Date: Mon, 18 Sep 2006 00:58:06 -0600
From: Avy MacGregor <avymac@hotmail.com>
Subject: Jake's Cowboy Part 13

DISCLAIMER: You are about to read a story that is strictly FAN FICTION and
in no way represents true accounts. I do not - nor do I wish to imply that -
I know Jake Gyllenhaal, his private life or his sexual preferences. This is
also true of all other celebrities represented in this story. This is a work
of fiction based in homo-eroticism, so if you are not of legal age, or if
this type of content might offend you, please move onto something else.

For everyone else - ENJOY!

(And all rights are reserved, so please don't post this story or any part of
it anywhere without asking me first. Thanks.)
--------------------------------------------------------------------
So my attempt to get this out in a timely fashion wasn't as successful as
I'd hoped - my new job has prevented me from having as much time to devote
to it. But there's still much I plan on doing with this story, so just
continue to be patient with me, and I'll continue to write the chapters.

As always, I continue to post sneak peeks on my group page and provide
updates and info: http://groups.msn.com/TheGyllenhaalChronicles/_whatsnew
.Plus, there are some very talented authors on there you should check-out as
well, including Christopher, Christian and Stephen, all of whom have Jake
stories on Nifty.

Drop me a line @ avymac@hotmail.com Let me know what you think - all
feedback is appreciated - or just say `hey'.

Now onto PART 13 . . .
--------------------------------------------------------------------

	"Why Boston?" I asked.
	"I have friends there that I haven't seen in awhile."
	"Couldn't we just drive up to Jackson Hole for a few days? Stay in that
cabin again?"
	Eric pouted. Slumped down to lay his head in my lap. I instinctively ran my
fingers through his hair. "I really want to go to Boston," he mumbled.
"Before heading back to school."
	I looked down at him, studying the facial features I never tired of - the
deep-set brown eyes, the narrow Roman nose, the rigid jaw line. I sighed, my
fingers stopping midway through his soft copper hair. "If you're that set on
going," I sighed. "Then I guess we'll go."
	His mouth turned up in a wide grin as he reached up and slid a hand down my
cheek, rubbing the five o'clock shadow I had yet to shave. "I love you," he
stated.
	"I love you, too," I responded, attempting to lean down to kiss him, the
position awkward . . .

