Date: Sat, 10 Sep 2011 07:56:55 -0400
From: Morris Henderson <bigmoh@post.com>
Subject: The_Runaway

THE RUNAWAY

PART ONE

It was August and the heat was unbearable. Blacktopping a highway
under the blazing sun with more heat radiating up from the hot
asphalt made it seem like the fires of hell were baking my suffering
body. We had about a week more to endure before finishing a
stretch of county highway near Winnemucca, Nevada. That would
be followed by an week off before the next resurfacing job would
begin and I planned to use it to escape the heat of the Nevada desert.
It didn't take much thought to decide to go where the temperature
was more agreeable, the scenery was something other than dry
desert, and I could get some rest and relaxation. Who knows? In my
current state of mind I may never return.

I grew up in a small town you've never heard of. Berthoud,
Colorado is halfway between Denver and Ft. Collins, populated by
fewer than 5,000 people, and surrounded by farm land. The one and
only thing I miss about that town is that it is in the foothills of the
Rocky Mountains. As a teenager, I loved to go hiking in those
mountains, fish in the streams, skinny-dip in an isolated lake, or just
delight in nature's beauty. I began my forays into the mountains
when I was sixteen and could take off in my car to get away from my
tyrannical dad who was always berating me for every
inconsequential violation of his strict rules of behavior. Nothing I
did, it seemed, met with his approval and he was quick to let me
know. He would erupt in anger at the smallest of infractions. I
would escape his wrath by abruptly leaving the house even though I
knew that when I returned the argument would resume. But I could
endure it after a few hours of peaceful solitude. Unexpectedly,
however, I gained a deep love for the tranquil mountains that were
more than a haven away from my dad's constant criticisms. The
mountains were something to be enjoyed for their unsurpassed
beauty.

My increasingly frequent trips to the mountains ended when I was a
senior in high school. That's when my dad caught me having sex
with a buddy. All hell broke loose. He ordered my buddy out of the
house and threatened bodily harm if he ever came back. He then
focused his anger on me. He flew into a rage, shouting, and calling
me all kinds of foul names. When I'd had enough of his vile ranting,
I made a big mistake. I matched his tone and volume. I assaulted
him assertively with a declaration that I was gay and neither he nor I
could change that. His fury intensified. My mom heard the uproar
and came into my bedroom. Always the peacemaker in arguments
between my dad and me, she tried to settle both of us down.

"Your son is a pervert!" my dad screamed. (I always seemed to be
HER son when he got mad at me.) "A degenerate fag!"

"I'm NOT a pervert!" I yelled. "And I'm NOT degenerate! I'm a
human being who happens to be gay!"

"That's a sin against nature and against God!" he shouted. "You're a
damned Sodomite!"

"And you're a hypocritical bigot!" I fired back, my rebellious nature
having hit its peak. "You get drunk on Saturday night and fuck any
whore who'll put up with you. Then you're pious in church on
Sunday."

Okay. I shouldn't have said that in front of my mother who was
either unaware of her husband's infidelity or a coward by tolerating
it. But his tirade was the angry, `once too often' confrontation that
pushed me over the edge and I wasn't thinking rationally. My
thoughtless accusation not only upset my mother who left the room
in tears but impelled my dad to physical violence. He swung at me
but I ducked to avoid a blow to my jaw. I decided that the best thing
-- the only thing I could do was get out of there. I grabbed my jeans
(Yes, I was naked throughout the ugly episode.) and ran to the
garage where I hurriedly put on my pants. Barefoot, shirtless, and
seething with anger at my dad, I backed my car out of the garage and
drove away.

I drove up a canyon road and parked off the pavement in a clearing.
Maybe the solace of the mountains would calm me down and let me
figure out what to do. Somehow I knew I could never go home. Of
all the reasons my dad had for yelling at me for trivial infractions,
knowing that I was gay would only make things intolerably worse.
In his eyes that was not trivial and it was certain to mean a constant
barrage of anger, hate, and abuse. For the next hour, I planned my
escape.

