Date: Tue, 18 Dec 2007 19:52:57 -0800 (PST)
From: T. Chase McPhee <survivalgame@yahoo.com>
Subject: For Sale By Owner 35

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.

%

"For Sale By Owner" 35
wriTten by T. Chase McPhee

%

"Hey Alex, ya gotta here this!"

"What's up, Derek? You get mugged or something?" Alex
asks.

"No," the nineteen year old Latino tells him, carrying
in two big bags to the kitchen of the Coffee Bean
cafe.

Taking one of them from Derek, Alex reiterates,
"What's up then?"

"Well, you know how Mr. Miller asked me to go down to
Pesado's and pick up some extra milk?"

"No, I didn't know, but obviously that's what's in
these bags," Alex says, looking into one of the brown
paper sacks, seeing the side of one of the gallons,
reading `Whole Milk'.

"Forget the milk, will ya?" Derek says with
excitement, as Alex passes the two gallons in his sack
to him, an assemblyline to the fridge.

"Will you get to your point, pa-lease?" Alex puts in
his bid for the final time he's quizzing Derek.

"Okay. Ya see, as I was entering Pesado's, I realized
all the workers were new."

"New?"

"Yeah. Seems like in a week's time they changed hands.
Mr. Pesado sold the business to his cousin from
Ecuador," Derek explains.

"No kidding. So, what are the new people like?"

It was the question which led directly to the point
Derek was trying to get at.

"Nice, but I didn't meet Mr. Pesado's cousin."

"This is going nowhere," Alex said, turning to walk
out of the kitchen.

"No, listen Alex," Derek said, his right hand glued to
Alex's left shoulder.

"I have to get back to work. Billy-boy is walking
around with a chip on his shoulder."

"Okay. I'll make it quick. Pesado's nephew..."

"From Ecuador..." Alex was already getting the
picture.

"Yeah, from Ecuador, well he came over to wait on me."

"We're not talking about some eight year old kid, are
we?"

"Alex, whatd'ya think? I'm a child molester or
something?"

"I've only known you for two weeks, Derek," Alex busts
his chops.

"Me?" Derek exclaims, both hands laying against his
chest. "You think I could be capable of..."

"Calm down. I was only kidding. So, how old is Mr.
Pesado's nephew?"

>From the aghast look, Derek's whole demeanor melts,
into this softened mood.

"Around my age, but that's not the point."

"Then what are you getting at here, Derek?"

"I'm in love!" Derek proclaims.

"In love? Not more than an hour ago, you were in love
with Carlos." Says Alex.

"I didn't even meet him yet."

"Thanks for cluing me in. I have Kyle out there
planning dinner for tonight, for four of us and you're
supposed to be meeting Carlos."

"Oh?" Derek says dumbfounded.

"Right and I've already called Carlos, inviting him
over. I already have the guy built up to meet this hot
guy named `Derek'."

"Oh," Derek says on a more somber note, adding,
"sorry."

"So, I guess this means you're not meeting Carlos for
dinner. Not even giving the guy a chance?"

"Sorry," Derek's soaring excitement divebombs,
crashing in between the two thoughts.

"Last time I'm fixing you up with a guy," Alex says,
making his exit.

"Alex, I'm sorry," Derek hounds after him.

"Sorry about what?" Mr. Miller asks, slipping in
between Alex's exit and Derek on his tail.

"Nothing, Mr. Miller."

"Wasn't it last Thursday I reprimanded Ian for fooling
around with guys on the job?"

"But, Mr. Miller, it wasn't....."

"Do I have to warn you also, Derek?"

"No Mr. Miller. I swear. Alex and I were only talking
while I fetched the milk and brought it in here to put
away."

Then Bill Miller smirks, saying, "If you weren't such
a good go-for, Derek, I'd have canned you long ago.
Get back to work!"

"Yes, sir," Derek replies, diving for the kitchen
door.

Back at Kyle's table, he has broken the code of
Scott's frustration.

"You never got the letter telling of the tuition
hike?"

Playing with his fingernails in his lap, looking down
at them, Scott reports, "Nope. When I left Paradise
Valley, I left enough time to visit my sister at the
Jersey shore. It probably came while I was in
transit."

"Paradise Valley? Exactly where is that?" Kyle asks,
pulling his bagel in half.

"Pennsylvania. At the foothills of the Poconos," Scott
supplies the answer.

"I wonder if that's near where Alex is from. Ever hear
of Lake Quinn?"

"I think. It's a little town not far from the Delaware
Water Gap, right?" Scott guesses.

Thinking on it, Kyle says, "I'll have to ask Alex if
he's ever heard of your town."

But Alex never came back to wait on them. A large
party of patrons entered, having Alex march at
double-time, pulling together three tables, refitting
them with tablecloths, then resetting them with
flatware and water goblets. His substitute appeared,
Ian.

"It's been like this all day. Never a break," Ian
says, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Can
I get you anything else?"

Without saying anything, Kyle hands Ian his American
Express card.

"I can pay for my own," Scott insists, pulling three
dollars out of his wallet.

Thinking fast, Kyle doesn't know exactly how to convey
to Scott three dollars would cover his first cup of
coffee!

