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 please be sure to check out some of the other great Jake stories in the Archive: "Michael and Jake", "Breaking Through" and "The Gyllenhaal Encounter" are all fantastic. It's great to see Jake portrayed in so many different ways! (And if there are any other Jake stories lingering around out there that I have not read yet, please let me know!)
I would LOVE to hear your comments/concerns/suggestions, or just keep in touch with me at avymac@hotmail.com.
Now, onto Part 3. . . --------------------------------------------------------------------
Buena Vista was a small, quaint community nestled at the foot of the Collegiate Peaks in central Colorado. Surrounded by massive snow-capped mountains and a breathtaking landscape, its namesake held true, offering an incredible view.
The Cooper Ranch was just north of town, encompassing five hundred acres spreading across vast rolling hills and wide open pastures. Although once well over 1,200 acres, the property had dwindled down over the generations due to poor planning, drought and various other catastrophes. Most of the land had either been sold-off or repossessed by the bank. Additionally, Travis's father had passed away unexpectedly from heart failure in 2004, and the shock of the loss had caused the ranch to dwindle further still. Travis claimed it was a constant struggle to keep it afloat - like treading exhaustedly in shark-infested waters - but he and his family were determined to keep it going. In addition to the customary cattle raising, Cooper Ranch now offered equestrian boarding and riding lessons to help ease the financial strain.
The name 'Cooper Ranch' was branded onto a massive pine log post straddling the entrance to the property. As we approached and turned off the main road to travel beneath it, I sat forward to watch it pass overhead, impressed by its stateliness, feeling as though we were entering into some magical world. Which, perhaps, we were.
We rumbled across a large cattle grate and headed down a dirt and gravel driveway which led up to a rustic blue farmhouse in the distance. As we drove on, I peered out of my mud-splattered window to the hills and clumps of trees beyond, noticing that the snow was rapidly melting in the afternoon sun. Patches of brown grass peeked up through the thin white blanket covering it.
"That's Colorado for you," Travis had explained to us earlier when Peter had inquired about the weather change. "Depending on the elevation, it can snow a blizzard one day and melt like a flood the next. You just never really know how it's gonna be, especially with Spring coming on."
I had been thankful for the conversation at that point of our journey, because the twenty minutes of awkward silence beforehand had been unbearable. During that time, I'd been left to my own thoughts, involving a continual replay of the kiss on the mountain: the taste of Travis's tongue in my mouth, the feel of his facial hair scraping against mine, the overwhelmingly arousing sensation of his denim-covered cock pressed up against my own. Soon my imagination had started to drift off into various other fantasies, causing an immediate and unwanted erection again. Embarrassed, I had twisted awkwardly in my seat to hide it, bringing one leg to rest over the other, but Travis hadn't noticed anyway. His thoughts seemed to be a million miles away.
As we approached the farmhouse, I counted several vehicles parked in the expansive gravel driveway, including an old rusty Ford Bronco which appeared to be on its last legs. Travis parked the pick-up under a large cottonwood tree, and we gathered our belongings together and followed him up the steps to the huge wrap-around porch.
"Are you sure your family won't mind us showing up like this, uninvited?" Maggie asked, voicing the question that had been nagging in the back of my mind as well.
"Nah, we love company," Travis assured us.
Upon our arrival, the front door swung open and a tall, lean man stepped out, dressed in Carhartt pants and work boots, his hair dusty blonde, his face covered in a thick beard. Following close behind was a black and white border collie, who immediately dashed over to us, sniffing and jumping and yelping in excitement. I bent down on one knee to greet her, and she pushed her wet nose against my chin, lapping me with her coarse tongue.
"That's Derry," Travis said.
"Hi, Derry," I whispered, scratching her ears. Her musky canine scent made me miss Atticus and Boo more than I had been already.
"And this is my brother, Curtis."
I stood up as the introductions were made, shaking Curtis's outstretched hand. His grip was strong and his gaze unwavering. I sensed immediately that he was a no-bullshit kind of fellow and felt an instant liking towards him.
