From: an272878@anon.penet.fi (Erostos)
Reply-To: an272878@anon.penet.fi
Date: Tue,  4 Jul 1995 15:50:30 UTC
Subject: "Hold at Minot" m/m - Part 1

                   "Hold at Minot"  m/m - Part 1

      I'd left Edmonton two hours earlier than planned, knowing
that the cold front and snow forecast for central Alberta would
influence local weather for the next several days.  My Piper
Saratoga had been checked and fueled, and I was determined to get
as far south and east as I could before being overtaken by the front. 

      Instinctively I knew that being overtaken in Regina or Minot
or Bismarck or Pierre was successively preferable to being caught
in a small airplane in the western steppes of Canada in November.  

      Apart from a urinal/coffee/gas/weather/urinal stop in
Regina I spent the entire day barely one step ahead of the front. 
Regrettably the front did not stop for rest, and must have known
that I could fly no farther that day than Minot, my airport of entry
to the U.S.

      Notwithstanding - and perhaps precisely because of the
autopilot on my Saratoga - I'd been close to being ravaged by the
lusty arms of Morpheus when I touched down at Minot
International Airport, so late in the day that US Customs had hours
earlier abandoned the field for the day.  Quite possibly they sought
the warmth and camaraderie of a local bar or pub, or the hearth of
home.  In any event, despite its impressive name, Minot was at this
time of day and this time of year an uncontrolled field, meaning
that it had no control tower to manage the flow of air traffic in and
out of the field.  And this time of year, traffic was light.  

      I landed C4549X and taxied up to one of the several painted
"customs" circles on the tarmac where private international flights
must wait to be "cleared" by customs officials.  N2490R, a Piper
Malibu, must have landed just before me, since the pilot and two
passengers - like me, and as required by US federal rules - were
waiting in their airplane in its own separate customs circle.  We
must remain there till cleared.

      The "N", ("November") at the beginning of a plane's
identifier indicates that the United State is the country of
registration, just as "C" ("Charlie") at the from of my airplane's
identifier told all who cared to notice that I was registered by
Transport Canada as Canadian.

      By this time, my bladder was dismayed to learn from
operations that it would take the better part of an hour - and a
surcharge in US currency for the after-hours visit by custom
officials - before I would be able to stagger to the urinal in the
operations building.  

      I was sufficiently afraid that my penis might turn into an
uncontrolled tower of its own that I defied both custom and
customs by slipping out of the airplane for a leak, being careful to
remain within the white painted circle to which I was confined by
US law.  As my abdominal cavity adjusted to my massive release of
body fluids, I noticed 25 feet or so off to my right the young pilot of
N2490R managing his own "tower" in much the same way. 

      "I suppose I was a jerk for having that last cup of coffee in
Regina," I yelled across the short distance that separated us, as we
both continued to water the tarmac.

      "I earned my jerk status at the coffee shop in Saskatoon," he
responded with a grin that expressed youth and humor.  We zipped
up more or less at the same time and still within our separate
painted circles.  "I guess that makes us members of the same circle
jerk club, eh?" he said with a boyish grin.

      I laughed audibly, as I pictured the young man sitting with
his boyhood chums and all whacking off so everyone could watch
and whack together.  It was reassuring to know that young group
male sex is not an exclusively Canadian pastime. He added: "Yup,
but now it's time to pull that little fella back into his little cotton
cock-pit, right?"  

      I laughed again, and he patted his crotch and sighed.  "See ya
inside, guy," he yelled before stepping back into the Malibu.

      I chuckled, said something un-memorable, then retreated to
my plane.  Alone now as I waited for Customs to arrive, I pondered
our short exchange and the extra attention we'd just given to our
shared maleness.  The simile of the "cock-pit" was as old as flying,
but hearing it from this hot looking young charter jock stirred
something inside of me.

      He was slightly under six feet in height, no more that 180
pounds, about 33" at the waist, and looked to be in his early
twenties; but these droll specifications slipped into insignificance
against the background of the magnificent 7"+ shaft that I'd seen
moments ago retracted into to the warmth and comfort of his 501's.


