Phantom of Aurora by John Ellison
Chapter 2

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The Phantom pedaled his bike up the hill and into the driveway of the large Victorian house that was home. Dismounting, he wheeled his bike into the old carriage house his family used as a garage and general storage area and saw that his mother's car was gone, and that his father's pickup was not in its usual spot.

Finding the garage empty was not at all surprising. The Phantom's father was a policeman with the Courtenay Police Department and this week was working the 4-to-12 shift. His mother also worked. She was the Senior Loan Officer of the Comox branch of the Royal Bank of Canada. As the normal working day was long since over his mother's absence told The Phantom that she was more than likely off to a pool party, or a barbecue, somewhere in town. Comox was a small and friendly town, everybody knew everybody else and on a warm, clear summer night such as tonight there would be a pool party or a barbecue being held in most of the backyards in town.

Entering the house through the kitchen entrance, The Phantom saw that the kitchen was, as usual, spotless, and there was a note from his mother on the table. She was off to the Jensens, who lived on the other side of town. Harry Jensen was also a cop; only he worked for the town of Comox.

Reading that he was also invited to the barbecue, The Phantom smiled and hoped that the Jensens would not hold dinner waiting for him to show up. He tried to avoid going to any of their little parties. Harry Jenson was everybody's nightmare of a cop. He was large, had a beer belly and never stopped being a cop. He was also an opinionated, bigoted jerk who dominated his family and Mrs. Jensen, a small, washed out woman, never seemed to contradict her husband and always nodded her agreement with anything and everything he said. The Phantom sometimes wondered how two such people could ever have had a son like their older boy, Jeff.

Jeff Jensen was magnificently handsome and had figured in many of The Phantom's masturbation fantasies before he started visiting the cadets in Aurora. Jeff was 18 - a year older than The Phantom and had recently graduated high school. He had won a football scholarship at the University of British Columbia and would be heading off to Vancouver at the end of August. Jeff had been a year ahead of The Phantom in school and for four years The Phantom had secretly lusted after the handsome and popular quarterback.

Jeff was one of those boys whose every movement shouted his masculinity. His smooth, crisply muscled body, his graceful movements, the way he talked and walked, precluded any thought of anything other than sheer, raw straightness. He was one of the most popular boys in school and always had a girl after him, although Jeff never settled on one girl preferring, it seemed, to play the field.

The Jensens' younger son, Robbie, was twelve years old and a smaller, more refined version of his older brother, whom he obviously adored. Robbie aped Jeff in everything, although he was still at the age when girls were little more that obnoxious pests. There was something about the boy, however, that The Phantom found disconcerting. There was a slyness about Robbie Jensen and The Phantom always felt uncomfortable whenever he was around the younger boy.

And then there was Amy, the Jensen daughter, a dark haired girl who set many a young Lochinvar's heart to going pitty-pat. While not quite the cockteaser, Amy was aware of what she could do to the swains of Highland High School, and played the tease. No doubt she figured in more than one masturbation fantasy. Amy lusted after a certain jug-eared, emerald-eyed boy and had made it plain that she would not have minded seeing what The Phantom had up the leg of his shorts.

Which was only fair, The Phantom thought, seeing as how Amy had already felt what was up the leg of his shorts! The last time he had gone over to one of the Jensens' barbecues Amy had run her hand right up there, and felt his erection. He counted himself lucky that he had been wearing briefs at the time, so all she really felt was a large bulge. She flattered herself by thinking that his woody had been in her honour.

The Phantom snickered derisively at the memory. His erection had been in her brother's honour. Jeff had been cavorting in the pool with his latest lovely, wearing some very revealing Speedo racing trunks and The Phantom had boned up the minute he saw the young stud's tight basket.

A low rumbling in his stomach caused The Phantom to dismiss all thoughts of Amy Jenson from his mind. He opened the refrigerator and, as he expected, found a plate of cold, fried chicken and a bowl of potato salad, which, again not surprising, his mother had left for him. As he settled himself at the kitchen table and began to eat, The Phantom mused that there were times when he was glad that his mother ignored his protests about leaving food out for him.

Under ordinary circumstances The Phantom seldom ate dinner at home. With his work schedule he usually ate in the galley most days - his pay was docked $1.00 a day for meals - and while there was always fresh-cooked meals on offer, the cooks ate when they were hungry, or if the galley was extraordinarily busy, when they could. Sometimes all they could manage was a hastily gulped sandwich or a cup of soup. Today had been one of those days as one of the YAG cooks had managed to burn himself and the whole crew trooped up from the Dockyard looking to be fed. While the galley staff managed to make it so, 20 extra mouths played havoc with the ration count and by the time the YAG cadets had rampaged down the food line there hardly been enough food left to feed the ship's cat, let alone the galley staff. The Phantom had left work ravenous, his appetite increased by the bike ride home, and he ate with gusto.

When he was finished eating The Phantom washed his plate and glass and put them in the dish rack. His mother would pitch a fit if he left a mess in her clean kitchen. Then he climbed the stairs to his room. He stripped off his clothing and threw them in the laundry hamper. His boxers, as he had expected, were a mess. It was a good thing he did his own laundry as it saved embarrassing questions from his mother who, being a mother of two normal boys, never mentioned strange moans and groans in the night or asked embarrassing questions about discoloured sheets or underpants.

The Phantom had had his first real wet dream just days after his 13th birthday, and creamed his pyjamas and the sheets stiff. His mother had never said a word to him and The Phantom guessed she had more or less expected it, having gone through the same thing with Brendan, his older brother. He wished, however, that she had not told his father because then he had been forced to go through THE TALK.

The Phantom did not know who was more embarrassed, he or his dad, who sputtered and blushed his way through a very confusing chat about sex, boys, girls, and the changes that were occurring in his son's young body. The Phantom could have spared his father the embarrassment as he had learned all about sex in school. He did not because at the time he was pissed off at his father who had jokingly told Brendan, his jerky older brother about the wet dream and The Phantom had to endure weeks of Brendan ribbing him about "starching" his bed sheets!

Which was rude coming from a guy who beat his meat noisily every night. Christ, the grunting and groaning was something to hear, and when he blew his load . . . Well, God help the neighbours on his wedding night! Brendan was in Regina at the RCMP Training Barracks and his room, right next to The Phantom's, was empty.

A quick glance at the small clock that sat on the bed table told The Phantom that it was getting late. If he was going over to Aurora there were things he needed to do, not the least of which was shower. He smelled like food mixed with sweat and the muskiness that came with almost constant arousal.

He walked into the bathroom, closed the door, and looked at his reflection in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of the door. He smiled at his reflection. The Phantom had seen enough guys naked to know that he had a good body; slim, trim and with not too much hair, except around his dick.

A slight frown creased The Phantom's brow when he saw that the creamy-white V-shaped patch of skin from his waist to mid-thigh seemed less prominent. Sighing, he shook his head. His tan, which brought out all his best features and help highlight his perfect white smile and stunning (to him, anyway) emerald green eyes, was fading. He was spending far too much time in the galley, and too little time lazing away in the warm summer sun, lounging beside the pool out back.

