Sailors Tale

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2008 by John Ellison

Readers are reminded of the prohibitions imposed by law with regard to erotica. Please judge accordingly.

This story takes place in a time when safe sex was not a factor. Please, always be careful!

A Sailor's Tale

Chapter Nine

I returned to Canada in the teeth of a howling gale blowing in from the Atlantic and wondered if this was a harbinger of what was to come. I had half-expected to be met by someone from Base Transport, but this turned out to be a forlorn hope. I later learned that there had been yet another budget cut, and transport would not be provided for lone sailors returning home, even if they were Whale Island Trained.

After what seemed like an interminable wait in the driving rain, I managed to hail a cab and spent the next hour with my heart in my throat as the cabby ignored turn signals, the speed limit, and others cars on the winding, treacherous highway that led into Halifax, and chattered in what I took to be Urdu. As it was late, and not having any great inclination to spent the night on a lumpy mattress in Transient Quarters, I directed the cabby to take me to Harry Oppenheim's house.

Harry was his usual charming self - I suspected that I had interrupted him and Rachel making another baby - and we sat up most of the night chatting while Rachel cooked a mountain of food. She said that I had lost weight (which I had, hardly difficult on English food) and was as skinny as a Shabbas chicken in Hebron.

The next morning I reported aboard Stadacona, going through the usual In Routine and reported to the Fleet Gunnery School where, much to my surprise, I met an old friend, Chief Edgar, who had left Cornwallis and was now Base Chief Gunnery Instructor.

After welcoming me back, the Chief read the reports from Whale Island, nodded, and informed me that I was now in charge of Parade Training, with emphasis on ceremonial drill. Not only would I be teaching classes in one of the school's training rooms, I would be spending much of my time on the parade square, overseeing drill. The Chief was especially keen on having a proper Guard, one hundred young men hand picked by him. I was also to teach a separate Ceremonial Unit proper funeral drill - there is a proper way to carry a coffin so that it doesn't wobble as it is carried along - and the associated foot and rifle drill.

I knew what the Chief wanted and because I thought he was one of the finest men I had ever met, I was determined to give it to him. I told him that I would give him the sharpest Guard in the Navy and couldn't wait for someone to cross the bar - there is nothing like a good funeral to show off a sharp uniform and even sharper drill routines.

After chuckling, and telling me to make him proud, and almost as an afterthought, the Chief told me that I was out of the rig of the day and casually threw a badge at me. I saw the gold wire anchor and grinned. At last! I was now a Leading Seaman!

After leaving the Chief's office I retired to the Fleet Club and ordered a beer. I was stunned at the thought of the responsibilities thrust on me. I never doubted that I could do the job. I could, Whale Island and sheer stubbornness on my part would see that I did do a good job. What I had to decide was how I was going to go about it.

As I sipped my beer I reflected on the training I had received. The whole idea of drill is cohesion and discipline, to make men move as one integrated unit. This I understood for the idea and the reasons had been instilled in me from the first day I arrived in Cornwallis. What bothered me were the methods used to train the men. I had seen, and heard, much yelling and name calling and frankly felt that the whole training scheme was based on fear and humiliation. This I did not want. I also did not want to be what almost every Parade GI seemed to be: an intolerant, arrogant, power hungry martinet, always ready with an insult and never speaking in less than a dull roar.

The more I thought about what I was going to do, the more I drew on the training I had received and on the men who had trained me. I first thought of Chief Edgar who had been a wonderful teacher. He was no martinet, true, but he knew when to put the hammer down and when to ease off. He understood the frailties that existed in every man, and understood that it was his job not to dwell on them, but to correct them whenever possible. He was a fair and firm man, who knew that sometimes the answer to a problem was not contained in a book. He understood human nature and I would draw on his example as much as I could.

I also thought about Edouard and how he had commanded his company of demented gunners. Once again, fair but firm, and while he could and did muck in with the lads, he had drawn a line that no one was to cross. He might grope and grapple with the best of them, shower with them, or play silly buggers in the huge tub after a football game, but he was still their Commanding Officer, their Term Lieutenant, and they had better never forget it!

That afternoon I began to create my alternate persona, straight, compassionate, understanding and dedicated to my profession.

The next morning I appeared on the parade square to confront my new tasks, my new persona, and 150 young Canadian males fresh from the trials and tribulations of HMCS Cornwallis. As part of their recruit training these ratings had spent weeks doing foot drill and drill under arms. Their drill had been basic, and unless they had been selected to mount the Ceremonial Guard at their Passing Out Parade, they had a tendency to be sloppy. My job was to sharpen them up and, in my way of thinking, make them proud of being members of the Guard. I also wanted them to understand their traditions and their heritage, all of which was in the process of being eliminated. Unification was coming, we all knew it, we might not have liked it, but it was coming.

The politicians in Ottawa as usual ignored the grumblings and warnings and went their merry way. While the official date of Unification was far off - January 1969 - there were already signs that the juggernaut would soon be on us. One of the signs was the appearance from time to time of sailors in various strange, Loden Green uniforms, sometimes with the old badges sewn on, sometimes with new, Air Force rank badges. The idea was to determine just what uniform would sit well with the troops. These experimental abominations ran the gamut from walking out, summer and working dress. The latter was universally rejected. It consisted of dark green, trousers, light green shirt, a windbreaker type jacket and . . . a baseball cap! Wearing that uniform one looked like a refugee attendant from the local Sunoco station. Later the baseball cap would be replaced by a green beret - not popular, but better than the damned cap!

Rather than dwell on the coming changes, I determined to work away at the present realities of forming a Guard. I used a few of the tricks of the trade that I had learned in Cornwallis and Whale Island and set to work.

First on my list of things to do was to make the new guardsmen as comfortable with me as I wanted to be with them. I also wanted them to have fun. On that first morning I decided that formality had its place in the scheme of things, but not just then. The trainees had shown up in the rig of the day: bell bottoms, gunshirt, shined boots, and white caps. All very nice if you're working in an air-conditioned office; not so much fun if you're parade bashing in the sun, so I sent them to their rooms to change into sports gear. Next I sat them all down on the steps that lead up to "A" Block and explained what we were going to do. I became so enthused that I didn't pay any attention to 150 young men sprawled on the steps, half of them with their legs open and offering tempting hints of coloured briefs and boxers under their regulation shorts.