      Having no passengers to afford digression from these
meditations, I decided simply to enjoy the slight arousal that this 
ambiguous exchange had spawned in my groin. I'd been on the
ground at Minot less than ten minutes, and already I shifted the
core of my self perceptions from that of being a pilot to that of
being male, and clearly in need of a form of relief that my last trip
to the tarmac could not provide.  I wondered and wished that the
same were true of my American counterpart.  For whatever reason,
probably somehow grounded on hope, I held off treating myself to
the traditional form of release traditional among charter jocks
stranded and alone in North Dakota in late November.

      My recollections of the ensuing hour or so flip by my mind's
thumb with no clear order of occurrence.  Customs came and went;
and the next scene which made it past short-term memory was of 
Brad (as he had subsequently introduced himself) and me pouring
over the computer display from the National Weather Service, and
an assortment of low altitude flight charts lying on the adjacent
table.  Invoking this service by a DUAT terminal in the now
deserted flight operations room, Brad and I soon discovered that
his trip to Minneapolis and mine to Boston were on indefinite hold
for at least twenty-four hours, courtesy of the Alberta Clipper. 

      His passengers - who turned out to be honest-to-goodness
Eskimos from the Northwest Territories - had left for more
sensible quarters at the "American Inn" just off the field, alert now
to the inevitability of having to spend an unplanned day in North
Dakota.  What Eskimos might wish to do in this middle American
college town is beyond my powers to imagine;  but I knew that I
would have to come up with answers for myself than were more
stimulating that staring at weather systems as reported in NWS
code.

      Engaging my sexual auto(erotic)pilot, I launched into a string
of double entendre that should smoke out any companionable
interests of his own on the general theme of male intimacy.

      "I could use an approaching warm front just about now," I
said, again in pursuit of a double "respondre" from Brad.

      Brad's hands gripped the front corners of the computer
terminal as though he were used to being in charge of all within his
reach, and acting as if he had not even heard my last and
meteorologically irrelevant comment.  "Well, from the looks of it,
you and I are the only warm fronts in sight," he grinned, and moved
over to the map table.  

      I glowed internally at his response, as if it had been a signal
of recognition, coded for support and encouragement.  No way
would I not follow up with more. "Converging fronts could make for
a fun day, eh Brad?," I offered. 

      "Yup, and there's no way we're going to escape this mother,"
he said.  The frontal system extends all the way back to BC, and it's
close and heading this.  Low pressure, cold temperatures, and lots
of moisture. Snow, snow, and more snow."  

      He shook his head and said: "Well, we've sure been here
before haven't we, Chris."   Nodding assent, I found myself very
pleased indeed at having to spend a little time with this cute young
American flyer.

      The decor of Minot flight operations and "pilots' lounge," in
addition to what we needed to plan and file IFR flight plans, 
consisted of a Pepsi machine, a "snack" machine, a TV, and a rather
broken-in/down couch.

      After rites of introduction most pilots tend to display in such
circumstances, I learned that Brad also was a charter pilot, ferrying
two Eskimo entrepreneurs from a village near Great Slave Lake to
a meeting with their venture capitalists in Minneapolis to discuss
financing for a northland casino.  Brad was based in Duluth, some
800 kilometers (500 miles) or so west of my home base at "CYSB"
(Sudbury, Ontario).  

      "A pocket of high pressure is driving this front," Brad said as
if in mocking meditation of maps and weather. The "front" of his
Levi's now rested at the right front corner of the map table so that
the bulging "pocket" of his crotch rested prominently at the table's
surface clearly for my visual benefit.

      Adopting a similar posture at the table's left front, I traced a
line with my finger from just in front of my own crotch to just in
front of his, and said:  "It seems to me that high pressure gradients
run from about here to about here, and are building." 

      "You're right, Chris," he retorted, escalating the level of
double entendre, "and there's considerable moisture in these two
converging fronts that we're gonna have to deal with over the next
twenty-four hours."  "I certainly hope so," I retorted. 
      
      I was amazed and delighted that Brad was playing along with
such vigor in my verbal artifice, with remarks no less sexual in
innuendo than they were related to flight, and equally on the
money. 

      "See," he pointed to the monitor, "we actually have
converging frontal systems, that will combine over North Dakota
and inevitably result in precip.  Moisture in fronts like these can
build up only so far before having to release explosively."