Around three in the morning, I returned home and crept silently into
the house. I gathered up some of my clothes and put them in large
plastic garbage bags. I regretted leaving a lot of my stuff behind (my
CD collection, for example, although I could only play the music I
liked when dad was not home). I emptied my book bag. I wouldn't
need the texts and notebooks since I wouldn't be completing my last
few weeks of high school. I filled the book bag with things I would
need: soap, shampoo, a towel, my checkbook, my laptop, and for
purely sentimental reasons a few photos taken when I was younger
and dad was more of a dad and less of an unloving tyrant. I wrote a
short note to my mother, telling her I loved her, that I was sorry to
have disappointed her, and that she should not worry about me. I put
the note on top of the washing machine in the utility room, knowing
that dad would not find it since laundry was `women's work.'

I should have been sad to leave home. But what's sad about
avoiding constant harassment and punishment? I should have been
fearful of starting an independent life with less than the bare
essentials in the trunk of my car. But I wasn't. Maybe it was
ignorant bravado but I was sure I could survive.

When the bank opened, I closed out my checking account, which put
two hundred twenty dollars in my wallet. I was confident that was
enough to pay for gas and food to get me to California. Why
California? I sure didn't want to go north to barren Wyoming or
south to the deserts of New Mexico or east to the flat plains of the
Midwest. The Sierras seemed like an ideal place to live. It would
give me plenty of opportunity to enjoy mountains that I'd grown to
love. I started driving west, away from Berthoud or, more precisely,
away from my father. My freedom was exhilarating and my
anticipation of settling in California was palpable. I didn't know at
the time that my optimism was to be severely tested.

I enjoyed the first part of my trip through the Colorado Rockies but
the Salt Flats of Utah and the desolation of Nevada seemed to go on
forever. It was late evening as I approached Winnemucca and I was
dead tired. I pulled into a rest stop along I-80, planning to sleep in
my car until morning. I got some snacks and a drink from the
vending machines, which would have to suffice for supper. A guy
who seemed to be loitering inside the building caught my eye. He
was about my age and drop-dead handsome. In spite of my practiced
behavior of not showing suspicious interest in guys, he must have
noticed the way my eyes scanned his body. He greeted me with a
surprising friendliness and before I realized what was happening we
were in a conversation in which I revealed that I planned to sleep in
my car overnight.

"Not a good idea," he frowned. "It's just asking for trouble. Do you
know how many people travelling alone are mugged and robbed in
the middle of the night?"

"No," I admitted. "But I'll lock the doors on my car. That'll keep
me safe."

"Wrong," he replied. "I saw the car you're driving. It's an older
model and it's quite easy to break into if you have the right tool.
Believe me. If some guy wants in, you'll never know he's there.
When you wake up, you'll be missing your cash or anything else of
value. He may even take your car keys so you'll be stuck here.
Don't mean to scare you. Just a word of advice."

"Shit!" I exclaimed. "I'm dead tired and need some sleep. I don't
want to fall asleep on the highway and kill myself. And maybe
others."

"I know how you feel," he said sympathetically. "I've been on the
road for better than fifteen hours." He paused thoughtfully before
continuing, "I've got an idea. You may think it's weird but it's a
way for both of us to solve our problem. Why don't we both sleep in
the same car? Chances are, nobody would bother a car with two
people in it. Just an idea. Wanna do it?"

His warning about the danger and his offer to help only boosted my
respect for him and my confidence that he was a Good Samaritan. I
readily agreed ... perhaps with a little too much enthusiasm owing to
my attraction to his body. I told myself that there wasn't a
snowball's chance in hell of anything happening between us but I'd
be satisfied with a little company overnight.

"Mind if we sleep in your car?" he asked. "I'm driving a pickup
truck and the passenger seat is filled with my luggage."

