The Secret

Three -The First Time-

It had been two weeks since that dinner with Balan and Raji at the Phoenix. Phil had seen Balan every week day at the commissary, but he avoided any lone encounters, and conversations. They lunched together, but he saw to it that it always was with one or two others. Phil tried to keep up the light banter that had heretofore been the norm between them. He was fooling no one, least of all Balan.

Thursday afternoon, as he was leaving, Balan came up to him and ask, "Phil, can I talk to you?"

"Jeeze, Balan, I can't now, I've got an early date," he lied.

"Well, what about tomorrow?"

"Can't tomorrow, having dinner with the colonel," again he lied, not knowing what else to say. He just couldn't face Balan.

"Maybe next week?"

"Yeah, sure," Phil replied, relieved.

Balan walked to his car a hurt smile curled his mouth. "Dinner with the colonel? Hell, he left for Hong Kong this afternoon, won't be back until Monday. Oh, Phil, come on . . . . face it," he murmured under his breath.

The next evening, there was a knock on Phil's door. He had just taken a shower and had donned a T-shirt and cotton sarong (he had taken to wearing sarongs alone in his apartment--they were comfortable and cool). He swung open the door was was greeted by Balan's smiling face.

"I heard that the colonel was called away to Hong Kong. So, I assumed that your dinner party was canceled. I came by on the off chance," he said cheerily fibbing and thrusting towards Phil a bottle of Chivas.

Phil was taken back. "Yeah, come on in," he said, stepping back to let Balan, who was still holding out the bottle, in to the apartment. "Oh, thanks," he said as he accepted the still proffered gift. "Sit down," he motioned Balan to one of the rattan chairs. Then, finally, he added, "Glad you came by."

"Are you?" asked Balan in his mild-toned manner, "I think not."

"Why do you say that?"

"You've been avoiding me for the past couple of weeks."

"No, I haven't, I've been busy," he lied.

"Oh, come on. Ol' chap."

"No, really, I. . . ."

"Ever since the Golden Phoenix, you have been so distant, so cool, always excuses." The truth was out. Phil Beyer could not react, his face flushed in embarrassed acknowledgement, images flew through his mind--thousands of images. "Phil, we haven't been friends for a long time, but I thought we were good friends. I know how close you and Ed were. I don't mean to, don't want to take his place. No one can. But, I thought our friendship could be also special in a different kind of way."

There was a silence. Phil just sat back in his chair and looked at his hands clamped between his knees. Balan was sitting forward, his forearms resting on his knees, fingers intertwined, a searching look in his face. Balan waited. Phil said nothing.

Balan stood up, trying to break through the barrier, reached for the bottle on the coffee table and said, "How about a drink, I could use one."

Phil glanced up into Balan's eyes, "No thanks," then added, "I've sworn off scotch."

"Sworn off scotch, Why?" Then, "That's uncivilized, " he added.

"That's why, " stated Phil.

"What's 'why?'" he asked incredulously.

"It makes me uncivilized," Phil stated as he dropped his eyes again.

"Makes you uncivilized???" Then he understood, "Oh, I see . . . You mean what happened after the Raffles?"

Phil could only nod his head.

Balan slowly shook his head, "Well, Ol' chap, nothing 'uncivilized' happened." He drew out and emphasized the word 'uncivilized.'

Phil looked up again into Balan's face and then lowered his eyes. The look of guilt, so apparent on his face sent a shaft through Balan's being. An empathetic feeling which Balan realized, understood and wept, inwardly for his friend.

"I made love to Raji," Phil confessed.

"Yes, I know, I made love to her too that night."

"I didn't mean to though," he glanced up again, momentarily.

Shrugging, Balan said softly, "Phil, of course you did."

"But she's your wife," he dropped his head again in abject misery.

"Yes, she is, but she's your friend, I'm your friend."

"You don't mind?"

"No, I didn't mind, Phil."

"I don't understand, I'm so god-damned confused." Phil lowered his face into his hands and slowly shook his head.

