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?
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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.