A thought popped into my mind and I asked. "Wouldn't that be
risky? Based on what you've told me, leaving you luggage
unattended would surely be an invitation to steal it."

He chuckled and said, "Not to worry, pal. I've got an alarm on the
truck. As soon as it starts blaring the thief would shit his pants and
run for cover."

We headed to my compact car, a two-door sedan with precious little
room in the back seat. Consequently, we both settled into the front
seats. He then said something that seemed very strange. "I suppose
if we're spending the night together, I should introduce myself. I'm
Steve Cochran."

It suddenly dawned on me that we had not exchanged names before,
which, given the friendly banter between us, was odd. And his
passing comment about spending the night together struck me as
bizarre, especially since he flashed a grin as he said it. But I told
myself that my interpretation of his grin was because of my lust for
his body that had been growing the more we chatted. Unfortunately,
I knew there would be zero chance of getting what I increasingly
wanted.

"I'm Chad Davis," I said to complete the introductions.

We had reclined the bucket seats in my car and were getting ready
for some sleep, all the while talking and laughing. We had
developed an easy rapport and I was grateful for his company -- not
just to avoid being robbed but because I enjoyed talking with him.
My enjoyment was jolted when, out of the blue, he asked, "Got a
girlfriend?"

"No," I answered with, I'm sure, too much emphasis.

He fired back with another question. "Boyfriend?"

That question was like a blow to my gut. How could I reveal that I
once HAD a boyfriend until my dad caught us fucking? The pause
while I gathered my wits was probably a clue to my discomfort if not
my sexual orientation. "No," I replied.

His eyes probed me for an agonizing moment before he said, "Well.
I'm a pretty good judge of character. The way you've been looking
at me ... not just my face but all over ... the stress I read in your face
when I asked if you had a boyfriend ... points to one thing. You're
gay, aren't you?"

"Fuck!" I blurted out in exasperation. "Is it that obvious? I mean
how could you be so sure?"

"Because, my friend, I'm also gay and I've learned how to recognize
the signs in others ... the longing looks ... certain behaviors like the
furtive glances at my crotch ... even the willingness to strike up a
conversation with a total stranger. Some people call it `gaydar' but I
think that's a stupid term. There's no magic to it. It's nothing more
than being attuned to subtle signals. And don't worry, Chad. No
straight guy would ever pick up on it so if you're in the closet you
can safely stay there."

All I could say was, "SHIT!"

"Don't be upset, Chad." He said soothingly as he placed his arm
around my shoulders. "It's no big deal. But now that we know
about each other, I have a question. Are you as horny as I am?
Wanna have a little fun before we go to sleep?"

"Are you asking if I wanna have sex with you?" I asked as if I
didn't know.

"Yes," he replied as he groped my crotch. That's all it took to
cripple my defenses. I grinned my agreement.

He was unbuckling my belt and unzipping my fly as I felt my cock
begin to inflate. I raised my hips so he could pull down my jeans
and boxers. There I was in the parking lot of a highway rest area
about to have sex with a guy I'd met only minutes before. What
does that say about me? That I'm an easy mark? That I'd trust a
virtual stranger? That I was thinking with my cock instead of my
brain? My only excuse -- or perhaps it's no more than an
explanation -- is that he was so very smooth and he won my trust
from the beginning. Plus, I was horny and more than willing to be
his sex partner if only for one night.

He fondled my cock and balls until it felt like the skin on my cock
would burst from the swelling it had to contain. He stroked my
throbbing erection, putting me into a state of semi-conscious
euphoria so compelling that I hardly heard him compliment me on
the size of my cock. I moaned loudly when I felt his warm, moist
lips engulf the tip of my dick and felt his tongue teasing it to almost
unbearable sensitivity. The biggest surprise was when he deep
throated me! I tried to hold off but couldn't. It was he, not I, in total
control. I don't remember how many jets of cum I launched down
his throat but I'll always remember the pure ecstasy that radiated
throughout my body. I always had good sex with my high school
buddy and sometimes great sex but never the overwhelming,
debilitating explosion of sensual delight that this maestro gave me.

