divine what could be asked of him.

"Good enough for Brian Venables to beg that you be considered, good enough
for the Chancellor of the Order to take you into his personal protection."

"The Chancellor? What chancellor?"

"The man who has directed that you be educated and fostered, and made into
something you are not now. A man."

******

As his mind digested the writings that Chef had inadvertently left behind,
The Phantom loaded the back of the Rover with the silver flatware and the
Antwerp Centrepiece. The other parts and pieces of the Dining Room he would
move piecemeal. At the moment he had too much on his mind to think about
what Ray always called "old dishes".  As he drove across the causeway, The
Phantom glanced to his left, and saw the lights of the gate vessel in the
distance. He was tempted to swing into town, pull alongside the ship, and
see if Colin was aboard.

A foolish thought, reasoned The Phantom as he drew closer to the town. What
point was there in starting something that could only be a one-nighter, a
flash in the pan. All the tired old clichés crowded his mind. He sighed
heavily as he turned away from downtown. He would have enjoyed a few hours
with Colin, but it was not to be, no matter what Cory thought or said.

******

In a way, The Phantom was not surprised to find the house dark and
locked. With his mother away in Regina, attending Brendan's wedding, his
father no doubt was taking advantage of the situation and working overtime
as he had done before when his wife was off somewhere.

After unloading the car and hiding the silver under his bed, The Phantom
walked through the house, feeling lonely, and alone. While he could not,
did not, dare to tell his father the reason for his feelings, still The
Phantom would have relished the old man's company. He would have been
someone to talk to.

The Phantom walked through the empty house, his footsteps echoing, and out
into the back garden. The night was warm, and the stars above very
bright. He stripped off and, naked, swam several lengths of the pool,
hoping the exertion would drive the demons of sadness from his soul. As he
swam he told himself over and over again that he was a man now, with a
man's responsibilities and that he had to face the future, as a man.

While the swim helped, as did Jeremy Cher's remembered words, The Phantom
still felt lonely. Not bothering to dress, he gathered up his clothes and
returned to his room where he casually threw the soiled garments into a
corner. His first thought was that his mother was always declaring his room
a disaster area, which it wasn't, so he might as well give her something to
really complain about. Then he suffered a pang of conscience, or neatness,
and he picked up his dirty laundry and threw it into the hamper.

He decided to shower and as he walked down the corridor, still naked, and
thoroughly enjoying the feeling of freedom, he saw that the door to his
parents' room was ajar. He peeked in, half expecting to see his father
sleeping soundly. The bed was empty, but draped over the chair and dressing
table were empty plastic cleaner's bags, and wrappings from the white
shirts his father wore with his uniforms.

The Phantom entered the bedroom, idly scratching his backside, and
wondering what his father was up to. He opened the closet and saw that the
overnight bag his father always carried when he went on a trip somewhere,
was missing. Curious.

Showering, The Phantom wondered where his father might have got to. He had
not mentioned that he would be going away, and he never stayed overnight in
Courtenay, preferring to sleep in his own bed. Something important must
have come up, The Phantom decided, so when he finished his shower he went
downstairs and, although the hour was late, he dialled the Jensen's
telephone number.

As the telephone on the other end was picked up, The Phantom realized, too
late, that Robbie might still be up and the last brat on earth he wanted to
speak to was Robbie Jensen, who no doubt would try to put the moves on him,
or make some smartass comment.

The Phantom was relieved to hear Mrs. Jensen's voice. "Oh, hi,
Mrs. Jensen," he said quickly, "I'm sorry to be calling so late, but have
you seen my Dad?"

The line was silent, as if Mrs. Jensen was trying to think who would be
calling so late. It was then that The Phantom remembered that he had not
told the woman who was calling.  "Uh, it's me, Phantom Lascelles,
Mrs. Jensen."

"Oh, Phantom dear. How are you," replied Mrs. Jensen. Her voice was
slightly slurred and The Phantom thought that Mrs. Jensen had been into the
cooking sherry.

"I'm fine. Have you seen my dad?"

"Oh, well, yes dear. He and Mr. Jensen are in Nanaimo."

The Phantom's eyes widened in surprised. "Nanaimo? What's he doing there?"

Mrs. Jensen's voice assumed the quiet air of one in the presence of death,
or the main viewing room of a funeral parlour. "He and Mr. Jensen went to a
funeral. One of the detectives died." Her voice lowered to almost a
whisper. "Cancer."