What they didn't know, and I did, was that there was a purpose (a first for the Navy) behind what we were about to do. Centennial Year was almost here. The government was lashing out huge sums of money in "Centennial Projects", including completing the rebuilding of the fortress and town of Louisbourg, Fort York in Toronto, and so on. Then there was EXPO 67, the great boondoggle in Montreal. The Queen was coming as well, so a Royal Guard was needed. We would also be parading at any and every venue that the powers that be could think of for us to show off. Whether I liked it, or they liked it, the name of the game was PR and God help them if they embarrassed themselves or the Navy!

We settled down to a routine that everybody could live. In the mornings we marched, went to classes and so on. I tried to arrange something to do with sports for the afternoon, usually just working out in the gym (gaining points with the Chief PTI, Toner, who was always on the look out for new meat for his never ending list of teams), swimming, and at least once a week a PR gig. At first this last activity worked out well. We visited the Children's Hospital, played baseball with some of the local Little League Teams, and attended a CWA Fund Raising Barbeque (where we put on a small display of foot drill). The Head Shed seemed to be working overtime to think up ways to show the flag and their newest toy to the world. One of their schemes, however, didn't work out quite so well.

Someone decided that the Navy was always cognizant of social needs, not the least of which was giving blood, so we all trooped down to the Red Cross. There were newspaper reporters there, and photographers and they all clicked away taking pictures of Jolly Jack smiling broadly as Dracula drained his body of a pint or so. What the PR people did not do was their homework. It appears that alcohol and giving blood do not mix at all. Two beers and you're flyin'! What happened was that after giving their blood, the ratings were given a "Make and Mend", and the first place they headed for was the Junior Rates Mess. I will not bore you with the details but six needed to be bailed out of the Halifax Lockup, two were put on XO's Defaulters (for deciding to practice their Bosun Calls just as Evening Quarters was starting, confusing everybody), three were Confined to Quarters for staging a shaving cream fight in the hallways and one ended up in Dartmouth where he went to a church bingo and won $250.00!

Chief Edgar, officially, was very stern and Jove-like in his disapproval. Privately he laughed his ass off and arranged for a slush fund to take care of the bail.

As the guard matured, so did I. I learned how to lead and I believe I behaved exactly as they expected me to behave towards them. When I had to be, I was a proper prick of a G.I., but I knew what I was doing and while it does sound arrogant, I know I gained their respect. I also usually managed to make them laugh, at me, at themselves, and at the Navy. I admit that I was not the most popular GI with all of them. I demanded excellence and perfect discipline. I never asked them to do something I would not do, and when I made a mistake, I admitted it, and moved on.

I was gaining quite reputation as well. I was seen as a no-nonsense man who brooked no insolence or breach of decorum, especially while on parade. While I arranged for the Guardsmen to be refitted with new, tailor-made No. 1 Uniforms, I also had the heels of my boots fitted with metal plates that clicked when I walked. Everybody knew that when they were on parade they had to be turned out properly, shining brightly as new pennies. I developed a pattern on walking slowly up and down the division, the heels of my boots clicking loudly, the harbinger of doom! When I stopped, and I always did, someone was in trouble, and they all knew it. It might be a slight crease in the jumper, an Irish Pennant peeking over the edge of a gaiter, I spotted them all.

My routine was most effective when I started at the rear of a file. I am told that there are men who still grow white when they hear the clicking metal-tapped boots on pavement because of what I did. I am not sorry, for it helped instil teamwork and pride in the Guard. They very soon realized that if one of them did not meet the standards I had set for them, no one did.

I never yelled, never lost my temper. I would bring a look of utter disappointment on my face and that worked wonders. I never used humiliation, as so many GI's did. Instead, I would utter the fatal words, "Give me your gear and your card."

This came about the morning of our first full court parade. I had arranged for one corner of the Drill Shed to be cordoned off and here the hands polished their boots, pressed their uniforms, and so. I visited the work area, helping out and before I left for the evening I told them all to return to the barracks and get some sleep. Most of them listened to me.

When I arrived the next morning I formed up the Guard and did my pre-inspection inspection. Much to my muted anger, two of them had not paid the slightest attention to my admonitions. They had left the Drill Shed the night before and gone directly to the Wet Canteen, closed it, and then gone downtown to an after hours club. Their eyes were red and neither of them had shaved. They smelled of stale beer and God alone knew what else. I stared at them and then uttered, "Give me your gear and card."

The two men silently handed me their cards, unbuckled their webbing and, devastated, (it turns out the parents of one of them were in the crowd that a parade always attracted) marched away to join the halt, the lame and mentally impaired who hovered around the edge of the parade square and acted as stretcher bearers for the inevitable fainters and slackers.

I never had any trouble after that.

At first my duties, and my constant attendance with 150 males, was wearing, and caused me many sleepless nights. My natural inclinations were always just bubbling under the veneer of propriety that I had managed to construct. I had seen all of the Guard naked at one time or another, wrestled with some of them, gone swimming with all of them, played water polo with them, had felt their hard, youthful bodies against mine . . .

Somehow I managed to avoid the obvious pitfalls and temptations. My "straightness" was more or less assured by my hard-ass demeanour. I never hinted that I might want to take one of my young charges for a little walk in the park, and while I could and did, engage in the homoerotic banter that seemed to be a way of life in any basically closed all-male environment, there was a line I did not cross and they knew when they had gone to far.

Having just come from a hot, lust-filled relationship with Edouard Lotbiniere did not help at all. Being around 150 horny sailors did not help at all, and neither did sharing a room with a stunningly handsome young man who had not only a muscular, chiselled body that screamed for Michelangelo to sculpt it, but also the second biggest penis I have ever seen.

Back in the days, before the Internet, there were very few outlets or inducements to dream. There were "muscle books", and "art books" containing photos of naked males available. They were purchased in dingy holes in the wall bookshops, and always carried home in anonymous, brown paper bags. Possession of these books was a sure sign of being light in the loafers. Skin magazines, filled with naked women, were acceptable; art books filled with naked men were not.

Unlike today, there was no Internet to access in the dark hours of the night, or the bright light of day, for that matter. Gay pornographic literature (if much of what I read today can be called that) simply did not exist. Heterosexual erotica was widely available and always condemned and banned in much of the country.