Turning, The Phantom looked at his butt in the mirror and nodded firmly. His behind was firm and round, with only a little hair dusting the cheeks near where they curved down to his legs, which did have hair, from his ankles up to his ass. He turned again, looked straight into the mirror and reached down to lift his genitals. He really liked the look of his tackle. The skin of his genitals was darker in colour than the rest of his body, a dark tan shade that contrasted nicely with the healthy pink of the rest of his body. His low-hanging testicles, large, egg-shaped ovals, were contained in a smooth, hairless scrotum.

As The Phantom regarded his reflection the smile on his handsome face grew larger. He ran his fingertips around the outline of his silky, smooth scrotal sac. For some reason he thought of his brother, and Brendan's equipment, mentally comparing his sibling's genitals to his own, albeit somewhat to The Phantom's disadvantage in that Brendan, without doubt, had been blessed by God! But then, hell and sheeit, The Phantom balls were much bigger than Brendan's, who had tiny, in comparison to the rest of him, little orbs that seemed always to be tucked up tightly against his groin.

The Phantom's smile changed to a frown as he thought, Oh well, win some, lose some. What God had given him in one department, He had taken away in another, and The Phantom resigned himself to the knowledge that unlike Brendan, he would never be called "Horse".

Hefting his smooth, soft penis, The Phantom admired the curving, crisp glans, and then sighed his disappointment. He would never compare with his brother in the dick department. Brendan had a whopper of a cock, at least five inches soft! The brothers shared a bath and it was almost impossible not to notice when Brendan would stroll about naked.

How big Brendan got when he popped a bone The Phantom did not care to speculate and he had never felt the urge to creep into the bathroom and peek through the connecting door when Brendan was beating off, which he did nightly and noisily.

Releasing his penis The Phantom ran his hand along his face, debating if he should shave, and idly wondered why it was guys always felt the need to check each other out. It didn't matter how or why, but The Phantom had been in enough locker rooms to know that if a bunch of naked boys were gathered together they just had to compare. The Phantom did it, the other guys on the swim team did it and, if the lunch and dinner table talk held any validity, the cadets did it with a vengeance, if only as an opportunity to chuck shit at each other.

A small laugh rose in The Phantom's throat. Hell and sheeit, from the sound of it the cadets spent more time with their clothes off than they ever did with them on! Which was how he knew by listening to the boys chuck shit and brag, as they did constantly, that Harry possessed as sleek a weapon ever created and Harry, being vain and insufferable when it came to his dick, boasted loudly that none dared make a comparison when it came to his dick and theirs; that Mal Wooten, who lived in the Petty Officers Mess, had not been circumcised as had most of the other cadets, or that Mike Sunderland, the Chief Physical Training Instructor might, with his clothes on, resemble Paul Bunyan, but had been so short changed in the penis department that the other boys called him "Gerbil Dick" behind his back.

Mentally forming pictures of the cadets, naked, in his mind The Phantom returned to admiring himself in the mirror, and wondering how he would fare in the rough and tumble life of the mess deck. Would he be admired? Would he be snickered at?

While he had nothing, really, to write home about, The Phantom considered that he had as good a set of upper deck fittings as the next guy and, if the boys he went to school with and played sports with were any indication, could stake a small claim to admiration rights. He reached down and his green eyes sparkled as he examined his penis, a four-inch circumcised shaft, not too thick, not too thin, smooth, unmarred by veins, and with a pinkish-brown, smooth crown of a helmet, which was perfectly aligned with his shaft, and which complimented his testicles, rather than detracted from them. The Phantom had seen enough dicks to know that a lot of guys had nice balls, but small dicks, or a very handsome cock but balls so small they could hardly be called balls at all. He wondered how his parts would stand up against Harry's.

He ran his fingers through his rough bush of pubic hair, drawing his fingers through the long, very dark brown, and curly hair. The Phantom's pubic bush covered his lower body and circled his parts to join the thinner hair on his groin and legs. He had a treasure trail of sorts, but he had to admit it was pretty shabby with just a few random hairs straggling upward from his bush to just below his navel. Taking a step back, The Phantom turned left, then right, and nodded firmly. Not a bad piece of goods.

Regarding his image in the mirror, The Phantom grinned, winked and then . . .

What in the hell am I doing? The Phantom asked himself as he shook his head and reached into to the shower to turn the water on. What kind of a pervert was he, he wondered, standing in front of a mirror and telling himself what a stud he was? But then, what kind of a pervert would sneak around in the wee hours of the night, breaking into barracks blocks and wanking guys in their sleep?

As the hot water roiled and pounded against his body The Phantom supposed that there was some sort of medical term for what he was doing and why he was doing it. He was not overly concerned why he did it. He only knew that he liked doing it. He loved the feel of a warm, soft dick in his hand, the feel as he stroked the soft flesh into a silk covered, iron hard shaft; the feel as he rolled and fondled smooth boy balls into tight, wrinkled sacs of skin. He loved the way the cocks would grow longer, and thicken, and then spew forth rivers of hot teenage spooge, the way it splattered across their smooth, hairless chests, or oozed over his hand, down the shaft and into their patches of pubic hair. He loved the sheer pleasure he gave each boy he serviced, pleasure demonstrated by the way they writhed and bucked, or humped his hand, and moaned and groaned deliriously when they came and oh, the feelings of . . .

With a snarl of disgust The Phantom realized that he had stroked himself into a raging, iron hard erection. He reached out and twisted the cold water tap and gave his body a blast of ice cold water, which drove any thoughts of cadets, naked or otherwise, from his mind and cause his penis to shrivel into a shrunken nub.

Naked, The Phantom returned to his bedroom where he rummaged in his underwear drawer and pulled out a pair of boxers, drew them on and then sat on the edge of his bed. He found the pack of cigarettes he kept in the bedside table, lit up, and sat back, thinking, remembering . . .

******

Sitting with his back against the headboard of his bed, The Phantom smoked contemplatively, enjoying the soothing effect of the tobacco and the cool breeze flowing through the open window. He could hear the distant sound of music, probably one of the bands that played in the bars and restaurants that lined the harbour front, judging the music to be somewhat tinny, but enjoyable none the less.

The Phantom's thoughts returned to his nighttime expeditions. What confused him was that not one of the boys he visited had complained or, when faced with the evidence that sometime during the night, for one reason or another, they had blown a massive load, they dismissed it as a wet dream, or a subconscious, self-administered hand job. They were, after all, healthy teenagers in the full flush of puberty, when their dicks did strange things, and beating off was a necessity.

Every morning while serving breakfast or bussing tables, The Phantom heard the cadets bragging about the size of their morning woodies, or complimenting well-endowed shipmates on the size and girth of their weapons. For the cadets it was almost a rite of passage to wake up with a boner, and to have that boner admired, or jeered at, by the other cadets. They were all alike, bragging about how hung they were when in fact it had been The Phantom's experience that three inches soft meant six inches hard.

