Date: Sat, 12 Jan 2008 17:39:22 -0800 (PST)
From: T. Chase McPhee <survivalgame@yahoo.com>
Subject: Adventures In Nature 09

The story below is a work of fiction, set in the
format of reality. Any resemblances to real people,
alive or in the hereafter, is entirely coincidental in
nature. It is not meant to accurately reflect upon
persons, in towns, cities, countries, nor governmental
areas, which the story is staged. If a sexual scene
involving male-to-male relationships offends you, then
you should not read this story. Additionally, if you
are under 18 years of age, in most state and
countries, you are not allowed to read this story, by
law. Check with your local laws regarding such. %
Sexual safety matters. Remember guys, this is fiction.
In real life, use protection.

%

"Adventures In Nature" 09
wriTten by T. Chase McPhee

%

Positioned behind the customer service desk a short
line of customers seeking either help with a product
or lottery tickets, Tom looked up with his eyes but
not his whole face, watching John scurry in through
the front door of Barr's & Bridges', head down like he
didn't intend on making face contact. To himself Tom
was saying, `let it go... let it go... there's got to
be a logical reason for him being late'.

In two minutes, John, having slid his personal card
through the time clock slot, appears. With the  same
composure, he walks around the counter, admitting
himself to the secured area. "You can go now," John
came out with.

"Alright," Tom replied, thinking to himself, `No
`sorry I'm late'? Oh well, I guess there's gotta be a
reason why.' Not pressing any issues, Tom proceeded to
hit the pet food aisle, which would take him to the
stockroom.

"What's up?" Ethan asks, planing his forhead off with
his hairy arm.

If his mind wasn't absorbed with John, Tom might have
gotten turned on to the twenty-eight year old
stock'boy', his hairy chest and thin trail, dripping
with sweat, muscles taut, as Ethan parked a pallet of
canned goods.

"Oh nothing," Tom responded, scratching his head.

Stretching his white crew neck tee shirt between both
hands his abs tightened up as Ethan pulled it over his
head, smoothing it out over his chest and stomach, the
sweat immediately giving it a wet look. "Liar!" Ethan
accused. Not knowing Tom long, didn't shield his inner
sense of knowing when someone is evading the truth.

"Listen, don't give me a hassle. Not today!"

"Yeah, okay," Ethan gave up, walking towards his next
pallet, jacking it up. He stopped, pulling on a lever,
letting the hydraulics do the job of making the pallet
relax on the cement floor as he felt hot air on his
wet back breathing on him.

"I'm sorry Ethan. I shouldn't take my problems out on
you."

Turning, one hand still on the handle of the jack,
Ethan cracks a smile, saying, "It's okay. I'm a big
boy. I can take it!"

Tom tried forcing a smile, but with Ethan's opinions
already in place, he wasn't buying the cheery
attitude.

"So, how much more of the truck you have to bring
out?"

Being caught off guard, figuring Tom would unload some
of the dead weight, Ethan took a mental inventory.
"Let's see, this is the last pallet of canned goods...
we got another pallet of charcoal... geez, I can't
believe how much charcoal we're blowing out of here!"

It's then Tom began snapping out of his downer as he
looked upon the white tee shirt, damp, almost
transparent, black chest hair almost showing through.
At first, Ethan's eyes showed surprise, when Tom's
hands began tugging the tee shirt out of his jeans.
Then his chin took a dive, as he stood there immobile,
watching the store manager's hands slip under his
moist skin covering.

"Um, isn't this mixing business with pleasure, Tom?
Against company policy? Couldn't it get me... us
fired?"

Ethan followed the ascending hands as Tom stated, "You
forget... I make the rules. I can break them!" Both of
Tom's palms lay on his slicked down chest. What really
made Ethan sigh with all out pleasure, is when Tom put
his index fingers and thumbs together, lightly mashing
his nips. "Ahhhhhhhhhhh...." he gasped, with total
abandon, dropping his head back, eyes closing.