He held the door open for us and we entered into a wide foyer, crowded with coats and hats and boots. The house was old, turn-of-the-century, with red oak floors and wide archways. Everything looked and smelled old, an odd combination of ancient timbers, dust and furniture polish scenting the air. The decorations and furnishings were utilitarian: a simple couch, matching loveseat, gingham and tapestry throw pillows, a few potted plants, framed pictures decorating a cherry wood fireplace. A wide staircase led upstairs, its wooden steps scuffed and worn from years of shoes treading up and down it. In the open dining room hung an antique crystal chandelier shimmering in the sunlight, casting rainbows across the room and into the foyer where we stood.
A woman entered in from around the corner, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She appeared to be in her late forties, of slight stature, with light blonde hair pulled up into a loose bun atop her head. Her eyes were sea-green, warm and inviting, just like Travis's, and I knew without needing an introduction that this was his mother.
"Hello," she beamed, leaning up to kiss Travis on the cheek. "You're home earlier than expected."
"Yeah, well, Uncle Edward was being a prick again."
Curtis chuckled. Mrs. Cooper glared at them both but ignored the comment. She turned to us, smiling, and said, "Looks like you made some new friends while you were away."
Travis made the introductions, and his mother extended a hand to each of us in turn. "Welcome," she said warmly.
"Thank you, ma'am," I said, smiling broadly. "It's a pleasure to be here."
Already, I felt completely comfortable in the presence of this family.
Mrs. Cooper and Travis turned to quietly discuss room accommodations while the rest of us stepped further into the house. Derry continued to nip at my heels, demanding my attention, which I gladly obliged.
"So you all are in from Hollywood?" Curtis inquired, forming more of a statement than a question.
Peter, Maggie and I exchanged glances. Since there had been no discussion yet about geography, the only conclusion we could surmise was that Curtis knew of our celebrity status.
"Semper fi, fellas," he whispered, denoting the Marine Corps motto, enlightening us. He slid his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers and rolled back on his heels, smiling. "Don't worry," he said. "We like to keep things pretty low-key around here."
Just then I caught sight of a girl descending the stairs. On first impression she appeared to be eighteen or nineteen - a petite yet well-developed young woman with dyed raven-black hair traveling down the length of her torso. Her attire was youthful yet extremely provocative: a short pink and black tartan skirt, knee-high white stockings barely covering her slender legs, a white chemise top pulled tightly over a black lace bra. In contrast to her provocative demeanor, she also wore a pair of bulky black combat boots that clunked noisily on the wooden stairs with each step.
She came to a halt about three-quarters of the way down and stood with a hand on the railing, staring wide-eyed at me. "Holy shit," she breathed. "You're Jake Gyllenhaal." Then she quickly clunked the rest of the way down the stairs and approached us.
Upon closer view, I realized that she was much younger than I'd first thought.
"Hi," I said to her.
"Hi," she echoed, eyes bright. Then, noticing Peter, she said, "Hey, you're that other guy in 'Jarhead', right?"
I quickly covered my mouth and coughed, hoping to mask my laughter. Much to Peter's chagrin, that kind of comment was fairly common. People didn't quite know his name yet.
Peter sensed my mocking and proceeded to smack me straight in the ankle with the rubber sole of his crutch. I yelped but still chuckled, hopping up on one foot to rub at the throbbing bone.
"You're such a dick," he hissed at me, but when I looked at him I noticed that he was grinning right along with me. That was one of the things I truly admired and appreciated about Peter: he didn't give a shit if he was a household name, and he never took anything too personally.
Travis came forward and draped a loose arm around the girl's shoulders, tugging playfully at her hair. "Maggie, Peter, Jake," he said. "This is my little sister. Katy."
"Nice to meet you," I smiled, extending a hand. But Katy ignored it and jumped straight at me, throwing her arms around my neck, driving me backwards. I struggled to maintain my balance as she nuzzled her face against my ear.
Travis and Curtis quickly plucked her from me, apologizing.
"Go graze somewhere for awhile, Kat," Travis commanded. Together, he and Curtis took her gently by the arms and propelled her to the hallway.
She turned to glare at her brothers but obeyed, straightening herself out before proceeding.
"And don't even THINK about calling any of your little friends!" Travis yelled after her.
"WHATEVER . . .!" her voice called back.
I assumed by her behavior that she was not one of the "low key" people Curtis had mentioned earlier.
"I'll go make sure she keeps in line," Curtis stated, following along after her.
After he had gone, Travis's mother persuaded Peter and Maggie to follow her upstairs to get settled into their room. As they ascended the stairs, Peter struggled awkwardly against his crutch and almost tripped.