"It's okay. I got it. You can give it to me later."

When the bill comes, Scott strains his eyes to look at
the check upsidedown.

"What?" he leans in to Kyle and exclaiming in a wispy
voice, "Five dollars for a bagel? Holy smokes!"

"Yeah, The Coffee Bean is a little pricey, but didn't
you enjoy your bagel and coffee?"

"Yeah, but..."

"Then don't worry about it."

During their `lunch', which sunk into the mid
afternoon, Kyle learned a lot about Scott. His
lifelong dream to attend some prestigious cooking
school, fill his brain to the gills with learning and
then open up his own restaurant. It's a dream of
reaching high from where he was and now is. He's been
determined, since the tenth grade of following his
dream and harnessing it. Another tidbit, he found out
Scott was from a single parent family of three, low on
the income totem pole. Most of the money he's saved
since eighth grade, accumulated from doing outdoor
work, working at the local Army and Navy store and the
culmination of family gifts.

"Don't forget your book," Kyle said, when they got up
to leave.

Still down, Kyle patted him on the back, saying,
"Let's go home and start dinner."

"Dinner? Home? I've gotta catch a train to my sister's
house."

"Why don't you put it off til tomorrow. Derek is
coming over for dinner and our friend Carlos will be
there."

All along, Scott has been guessing here. Once they
stepped out on the sidewalk, where a thousand voices
prevailed, crisscrossing over each other, Scott
bravely asked, "Um, I've been meaning to ask
something, Kyle."

"Shoot!" He gave the go ahead.

"About you and Alex..."

"Yep," He says, before it's out of Scott's mouth.

"I didn't even ask you anything, how could you...."

Saving Scott a lot of words, Kyle says, "We're
boyfriends."

Saying almost the same thing, in other words, Scott
replies, "You both are gay?"

"Yep. Bother you?"

"No," Scott says, still trying to grasp upon the idea
and applying it to himself, with question.

A few blocks up and over, they come to Kyle's wheels.

"Nice car," Scott tells him, standing at the passenger
side, not wanting to touch the late model silver
Sebring.

"Thanks. Hop in."

Once inside, the heat has it's effect on the two. Kyle
looks down, unbuttoning buttons down to the beltline,
pulling his shirttail out and finishing the job.
Pulling it back on the sides he revels a partial view
of the front of his bod.

"Whew! That feels tons better," the eighteen year old
says, now looking to pull out of his parking spot.

As Kyle keeps busy with the onslaught of the New York
City traffic, Scott keeps glancing in his direction,
noticing Kyle's smooth chest, the prominent thin, dark
stripe dividing his abs, aimed straight to the folds
in his lower stomach. Just by seeing another man's
flesh, it starts to make tingly sensations under his
zipper.

"One thing I hate about New York," Kyle says,
insinuating the driving, suddenly alerting, "Hold on,
Scott."

Scott does, as Kyle weaves to the center lane from
around a garbage truck, steps on the brake, then
quickly turns back into the right lane, ahead of the
truck, then steps on the gas, accelerating to about
40, hanging back at a red light.

"Damn, I thought I was going to make it!" His
reaction, a tap on the horn, elicits `the finger' from
the cabbie in front of him.

Looking over to the passenger side, Kyle sees a
horrified Scott.

"Okay, Scott?"

"I'm alright," he says, gulping, starting to relax.

>From Kyle's view, Scott's shirt is all sweated up in
the middle and at the pits, even though he's turned on
the AC.

Finally, Scott lightens up, asking, "What are you
having for dinner?"

"That's the part we have to figure out. I like making
`Italian'. I thought chicken parmesan, with spaghetti
as a side dish. Hey, how are you at whipping up a
dessert?"

"Fine," Scott replies, then panics, "Oh shoot!"

"What?"

"I left my backpack in a locker at Penn Station."

Tapping Scott on the forearm, Kyle said, "Don't worry
about it."

Biting his lip Scott prepared himself for another
joyride as Kyle took a left hand turn, across several
lanes of oncoming traffic.

"Um, you weren't a race car driver in a previous life,
were you?"

Kyle laughed his ass off, followed by Scott loosening
up and smiling, even though he kept his guard up for
the possibility of being suffocated by an airbag at
any moment.

Double parking, Kyle turned off the AC and unrolled
his window while waiting for Scott to dash in and out
of the train terminal. Finding his shirt highly
uncomfortable, all sweated up, damp from the AC, he
got out of his car, stripped it off, tossing it in the
back seat, getting back in. After about ten minutes,
Kyle commented to himself, `I hope Scott remembered
where I parked'. Just then a patrol car pulls up. He
curses to himself. Soon, at his door there stands an
officer who leans down, asking for license and
registration. Kyle smiled to himself as he sat there,
fishing the square identification papers out. The
officer, his waist at eye level thought he detected
some movement behind the zipper. After explaining why
he was standing in a yellow zone where the sign
explicitly said `no standing', the cop gave him a
warning, stating if he came around the block and Kyle
was still there he'd be forced to give him a ticket.
Kyle really got worried when the digital readout put
Scott at being gone for twenty minutes. Yet there was
nothing he could do except wait. He professed, `I'm
gonna give you five more minutes, Scott, then I'm
finding a parking space!' Four minutes later, somebody
knocked on the rear of the car, as if knocking on a
door. Scott's hand fit the door latch. Opening it, he
tossed his backpack and another sack in the back.

