For Old Times' Sake
Author's Note: The following is a work of furry fiction. As such, it may contain certain acts which may be objectionable to certain readers, including subject matter of an adult nature. These acts may include, but are not limited to, sexual contact between people of different species and the same gender, a little angst, a little drinking, little regret and an attempt at a somewhat decent story by an author who, most of the time, has little to no idea what he's doing. If any of this squicks you, well then, stop reading. If not, then please continue and try to enjoy the scenes I set before you. You also must trust me when I say "Brokeback Mountain" had nothing to do with this story.
For Old Time's Sake ©MMVI Whyte Yoté
Some things never change. Sometimes they change too much.
Time is a paradox like that; you may leave a familiar place, the town you grew up in or the campus on which you earned your degree in Liberal Arts, and come back to it a number of years later and find yourself lost in what you thought was your home. It's unsettling, the way you grow up and get older and you think you haven't changed at all, but there is something about driving down your old street and by your old house, perhaps with an addition or a second story or just painted another color--it shakes you up.
Or you can get the hell out of Dodge while you're still alive, tool around for the same number of years, come back to visit and find that the only thing that's changed is your reflection in the windows, the windows that carry the same faded sticker of a fireman rescuing a child, the same sticker that was on the window you looked out of and cried the day your goldfish died less than a week after your eighth birthday. Except now you're old enough to get drunk and drive home in a blind stupor, and it won't have been the first, or the fifth, or even the twentieth time you've done it.
Green Hill, Colorado was one of those out-of-the-way, unincorporated towns far enough from any major highway that it didn't need to (or want to, really) change to survive. People just kept on doing the same thing they had been doing for years, the seasons changed, prices rose and nothing exciting really happened except for the weekly sugar beet pricing index over the radio. It was just as easy to sleep through life in Green Hill as anything else, and you just might if you weren't careful.
Ray McCormick watched his own dirty, fingerprinted reflection through the bottom of his glass as he drained the last club soda from around its ice. The Ray-flection tipped the tumbler away from itself, swirled the remains around (it was a habitual gesture after years of "real" drinking) and set it down between a pile of cheap white bar napkins and cheap white stir straws. Morrissey's ears pricked at the sound, a sound Ray could barely hear eight inches away, and he sauntered over to the grey-brown wolf to refill the glass with practiced feigned interest.
"Hotel California" started to play on the jukebox. Ray mused how fucking depressing a song like that was on a night like this, a night where you had nothing better to do than get a little older.
His eyes turned once again to his reflection in the bar's mirror, lined with booze and long overdue for a cleaning. His slim face was centered between a bottle of Johnny Walker Black and another of something called 99 Bananas. Only for the girlfriends, that one, because a lot of the women nowadays liked to dress up in clothes so ugly they were expensive, carry around the same-looking, shoddily-made bag as everyone else on the block, and drink things like 99 Bananas because Entertainment Weekly told them it was the thing to do this week. Ray rolled his eyes and, not seeing anything different in the mirror (he didn't much like the way he looked at this age), he watched the wedge of lime make lazy circles around his rocks glass as he moved it.
Someone came in the front door; Ray could tell that much from the change in air pressure, and he didn't bother to look up to see who it was. He would find out in due time; in a town the size of Green Hill, you pretty much had to hole up in your house twenty-four hours a day to not know every one of your neighbors. Besides, the wolf recognized the heavy double-clops, a pause and more steps directly over to the pool table. Big ol' Chuck from just out of town must have been feeling the itch to play tonight; he was early. Ray stifled a chuckle into his glass, not knowing whether it was admirable or sad that he could tell all this.
"Chuck's early tonight," said Morrissey from directly above the wolf's head, and Ray looked up, just a bit startled. The scraggly jackrabbit wasn't looking at him, but across the room with the kind of attentive disinterest only a bartender can have. He stood there, polishing a glass (Who does that anymore? the wolf thought) in his white shirt, pleated pants and ratty vest. Ray wondered if Morrissey had planned his life out this way, and then wondered why he cared at all.
"Yup."
"Wonder why?" The uplift at the end of his statement was the standard Morrissey used to spread gossip.