Very gradually, I regained my senses. Steve's arm was around my
shoulders again and he was nibbling my ear. I heard myself exclaim,
"That was fan-fucking-tastic!"

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he whispered into my ear. "So did I."

As good as the blow job was -- and I couldn't imagine anything
better -- what I wanted most at that point was access to his
manhood. Wordlessly, I unbuckled his belt, unzipped his fly, and
reached down inside his underwear. He raised his butt and I took the
cue. I pulled down his pants and briefs all the way to his ankles.
Muscular legs covered with thick black hair echoed the profuse bush
of curly hair from which a thick, flaccid cock seemed to beg for my
admiring attention. I tried to duplicate what the master had done to
me: fondling to erection, tasting his precum, and teasing the bulbous
head of his magnificent cock. I even tried to deep-throat him but
gagged in the attempt. His hands on my head guided my movements
in a way that seemed to say, `That's okay. You don't have to take it
all in.' I don't know why but I had to suck his cock for a long time.
Was I not skilled enough? Was he not as horny as I had been? Or
did he have much better control than I did? Part of me was
disappointed that I may not be pleasing him but another part of me
welcomed the prolonged chance to savor his cock.

Eventually, he warned, "I'm gonna cum. You don't have to take in
your mouth if you don't want to."

I responded with a tighter grip and sucking more rapidly his cock.
When he came, it was a mouthful. And it tasted somewhat sweeter
than my cum or that of my high school buddy. How much of that, I
now wonder, was due to my admiration for the beautiful stranger
who won my heart and mind so readily?

I woke the next morning to find Steve was gone. I was disappointed
because I had allowed myself to hope that we would repeat the sex
we'd had the night before. Then I saw something that surprised me
-- my wallet was on the passenger seat and not in my back pocket. I
picked it up. What I saw made me sick. All the cash was missing!
In its place was a note. Fearfully, I read it. `Thanks for the sex. It
was great. And thanks for the cash. Next time, don't be so gullible
by trusting a stranger. You can call me a con man, a thief, or a
bastard. I don't give a shit.' It was signed, `Steve (not my real
name).'

So there I was in Winnemucca, Nevada -- a very long way from my
destination in California. I was stranded in what seemed to me at the
time to be the asshole of the world. With only a few coins in my
pocket. Adding to my misery was the mysterious stranger's parting
shot. He was indeed a con man, a thief, AND A BASTARD! And
what was I? A gullible fool weakened by a chronic case of toxic
hormone syndrome!



PART TWO

I counted the change in my pocket. I had the grand sum of $2.87. If
I wasn't so mad at Steve -- and at myself for being such a damned
fool -- I would have cried. I was only half way to California, the
land of promise and opportunity and scenic wonder but I was stuck
in the middle of no-fucking-where. I forced myself to think about
what I could do. Get a job, earn enough money to get me to
California, and complete my quest for an independent, happy life.
But what kind of job would there be for a high school dropout in the
middle of the desert? And how would I survive until I got my first
paycheck? The awful sense of doom grew more demoralizing. It
seemed to squeeze the life out of me.

I drove the fifteen miles into Winnemucca, never going faster than
fifty miles an hour to conserve gas. On the outskirts of town I saw a
diner where, I hoped, I could get at least a pancake to quell the
growling of my empty stomach. I took a seat at the counter and
scanned the menu that was written on a blackboard above the
griddle. `Shit!' I thought. I couldn't afford any of the selections. A
beer-bellied giant of a man with a grease-stained apron grunted at me
from behind the counter, "What'll you have?"

"Nothing, I guess," I said dejectedly. "Unless you got some chores
for me to do to pay for breakfast."