Every avenue of expression was closed to gay men. Although there were gays in abundance in every profession, from the clergy to firefighters, doctors and lawyers, no one was crazy enough to advertise the fact. Repression was the rule of the day and engaging in a homosexual act with another male, even consenting, was a crime, although the same Criminal Code said that males 21 years and older could legally engage in such acts! Get caught doing what the law said you could do and you were good for a fine at least, two years in prison at worst! Go figure!

While I was kept busy and had little time for dalliances I did, from time to time, feel the urge. The problem was there was simply no place where I could satisfy that urge, at least not in Halifax. The police and the military kept a very close eye on the only gay bar in town. There were no baths available at all, as there were in the larger cities: Toronto, Montreal and Vancouver. Don and Fettuccini, ever caring, seemed to have a stable of willing studs on hand, but I never took them up on the offers. Even Harry Oppenheim offered to introduce me to a nice Jewish boy!

I knew from observation that there were gays aplenty in the military, just as I knew that assignations were made in the messes. I would watch two guys and their body language was clear: they knew what they wanted, and so they found it. Fear, however, was my guide. One never knew if the handsome young hunk was a NARC, a plant by SIU, the investigative arm of the Military Police. They seemed to be everywhere. I even lived with one!

I shared a room in A Block with two other sailors. One, Andy McCulloch, was a slim, somewhat fey young man. He had brown, curly hair and always seemed to need a haircut. He was quiet, and more or less kept to himself. He worked in the Pay Office, disbursing travel claim settlements. He was very religious, and went to church every Sunday and said his prayers every night before going to bed. He seemed harmless enough and to be honest half the time I never noticed if he was in the room.

My other room mate was Ingram Day Trull, one of the most gorgeous males ever created. He stood a shade over six feet tall, had a body that seemed to have been sculpted by the gods, pink, healthy skin and deep blue eyes. It was not enough that he was a heart stopper at first sight! He was beyond description with his clothes off.

Ingram was a poster boy for healthy living. He ate well and carefully, worked out, and drank very little. He was the product of a farming family in Saskatchewan, and looked as if he had been corn-fed all his life. Writers of erotic fiction and the imaginations of size queens notwithstanding, the average male penis is between six and seven inches erect. Some are bigger, many smaller. The point however, is that 13 or 14-inch dicks - if they exist - do so primarily in somebody's wet dream or in the pages of the stroke stories they write.

Ingram was big, possessing the second largest penis I ever saw, and believe me, over the years I've seen a few! Hanging from a delightfully trimmed dark brown bush of tightly curled light brown pubic hair was a masterfully circumcised flaccid six-inch penis, as thick as a newborn's wrist. His smooth, silky looking scrotum contained two perfect, goose-eggs. Aside from a light dusting of blond hair on his arms and legs, and the hair on his head, golden blond and worn high and tight, his body was as smooth as a baby's bum.

Ingram supposedly worked somewhere in the Dockyard. He was rated a Leading Stoker, but had never been to sea. This alone aroused my suspicions. Stokers were in high demand, Leading Stokers in particular. He was also a "Day Man", and never stood Duty Watches. Yet he would disappear in the middle of the night. He never said where he was going, or why. He just went. He never spoke of what he did, and was tight-lipped much of the time. While I was intrigued, and admit that I would have liked to see Ingram, Junior, angry, I tried not to look when he left to shower. In truth I was much too busy and for the first part of 1967 I was hardly in my room.

The Guard, together with the Stadacona Band, and assorted hangers on and groupies, spent the weeks leading up to Dominion Day on tour. We performed in cities, in small towns, at exhibitions and tattoos and marched in countless parades, so much so that they all seemed to flow into one. We slept in hotels (four to a room), on drill deck floors, in barracks and once in a tent, where it rained constantly. While there were always receptions and beer bashes after the parades, in the shadows of my mind I can only remember returning to wherever we were bunking and doing my laundry, pressing my uniform and shining boots, surrounded by grumbling sailors who would much rather have been drinking beer and chasing skirt. Not that they didn't - they did - and the slush fund for bail money was exhausted, twice!

With the end of the Centennial celebrations my life returned more or less to normal. New trainees came, learned Guard Drill, and then were drafted away to ships and shore establishments. The normal routine of the Navy also continued with Divisions every morning, Ceremonial Divisions and Captain's on Fridays. There were the sports teams I played for, and almost every weekend I was away playing something against the home team of some Godforsaken base or station.

From time to time the monotony of routine was broken by a funeral. These were also more or less routine, the only variations being in the religious send-off, and the graveside histrionics performed by the deceased's widow and/or relatives. These ranged from stoic acceptance (usually on the part of elderly, Anglo Saxon mourners) to shrieking and wailing and attempts by a wife or mother to throw herself into the open grave as the coffin was lowered.

At first the histrionics and caterwauling were unnerving, particularly to the younger members of the bearer party. However, we did, eventually, become inured to it and frankly became cynical. We could also more or less know what would happen. If the funeral was in a Catholic church, we would have to remove the Ensign from the coffin so that a plain pall could be placed over it. If the funeral was in an Anglican church, there would be a music-filled processional to the altar, and a recessional. The Baptists were long on prayer and short on hymns and the Jews did a wonderful, poetic funeral, and we always kept our caps on.

Usually once the coffin was in place in the church we would retire outside, find a quiet corner and smoke and pass around a jug. Sometimes we formed an honour guard - each funeral was the same, only different. Sometimes we would place side bets on which of the mourners would faint or throw a fit. More often than not we knew exactly who would do what. Only once were we fooled.

The diseased was a Commander, of no known ability, with a fearsome temper and a beautiful, blonde wife, much younger than he was. The Commander had died from a fit of apoplexy whilst screaming at his writer over a misplaced comma in a completely useless report.

The widow, glassy-eyed, seemed calm throughout the service, although she did seem to hang on the arm of the attractive young Lieutenant who was her official escort, and tittered at odd moments when the eulogist was desperately trying to find something nice to say about the dear departed. As we left the church I noticed that the widow, dressed in black and wearing a lace veil, seemed to weave a bit and there was a definite wisp of scotch in the air.

After a long procession to a cemetery in the wilds of the Annapolis Valley, we positioned the coffin and stood back. The widow now seemed positively giggly! The priest shot her a dirty look and she calmed down. When the prayers ended the mourners moved forward to toss a rose into the grave. The widow, still clinging like a leech to the arm of her handsome young escort, tottered forward (cemetery grass is hell on high heels), sneered and tossed her rose onto the coffin. Then she spat and snarled, "Well, at least I know where the son of a BITCH is spending his nights from now on!"