Ray took a sip of his club soda, the lime coming to rest against his upper lip and making him almost snarl. He licked it away and said, "You know why and you just want me to ask. I know you."
Showing no sign of irritation to the wolf's accusation, the rabbit continued: "'S his wife, you know." Ray knew. Well, not knew, he suspected. "People been sayin' she's in with some business guy horse from up Fort Collins. Chuck knows, but they don't jaw about it. Shame."
"Gail sure likes 'em big, that's for sure," Ray said, not expecting Morrissey to laugh at that, and Morrissey didn't. Chuck being one big bull, in all areas (Ray knew this thanks to a one-time locker room change after laps in the community pool), it must have been a blow to his ego when he found out about the affair. But he was here to shoot pool, and forget about it for a while, and he would do just that. None of anybody's business but Chuck's, anyway.
"Speaking of wives, how's yours?" The rabbit wasn't a sympathetic ear as much as he was fishing, but Ray didn't have enough drama worth repeating in Green Hill. What secrets he did have, he took pains to keep.
"Same old. Ferries the kids to the bus stop weekdays. Runs errands weekends. Does her volunteer work Saturdays and church on Sundays, and that little fuckin' Do-Your-Own-Clothes thing Wednesday nights." And it was all the truth, the boring, uninteresting truth. Janie kept busy, and she seemed like she was satisfied (she sounded like it in bed most nights too), but Ray had his doubts. It wasn't that their marriage had stagnated, really, it was like they were just two people, with two kids, living their lives instead of an American family living the American dream. Their life was far from that idyllic faux pas, but still.
"Dang, dude," the bartender said, "there ain't nothin' new happens with you, izzere?" If there had indeed been some dirt worth digging up, Morrissey would have brought it to Ray's attention. There were some things the rabbit didn't know about, that he would never find out, but that was beyond the scope of this conversation.
"Not really. Every day like the day before, except I'm a little older, and hopefully a little wiser."
"Keep drinking that shit and you'll just get dumber," Morrissey pointed to the wolf's almost-empty glass.
Ray smiled a weary smile, a practiced smile around his friends and family, and said, "You know my rules. I'm allowed to come in, just not to partake." And the rules were Ray's and Ray's alone. He'd been sober for almost a hundred days since completing Alcoholics Anonymous (his counselor had said you never were totally recovered, but that, along with the "Pray" portion of the program, Ray had regarded as a light frosting of bullshit), and he figured since he'd gone this long it wouldn't hurt to keep going. He knew very well that one drink wouldn't send him off the wagon, but it was all about control. Ray reveled in that control, and it made more sense of his life when he could take hold of something and call it his.
"Yeah, well, at least you still tip like it's alcohol."
"You'd kick me out if I didn't," Ray said, and even though they both knew it wasn't true, they shared a laugh at the expense of mildly-interesting small-talk. "Save my stool, won'tcha?" The wolf slid backwards to the floor and walked to the door, fishing for his Swisher Sweets in his shirt pocket.
"Don't think you can switch one sin for the other and you're still even-Steven," called the rabbit to Ray's back, and the wolf waved it off.
"Gimme a break, I gotta live for something!" Ray yelled back without turning his head, twirling the red pack of cigarillos in his left hand, searching for his Zippo with the right. Just one guilty pleasure, two smokes a day...what was the harm in that, considering what life throws at you.
It was almost startling the way the brash country-bumpkin atmosphere died once the wolf opened the door to the outside world, to a podunk rural town near one in the morning on a random weeknight. The music was still there, but muffled as if in a pair of headphones buried beneath a pillow. Weak neon light shone into the crowded parking lot, reflecting off all four vehicles , and Ray thought it was some kind of twisted metaphor for his life, just another image to add to his substantial mental collection.
He brought a smoke to his lips and held it there before touching it to the tip of his lighter. The tobacco was bittersweet, a planty flavor that would taste so much better once set to burn. Yes, it was bad for his health, and yes, he wasn't addicted to them like others were to Marlboros or Camels or even fucking Misty 100's, but it was something he could enjoy in the privacy of his own personal space, and nobody would bother him about it. Nobody except Morrissey, and he had bartender's privilege.