"Nope," he snarled and walked away, giving me no chance to plead
my case.

I was about to walk out when I heard, "Come `ere, kid." I turned to
see a man in well-worn jeans, a tattered UCLA tee shirt, and work
boots. He beckoned me with his hand and patted the stool next to
him. My first thought was of how foolish I had been in trusting
Steve. I'd have to be wary of the guy. But my second thought was
that this stranger may be able to help me. I walked over and sat next
to him. "It `pears to me yur down on yur luck, kid. Can't afford
breakfast?"

"That's right," I admitted.

"How's come a lad comes in here to eat without no money?" he
brazenly asked.

"Got robbed," I replied. "Back down the highway at a rest stop. I
was on my way to California." That was true but I wasn't about to
admit that I was running away from home and got suckered in by a
smooth talking con man.

The man stared at me for a moment and asked, "Gotta be there
soon?"

"No." I was uncomfortable with his questions, afraid he might want
more information, and I'd have to make up some lies to explain my
predicament.

"I got an idea," he said. "A way to solve yur problem and mine.
Wanna hear it?"

"I'm listening." Of course I was! Almost anything to solve my
problem would be welcome. I'd just have to be on guard about what
the man wanted. I sure didn't want to fall for another scam.

"HANK!" he yelled to the greasy giant at the other end of the
counter. "Bring this fella a number four and put it on my check."
Turning back to me, he said, "It's thisa way, kid. I got a crew
resurfacing a road outside of town. One of `em broke his arm.
Careless shit head! Don't know how many times I told him not to
take no chances. Anyway, another lazy good fur nothin' just plain
didn't show up for work t'other day. If that ain't bad enough, I'm
behind schedule and face a penalty if'n I don't finish the job and
open up the road on time. So ya see, I'm desperate for help. You're
desperate for money to live on. Yuh look to be a strappin' lad and
could handle the work. I won't lie to yuh, kid. It's hard work. But
the pay's good. So, yuh wanna job?"

"Yes, sir," I gushed, thankful for my good luck over getting a job
(and a paycheck) so soon.

"Cut that `sir' shit, kid. Ever'body calls me Tom. Even my crew.
Now, I'm guessin' you'll need a place to stay. Me `n' my old lady
got no kids left. All growed up and moved out. Yuh can stay with
us. In my son's old bedroom. Just `till you get on your feet. Then
yuh can move into a place of yur own. We got a deal?"

I admit that I was wary of sleeping in the same house as the gruff old
man but his mention of a wife and kids eased my fears if only a little
bit. Before I could voice my acceptance of his offer, he yelled to the
other end of the counter, "HANK! Hurry up with that breakfast.
This kid's gotta have somethin' in his belly afore he puts in a day's
work." When Hank put the heaping plate of food in front of me, my
new boss said, "Chow down, kid. Gotta leave for the job site right
away."

It was a fifteen minute ride in the man's pickup out into the middle
of nowhere during which he gave me instructions on my duties. I
was to be a `flag man' to stop traffic travelling north until a line of
cars travelling south cleared the one open lane of road. Then I was
to signal the impatient drivers I was holding back to go. "Sounds
easy, kid," he said, "but yuh gotta pay attention every minute. Can't
have two cars come face to face in the open lane. That's a real
clusterfuck to straighten out."

At the job site, he started to introduce me to the rest of the crew.
"This is .... What's yur name, kid?" I told him and he finished the
introductions. "Ah right, guys," he barked. "Let's get to work."

Tom checked on me frequently for the first few hours, each time
reminding me to drink plenty of water. I didn't need the reminders.
It was early morning and already uncomfortably hot. It got worse as
the day wore on. The job was boring but it gave me plenty of time to
think about how and why I wound up where I was, about the bastard
who robbed me (although the sex was great), about my good fortune
to be offered a job, and about how long it would be before I could
get to California. My thoughts didn't extend beyond my short-term
goal of settling down near the Sierras.

