Date: Thu, 27 Jan 2011 14:41:02 -0800 (PST)
From: T. Chase McPhee <survivalgame@yahoo.com>
Subject: THe FoiLs of FLeTcH VaN DaM 03

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,
of continents or islands, in countries, counties, cities, towns, villages,
neighborhoods, streets, cul-de-sacs, nor governmental or non-governmental
areas, which the story is staged. If a sexual scene involving male-to-male
relationships offends you, then why are you here? Seriously, if guy-to-guy
sex stuff makes you barf or is going to screw up your mind, you should not
read this story. Additionally, if you are under 18 years of age, in most
states 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.

THe FoiLs of FLeTcH VaN DaM 03
WriTten by T. Chase McPhee

%

Wally had put off the social studies project for a couple of days, until
Tyler forced his hand, because if they didn't have the outline finished,
they would be in trouble with their teacher. Finally the two met up at
Wally's house.

"What did she mean by your dad not coming home?"

Getting together at Wally's house, the first order of business, before
Tyler even unloaded his back pack, was the chat Wally had with his mother.

Wally was silent for a few seconds, but then opened up, "You know how some
of the kids say their parents aren't living together anymore?"

Sure Tyler knew, concluding, "Your mom and dad are getting a divorce?"

By 1998, most kids knew the `D' word and it's implications!

"Sounds like it to me."

"What did she say?" Tyler probed for more information.

"Nothing, only she is going to be living here with me and father is never
coming back."

It then saddened Wally, the realization of never seeing his father
again. Tyler, sensing this, dropped down from standing, his tush on the bed
next to his pal, places a hand on his shoulder and says, "Gee, I'm real
sorry Wally."

"Thanks," Wally says, turning his head and staring into Tyler's
eyes. Somehow too, it wasn't only the comforting face of his friend, but
the touch of his hand, which imparted a warmth of comfort.

Tyler, after staring back, asks, "What?"

It was on the tip of Wally's tongue to `tell', but it was not his own self
holding back, switching off to, "We should start working on our outline."

"Wally?" Tyler questioned, pulling his friend back down from standing, with
a tug on his shirt.

"What?" Wally asks, sitting there after a few bounces, reattaching his
attention by way of an staring in the eyes.

He knew, of all people, Wally not of the violent kind, but chanced getting
socked in the face, saying to Wally, "There's something I gotta tell ya."

Thinking he knew, Wally says, "You told your father about Mr. A?"

"Yeah, but more..." and instead of saying it, Tyler leaned in and gave
Wally a little peck on the cheek. Immediately following, he closed his eyes
tight, braced his shoulders to his ears and exclaims, "Go ahead. Punch me!"
He opened one eye. Instead of his friend raving mad, he was
smiling. "You're not supposed to be smiling. You're supposed to be wanting
to hurt me or something!"

Taking things to even the more extreme, Wally leans over and with swift
action, returns the tiny kiss, but adhering his lips to the front of
Tyler's face for about ten seconds!

"Wally!" Tyler's fingers felt up his own lips.

Looking dismayed, Wally confronts him, "You started it!"

Unlike their wrestling match a few years prior, Tyler says, "Oh, I'm not
mad at you. I... I know I shouldn't have kissed you."

Turning his bod, putting one knee up on the bed so his bod faces Tyler's
side, with excitement Wally says, "Want to do it again?"

Doing the same, Tyler asks, "You mean like they do in the movies?"

As the two look at each other, it's synonymous, the feeling of wanting to
lean forward and catch each others' lips.

After doing so, the two giggled and after that, the feeling that brought on
the adventurous kiss between the two childhood pals, died, Tyler right out,
saying, "I told my dad about the gooey stuff on Mr. A's floor."

In reaction, Wally replies, "I thought you weren't going to?"

If it were any other boy in his class, Tyler knew he would be cruising for
a bruising, but as usual, his friend acted in a sublime, casual way, his
only reaction, exhaling.