Balan went to the kitchen, brought back two glasses, sat down, opened the bottle and poured two fingers into each glass. "Here," he said, "drink it."

Phil sat back into the chair, his hands raised, palms towards Balan, "No, really, I . . . I don't want any. I think I need all my faculties."

"Okay," Balan nodded in quiet acquiescence.

Phil lowered his palms to his knees, took a deep breath and let it out in a lung-cleansing sigh. "Balan, that night has been a haze, in fact the past five or six weeks have been a haze. Christ knows I've tried, but ever since Ed's death . . . . "

"I know, I know."

"All I remember is bits and pieces of that night, I don't know why, I didn't have that much to drink. . . ."

"No, you didn't"

"Just bits and pieces. . . . Balan, help me, I think I'm losing my mind," came a plaintive plea. "All I seem to be able to do is my assigned work, and even that, without joy." He looked down again at his hands, "But that night, I think holds the key. . . . But, . . . . but I can't put it together." And, then, again, "Balan, help me . . . . please . . . . help me!"

Balan sat forward, deeply concerned at the obvious distress of his friend. He was silent for a moment or two. He must be careful!

Then quietly, he asked, "Phil, do you remember the Raffles?"

"Yes, yes I remember," looking intently at Balan.

"Do you remember our talking, laughing, you dancing with Raji?"

"Yessss . . . ." He fought to remember.

Balan paused, then deliberately, "Do you remember seeing . . . . seeing that man?"

"What man?"

"This could be a disaster," Balan thought.

"The one that reminded you of Ed," he stated, matter-of-factly. He had tried once before to bring up Ed. Phil had quickly, vehemently cut him off, making it known that that subject was absolutely 'off limits.'

"Yes . . . . ," he answered. His face was suddenly drained of all color. "Yes, now I remember . . . . . I remember that. We left right after that. Didn't we?"

"Yes, we left, but it was you who wanted to leave. You insisted that we leave."

"I . . . I don't . . . remember that."

"You were upset. The sight of that man really upset you. You were very pale . . . ."

"Like now," Balan thought. Then he continued out loud, "Raji and I were concerned. We were really concerned, so she sat in the back seat with you. You . . . you began to weep, uncontrollably."

"No! No . . . , I . . . . I don't remember that. . . . I was crying? Jeeze, I'm sorry." He dropped his eyes momentarily.

"No need to be. After a short time you calmed down. You said that you didn't want to be alone, so we suggested that you spend the night at our place. You agreed."

"I don't remember th . . . ," then, as an afterthought, "Yes, I do. I stumbled on the stairs . . . . Didn't I?"

Balan smiled, "Yes, yes, you did," he added with a chuckle, "and, you unleashed some pretty steamy invectives at that step."

"Sorry," was returned simply and contritely.

"No problem. Actually it was a normal reaction. Raji was greatly amused. I don't think that she had ever heard you swear."

"She must think me an oaf."

"I think not. Well, when we got to the apartment you seemed quite calm. You were a . . . little tipsy . . . . but not bad. Your color had returned. We made up a bed for you on the sofa. You were sitting in the chair and you began to fall asleep. I removed your shoes and got you standing. Raji had brought you a pair of pajamas. You took them, thanked her and stared at them for a second."

Balan considered not going on, but he felt that he had to . . . had to for his friend's sake.

So, he continued, haltingly, "Then . . . you . . . You threw the pajamas in the chair, said that you never wore pajamas . . . ."

"That's crazy . . . . I always wear pajamas!" Then with spiraling consternation, "I don't remember . . . . I don't remember that. That's crazy . . . ."

"Shall I continue?" and he looked deep into Phil's pained visage. "Can he take it?" he continued to ask himself.

He would continue.

Phil glanced up at Balan, he saw a warm friendly face and an knowing, accepting smile.

With a little chuckle, "Well . . . then you stripped your clothes off, throwing them about."

"In front of . . . . in front of . . . . Raji," came the pained, halting and embarrassed question.

"Yes," came the simple, accepting, non-judgmental answer.

"Jeeze, I'm sorry." He looked away.

