[Part 1.5 Swimming break aboard USS Bon Homme Richard, 1962] U.S. Navy.jpg
LOOSE LIPS A Gay Sea Odyssey (Joseph Brennan) 9780645555301 9780645555318.jpg

WITH WWII TROOPSHIPS as his stage, our hero sets out from the conflict-clouded Glasgow dockyards to traverse stormy waters of masculine sexual taboo and place in a world of to-war men. If that hunger we all have for something meaningful in a man's hull is to be sated, he must summon the courage to confront loss and conspiring undercurrents connected with this war of primal evils.


A Gay Sea Odyssey



Hard Crossing Press

Hardback ISBN


Ebook ISBN


Hardback + Ebook 

November 22, 2022


March 2023


Gay Erotica


Ingram Content Group

Wholesale Discounts + Returns



This following preview forms the first 10 pages of the HARDBACK edition of Loose Lips, on sale November 22, 2022 from Hard Crossing Press.


Queen Elizabeth


She waited for him in the Clyde, her hull a heavy mass of metal born from the sweat of the labour of men. Her tender, Romsey, steamed her way in the early hours of a misty February 1940 morning. On board this tug was a Clydebank boy, bent on his mission to stow away within her, all the way to Southampton. She had a sister come before her who had long towered above the tenements of the workers that built her. But it was around the time of the building-up on this one, in slipway four, that men who riveted her together had started working on him, too. He was young. Young enough to take in the conflict-clouded Glasgow air with excitement rather than dread. He was drawn to her, his Queen. She who had brought hard men to him.

Elizabeth lay in wait in the Tail o’ the Bank – the part of the Clyde where the draught was large enough to take her. She wore a drab military grey that made her features uncertain from a distance, keeping her mystery. They were called the monsters, and he could understand why as they approached her. She was the leviathan, drawing curious men from the shallows into the deep where she could snag them. The tender took them to her stern, and, once in swimming distance, her vastness was revealed, stretching into the mist, no sign of her end in sight. The Clyde was motionless that morning. Seeing her in the water was alien to him still. Even though she had a hull in Clydebank, in a fitting-out station since her launch in September of the previous year, the image conjured of her was still land-based. Even now, in water, she sat high, not in the water, not yet. Yet still, the point where her belly dipped below the surface, dropped deep and disappeared into the darkness of the Clyde channel drew him in like a deadly siren. She had propellers, he remembered. The size of workhouses with room for a pub underneath. Submerged and laying dormant down there, somewhere; ready to spin into life at command, ready to take him away, if he could successfully, stow away.


“Ready, sir,” a flat-faced, young-but-aged-by-fat member of the tender staff said to his father, who nodded.


A rope ladder draped down from her side, but on account of its disappearing into the white above-mist, was more a fable set-piece than any rational man’s stable entry into a modern Atlantic liner. He searched his father’s face. It had bloated and become blood-blotched since the death. After losing his mother, he had come of age, found experience in the docks – while his father had found the bottle and neglect of his son and his own sanity. This latter part, though, his father had managed to keep from the attentions of employers.


“Stay,” his father said. A stern-yet-low volume that did not carry above the engines of the tender. The fatherly ascent up the ladder, when it did come, came with some difficulty and clumsy-clutching of an attaché case.


His father was a representative of John Brown & Co., her builders. He was followed up and into her by the final contingent of her crew, who numbered less than a dozen and made their ascent with competency and a knowledge of ship ropes, and in apparent rank: the men of the tug averaging a younger and more boisterous bunch as the numbers thinned out. 


In accord with his plan, he folded himself among the more youthful among them. The fibres of the rope-rungs prickled against his palms as he climbed. 


Slower than the rest, dangling between the threshold of the tug and her side – the churning channel between the two boat-ly bodies promising to pull him under should he show the slightest sign of a slip. Cheeks and nose red, a slip that would be into the cold blue of the Clyde, all the way to the silty bottom. 


He fortified when he burst through the mist canopy toward the cargo portal in her side. He was helped into her by two sailors. They were clean and in-white, with crisp Cunard White Star caps. The space into which they pulled him was stacked high with materials for her fitting out, jettisoned there, abandoned after war cry. He joined the clamber of the crew assembled – his father gone, set about his business; if all went to plan, he would not see him again.


“Stewards aft, seamen front,” one of the sailors from her opening said, closing in behind the last of those from the tug.