"Well, what is done is done. What did he say?" Wally pressed.

Tyler then goes into a dissertation, like a college student getting his
phd, outlining every step of telling his dad about the white goo on the
floor, beginning from where he wanted his story to evolve and ending where
it took a detour, winding up off track, at Mr. Apostolis' office.

"Did you tell him about it shooting out of Mr. A's weiner?"

"Nope. My dad cut me off before I even had to say anything."

"What did you say about the goo?"

By now their terminology had evolved to where `white stuff' begat `gooey
stuff', to plain ole `goo'!

"I told him you stepped in it and found out if was slippery."

Until now, Tyler hadn't mentioned a thing about Wally being with him. Wally
finding out just now, he says, "You told your dad I was with you?"

Then, in an incriminating manner, Tyler shoots back with, "You were,
weren't you?"

"I suppose."

For Tyler, the whole story out on the table, it was water under the bridge
and he was ready to move on, or rather regress a bit, saying something
which was quite obvious by now. Placing a hand on Wally's calf, "I wanted
to tell you... I like boys more than girls."

For Tyler this was nothing strange, him forming a grin rather than an
appalling expression. Then, for the next several minutes they had a chat
about why they both liked the same sex, more than the opposite!

%

Rather than phone, Pastor Cook thought it a good idea to address the
problem face to face, one on one. The ranch house, being called this type
of home, because at one time it was a full-working ranch, sat on several
acres to the southside of town. Pulling up the driveway, Pastor Cook took
the Lord's name in vain a coupla times, due to the shoddy condition of the
side road to the house. Too, at night, it was more treacherous, not being
able to pick out the small potholes which dotted the graveled pavement.

After their steamy romp between the sheets, lasting two hours and a few
minutes, Jason had hopped in the shower again, Kristofr opting for some
shuteye.

Jason was about to reach for a container of viddles, way in the back of the
refrigerator, when the doorbell rings. "Shit!" he called out, more a
reaction to his stomach growling. Too, as he approached the door, looked
down upon himself, dressed in only a pair of gym shorts, he proclaimed his
barechested condition, "Fuck-it!" Half-naked, he opened the door and
through the screen announced the visitor before he had the chance, "Pastor
Cook? What brings you out here at this time of night?" He opens the screen
door.

"Official business, but unofficial business. Is Mr. Apostolis at home by
chance?"

Right away Jason wondered two things, if the pastor from his church
wondered why he was in another man's home, dressed in only a pair of gym
shorts, no shirt covering the top of his bod and two, the urgency of his
calling at eight o'clock in the evening. Then there was his calling at
all. He was a member of the church, but Kristofr wasn't. Utmost though, was
the `why'. Farther back in his mind was the `gay thing', the feeling of
being watched consistently, like being scoped out, a pair of eyes checking
him out all the time. True, on Sunday's, the sermon was boring at times,
but Jason would often compensate by dressing down the hot preacher-man
right there in the pulpit! He went to fetch Kristofr.

"What's up?" Kristofr says, appearing with suddenness, his two fists
gouging the sleep out of his eyes. Half awake, he asks, "John? What are you
doing here?"

Standing from sitting, the pastor goes to say something, Jason cutting him
off. Pointing back and forth to the two, he refers, "You know each other?"

Kristofr loved Jason like a brother. Probably more and he hated like hell
to have to lie, but too the only plausible reason why he happened to know
the Reverend John Cook, was, "He was a good friend of my father's."

He didn't have to be a rocket scientist to know something was going down
here, the preacher silent as Jason, his friend and bedfellow waded through
his word with caution. Too, prior, Jason knew who the two eyes were whom
stalked his bod from neck to navel, since allowing him to enter the
home. Voicing his opinion, Jason lay the cards on the table, "Y'know, I'm
really hurt Kristofr?"