"No problem, you aren't the first nude man Raji's seen, or me either."

All that Phil could do was shake his head in disbelief. "Go on . . . "

"Then you said to us, 'Okay, now it's your turn, strip down.'"

Phil sat back as if he'd been pole-axed.

"Christ, I didn't, . . . I couldn't have said that . . . " His pained eyes locked on Balan's in shock.

With a laugh Balan answered, "Yes you did," and then added, tongue-in-cheek, "and . . . . as all good Asians, we had to do what our guest desired. So, like you we disrobed and threw our clothes on the floor."

"You didn't!"

"Yes," he laughed as he remembered that scene--clothes flying about and Phil standing there unseeing.

"You laid down on the sofa, we turned off the light and went to our room. Raji was laughing, she thought it so funny. I must admit, ol' chap I also found it immensely amusing."

Phil shook his head in disbelief.

"We went to our room got into bed, still laughing and began to make love. Then . . . ."

"This is going to be difficult for him," he supposed, but necessary.

"Then . . . . you came in to our room, and . . . . and said . . . . 'I don't want to sleep alone' and you crawled into bed with us."

Phil flushed scarlet. His eyes popped open, "Holy Mother of Mary!" Then, "Oh, my God, Balan, I'm . . . .sorry."

"Why? There's nothing to be sorry for. You were troubled . . . . deeply troubled. We, Raji and I didn't do anything against our wills. He were not forced. All we did . . . . ALL WE DID was to make love. Simply that."

"We . . . made love? . . . You and Raji, me and Raji?"

Slowly now, carefully now, very carefully "Yessss. . . . . You and Raji . . . Raji an I. . . and . . . . you and I."

"You and I?" Again his face blanched white. His hands trembled, indeed, his whole body trembled. Then there was a long silence. His eyes broke from Balan's and focused on infinity. Neither moved. Phil simply could not and Balan would not. Phil needed to work this out for himself.

Then after a few minutes, "Those . . . those . . . ." he fought to verbalize a truth, a most difficult truth for him.

" . . . Those were the fragments . . . . I couldn't understand. . . ."

As if to verify what he had heard . . . what he thought that he had heard, "You and I made love?" he repeated.

Quietly, with infinite understanding and concern, "Yes Phil . . . . you and I made love."

Another long, long pause, "In front of Raji?"

"Yes Phil, in front of Raji."

Again he focused on infinity, recalling thoughts, dreams, sensations secrets. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply. Then he placed his hand, parallel over his mouth as if to halt the truth. After a moment, he opened his eyes. He dropped his hand.

"I remember now," he whispered and continued, "I remember everything." Then with unfathomable pain in his voice, he continued, "It wasn't the first time . . . . that . . . . The first time was about ten years ago. . . ."

Phil related in detail his secret. After the tale was over, a lightness emanated from Phil, the aura of the old Phil, the Phil before Ed's death began to return. His breathing was deep and steady, the stress lines had miraculously vanished from his face and his normal rosy color returned.

Balan stated, with a knowing shake of his head, "I understand Phil, that was too bad, it wasn't right for you then. . . . You were too young. . . . He wasn't right for you."

There was a knowing silence in the room. The two sat in silence for minutes. One needing the silence to put the pieces of the puzzle into place. The other, allowing the silence for the sake of his friend.

Then Balan asked, "Are you all right, Phil?"

With a voice that exposed a deep relief, "Yeah, I'm fine Balan . . . . thanks."

Balan marveled how the charged atmosphere of minutes ago had now been neutralized by a truth. It was now calm, refreshingly calm.

"I'd better go home now, Ol' chap, You probably want to be alone," he said as he stood up and moved to the door.

"Yeah, Balan, thanks," he said as he got up and held out his hand to Balan. They shook hands.

Then as if impelled to bare all, accept all, confess all, Phil looking openly into his friends eyes said simply, without directed emotion, "There's one other thing I have to say. I remember I enjoyed making love with you, both of you." A weak smile came to his lips.