	I stared up at the ceiling, comforter and sheets tangled around my legs,
Derry fast asleep at my feet, the morning air chilly, the fire dead in the
wood-burning stove.
	My head was throbbing. I threw an arm across my eyes, attempting to push
the stark images away. I hated when I dreamt about Eric. Would have
preferred never to think of him again. But he frequently managed to creep
into my dreams, pervading my otherwise peaceful sleep, leaving me dwelling
on things when I awoke.
	Dark scenes of coercion and cruelty coursed through my mind - unwanted
objects shoved up my ass, piss in my mouth, the humiliating voice of Eric
saying, "Take it, Cooper. You know you fuckin' want it . . . Shit, Seth, get
your whole fist up there . . . I wanna see his ass wide open . . ."
	Groaning at the memory, I rolled over onto my side, wanting to puke.
Wanting to punch something.
	"You'll love these guys," Eric had assured me when first leading me up the
front stoop of that two-story brownstone, swiftly pulling me into another
world, shutting the door on reality.
	I'd felt apprehension the instant I'd stepped foot into that front foyer -
my senses sharp, my uneasiness palpable. But Eric had been convincing  -
insisting that everything would be fine - insisting that it would be a good
time. And I'd been blinded by the deep feelings and unshakeable trust I'd
had for him.
	Suddenly feeling annoyed with myself over the vulnerability I still
suffered over something that had occurred over eight months ago, I kicked
the covers off, causing Derry to wake, and jumped from the bed. I headed
into the bathroom to relieve my bladder, gazing absently at a spider
climbing the edge of the medicine cabinet.
	Boston had been the worst mistake of my life; next to the death of my
father, the most disturbing experience I'd ever endured. I just wanted the
memories to stop creeping into my senses. Wanted all recollection of Eric to
dissolve once and for all.
	Wanted Jake near me instead.
	It had been exactly twenty-three days since we'd said goodbye to one
another in Aspen. Despite the fact that we talked on the phone several times
a day, the distance between us was tangible and aggravating. With work to
keep us both occupied, we were able to sustain some semblance of sanity -
but even so, it had grown increasingly difficult to keep the loneliness at
bay.
	Just a few more days . . . a few more days, and I'd be in L.A. The airline
ticket had already been purchased, displayed on my nightstand, a visual
reminder that the solitude would be ending soon. Occasionally, I took the
ticket in hand like a starstruck idiot and examined the flight schedule,
envisioning my arrival at LAX, finding Jake waiting there for me, his mouth
creased in a wide smile, his blue eyes alight.
	Despite knowing that I would see him soon, time passed way too slowly.
	I flushed the toilet and exited the bathroom, hearing a knock at the door,
soft yet persistent. Clad only in my boxers, I went to answer it. Katie was
standing there.
	"What?" I said gruffly, annoyed at her unexpected and uninvited arrival on
my doorstep, reminded of Eric all over again and the grievance she'd put me
through after I'd returned from Boston, needing consolation but finding only
deep-rooted hatred in her.
	Her expression was instantly indignant. Snotty. She pushed her way into the
room, traipsing over to the couch in her laced-up combat boots, her hair in
a tight braid running down her back. For once, she was simply dressed in
baggy jeans and a faded red t-shirt.
	"Don't you have school this morning?" I growled, shutting the door.
	"I'm waiting for Chad," she retorted. Chad was her latest fling - the
drummer in a garage band who sported long hair and drank too much.
	I sat on my haunches before the wood-burning stove and shoved newspaper and
kindling inside. After setting it alight, I stood, stretched and sauntered
over to the kitchenette, scooping coffee into the maker, filling it with
water. All the while, Katie just sat there.
	I chose to go about my morning routine as usual - taking a quick shower,
slipping into faded blue jeans and a gray long-sleeve henley shirt, pouring
myself a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee. I took a seat at the table and
threw open yesterday's newspaper, glancing at the headlines but not really
reading them.
	Katie stood up from the couch and slid into one of the empty chairs at the