Thus we passed the happy hours.

Life crawled on. Nothing too exciting happened of note, although I did notice a certain electricity in the air whenever Ingram and Andy were in the room together. Naïve as I was I wondered if something was going on between them, and then I dismissed the thought. By this time I had learned that Ingram was making Canada and democracy safe by busting drug dealers and the occasional gay sailor and Ingram didn't seem the type. I also assumed that the last place a gay sailor would end up would be in the ranks of the dreaded and despised Red Caps. After all, if they were hell on wheels with ordinary, common garden variety gays, I could only imagine what they would do to one of their own if the truth came out.

I wondered about Andy, though. He was a quiet, fey little man. But he rarely said a word to anyone, and so far as I knew he and Ingram were roommates, period. That he admired Ingram's endowment I gave no credence to. I did the same thing whenever I had the opportunity, but discreetly I hoped.

I played my cards very close to my chest. Rather than tempt fate I tried to avoid Ingram whenever I could. We were friendly enough I suppose, but our relationship was one of roommates, not friends. I deliberately deflected any hint on Ingram's part to become "buddies" and I was not about to do anything that might arouse his suspicions. I politely declined all offers of a drink in the Fleet Club or a beer in the North End Tavern.

My social life was all but non-existent. I saved enough money to buy a second hand Land Rover, battered, and painted a dark blue. Most weekends I would be travelling around Nova Scotia, visiting out of the way beaches, and staying at small B & B's, enjoying the scenery.

I still visited Harry and Rachel, and their growing brood, and Don and Fettuccini. By this time both had "retired", Don to medical school and Fettuccini to the Halifax Shipyard, where he was a brawling, profane dockyard matey by day. I doubt any of his coworkers so much as dreamed that he was in a permanent relationship with Don.

To be honest, I didn't visit Don and Fettuccini as often as I could have. I did not want a one night stand, and wasn't interested in a relationship. I was determined not to do anything that would draw attention to my secret self. While I appreciated Don's attempts at pimping, and while some of the specimens he offered for my delectation and delight were fearsomely handsome and willing, I could not bring myself to wander through the Garden of Heavenly Delights, especially not with a fellow sailor, or a man in uniform. Don eventually gave up, after a long, diatribe-filled hissy fit which ended in him deposing that I had the sex drive of an altered tom cat! What he did not know was that my libido was in perfect working order and exercised two or three times a year, when I went "home" to Toronto.

"Home", for lack of a better word, at the time was a huge old house in the Rosedale section of Toronto. Here, in a leafy enclave of private roads and winding streets, lived the elite of the city. My Uncle Edward, a senior Vice-President at a well-known financial institution, had a knack for making money for the bank, and for himself. He had invested well and worked hard and thought that a house in Rosedale was his due.

I had never gotten along with my uncle. He was an arrogant, cold, self-centred prick who tried to control every aspect of his family's lives. He and my father were indifferent enemies, and when my father was alive he avoided his brother as if he had the plague. They would exchange tacky Christmas cards and that was about the extent of their relationship.

I shared my father's opinion of my uncle. I hated him for his arrogance and coldness, and his adamant intention to control me. When my parents died he had opposed my joining the navy, at least as a Lower Decker. When I refused to listen to him, and basically called him every name I could think of at the time, he froze me out. He wrote me off as a bad bargain and never showed any interest in what I did. Had it not been for his wife, Margaret, I wouldn't have gone near the house in Toronto.

Margaret Winslow was a sweet, gentle woman who never found a bad word to say against anyone, including her husband, who acted as if he had done her a favour by marrying her. How Uncle Edward had convinced himself that this was so was beyond me. Margaret had birth and breeding; Edward had little to offer but money, and had in fact "married up". Margaret was gentry, and Edward was shanty Irish on the make. My father, never one to dissemble, had made it plain that he and I were descended from bog trotters, potato farmers and sheep rustlers who had fled Ireland one step ahead of the Beadle. Why Margaret had married Uncle Edward I never knew.

For her part, Aunt Margaret ignored her husband, and went about her business as she pleased. She was well respected in all the right circles, and had powerful friends. Edward might have been a prick, but he knew when, and where to draw the line. He would do nothing to endanger his position in what he thought was "Society", and being married to Margaret enhanced his position at the bank. He ignored her foibles, and pretended to be happily married, which he was not. Today such a marriage would have foundered on the honeymoon and both of them would have made tracks to the divorce courts. Back then, however, "nice" people did not divorce, ever. They might live separate lives, and sleep in separate bedrooms, but so long as neither caused scandal, divorce was never considered. It was simply not done.

In contrast to my uncle's coldness, Aunt Margaret was love personified. She spoiled me, she coddled me, and made me welcome in her home, and made sure that the cook knew my favourite dishes. What she would have made of my secret life when I visited her I now know she would have understood, and forgiven.

The navy was very generous with leave time. In addition to 21 days per year long leave, we had leave at Easter, and every Christmas Stadacona closed for the holidays, shutting down the week before the holiday and not opening up again until after New Year's Day. As "Staff", I didn't have to stand watches and so I took advantage of every leave time given.

I would catch a flight to Toronto. Once I had settled into the house in Rosedale my time was more or less my own, although Aunt Margaret enjoyed having me act as her escort from time to time and introducing me to her circle of friends. Uncle Edward ignored me, as I ignored him. I did accompany my Aunt on her social rounds, but she cut me a lot of slack to do my own thing. She never questioned where I went after bringing her home after one of her visits, or attending a party as her escort. She never knew that I had found an outlet for my repressed sexuality.

Toronto was growing by leaps and bounds, and the beginnings of what was to become the "Gay Village" had begun at Church and Wellesley Streets. Here smart, discreet cafes and bistros were being opened, places that eschewed the blatant sexuality found at the St. Charles Hotel ("Under the Clock") on Yonge Street. Here too, in the surrounding streets, could be found the Meccas of anonymous sex: the bath houses. There was one behind Maple Leaf Gardens, patronized by lawyers and members of the legal profession, sports figures and politicians for the most part. It was very posh and boasted a swimming pool, saunas and private rooms.

Down Carleton Street, just to the east of the Gardens, was another, slightly down market establishment, decorated in art deco style, also with private rooms, but also having, on the top floor of the building, a "crib" - hastily knocked-up plywood cubicles with each containing a bed.