Mrs. Cooper turned to inquire how he had injured himself, and Peter erroneously replied, "Jake tripped me."
I chortled in disbelief. "Dude, YOU slammed into ME, remember?"
But Peter didn't respond in words, merely pointed a middle finger up behind his back. Travis and I both laughed, and Peter flashed us a smile before disappearing at the top of the stairs.
Travis and I stood alone together, Derry laying contentedly on the floor between us with her nose pressed to the cool wood. From somewhere in the house I could hear the steady chime of a grandfather clock. I listened for further signs of life - Katy, Curtis or perhaps another family member I had yet to meet - but aside from the clock chiming, the house sat in comfortable silence.
Travis stood before me, embodying a sort of devil-may-care attitude that was instantly attractive. Was he even conscious of the affect he was having on me? I had the urge to kiss him but knew that I needed to remain sensible. Although seemingly alone, this was neither the time nor the place to get into it.
"So," he said, "Shall I take you to your sleeping quarters?"
"My sleeping quarters?" I echoed. "Sounds so . . . medieval."
"It is." He took my snowboard from its perch in the foyer and headed out the front door, Derry close at his heels. I hefted my overnight bag onto my shoulder and jogged to catch up.
He led me to a small bunkhouse standing among two other bunkhouses just beyond the horse stables. Each building was identical, with screened-in front porches, glass-bottle windows and stone chimneys poking up through slightly gabled rooftops. All were dilapidated and in desperate need of paint jobs, but there was an odd, rustic charm to the structures, as if they had provided shelter to a century of cowboys and held countless stories within their walls.
Travis led me up a path to one of the buildings and pushed roughly against the front door with his shoulder. It scraped angrily against the wooden floor before fully opening. We stepped into the semi-darkness of a freezing room, and I waited a moment for my eyes to adjust. Travis waltzed right in, obviously familiar with the place, and set my snowboard down on a small circular oak table surrounded by four mismatched chairs.
As my eyes adjusted to the light, I noticed that the bunkhouse was just one large room with a tiny bathroom off to the rear. The walls were flanked on either side by twin-sized beds - six total - with night tables stationed between each one. Its starkness reminded me vaguely of military boot camp. Muslin curtains draped the small glass-bottle windows, offering only muted sunlight to filter in. Against the far wall stood an ancient wood-burning stove, cast iron skillets hooked on the wall, a pile of logs stacked nearby. Aside from the beds, tables and mismatched chairs, there was no other furniture.
I couldn't imagine anyone living there.
Travis flipped on an overhead light, and I noticed a calendar pinned to the wall over one of the beds, the only decoration in an otherwise drab interior. Upon closer examination I recognized it to be a Playboy calendar, outdated and opened to April of 2004.
Travis spread his arms wide to display the room like a game show host. "Well, what do you think?"
"It's . . . very quaint," I replied. I dropped my overnight bag onto the edge of one of the creaky beds. "Are others sharing my abode?"
"Just a few ranch hands," Travis replied. "They get a little rowdy sometimes, but don't worry. I'm sure you'll fit right in."
I looked at him skeptically. Wondered for a split second if he was telling the truth but then thought - there's no way this room has recently been occupied. "You're full of shit," I said.
He stood expressionless, stoic, hands resting on his hips, trying to convince me through body language that he was telling the truth. But soon he broke into a wide smile and marched over to me. "You're right," he said, throwing an arm around my shoulders. "I'm just fucking with you. We don't have ranch hands here right now. There's only Arturo, and he sleeps in the bunkhouse at the other end."
"Ha, ha," I quipped.
His smile was infectious. He slid his arms around my waist and pulled me into a soft, quiet kiss. It was in such stark contrast to the intense, passionate kiss of earlier that it took me a moment to adjust. I lightly wrapped my fingers in the curly tufts of hair at the nape of his neck and breathed in his scent, savoring the moment, sucking lightly on his tongue. When we finally released each other, the smile on my face was genuine.
"What?" Travis said.
"This is so fucking unreal," I responded.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because . . . " My voice trailed off as I struggled to find the right words. How could I phrase it? It felt so unreal to me because it WAS so unreal? Twenty-four hours ago I would have scoffed in the face of someone suggesting that I would soon be standing in a barren bunkhouse kissing a cowboy.