With Tom's left hand sliding around Ethan's back,
sweat-lubed, his other hand retreated, clasping onto
the back of Ethan's neck, sliding through his mane,
bringing their lips close. It was only a brief
encounter, Tom taking the advantage of pressing his
active loins against Ethan's.

Totally immersed in the moment, Ethan's hand slipped
down to Tom's zipper-zone, softly holding balls and
cock, saying, "How `bout we lock ourselves in your
office, so I can take care of this?"

As if nothing erotic had taken place, Tom drops his
hands to his side, turns his back to Ethan, walks
away, saying, "I got a problem," then turns back to
Ethan, leaning against a pallet of potatoes. Figuring
playtime over, he returns the tail of his shirt to his
jeans.

"Don't you mean `we'?" Ethan replies, rubbing his
package, sighing because he got all revved up for
nothing.

"We?" Tom questions.

"The way I figure it, ever since you involved me in
your life it meant... the good times and the bad?"

"It doesn't have anything to do with you and me," Tom
tells him.

"Oh. Whatever, I guess the same rules apply," Ethan
says, putting a hand on Tom's shoulder.

Realizing it, Tom says, "Well, `our business' we can
take care of later."

"Sure," Ethan accepts it, happy with the thought that
at least last night wasn't a `one night stand'. He
proceeded to tidy himself up, unbuckling his belt,
unzipping, tucking his shirt back in and then
reassembling the works. "So, what's on your mind?"

"John Torkelson."

"Did he ever show up?"

"Yeah, but it's one morning I wish he hadn't!"

"You and he still not getting along?" Ethan inquires,
hands on a stack of boxes, hopping up, parking his ass
on top.

"I thought we were doing fine, til he walked in a
moment ago with a chip on his shoulder," Tom put it,
waiting for Ethan's reply.

"So, did you ask him `what's up'?"

"How could I? We had a line of people," Tom responded,
hands in play to help explain.

Coming right out with what he thought most practicle,
Ethan states, "There's only one way to find out. Call
him back to your office."

"When, Ethan?"

"Would be best to get it out of him while it's fresh
on his mind. What about right now?"

"Right now? Like who do you suppose we can get to
cover customer service?"

"Hmm," Ethan said, thinking about it. It was part of
their late night talking, which brought upon the fact,
non-management employees were not CS material. Then he
names, "What about the new stockguy you hired, um
Josh?"

"Cawley? The cello major at WRCC? The idiot almost
dropped a pallet on his own toe!" Tom exclaims.

"Yeah, but," Ethan defends, "he's really got it up
here," pointing to his brain, tapping his finger on
the side of his head.

Then, over the loudspeaker system, they hear, roughly
said by the customer service manager, "Manager to
register eight!"

"Hmm," Ethan ponders, "sure doesn't sound like the
John Torkelson I know."

"Told ya so, didn't I?"

As soon as he said it, in walks Josh Cawley.

"Whew, almost arrived here late. End of the month, you
know. Cops have to make up their quota of tickets.
They're handing them out left and right, up on College
Drive," Josh complains, running right on, "I don't
understand why they have to pick on us collegiates.
Why don't they pick on somebody who is going more than
a mile over the speed limit?"

It's then Josh realizes Ethan and Tom aren't paying
one word of attention to his story.

Flat out, Tom makes the split decision, "C'mon with
me", slapping the back of his hand on Josh's chest.
"You're our new assistant customer service manager!"

"What?!?" Josh exclaimed, his bod turning, as Tom
walks past, breezing through the double doors. Then,
to Ethan, Josh asks, "What brought this on?"

"Hey," Ethan says, knowing it's own fault he'll have
to haul ass for the rest of the day, "don't look a
gift horse in the mouth!"

"What?" Josh replied.

"Don't they teach you nuthin' in that college?" Ethan
joked.

"I dunno," Josh said, a bit frustrated with getting no
place with Ethan.

