Date: Wed, 12 Apr 2006 12:27:58 -0700 (PDT)
From: T. Chase McPhee <survivalgame@yahoo.com>
Subject: Nature Country 03

The story below is a work of fiction, set in the
format of reality. Any resemblance to real people is
entirely coincidental in nature. It is not meant to
accurately reflect upon persons in towns, cities, or
governmental areas, in 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. This is
fiction. Use protection in real life. `Got condom?'

"Nature Country" 03
wriTten by T. Chase McPhee

%

"I'll have coffee and toast."

"Coffee and toast? That's it, Christian?"

"Ah, yes. I had a little before."

"Before you left the house, I suppose. Seems like that
happens a lot to me, especially when Enrique is there
early."

Christian turned up all ears, as it became Chad's turn
to go off on a tangent, the Dutch man taking in all
aspects of the history lesson, formulating his own
opinion of Chad's lifestyle, other than the gay.

"Whew! Not only can he cook up some great menu's, but
he virtually keeps the house in good running order.
He's as handy with a whisk, as he is with a hammer.
Also, the kindest person you ever met. Yeah, when
Matty's mom spoke up for him, it's the best thing
anybody could have ever done for the guy."

"Spoke up for Enrique?"

"Yes. He had been in the country illegally, until
Matty's mom found out. Believe you me, Christian, if a
person has a good heart and is in trouble, Bernice
Bridges is a good person to have as a friend."

Michael came over, intervening, to take their order.

"I'll have the waffle, with the blueberries."

Michael wrote down Chad's order, then asked, "And what
will you have, Christian?"

"Um, coffee. A piece of toast."

"Nonsense," the twenty-nine year old replies, pinching
Christian's bicep, right through his white shirt,
"you're nothing but skin and bone. No, I'm scratching
the toast," Michael points the pencil point to the
order pad, "Nope, we're starting you out with one of
my famous protein shakes, then..."

"Whoaa!," Christian puts his hand up, like telling
traffic to make a complete stop, "how much is that?"

"It's good for you."

"I didn't ask the quality content. Not all of us are
made of money, no offense Chad, but I have to watch
what I spend."

"Well, let's see," Michael leans on his other foot,
"since you're new in town, I'm giving you the Birdy
Special."

"And what's that?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

Sitting back, gulping down some water, Chad got a kick
out of watching Michael give his guest a snow job.

"Um," Michael fished for a key in. "Your weight."

"My weight?"

"Yeah. How much do you weigh?"

"Around one sixty-eight, but I don't see..."

"And your height is around six feet..."

"Six feet, one inch," Christian tells him.

"Okay, let's see what we come up with?"

Peering over the edge of the order pad, Christian
watched Michael figuring out all sorts of mathematical
equations. Meanwhile, Chad had gotten up, reached over
the barlike counter, helped himself to another glass
of water and sat back down at their table. He smiled,
knowing the trick Michael played on Christian. No
matter how it came out, Christian would be ordering a
free meal.

"There we go!" Michael let out on a happy note.

"What's all that mean?" Christian asked about
Michael's figuring.

Numbers obscured their order, particularly Chad's
waffles and bluberries.

"What this means, Christian, is...."

One difference in guys that Chad's brought in, in the
past, he noticed that Michael's eyes never freely
wandered as much as they did now!

"Your BMI," which Michael had no idea of how to
figure, "is way too low."

"It is?" Christian's face suddenly showed a look of
horror, pushing the pad down to his reading level.

Snatching it away, Michael reports, "But it's nothing
that I can't fix up for you."

"Yeah, but how much is it going to cost me?" Christian
retorted.

"Oh," looking over to Chad, "I'll let Chad off easy
this time!"

Whizzing away, Christian said to Chad, "Weird guy."

"Who? Michael?"

"Yeah, the way he made up all that malarkey about my
BMI."

"Oh, so you know all about a guy's BMI, do you?"

"At one time I had an interest in working out."