Laughing mirthlessly, The Phantom shook his head. About the only thing the cadets did not do was brag about the pussy or blowjob they had had the night before, which was what all the studs he went to school with seemed to talk about. Of course, the local boys all had opportunity going for them. There were a few girls in town that would fuck a snake if it could wiggle its hips (he suspected that Amy Jensen was going to be right up there with the best of them before very long).

The cadets were a different matter. Being good, moral, upstanding Canadian boys, sex with another good, moral, upstanding Canadian boy, which was all they were going to get on the long strip of land on which Aurora stood, just never happened. Nobody bragged about jerking off. That did not happen. Aurora cadets did not have sex!

Which was bullshit.

The Phantom knew that the Base Laundry Officer was complaining about stained sheets. Thumper beat his meat at the drop of a hat. You did not need to be a brain surgeon to know what the cadets were doing after the lights went out. Twice now he had been forced to delay visiting a particular barracks because one, sometimes more, of the cadets were happily mangling the midget and, as for sex between cadets, well that happened, too.

One night last year he had been sneaking past Boatswain's Stores, a long, low shed down by the water and seen a light. He had peeked in the window and seen the Duty Quartermaster and the Roundsman lying on the floor, their white briefs and bell-bottoms around their ankles, having a sixty-niner!

The Phantom had watched the two cadets sucking each other to beat the band and he had gotten so excited that when they bucked and came their loads in each other's mouth, he had ejaculated in his briefs!

Thinking about it now, The Phantom reasoned that he should not have been surprised at the cadets doing each other. The cadets were young, they were healthy, and they were all hornier than a two-peckered owl in the moonlight. Getting your rocks off was getting your rocks off, which might just explain why nobody said anything. Having sex with another guy was not something you talked about.

The more he thought about it, the more The Phantom came to understand that no guy was about to admit that he was having sex with another guy. A stiff prick might not have a conscience but the guy attached to it had better have one. Sex with another guy carried no bragging rights and God help you if anybody found out about it, which explained why nothing was ever said. Not last year, when he began his forays across the harbour, or this year, when he had returned. He had not heard so much as a whisper about anything. No one had made an official complaint about being molested in his bed. And no one would.

The Phantom chuckled cynically. Not only did the cadets never talk about having sex, they pretended that the act had never happened. He remembered that the two cadets he had seen last year sucking each other in Boatswain Stores, one of whom was back again as the Guard Petty Officer, had never so much as whispered about what they had been doing. He had eavesdropped as much as he dared as he was bussed their table and had heard nothing. They talked about many things but not once did they talk about their night in Boatswain Stores.

The Phantom listened to the music for a little while and lit another cigarette, remembering that first time. Remembering his first cadet, wondering if the boy ever thought of that night when he had been visited, when he had stolen like a thief in the night, across the causeway and for the first time moved silently into a barracks and stopped beside a bunk.

******

The thing was, what a near run thing it had been. It had started with Sam. They had been together, doing what they always did when they were together. They had been in The Phantom's bedroom, their hands on each other's dicks, stroking each other towards orgasm. As he always did, Sam grunted his warning that he was about to squirt.

Instead of releasing Sam, The Phantom had continued to pump his friend's turgid organ. At first Sam had allowed it. Then, without warning, and just as his penis erupted, he had angrily pushed The Phantom's hand away. The Phantom had broken the rules and Sam was not having that. To compound his error The Phantom had started to laugh at the sight of Sam angrily trying to control his jerking fire hose of a dick, which was squirting huge jets of his semen halfway across the room, and pull up his Jockeys and shorts, which were gathered around his ankles.

The memory of Sam's misfortune brought a grin to The Phantom's face. It had been funny. Unfortunately for their relationship Sam had not thought it at all funny. Harsh words had been exchanged and, in the heat of the argument, the word queer flashed.

The Phantom's face turned stony as he remembered Sam calling him a queer. He remembered that he had hurriedly pulled up the track pants that were gathered around his ankles, turned on his heels and gone downstairs. Sam had hurried after him and tried to apologize, but The Phantom had been unforgiving.

Sam had left the house, angry with The Phantom for breaking the rules, and angry with himself for reacting the way he had.

Eventually they made up, but their relationship was never the same. While they still masturbated each other, they did so infrequently. Sam would come mooching around, looking embarrassed and horny and they would go up to The Phantom's room. They would drop their shorts, which was what they both wore most of the time, and start jerking each other.

There was never any foreplay of any kind, and their sessions lasted no longer than it took to shoot their loads. They were just two guys beating off, two guys helping each other out, a release of semen that meant nothing.

The closeness that had existed between them was gone. The warmth, the feeling, was gone. Now it was all just sex, which The Phantom provided because Sam was the only game in town.

Or had been until that fateful night last summer when The Phantom discovered that just across the harbour was a place that provided him with as much sex as he wanted, albeit one-sided. It was dangerous, it was risky, but at the end of the day, it was glorious.

The first steps on that fateful journey had been begun in anger. He and Sam had had words about Sam's stubborn intransigence. The Phantom was tired of sneaking around, of playing at little boy sex, of never, in truth, coming away from one of his sessions with Sam feeling satisfied.

The Phantom's frustration was furthered by having to endure spending his days watching the hard, slim bodies of the cadets as he served them their meals, and the temptation to reach out and fondle those bodies as he watched them march and drill, on the parade square, or playing baseball or soccer, their young, smooth, sweat-streaked bodies glistening in the late afternoon sun, their tight, firm behinds and baskets displayed with innocent brazenness, was at times almost too strong to resist. That night, as he lay in bed, glowering into the darkness, thinking about Sam, and the cadets, The Phantom had impulsively sneaked onto the Spit.

It had been well past midnight, and at that time in the morning getting onto the ship was easy. He knew the lay of the land and a loud thunderstorm was raging. Getting into the barracks was even easier. The doors were never locked.

Before entering the barracks The Phantom had hesitated. A titanic bolt of lightning flashed across the sky and a clap of thunder shook Heron Spit. The Phantom did not believe in omens, but the thunderous explosion caused him to pause. Once he entered the barracks, once he placed his hand on a sleeping cadet's penis, once he played with that cock, he was taking the first step on a dark and dangerous path. If he retreated, and returned home, no one would be the wiser. If he entered the barracks there would be no turning back.

As his hand grasped the doorknob The Phantom took a deep breath. He would either bring wonderful pleasure to some boy, or disaster upon himself if he were caught. He noticed that his hand was shaking. He could feel a tremor of excitement roll through his body. Unconsciously he reached down and felt himself, feeling the hard, tight bulge in his jeans. The Phantom gave no thought to what the consequences of his actions this night might be as he slowly pushed open the barracks door.