On the main floor of the bath house was a bar, and leading off of it was a sauna, and the required steam rooms, and a wide, curving staircase that led to the "common room" on the second floor, filled with tastefully upholstered furniture and the reason for its existence: young men, who would, for a small gratuity, usually $20.00, help one while away the ennui of being a closeted gay male.

There was a lot to see, and a lot to choose from. A favourite and necessary pastime was the stroll. Wearing nothing but a towel, men would walk the corridors, offering to be of assistance, for a price. A quick stroll and a look through the always open doors of the private rooms always resulted in assignation.

It was all very discreet, and very anonymous. It was also all too sleek, too commercial and too much under the gaze of the local constabulary. I visited the downtown bath houses once, and then found a place I knew would draw very little attention from anybody.

I had been invited to a reception at the local navy barracks and as I was driving down Bathurst Street, I noticed the non-descript, rundown building just north of Queen Street. It looked as if it had been around for a hundred years or more, and aside from the fact that it was there, in a neighbourhood surrounded by streets of small, working class houses, gave no indication of what went on inside.

The bath house was a relic and a remnant of an almost bygone cultural tradition, and the only one left from the score of bath houses that had once dotted the neighbourhood, which had once been home to Toronto's burgeoning Jewish enclave. Many of the houses had been built without indoor facilities, and a bath was essential, especially before Temple. Here men would have a steam, wash, and sit and pass the time.

As the years past, and the Jews moved north, the Portuguese moved in, and the bath house survived.

I make no claim as to what went on before I began to patronize the place. I can only comment on what I saw when I was a client. When I first entered the place I discovered why the bath was full every night of the week.

Walking up a steep flight of stairs, one entered a large room filled with low, faux-leather couches. One wall was lined with double lockers. Lolling on the couches, usually naked, were the main reason men still visited the bath: young men. I later learned that these were the "middle class" rent boys. They were all of a type: rough trade. They were available to anyone who had a private room upstairs.

Doors led to the wet and dry steam rooms, and showers. A separate door gave entry to the winding staircase to the upper level. Here one came to a central room with corridors leading off of it. Here were gathered the higher class hookers. They were cleaner, sleeker, and smoother than the boys who plied their trade downstairs. What surprised me was that few of the boys on the second level were dedicated professionals. Many were college students who needed cash. Two were American draft dodgers (the war in Vietnam was heating up and Canada was attracting young men from south of the 49th Parallel in droves). I assume they needed money as well. Not that I ever asked. I was not interested in their life stories.

I realise now, at this distance in time, that what I did in the salad days of my youth was dangerous, doubly so when I consider the part the bath houses played in the spread of AIDS. I also make no excuse for patronizing the houses. At the time there seemed no danger, and so long as I was careful in my choice of partners I felt reasonably secure and so long as the young man looked healthy, and showed no outward signs of drippy dick or genital warts, lesions or strange marks on his skin, I didn't worry. I also confined my choices to those who were cleanly circumcised and never practiced anal unless I was topping. In light of the recent medical studies vis-à-vis circumcision and AIDS, I made the right decisions.

I never worried about what my partners were thinking, where they lived when they were not patrolling the dark corridors of the bath house, or why they were on the game. We were anonymous ships passing in the wee hours of the night and that was the way I wanted it. So far as I was selfishly concerned the boys were there to please me and I made little effort to please them. I also told myself that the baths were the only outlets for my sexual frustration. I also told myself to enjoy it while it lasted. When I returned to Halifax I was once again returning to a wasteland . . . until I went to a pool party at Don's house.

Both Don and Fettuccini loved entertaining. They never seemed to lack an excuse to throw a weekend party and every weekend from noon on Friday until dinner time on Sunday, their place was jumping. The small, wood frame house had blossomed into a multi-bedroomed play house. Fettuccini was a frustrated builder and was always adding something, from wrap-around porches, a second storey, and a guest wing to an above ground swimming pool (the house was built on a rocky ledge and digging down was impossible).

The guest list was eclectic to say the least and always all-male. I was firmly convinced that Don was a pimp at heart, or at lease a Dolly Levy. He was always dragging home young men and pairing them up. Most of these young men were undergrads from the university, although Don leavened the blend with some of the friends he had made when he was in the Andrew, Pecker Checkers and Hospital Attendants for the most part. They were all young, all good looking, and all of them available.

Fettuccini, secure in his love for Don, and in Don's love for him, accepted the boys with equanimity. He seemed to understand that from time to time a little variety was necessary to maintain his domestic bliss and never made a scene when Don sometimes slipped away with one of the guests. Indeed, Fettuccini was not above a dalliance every now and then. Every so often he would bring home a new "mate" from the dockyard. The "mate" was always young and slim, with curly black hair and flashing white teeth and sparkling brown eyes. He was always a recent immigrant from Italy.

Don knew what was going on and never made a fuss. Fettuccini might feel the need to return to his roots, so to speak, but at the end of the day when Don went to sleep the lump in the bed was always his Italian Stallion.

While most of the weekend parties at the rambling house in Dartmouth were well-attended, the exception was Halifax Natal Day. This was always held the first Monday in August, and the last day of a well-beloved tradition: the long weekend. Many of the boys who would normally gather at the house took advantage of a three-day break and took off to other climes, the beach, home, and so on. Both Don and Fettuccini seemed to enjoy the pause in activity. I know I did.

Natal Day is always celebrated with gusto. In the morning there is a monster parade winding its way through the streets of Halifax. Given the Navy's connection with the old port city, there was always a float, the Stad band turned out, and a Guard and a Marching Unit. In the afternoon there were exhibition ball games and barbecues everywhere. The beaches would be jammed with bathers and the bars downtown would be packed. It was a party day for all concerned and Haligonians loved to party.

For my part, Halifax Natal Day was a pain in the ass. Usually the day was as hot as the hubs of Hell, and the parade grew longer every year! As a member of the "Naval Contingent" I walked every inch of the parade route in Number One Dress which, while smart and sharp, and a delight to the ladies, made of tightly woven wool and I, and every other naval member, ended the parade wearing soggy drawers and smelling like a hog on heat. At the end of the parade I always needed a cold beer, a change of clothes and a shower!