"I enjoyed making love with you too," came the reply with an extra squeeze to the hand.

Also, with simplicity Balan leaned over and placed a light kiss on Phil's lips.

As he began to pull away, Phil forged forward to continue the kiss and parted his lips--his tongue searching. Balan's lips parted and his tongue too darted forth. Then their bodies came together, right hands still locked in a handshake between them. Phil pushed away.

"Sorry, you'd better get going. Raji'll worry about you."

"No, she won't. She knows where I am. She won't care, and besides you don't have to apologize for the way you feel, especially to me . . . " and then he added, "or Raji. Ever!"

Balan stepped towards Phil, deliberately.

This time both their arms encircled each other, hands moved down their backs, cupped their buttocks. Their lips locked in a long searching kiss. Pelvises thrust forward for more intimate contact sending galvanic shock waves through both. Phil uttered and involuntary, deep-throated sound. They backed away, Phil's eyes searching, Balan's smiling. Balan silently took Phil's hand and led him to the bedroom. Phil acquiesced.

Balan removed Phil's T-shirt and loosened the knot in his sarong, letting it fall to the floor. He stood back and gazed on Phil's nude body--broad shoulders, dollar-sized aureoles, a dusting of chest hair, flat muscular stomach, muscular, hair-covered thighs and calves. And at the base of his stomach a mass of dark brown hair framing a now lengthening cock with a ruddy head beginning to lift its needful form over uplifted balls.

"Lay on the bed," Balan whispered, "watch me." Phil did as he was told, he laid on the bed, his eyes riveted on Balan.

Balan unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, exposing his muscular arms, wide shoulders, small purple aureoles and flat stomach. He undid his belt, unclasped and unzipped his pants and stepped out of them. He stood there allowing Phil to take-in his long, heavy muscular thigh and calves. He wore white briefs which did not mask his pendulous ball-sack and turgid cock. Balan hooked his thumbs under the waistband, lowered and stepped out of them. His hooded, bluish-purple cock sprang outward, his balls swayed as he walked to the bed. He knelt on the bed, his arms bracketing Phil's chest and lowered his lips in a long languid kiss. Phil wrapped his arms around Balan's torso and drew him downwards.

Balan moved his lips from Phil's mouth and to his ear, his hot tongue circling and darting in and out. Phil groaned, involuntarily arching his back. The tongue traced a moist path down Phil's neck and sucked at that spot where it meets the shoulder. Phil continued to writhe in delicious stimulation. Balan moved down over the chest and cup-sucked the right nipple.

"Ohhh, Gawd," escaped from Phil's lips. Balan's tongue-tip flicked the nipple into ridged erection. Then his tongue traced another path to the left nipple and thereto he ministered to that center of joy. He lightly nipped it between upper teeth and tongue. Phil's torso jackknifed in autonomic reaction. His breath came in short panting gasps.

Balan parted Phil's thighs with his knees and moved downwards, tongue licking, fingers caressing until his chin came to the thick thatch of cock-hair. His fingers encircled the upstanding cock, exacting a gasp from Phil. Balan knelt between the spread legs, fingering the tight balls and moving up and down the shaft of Phil's cock. Slowly he bent forward, opening his dark, chisel-edged lips and lowering even further, encased the pulsing cock-head in his warm moist mouth. His tongue flicked back and forth in his mouth.

"Oh, Christ, Oh, my god," issued from between Phil's clenched teeth as his hands clenched open and closed. Balan's lips moved further and further down the heavy cock-shaft 'til his nose was buried in the mat of cock-hairs. Phil's eyes rolled up in ecstasy. His body quaked. Balan began to move rhythmically up and down the length of the cock--tracing the crest of the head and the pulsing veins along its length with his tongue.

Suddenly, Phil grasped handfuls of hair on either side of Balan's temples and pulled him up, locking his lips on Balan's cock-warmed mouth.

"Oh, Balan," he crooned, "it feels so good." One hand traced down Balan's back and over the firm round ass, the other hand snaked between the two bodies and grasped the hard cock. Slowly he moved his hand towards its base, exposing the sensitive head. "Let me suck you," he hoarsely whispered.