table. Her nearness perturbed me at that moment. "What do you want?" I said,
not looking up from the paper.
	I heard her leafing through the pages of something. "Just thought I'd stop
in and say good morning," she claimed.
	I knew she was lying; she hadn't wished me a simple good morning in a long
time. I kept my eyes on the newspaper, scooping a bite of Raisin Bran into
my mouth.
	"Have you seen this?" she asked, shoving a magazine at me.
	In irritation, I grabbed it and glanced down at the opened page. More
tabloid crap. Then I saw the collage of Jake pictures - one of him skiing,
one of him walking through the airport terminal, and one of he and I on
horseback, gazing at one another, smiles crossing our faces. The caption
beneath this particular photo read, "Jake and friend horseback-riding near
Colorado ranch."
	I was instantly puzzled. "How the hell did they know about the ranch?" I
mumbled. To my knowledge, the only photographers I'd seen had been in Aspen.
	"I don't know," Katie said, slumping back in the chair, crossing her arms.
"But you should be careful. You don't want Jake's sudden bout of
homosexuality splattered across the headlines."
	I glanced up at her, knowing instantly the angle she was coming from:
wanting to wedge a wall between Jake and me, hoping to destroy something she
herself couldn't have.
	Tossing the magazine back at her, I said, "The picture means nothing. It's
just tabloid trash."
	She scooped the magazine up into her arms and stood from the table. "All
the same," she muttered. "This relationship could ruin a perfectly good
career . . ."
	My glare was frightening as I threw my spoon to the table. "Goddamn it,
Katie, why are you always so hateful? It's really fucking annoying, and I
just don't even want to hear it anymore. I'm not going to apologize for
Eric, and I'm sure as hell not going to apologize for Jake." I took a
breath, then pointed a finger at her and added, "YOU should be the one
apologizing, Kat. For your inability to cope with anything. You should
consider growing up . . . you're not a little kid anymore."
	She crinkled her nose in irritation. "And I suppose you know everything, is
that it? Oh wise one?"
	I waved my hand through the air and said, "Just get out of here. Go to
school."
	But she stood her ground for a moment, glaring at me. Then she mumbled, "I
hope you lose him. He deserves better than your queer ass." And with that,
she stomped to the door and pulled it open. Came face-to-face with Doug, his
hand in a fist as if preparing to knock.
	"Hey," he said to her, grinning. "How's it going?"
	She ignored him to throw a backwards glance at me. "Travis," she sneered,
"your other boyfriend's here." Then she slipped past Doug and exited out the
porch, practically running down the path towards the house.
	Doug turned to watch her go, his expression bewildered. "What was that all
about?" he inquired, finally stepping into the room and shutting the door.
	I shook my head. "I don't know anymore," I replied. "She's like that girl
from `The Exorcist'. Any day now her head's going to do a complete
360-degree turn."
	Doug laughed and helped himself to a cup of coffee. Then he joined me,
lounging back in a chair, propping a boot up onto the edge of the table. He
took a few sips while watching me finish my now-soggy cereal, and then he
said, "Ready for another day?"
	I pushed my empty bowl aside and sat back. "I guess so," I sighed, apathy
and anxiety gripping me at the same time. I didn't feel like working -
didn't feel like dealing with anything - and yet immersing myself in hard
labor was about the only way to forget about Katie and her bullshit.
	Despite myself, apprehension was already creeping into my gut regarding the
picture of Jake and me; I didn't want to be the cause of friction for him,
and I didn't want him pulling away from me because of it. It was exactly the
reaction Katie had hoped to elicit when presenting the magazine to me.
Cruelty in its finest form.
	"I should have taken a belt to her," I mumbled under my breath, my chair
scraping against the floor as I stood up.
	"What?" Doug said.
	"Nothing." I pulled my boots on, slid into my fleece vest and shoved my
Resistol on my head. "Let's get out of here," I commanded, heading for the
door, refusing to waste another minute stressing over my sister's
vindictiveness and the bitch she'd become.