"Well, Michael's like that. However..." Chad stopped
for another chug of water.

"What?" Christian was all ears.

"First time I ever saw him checking out a guy so
thoroughly."

"Checking out a guy? Me?"

"Hell yeah. Michael's eyes scanned you as if he had
x-ray vision."

"But Michael doesn't know I'm gay."

Chad fessed up to, "Nobody has a keener sense of
gaydar, than Michael Byrd, believe me, Christian."

"Really? He's that sensitive?"

"Here we goooooooooooo!"

Michael made a sing-song tune out of plopping a tall
glass of milk down in front of Christian.

"And a nice plate full of waffles," Michael dropped on
the table before Christian.

"Um, had to ask you Michael," Chad inquired, "but I
ordered waffles and blueberries, if you remember."

"Got your order coming right up, Chad and here's some
syrup and... oh shit!"

It's the first time Chad ever heard Michael curse in
front of a customer, but also the first time he's seen
him knock over a glass of milk into a guy's lap.

"Oh man what a klutz I am! I'm awfully sorry about
that, Christian."

"It's... o...kay...." Christian reported back, in slow
motion.

When the glass of milk upchucked into Christian's lap,
the coldness of the dairy product, fresh from the
fridge, gave the twenty-three year old quite a leap.

"Here, let me get that... I mean..."

Michael suddenly realized he was wiping more than the
front of Christian's pants. Suddenly, a wicked thought
invaded Chad's mind.

"Michael?" he asked on the sly.

"Yeah, Chad?"

"Why don't you take Christian upstairs to your
apartment and have him change out of those wet pants?"

"Huh?" Both Michael and Christian questioned Chad's
advise.

"Sure," Chad kept up, "I bet you both take the same
pants size."

Michael asks, "What size waist are you Christian?"

"34, you?"

"34. Well, sometimes 33. Depends on the cut."

"So," Michael changes from the outgoing, to the shy,
"if you want to, I could find some other pants for
you."

"I might have another pair in my car," Christian
replies,  feeling a bit shy.

"Your car is back at the store," Chad tells him, "Um,
but why would you have an extra pair of pants in your
car?"

Michael, switches positions, his hand going to his
hip, leaning on it, asking, "Yeah. Why would you have
an extra pair of pants in your car?"

"He's right," Chad observes, reaching across the
table, to snag a piece of waffle. "Not everybody is
klutzy like Birdy here!"

For a moment, Chad experienced Michael's `evil death
stare'.

"Um.. uh... well you see... uh.. I keep a whole
wardrobe in my car, just in case of an emergency."

Both looked at Christian.

It's Michael, still positioned with hand on hip,
relayed, "We're not buying it!"

Christian fell to his chair, sitting in the milk that
had dripped from his ass. He then realized how soggy
his crotch was, the milk squishing between his balls.

"Hey Michael! Where's my sausage?" A patron yells
across the room.

"Look down!" Michael tells him, shouting back, then
keying his attention back to Christian.

The whole of the cafe roars out loud with laughter,
the patron taking it in good stride, having known
Michael most of his life.

"C'mon. Up," Michael says, with a dominant twist to
his voice.

"Huh?" Christian questions, looking at Michael.

"The pants? I think I can rustle up a pair to fit you.
I'll have your pants laundered and you can pick them
up tomorrow."

"But..."

Chad tells Christian, "From experience, Chris, you're
not going to win, so just give them up?"

Taking his apron off, he tosses it over Chad's
shoulder, saying, "take over."

Smiling, Chad tells Michael, "Don't be `too long'
now!"

%

"After you boys change, we're taking a trip over to
your Aunt Bernice's."

"What for Dad-Barry?" Aidan inquires.

"I dunno," Barry fibs, smiling at Steve.

Matty butts in, "Max and I are going to head over to
the cemetary."

It puts a damper on Steve's and Barry's news for the
boys.

Steve suggests, "You know, it might be healthy for
Max, if you invited him to your get together."

"We thought of that. He declined," Matty replies.