When the bus carrying us from the end of the parade back to our barracks deposited us at the bottom of the steps leading up to A Block, I hurried up to my room, stripped off, grabbed a towel and headed to the showers. While I was showering I decided that I need a good, long swim. I knew, of course, that the pool in the Sports facility would be packed, as would the beaches. As I wanted a quiet spot to just swim, and lay out in the sun, I decided to head for Don's house.

Back in my room, I changed into boxers, walking shorts and a T-shirt. While changing I noticed that Andy's clothes locker was open, and half of his civvy duds were missing. Then I remembered that he had taken off to somewhere with a friend from the office, down the Valley, if I remembered correctly. Of Ingram Trull I saw no sign, but then he was a very quiet, personal young man and, as I've said, more noted for his absence than his presence.

Don's house was a ten minute drive over the Angus L. MacDonald Bridge. When I pulled up I noted a lack of cars. Fettuccini's pickup (what else) was gone, and there was a Volkswagen Beetle in the drive. I knew then that the party had not started and that the first guests, Dusty and Davy, had arrived.

Dustan and David were pre-med students that Don had met in class. While they shared a dorm room in the university they seemed to spend most of their spare time at Don's place. They were both young - 19 years old, I believe - and good looking.

When I first met them I thought that Don was contributing to Fettuccini's desire to "return to his roots", especially when I saw Davy. He stood around 5'8" tall, had black curly hair, and a slim, trim body one usually associated with a member of the Varsity Swim Team. He was darkly tanned, and his sleek body was nearly hairless. He was cute in a boyish sort of way, and had a winning way about him.

Dusty was a head shorter than his roommate, stockier, with dark blond hair and deep sapphire eyes. He too had a firm, toned body and sturdy legs, although his teenage beauty was marred somewhat by the beginning of a paunch, which bespoke communion on a regular basis with the staff of frat boy life: Oland's Red. He had an ebullient personality, and always seemed to be smiling and was one of those people who thoroughly enjoyed being alive.

Both boys were stalwarts of the Varsity Baseball team. Davy played second base, while Dusty was third baseman. They enjoyed the game, and looked upon what they did as a game, a pleasant way to pass the morning or afternoon. They had fairly respectable batting averages and played well, but neither would ever be the First Draft Choice for any of the teams in the Majors.

I entered the house, passing through the living room and dining room and into the kitchen, where I found Don doing his drama queen act while preparing the buffet salads. He was muttering under his breath as he chopped scallions, while at the same time trying to read a text book - something about urological functions, I think. He was surrounded by plates and trays piled with food, and trays of steaks marinating in red wine, onions and Don's special blend of spices.

Don greeted me as he always did with a hug, a kiss, a quick feel of my butt, and a complaint, well, several actually. As usual, his ire was directed at Fettuccini, who had not only forgotten to have the propane tanks for the barbecue filled, but had also failed to find lobsters. I pointed out that as this was August, lobsters were not in season. Don was not placated or amused. He wanted to serve a lobster salad and his partner had been sent into town with orders to fill the damned tanks and find some lobster!

Rather than listen to Don bitch, I poured a drink and left the shade and coolness of the house and walked into the back garden, which was all but obscured by the bulk of the swimming pool. I could hear splashing and laughing, with an occasional high pitched squeak and, seeing two piles of clothing, white pants, dark blue shirts and baseball cleats piled untidily by the door, rightly assumed that the two young baseball players were enjoying a swim.

I climbed the short flight of steps that led to the broad, wooden deck that surrounded the pool, and saw Davy and Dusty wrestling and playing grab ass at the far end of the pool. After a minute or so they spotted me and swam toward the ladder affixed to the deck. I was surprised to see that they had not bothered with swim suits. Each was wearing tighty-whiteys, somewhat rump sprung from the water, and so translucent that nothing was left to my imagination. Even allowing for shrinkage, they both had impressive, compact baskets. Through their tightys it was easy to see that both were clean cut, All-Canadian boys, which sort of disposed of the thought that Fettuccini was returning to his Sicilian roots with them.

While I took in the beauty of the two young men, I wondered why they bothered wearing their underpants as their upper deck fittings were on full, pleasing view.

As I frankly ogled the delightful sight before me, I was somewhat startled when a voice behind me echoed my thoughts. "They sure don't leave much to the imagination, do they?" asked the voice.

I turned to see, of all people, Ingram Trull smiling at me. I was so surprised I took a step back and fell into the pool!

As the two laughing baseball players fished me out of the pool I looked into Ingram's sparkling eyes and sputtered, "What . . . what in the hell are you doing here?"

"I was invited," Ingram replied as he reached out his hand. "Surprised, are you?"

I sat on the top step of the pool ladder and nodded my head. "Betcha ass!" I growled. Then I remembered what Ingram did for a living and asked, "You here to raid the place?"

Laughing, Ingram shook his head. "I don't bust my brothers." To emphasize his point he reached out and gave Davy and Dustan's packages a firm squeeze. "I'm here by invitation and to admire the scenery." He squeezed both firm set of upper deck fittings again. "And there sure is a lot of scenery to admire!"

Davy stepped back and giggled, "That's all you're going to do! There is no way that dick of death you have between your legs is coming anywhere near my ass!"

Ingram assumed an air of petulance. "That's not what you said the last time I was here!"

Dusty gave Davy a dirty look. "You told me that all you did was suck his cock!" he accused.

Davy, who was fiddling uncomfortably with the leg bands of his underpants, growled back, "That's all I did!" He wiggled a bit. "Damn these things are a pain when their wet!"

"So lose them," suggested Ingram.

Davy looked at Dustan, an impish glean in his eyes. "Ya think?" he asked.

Dusty grinned. "Why not?"

Before Ingram and I could say a word both young men pushed down their underpants and stood before us, twirling the white pants on their fingers. Without thinking I said, "You better not leave those lying around. You know how pissy Don gets if you clutter up the house with wet undies!"

Davy grinned. "Not a problem!"

"Sure isn't," agreed Dustan and before I knew it two pairs of tightys went flying through the air to land with a soft, wet plop on the roof of the house.

"Jesus!" Ingram exclaimed, looking at the underwear decorating the roof. "It's a good thing the nearest neighbour is half a mile away!"

"Yep," agreed Dusty. Then he looked first at Ingram, and then at me. "So, you two going stand around perving or you gonna join the party?"

Davy looked pointedly at me. "You're soaking wet! You should get out of those shorts and stuff; your dick might catch a cold and there's nothing worse than a dick with a cold." He laughed and pointed at my crotch. "Come on, Steve, strip . . . unveil the monster!"