Balan softly placed two fingers over Phil's quaking lips, "No, my friend, this is for you." And, he moved back down and sucked the whole length of that hard cock into his mouth. Phil gasped. The sucking-licking motioned started again, up and down, flicking tongue. In and out of that hot, moist, pleasure giving mouth Phil's hard cock was propelled.

A guttural groan began to escape from his lips, his body tensed. Balan replaced his mouth with his hand and it slid up and down the well-lubricated cock in ever increasing speed. Phil arched off the mattress, only his head and heels made contact as a deep, primordial scream-groan issued from his lips. He collapsed. Torrents of milky cum arched upward in cadence with the body spasms landing to form opalescent pools on chest and stomach. His body jerked, spasmodically, uncontrollably.

Balan ceased his hand movements, bent over the cum spattered torso an planted a tender kiss on Phil's lips. He got off the bed, went to the bathroom and returned with a wash cloth.

Phil lay there, spread-eagled, hands thrown over his head, face turned to the side, eyes closed, deep breathing, detumescent cock laying over right thigh, sparkling torso. Sitting on the edge of the bed Balan carefully washed the spattered torso. Phil reached up and tenderly touched Balan's cheek with his finger tips.

"Thanks, Balan . . . . thanks."

"You okay?"

"Yeah . . . yeah, I'm fine."

Balan rubbed Phil's cheek with the back of his hand and smiled.

After a few minutes of just touching each other, Balan stood up, went over to his clothes and began to dress. As he was putting on his shoes and sox, he said softly, "Phil, what just happened was a gift from one friend to another. A gift, nothing more, nothing less. Nothing is required, nothing is demanded. . . . . Do you understand?"

Phil searched Balan's face, he searched for the meaning, then slowly it dawned upon him. Slowly he nodded his head in assent, then swung off the bed and knotted his sarong. He followed Balan to the front door. Balan turned and they hugged each other. A warm friendly man-hug.

"Sure you're okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine, I really am. I need some time to think . . . about a lot of things, I guess."

Balan smiled, knowingly.

Phil closed the door after Balan, flicked on the stereo and sat down with a deep sigh.

Slowly, he began a critical, mental inventory of his life to date. An erotic inventory.

The old secret--Pastor Richard--he guessed that Balan was right. He wasn't ready. The age difference coupled with the social-religious status of the pastor made that circumstance impossible for his young mind. The image of the nude pastor standing in front of him on the shore of the river appeared before him. He remembered his embarrassment coupled with his telescoping interest in the young pastor's crotch--wanting to look, not daring to look. He remembered the shock of that evening--the hand on his thigh. Of course, he remembered that he had enjoyed the sensations of the pastors fingers on his pubescent cock. But, he also remembered the fear of being discovered by Pastor Amund. He remembered the warm sensation of the swollen cock under his hand-encased fingers with some interest and pleasure, but he again remembered the fear of being discovered by Pastor Amund.

Phil remembered his high school days--the showers after gym class, after track. He recalled as a freshman noting with envy the hairy crotched upper classmen and wondering when he would be equally endowed? He also remembered the envy (or was it with wonder?) the big pendulous cock of Bart Kreuper, the school's number-one jock. He remember playing ' johnny-grabs' a time or two in the showers and the coach, good-naturedly admonishing, "All right, you guys. Quit horsing around!" But then everybody did it, and besides no one ever got a 'hard-on.'

He remembered fondly "The First Time."

"The First Time" was in the summer after his senior year. It was a Saturday. He had come home for the weekend--no peas to can for a couple of days. His mother, brother and sister had gone to Rochester to do some shopping. His Dad had asked him the mow the lawn. He had wore short cut-off jeans and an old pair of sneakers, no shirt. It was hot. An hour's work had covered him with glistening beads of sweat and blades of cut grass clung to his calves.