"Just get your ass out there. Trust me," Ethan offers
the advise, as one hand reaches over his head, to the
back of his neck, to tug at his tee shirt, while the
other pulls it out of his beltline, "what you're going
to do, will be a heck-of-a-lot easier on those
`musical hands' of yours!"

"Coming?" Tom pulled one of the stockroom doors
towards himself.

"Um, sure," the nineteen year old musician replies,
walking out of the steamy stockroom, Tom holding the
door.

After Ethan strips off his white tee shirt, he wipes
under his arms, across his chest, then tosses it on a
shelf. Assuring himself nobody else is around, he runs
both hands up his tight abs, stalling at his chest,
fingers and thumbs feeling up his pecs, targeting his
nips, massaging them like Tom did. As a few minutes
ago, he's sighing, revisiting the awesome feeling,
head dropped back, eyes closing, imaging Tom standing
behind him.

"Um, having fun?"

With haste, Ethan drops his hands, one applying
pressure on the pallet jack, as he questions, "What
are you doing here?"

"Tom. He told me I got a new job. I'm relieved of
chasing shopping carts and cleaning up after barfing
babies. So, what do we do here?"

Stopping, letting the pallet jack drop its load, Ethan
takes a quick glance at his chest, deciding his nips
don't look like they've been toyed with, before
turning around. Obviously, the flourescent lights
weren't to his advantage, as John Dellano looks to
Ethan's hairy pecs. Making it more pronounced, Ethan
then peers down at his chest, to where John is taking
notice.

Point blank, John says, "Like you're the only guy
that's allowed to feel good, `there'?"

Even though lightly tanned, Ethan's skin acquires a
hue of staying out in the sun too long, without SPF
30. As if not a peep out of John's mouth, Ethan says,
"We need to get the pallets out from the loading
dock," he throws a thumb over his shoulder at the door
standing open, rays of sun peering in.

"Um, are we allowed to get like that?" John asks,
nodding his head towards Ethan's bare bod.

For a sec, Ethan immediately thought about the redness
still encompassing his nickel-sized nips, more visible
from the `wet look'. Alerting himself to John's
quizzing, he responds, "Um, yeah. We can strip down...
I mean strip our shirts, as long as its not on the
other side of the stockroom door."

"Cool," the eighteen year old replies, like Ethan,
going for the back of his shirt, to peel the orange
garment from his bod.

While passing over his head, hiding his view of the
stockroom, Ethan glances his way, checking out the
blond, darker hair trailing from his beltline, a strip
right up his stomach, fading midchest, the rest
smooth, except for the hairy pits.

"I guess that about clinches it," John says.

"What?" Ethan asks, not realising he's responded too
late, from checking John out.

Never one to hide his feelings John Dellano stands
there, hands on hips, feet spread shoulder width, as
if pretending to be Superman, looking down on his
studly bod, finally saying, "Like what you see,
Ethan?"

It about threw all whims aside, labeling Ethan, same
time branding John's sexuality into both minds.

At first giggling, wising up to the facts, Ethan tells
him, "You've got nothing worth hiding, okay?"

Bold, to put it mildly, John retorts, "Anytime you
want to check out the rest," he gropes himself, "let
me know?"

Gulping, Ethan says, "Uh, sure. I'll let you know."
Going on, Ethan starts in on the stockroom routine.

%

A week prior to grand opening, Christian sat on pins
and needles, reading through internet articles,
regarding the training of personnel.

Hand to his shoulder, Michael says, "Nervous?"

"No, but having to know all this stuff, scares the
hell outta me!"

"No problem. I can assure you," Michael put it,
sitting down, setting a Dr. Pepper in front of
Christian.

"Thanks, but it's easy for you to say. Like look at
all this stuff a waiter has to know."

Taking up the papers, amounting to almost a novel,
Michael turns the pile over, saying, "Like I said. No
problem. My ole buddy, Winston Cooperman, from
Scottsdale-- well his son, Marty, has just graduated
from the Arizona Culinary Institute and well, I
thought I would give the kid a break. Maybe make him
your assistant. What do you think?"