******

The cadets were housed in H-shaped barracks; each barracks was mirror image of the other. Down each side of the long room was a row of double bunks, each set of bunks separated by twin metal lockers where the cadets kept their uniforms and civilian clothes. Down the middle of the barracks was a long wooden table, scarred with use.

Halfway down the barracks was a large, open doorway, which lead to the heads and washplaces - the toilets and showers - that the cadets shared with those in the adjoining barracks. Ordinarily each barracks housed 40 cadets in two long rows of single bunks. Last year the numbers had been small, with empty bunks in every barracks. However, this year many of the courses had been overbooked, which required "doubling up" the bunks. This year every bunk in each of the four huge, H-shaped barracks was occupied.

Thinking back, The Phantom realized that he had all but invited disaster. On entering the barracks he had not stopped to listen, to ensure that everybody was asleep. All the hard lessons that Sam's father had taught him had been forgotten. While he had remembered to sneak and crawl as he made his way onto the Spit, he had thrown caution to the winds and simply walked into a barracks full of sleeping cadets, depending on the thunderstorm that raged outside to muffle the sounds of his movements.

That first night The Phantom had had no idea who slept soundly, who slept lightly. He was unaware that there was a Duty Roundsman who constantly entered the barracks, patrolling for fire hazards and the like. He did not know his prey because he had not bothered to learn its habits. In time The Phantom would learn, but that first night all he was interested in was what was between the legs of the boy cadets sleeping soundly in their bunks. His lust was paramount and he had not given the least thought to what might happen to him if he were discovered committing what was, in truth, a criminal act.

A lust, a need, a fire burned deep within The Phantom. He wanted to touch another boy, to feel him, to hold his most precious possession. He wanted to give another boy the pleasure that he was not allowed to give to Sam, and in the giving of that pleasure give himself an even greater pleasure.

The Phantom did not remember which barracks he had entered. He assumed it was Barracks 1, which housed the cooks. It was the first block he had come to after leaving the beach. He did remember the first cadet. He remembered everything about the boy.

The long barracks stretched before The Phantom, ill-lit and crowded with double bunks that lined either side. Down the centre of the barracks stretched long wooden tables flanked by bare wooden benches. He stood quietly, listening, watching.

As he stood there The Phantom noticed a smell, an aroma that intoxicated and excited him. The perfume was not as harsh as the smells he associated with a locker room. There was a delicate something to the harshness, a muskiness, a melange of smells, soap, starch, clean clothes, dirty clothes, ironed serge uniforms, boot polish and the raw maleness of teenage boys, the combination causing his head to spin with frightened anticipation.

He stepped a few paces into the barracks. He would do what he had come to do. He had no plan, had no idea which cadet he would touch, or what he would do.

The Phantom had stopped at the first bunk in the row of bunks, knelt down, and looked at the sleeping cadet, who was in the bottom bunk, lying on top of his covers. The Phantom remembered the cadet's square, tight-jawed face, and the clear, smooth skin of the handsome young man. He remembered the cadet's body, long, lean, muscular, the tanned skin dusted with light, blond hair, blonder than the wheat coloured hair on his head. The Phantom remembered that the cadet had been wearing only the white Jockey briefs that seemed to be a uniform requirement. Every cadet wore them.

Kneeling down, The Phantom had reached out a tentative hand and stroked the small mound that filled the cadet's soft cotton briefs. He had fondled the sleeping cadet, stroking the boy's flaccid penis until it lengthened into a six-inch tube of hard flesh stretching upward under the cloth of his underpants. The boy's erection, held in check by the tight briefs, rose and fell, pulsing with each breath he took. The Phantom had pulled down the front of cadet's Jockeys to reveal a smooth, circumcised shaft crowned by a dark pink, helmet-shaped glans.

As The Phantom knelt, staring at the beautiful object before him, there was a clap over thunder and a flash of sheet lightning, which illuminated the mess deck and revealed small details, engraving them on The Phantom's brain: the small drop of natural lubricant, "precum", leaking from the pee slit that marred the beauty of the cadet's smooth, clean, arrowhead-shaped corona; the small, thin line of dark pubic hair that completely encircled the base of the cadet's erect penis, the shape and size of the cadet's testicles contained in a low-hanging, smooth sac sprinkled with long, curling blond hairs.

Licking his lips The Phantom was about to reach out to touch this work of art when the cadet's breathing rhythm changed sharply. He snorted loudly and waved an arm in the air.

The Phantom had enough sense to drop and roll under the bunk opposite. He lay there, not daring to breathe and watched as the cadet sat up, looked around, then looked down at the front of his tented briefs. He looked around again and then pulled open the front of his Jockeys, regarding his erection. Then he released the waistband of his underpants and lay back down.

Desperate to avoid discovery The Phantom lay under the bunk for what seemed like hours until the cadet's breathing slowed and he fell back into deep sleep. Expelling a small sigh of relief The Phantom was about to get out of Dodge when the barracks door slammed open and a ray of harsh light pierced the darkness.

The Duty Roundsman, his boots clumping heavily on the tiled deck, walked slowly down the length of the barracks, his flashlight probing occasionally, lighting his way to the far end of the mess deck. The Phantom heard the door at the other end of the barracks slam closed and heard the muttered grumbles as the other cadets returned to their disturbed sleep. Finally, after the muttering had subsided, The Phantom made his move. He hurried from the barracks, his heart pounding, waiting for a shouted alert that there was an intruder.

The shout never came and he retraced his steps along the narrow beach, running and stumbling, retrieved his bicycle from its hiding place and pedalled madly home. He had been badly frightened by his experience and in the safety of his room he had decided that he had made a very bad mistake and had been very lucky in not being caught. He had been so frightened that he had decided that he would never again go prowling in the night.

******

The next morning The Phantom returned to work fully expecting to hear that a cadet had been molested during the night and that an investigation had been launched. He heard not a word. The cadet he had visited passed down the serving line, joking and laughing with his fellow cadets.

Later, as he bussed the tables, clearing them and wiping up after the cadets, The Phantom heard nothing that would indicate that anything out of the ordinary had occurred during the night. Except for the thunderstorm it was as if nothing had happened at all. The Phantom watched, and he listened. He saw much, and heard many things, but not a word did he hear about someone feeling up a cadet in his sleep.

The Phantom's personal crisis passed, as did the first summer. He recognized that what he had done had been a foolish and dangerous thing. He realized that the danger of what he wanted to do lay in not knowing the habits of the cadets he wanted to visit. He was intelligent enough to know that much of what he needed to know he could learn in the Mess Hall just by listening to the constant chatter of the cadets as they ate. He had much to learn about the habits of other boys, of Sea Cadets.

And learn them I did, thought The Phantom as he snuffed out his cigarette. He had listened, he had learned, and he had returned again and again last summer to the barracks on Heron Spit. He lay back in his bed, thinking of everything he had learned, thinking of how he listened and learned! He learned to study the Duty Roster and Routine Orders, he learned which cadets were heavy sleepers and difficult to wake up, and who slept lightly and woke at the touch of a foreign hand on their bodies.