Travis didn't wait for me to articulate an answer but instead grabbed me by the hand. "Come on," he coaxed, leading me from the room, Derry following fast at our heels.
Before exiting the screened-in porch we released hands and then crossed over to the next bunkhouse. On first appearances it looked to be an exact replica of the first bunkhouse. But all similarity ended at the front door. Inside, the large room was scrubbed clean, walls recently painted, no cobwebs, no rickety dining table with mismatched chairs.
Instead of six beds there was just one, over-sized and covered in quilts, its headboard and footboard constructed of hand-hewed lodgepole pine. Beside it stood a matching night stand. A couch sat off to the right, along with an over-stuffed armchair and several wooden crates stacked together hosting a multitude of vinyl records and CD's. An old stereo sat atop a bookshelf crowded with files, textbooks and miscellaneous papers, and a small television set sat on a metal tray table in one corner. A newer wood-burning stove and a tiny kitchenette with a small refrigerator, sink, several cupboards and a round teak table with two matching chairs occupied the other half of the room, completing the picture.
Travis's personality and scent permeated everything, and I knew even without asking that this room belonged to him. I stepped further inside, viewing everything, taking it all in. A large abstract oil painting in bright hues of yellow and orange hung over the couch, offering a whimsical addition to the otherwise unpretentious room.
I noticed a high shelf hosting an array of dusty trophies and stepped forward to pull one down.
"High school rodeo finals, huh?" I remarked, turning the trophy over in my hands.
Travis lingered in the doorway, appearing somewhat self-conscious at my browsing. "Yeah," he said. "Calf roping."
"Did you ever bull ride?"
"A few times. But I never really got the hang of it."
I placed the trophy back on its shelf and said off-handedly, "Yeah, Jack was never really good at it, either."
"Jack . . .?" Travis echoed.
I turned to him. Realized that he thought Jack was a real person. "Nah, it's just a character I played. He tried his hand at bull riding but never really made it."
"Are you talking about this 'Brokeback Mountain' movie?" Travis inquired. "The one everyone seems to be buzzing about?"
I snickered. "Yeah, that one."
"Did you really play a gay cowboy?"
I turned serious. Contemplated my answer. "Yeah. I did."
"That must have been quite interesting for you."
I wasn't certain of his meaning but decided not to pursue an explanation. I changed the subject by returning to our initial conversation. "So do you rodeo anymore?"
"No." He got quiet and peered down at his feet. Shuffled a boot across the floorboards. "Not since my dad died."
There was disappointment in his voice, coupled with a sense of loss and grief, and I immediately regretted the inquiry. I hadn't intended to stir up dismal thoughts. Wanting to ease the awkwardness, I asked, "How long have you lived out here?"
He seemed relieved with the change of direction and replied, "Curtis and I shared it together when we were teenagers. Had twin beds over there." He pointed to where the couch now sat. "We sure thought we were such hot shit back then, hanging around with the ranch hands."
"Where does Curtis live now?"
"In Salida, about twenty miles from here. His wife's a critical care nurse at the hospital."
I nodded. Stood with hands on my hips and further surveyed the room. "Shit," I eventually said. "I would've killed for a place like this as a kid."
"Oh, I don't know," Travis quipped. "I'm sure you were quite the spoiled brat as a teenager, just like everyone else in Hollywood."
I laughed. "Is that what you think? My parents are Hollywood big-wigs so therefore I'm a spoiled punk-ass kid?"
He shrugged. "Sure."
"I'll have you know," I said in mock scolding, "that my bar mitzvah was held in a New York City homeless shelter because my parents thought it was important to keep me grounded."
Travis raised an eyebrow, seemingly impressed by this statement. "Interesting. Any other humbling experiences you'd like to share?"
"Far too many to discuss at this point."
I began to sift through the crates of records, noticing a very eclectic taste ranging from Buck Owens to R.E.M., with the heaviest collection comprised of classic jazz. I pulled out Dave Brubeck and studied the cover for a moment. There were hundreds of records. Ella Fitzgerald. Erroll Garner. Charlie Parker. John Coltrane.
"You like jazz, huh?" I asked.
"Love it."
"Hmm. I wouldn't have guessed you to be the jazz type."