Ingram began laughing. "Oh well, when in Rome . . ." He began stripping and soon enough he was pushing down the white boxers that covered his nether regions. He nodded at me. "He doesn't have a monster. He's cute, but no monster." He pushed his boxers down to his knees. "Now, if you want to see a monster . . ."

"We've seen it!" Davy, Dustan and I yelped in unison.

Ingram continued to laugh as he neatly folded his shorts and T-shirt. Then he balled his underpants and tossed them in a graceful arc onto the roof.

Somewhat unwillingly, I followed their example. When I was as naked as the day I'd been born, Davy and Dustan nodded approvingly. "Sweeeeet," Davy drawled.

"Back off, you two," I muttered. "It's too early and I'm not . . ." I paused, not quite willing to lie and tell them that I was straight. Then again, with Ingram beside me, I wasn't about to tell the truth either. "I'm not on the menu." For some reason I threw my boxers onto the roof where they landed next to Ingram's.

"Pity," Ingram murmured.

The shock of hearing this remark registered on my face, and did not go unnoticed by Ingram. I saw a strange look in his eyes and knew . . . and the admission that Davy had sucked Ingram off coming to mind. At first I dismissed the thought. Ingram couldn't be . . . and as for Davy sucking him, well, Ingram would not have been the first straight boy to wander down the road of gay sex.

"But . . . you're straight!" I told Ingram. "You're also SIU!"

"The two are not mutually exclusive," offered Ingram with a grin. Seeing the doubtful look on my face he shrugged and said, "But, if you want proof . . ."

Ingram dropped to his knees in front of Davy and took his flaccid penis into his mouth. Davy closed his eyes and stiffened his back. Before too long he was slowly thrusting his dick in and out of Ingram's mouth.

"Holy shit!" I muttered, wide-eyed at what I was seeing.

Soon enough Davy's slim body stiffened. Then he arched his back as, with shaking legs, he began a short series of thrusting movements with his hips that announced his ejaculation and a long, low moan of pleasure escaped his lips to float over the calm, blue water of the pool.

Ingram continued to suck gently until finally Davy pulled away, yelping, "Off the head! Damn it, off the head!" He was not paying attention and stepped back, falling into the pool with a loud splash.

"He's very sensitive when he comes," observed Dusty with a huge smile.

Ingram ignored Dusty and asked, his eyebrows arching as he looked at me, "So, does that put your mind at ease?"

I nodded dumbly, not knowing what to say.

Ingram looked around for a towel, found one, and then gestured toward the stairs leading to the ground. "I need a beer. Sucking dick is great but the chlorine leaves an after taste." He grinned and left the pool.

I followed Ingram, cadged a beer and then, knowing that Don would pitch a fit if we sat naked on his sofa, we retired to the far end of the expansive garden and sat silently under a copse of tall pines.

"Now you know," murmured Ingram presently. He looked directly at me. "I know you've never condemned anyone for being gay. I feel I can trust you." He took a long drink of his beer and looked again. "Can I?"

I shrugged indifferently, deliberately so. "It's your life, and your business." I returned his hard gaze. "Just be careful."

A small smile formed on Ingram's lips. "I always am."

We remained silent for several long minutes and then Ingram spoke again. "You're very good, you know."

At first I had no idea what Ingram meant. Then I saw his eyes and I could feel the colour draining from my face. I tried to bluff it out, but Ingram's raised hand stopped me.

"Steve, it's time you stopped lying, at least to yourself," Ingram said softly.

I started. When I found my voice I said, "I don't know what you mean!"

Ingram snorted. "Steve, I know all about you, at least the public you. You are beloved of the Command Chief; Chief Toner sings your praises; the guard loves you and fears you. Half the officers think you're the new hope while the other half knows you are."

I made to reply but once again Ingram's raised hand stopped me. "Young Canada, I've seen the look," he said. He deliberately reached down to squeeze his impressive genitals. "I saw the look come into your eyes the first time you saw me naked." His head bobbed as he shrugged slightly. "I've seen the look before, seen it ever since I first dropped my shorts after gym class."

Once again I resorted to inane bluster. "So? Guys check each other out all the time," I snapped. "It doesn't mean squat."

Ingram nodded. "Quite true. But . . ." He held up one finger. "Steve, we've roomed together for a long time. I know the look. Oh, you try to hide it, and you turn away quickly, but it's there, in your eyes."

I still refused to admit anything. "Okay, I admire your dick. I also admire Chief Toner's dick. That doesn't mean I want to suck it! Or yours!"

"Just one guy admiring the beauty of another guy?" came Ingram's question, full of doubt. "Just one athlete admiring another's well-toned body?" He chuckled. "Sorry Steve, it won't wash."

"Look, Ingram . . ." I began coldly.

"Steve, Steve," replied Ingram impatiently. "It doesn't matter. I understand, I really do. A long time ago you went into a closet. Over the years you've patiently built up an alternate persona - as I have as well. We both know it's a camouflage, a sham, because we both know what we really want."

I gave Ingram a disdainful look. "You seem awfully sure of yourself!" I snapped.

"Oh, but I am," replied Ingram equably, not taking umbrage at my deliberate coldness. "You like being the Golden Boy of the RCN Gunnery Branch. I like being a military cop." He shrugged expressively. "We both live deliberate lies. It goes with the territory - we want something that would be denied us if it came out that we're gay. We do what we have to do and find what we like - sex - where and when we can."

Ingram's softly spoken words touched a nerve. Everything he'd said was true.

"So, Steve, what do you say?" Ingram continued. "You up for a little rumpy pumpy?"

I looked at Ingram. He had a big goofy grin on his face and was absently toying with the head of his decidedly beautiful dick. I coughed delicately and looked around. "Um, Ingram, you're a beautiful guy, and you've got everything I like in a man . . ."

"But?"

"Ingram, you're an undercover cop! You work for SIU!"

"Yeah, I do," agreed Ingram with a grin. "But that doesn't mean I can't enjoy life. I may be a cop, undercover and all that crap, but I'm not about to bust you." He gave me a stern look. "I'm asking you if you want to sleep with me. We can be fuck buddies, whatever you like."

I laughed coldly. "Fuck buddies?"