Just by listening to the everyday complaints and comments as he went about his work The Phantom learned which cadets could be counted on to spend most of their watch in the guardhouse, and not out patrolling the base. He learned which cadets were slackers, barracks stanchions, who spent much, if not all, of their watch sleeping in the guardhouse. He learned which cadets were alert and took their duties seriously.

Every snippet of information he stored in his capacious, retentive memory, analyzed it, and used it in his now almost nightly forays.

Thinking about the cadets he had visited, The Phantom pulled his semi-hard penis through the slit of his boxers. As he idly stroked his penis he tried to remember the bodies of the boys he had visited last summer. They were, for the most part, all alike with slim, smooth, tanned bodies. Most of them had been circumcised. The Phantom raised his head and examined his own penis. It was, he thought, very good looking, very neat and smooth and pink, with a classic helmet-shaped glans.

The Phantom rubbed his finger against tender knot of scar tissue under the curving mushroom of his penis and then slowly stroked downward, feeling the vein on the underside of his cock filling with blood. With his other hand he reached into his underpants and pulled out his testicles, feeling the heft of them, gently rolling and caressing his smooth eggs.

His penis reacted to the stimulus of his stroking hand, thickening and stretching into a rigid shaft of flesh, dark tan below his circumcision ring, rosy pink above it.

The Phantom closed his eyes, fondling and stroking himself, rubbing his fingers along the smooth cap, feeling the natural lubricant his body produced oozing from the slit of his penis. Using his thumb, The Phantom lubricated the reddening knob, marvelling at its smoothness as his thumb glided over it. He moaned softly at the pleasure he felt.

As he fondled himself The Phantom began to think about what he had done to the cadets he visited. He had masturbated them all, bringing them to varying degrees of intense eruption. He also began to think about the bragging conversations of his peers in the high school locker room, conversations that always involved their sexual antics and peccadilloes, real or imagined, with the girls they dated or wanted to date.

While getting into a girl's pants was always the purported goal, for some reason many of the boys talked about getting a blowjob, which seemed to be even more desirable, and easier to get. The Phantom wondered what it would be like to have someone suck his dick or, better yet, what it would be like to suck a dick.

What The Phantom found hilarious was that his schoolmates, and from his eavesdropping, the senior cadets, all seemed to know everything there was to know about the habits of queers, fags and assorted deviates while all the while proclaiming their straightness and abhorrence at such practices.

A smile of amusement formed on The Phantom's lips as he recalled that just by just listening to the bragging he had learned how a boy would like to be pleased. Intercourse with a girl, while always high on everyone's list, paled to having one's dick sucked. And not just sucked, it seemed, but sucked in a variety of ways - they differed from boy to boy - so that the boy being sucked on derived maximum pleasure from the act.

Some of the boys insisted that being "deep-throated", whatever that was, was the only way to go. Others preferred having just the heads of their dick sucked, or just the top half, insisting that the rush of pleasure they felt as they shot their immature loads was more intense than anything they had ever managed by self-manipulation. Some needed their balls rubbed; others declared that having their balls squeezed and their bags gently pulled while their dicks were being sucked was the first step on the stairway to heaven.

What struck The Phantom as odd, though, was that while sex was always, or so it seemed, the main topic of conversation, all of the cadets avoided any hint of homosexuality in their talk. They might know what fags did to and with each other, but they all loudly averred that they had never, and would never, do anything with another guy.

Which led The Phantom to wonder about the strange looks that came over the faces of at least two of his school chums whenever the "Sixty-Nine" position was mentioned.

The more he thought about sex with another boy, the more The Phantom wondered what it would be like to suck another boy's dick, which was something he had never done. His only partner, Sam, would not allow it. Sucking Sam's cock was queer, which Sam would never admit to being. The Phantom knew the Indian boy well enough to never so much as suggest that they suck each other off. Sam would have stormed and raged at such an outrageous suggestion.

In retrospect The Phantom was not upset about Sam's refusal, not after mentally comparing Sam's organ with the smooth penises of the cadets he had manipulated. Sam might be one hell of a good looking guy with his pants on, tall and strong with a chiselled, firmly muscled chest, bronze-coloured skin, black hair, brown eyes and sparkling teeth. But with his pants down all bets were off. Compared to the smooth, hard, circumcised penises that The Phantom had been servicing, Sam's penis was not all that handsome. His cock was thick, and four inches long when soft, which included a good inch of long, wrinkled foreskin.

When he got hard Sam's dick naturally got bigger, extending to almost eight inches from his body but instead of sticking straight out or up, it curved in the middle, the head pointing to the right. The colouring changed, the rim of his barely retracted foreskin turning an ugly red, tightly gripping the deep, plumb-purple head of his cock.

Thinking, even briefly, of Sam's turgid organ, caused The Phantom to shudder and wrinkle his nose because thinking of it brought back the memory that Sam, from time to time, was sadly lacking in personal hygiene, his dick smelling of urine and an unpleasant something else which The Phantom assumed came from the small deposits of a yellow, cheese-like substance that formed under the rim of Sam's crisp helmet. Sucking such an offensive object was no longer an inviting prospect.

The Phantom swore softly and pushed the image of Sam, and his cock, from his mind and another vision began to form, a picture of one whose dick he would gladly suck, one whom he would gladly pleasure, one who he wanted to be pleasuring him.

"Yeah, oh yeah," he moaned as the picture firmed and he released his balls. He wiped his fingers across his oozing knob and then reached down and plunged his hand into his boxers. He spread his legs, brought his knees up and began to stroke and probe his anal opening.

The feeling of his finger against his sensitive rosebud sent a shockwave of delight coursing through The Phantom's body. He arched his back and increased the speed of his hand, masturbating furiously as he tightened his hold on his raging hardon. He felt his balls tightening and increased the speed of his jerking as he quickened the pace of his rubbing against the warm, moist, sensitive tissue of his anus.

The warmth of pleasure seeped from The Phantom's middle, spreading throughout his body, engulfing his senses. He felt the flood tide of his seed explode from his testicles, race up his shaft, and surge from his gaping pee slit. His body arched and pumped and a huge blob of cum flew upward and landed on his chin. Wave after wave of excruciating, intense, indescribable wonder washed over him. His face, a rictus of pain and pleasure, contorted as he called out The Gunner's name.

Moaning loudly, The Phantom's hand pumped massive load after massive load of semen from his body, his ejaculate landing hotly on his chest, on his navel, on his stomach just above his dark brown pubes. He continued to jerk and spasm until his penis began to soften and only a small, delicate drop oozed from his slit. He fell back against the pillows, light headed and exhausted, sucking in great drafts of air, gasping at the unbelievable, monumental, awe inspiring pleasure that had overwhelmed every part of his body.