The Phantom could never understand why people seemed to automatically lower
their voices and whisper, or mouth, the word "cancer". He knew that it was
a terrible disease, but in many cases it could be cured. He also knew that
there was a very real, special closeness that existed between police
officers of all departments and countries. They lived their lives
depending, much as sailors did, only on each other, and when one of them
passed, or was killed, they closed ranks, expressing their love and
compassion and no policeman ever went to his grave alone.

" . . . And he and Mr. Jensen won't be back until sometime tomorrow,"
Mrs. Jensen was saying when The Phantom began to pay attention to her
again. "You know that there's always a reception after the funeral and you
know how Mr. Jensen can get at times."

Unfortunately, The Phantom did know. Harry Jensen was a boozer who didn't
know when to quit. He did not envy his father at all.

After ringing off, The Phantom went back upstairs, having decided to have a
goodnight cigarette and hit the sack. He found his cigarettes, but could
not find his lighter. Then he remembered where he had left it. He walked to
the laundry hamper, rummaged around and found his shorts. He reached into
the pocket and found his lighter. He also found the piece of paper that
Chef had thrust in his hand.

Carefully unfolding the note, he read a telephone number, and the carefully
block-printed word, "Brow".

Lighting his cigarette, The Phantom wondered how Chef could possibly know
his feelings, how the old cook could possibly understand that tonight he
might need a special friend. And how could he know that the special friend
The Phantom might need would be . . .

He hurried downstairs and dialled the telephone number. After two rings, he
heard the answering voice.

"HMCS Porte de le Roi, Duty Quartermaster speaking, sir."

******

Colin could not for a minute think who would be calling him. It could not
be official. If it were, Neal Menzies, as Officer of the Day, would take
the call. It could not be personal, because he knew no one in Comox, and no
one outside of Comox knew he was here. Their coming into port had been
unscheduled and he had not called anyone back home to let them know where
he was. He picked up the receiver from the morose
Quartermaster. "Lieutenant Arnott, sir."

"Uh, hi, Colin. It's me."

Colin recognized the voice and his heart skipped a beat. The Phantom could
not see the broad smile that spread across Colin's face as he said, "Hi,"
his voicing for some reason automatically dropping. "I never expected to
hear from you."

"Well . . ."

"But I am glad you called," Colin said hastily. "Very glad."

"You are?"

"Yes." Colin paused and then said quietly. "I meant every word, every word
I said today."

It was The Phantom's turn to pause before answering. Then he said, "I
know." Then he blurted, "I know it's late, but . . . I'd like to see
you. You're not duty, are you? Can you get ashore?"

"I'm not duty, and I can get ashore," replied Colin. "But I thought you
were out at . . ."

Colin heard The Phantom let out a long, deep breath of air before he said,
"I've got weekend leave, and I'm at home. I only live about five minutes
from you, and I thought, maybe, we could be together for a little while."

"I'd like that," replied Colin.

"I'll pick you up." There was another long pause and then The Phantom
added, "Colin, I want to be with you, but . . . well, I'm not sure that
we'll, you know."

Colin knew, and didn't care. "Just being with you is enough."

"I just don't want to sail under false colours. I only know I want to see
you."

"Fine. Can you give me say, half an hour? I've been working all night in my
cabin and I need to shower. And change."

"Sure," agreed The Phantom. "But Colin, you don't have to dress for me."

Colin wondered if The Phantom realized what he had just said, and chuckled
softly. "Are you suggesting that I go ashore . . . nekkid?"

The Phantom gasped, sputtered, and then laughed quietly. "You know what I
mean!"

"I do, and I still need half an hour."

"I'll be waiting at the end of the jetty. I'm driving a navy blue Land
Rover."

******

Although he expected that nothing would happen between him and The Phantom,
Colin still showered carefully. He was prepared to go along with whatever
The Phantom wanted to do, just as he was prepared to obey the old cook's
admonitions.

After showering Colin put on clean briefs, red Adidas shorts, a white
T-shirt and Jesus boots. He doubted that he and The Phantom would end up in
a bar - Phantom was too young to drink, at least legally and in public -
and if all they were going to do was to drive around just being together,
then Colin wanted to do so in comfort.