"What else can we be?" asked Ingram. "We know each other, but we don't know each other. You're worried about me turning you in. I won't do that because I'm not that type of guy." He gave me a firm look. "Ask Andy if you don't believe me."

I pulled back. "Andy? What in hell has Andy got to do with this?"

Ingram shrugged. "Two years ago Andy and I got blitzed in the Fleet Club. When we got back to the room - you were off somewhere with the Guard - we started fooling around. One thing led to another and I fucked him."

I gasped in surprise. "You . . ." I began.

Nodding, Ingram said, "Every chance we get, Steve." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "Mind you, that's over with now."

I had had no idea that Ingram and Andy were more than just room mates. For a while I sat there, shaking my head and wondering how slim, delicate Andy managed to accommodate Ingram's dick.

I had been unconsciously staring at Ingram's dangling bits and he noticed. "Eleven and bit inches fully hard," he advised. "Andy measured me the first time we were together."

My eyes widened. "Wow!" I exclaimed. "Andy actually took it all?"

A note of pride crept into Ingram's voice as he said, "Every inch."

I frankly stared, imagining how big Ingram would become. "Wow!" I repeated - so much for witty conversation.

Chuckling, Ingram replied, "That's what Andy said." Then his face grew dark. "Of course, we're finished now."

"You are?"

"Yeah. He found a civvy friend. That's who he's with right now."

"You sound disappointed," I opined gently.

Ingram shook his head. "Not really," he said. "It was going to happen sooner or later." He looked at me. "Just as it will happen if you and I hook up."

I thought about what he had said. "I'm not looking for a partner for life, Ingram. I'm not looking for a one off, either." I placed my hand on his thigh. "Ingram, I'll be honest with you. Okay, I'm gay, and I'm deep in the closet. I've gone out of my way to avoid any entanglements. I look, but I don't touch."

Ingram nodded. He glanced down to see my hand on his leg. "You're touching now."

I quickly withdrew my hand. "Ingram, part of me wants to jump your bones . . ." I said truthfully.

"But you're worried I might be trying to entrap you."

"Yes."

"Steve, whatever we start, we finish. I sucked Davy's dick to make a point. I might be a cop, but I'm a gay cop. I would never turn in a brother." He snickered. "God knows I've had plenty of opportunity."

"You have?" I asked.

"Yup," nodded Ingram. "I'm not in the business of busting gay sailors. I'm narcotics. I bust dealers and users, period. I leave investigating suspected homosexuals to others. They're welcome to it. It's not my thing; never has been, and never will be." He leaned back in his chair. "Steve, we are legion. We're everywhere; all you have to do is look. Two other guys in my detachment are gay - they live together, actually." He sighed heavily. "In my business I see things, and hear things. Some of what I've heard and seen I've acted on - I don't have a choice; it's part of my job.

"I've never busted a guy for being gay. I have busted guys for dealing drugs." He snorted and shook his head. "I've busted guys who were so desperate not to see the inside of Edmonton that they offered to do anything I wanted - they'd blow me, let me fuck them, anything to let them go."

"You didn't, though," I offered.

"No, for two reasons. If I did take advantage of them, word would have got back to my superiors sooner or later. I'm not dumb enough to fall into that particular trap. More importantly though, I hate drugs. I hate dealers, and I hate weak-kneed users who have to rely on smack, or coke, to make their lives easier. Life's a bitch and then you die."

"You're a hard man, Ingram."

"Yeah, I am," agreed Ingram. "It's what I am, and what I do."

"At least you're honest," I said.

"Honest enough to admit that I want you," replied Ingram. "Honest enough to tell you that all we can ever be is fuck buddies." He shrugged. "Sooner or later I'm going to be made as a narc, and be drafted somewhere. Sooner or later you're going to be drafted to a ship, or Fleet School in Esquimalt."

I nodded my agreement. "I'm not interested in a long term relationship," I replied. "You're a good looking guy, Ingram, and I'm admitting that what you have between your legs turns me on, big time." I waved my arm casually, the arc of my swing taking in the house, the pool, and Don's cat, a white Angora that Fettuccini hated. "The whole domestic scene, the house, the two cars, the white picket fence, and yes, the cat, all leave me cold."

"As they do me," replied Ingram, understanding the way I felt. "I'm not cut out to be a homebody. I like my life just as it is." He reached down and gave my parts a gentle squeeze. "So, want to give it a try?"

"No ties, no regret when it ends?" I asked.

"Just sex," returned Ingram. "Two guys helping each other out as and when needed." He cocked his head. "Works for me."

I stood, reached out, and grasped Ingram's hand. "Let's have a swim."

"Is that a yes?" Ingram asked as we climbed the stairs leading to pool deck.

"It's a maybe," I replied, and dove into the pool.

As we swam I mulled over everything Ingram had said, and asked. I did want to be with him - God knew he was a wet dream walking - but my sense of adventure was sorely lacking. I had spent too long barricaded in my closet to want to risk everything on a fling. On the other hand, Ingram had been very forthright. He didn't want anything from me but sex. He also had a lot to lose if his sexual proclivities became known.

The more I thought the more I convinced myself it was a win-win situation, so I decided to tell Ingram yes. I swam to the end of the pool where Ingram was floating, his arms propped on the decking. I smiled at him, nodded and opened my mouth to tell him what I decided, but before I could mumble a word the air was rent by a high, terrified, screech!

Dusty and Davy, who were playing find the sausage in the middle of the pool, let out their own high-pitched squeals. I turned my head abruptly to see a wildly scrambling white cat flying through the air, clawing at air. The poor thing landed in the water with a loud splash and immediately began swimming in panic toward the side of the pool.

Davy was closer to the scrambling animal. He reached out and grabbed the cat, and held it aloft. "Fettuccini's home," he said casually as he threw the thoroughly soaked cat onto the deck. It shook itself free of water, meowed angrily at Davy, and stalked off in a high dudgeon.

Dustan watched the cat retreat and grinned. "Fettuccini sure hates that cat," he observed dryly.

From within in the house we could hear Don working up to a hissy fit of massive proportions. Ingram sighed. "Look's like dinner will be late," he said with a shake of his head.

Since I had to be on duty early the next day, Ingram and I returned to Stadacona where we consummated our new relationship. When the last kiss had been exchanged we lay together. Ingram, flushed with satisfaction, fell asleep, with his head on my chest. As I lay beside my new lover, my fingers twirled his hair, and for the first time in a long while I felt contentment.