"What took you?"

"I got mixed up. Forgot where I came into the
building, so walked outside along the perimeter. I
figured I'd find you sooner or later, but I was going
in the wrong direction. When I finally figured it all
out it had taken me fifteen minutes. I'm really
sorry."

"No problem. I just got fidgety thinking you got lost
or something else happening to you. I'm so happy
you're alright."

"Me too. I mean, for just meeting you, you already
seem like a friend to me," Scott says, tenderly.
After making the discovery, he says, "You took your
shirt off."

"Yeah, it was all sweaty, then the AC made it so damp.
Do the same, if you like."

Never having been as forward to do what Kyle has done,
even to open the buttons, exposing part of his bod,
Scott sat there mulling it over. At least the thinking
took his mind off of Kyle's wicked driving.

"Red light," Kyle shouts out.

"Huh?" Scott says, dropping his chin to let the word
flow out.

"There's a car next to us. You can jump out and strip
off your shirt, if you want."

"Here? In the middle of Manhattan?"

"Sure. You see it all the time." Waiting, Kyle then
bursts out with, "Hold on. Next red light," he warns,
as he steps on the gas and passes under the green.

"Rats!" Kyle called out, the yellow swiftly turning to
red. "Now's your chance, Scott."

Seeming it his only chance... last chance in the world
to jump out of the car, strip off his shirt, Scott
still pondered over the idea. Between avenues, he had
prepped himself, unbuttoning from neck to navel, all
ready to make the manoever. His hand on the door,
Scott forgot about the reckless abandon and opened the
door. Once he had taken the step there was no turning
back. Peeling his shirt back over his shoulders, he
exposed his teen bod. Immediately, from the sidewalk,
cars, a guy on a bike, he got looks and catcalls. Two
women at an outdoor restaurant seating got up out of
their chairs, her friend pointing out the guy
stripping off his shirt in midtown traffic. More
embarrassed than anything Scott dove for his seat.
It's then he realized there were no cars in front of
Kyle's.

"They love ya!" Kyle yells out, tooting the horn,
peeling out straight on course.

"I... I never did anything like that before in my
whole life!" Scott says, fastening his seat belt,
feeling emotional responses of embarrassment mixed
with laughter, then resorting to giggling.

"I've seen lots worse," Kyle tells him.

"Really? Like what?"

"This one time, during morning rush hour, some exec
jumps out at a light, strips off his tee shirt and
whips out a white dress shirt. Seeing the traffic at a
temporary standstill, even though the light's green,
he buttons up, opens his fly, stuffs his shirt tail
in, then zips up. You think you got a response!"

"I don't believe it."

"But what you did, it's vogue."

"Vogue?"

"Sure. Guys jumping out of cars, stripping off their
shirts and getting back in. By the end of a hot sunny
day, even with jumping out of an air conditioned
building, into AC, there's always that gap where the
car is blustery hot. Like what happened to us."

"I guess," Scott replied.

At the next light, something else weird happened,
which got Scott to thinking on Kyle's plane of `it
could only happen in New York'. A guy on a bike,
dressed `only' in a speedo, treads on his feet,
knocked at Scott's window.

"What do I do?"

Kyle shrugs, saying, "Open your window," but Kyle does
it for him, depressing a button.

The first thing the guy compliments, "Nice car."

"Um, thanks," Scott replies, adding, "it's his,"
pointing his thumb across the divide.

"Here," he then addresses Scott, handing him a flyer.
"Maybe you or your college buds might have an interest
in this. My names at the bottom. I'm Reiko Richter,"
the blond, built like an Adonis mentions. He sticks
out his hand, but then withdraws it when the traffic
flow picks up yelling back, "See you guys some night!"

"Prolly some stripper club advertisement," Kyle tells
him, as he peels out, eyes darting to the right,
checking out Reiko on his bike, til he's absorbed into
the traffic.

"No, I don't think so," Scott replies, looking it
over.

"What is it, then?"

"Looks like Reiko is director of a bicycle club. It
says here, meet Thursday evenings at seven, at the Gay
Pride Center, fourteenth street. Hey! How did he know
we're gay?"

Kyle realizes Scott's slip of the tongue. He wonders
how long it will take, if ever, for it to sink in,
where Scott's concerned. Waiting numerous moments,
glancing at Scott reading over the multi-colored
flyer, he summises either Scott is panicking,
wondering what words to followup with, or he plainly
doesn't know he gave himself away.

"Well, I don't even have a bike, so that leaves me
out," Scott replies.

Smiling a toothy grin, Kyle now knows Scott hasn't the
foggiest of what he just revealed. Looking out the
front windows, Kyle's side, his own, Scott wonders
what put the grin on the driver's face.

"Did I miss something, Kyle?"

"You sure did!"

%

Copyright 2007 T. Chase McPhee
This story may not be sold, nor made part of any
collection, without prior consent from the author.