I hadn't done much all day but I was exhausted when Tom signaled
the end of the shift. He and I returned to Winnemucca. I picked up
my car and followed him to his house on the outskirts of town. His
wife was as I expected: not much to look at but extremely friendly.
"So, yuh found another drifter, did yuh?" she said in what I hoped
was a joking tone of voice.

"Yup," Tom replied. "He's gonna stay with us a spell. Name's
Chad." Without introducing his wife to me, he turned to me, he said,
"Ah `spose yuh wanna shower. Y'all go first. I'll take seconds. Just
leave some hot water for me, okay? Mike -- that's my son -- he
seemed to drain the hot water tank. I `spected he was doin' more
than showering but I didn't say nothin' `bout that. Just doin' what
comes natural, I s'pect."

Tom's wife injected a comment that I found very comforting.
"Don't let this old grizzly bear scare yuh, Chad. He's got a heart o'
gold. An' he's a good judge of people. If he likes yuh, yur more
than welcome."

<><><><><>

Two weeks passed. I was made to feel comfortable as a house guest.
I wanted to pay Tom for the room and board when I got my first
paycheck but he declined my offer. After a brief argument in which
I insisted on at least helping with the groceries, he relented by
saying, "Tell yuh what, kid. If'n yur set on pullin' yur weight, yuh
can help me with some chores `round the house on weekends. Fair
enough?"

I got to know the members of Tom's crew. One worker, Jake, was
particularly friendly and invited me to stop for a few beers after
work on Friday. "I'd love to but there's a problem. I won't be
eighteen for another two weeks. I don't know the laws in Nevada
but I don't think they'd let me in a bar, much less drink beer."

He laughed, "Not to worry, pal. The bartender isn't known for
turning down business. Sometimes I think he's paying off the
Sheriff to avoid unannounced inspections."

I had a fabulous time. Jake was a barrel of laughs. We talked as
though we were old buddies until he asked about my family. "That's
a long story," I replied, not at all willing to reveal why I left home. I
changed the subject but several minutes later he asked again. I
decided to tell him half the story -- that my dad was a cruel,
demanding, sonofabitch and I had to get away from him.

"That's a shame," Jake said sympathetically. "My old man kicked
me out of the house when I finished high school. He said it was time
to fend for myself. It was no surprise, really. He was always
reminding me of how much it cost to feed me and buy my clothes
and such. So tell me what gave you the courage to strike out on your
own?"

Was it the beers that disabled my caution? Or was it because Jake
and I seemed to have achieved a comfortable rapport? Whatever the
reason, I said, "He caught me fucking a buddy and flew into a rage.
He'd have beaten the shit out of me if I stayed."

Jake looked at me with an expression I couldn't interpret. After a
pause, he asked, "A buddy?"

`OH SHIT!' I thought. I had carelessly said `buddy.' That no doubt
tipped him off that I was fucking a guy and I was gay. I stumbled
around, trying to get out of the pickle I'd gotten myself into. But
because I was half drunk words failed me.

Jake, however, (less influenced by the beer) suddenly got very
serious and asked, "Buddy? You mean a guy?"

The trap I had stepped into had sprung and there was no escape.
"Yeah," I meekly said. "I'm gay. I guess that means we can't be
friends."

He laughed boisterously. "Ain't that something?" he roared and
laughed some more. It was definitely not the reaction I expected. I
anticipated a sneering condemnation of my deviant behavior. In a
quieter voice, he added, "You and I are probably the only two queers
within a couple of hundred miles."

I could hardly believe it. I had expected a rebuke or insult, not a
reciprocal confession. In the two weeks working with him I had
detected no signs that he was gay. But then I was pretty skilled at
hiding my sexuality, too. Sure, I had admired his body -- but
always discretely. Neither of us, apparently, was attuned to the
subtle signs that the bastard Steve had boasted about. Or we were
just too dumb to recognize them.