Him, who spoke, as with his friend, was tall and tight in his service whites – a titillation, totally, of the treats in store for the journey. Stewards did not need to travel far, the tug having delivered them into a space already among their station. Seamen, however, had a trek to their beds – a path to follow that would meander them through her service corridors toward her front. Those were the men he followed when the group assembled divided in two. 


His rationale was real simple: they the seamen were the fitter breed of his two choices. Stowaway-ing was like that. It swayed on impulse mostly. 


In following the seamen, the incompleteness of her corridors became clear. There were bundles of wire where light fittings and switches should have been; portable lighting guiding the way. Following the young and athletic lads through her dimly-lit passages was akin to moving through a mineral mine shaft. The exposed wires of makeshift illumination were sufficient, glinting with deposits, but also: had a temporariness and otherworldliness to them. There was adventure lighted through them. Conspicuous without a rucksack of his own and knowing how vital it was to disappear within her belly soon for the plan to succeed, he actively looked for a chance to slip away. It came near signage for the first-class restaurant when the lads took a stairway up to the A deck promenade – to walk her length in open air.


Any chance for a smoke, lads, he thought.


He wanted to join them. Puff among their tight-buttocks-ness. But this was his opportunity to slip away into a first-class cabin.


Like the corridors outside, it was unfinished. Furniture and fabrics stacked at the points where its walls met in anticipation of a fitting that may not now come.


What now?

He felt his back pocket; sewn over his own plump buttock. From it, he retrieved a folded deck-plan that he had smuggled from his father’s stacked-papers-study the night before. It helped un-jumble the maze of her. He traced a path to the seamen’s quarters in her front. Knowing working men had tended to her for at least a day by this point, he would dip into the laundry rooms to retrieve a disguise for the journey. Finger on plan, the path brought him below where his father was meeting, in the Tourist dining salon, as he had sleuthed out earlier and marked on his map.


In the washing room, crew uniforms awaited cleaning in lumps according to a man’s role on the ship: officer, seaman, engineer and steward, among others. Seeing the garments awaiting washing made him imagine the naked bodies of the men themselves, queuing up for the showers. He found himself picturing their musculature according to the state of their spent dress: the engineers and seamen piles were especially soiled from the degree of labour and oil of grease their duties demanded. Drawing up one of the engineers’ overalls, still damp with sweat and turbine grease, he pulled the crotch seam to his face, covering his nostrils and absorbing in its ripeness like a breathing apparatus. He took in the scent like it were a Sunday dinner of the finest beast, envisioning the sweat-laced muscular contours of the man who had worn and worked it, grasping his arse as he did… then going in for a serving of a different species of fragrant meat.


After the third, temptation to grab for a fourth coverall, or even bury himself in the whole spent workwear mess and wallow a while, came as a test of the faith. But sensitivity to time pulled him away; it was barely enough, a short reprieve, a tease of his resolve in the decision to stow away on Elizabeth for her short journey to Southampton.


Equipped with fragrant seamen dress as his disguise, he left the laundry rooms and got back en route to the quarters of those whose uniform he now wore. 


But a familiar voice stopped him.


His first decision-point of the journey; he decided to follow the voice he knew, taking it as an opportunity to learn how well he was tracking with regard to his plan of escape. He navigated the corridors with caution, up a service stairwell that led him close, yet also far enough. To hear, but remain hidden.


“A maist unorthodox doo,” he heard his father say when in range, “tae haun ower a vessel afore her sea trials, or even afore she haes bin properly assembled.”


“Most assuredly,” said a second voice, deep and steady and English-ful.


“In fact, ne’er afore haes this happened in the history of the Line. For even a modest vessel, let alone one of this class; the largest and maist complex ever undertaken. Maist remarkable.”


“Ah yes, but these are remarkable times.”


“Bit surely Southampton was the steid for the handover, once John Brown haes actually completed her fur ye. And perhaps it would have been wise to allow members o’ mah company to join Queen Elizabeth for the transit, given she is yit untested, to ensure–”


“–perhaps,” deep-steady said, “that would have been prudent… had your company not already proved its reliability beyond question with the success of the Mary, the finest vessel in His Majesty’s merchant fleet. Until now, that–”


“–pardon, Captain,” came a new voice in the mix; still deep, assured, but less assertive, with something luring about it.