      I smiled at the image of "precip" from his "frontal system,"
and its "explosive release," just as I'd hoped his smile meant that he
was thinking the same of mine.  

      Stretching his body forward now over the table's top left
corner as if to point to a distant spot on the map, his well packed
pouch slipped smoothly further onto the work surface.  I recall that
he made some reference to the trouble "occluded fronts" can cause
to pilots, to which I responded that "...they only cause trouble if
they get squeezed on map tables." 

      "Well," he chuckled openly at that last one, "the clever pilot
always finds relief from occlusion."  "Yeh," I retorted, "but seldom
without hands-on help from Flight Service or a very good friend."
He doubled up with laughter, and flopped on the couch to recover. 

      "You know, Chris," he said, "being from Duluth, I really know
how to take care of myself in the face of advancing Canadian
frontal systems."  

      "I'd expect no less, Brad," I quickly answered, "and since
systems rarely advance from south to north, I'd need a lot of help
in dealing with any front advancing into Canada from the south." 

      "You're in luck," he came back, "I'm a known authority on the
subject, and at your service."  

      "Hmmmm," was all I could think to respond, and silently to
myself at that. 

      "I'll be right back, Chris," he said pulling away from the map
table, and grabbing hold of his crotch, "My body's experiencing a
rapid moisture buildup and my temperature is approaching the
do..,er, dew...point, so I better hit the head before I'm embarrassed
by premature precip. In short, I have to take a leak. Be right back."

      At the thought of any feeling this hot guy's body might be
having, I said almost reflexively "I have to go too."  We shuttled off
to men's room together.


                   "Hold at Minot" m/m - Part 2

      Looking down and to his right as we performed our
respective bodily functions at adjacent urinals, he said with a
chuckle "Well, it's comforting to know that Canadian cocks aren't
as mythically huge as the stories that go around Duluth."

      "We have ways of making such stories true, though," pulling
back on my cock and pressing in on my pubic bone so that it more
or less projected out straight and semi-hard. "It takes lots of
practice, however."  With a final shake, I stuffed my manhood back
through my fly and backed away so that I could watch him. 

      Finished now with the overt reason for standing next to me
with his cock sticking out through the fly of his jeans, he turned and
with a gesture similar to my own pulled back on his shaft so that it
protruded out and up, gyrating his hips and wagging his throbbing
dick much in the manner of a stripper. "How's that," he asked.
"Aren't I a quick learner?  Maybe I'm just very observant and have
paid very good attention during my visits to Norma Jean's when I've
held over at CYSB.  Now all I need is that practice you were
talking about to be really good."

      I reeled at his last statement, my mind's eyes drawn to the
popular hotel bar back home in Sudbury where male strippers often
held forth, and sometimes even fifth.  Particularly since, to make a
little extra money, I'd performed at Norma Jean's myself, and for
all I knew was one of those whose performances made up part of
Brad's sexual education.

      As I was washing my hands, trying to process this last
surprising bit of information about Brad, I head a coin being
processed by one of the condom machines hanging on the wall. I
turned and saw Brad withdrawing a three-pack from the chute. 
"Never tried this kind," he said.  "It's light blue and blueberry
flavored."

      "I doubt you could fly solo with one of those and still taste
the blueberry," I pointed out, "unless you bend in the middle like
some of those triple-jointed performers at Norma Jean's.  You're
going to need something or someone else to slip it over to really
get the true flavor of the product," I offered helpfully.  "Besides,
I've always found that what the product is designed to contain
tastes ever so much better than what it's coated with."  Let him
think that one over. 

      With a responsive grim, he took one of the three rubbers that
came with his purchase and slipped into the back pocket of my
jeans, and patting my butt said: "Here, Chris, you never know when
you might need a quick snack.  Don't say I never gave you
anything."

      "I'm hoping," completing his thought, "that that's not all
you're going to give me, Brad."

      "That's what I'm hoping too," he smiled as we withdrew to the
hallway back to the pilots' lounge. 

      Brad again called up the National Weather Service on the
computer for another weather brief, producing a printout of the
categorical outlook for the Minot area.  Handing it over to me he
said: "I've seen better briefs at Norma Jean's." 