I continued to look through the crates. Everything was neatly alphabetized. Miles Davis' 'Kind of Blue' caught my attention, and I quickly yanked it out. "Man, this is such a great album!"
"Yeah?" Travis pushed himself away from the door and plucked the record from my fingers. "I wouldn't have picked you for a jazz fan either."
I looked at him sideways, grinning. He gently slid the record from its sheath and placed it on the turntable. Soon 'So What' began to play. Aside from a few slight scratches the vinyl sounded great.
"I didn't think anyone even owned vinyl anymore," I chided.
"I guess you could call it a hobby," he said. "I've been collecting records, mostly jazz, for awhile now. I shop at second-hand stores and yard sales. Occasionally I break down and buy something more expensive on Ebay."
I whistled. "A cowboy who's computer savvy, too."
Travis walked over to the small refrigerator and returned carrying two bottles of Fat Tire beer. "I'm not a total hick," he informed me.
I accepted the proffered beer and twisted the cap off. "You told me just last night that you are."
He playfully scowled. "About a lot of things, smartass. But not everything." He took a sip of his beer and then added, "Do you still need the fax number here?"
Interesting . . . Despite his aloofness while driving over the pass, he'd actually overheard my conversation with Melissa.
I knew I should have played the dutiful actor - called Melissa straight away and given her the fax number so that I could wait in eager anticipation for all the crap she yearned to send me - but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. At that moment I wanted to focus all of my attention on the ranch. And on Travis.
"Naw, forget about it," I said.
"You sure?"
I nodded. "Hollywood can wait a day or two."
He grinned, holding his bottle up. "Well, let's make a toast then . . . To snowboarding, Miles Davis and new friendships."
He tapped his bottle to mine, and we locked gazes in a silent communication. It was an indication of something much greater than mere friendship developing between us; something much more profound. And as we leaned in together to kiss once more, I knew that there was absolutely no other place on earth I wanted to be.
Dinner time at the ranch was six o'clock. No earlier, no later. Ranch hands needed consistency, Travis informed me. Even when there were no ranch hands on for the season.
The meal was quite the spread, very unexpected, prepared by Travis's mother. Cajun-rubbed roast chicken, new potatoes, fresh asparagus, spinach salad, jalapeno cornbread, a decent vintage white wine. I was under the impression that Mrs. Cooper always cooked like this, not just for special guests.
We all sat together in the diningroom, the antique chandelier bright above us. There were seven of us gathered, excluding Curtis, who had left for home a short while before.
Katy was now dressed even more provocatively than earlier, in a braless pale yellow spaghetti strap top that accentuated her full breasts and ripe nipples. She sat in the chair directly across from me, eyes flirtatious, mouth playful, her tongue lingering on the fork a little too long every time she took a bite of something. There was absolutely no denying that she was a beautiful girl, but at the ripe young age of sixteen her immense sensuality was alarming. I was flustered by her forwardness and wondered how it was no one else seemed to notice her flirting with me.
Arturo, the year-round ranch hand, was seated at one end of the table. He appeared to be older than dirt, with a face full of wrinkles, greasy salt-and-pepper hair and a wide toothless smile, but he came across as a very genuine person. Salt-of-the-earth. I learned that he'd been working for the ranch for over twenty years and was considered, at that point, one of the family. 'Uncle Arty' everyone called him.
And then, of course, there were Maggie and Peter, both bright-eyed and bushy-tailed from a nice, long nap, happy to discuss at great length the trials and tribulations of Hollywood with Travis's mother, who seemed quite interested to hear it. Every now and then, Katy piped in with a question or two, but aside from that she spoke very little, content just to sit and seduce me with her eyes.
As for Travis and me . . . well, at that point we were both silly drunk again from an afternoon of beer and whiskey shots.
After taking a brief tour of the horse stables and Travis's coveted woodworking shop - where I'd become instantly and irrevocably jealous of him - we'd returned to his bunkhouse to drink more Fat Tire and share a bottle of Jack Daniels. Our mutual interest in carpentry had prompted a lengthy discussion concerning lathes, table saws, chisels and various wood species, further strengthening the bond that was already quickly forming between us. The lodgepole pine bed frame, matching night stand and teak dinette set had turned out to be his personal creations, and I'd run my hands over the smooth wood, deeply impressed.
