NOTE: This chapter has been broken into two parts to fit Tapas guidelines for episode length. Be sure to check out the next episode. This is part 1 of 2.

Somehow I had let my friends talk me into going camping in the mountains. Just imagine, me, camping. I did enough of that shit back at the orphanage, where Father Dion would take us on several camping trips per year. Truth be told, I didn’t hate it that much. I could sneak off away from the other kids and talk to the animals, and I was Hide-and-Seek Champion Supreme: When I hid myself nobody could find me, and when I was “it” I would find everybody within minutes. They accused me of cheating, and I suppose in a way they were right: The forest animals always just seemed to lead me to them. Though I’d never let Father Dion know it I actually looked forward to those excursions, but as far as he was concerned, camping was as good as punishment in my mind. Anyway, when I grew up and got rich I became accustomed to a certain level of luxury, and I never thought I’d ever see the inside of a tent again after I left the orphanage and moved into my condo in the city.

So there I was at this campsite. As usual, I was bored and horny. I was surrounded by hot men, most of whom I’d already had and some who were unattainable, even for me (I know why God created straight people, but damn, did he have to make some of them so damned attractive?!?). I decided to ditch the others for a while and go for a drive in my Porsche Boxster. I loved my little red sports car. I love cars in general. Cars are  probably the only thing Father Dion and I ever really bonded over. Some of my best memories are of helping him to restore his old Jeep Wagoneer.

While running that Boxster through its paces and breaking just about every highway law ever written I started feeling hungry on top of being bored and horny, and so when I saw a restaurant/bar on the side of the road I pulled in with the faint hope of taking care of all three problems. Maybe I could whet my appetite here, in more ways than one. I went inside, sat at a table, and gave my order to the waitress. As I was waiting I looked around. It was a quaint little place, definitely a redneck bar judging by the waitresses and the patrons, and I was fairly sure the food was going to be greasy and tasty, which was just what I was in the mood for.

Speaking of greasy and tasty, that hot blond over there at the end of the bar certainly looked like he would be capable of curing my other hunger. Now, my first red flag should have been my 'Gaydar'. I have always prided myself in the accuracy of my Gaydar - I could always pick out a potential fuck in a crowd, even in the most un-gay places imaginable. Places like this bar, in fact. My Gaydar was giving me nothing, not so much as a ping, but damn, this guy was hot. I kept glancing his way, hoping for even the smallest sign, but there was none. I was just about to give up and start casting my line in other places when I caught him looking at me. I tried my damnedest to look as flirty as possible (which for me is VERY flirty). He quickly looked away, and then he looked back. Our eyes locked, and, praise to the Gods of Gay, he nodded! Jackpot! Looked like I was gonna have to take the ol' Gaydar in for a tune-up!

I stood up, walked over, and introduced myself. At first he was startled, but after a few glances toward the pool tables where some people I assume were his friends were preoccupied in a game, he quickly relaxed. He wanted to get out from under their eyes, though (aren’t closet cases so cute?) so he asked me to meet him behind the bar.

Red flag number two. I should have seen the danger, but I was thinking with the wrong organ at this point. I am not known for being cautious when I'm horny, especially when a sexy redneck catches my eye. That is how I found myself running for my life on the back roads of some podunk village way the hell out here in the middle of nowhere.

I left him at his table with a wink, paid my tab as I watched him get up and go into the bathroom, and went around to the back parking lot of the bar, where I found that I was alone among a bunch of jacked up 4x4 trucks. I waited for several minutes but the young blond fellow was nowhere to be found.

‘Probably just got cold feet’, I thought to myself as I turned around to head back into the bar. Maybe I could luck out with somebody else.

“Hey, faggot!” I heard from behind. The hair on my arms stood up, and when I turned around to see who had said it, I found myself faced by a crowd of a half dozen of the biggest hillbillies I had ever seen. Among them was the young blond from the bar, who said “You’ve come to the wrong place, Faggot. We don’t like your kind around here.” 

I was in the mood to fuck, not fight, so I said “Right then, I’ll be on my way”, and turned to leave. 

As soon as I did, I felt a strong shove from behind that almost knocked me off my feet. I stumbled forward but regained my footing, and I whirled around to face my attackers. Now, one more thing about myself: I am an accomplished fighter and am a lot stronger than could have been guessed from my size. All my life I’d been defending myself from bullies. Those people at home learned to leave me alone, but these hillbillies still clearly had a lesson to learn. 