"Phil, you look hot. Want some lemonade?" It was Jenny. The Kinsleys had lived next door ever since Phil could remember. Jenny, an only child, had graduated that June from the "U" in med-tech. Jenny had never paid any attention to Phil other than a "Hi" now and then. After all she was four years-or-so older.

"Sure," he said, wiping his forearm across his brow. He walked to the opened back door and into the kitchen. She motioned him to a chair at the table. Jenny then took a glass from the cupboard and poured Phil a glass of iced lemonade. He couldn't help but notice her short, short, tight hot-pants that hiked up revealing and inch or two of her buttocks as she reached up for the glass. And, as she handed him the glass, he also noticed her breasts swelling beneath a loosely tied halter top. He had never remembered her being such a sexy person--she had always been merely: Jenny-next-door.

"Bet, you're tired."

"Naw," he said, "I'm used to it."

"Don't you get sore pushing that old mower?" she asked, or rather said as she moved behind him and began to massage his shoulder muscles.

"Naw, . . . well maybe sometimes," came the answer as the fingers began their mindful kneading.

"Phil, you've really grown up." Her fingers were no longer kneading, but caressing. That coupled with the image of her ass, tits and the smell of her created an obvious stir in his crotch.

"Maybe I'd better get going," he said. He was a little nervous. She might see his growing, crotch condition. He began to get up.

"Oh, not yet," she said breathlessly as her hands slipped from his shoulders, down to his chest, gently urging him back. His hands lay flat on the table--he felt mesmerized.

Her hands remained on his chest and began lightly, oh, so lightly to move back and forth. Phil's head swam in sensuous bewilderment. His problem grew. For a second or two she removed her right hand from his chest. Then she replaced it and drew close to him. He could feel two warm forms press against his back. She had loosened her halter. Her bare breasts were pressing against his back. This he knew. His flat resting hands now life-clamped the edge of the table. His breathing came in quick gasps. Breasts still pressed against his back, then he could feel them move from side to side. He could feel their erect nipples against his bare back. Jenny's right hand moved downwards over his flat, taught stomach.

"You feel so good," she whispered. Her lips touched his ear and her hand lightly caressed his stomach. A low soft groan involuntarily issued from Phil's throat. Her hand now moved downward further and cupped the bulging , constricted form of his crotch.

"Oh, so hard, so hot," she again whispered in his ear. This time her tongue traced around the form of his ear.

Phil uttered a second groan, this time louder than the first. His hands now white with exertion gripped the edge of the table in a need to steady himself, to sustain those wonderful, those new sensations. Jenny's practiced hands deftly unbuttoned and unzipped the cut-offs turning the corners back revealing Phil's now raging cock encased in white briefs.

Phil was almost, totally out of control--but not quite. "Your folks," he stated, the only words he had uttered since 'maybe I'd better get going.'

"They won't be back 'til seven." she assured.

Her hot hand again cupped the cotton clad cock, equally hot. All Phil could do was to roll his head back and forth against Jenny's. She then reached inside and slipped the brief's band under his balls. His turgid, upstanding, rosy crested cock, springing from the nest of his up-held balls, jerked in cadence with his beating heart.

"Ohhh, it's so beautiful," she cooed.

Her fingers moved up and down its shaft. The feel of her warm fingers on his cock sent cosmic shock-waves through his body. Phil's body jerked like a marionette on a string. Jenny released his cock and moved to the table's edge, facing Phil. He looked up at her freed breasts with their firm, erect nipples. Quickly she undid the side zipper of her shorts and pushed them down over her hips. They fell about her ankles and she stepped out of them. She wore no underpants.

Phil's eyes snapped-locked on the triangle at the base of her smooth belly. Highlights of red midst the brown. As if in slow motion, Jenny released Phil's life-clamped finger from the edge of the table . . . . . placed them on her shoulders . . . . . reached down and grasped the waistband of his cut-offs and briefs and tried to pull them down . . . .

"Lift up, " she said in a commanding whisper. He did what she asked. She stripped his shorts down, letting them fall around his ankles. She grasped his waist, pulling his buttocks to the edge of the chair. Jenny straddled Phil's thighs, reached down, grasped his raging cock and lowered her steaming cunt-lips over the rosy, glistening cock head. She sat. Encasing in one movement his entire cock deep inside her super-heated, fully lubricated love-tunnel.