The Phantom raised his hand and felt the still warm pearl drop on his chin. He wiped his chin and brought his finger to his lips. His tongue flicked out and he drew his thick, creamy fluid into his mouth, rolling it on his tongue, savouring the delicious nectar.

Still in the breathtaking clutches of the afterglow of his orgasm, The Phantom raised his head and saw the small drops of ambrosia that spotted his chest and formed a small pool in his navel. His fingers touched the rich pool of cooling ejaculate, slowly cleaning the liquid treasure from his body and he again brought his fingers to his lips and began to lick gently, savouring the taste of his sperm. He recalled the taste of the cadet's fluid that he had sampled only a week before, comparing that taste with the taste of his own rich, thick cum. They were the same, only different. The cadet's sperm-filled semen had tasted slightly salty while his own had a special sweetness to it.

The Phantom lay back on his pillows and folded his arms behind his head. His body was still warm and glowing and he was totally at peace with himself. His eyelids grew heavy and as sleep took him he remembered the name he had called out in his ecstasy. He whispered the name into the darkness, wishing with all his heart that it had been him that he had visited; wishing that the fantasy that filled his soul would become reality.

******

As day turned to dusk and the shadows lengthened in the small room, Joel lay cuddled in his lover's arms, enjoying the blissful aftermath of wonderful sex, his hand resting lightly on The Gunner's broad, chiselled chest.

Joel smiled a contented sigh. Steve was so unlike his many other lovers, undemanding, considerate, a lover who gave as much pleasure as he received, a lover who always seemed to know by instinct just which part of Joel's body to stimulate to bring him to the ultimate, final threshold of ecstasy.

Steve Winslow's love making, for by no stretch of one's imagination could it be called "fucking", never ended with a grunt, a shudder, and a rolling away of bodies. When they were done, both having experienced more joy than either had ever imagined, Steve did not roll away. He would hold Joel in his arms, stroking him, adoring him, thanking him for their act of love, murmuring endearments until they both drifted off into bliss-filled sleep.

Joel raised himself on one elbow and regarded the man who had been, these 15-plus months past, his friend and lover. By no stretch of anyone's imagination could Steve Winslow be described as a classic beauty. He was, in many respects, a most ordinary looking man, with fine features, and a lean, well-muscled body, and a lean, ruddy face of the kind that only sailors ever seemed to have. Joel's eyes drifted lower. The Gunner would never be asked to pose for one of the pseudo-art magazines glorifying the male nude.

Nor would he draw a second glance in the dimly lit corridors of the baths in Vancouver's Gay Village, which, unbeknownst to The Gunner, Joel frequented on an almost nightly basis. There the boys strutted naked, their smooth, young bodies and genitals unabashedly on show for all to see. The Gunner's neatly circumcised penis and large, oval-shaped testicles would evoke no moans of orgiastic desire from the size queens.

As he lay back and listened to The Gunner's soft breathing, Joel thought of how he and The Gunner had met. It had been during Navy Week, the week preceding Battle of Atlantic Sunday, last year. As always the Navy came calling, sailing two or three ships across from Esquimalt to Vancouver and opening the vessels to the general public for tours and day steams up and down the Strait of Georgia. His employer, one William Gates, Jr., had instructed Joel to entertain a small group of influential, moneyed, potential Canadian investors.

One of the men had been a former naval person and Joel, never averse to studying the terrain when it came to men in uniform, had taken the group down to the docks where three RCN vessels were berthed. He had also arranged, through a friend of a friend assigned to MARPAC Headquarters, for a special tour and luncheon aboard the squadron flagship. Leading Seaman Steve Winslow, called by many "The Gunner", had been assigned to be their tour guide.

At the end of the tour, during lunch, and much to his surprise, Joel found himself agreeing to meet with the young Leading Gunner for drinks later in the evening. Joel had also been very surprised when he found himself in bed with the man.

Joel had always known that he was attracted to boys. His attraction was confirmed and intensified when he began a torrid affair with his tall, handsome, older cousin (by four months), Michael Chan, a serious, passionate boy who adored Joel in every way possible. Michael, while he cared deeply for his handsome cousin, knew that their love affair would not, could not endure. He was the heir, the scion, the Anointed One who was destined to succeed their uncle, Henry Chan, the Viceroy of Chinatown.

While Joel might refuse to believe that being gay in a society that abhorred homosexuality was an impediment, Michael knew better. If any word, any hint of their relationship became known they would disappear forever, their disappearance facilitated by Uncle Henry's "business associates" in Hong Kong, or Shanghai, or San Francisco. Michael had brothers, as did Joel, and innumerable male cousins. The succession was not in danger. Uncle Henry would make do with a lesser son and the family's honour would remain unblemished if anything happened to Michael. Joel, as a Chiang, was a nonentity, and would not be missed in the family scheme of things.

What further eroded Joel's relationship with Michael was Joel's discovery that Michael was not the only boy who was attracted to him. In high school - they both attended St. George's College, an exclusive WASP school for boys favoured by British Columbia's aristocracy and made possible by virtue of a large donation to the school's building fund and a little arm-twisting by Uncle Henry's friends - Joel discovered that he had many "friends", all of whom wanted his friendship for one reason. Joel, because he enjoyed the company of his schoolmates, became the friendliest boy in school.

Unlike his cousin, Michael Chan had learned as a boy that in all things connected with his life discretion was paramount. He was the heir to one of most powerful Chinese in Western Canada and would one day be head of the family.

Over and over it was stressed to Michael that he must in all things conform not only to the morals, attitudes, customs and traditions of the society in which he lived, but also to the same morals, attitudes, customs and traditions of the society with which his family dealt. Certain lapses of character could be overlooked, such as gambling to excess, a too fond communion with alcohol, and the inability to remain faithful to one woman. These were only a few of the failings that plagued every man. Many men drank to excess; far too many kept a mistress if they could afford one. That many gambled excessively was ignored. There was not a Chinese man born who did not love to gamble. All these could be, and were, overlooked so long as they were done discreetly and there was no loss of honour, of "face". In Michael's world loss of face was devastating.

Michael knew without having to be told that he could never acknowledge in any way, shape or form his preference for males. Homosexuality was as much abhorred in the Eastern culture, into which he had been born, as it was in the Western culture, in which he lived. Discovery of his affair with Joel would mean so devastating a loss of face to Michael that his family could never recover.

Michael had been willing to risk everything and continue his relationship with his beautiful young cousin, so long as the relationship was secret, and so long as neither of them did anything that might bring unwanted attention to themselves or their love affair. Joel, being still in the thrall of his sexual adventurism, pretended to agree, leaving Michael blissfully unaware that his cousin was spending a great deal of time in the Senior Boys' Change Room or that he had sequestered a certain small room off the gymnasium where he "tutored" some of the more mature students.