Knowing he screwed up royally, Kristofr hung his head down between his
shoulders with a noticeable drop.

"And you!" Jason continued his accusations, turning on the pastor of his
church, wagging an accusing finger.

In fear, Pastor Cook looks at Jason as if he's about to give him a taste of
his own fearful sermonizing.

Perhaps a bit more kindness, understanding and compassion, Jason acts out
with a more responsible attitude, addressing Kristofr first, "You know,
we've been friends for a long time?"

"I know," Kristofr stands incriminated.

Since all of the things which makes a man's intuition react in favor of a
positive answer, kicks in, Jason turns to the preacher as he walks over to
him, reaches for the buttons of his white shirt, saying, "There's so many
times when I wanted to do this during your sermons."

First he glanced down at Jason's busy hands, his own arms stationed at his
sides. John didn't flinch or move a muscle.

"Um, Jason," Kristofr stepped to Jason's side, "are you sure you know what
you're doing?"

"Oh, I know exactly what I'm doing!"

No one was surprised, not even Jason when Kristofr reacts, "Well then maybe
you need some help!" Going to it, Kristofr steps behind John and starts
helping him off with his suit jacket.

By this time, Jason has unbuttoned the pastor's shirt all the way down to
his belt. Moving swiftly, his hands go inside the pastor's shirt, caressing
his smooth ribcage.

"Oh-h-h-h-h!" Pastor Cook sighs, dropping his head back.

As he does, Kristofr ushers him out of his shirt, pulling it over John's
shoulders.

"Nice!" Jason says with glee. "Better than I had envisioned," he laughs.

By now, Pastor Cook acts with total abandon, saying as his hands grab
Jason, bringing their bods together, "You're not the only one undressing
men in church!"

"Fuck! I don't believe it!" Kristofr says of the two men hugging, making
oral love.

Breaking off from their kissing and tongue-sucking, Jason says, over John's
shoulder, "Tell me Kristofr... how long have you and John been having an
affair?"

The two stare Jason in the face, John asking, "How did you know?"

"Easy detective work. It's possible you knew I lived with Kristofr and used
my address from the church records to find him, but since you two have
probably been getting it on," and he meant to hit a nerve with Kristofr,
staring him straight in the face, "behind my back," well, I think it much
more believable you found this place because you've been here before?"

"Sorry Jason," Kristofr says.

Without words, John Cook just stood there.

As happy go lucky a man Jason can be he says, primarily for John's ears,
"He's a hot fuck, isn't he?"

Realizing it, John says, "Sorry to cut in on your action."

"Nonsense!" Jason puts differences aside, "Kristofr not only has a tight
ass, but a big mouth. Plenty of room for two if you're up for it?"

"Hell yeah!" Kristofr is all for it, pardoning himself, "Oops, sorry
Father."

Loosening up a bit John replies, "I'm a Methodist, not a Catholic priest!"

Dropping his hands and working on John's belt, Jason says, "Tonight you're
none of those, reverend!"

Kristofr was funny, yelling, "Hey! Wait for me!" as Jason and John walk off
towards the bedroom.

Before climbing into bed, the two were feeling real good, making sweet
lip-love, their hands exploring, while Kristofr kneeled between bods,
trying to decipher who's cock was more a savory meal!