During this time, I'd also discovered that he'd spent two years on scholarship attending the very reputable Colorado School of Mines, intending to graduate with a degree in chemical engineering. But when his father passed away, he'd made the decision to hold off. Now, two years later, taking care of his family and helping to keep the ranch afloat were his top priorities. This deep sense of familial responsibility, coupled with his intelligence and rugged good looks, only furthered to strengthen my admiration for - and my attraction to - him.
Now, as we sat next to one another now at the diningroom table, surrounded by both family and friends, the chemistry between us rose be steadying degrees. I found it increasingly difficult to control my urge to touch him, and every so often I purposely brushed my knee against his, causing both if us to erupt in quiet laughter.
Eventually, we began brushing hands beneath the table, touching fingers, pressing our feet and legs together. At one point, Travis decided to step it up a notch by sliding a hand directly onto my lap, sweeping his fingers across my crotch. I jumped slightly, completely startled, and silently prayed that no one noticed the color rising in my cheeks.
Throughout the meal, Katy continued to seduce me with her deep green eyes. She'd spoken very few words up until then, but when she finally did speak, I was thrown completely off-guard.
"I saw 'Brokeback Mountain'," she said. "You and Heath were totally HOT together in that tent scene."
And then her bare foot began to rub up and down my shin.
This sensation, coupled with Travis's hand gripping my thigh once more, was completely overwhelming. I shifted in my chair, trying to move my legs away, but Katy continued to find me. I cleared my throat uncomfortably. Peter caught my eye, sensing my discomfort, and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
Suddenly, Travis moved his hand between my legs and squeezed my cock and balls right through the thickness of my jeans. I shot forward and bumped the table with one knee.
"Jesus!," I mumbled.
I couldn't take it any longer. Clumsily, I pushed back my chair, excused myself, and retreated to the bathroom, where I proceeded to splash cold water over my burning face. I sat down heavily on the lid of the toilet and cupped my head in my hands, sitting for several minutes wondering if Travis had any idea what his sister was doing to me. Wondering if he had any idea what HE was doing to me. I seriously contemplated taking a moment to masturbate, because by now this was my third erection of the day and I was feeling pretty uncomfortable. But I only got as far as pulling at my belt when there was a light knocking at the door.
"Jake?" It was Maggie. "Are you all right?"
Christ, I thought, could things get any fucking worse? I groaned, shoved my belt back into its loop and reluctantly leaned forward to crack the door open. Maggie poked her head in, concern etched on her face. "Hey, little brother," she said. "Everything all right?"
I crossed my legs and smiled. "Sure, everything's great."
She glanced down the hallway and then slid inside the bathroom with me, shutting the door softly behind her. The room was so tiny that I had to turn my legs aside so that she could lean against the edge of the sink.
"Wanna tell me what's going on?" she asked. Maggie had never been one to beat around the bush. Her intuitiveness was remarkable.
I looked at her for a moment and recalled other conversations we'd had similar to this one: conversations of lost loves, lost virginities, dreams, desires, disappointments. Everything under the sun. She was my sister, and also my best friend. But even so . . . I found it hard to explain something that was still so inexplicable to me.
Maggie patiently waited for me to speak. I knew that she probably would have waited all night if I'd wanted her to.
"I'm just a little drunk," I said, smiling as best I could. "Must be the altitude, I can't seem to hold my liquor very well."
She didn't believe me, that much was obvious. But she decided to let it be, at least for now. She reached out and mussed my hair. "You're a good actor, little brother. Maybe too good." She slid past me to open the door, but before leaving turned and said, "I think you should know that Peter and I . .. . we both like Travis, Jake. He seems like a good guy. Genuine. You know?"
I swallowed hard, again stunned by her intuitiveness. I stood up, took her by the arms, and stared hard down at her. A wordless communication passed between us, like mental telepathy, sending chills up my spine. I pulled her close, embraced her, and whispered, "You're such an amazing person, Mags."
She sniffled, her hormones in full swing again. "I just thought you should know how we feel, that's all."
I stood back and noticed tears in the corners of her eyes. Thought - shit - now I'M going to cry. But just then Travis came traipsing down the hallway, inquiring if everyone was finished with the bathroom because he was about to piss in his pants. He playfully pushed me out of the way and shut himself inside.
I glanced at Maggie, who glanced at me, and we both laughed.