Michael was brought down to earth and into a world of shattering reality one cold, rainy evening in the Juniors' Common Room, where he was nestled into a wing-backed chair reading Chaucer. The room was large, and with only a few lamps and the fire lit, dark. Michael, valuing his privacy, had chosen a chair in the far corner of the room. He was so totally engrossed in his reading that he did not hear two of his schoolmates enter, and was only half aware of what they were talking about when he heard his cousin's name mentioned. He hunkered down as much as he could in the chair, listening intently while Spencer Bowes, the handsome Captain of the School XI, told Chris Owen, a skinny, short, red-headed boy whose ears stuck out so much that he dared not go outside in a high wind, all about the superior blowjob he had received after football practice.

"And I could have gotten into his ass if Bloggins hadn't come into the fucking change room," Spencer concluded sorrowfully.

"Did he see anything?" asked Chris, a note of concern in his voice. "You're already on probation, Spence, and all you need is for the Sports Master to catch you with your dick in some Chink's mouth!"

Spence had laughed sexily. "It would have been worth it, Chris. Joel might be a Chink but he can sure suck a mean dick." Michael did not see him waggling his eyebrows lasciviously. "Next time, though, I am going to fuck his ass."

"One of these days you are going to get caught, Spence," said Chris quietly. "The Head will toss you out on your ear if he finds out you are screwing half the school."

"Hardly half," returned Spencer with a chuckle. "Just the ones I know love to have my dick up their ass. Terry Cecil doesn't bother you anymore, does he?"

At this Michael perked up his ears. The First Prefect, Terry Cecil, was a bully and a notorious homophobe.

"No, he doesn't," confirmed Chris. "But you did not have to sleep with him. I would have survived."

Spencer's mocking laughter filled the room. "I didn't sleep with him. I fucked him."

Chris made a disgusted sound. "Whatever! The point is that sooner or later that dick of yours will get you into trouble. You are going to put the moves on the wrong guy and then your ass will be grass!"

"I put the moves on no one," remonstrated Spencer. "They put the moves on me! Can I help it if I'm sexy?"

"You're horny, is what you are," snapped Chris.

"And you are a eunuch," replied Spencer cruelly. "You could be getting your rocks off regularly, if you would just loosen up and smell the cum!"

"Do you have to be so crude?"
"Yeah, I do," replied Spencer with a chuckle. "Say, where's your roommate?"
"He's doing a Latin tutorial," replied Chris. "And what do you want him for? Are you thinking to add Clement to your list of conquests?" he finished with a sneer.

"I wouldn't mind," replied Spencer equably. "He's got a super body and a brilliant cock." He sighed theatrically. "But, no. Clement is much too straight. I thought that maybe you would be up for a threesome."

"A WHAT?"

"You, me, and the Chink. He was in the Library when I went past. I'm sure he would be more than happy to glom on to that cute little dick of yours."

There was a shocked gasp and the door slammed. Michael waited for five or so minutes before uncoiling himself from his hiding place. He stared at the empty room, his eyes blazing, his face suffused with anger. The bigotry and racism expressed by the two boys did not anger him over much. He had long known that no matter how long he, or his family lived in a white society, no matter how much money they garnered, they would always be Chinks, little yellow men, not quite up to a white man, don't ye know. Bigotry could be countered with raw power, subtle persuasion, or money. What angered Michael almost beyond comprehension was Joel's betrayal. With clenched fists he stormed from the Common Room.

******

The memory of his encounter with Michael Chan so many years ago caused Joel to shudder. Dear God, had Michael been angry. His rage had been expressed in cutting, icy tones, his manner so cold and distant that Joel had cringed. Michael had made his position clear. Joel was out of his life, forever. What love he had ever felt for his cousin was gone, replaced by a veiled disgust.

Over the years they saw each other rarely. Michael's anger and rejection of him had caused Joel to change his ways, at least until he finished high school. He did not stop his philandering, for he had discovered that there were boys who wanted what he had to offer. Many boys.

Joel discovered Wreck Beach. He also discovered the bathhouses of what was fast becoming Vancouver's "Gay Village."

Wreck Beach was a narrow strip of sand at the base of the cliffs on which perched the buildings and campus of the University of British Columbia. In Joel's youth the beach was Canada's only "clothing optional" beach, attracting an eclectic and varied crowd of sun worshipers. There were undergrads of both sexes from the University; naturists (as nudists preferred to be called) of all ages, sizes and sex; tourists who could not pass up an opportunity to visit and gawk.

And then here were sailors! Young, healthy SAILORS! Sailors from visiting warships; crewmen from the merchant ships and cruise liners that filled Vancouver's wharves and piers; cadets from the military college on leave; sailors from the naval base on Vancouver Island. The beach was, for Joel, a smorgasbord of masculinity.

St. George's College was located directly opposite the university campus and when classes were finished for the day Joel would stroll leisurely through the college grounds, admiring the scenery. There were always undergrads walking or lounging on the green lawns that separated the university buildings, or tossing a football, or kicking a soccer ball around. If the weather was warm and sunny, as it almost always was, the college boys wore as little as possible.

After drooling his way through the university grounds Joel would descend the steep, wooden steps that connected the campus to the beach below, strip off, and settle down to admire the passing parade of nude bodies, enjoying the sleek, lean, tanned muscular bodies so overtly displayed for all to see. He rarely connected with any of the young men who presented themselves for closer inspection. It was not that he would have refused their companionship. The beach was awash with the clean-cut Canadian and American boys he adored (and an occasional tasty English or European lad whose extra bit of skin he was prepared to overlook). He even found the uncertainty and air of danger in going off with a complete stranger erotic and sexually stimulating.

What prevented any sort of sexual conduct were the layout of the beach and the vigilance of the Vancouver Police Department.

Wreck Beach was devoid of any kind of flora in which to have a private assignation. Aside from the scraggly sea grass and the dense thicket of low bushes at the base of the cliffs under which it lay, the beach was as naked as the people who frequented it. The beach, because of its popularity and the variety of people who went there, was well patrolled by the Vancouver Police Department. Public nudity was accepted and so long as one obeyed the unwritten rule of no sex, no booze, and no drugs the police constables more or less left everybody alone. Overt sex of any kind, whether homosexual, heterosexual, or variations in between, on the beach or in the bushes, was not allowed and persons engaging in it were subject to immediate arrest with all the attendant consequences, not the least of which would be the publication of one's name in the criminal court calendars which the city's two dailies published without fail.

Joel might risk going off with a young man who turned out to be a homophobic mugger. He dared not risk doing anything that would reveal his homosexuality to his family. Michael might know, the boys at school might know, but his parents, and more importantly, his Uncle Harry, could never find out what he did with other boys. He might risk a beating, a savaging, even death, but he could not risk exposure to his family, he could not risk the wrath of his father or Uncle Harry, for that would bring the Tsangs down on his head and Joel would rather die than be placed in their hands.

The Tsang clan were Uncle Henry Chan's personal retainers, Chinese peasants who still worshipped the gods and saw omens in everything. They kept to the old ways and had never really progressed much beyond the 16th century. They were Uncle Henry's enforcers, bodyguards and, if the situation warranted it, his personal executioners.