*	*	*	*	*

	It was the stench of burnt cowhide and the sound of bawling calves that
lingered on in my head at the end of the day. Although familiar and
expected, the pervasion was distracting - visions of calves being roped,
wrestled, branded, vaccinated and ear-tagged against the backdrop of metal
chutes constantly replaying in my mind like objects rolling on a factory
assembly-line.
	This year, my role was lead castrator - a job I didn't mind but also didn't
analyze too closely. It was a task like none other; the feel of a sharp
knife slicing off testicles. In the three days since we'd begun the roundup,
I had already castrated eighty-three calves.
	It was a grueling time, full of back-breaking work. But the extra hands
helped tremendously; including Doug and Conway, we'd hired-on a total of
six, which reduced the burden of tasks, making the cattle drive more
bearable.
	By the end of our third day, we were at The Eagle's Nest, sitting at
scattered tables surrounding a small dance floor, guzzling down pitchers of
beer. The bar was smoky and wretched - a typical small-town establishment
offering cheap liquor, dreadful live music and a few frayed pool tables. The
clientele was fairly wretched also: hicks, bikers and barflies; women
dressed like whores and wearing far too much make-up. I couldn't recall why
we'd started going there. Somehow, The Eagle's Nest had become our official
watering hole - the place we frequented most when we wanted a beer.
	The band that evening was performing nothing but Lynnard Skynnard tunes.
I'd heard "Freebird" far too many times in my life already - was truly sick
of it - but their rendition was beyond agonizing.
	Sitting back in my chair, I tossed an occasional stale peanut at the stage,
not really aiming for anyone - just wanting to express my boredom and
annoyance. The lead singer, a man around fifty who was dressed in leather
pants with beer gut hanging out, paid no attention to this, as if food
sailing past him was no new occurrence, which I figured it probably wasn't.
	Doug returned from the bar carrying a load of shot glasses, three of which
he set down before me, three of which he kept for himself. He was dressed in
a pair of loose-fitting carpenter jeans and a tight olive-green crewneck,
the fabric accentuating the muscles of his chest and arms. After slumping
down into the chair next to me, he shouted into my ear, "Jager Bombs!" then
held one of the shot glasses up in a toast. "It's almost over, my friend! No
more fucking cattle, and you can get the hell out of Colorado!"
	He proceeded to slam the shot down, and I did the same, a jolt of lightning
rushing through me. I shook my head, swallowing several times, and shouted,
"What the hell was in that?"
	He grinned. "Jagermeister and Red Bull. A shot with a kick. Now drink your
other two, buddy, you gotta feel the full effect."
	I did so and immediately felt my head spin. I'd already consumed several
pints of beer, so the added alcohol made me that much more inebriated. Doug
lit up a cigarette and offered me one, which I accepted, tipping my chair
back to prop a boot up on the table.
	"Hey, sunshine," a female voice crooned into my ear.
	I glanced up to see Darlene, a bleach-blonde bimbo who frequented the bar
and never seemed to get it through her head that I wasn't interested in
girls. "Hey, Darlene," I said.
	"Come dance with me," she insisted, tugging on my shirt, causing me to fall
forward, the chair's four legs landing back down in a thud.
	I rolled my eyes at Doug, who was already snickering at me. "Not right
now," I told her, shouting over the din of the music.
	Darlene leaned down, shoving her cleavage in my face, and said, "You're
always puttin' me off, sugar. Don't you want to buy me a drink at least?"
	I sighed, sucking on the cigarette, looking to Doug for assistance. But he
seemed content to simply watch the interaction. I pulled out my wallet from
the back pocket of my jeans and retrieved a five-dollar bill. "Here," I
said, holding the money out to her. "Why don't you get yourself a drink. On
me."
	Her expression twisted from a smile to a frown, fuchsia lips pouting. But
she didn't protest - simply snatched the five dollars from my fingers and
sauntered off in search of another beau.
	The Jager Bombs were kicking in; I could feel my heart racing, my head
slightly spinning. I crushed the cigarette out in the ashtray, no longer
desiring it, feeling a tinge of queasiness in my stomach.
	I must have appeared slightly off-kilter, because Doug leaned in, touching