"There's a way to settle that."

"Oh? How would that be, Barry?" Matty inquires.

"Don't give him a choice?" Barry smiles.

"That's why I married this guy," Steve relates, arms
focusing on Barry's waist, chest moving to shoulder
blades, lips moving in for a kiss on the back of the
neck, hands rubbing up and down the polo shirt,
feeling up the bear bod underneath.

"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks."

"We're ready," Aidan replies for the two young guys.

Matty headed for the room off of the kitchen, to
collect Max, as Steve, Barry and the two boys lit out
the back entrance. Heading out, as they would for
Callan and Alonzo's backyard, formerly Steve's
homestead, they made a quick right, trying to keep up
with the boys.

Philip points out, which happens every single time
they pass under the wrought iron arch, "Remember Aunt
Bernice put this in just for us!"

"Yep!" Aidan replies, "because we're special friends!"

The two pals lock arms over shoulders, continuing
their trek to the Bridges-Cruz home. Barry and Steve
catch up just in time to see the boys' faces, as they
pry open the back door.

"Hey dads!" they hear Aidan yell out.

Philips amends, "Aunt Bernice's got a new dog!"

Following right behind the sandy colored dog, Aunt
Bernice replies, "Not `my' new dog."

"Oh? Then who's is it?" Aidan asks.

It hasn't dawned on the eleven and twelve year olds
yet.

Steve announces, "Who do you think has wanted a puppy
all their own, dah?"

"This scruffy little guy is ours?" Philip asks,
scratching him behind the ears.

Aidan picks him up, Philip's hand still attached.

"He's so light!"

"Ooooooh how cute!" Bernice sighs, clicking away, the
digital camera in both hands.

"C'mon! We've gotta go show Diego!"

"Albeeeeeeeerto?" The wail is heard.

"Yes, dear?" He answers, in front of Steve and Barry,
rolling his eyes.

"Get my jacket for me, pretty please?"

"Yes, dear," his eyes report the hilarity of the
situation.

As Bernice bounds out the door, hustling after the two
happy owners of a new dog, Albert heads back inside.

%

"I think I'm dying!"

"Too many enchiladas and not enough laps in that pool
of your's Maury!" Jim Faulkner replies.

"Whew! Am I out of breath."

"Don't worry. Now that we're living with you, we'll
get you back into shape, Maury."

"Oh no."

"Oh yes," the high school seniors tell him.

The thirty-four year old then collapses, back side
down, onto the sofa.

"Oh no you don't!" Connor and Jim call to Maury.

Pulling at his arms, they try to upright him.

"Leave me alone," Maury protests.

Bullying him, the two jocks get him up to his feet and
parade him out of the wide-screened TV room, down the
hall, through the kitchen and out to the pool.

"Noooooooooooo!" Maury sighs out loud, already knowing
what his fate is.

Like Maury, not even removing sweats, nor sneakers,
the two jocks join the thirty-four year old in the
pool. Soon sweat shirts, pants and socks linger in the
poor, as if thoughts caught in a dream. Six sneakers
float on the crests of the little waves.

"Don't tell me you're going to complain, still?" Jim
says to Maury, who floats upright in the pool, his
half semi stick standing like a mast.

"Look at that volcano!" Conner jokes, at Maury's hairy
belly, caving in at the bellyhole.

"Owwwwwch!" Maury yells out, as Jim slaps him hard,
topping the volcano. "You're mine!"

Jim first starts swimming, then running in the shallow
end, with Maury on his tail. Every few seconds, Jim
turns his head to see Maury's progress. Connor floats
in the deeper end, laughing at the two, cheering Jim
on, keeping him in touch of his progress of fleeing
away. Suddenly, Maury stops, all of out of breath.

"I can't chase you anymore. You young guys are too....
tooo..."

Suddenly, Maury collapses, falling down into the
shallow end.

"Maury?"