When Colin arrived on deck he looked around for Neal, who was nowhere in
sight. He looked inquiringly at the Quartermaster, who nodded ashore. Colin
looked down the jetty and frowned. He did not know what Commander Edmonds
had said to Neal, but it was obvious that it had been to little, or no,
effect.

Neal was standing halfway down the jetty chatting up two dollies, both
blond, and both obviously underage. One, the taller of the two, was
obviously vamping. The other looked embarrassed.

Shaking his head, Colin walked down the gangway and up to Neal where he
told the Sub-Lieutenant that he was going ashore for a while. While Neal
walked back to the ship to log Colin ashore, Colin overheard a hurried,
whispered conversation.

"But Louise, he's coloured!"

"So? Don't you know what they say about coloured boys?"

After a shocked gasp, came the reply. "Louise, he's Indian coloured, not
African coloured!"

As he walked toward the boxy Land Rover that had pulled up to the entrance
of the jetty, Colin laughed quietly. If "Louise" was looking to find a
Louisville Slugger in Neal Menzies' pants she was playing in the wrong
ballpark. However, he thought, laughing, if she'll settle for a DND No. 10
pencil, complete with eraser - a little wrinkled, to be sure - - well then
Mr. Menzies' office was open for business.

******

They drove in silence for a while, just wandering about. As he negotiated
the tourist-clogged streets of downtown Comox, and thankful that he had
taken the Defensive Driver's Course, The Phantom tried not to demonstrate
his relative inexperience as a driver by hitting something, or someone. At
the same time he wrestled mentally with his emotions, trying to understand
why he was in the car, trying to determine if what he felt was just being
horny, or if his feelings for ran deeper than he dared to admit.

>From time to time The Phantom would glance over at Colin, who was not even
pretending to be interested in the passing scenery. He kept his gaze
totally and completely on The Phantom and he never lost the soft smile on
his face.

Finally, after what seemed to be miles of endless silence, The Phantom
whispered, "Thanks."

"For what? I haven't done anything," replied Colin just as quietly.

"Thanks for just coming out with me. I needed to be with someone."

"Okay."

"I, uh, Colin, would you like to go back to my house? We can go for a swim,
have a beer?"

"Sure," Colin agreed quickly. "But I didn't bring a swim suit."

The Phantom's laughter, low, and very intoxicating to Colin, rippled
through the air. "We can skinny dip." He looked sideways at Colin, a small
smile playing at the corner of his lips. "It's not that you're shy, or
anything."

Colin shook his head. "Not after . . ." He stopped speaking abruptly.

An exasperated sighed escaped The Phantom's lips. "Colin, we can talk about
it, you know."

"Phantom, I know what happened, and I don't need to talk about what we
did. I'm not embarrassed about it, I'm just, well, damn it, Phantom, I've
never done anything like that before, and I sure as hell never felt about
any guy the way I feel about you."

"Having doubts?"

"No doubts," came Colin's prompt and firm reply. "Questions. About myself,
about the way I feel when I'm with you, about why I want to hold you in my
arms forever!"

The Phantom smiled and turned the Rover around. "Then we'll have a swim,
and a talk and maybe you'll hold me in your arms for a little while."

******

They swam, enjoying the water of the pool, which was warm and delightful,
but not for Colin near as delightful as his swimming companion.

They had splashed each other, laughed, chased each other and held
mini-races. Colin, not sure how far The Phantom was prepared to go, let the
youth set the pace. Colin was prepared to just enjoy being with The Phantom
and did not try to initiate anything. Nor did Phantom. They seemed to
deliberately avoid anything sexual, although twice they had stood in the
shallow end of the pool with their arms draped around each other's neck,
kissing softly and such were their feelings for each other that neither
became aroused.

The Phantom, his depression lifting, laughed and wrestled with Colin for he
too was enjoying his time with the blond-haired officer. Just feeling
Colin's touch on his body, the softness of his Colin's lips against his,
was invigorating and pleasurable.

They left the pool, as they knew they must, and lay on the poolside
chaises, The Phantom warning ominously about "shrinkage".

Colin, who hadn't been skinny-dipping in years, or even swimming
recreationally for that matter, glanced down at his crotch and saw what The
Phantom was nattering about. He pointedly looked at The Phantom's groin and
snickered. "And here I was, having a hell of a time, free balling, and look
what happens!" Colin declared in mock horror. He rolled his eyes and
laughed heartily. "I look like a three-year-old!"