my thigh under the table, and yelled, "You all right?"
	I nodded. "Those shots were horrendous."
	He chuckled. Kept his hand on my thigh, caressing it lightly. At that
moment, I hardly noticed nor cared.
	Just then, Curtis approached the table, half-empty beer pint in hand.
Taking a seat across from me, he shouted, "How're you doing?"
	"Fine!" I yelled.
	He glanced at the empty shot glasses on the table and said, "Don't get all
wasted. We still have a full day ahead of us tomorrow."
	"When have you ever had to worry about that with me?" I responded, which
was the absolute truth. I'd never let anyone down during roundup.
	"Yeah. Okay." Curtis took a drink from his beer, leaning back in the chair.
"We're gonna head out soon."
	I nodded and stood up, suddenly needing to take a piss, already feeling
unsteady on my feet and not happy about it. I headed to the rear of the bar,
passing the pool tables, feeling out-of-focus, my head frothy. For whatever
reason, the Jager shots had really gotten to me.
	The bathroom was grubby and small: just two urinals, one stall, and a
chipped-porcelain sink, piss stains on the floor, cigarette butts floating
in the urinals. I unbuttoned my fly to urinate and wondered again why we
frequented this place. Wondered why I had to endure hearing the house band
perform a dreadful version of "Sweet Home Alabama". Wondered why I found
myself humming along to it.
	Then suddenly there was a hand on my ass, squeezing me. Startled, I glanced
over my shoulder to find Doug behind me, his lips already finding my neck,
his other hand sliding around to hold my still-pissing cock.
	I moved aside and fumbled with my jeans, the need to urinate abruptly
halted. Doug came at me again, planting a kiss upon my lips, guiding me
backwards until we were in the stall together. Then he shut and locked the
door and dropped to his knees. "Feed it to me, Cooper," he instructed,
reaching for the button I had just clasped closed.
	I pushed his hands away, losing my balance to fall backwards against the
exposed plumbing of the toilet. "Get up, Doug," I commanded, feeling like I
was shouting, my voice ringing in my ears. I tried to right myself, and
Doug's hands were on me again, squeezing my dick through my jeans, bringing
it to life despite my drunken state.
	"Come on, come on," he demanded, finally prying me from the confines of my
pants. "Give me that dick, Cooper. I fucking want it."
	My head was reeling, the touch of a hand other than my own on my cock after
so many weeks a truly exceptional feeling. Doug knew just how to give head
the way I liked it, his lips wrapping around my head, his tongue darting
across my piss-slit, his mouth drawing me in deeper and deeper, sending
shockwaves of pleasure through me.
	My body literally ached for the physical contact, my self-control quickly
fading as Doug's eager mouth took me all the way in, his throat easily
allowing the invasion, his fingers cupping my balls, the momentum of his
sucking gaining with each passing second. I placed a hand on his head,
touching the familiar feel of his short-cropped hair, gazing down at him,
recalling similar times, similar circumstances, Doug always yielding to me,
always giving me what I wanted. It felt good, it felt good, it felt so
fucking good . . .
	Then suddenly Jake's face came into view, blue eyes flashing, the vision
jolting me awake and yanking me from my drunken trance. I immediately
stepped back, sliding out of Doug's mouth, bracing a hand on the wall to
keep from falling back on the toilet. "I can't do this," I panted, shocked
by my protest, disbelieving my decision to cease the pleasure I had been
craving for so long.
	Doug sat back on his haunches, disbelieving me also.
	"I'm sorry," I continued, shoving my dick back into my pants, re-buttoning
the fly with shaking hands.
	Doug peered at me inquisitively, then sighed. He stood up, placed his hands
on his hips, and said, "Are you sure?"
	I nodded, tucking my shirt in. "Yeah."
	An awkward moment passed, both if us just standing there, Doug's position
in front of the door preventing me from exiting. "I guess he really means a
lot to you," he eventually spoke.
	I nodded. "He does."
	Again, we stood there for a moment. I heard the bathroom door open, the
music grow louder and then wane as the door shut, voices speaking together
at the urinals.
	"Doug . . ." I said quietly. "Only a fool would pass up that mouth of
yours. Truly. But right now . . . well . . . to put it bluntly, Jake means
more to me than a blow job."
	Doug looked at me for a moment as if calculating my words, and then with a
