Jake and I

By BBMSN

Jake and I went to my friends George and Tina for dinner over the holidays. I'd been friends with them for over ten years, and they were having trouble adjusting to my thing with Jake, who I'd been with for the past six months. Jake was an ex-NFL lineman, who now owned his own Lexus dealership in town. That's where we met, and is why I now drive a new Lexus. Jake is a very persuasive salesman. George and Tina live a hippy, bohemian life; both of them are artist, George a sculptor, Tina makes her own pottery. They lived in a completely different world than Jake, who, since his retirement from football at age 34, had only two things occupying his life, his dealership, and powerlifting. Well, and now, me. To their credit, my friends were doing their best to get together with us, and I could tell they had gone to great lengths to get ready for our dinner. The kitchen smelled of good food (all vegetarian, which I had neglected to tell Jake about), plus Tina had sequestered their numerous cats to the upstairs of the house for the evening, as I am allergic (and Jake hates cats, although I neglected to mention that to Tina). We sat in their living room making small talk for awhile, although it was a struggle now and then. At 6'6, 290lbs of muscled powerlifter, Jake seemed so out of place among the macrame and antiques, but he was doing his best. The wicker chair he'd sat in at first creeked so alarmingly that Tina had suggested he might be more comfortable on the sofa. He moved over, and sat down gingerly on the edge of the sofa. I sat down next to him. He barely said a word for the next fifteen minutes, and when George and Tina went into the kitchen for more drinks and to check on the food, I gave Jake a shove. "You better start talking when they get back," I said. "What the hell am I supposed to talk about with those two?" he said. "We've got nothing in common." "You're a salesman, find something, asshole," I said, shoving him again. Not that he moved when I did it. It was like shoving a bank vault. "That's different, I'm not selling them anything," he said. "And don't make me hurt you, shit for brains." "You and what army, Shrek?" Like he needed an army. He outweighed me by 120lbs of pure strength. He was the army. He looked at me with a smirk. "You want a piece of this, lightweight?" His head was turned to me on its 23" column of corded muscle. "Bring it, fuckhead." "Pussy." "Asshole." "Twit." "OK, now that one hurt," I said to him. "Yeh? Whatchya gonna do about it?" I made a fist and slammed it into his 36"thigh, but not before I made sure my middle knuckle was jutting up, like my older brother used to do to me. It always hurt like hell. Except when I slammed into Jake's leg, it was like connecting with a bag of cement. It didn't give. It just hurt my hand. And my wrist. "Fuck!" I said. "My turn," he said. And before I could fly off the sofa, he'd brought his big fist down on my leg. And when I say big fist, I mean it. The guy had the thickest fingers I'd ever seen. And he worked them with one of the Captains of Crush handgrippers, the number 4's, which apparently only like 6 other men could even close. Jake would do 50 reps with each hand, his massive hands practically swallowing the grippers in his grip, tapping the ends together like castanets. He'd do that for hours at work when it was slow, and sometimes he'd get bored enough with it that he'd just tear the grippers apart with his bare hands. It was one of those hands that had just punched me in the thigh. Even before the real pain set in, I was hit by a wave of nausea. My vision got kind of white and blurry. And sounds seemed far away. I stood up and, blocking the growing pain, made my way to the bathroom, hoping that I'd get there before throwing up on their japanese floor mats. Once in the bathroom, the pain actually subsided fairly quickly. A few deep breaths, and the nausea left too. I splashed my face with cold water and went back out. "You alright, gimpy?" Jake asked me. "No thanks to you, jerkoff." "Shit, that was just a love tap, sugar." The problem was, I knew he was right. If he'd hit me full out, my femur would have shattered. Plus, the son of a bitch was getting bigger and stronger every month. He was aiming to be 300lbs by his next meet, and was hoping to be benching triple his bodyweight by then. Damned if the big ox wasn't gonna do it too. Just then, George and Tina came back with the drinks and some tofu appetizers. "Is it too hot in here, Scott? You look a little green," said George. "He's fine," said Jake, "just thirsting for that drink you brought him. Scott tells me that you're working on a big sculpture out back, George." "Why yes, I am," said George, his eyes lighting up as he handed me my drink. George loved talking about his work. While he started explaining to Jake about how he was using scrap metal to make a big chinese dragon, Tina and I caught up. Before I knew it, George was taking Jake out to their workshed to see his creation. Twenty minutes later, when they came back, they were talking and laughing like old buddies. Apparently, George had been having trouble with the neck of his 8 foot sculpture holding up the massive head. Jake had taken some metal bars from the heap of scrap metal, wrapped them into the neck of the dragon with his bare hands, tripling the strength of the neck. George had never been able to work the metal into the neck in such a way. He was thrilled. The rest of the night went great. Jake even like the vegetarian lasagna, and showed it by eating almost the entire tray. When we got into the car to leave, I thanked Jake for coming. "It wasn't so bad after all. They're nice people. Freaks, but nice. I think George got a little hardon watching me bend that metal. How's your leg?" "Sore as hell, how'd ya think?" I said. He laughed, and said, "I'll rub it out for you when we get home." "Damn right you will." Jake laughed, and grabbed me, pulling me across the car into him like a lap dog. He laid into me with a big hearty kiss. He was a good kisser. His tongue was big and strong, just like the rest of him, and tonight, it tasted like vegetarian lasagna. •

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