The whole clan lived in a rundown, decrepit building in Chinatown, uncles, aunts, cousins, relatives of every degree, fighting, yelling, and copulating with abandon. Their compound was overrun with children, cats and dogs (which appeared and disappeared with distressing regularity, replaced by even mangier creatures), the occasional chicken and innumerable and inconveniently placed shrines to the hundreds of gods and goddesses in the Chinese pantheon.

The Tsangs produced hulking males and demonstrably the ugliest females ever conceived. They also gave Uncle Henry fealty and their complete, unquestioning loyalty. Wherever Uncle Henry went there would be a Tsang or three nearby. Michael, as Uncle Henry's heir, had been gifted with a Tsang minder, in the person of Joey Tsang, a huge, beetle-browed young man who followed the boy everywhere, ensuring with his hulking presence that Michael would never be bothered by the school bullies or forced to join the lunch hour line-ups in the school cafeteria. Michael hated him.

Not so Joel. He seduced Joey with practiced ease; a most unpleasant experience for the same aberrant gene that gave Joey his height and bulk had given him the genitals of a schoolboy, all flesh and little substance made worse by Joey's complete lack of personal hygiene. Years later Joel would shudder at memory of a naked Joey Tsang, his deep purple glans peeking through the rubbery folds of his foreskin, as powerful globs of his thin semen squirted into the air, his porcine squeals of pleasure sundering the quiet of the dingy storeroom off the school gymnasium where Joel took his "dates".

Seducing Joey Tsang had been necessary to ensure his silence. To the Tsangs, Uncle Henry and his family were Mandarins, demi-gods beyond reproach, held in such awe that the elders of the clan kowtowed whenever they entered Uncle Henry's presence. Joel deliberately used this knowledge, and the ingrained horror that all traditional Chinese had of homosexuality, to ensure that no hint of his activities with his school chums made its way to his parents, or Uncle Henry, or Michael, who had made it plain that he would not countenance such conduct.

Joel had no worry that word of his conquests amongst his schoolmates would get back to Michael for several reasons. The boys he serviced were naturally very quiet about having sex with him, the more so because of their ingrained prejudices. Getting your dick sucked, or fucking one of your classmates carried no bragging rights in the locker room where being branded a queer, or a faggot was tantamount to a death sentence.

Joel's quest for absolute discretion and secrecy was helped by the natural prejudice of the white world in which all of Joel and Michael's classmates lived. In the white world Chinese were considered not quite human, pitiable examples of humanity who worshipped strange idols, lived in filth, and ate strange, foul-smelling foods. Decent people simply did not have sexual relations with Chinamen!

Then there was Joey, who seemed to be always lurking about and one look from him caused even the loudest-mouthed of bullies to pale. Prejudice and unspoken threat made certain that everybody kept his mouth firmly shut.

As he matured Joel realized that antagonizing his cousin was unwise. Michael more and more was drawn into the web of power that surrounded Uncle Henry and while he used that power sparingly, Joel had no doubt that if Michael ever found out that his orders had been disobeyed horrible things, things too horrible to contemplate, would happen to him. Joel had no desire to end up in some dismal Tsang village in the wilds of China, surrounded by ugly men and even uglier women, which was the least that would happen to him.

Accordingly, Joel was very careful which of his schoolmates he would have sex with, choosing only those boys whose absolute discretion could be relied upon. Selective, discreet sex worked for a while. Unfortunately Joel discovered that he craved variety.

Joel needed to know what was hidden under the trim grey trousers the boys wore as part of their school uniform. He needed to taste and feel not one boy, but many boys and by his 17th birthday he knew without question that he could never be content with just one partner. No matter how many of his schoolmates he slept with, Joel still wanted more.

The uniqueness of each boy drew Joel like a moth to the flame. Each boy had his own distinct taste and scent, his own special exceptional being, to the extent that Clement Keppel tasted entirely different from Spencer Bowes, who was not as sweet as Chris Owen, or as harsh as Terry Cecil, who tasted a hell of a lot better than Joey Tsang.

It was this essential difference of men that drove Joel first to Wreck Beach, and later to more fertile hunting grounds in the bathhouses.

From time to time the Vancouver Chamber of Commerce issued glowing press releases to the effect that Canada's "Brightest and Best" were abandoning the frigid, staid and restricting East for the warm, fun-loving, laid back West, not-knowing, or if the Chamber did know, choosing to ignore, the very real fact that many of the country's "Brightest and Best" were young, male, and gay.

They came, at first a trickle, and then a veritable torrent, these young men, anxious to live their lives as they wanted to live them, and not as society, or the churches, or their families wanted them to live. A tide of young men came to the Golden Coast, and stayed.

They began to establish a haven for themselves. From Burrard Street to Lost Lagoon, from Robson Street to Bright's Bay and Sunset Beaches on False Creek, a small village began to form, eleven or so square blocks where hotels, inns, bars and clubs welcomed gay clientele with open arms. Gay businesses were opened, gay apartment buildings upgraded and, dotting the gay cantonment, were established the bathhouses that seemed to be an essential part of gay life.

The bathhouses ranged from the opulent to the ordinary, and catered only to men. Joel visited them all. That he was underage was no impediment. A complete set of false identification, in an assumed name, helped him gain entrance to these treasure houses where, in the dimly lit corridors, steam rooms and swimming pools of the bathhouses Joel found what he was looking for.

Each building was filled with smooth bodied, handsome, naked men, all wanting to live life to the fullest, to taste, to savour, to enjoy, to live. And all of them wanted what Joel wanted, wild, uninhibited, passionate, anonymous sex. Inside the bathhouses no questions were asked, no names given. Any baggage was left at the door. They were young, they were handsome, they were desired, and life was to be lived to the fullest.

Joel, a slim, beautiful boy, was in his element. For Joel, life was wonderful. He had all the sex he wanted and, on his 18th birthday, came into his inheritance.

Years before, when the Chans took over the family business and eased out the Chiangs, certain arrangements were made to ensure that there would be no problems with later generations of Chiangs. Each male "inherited" a sum of money large enough to keep them quiescent and happy. Joel, who was aware of just what Uncle Henry did, and Michael would do, had no desire to be a part of the family business and, given his preferred lifestyle, desired only to get as far away from the restrictions imposed on him as he could.

With part of the money he bought a penthouse condominium overlooking English Bay. He continued, officially, to live at home in the family compound with his parents, his brothers, sisters and assorted hangers-on, playing the role of a dutiful Chinese son. Unofficially he lived a secret, double life, free of Chiangs and Chans, Tsangs and, after Michael had succeeded Uncle Henry, the hard-bodied, hard-eyed young white men who supplanted the Neanderthal Tsangs.

With no restrictions placed on him, and no one reporting his every move to Michael Chan, Joel enjoyed the good life. He haunted Wreck Beach and visited the baths every night. He had the money to spend, a new car to drive, and never lacked