chuckle he shook his head and said, "You're fucking nuts, Travis."
Unexpectedly, he pulled me into a deep hug and whispered, "I wish you luck
with this one, buddy," his words echoing what we both knew, the memory of
Eric never lingering very far away.
	His sentiment was touching. But I didn't want to begin a discussion about
Eric, so I grabbed his hand and reached past him to unlock and push open the
door. "Let's get out of here," I coaxed. "I'm starting to get
claustrophobic." Which, at least partially, was true.
	We exited the stall and bumped into two guys who'd entered the bathroom - a
couple of bikers reeling on their feet, red-faced and completely drunk. An
immediate tension filled the air. By the looks of them, I knew we weren't
leaving the bathroom without confrontation. I released Doug's hand and stood
in preparation to defend myself.
	"What, you two takin' a shit together?" one of them slurred, dressed in a
black leather vest and heavy boots, blonde scraggly hair reaching down to
his shoulders.
	"Just leaving, actually," Doug stated, stepping for the door but being
blocked by the outstretched arm of the second guy, another biker dressed in
full leather jacket, a blue bandana tied around a head of greasy black hair.
	"I think Ross was right," he bellowed. "I think you two was takin' a shit
together."
	"Naw," Ross said, stumbling towards me, breath reeking. "I think they was
in there fuckin' each other like a couple of fuckin' queer boys."
	A moment passed.
	And then, in a sudden whirlwind of fists and elbows and boots, the scuffle
commenced, each of us lashing out, the sound of bone hitting flesh echoing
throughout the small room.
	The fight didn't last long. They never did. Unlike Hollywood films, it only
took a handful of punches and kicks to end it. The two bikers stumbled from
the room, fingers pressed to bloody noses and bruised ribs, curses streaming
out from under heavy breath.
	I leaned against the wall, hands on my knees, struggling to fill my lungs
with sufficient oxygen. Doug was standing in a likewise position, covering
his left eye with the palm of his hand, a trickle of blood escaping his
lips.
	After a moment, I righted myself and muttered, "You look like hell."
	He winced. "You don't look much better yourself."
	There was no mirror for me to view my reflection, but if the throbbing pain
in my jaw was any indication, I'd end up with one hell of a bruise in a
couple of hours.
	"Shit . . ." I mumbled, grabbing a paper towel and shoving it at Doug.
"Let's get out of here."
	After pressing the paper towel to his mouth, Doug glanced at it briefly,
noting the blood. Said, "Son of a bitch," before following me out.
	We stepped back into the bar. It felt like re-entering hell - the loud
music and smoke like an implacable wall of discomfort, my feet stumbling
across the floor as I made my way towards our table, head fully throbbing
now from the combination of alcohol and the blow to the face.
	God, I fucking hated fights. Hated having to endure the resulting aches and
pains of broken ribs, bloody noses and bruised knuckles that inevitably
ensued. And I'd been in enough fights in my life to know that no one ever
walked away a winner.
	Curtis was the first to notice our condition, eyes darting between us.
"What the hell . . .?" he demanded.
	"Nothing," I barked impatiently. "Let's just get the fuck out of here."
	Without waiting for a reply, I headed to the door and shoved it open,
unconcerned  with who was standing nearby, marching straight over to
Curtis's old Suburban parked at the end of the lot.
	The chilled night air soothed my bruised face. I inhaled deeply, leaning
against the truck, hearing the muffled reverberations of the band performing
inside the bar. After lighting a cigarette, I sucked on it for a moment,
trying to settle down but finding it impossible to do, my drunken state
adding an annoying element to my shitty mood. I just wanted to get the hell
out of there.
	Eventually, Doug, Curtis, Conway, and several others exited the bar, and I
impatiently called out, "Come on!" dropping my cigarette to the ground and
squashing it with the heel of my boot.
	Curtis pulled out his keys and unlocked the doors, and I climbed all the
way into the back, not wanting to talk to anyone or explain the onset of the
fight, leaving that opportunity to Doug if he felt so inclined. My focus was
to get home, get cleaned up, and climb into bed, forgetting about
everything, thinking only about leaving the ranch in a couple of days and
seeing Jake.