%

As usual, four nights a week, his mother was out to Yoga class, so after
Tyler left for home, Wally wandered the home, touching pieces of furniture
as if seeking something to cling to which would compensate for a friend to
talk to. In reality, he had wished it were his father, but in close, second
place, his mind was drawn to Jason. He flopped down on the parlor sofa,
exhaled and thought. So much had transpired today and he quickly summed up
a review, starting with the most revolting, the goo shooting out of
Mr. Astopolis' weiner. In fast motion he found himself with Jason in the
street. He smiled, having the pleasure of watching Jason take off his tank
top and viewing, what now knew was termed a `trail', the fuzzy hair which
ran down Jason's muscled stomach and now that he thought about it, seemed
to go in and out of his bellybutton, before disappearing at the top of his
belt. He sat there for a moment, thought about it, about whether the trail
 went straight to Jason's.... It was a tidbit he didn't know, so skipped to
having racking his brain about, skipping to Jason's tank top, smelling
it. All this was making Wally feel good inside, but short-lived, upon
spotting something on the bottom of the opposing book shelf. A book lay
down on its side and the cover pried open by stuffs of envelopes. Walking
over he opened the glass door and retrieved the book entitled, `Yoga For
Beginners'. "What's this?" he said out loud, looking at the first piece of
goods, which happened to be an envelope, addressed to him.

Opening it and reading, he shortly found out the letter was from his
father. "Misses me and wishes I would write back?"

Wally wondered how he could, if he didn't have or know where to write
to. It's then he made discovery, the obstacle keeping the cover of the book
from closing was a stack of envelopes, every last one of them addressed to
him! "Oh father," he sighed in hopeless despair. Right away he perceived
his father thinking he didn't care about him, if he hadn't written
back. From hopelessness to hope, he slowly turned on his mother.

What made it ever more dramatic, she had just walked in the door, her
cheery voice calling, "Walloo-o-o-on!" It's apparent she didn't see him,
walking past the parlor entrance and straight into the kitchen.

Almost behind her, Wally asks, and not in such a sweet manner, "Why didn't
you give me my mail from father?"

Switching around, his mother was quite unprepared for the discovery Wally
had made.

"Father is going to think I hate him and it's all your fault!"

In Yoga class they teach a parent much about how to address children and
for Mrs. Fletcher-Van Dam, all along this had been a tough thing to
do. However, she handled things very much the way she did a parent-teacher
conference. Reaching out, she grabbed the letters right out of Wally's
hand, scolding him, "These are my personal property and `I' shall decide
when and `if' I shall ever give them to you!"

Thinking only of reference, to someone like the Wicked Witch of the West,
Wally tells her in anger, "You're evil!"

He was never shocked some much in his entire life, when his peaceful mother
acted out, slapping him across the face, sending him flying across the
room. Fortunately there wasn't any obstruction and he landed on the floor.

She stormed out of the kitchen, saying, "Go to your room!"

Still angered, Wally got up and with fighting words, followed her, saying,
"No! You go to your room!"

Turning around, Wally had reason to be frightful, his mother coming at him.

He backed up, saying, "Um, I really didn't mean that," even though he meant
every word of it.

"You're a damn little bastard, just like your father!"

He backed up to where he was against a hall table. Knowing her style now,
when she went to hit him in the head, he ducked. She knocked a statue off
the table.

Wally immediately thought, seeing the head of the statue dislodged and
rolling on the floor, `Wow! That could've been my head!' Now he was more
than willing to go to his room and ran like wildfire up the stairs, going
inside and shutting the door. Hearing his mother's footsteps on the
stairway he went to lock it, realizing for the first time his door did not
have a lock. He immediately set about piling anything and everything
against the door. Later on he would wonder what gave him the muscle to move
his desk there and pry his bed away from the wall to brace the desk.

After doing all this work to keep the door closed, he realized it paid off,
his mother not being able to budge it from the outside. Sitting on the
floor, his back to wall he was scared out of his whits. It's any wonder he
didn't discover until now, tears rolling down his cheeks, not because of
his sore jaw, but because of him being hysterically scared shit! Then it
was there, Jason's tank top. He grabbed it, held it in an embrace and
somehow that symbol of muscle, guts and sweat, kept him from feeling
fearful, but he was still shell-shocked over everything which happened.

%

Copyright 2011 T. Chase McPhee

`THe FoiLs of FLeTcH VaN DaM' may not be sold, nor made part of any
collection, without prior consent from the author.

The more you stretch, the more you can fit in... 'spread' happiness!
TCMcP.....