"What do I think? I think Marty probably knows a lot
more about running a restaurant than I do!" Christian
says. "I think it should be the other way around.
Marty running the show and me following him around,
looking over his shoulder, learning the ropes."

"Or looking down his shirt?" Michael said, joking.

"Hey, one never knows!" Christian came back at
Michael, grinning.

"Yeah, well, I was just wondering what you thought of
my idea."

"Looking down his shirt?"

Smling, Michael tells him, "Noooo... Marty as your
assistant?"

"Sure, but like I said, I feel he's so much more
qualified than me, so..."

"Great!" Michael cut him off. "Winston says Marty will
need a week to get himself together and..."

"Wait a minute, Michael. You just asked me about
having him as my assistant. The way you're talking is
like it's a done deal," Christian interrogated him.

"Well, uh I just figured you were going to...." Then,
hanging his head, he turned around and apologized to
Christian, "Sorry `bout that. I should have asked
beforehand, but... well I owe Winston a lot, which I
won't get into now, but talking with him on the phone,
I just couldn't cough up the words to give him
indication of a negative answer."

He made Michael look up, as his hand met Michael's
half way across the table, saying, "No problem. Most
likely I could learn a thing or two from him. Besides,
who knows? He could be good for business."

"Thanks," Michael said, turning his palm over, taking
Christian's hand like shaking it.

"For what?"

"Let's just say, if you didn't already have a cemented
relationship with Justin, he'd have some fierce
competition!"

Christian sort of gets even, saying, "Oh yeah? Who did
you have in mind?"

Stealing his hand back, Michael jokes back, "I'm gonna
smack you!"

"Who's getting smacked, now?" Kevin Spangler asks,
standing over the two, a bowl in hand, spooning the
contents into his mouth.

"Whatcha got there, loverboy?"

"Oh, I was passing by Dean's Bakery, next door.
They're open, you know?"

Both Michael and Christian noted they weren't aware.

"Anyway, I was eyeing up this sponge cake with
blueberries and some type of sweet sauce. This guy,
not Nicholas, not Dean, comes over... he had a badge
on, but introduced himself... Scott Cutler?"

"Nope, haven't heard of him," Michael says.

Christian acts as interested as Michael, hand holding
his chin up, elbow parked on the table.

Kevin carries on, "Cute college stud. Kind of nice
build, I thought."

"Um, you want to get to the point?" Michael says, even
though he wished Kevin had named stats and other
pertinent information to feed the beginnings of a
tingly feeling, down yonder.

"Anyway, Nicholas Achille comes over, tells Scott to
help the other customers. Giving me his attention,
Nicholas asks if he can help me. Well, to make a long
story short...."

"It's already too long, but go ahead," Michael butts
in.

"Well, I would have settled for the name of the cake,
but Nicholas went on to describe every ingredient in
it," Kevin explained.

"What's it called?" Christian wondered.

"I forget," Kevin replied, "but Nicholas boxed it up
for me and said, `on the house'."

"Sure," Michael said, "next thing you know, Nick will
be over looking for a free steak dinner!"

Kevin was quick to say, "Nicholas isn't like that...
and oh, he hates the name Nick. Call him Nicholas."

"My.. my... what? Did you stick around for his life
story?"

Suddenly, all the glee went out of Kevin, setting his
blueberry desert down on the table, replying, "Y'know,
when I told you about Nicholas, you weren't suspicious
of anything, saying to let it go. Now, it damn well
looks like you're.... you're jealous or something!"

Retrieving his desert, Kevin marched off, back into
the kitchen.

"Did it look like I was jealous, to you?" He asked
Christian.

"Um, will I get fired if I say yes?"

Smirking, it's all the answer Michael needed. "I think
I'll see about getting some of that dessert!"