“Yes, Chief Officer.”


“The ship’s company is assembled on the promenade deck.”


“Very good. You’ll have to excuse me,” the Captain, he now knew, said, “please pass on my gratitude to your company for the delivery of this fine ship. Our Chief Steward will show you back to the Romsey.”


“Bit–,” his father said.


“If you’ll follow me, sir,” came yet another voice, higher.


“Ta, Captain,” his father said, followed by a collection of footsteps upon iron.


“Right, see you on deck, Bell.”


“Aye, Captain,” the something-of-a-more-than-slight-allure voice said, followed by further footsteps.


The ship’s company is on deck, he thought. This will be easy.


Waiting until all sound of soles-on-iron had faded, he rounded the corridor corner to continue on his path to the seamen’s quarters and, it seemed, an easier than expected settle-in. However, it had been a move too soon, and instead of an empty corridor leading off the dining salon, he came face-to-face with a uniformed officer.


A the-jigs-up panic of discovery flooded through him – at first. A jolt through the body like a wet live-wire shock. But the fear fizzled out upon acquainting himself with his opponent. A single officer before him. Late-thirties, he would guess, who cut a sex-fine shape in his officer-class suit with two gold-striped epaulettes. 


His success with securing the roughest of men meant he had honed a skill for knowing – to draw from his shipyard wanderings –, which of the men rendered hard through the toughest of ship-building tasks would want to rivet his hole soft. That, and those who would complete the task without reprisals following the deed. Further, men not to hold any inclination to follow-up for anything more than an among-the-iron-sheets boy-hole offloading. It was a skilled form of masculine detective work, which saw him sort through and discount trade like a sleuth does with suspects. In this process, the obviously same-company-appreciative are set to one side and dismissed as too high-risk. He is after those with interest in men, yet not singularly or necessarily so. With this methodology, he had perfected the sourcing of man-sex with impunity.


But back to it.


The man before him – outwardly athletic and stern and young-fatherly enough to court the favour of women and move unquestioned and respected among the world of men –, was also as sure a conquest as he had ever before encountered. The unexpected run-in in the underlit corridor, in the unmanned lower decks of the Queen, with a boy, he knew, had rendered for the officer also: a shock, and one that this officer was slower to recover from. 


In his discovery of a young seaman below deck, the officer took in his Clydebank body with a salivating appetite, one that would be better concealed in ordinary – non-abrupt-shock – circumstances. Before words were spoken, the youthful, muscular-yet-supple lines of his boyish body were observed. The discovery doubled as a moment of uncontrollable voyeurism. Officer eyes followed the lines of legs – not long, but meaty from working class company and teamly sports – and that rose to rest on a plump arse, round in brilliant white slacks that were a size smaller than was the fashion, but that he had selected, scented with arse sweat, for sublimely this purpose.

As the recovery from the shock of the run-in went on, officer eyes averted from arse. From the fat-and-full-at-the-back, balanced with packed front pocket, officer gaze moved up the V of his chest to arrive at his face. There, officer found cheeks youthfully colour-flushed, but, too, a squared jaw with the promise of a man on the way.


“All hands on deck, sailor,” officer said.


A voice that was trying to be stern, authoritative, but that belied an embarrassment of desire. Officer lips, full and pink, quivered as they awaited a response. These lips – they were flanked by pronounced cheekbones. Bones that led to a pointed chin and a proud, slightly bony nose. A nose with a similar, artistically pleasing rank – as on Elizabeth’s bow. Officer had Grecian features, the kind that would be sacrificed in an arena, and as awaiting response, the quiver in officer lips grew until he needed to touch this surface with his tongue and the tip of his teeth just to keep them two still.


Sure about how to proceed, he, the boy, dropped eyes to the officer’s crotch, which protruded with promise.


“Aye, sur,” he said, in obedience to manhood above man, or any rank of the Royal Navy; the former sure and plump, the latter uncertain.


Finally. Feebly. Voice betraying further evidence of his eagerness for him. Officer said:


“Let’s go.”


“Aye, sur,” he said again.


After a further pause of respect for the bulge of an officer of the Queen’s company, Clydebank boy led the way topside, tracing the plan of Elizabeth in his head to show them there. All the way, he was conscious of the eyes of a handsome officer upon his stern, which confirmed his new plan: 


He would obey his officer but titillate with youthful defiance as well.