"You're not mocking me are you?" I asked. "I mean are you just
stringing me along to see what an ass I can make of myself."

"Quite the opposite, my friend. I'm one of those rare guys who like
other guys. Even more rare, I imagine, is that I'm a virgin. Never
had the opportunity, much less the courage to experience what I
really want."

"And what is it that you want?" I asked suggestively.

He shot me a wicked grin and said, "YOU!"

"I'll drink to that!" I smiled and chug-a-lugged the rest of my beer.

"My apartment's not far from here," he whispered. "Wanna pay me
a visit?"

I followed him as we drove to his apartment building and almost had
a hard-on by the time we arrived. As soon as we were inside his
apartment, he asked, "Can you stay the night?"

"Yes," I eagerly replied but had second thoughts. "I'll have to call
Tom and tell him not to expect me tonight. And I'll have to get back
to his place by eight in the morning because I promised to help him
with some yard work. It's the only way he'd allow me to pay rent."

When I called Tom and told him I wouldn't be `home' that night, he
laughed and said, "Oh! Found a sweet young chick then? Good for
you, kid."

As we entered Jake's bedroom, he asked an unusual question. "You
know what you're doing?"

I misinterpreted it. I thought he was asking whether I really wanted
to have sex. "I know very well what I'm doing," I replied. "It's
something I've wished for since we first met. But I figured you were
straight."

"That's not what I meant," he said sheepishly. "I meant do you
know what to do? As I told you, I've never been with a guy and I'm
afraid I'll do something stupid or wrong."

"Then let me take the lead, Jake. Just watch and enjoy. Then you
can do whatever you want. I'm sure you won't be stupid or do
anything wrong."

I undressed him, admiring every inch of his muscular torso along the
way but not with my eyes alone. I used my hands to caress his chest
and abdomen, paying special attention to his firm nipples. When I
took down his trousers I saw that he was already half way hard. I
dropped to my knees to slowly lower his briefs, revealing first a
thicket of black pubic hair, then the base of his cock, and finally all
of his splendid manhood. After a few minutes of fondling, his
precum was flowing and I used it to lubricate the head and shaft of
his throbbing member. I figured he couldn't last long so I helped
him remove his shoes and socks and gently maneuvered him onto the
bed. When I started to suck on his dick he moaned with pleasure. I
was right about his staying power. Before long he bucked his hips
twice and without warning shot several blasts of hot cream into my
mouth, denying me the prolonged pleasure of tasting his hot rod.

"GAWD!" he moaned. "That was wonderful!"

After he recovered, he apologized for shooting off in my mouth but I
assured him it was what I wanted. He then duplicated for me what I
had done for him -- with less skill but it was still immensely
satisfying to share intimacy with a guy I genuinely liked. I could
have held off but worried that he would think he wasn't `performing'
his task as well as he might have. So I let myself go, replacing an
extremely pleasant sensation with the ultimate pleasure of orgasm.

We had sex twice more that night -- once in the shower and again in
the kitchenette after an early breakfast. Before I left for Tom's
house and a morning of yard work, He said, "Thanks, Chad. I've
never had a better time."

"Me too," I lied (because I'd had some spectacular sex with my high
school buddy).

He had more to say but seemed to struggle to find the right words.
"I was wondering.... It's just a suggestion. But would you ... that is
... could you consider ... SHIT! I might as well blurt it out! How
would you like to live here with me? `Course if you don't ... if
you'd rather stay in Tom's house, that's okay."

I grinned and hugged him. "I'll tell Tom today I'm moving out. See
you tonight!" We sealed the impromptu bargain with a long hug and
a sloppy, passionate kiss.

When I told Tom I would be moving in with Jake, his reaction was
not what I expected. "That's good, kid! A young feller oughta hang
out with those his age and not with old farts like me and the wife."