*	*	*	*	*

	I was lying sideways across the bed, still fully clothed with only my boots
kicked off. The room was dark and quiet, my mind drifting off into
much-coveted sleep, when the sound of the telephone ringing jolted me back
to life. I sat upright, somewhat disorientated, and scanned the room. Then,
realizing what was happening, I scrambled for the cordless phone, pushing
buttons in the dark, muttering, "Hello? What?"
	A voice said, "Hey . . ." and my heart did a slight flip.
	I sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand through my hair. "Hey,
yourself," I responded.
	"Were you sleeping?"
	"No . . ." Then, "Yes . . . I think."
	Jake chuckled. "You think? You don't know?"
	I groaned and rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. "I don't know
much of anything right now."
	Another chuckle. He said, "You okay?"
	"Yeah . . ." I laid back on the bed, staring up at the shadowed ceiling.
"I'm glad you called."
	"Yeah?"
	"Yeah. I had a shitty night."
	"Why? What happened?"
	"I got into a fight at the bar."
	"You what?" he questioned. "Why?"
	I realized that I'd placed myself in an awkward situation; telling Jake
about the fight meant telling him about the incident with Doug, and although
I wasn't feeling guilt about what had happened, it was the last thing I
wanted to share with him. "Oh . . ." I muttered. "Just a biker. He was
wasted. Wanted to pick a fight with someone."
	"And it happened to be you?"
	"Yeah."
	"Did you win?" he asked.
	"No," I replied. "Nobody won. But I've got a big bruise on the left side of
my face to show for it."
	"Aw shit, babe," he said disquietly. "I'm sorry."
	Hearing him call me "babe" was endearing. I grinned in the darkness.
	"So what are you up to?" I asked.
	"Just lying here," he replied. "Thinking about you . . ."
	"Mmm . . ." I rolled over onto my side, keeping the phone to my ear, and
said, "You know I can't wait to be there. Wish I was there right now. You
don't know how much."
	"I feel the same way," he stated. Then, a little more quietly, he added,
"I'm really fuckin' horny for you, Cooper. . ."
	"You always are," I kidded, rolling over onto my back again, gazing at the
moonlit shadows of elm tree branches swaying languidly across the ceiling.
	"That's true," he agreed, rather somberly. ". . . Shit, I've done nothing
but beat-off since leaving you."
	"I know," I said. "We've had this discussion before. Both of us are in the
same boat."
	There was a moment of silence, the line crackling ever-so-softly. Then Jake
muttered, "I'm really fucking hard for you right now . . . "
	It was an aspect of conversation that we frequently drifted into,
especially late at night when neither of us could sleep and the desire to be
together was great.
	I slid a hand down the waistband of my jeans, pushing through my boxers,
eager to continue the discussion. "Tell me what you're thinking about," I
prompted.
	There was a pause. Then he replied, "Thinking about sucking that big dick
of yours."
	My fingers found my cock, wrapping around it, giving it a squeeze. "Yeah .
. ."
	"Wishing I was swallowing you," he continued. "Wishing I was tasting your
sweet cum . . ."
	"Mmm," I moaned. "I wish for that, too . . . Wish I was straddling above
your face, pushing my dick deep inside your mouth . . ."
	"Fuck, yeah," he panted.
	I knew he was masturbating, just as I was. It was an exceptional experience
- pretending to fuck across miles of telephone line and satellite signals.
	I stood up, cupping the phone between my chin and shoulder, and shrugged
out of my jeans and boxers. A chill immediately sailed through me, but the
temperature was irrelevant to me at that moment. I laid back down and took
my stiffening cock in hand once more, slowly stroking it.
	"Your dick's so big," Jake continued. "So fucking big in my mouth . . ."
	"Yeah, baby . . ." I muttered. "Swallow it . . . "
	To an outsider, the conversation would have undoubtedly seemed comical. But
to Jake and me, it was hotter than anything else in the whole world.
	"Cooper," he muttered, breath growing heavier.
	"Yeah . . ." I replied.
	"I want you in my ass."
	"Fuck . . ." My cock was fully hard now. I briefly moved the phone away
from my ear to spit into the palm of my hand. Then I began to stroke myself
more rapidly. "Open up for me," I panted, picturing his legs spreading, his
asshole appearing, his fingers working their way inside, preparing the way
for my cock.
	Jake paused. And then said through cracked voice, "I'm ready, Cooper . . .
Come shove that dick inside me."
	I gripped the ridge of my head, imagining pushing through the opening of
his tight hole, my cock sliding all the way in, enveloped by the warmth and
constriction of his chute. I'd only had the opportunity to do it once, but
the memory of his body - the way he'd groaned, the way he'd moved beneath
me, the stark intensity of his eyes - all of those recollections flooded my
thoughts, adding to the immense thrill of beating-off.
	"Ummphh . . ." I moaned. Spat into my palm again and resumed masturbating,
quickly gaining momentum. "Your ass feels so good, Jake. You're so fucking
tight . . . Pull your legs back for me, I wanna push all the way inside you
. . . deep inside you . . ."
	He moaned something, but it was inaudible. I was close to ejaculating, my
hand moving at a fevered pace now, sweat breaking out on my brow, my body
burning hot. I wanted so desperately to actually be inside of him, thrusting
my cock in and out of his asshole, watching the contortions on his face,
seeing the lust in his blue eyes, feeling his hand grab the nape of my neck
while his other hand worked to bring his own dick to orgasm.
	Several minutes seemed to pass, the line crackling, my hand going and
going, my eyes clamped shut. Then Jake gasped, "I'm . . .unnhhhh . . . "
before his voice trailed off in a whimper.
	I heard muffled grunting and knew that he was coming. This sent my own cock
exploding, hot semen shooting up onto my belly, some of it landing on my
chest, my mind clouding over, my hips bucking slightly.
	Then the line fell silent except for the sound of our heavy breathing.
	After a moment, Jake mumbled, "Holy Christ . . . I think that was the best
one yet."
	"Yeah . . ." I was trying to catch my breath, my heart racing, my fist
still gripping my cock. "That was definitely good . . ."
	"Two more days," he whispered. "Two more days and then you get my ass for
real . . ."
	"Shit," I grumbled. "You're gonna make me hard all over again . . ."
	"So?" he protested. "We've got all night, Cooper."
	I ran my fingers up the length of my chest, feeling the stickiness of my
drying cum, reveling in the fantasy we were still sharing. "Okay . . ." I
muttered softly. "But this time, I want your dick in my mouth, skull-fucking
me . . ."
	"Umpphhh," he whispered. "Open wide . . ."