Sitting up in the water, Connor's demeanor turns from
gaiety to one of concern. Turning one last time, Jim
becomes aware of Maury's sudden break-off of the
chase. Churning his arms in the water, Connor makes
headway towards Maury's settling body.
Jim, who has reached the middle range of depth, jumps
in, breaking into a hard swim. Then, as if on cue,
both boys are enroute to the shallow end of the pool.

As Connor reaches Maury, he tells Jim, "Quick! Get
Maria!"

Not even thinking of what he has on - nothing, Jim
races out the side door. Even in the cool outside, he
senses briefly that his balls are cold, but runs
across the lawn, to the main house. Connor's mom comes
racing out, following Maria. Jim tails the two,
wrapping one of the ladies' coats around his middle
area. By the time they reach the pool area, Connor has
dragged Maury, by both arms overhead, out of the pool.
He remembers, vaguely, his CPR course.
When Maury's Aunt Maria, a doctor at West Richland
Memorial arrives, she sets about checking vitals.

Before either Maria of Connor's mother can ask what
happened, Jim is blabbing away, "He was chasing me..."

Then, while catching his breath, Connor states, "Maury
just like collapsed. Jim went to fetch you and I tried
dragging him out the water."

Jim, standing there with goosebumps covering his
shoulders, begs, "Please tell me he's going to be
alright?"

Connor shows the same worry. Meanwhile, Barbara has
sought out some dry towels, covering Jim's shoulders
and offering a couple to her son. She doesn't forget a
pile for Maury.

Maury coughs and chokes, asking, "What happened?"

His Aunt Maria tells him, "You blacked out. How do you
feel?"

"Like..." even under stress, Maury, the complete
gentleman, in front of ladies, changes his vocabulary
from the `s' word, to, "um... don't feel too good."

"Let's sit you up," the doctor puts her hand under
Maury's shoulder.

When Jim bends down to help, the coat falls from his
middle. He quickly decides that Maury is more
important than Maria and Connor's mom seeing his
jewels.

"You okay, Maury?"

Placing his hand, circled around Jim's ankle, he says,
"Caught ya!"

"Looks like Maury's making a fast recovery," Jim tells
them.

"Welcome back to the land of the living."

"I didn't think I ever left," Maury tells Connor.

"Connor, will you run upstairs and get Maury a dry set
of clothing?"

"Sure, Maria," Connor replies.

"I'll help you," Jim hustles off with him.

Dashing up the stairs, the two try drying off with
their towels. As they grab dry clothes for Maury, they
find extra sweat shirts.

"Might be a little big," Connors replies, putting his
legs in a pair of Maury's jeans. "What do you think,
Jim?"

Doing what he already did, Jim replies, "Roll up the
pants legs."

"Cool," Connor replies in the affirmative.

Helping Maury to Maria's car, they find him very weak.

"I don't like the looks of this," Connor remarks to
his lover.

Jim responds, "I know."

Maury doesn't give much help in putting his legs in
his pants, nor arms in his shirt sleeves.

"Hey, that's my lucky tee shirt," Maury still jokes.

Connor looks down at the white tee shirt, with the
four or five holes in it.

"It doesn't look too lucky, to me!" Jim tells them.

Upon arrival at the emergency room entrance, spying
Dr. Scalia's car, plus the screeching of the wheels,
coming to an abrupt stop, signals the hospital staff.
Right away, two paramedics run out to the vehicle.
After Maria says something to one of them, he scats
back inside, returning with another paramedic and
rolling stretcher.

"I'm fine," Maury protests taking the rolling route.

What Maury's intentions are and the direction his legs
want to take, seem like they are wired to different
brains.

"I've got him," Callan O'Meara shouts out, catching
Maury as he falls backwards. "Uggggghhhh!"

In the event of catching Maury's six foot, one inch,
hundred and ninety-two pound body, Callan falls up
against Maria's car. After Callan's skull makes
contact with the top door of the car, he slumps to the
ground.

"Oh my!" Barbara Matthews exclaims.

Dr. Scalia calls out, "Amber, run in and get more
help!"