      "No brief from the NWS could have a convective outlook that
even comes close to the convection occurring in the briefs at
Norma Jean's," I responded.  "Who knows, I might even have been
caught it one myself from time to time, yet I survived to tell you
about it."

      Our eyes now met in that knowing way that left no doubt
about how our conversation should be translated for true meaning;
though it was equally clear that the real weather situation was bad
and worsening.  "In any event," he went on, "we're likely to be here
for the duration."  And as if there were no nexus to his next
thought, he went on: "Ever been inside a Malibu, Chris?" 

      "Nope, just seen them from the outside," I answered. "How do
they handle?"

      "Well, you know, they're a lot like a hot young guy really." 
Slipping his hand down so that it cupped his bulge he went on:
"Responds better when you're sensitive on the stick."  

      My own stick was now vibrating in harmony with his account
of how this airplane - and my own male body - was designed and
functioned. 

      "Especially," he went on, "in the landing configuration, if you
don't want to have to shoot the missed approach, the airplane has
to be trimmed just so: mixture rich (as mine was getting to be!),
trim and flaps set, manifold pressure up (ahh, yes), and making
sure you include the old "ball and bank" indicator in your scan (as I
was doing during our entire enigmatic dialogue). Just like a lot of
guys - big, but responsive when the need arises." Our entire
exchange had been certainly scanned our "balls," with both of us no
doubt "banking" that it would lead to something more. 

      "Well, Brad, my need has surely arisen.  I've been kinda
hoping you'll be responsive by giving me a hands-on tour of... of the
Malibu.  We certainly have the time, wouldn't you say?"

      "You're on.  Let's go," he said snatching his jacket and
tossing mine to me.

      Pilots have an expression that describes the dreadful
conditions that had settled over Minot International Airport:
"WOXOF." It means: "(W)indefinite ceiling, (O)zero, (X)visibility,
(O)zero, and (F)fog."  We encountered "woxof" as we left the
warmth of operations and struck out for aircraft parking. Once
again my mind toyed with its tonal equivalence to "rocks-off," which
was now more central to my interests and arousing to my body than
the weather or his Malibu. 

      We trudged through the now freezing drizzle to the where
the airplane was parked near the approach end of Runway 8.  As
we walked, Brad pointed out the fuel sump under the right wing. 
"Before getting off in this bird, you have be sure to drain a little
precum from the fuel cocks.  Discovering water in the fuel during
takeoff thrusting could lead to premature ... er, well... you know
what I mean".

      " I get your point, or least hope to," I responded. 

      I slipped inside the big single in front of Brad, who turned to
shut the door - and world out of our lives for the moment.  I felt
like we had just moved into a little uncontrolled airspace inside the
Malibu. "A perfect place," I said examining the spacious interior of
the airplane, "to practice recovery from unusual attitudes without
having to take off .. anything that is but our duds."  

      Brad standing behind me slipped his hands on my hips, his
firm strong fingers groping forward around my waist to couple at
my pubic rim.  He pulled my body into his, letting his cupped palms
drop down to encase my throbbing prominence.

      "Well, it looks like my hands-on training in this bird begins
with "holding" procedures, eh Brad?, I commented in low and
approving tones.

      "You won't have to hold long," he went on, "before I clear
you for the approach and your descent to your final approach fix. 
In bad weather like this we always have to be wary of encountering
a microburst at low altitude. I hope you can control it." 

      My swollen member always risked micro-bursting when
massaged by hot young male fingers, but I declared: "Leave control
to me, just teach."

      "I think I can demonstrate just how sensitive one has to be
with the stick during the approach," he went on, now brushing the
palms of both hands down to the insides of my thighs, and up again
to my crotch.  The fingers of his right hand found the snaps on my
fly, and popping open the first three, migrated into the interior of
my white cotton cock-pit to find the instrument on which his
sensitivity training was to be performed.  Eventually his whole right
hand grasped my erect shaft, pulling it through the fly of my briefs
and holding, (should I say manipulating it) it like the control stick
of an early airplane.