Christian watched as Michael followed Kevin's trail,
into the kitchen, suspecting an apology and a kiss
were on the menu.

%

"Wow! They sure have some hot looking guys in this
magazine!"

Closing his book up, with a clunky sound, Luke slammed
it shut, getting up and walking over to Denis, sitting
up in bed. "Not bad," Luke said of the hot model, half
dressed in some CK's. "Nothing like the real thing,
though?" He smiled.

"Yep. You're right," Denis hastily agreed. "Seems like
I've been going through hot studs faster than Michael
Phelps through water!"

"Nice build that Michael Phelps has."

"Too tall for me," Denis replies.

"Oh? And what would your ideal man look like, Denis?"

Laying the `Out' magazine faced down, to save the
page, Denis places his hands behind his head and lays
back. "Oh, I don't know. I don't have any specifics.
He could be tall or short, but not wasted. Not too
muscular either. I kind of don't go for those muscle
jocks with the bulging biceps, veins wrapped around
them, like vines."

"I know what you mean," Luke sided with him.

Then he let Denis ramble on, "Yeah, I wouldn't care if
he had a little gut."

"What about intelligence?"

"Wouldn't matter much," Denis replies, but adds, "I
think I'd look for a guy with lots of intelligence.
Like Jose Vega. Do you know Jose?"

"I don't think there's anyone at the hospital who
hasn't. He's like our `mascot'," Luke drops the
one-liner.

Smiling, Denis liked the reference, thinking of it as
a favorable aspect of Jose's personality. "Yeah, I
wish I had more going for me, than... than sitting
here in this hospital room," he looks around, eyeing
up the white walls and ceiling, one bureau, a closet
and a few chairs set around, ending with looking down,
staring at the upside down, half-naked stud on the
cover of `Out'.

"Well, just remember this, Denis. There's people here
who care for you... who want to help you get better,
along with your family. They..."

"Hey! I just thought of something!"

"Yes?" Luke inquired of the burst of energy.

"The squirts!"

"Squirts?" Luke inquires, along with his facial
expression.

"Yeah, my kid brothers, Philip and Aidan. My older
bro, Chad... well he's not my real bro, but sort of we
all adopted each other... well anyway, Chad told us
when they moved here he used to call Philip.. that's
his brother... my stepbro, sort of..."

Luke sat there getting entertained with Denis' story,
the stepped up kick in his attitude.

"Philip, who used to always miss the bowl and piss on
the floor. Chad got into calling him a `squirt'. When
they moved in, my dads getting married and all, we all
started calling Philip and Aidan... Aidan's my real
bro... well not really real. He's adopted like me. Did
they tell you I'm adopted?"

"I didn't see it in your paperwork, but...."

"Yeah, we're all adopted and then when my dads got
hitched, my dad and dad-Barry adopted all of us."

"Some story. I'd like to hear more about it, but what
were you originally going to say about... the
`squirts'?"

"Oh yeah. I haven't seen them since before getting in
the hospital. It's been like two weeks ago," Denis
guessed.

"Well, I'm sure there's a reason for it. I'll see to
it your dads bring them in for a visit. How are you
feeling now Denis?" Luke tests the waters, having
received an earful within the last half hour, plus an
exibition of changes in Denis' behavior patterns.

"Great. Hey, can you see about my dads signing me out
of here?"

Not wanting to dash Denis' hopes completely, Luke put
it, "I'll have to confer with the doctors, then let
them evaluate you. I have to warn you it takes a
while."

"I guess. I don't know."

Sitting on the end of the bed, Denis' legs off to the
side, Luke asks, "Don't know what, Denis?"

"Nothing."

"Now, if we are to help you, Denis, we need to know
what's going on inside your head. Besides, if you
start keeping things inside, they will only build up
and lead to more depression. You trust me, don't you,
Denis?"