"Yes, Ma'am," Amber Jones replies, running like an
olympic jogger, back into the hospital.

Soon, more hands than necessary flock to the back
entrance to the hospital.

"What happened here, Maria?"

"Hey, Dr. Hannon," Jim says.

The thirty year old doctor, responds, "Boys," smiles,
then keys into Maria's important conversation.

Connor looks over to Jim. They both flutter eyebrows.
Even though still in the closet, a very few have the
knowledge of Dr. Peter Hannon's sexual preferences.

Jim leans in to Connor's ear and mentions, "I'd do'm."

"Bet he's got a tasty one," Connor replies.

In a matter of a couple of minutes, both Maury and
Callan O'Meara are flat on their backs, being rolled
into the hospital.

Dr. Hannon yells over to the desk, "See if you can get
Alonzo Romano on the phone?"

"Right away, Dr. Hannon," the desk attendant says,
picking up the phone and flipping through the Rolodex.

%

After delivering twelve glasses of water, trying to
write orders on an order pad, meant for abbreviated
words, not full descriptions of a patron's order,
ferrying food from the chef's window, to the `correct'
table, Chad wipes his brow, wondering what on earth
has happened to Michael. Finally he sees him approach.

"Where have you been Birdy?"

"Hee hee... I can always tell when you're mad, Chad."

"I'm not mad, just ready to pull my hair out. How do
manage to write down an order on this tiny piece
of.... hey! Where's Christian?"

"In the shower. It got a little `steamy' up there,"
Michael Byrd points upwards. "I went first. He'll be
down in a sec."

"Hmm... "

As Michael busied himself, pronto, he began telling
Chad some facts about Christian.

"Did you know that he lives out of his car?"

"No, I..."

"Yeah and the poor kid is really getting ripped off by
Finley."

"Ripped off? How does that go?" Chad inquired,
standing there as Michael slowly returned things to
order.

"The guy's paying him piddly-shit and making him work
on commission."

"Commission? That's now how it worked with Marty,"
Chad replied.

"I know. With Marty is was salary, plus commission."

"Right. I know that."

"That's why I offered Christian a job."

"That's mighty kind of you, Michael. Just forget all
the bad things I ever said about you."

"Oh? And what would that be, Chad?" Michael asks, a
dish towel in hand as his hand rests on his hip, a
classic Michael Birdy pose.

"Never mind. So, tell me about the position you're
offering Chris."

Smiling, at Chad, he relays, now gesturing as a `get
even' tactic for the remark, "I offered him a position
at your store!"

"At Barr & Bridges?"

"If you can't swing a full time position for him, he
can work here part time and there part time. Okay?"

"Birdy," the name Chad used with Michael, when teed
off, "we don't have any part time openings at the
store."

"How about quarter-time?"

"Not even that, Birdy."

"Okay. Forget it. He can work here, whatever."

"What about his job with Finley?"

In the nick of time, to explain, Christian shows up.

"Michael told me I should ask for salary and
commission and if Finley turns me down, then you would
be kind enough to offer me a position at your store,
which I'd greatly appreciate, Chad. I mean, I can be a
very hard worker."

"Um, things have changed, Christian," Michael looks at
Chad, making him feel like a heel.

"Oh?"

As separating day from night, that's the emotion
Christian showed, realizing the new job wasn't set in
stone.

"Um, look," Chad started in, feeling the down turn in
Christian's attitude, "I can offer you part time."

As if the sentence never ended, "And part time here,"
Michael tossed in.

"Anything is better than what Finley offered me,"
Christian informed Chad, Michael hearing this for the
second time.


Chad adds, "Plus," he looks at the cafe owner, "I'm
sure Michael can put you up, until you find a place to
live!"

Evil death stare number two returned, only this time
Christian knew enough to laugh about the two guys'
shenanigans.

%

3 Continued....

Copyright 2006  T. Chase McPhee
This story may not be sold or made part of any
collection without prior written permission.