      "First you have to milk off the speed of this bird as you
initiate the approach," he instructed, as his left hand now found
and cupped my balls.  "Slight corrections, left and right, and up and
down, will be required throughout the entire approach, if you want
a really stabilized let-down."  My eyes closed.  Now in my "ready to
learn" mode, I sensed my body moving more in the direction of a
rather unstabilized approach.

      "Pull flaps early in the approach," he said, pulling back on my
cock which was now quivering in his hand," and lower gear well in
advance of crossing the threshold."  He undid the top button my of
jeans, sliding my jeans and briefs gently down the glide slope to my
ankles.

      "Anticipate the ground effect, and bleed off any extra speed
you may be carrying after crossing the middle marker...", (his
fingers now moving slowly back from my balls and over my
perineum) "...and before crossing the inner marker..." (his fingers
now caressing the sensitive gateway of my anal canal).  "Keep your
elevation up as you cross the threshold...", he went on, one finger
now probing inside my body in search for my prostate much like a
flyer hunting for ground in zero-zero conditions. 

      Dexterously he slipped a blueberry condom onto my penis
quivering in his hand, and lithely moved around to his knees on the
floor of the aisle in front of me. 

      "Make sure the gear is now down and locked," and I felt the
uniquely arousing sensations of hungry fingers unrolling thin rubber
down the shaft of my cock mimicking moves of one of my favorite
forms of autoerotic touching.

      "From here on you're right back to your first lesson in flying,
and it becomes entirely a matter of what feels right."  He slipped
his lips over my light blue penis and began to milk my speed in
anticipation of touch down.  Slowly and steadily my boystick
responded to his expert handling, and my giant building spasm
moving my body up to and over the edge of the sexual microburst; I
was committed to the landing.

      A convective outlook for conditions in the general vicinity of
my genitals was imminent.  My body fashioned its only powerful
male jet stream, starting with one dry, thumping pulse somewhere
near the magic wand Brad jiggled several inches up inside my hot
male butt sheath.  This was then followed by spasmic convulsions
that now began to fill up the soft blueberry sump covering my penis
with huge amounts of my creamy white semen. 

      We stayed in this position until my pulsing cumtool spewed
its final drops of malejuice, and until even later Brad had come up
for breath.  

      "I've always loved blueberry," he said with a smile.  Slipping
the half-filled rubber from my detumescing dick, and falling back in
the ample aisle of the big Malibu, he slipped his own engorged
member out through the fly of his jeans.  He then proceeded to slip
the condom full of my north country boycream onto his
considerable cock, and with the speed and grace of one of Norma
Jean's best, began to stroke himself, no doubt fantasizing about
what he had just done to my body and what he was about to do with
the still warm boycream it had produced. 

      "I have to demonstrate that the pupil has learned, don't I
Brad?"  "The 'HSI' (Horizontal Situation Indicator) shows that
you're a little off course, and carrying a little too much speed. 
Here, let me milk it a little for you."  Dropping to my knees, I
planted my lips over the light blue condom, all blueberry taste now
gone.  I became hard the minute my tongue felt the tip already
filled with a large supply of my own semen, and soon to be filled
further with Brad's.  

      I pulled his butt cheeks toward my face, forcing his cock deep
into my throat.  I spread his butt cheeks with my left hand to make
way for the grand entrance of my right middle finger into his
manhole to trigger an eruption of his volcanic prostate.
      
      He was clearly coming in too hot for a graceful landing, and
began to float down the runway in the ground effect.  Finally his
hard landing dropped him to the surface with a jolt, his sexual
convection now quick and powerful.  My tongue and mouth could
now feel the tip of the little blue bag being pelted by the
hammering thrusts of his hot male fluids, propelled out of his
sperm slit to join with mine to make a perfect mix of US and
Canadian spunk.  

      As he rolled to a stop, I slipped the rubber of his cock and
held it up like a trophy for our just completed landings.
      
      "Well," I said, "now that we've got two good landings in the
bag, I think we should schedule more practice with the approach.

      "This time, we'll practice landings in wet conditions," he said,
turning the condom over so that our cum supply poured out on our
exhausted bodies.  We hugged, our bellies sliding around on each
other with the musky lubricant we had been able to produce in
class.

      We laughed uproariously, dispelling the bleakness of the
Minot ramp to oblivion.

      - Erostos:070295