"I'll see you back at the table," she said, turning to go. "But don't be too long. Vixen Katy might get overheated in your absence and start hitting on Peter."
Again, I stared at her, amazed at her intuitiveness. For pretending to be caught up in other people's conversations, she sure knew what the hell was going on. "Yes, ma'am." I playfully saluted her. "I'll be right there."
She smiled and disappeared around the corner.
From inside the bathroom, the toilet flushed. I heard the water tap running, and then Travis pulled the door open and grinned. "Waiting for me?" he inquired.
I smiled. Pushed him back inside the room and kicked the door shut. With one hand I hit the light switch, with the other hand I grabbed him by the shirt collar and forced him back against the sink. In the pitch blackness of such a tiny space, I felt total freedom. My lips were all over him; kissing his mouth, kissing his chin, kissing his ears, kissing his neck. My hands were also all over him; squeezing his arms, rubbing his chest, clutching his hips. The metal soap dish clattered from the sink as I pushed further into him.
At first surprised by my forwardness, Travis soon reciprocated my advances. He slid his hands from my shoulders down to my jeans, squeezing and pulling on my ass until I was practically off of my feet. Our breath was so hot and humid that I envisioned fog forming on the medicine cabinet mirror behind our heads.
I began to fumble with Travis's belt buckle, desperate to undo his jeans despite the fact that I didn't know what the fuck I was going to do once I did. But Travis abruptly stopped me. Grabbed me by the wrists and pushed me slightly backwards.
"Not here," he whispered.
"Fuck that," I said in desperation, advancing towards him again. But he held tight to my wrists, pushing me back farther until I hit the door. Although my arousal was blinding, a small voice in my head screamed for my attention: Be sensible, Gyllenhaal. There's a room full of people just beyond the other wall.
So, despite the fire still burning within me, I finally capitulated. "Okay, okay," I mumbled, pulling my wrists free from Travis's hold.
We stood apart, sucking in air, trying to regain our composure. After a few seconds, Travis flipped the light back on. "Ready to go?"
"Ready?" I echoed. "Dude, I've got a raging fucking hard-on! Again!" I pushed a hand down my pants in an attempt to adjust myself.
Travis looked down at my jeans and chuckled. "So I see. Well, we're in the same boat, my friend. So what's your suggestion?"
"Forget dinner. Let's get out of here."
"Won't we be missed?"
"Are you always this fucking practical?"
He nodded. "One of us should be, don't you think? I mean, I'd hate for Katy to come looking for you. Or your sister for that matter."
"Maggie's not an issue."
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh no?"
"No."
He didn't press the matter, and I sensed that he understood the situation without needing further explanation.
"What is UP with your sister anyway?" I asked. "She's like . . ."
"Like a nimpho on caffeine?"
I laughed. "Yeah. Something like that."
Travis leaned against the door. "I don't know . . . She's only sixteen but completely infatuated with sex. It scares me sometimes. I don't even think she really knows what she's doing. She's just sort of . . . testing her boundaries. You know? Seeing how far she can go. And you're a big celebrity, that puts you way up on her totem poll. Besides, who can blame her?" His eyes traveled seductively up and down my body. "You're hot."
Color rose to my cheeks and I looked to the floor.
"Here," Travis said, pulling my shirt out to cover up my already-diminishing erection. "That should do the trick."
I turned to the door and glanced at my reflection in the full-length mirror. Everything was disheveled. "I look like hell," I mumbled, trying to straighten myself out. Somehow, Travis had faired far better than me.
"Don't worry," he said, swinging the door open to lead me out of the room. "I think our dicks are soft enough now to face the crowd. We'll have a quick bite, say goodnight, and make an early exit."
I was reluctant to follow but did so anyway, touching Travis's ass one final time before we stepped out into the brightly-lit diningroom.
"So which one of you fell into the toilet?" Peter teased upon our return. Everyone looked at us and laughed.
Everyone, that is, except for Katy, who sat glaring at Travis as though she would have shot him dead, had a rifle been handy.
------------------------------------------------------------------- Brokeback Mountain copyright 1997 by Dead Line, Ltd. / 2005 Focus Features LLC Jarhead copyright 2003 Anthony Swofford / 2005 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP -------------------------------------------------------------------
As always, thanks for taking the time to read! Email me at avymac@hotmail.com. Part 4 coming soon . . .