"Don't worry, Little Colin will be back to normal soon enough," The Phantom
replied giggling. Then he snickered louder. "Cory would have a field day!"

"Who is Cory?" asked Colin. "And why would he have a field day?"

The Phantom sighed and smiled a smile that told Colin that Cory was very
special to his newfound friend. "Cory is Cory Arundel. He's a Chief back in
Aurora. You probably saw him and his brother on the boat when we were out
playing silly buggers."

Thinking, Colin nodded. "Of course, one of the two blond twins. He was very
impressive when we did the coming alongside exercise."

A measure of pride rose in The Phantom's chest. "Of course. He's very
smart, very handsome, one of my best friends, and he's going to check you
out the first chance he gets."


"He's going to what?"

"Check you out," replied The Phantom, rising from his chaise. He went into
the house and returned with two bottles of beer. As he settled himself back
down again he handed a bottle to Colin and said, "You might be the most
beautiful and desirable male to come ashore in years, but unless Cory
checks you out, and . . ." He smiled and wiggled his eyebrows up and
down. "But you don't have to worry. Cory will approve."

Colin saw where The Phantom was looking and grinned. "What is he, the Penis
Pope?"

Laughing delightfully The Phantom shook his head. "Cory just likes certain
things to be a certain way. He can be as crazy as a coot when he puts his
mind to it, but I . . ." He stopped speaking abruptly.

"Love him?" offered Colin. He was not so obtuse as to be unable to
recognize true affection.

The Phantom held out his hand and when Colin's hand joined his he said
seriously, "Colin, I have a past." His face grew hard as he all but spat
out, "But I am not like those two chippies!"

Colin knew exactly to whom The Phantom was referring. "You saw them?"

Nodding, The Phantom answered. "I saw them. I also know them. The shorter
one is Amy Jensen. Her father is one of the town constables. She's been
after my ring for years."

Colin could not help chuckling. "A forlorn hope, I take it?"

"Fuckin' aye on that," growled The Phantom. "The other is Louise
Metcalfe. She'll give Menzies what he wants." He snickered evilly. "For her
sake I hope he doesn't have a hair trigger!"

"Now you've lost me," declared Colin. He took a swig of beer and squeezed
The Phantom's hand. "Not that it matters. I really am not all that
interested in Neal Menzies, or Louise or Amy."

"I know." The Phantom raised Colin's hand to his cheek and rubbed it
gently. "I just want you to know about me."

"I don't need . . ."

"I do," said The Phantom. He sat up and placed his beer on the deck and
then looked into Colin's. "I want to be honest with you, Colin. I feel
wonderful, strange feelings when I'm with you. Part of me wants to be in
your arms, part of me wants to pull away."

"Because you're on the rebound from Steve Winslow?" Colin asked, his face
serious.

The Phantom thought a moment. "Colin, I don't deny that The Gunner's
leaving me, for whatever reason, hurts. I'm sure there's a very good reason
and that whatever the reason is, he'll tell me about it one day. I also
know that I want to be with you. You appeal to me, you make me feel warm,
and wanted." He sighed. "I am just not sure that I want to start something
that can't last." Once again The Phantom looked into Colin's eyes. "I don't
want whatever happens to be nothing but sex! I don't want a one night
stand, and I don't want to be another notch on a Varsity stud's bedpost."

Before The Phantom could protest Colin was beside him, holding him closely
in his arms. "Listen to me, Phantom, you will never be that! Never! When I
told you that I had questions, those questions were not about you, but me!"

"You?"

"Yes, me!" snapped Colin. "I question why I feel the way I do about you! I
question why, after years of being a stud, as you put it, fucking anything
with a pulse, suddenly I want only you!"

"You do?"

"I do," replied Colin. Then he laughed. "And that is not a pledge of
marriage!"

Returning the laugh, The Phantom returned, "Good, because I'm not ready for
marriage!"

"If you were, I'd marry you in a minute," declared Colin truthfully.

"But, Colin, you're straight!" declared The Phantom.

"Am I?" asked Colin in return. "If I am, then why am I sitting on an
uncomfortable seat, with a naked man in my arms? Why do I want to make mad,
passionate love to him, and then hold him and hold him and hold him? Why do
I want to feel his body against mine, feel his lips touching mine, feel him
make love to me? Answer me that, Phantom!"

The Phantom drew back. "I . . . I can't! I was always gay, so I . . ." He
smiled winsomely. "You actually feel that way?"