Staring over the length of his bod, Denis tried
forcing a smile, as he looked into Luke's eyes. As he
took his time thinking, his thoughts traveled from the
Squirts, to Luke. He thought of what he said a few
minutes back, when Luke quizzed him on the qualities
in a man he would look for. Rather than answer Luke
directly, Denis asks, "Is it against hospital rules
for you to give me a hug?"

Sitting there for a few moments, Luke thought about
it. Then, when Denis' tiny smile began fading, he
figured it wouldn't be a bad idea. "Of course not."
Standing, Luke walked the length of the bed. Leaning
over, Denis surprised him, reaching out with both
arms, wrapping them around him and pressing their
chests together, as Luke regained his footing on the
floor.

Parting, Denis kept his arms attached to Luke's
shoulders, saying, "I think you and I might get along
okay. What do you think?"

%

"Nobody's called," Julian says, his eyes dropping from
the clock on the livingroom wall.

"It's only eleven o'clock," Darryl replies.

Sitting there, Darryl in the easy chair, Julian on the
sofa, Darryl's right hand hangs down, Julian's left
chained by the other half of the handcuffs. They did
manage to shower, but confirmed a `no way' situation
with a shave. Drying off was a tough one, until Julian
suggested toweling each other's bod. As for clothes,
they were totally out of the question, since Riley had
pirated every stitch of clothing either of them owned.


"What time did you have to be to work today?"

"Eight," Darryl tells him.

Julian confirms, "That was three hours ago. Long
enough for you to be missed. Like I said, Riley..."

"Riley, that son-of-a-bitch! I can tell you, he's not
getting away with this.. I'll sue him for all he's
got!"

Julian couldn't help but sit there and listen, leaning
towards his left, trying to keep his left wrist from
being accosted by Darryl's flinging his right hand
about, as he griped.

"Are you finished?"

"For now," Darryl replied, with obvious sighs of
frustration.

"Good. I have something to say."

"Well say it and shut the fuck up!"

Calmly, Julian asks, "Why? I didn't tell you to `shut
the fuck up' when you were ranting and raving about
Riley."

Still with the chip on his shoulder, Darryl says,
"Well say it."

"First of all, the calvary isn't coming for us.
Riley's a stickler for detail. I'm sure he's got
everything planned out. Look, did I get a call from
the school?"

Darryl remained silent, the answer in the silent phone
all morning long.

"We can't go out, since... well, I haven't done any
streaking since college and I don't intend on prancing
all over the countryside in..." then, in a calm, more
seductive voice, Julian says, "not that you or I have
anything to be ashamed of...."

Stopping dead, Julian looks to Darryl, his handsome
face, with it's rough shadow, the lightly blond-haired
chest, the trail down his stomach, rippled by sitting
in the chair, hairy pubes, his soft cock laying on top
of his big balls....

"And?" Darryl questions, obvious to the fact he's
being checked out.

"Let's just leave it as Riley is not coming back til
the end of the week, so why don't we just make the
best of this?" Julian spelled out the only option.

"It just pisses the hell out of me, to think he's
actually getting away with it!"

"I know, but I'm kind of famished. I think I need some
breakfast in me," Julian says, rising up, walking
towards the kitchen, crossing in front of Darryl,
still seated.

His body moved forward, but his left arm didn't keep
up with the rest of him. Julian had no choice, but to
follow Darryl's directive, which was the state of
being motionless. Moving forward quickly, his arm
acted as dog's lead, causing him to `heel', falling
straight back. If it wasn't for Darryl's lap being
there, his ass would have been deposited on the floor.
Immediately, to stay stable, as he sat his ass down on
the cop's package, Julian threw his left arm around
Darryl's neck. Their faces lined up, Julian joking,
"Can't wait to fuck me, eh?"

Straightening out his legs, Darryl let Julian glide
down, being careful not let his descending ass be the
cause of tearing at his own wrist. "I thought you were
hungry?"

%

Copyright 2008 T. Chase McPhee
This story may not be sold, nor made part of any
collection, without prior consent from the author.