This action brought a thoroughly involuntary, "Ohhh, Gawd." His young brain whirled, spiraled with heretofore unfelt sensations. His virgin body prickled over its entire surface with mounting , sensual urgency.

Well trained muscles clamped and released, clamped and released his imprisoned turgid tool. She began to move up and down on his thick, impaling prick. Suddenly, quickly from deep inside his core his whole body began to spasm, to jerk in primitive release. He groaned as his hips thrust upward with uncontrolled force. Then he collapsed back against the chair.

Jenny seemed a bit surprised at the suddenness of his release. She was filled, but unfulfilled. Then a knowing smile crossed her face. "Your first time?" she asked quietly.

All Phil could do was to nod his head. She leaned forward and kissed him, tenderly on the forehead.

"Yes," Phil thought, "it was the first time." After that Saturday, he managed to get back to Wabasha a number of additional times that summer. Each time became more memorable than the last. He remembered that each time new joys were discovered, new wonders were plumbed.

He still remembered with erotic warmth how she would groan and squirm as he sucked her nipples into hot-pink erections. He remembered how she would cry out and spasm as his tongue teased her little, pink, cock-like trigger, hidden midst the soft warm folds if her down-covered cunt. How could he forget the first time she had slipped her hot lips over his cock-head! He remembered how, finally, he had been able to control his young, raging-stud cock and bring Jenny to a screaming orgasm. How proud that had made him.

"Dear Jenny," he thought, " she was a good tutor."

He continued his rumination. His litany of the past.

He remembered his first meeting with Ed. He remembered the 'initiation.' Their friendship, strong, non-judgmental.

He remembered the girls. Nothing serious, no one steady, well not seriously steady. There were passionate interludes, but, always with girls.

Yes, he remembered the showers after his usual work-outs. He wasn't good enough to get on the college track team, but he ran occasionally and played basketball "To keep in shape," he had said. But now, he suspected that it was, in part, because of the showers. The presence of nude male bodies.

He especially remembered the time, late one Friday afternoon. The locker room was nearly empty. He entered the shower, sweaty, weary--Ax Parker was the only one in the shower. As he walked in, he couldn't help but notice Ax's hard-on. He could hardly keep his eyes off of that sight.

He forced himself to look away. Partly because of embarrassment, partly because it began to catalyze his own cock into erection. He turned away, turned up the cold water and controlled his rising feeling. He turned back--Ax's back was to the shower, he was soaping his arm pits and his cock still ridge-poled.

Ax smiled at Phil, and as if needing to explain, "Hot water always gives me a hard-on."

Phil smiled, "No problem."

He remembered a number of other times when he purposefully delayed his work-out until late Friday afternoon. And, as he remember, he smiled.

Phil also remembered that there were many, many times when he had seen Ed's nude body. But, he had, interestingly enough, never entertained any erotic notions, at least not overtly. He also remembered similar instances in Ohio during his training.

Then he remembered after he had arrived in Singapore, he met Balan. Balan was the first Singaporean-Indian he had met, actually the first Indian. He remembered how he had reacted to his exotic handsomeness, even fantasized about him.

All these 'secrets' now seemed to have some meaning. Phil realized that they need not be secrets.

Then he wondered how Ed would have reacted to this state, this acknowledgment. Somehow he knew, deep inside, that Ed would, could accept Phil's situation, Phil's feelings with the same warmth, non-judgmental acceptance that had been the norm of their friendship. Somehow, Phil felt reassured.

Phil quietly, slowly shut off the stereo, turned off the lights and padded down the hall to his bedroom. He gazed with the warmth of things remembered at the rumpled throw of his bed. Noting a small spot, barely damp, a visual/tactile memento of his passion, of Balan's ministrations. He sighed, turned off the light and lay on his bed remembering . . . . everything that needed to be remembered. Now, not for the first time.