I planted my feet firmly in a defensive stance and said “So, it’s a fight you want, is it? Bring it on, bitches! If there’s one thing I like more than sucking cock, it’s fighting!” 

A few in the crowd started to laugh.

“Oh, ye think yer a fighter, do ye, twinkletoes?” one asked, and started coming toward me. I didn’t say a word: As my attacker took a swing I ducked under it and aimed a punch at the man’s throat. This was almost comical, how slow this dude was moving. My fist made contact, and down he went, rolling around on the ground and gasping for air. The laughter from the others died out immediately. 

I glared around at the crowd and asked “Who’s next?”

“You lucky son-of-a...” a large one roared as he came charging in. 

I dodged him like a matador dodging a bull. The man stopped and came back in, so I squatted, spun around on one foot with the other extended, and swept the lummox’s legs out from under him. A sickening crack could be heard as his leg broke, and he crashed to the ground, rolling around and screaming in pain next to his buddy. 

“Not so tough as you look, are you?” I taunted as I stood back up and brushed myself off. “All it takes is one hit and down you go!” 

The blond reached into the back of a big white Dodge truck done up in full “Brodozer” style (big lift kit, huge tires, enormous chrome rims, big steel push bars, a smokestack sticking out of the bed) and retrieved a two-metre length of heavy chain. He gave me such a filthy look of hate that I was taken aback. Had I actually thought this guy attractive back in the bar only a few minutes ago? He looked so sweet and innocent in there, but out here the hate within him had his face twisted and contorted into that of a monster.

Blondie started swinging the chain around, and I could hear the whooshing as it cut through the air. I began to reconsider my chances. Strong and fast though I am, I’m not invincible and if this chain were to make contact it would easily break an arm or a leg. If I went down it’d all be over. I’d never stand a chance.

Almost as if he were reading my mind Blondie spoke up again. “Enough of this fooling around, you dirty little fairy. You might think you’re slick, but you’re never going to knock all of us down. Now, C’MERE!” he shouted as he started coming forward. 

I looked around at the other men, trying to keep a confident look on my face while trying to figure out a way out of this. I had only one hope, and that hope rested on the stupidity of these hillbillies. I pasted a sudden surprised look on my face, pointed at absolutely nothing behind the crowd, and shouted “Look at that! A distraction!” 

Bless their stupid little hearts! Every one of them, including Blondie with the swinging chain, turned to see what I was pointing at. As soon as their backs were turned I shouted “Byeeee” and took off running toward the front parking lot, where my beloved red Boxster was parked. The guys started chasing me, but I was just as fast as I was strong. Before they even had a chance to react I was already halfway to the car, and even when they started chasing me I was still putting distance on them. 

As I approached the car I patted my pockets to make sure I had my key fob, and I didn’t even bother opening the door: I jumped over it instead, landed in the driver’s seat (thank God I’d left the roof down! But I sure wish somebody'd gotten that move on camera!), twisted the start switch with my left hand, and peeled out of the parking lot in a cloud of smoke and dust.

I was smiling as I adjusted the rearview mirror so that I could see the bar fading into the distance, but the smile quickly faded from my face as I saw that big Dodge come flying out of the parking lot, sliding sideways with black smoke belching from the smokestack. That was the start of the chase.

“Oh, shit!” I said aloud as I punched the clutch, yanked the shifter from fourth into third gear, released the clutch again, and nailed the throttle, the rear end of the little red Boxster wagging a bit as the tires fought for traction going into a curve. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”

As I rocketed ahead I felt a small relief as I was confident in the speed of my sports car. That relief was short lived though, as the large Dodge pickup came flying around the turn behind me, its body leaning dangerously on its solid axles. As soon as the truck was through the turn a large cloud of black smoke came billowing out of its box-mounted smokestack and it started accelerating toward me at an almost unbelievable rate. The Porsche’s engine was singing at near redline, so I stabbed the clutch again and grabbed fourth gear. I felt a surge of acceleration, but it was no use. As unbelievable as it was, that enormous truck was catching me. I started to feel panic. I’d never lose it on this relatively straight road. My only hope was a twisty backroad, where my light and low car should be able to outrun it through the curves. Fast as that truck may be, it can’t fight the laws of physics.

That thought was driven home when I glanced in the rearview mirror again and saw the big Dodge only a few car lengths behind me. I could hear its turbocharged Cummins engine howling with rage. I had to start looking for anything – a side road, a sharp exit ramp, even a tight turn that might buy me a little more distance on the truck, but nothing came. The truck was getting closer and closer, and impact was going to happen at any moment.