*	*	*	*	*

	The airplane descended through the clouds, and I gazed out the small
window, catching scattered glimpses of city and ocean, my heart quickening
at the sight. The woman seated next to me stated sarcastically, "Another
beautiful day in L.A.," and I glanced at her, not sure how to respond.
	She said nothing more, and ten minutes later we were on the ground, wheels
thudding onto the runway, brakes pulling, my seat rumbling beneath me.
Flying was one of my least favorites things, my ears always suffering with
the change in air pressure, my thoughts drifting in and out of crash
scenarios. But driving to California would have been too long of a trek -
and time was definitely not something I wanted to waste any more of at that
point.
	As the plane taxied to the terminal, my palms became sweaty, my thoughts
turning to Jake once more, the realization that I was going to see him again
mind-boggling. I absently rubbed my palms against the fabric of my jeans,
feeling anxiety creep in. Suddenly, very desperately, I needed to get off
the plane.
	But even as we came to a stop, we had to wait. The woman next to me
immediately started bitching, complaining about this, that and everything
else, most of which had nothing at all to do with the delay. I was as polite
as I could be, nodding my head, mumbling things like, "Yes, ma'am, I know
just what you mean," or "Oh, that's really terrible," until I thought I
couldn't possibly take it any longer. And then the seatbelt sign finally
switched off, and everyone jumped up, grabbing for carry-ons, bumping into
one another, making a mad dash for the exit.
	Despite my desperation to race off the plane, I decided to wait it out,
allowing passengers to depart before me, realizing there was little
advantage in joining the chaos. As I sat there, palms still sweaty, my leg
nervously bouncing, my mind circled through various scenarios: What would
Jake be wearing? Where would he be standing? What would he say? What would I
say? Could we control the urge to tackle one another right then and there in
the terminal? Would he consider disappearing into a bathroom stall with me
for ten minutes . . .?
	And suddenly the airplane was empty. Just me - and the flight attendant
coming down the aisle. "Are you all right, sir?" she inquired as she neared
me.
	I snapped out of my daze and quickly moved from the seat, mumbling, "Yeah,
thanks," feeling like an idiot.
	She smiled and turned away, and I reached up into the overhead compartment
to pull down my duffle bag. I strode down the aisle, my heart rate
quickening. By the time I stepped from the plane, I was practically jogging,
racing down the ramp at a fairly steady clip, the duffle bag banging against
my leg.
	I emerged into the terminal, my eyes immediately darting everywhere,
searching for the face, the hair, the blue eyes - but disappointment washed
over me as I realized that Jake wasn't there.
	The let-down was tremendous, my heart sinking straight down into my boots.
	I wasn't sure what to do. Maybe he was running late. Or maybe I'd given him
the wrong information - the wrong time, the wrong flight, the wrong day. I
tried to clear my head and think pragmatically, my mind sifting through
possibilities.
	I waited for awhile, leaning against a column, watching a million people
pass by. But twenty minutes later, Jake still hadn't arrived, so I decided
to take the initiative to find the baggage claim; if nothing else,
retrieving my luggage would give me something to do besides worry.
	I worked my way through the crowd, feeling entirely out of my element,
hoping above all else not to get lost. Fortunately, I found my way and soon
stood at the baggage carousel with the rest of the passengers from my
flight, waiting for the luggage to roll in.
	I wanted to curse myself for never getting that cell phone; I could have
easily called Jake. And paging him was completely out-of-the-question. So I
just stood there, watching as the carousel came to life with a loud bang,
the conveyor belt spitting out a hundred suitcases, people pushing forward
to intercept their luggage. I decided I would find a pay phone before
leaving the airport. If Jake still couldn't be reached, I'd simply get a
taxi and head to his house.
	Then a familiar voice said, "Hey there, cowboy . . ." and I turned to find
him, dressed in a plain white t-shirt and khaki cargo shorts, sunglasses
perched on his face, stubble covering his jaw, flip flops on his feet, a
crooked grin covering his face.
	"Hey there yourself," I smiled.
	And suddenly the airport disappeared. It was just he and I, standing a few
feet apart from one another, the energy between us electrifying. It had been
a long time . . . a hell of a long time . . . and now we were together
again. And my urge to tackle him was enormous. But I refrained - just as he
did - and as my one small suitcase appeared on the carousel, I hoisted it up
in one hand and said, "Let's go," feeling like running out of there as fast
as my feet could carry me, Jake not hesitating to lead the way, no further
words spoken between us until we were safely in his Mercedes.
	And even then, we refrained from kissing each other, the possibility of
paparazzi and onlookers too plausible to ignore.
	As Jake pulled from the parking space, he casually slid a hand onto my
thigh and said, "Welcome to L.A., Cooper."
	To which I replied, "It's good to be here. Now hurry up and get me home,
because the urge to grab you right now is overwhelming . . ."


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Thanks to everyone - Terry, Christian, Christopher, Stephen, Drew, Tim,
Ashton - and so many others who have been faithful in reading and providing
feedback.

Reach me @ avymac@hotmail.com or chat with me: same MSN name / AIM `Avymac'.
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