PART THREE

And thus began eight months of absolute pleasure. Jake and I got all
the sex we wanted and our affection for each other grew ... until the
fickle finger of fate intervened. It came in the form of a message
from Jake's sister on the answering machine when we got home
from work on Wednesday evening. It was short but ominous. "Call
me as soon as you can."

I could tell from Jake's mood and his half of the conversation that
something was seriously wrong with his father. When he hung up
the phone he was teary-eyed but managed to fill in the details for me.
His father had been diagnosed with cancer and it had metastasized,
affecting nearly every part of his body. There had been symptoms
but he had ignored them. He had hoped it was a temporary problem
and he was not willing to pay for medical help. The doctors warned
that radiation and chemotherapy would only prolong his suffering.
Jake's father insisted that he did not want the suffering. Or the
expense! He was to be transferred the next day from the hospital to
hospice where the only treatment was palliative care to ease the pain.
The doctors estimated he had no more than two months to live.

"You have to go see him," I said.

"What about my job?" he replied. "If I just up and disappear I'm
sure to be fired."

"Fuck the job!" I exclaimed. "Your dad needs you. You can always
get another job."

After several minutes of persuasion, Jake agreed with me and
phoned Tom to explain why he would not be at work the next day or
for quite some time. Tom (bless him) was understanding and echoed
my urging to visit the doomed man for as long as necessary. He did
not volunteer, however, any promise of accepting him back on the
crew when the visit was over.

Jake packed some clothes that evening. We went to bed but,
justifiably, were in no mood for sex. Instead, we merely cuddled.
He wanted to talk -- about happier days as a child with a loving,
playful father; about his mother's running off with another man;
about his father's gradual transformation into a stingy miser; and
about the unfairness of a relatively young man facing death. I
listened sympathetically. It was, I reasoned, what he needed most at
the time. After unloading his thoughts and emotions we kissed and
fell asleep in each other's arms.

Very early the next morning, Jake left for Davis, California, a city of
about 65,000 about ten miles west of Sacramento. My next-to-last
comment to him was, "Stay as long as you like ... or need to." My
last comment was, "Be safe. I love you."

We stayed in touch by phone for the next five weeks. Sometimes
Jake's mood was upbeat but most of the time I could hear the
sadness in his words and his tone of voice. His frame of mind
correlated with how good or bad his father felt that day. Then came
a call we both were dreading. His father slipped into a coma and,
two days later, died. It was the first time I had heard Jake cry and I
couldn't help but cry for him.

After the funeral and burial, Jake returned, still mourning the loss of
his father. But he had some rather astonishing news. We knew that
his father owned a restaurant in Davis but we didn't know that he
had a sizable investment portfolio. Jake and his sister would each
inherit half of what seemed to us to be a veritable fortune. Both Jake
and I found that to be incredible since his father had been so tight
with money. (That, you'll recall, was the reason why Jake had to
leave home and make his own way upon graduation from high
school.) Why, we wondered, had he been so stubborn as to not seek
medical help when the symptoms first appeared?

<><><><><>

Three months later, Jake and I moved into his childhood home in
Davis. The restaurant had been sold and his sister received the
proceeds that roughly equaled the value of the home, which Jake
now owned. I had finally attained my goal of settling down in
California near the Sierras although the path to that goal was not
what I had anticipated. Far more significantly, I achieved what I
thought might be impossible -- living with and loving a companion
who shared my interests

After considerable soul-searching and innumerable discussions, we
decided to enroll in UC-Davis for a college education. No more
slaving in the hot desert for us blacktopping roads and parking lots!
Using just a portion of Jake's inheritance supplemented by income
from summer work, we could afford to attend college full time. I
majored in Environmental Science with the hope of building a career
in forestry. Jake chose Computer Science, a degree that would
ensure ample employment opportunities.

It's now just two weeks to graduation and life couldn't be better.
Our devotion and love is deeper and stronger as time goes on and
we'll likely grow old together -- blissfully happy.

The end