"Yes. From the moment I first set eyes on you!" Colin could not resist and
kissed The Phantom deeply. "I wanted to be with you," he said almost
breathlessly as he pulled back, "I wanted to . . . and where did you learn
to kiss like that?"

"I told you I had a past," returned The Phantom. "Want to do it again?"

"You betcha ass."

******

They lay together for what seemed like hours, kissing gently and deeply,
not wishing this special moment to end. Colin could not believe what was
happening to him and hoped that Phantom would want to go further. He knew,
however, that he had to let Phantom do what he wanted to do. Chef's words
of warning continued to sound like a tocsin of ill omen in his mind. He
could hold this treasure, but he could never keep it.

When, finally, they drew apart, Colin slowly ran his fingers down The
Phantom's flushed, warm chest. "I love you. I know you're not ready, and
I'm just happy being with you." He returned to holding The Phantom
closely. "Somehow, just holding you is enough. I've never felt this way,
and I did think that, well, we'd have sex, but suddenly, sex is secondary."
He laughed a low, deprecating laugh. "If my frat brothers ever heard that
they'd shit a brick!"

Giggling, The Phantom pulled back a little. "You were a stud, I take it?"

Colin nodded. "Like you, I have a past. Only mine was with girls while
yours was . . ." He let his voice trail away. What Phantom had done before
was none of his business.

The Phantom felt the need to be honest with Colin. "With boys, and yes,
I've been with other boys," he said firmly. "There are five I care very
deeply for. I love them, and they love me. I've been with them, made love
to them, and had them make love to me. They are now, and always will be, a
part of me, a constant in my life. I told you that I wasn't like Amy or
Louise. I don't jump into bed with a guy every time my dick gets hard, and
I don't fuck!"

Colin knew what The Phantom meant. "And that's all I did," he said
slowly. "I was a stud!" He snorted disdainfully. "My frat brothers and I
used to go bar hopping and they'd make bets on how long it would take me to
get laid."

"Obviously you didn't disappoint," The Phantom could not help sniping.

"Hey, you're the one who said I was the most beautiful male you'd ever
seen!" returned Colin with a smile.

"Yeah, I did," replied The Phantom with a giggle. "You still are. But
Colin, if you were such a stud, and could have your pick of women, why then
are you . . ."

"Here?" Colin shrugged. "One of the questions I'm trying to find the answer
to." He regarded The Phantom, his eyes heart-meltingly warm. "I lived,
live, in a frat house with 20 guys. At any given time they would be
parading around nude, semi-nude, drunk, stoned, or points in between. There
were always girls wandering around as well, girls who were there for the
taking."

"And you took?"

"I took," confirmed Colin. "I was a horny college man, always 'up'. I also
know that I'm damned good looking - and I am not bragging, so no cracks,
please - and I didn't have to work at getting laid!"

"And now?"

"Phantom, all those times I was with a girl, all those times I fucked, or
had my dick sucked, by a girl, they . . . Well, dammit, it was just the
thrill of the hunt, just conquest - sometimes on my part, sometimes on
hers." Colin made a slight face. "And it was all just macho bullshit!"

"Macho bullshit?" asked The Phantom, giggling.

"Well, how does momentary, hedonistic titillation of my penis sound?"
returned Colin with a grin.

The Phantom laughed and said, "I like 'macho bullshit' better! It suits you
so much better."

When his laughter subsided, Colin's face grew serious. Phantom, what it all
boils down to is that the girls, the women, never made me feel the way I
feel now. With them, looking back, all I was doing was going through the
motions, emotionless motions, sex in its rawest form! I fucked because I
thought I was supposed to fuck!"

"And now you don't?" The Phantom's eyes widened. "Cory said you had it bad,
but I never thought . . ."

"And neither did I!" Colin returned. "If you think I was a stud, you should
see my roommate! Or half a dozen guys I can name!"

"But I am not interested in your roommate," whispered The Phantom. "Or in
half a dozen guys you can name."

Colin's heart skipped a beat. "But you are interested in me?"

"Yes." The Phantom rose and held out his hand. "I want you Colin Arnott,
because I know that you love me, that you care for me, that you will give
me affection and friendship. I also know that you will give me something
only a few boys have ever given me; trust, and loyalty." He pulled Colin to
his feet. "Tonight I want to feel all those things, Colin. If only for a
few hours, I want to feel them!"