Ray lit up and watched the night go by. The music kept playing. The neon kept on buzzing. The wolf kept on shooting puffs of blue-grey smoke into the moonlit March sky.
Somewhere off in the distance came a soft flatulation that reverberated off the hills surrounding the little bar and made Ray's ears come to full-mast. This he did without moving any other part of his body, because it was thus far so inconsequential as to not require a more comprehensive response. The sound died out and became part of the background noise, not disappearing completely but making Ray unsure whether its source was moving toward or away from him. Then it came back again, stronger, so whatever was making it was closer.
It sounded like a truck, though the wolf admitted to himself that he'd been fooled too many times to assume anything. "Assume makes an ass out of 'u' and 'me,'" he mumbled aloud, something he'd read in a book recently (some Stephen King thing about cell phones), and allowed a giggle at his own inane ramblings. Insanity along with misery, now that was a good combination. "Misery, huh," he said, recalling another King favorite, and that brought another self-indulgent giggle.
Now a beam of light played over the hill opposite the bar, across the street, and the flatulent roaring sound was just about to crest the top and make its way right into town, passing out front. The piercing glow of high-beams burst into Ray's adjusted night vision, searing twin trails of phantom blue into his retinas. The cloud of smoke around his head glowed like a chaotic halo, and was gone in the next instant as the semi-tractor rumbled toward the bar.
Really not that much of a bother to the residents, who had grown accustomed to living alongside a through truck route over the years, it was easy to see how such a gathering of clanking, screeching, vrooming parts would be heavily regulated in cities. The flatulating noise, the wolf now knew, was the backfire from the engine retarder, or jake brake, helping to slow the truck as it came down the hill (fine for cars but steep for behemoth towing machines). Its shape materialized from around the headlights as it emerged into the weak streetlamp glow, and by the way it was slowing Ray knew the driver had planned a stop in little Green Hill. He took another drag and pretended not to notice while watching at the same time.
Not stopping for gas, the wolf thought, because everything in town (including all two gas stations) had shut down hours ago. Possible he (or she, you wouldn't want to be sexist in this day and age) was coming into the bar for a drink? Sure, it was probably against company policy, but who the fuck was really going to care? Fleeting images of a slender vixen or wolf, clad Daisy Duke-style with her hair and tail all fluffed out and shining in the meagerly-lit parking lot entertained Ray for the time it took the truck, which was minus a trailer, to swing around and park near the street, sending up a cloud of fine dust as its air brakes were engaged. The diesel rattled to a stop, shaking the cab, and the door opened.
Ray looked down and chewed on the end of his smoke, getting little bits of tobacco leaves in his teeth and on his tongue. It really was bitter when it wasn't lit. He turned his eyes up at the crunch of gravel, saw the vague silhouette of the driver and shook off the little disappointment he felt. No way that could be any woman, and on the off-chance it was, he wouldn't want to pick that shit up anyway.
The footsteps approached, as they would have to in order to enter the bar, and Ray waited to mutter a cursory "howdy" without moving. The tips of boots appeared near his own, stopped. There was a sudden silly awkwardness, and an acute feeling of violation, but the wolf stood his ground, being on home turf, so to speak.
"I didn't think you'd stay around here, all these years," said a voice so smooth and concretely familiar that Ray was actually stunned. He kept staring at the ground, even though he knew it was embarrassing, because he didn't want to look up and confirm what his ears had already told him. He wasn't ready...he hadn't been expecting this, he had just come down to the bar for a drink, such as it was. Already he could feel the man's power over him, coercing him to obey, just like it had done over seventeen years ago.
And Ray realized he wanted it anyway, and it made him want to throw up.
Light beige fingertips came up under his chin and lifted it, with no thought of people exiting the bar, and there was so much history in that motion it made Ray almost break into tears. He couldn't move. And then he was looking into the wallaby's face, and it was just like he remembered it, just like he had almost forgotten it, and it had come back to remind him at just the last second. The fingers released his jaw and it went slack; his smoke tumbled out and into the wallaby's paw. No, don't do that, it'll burn you, the wolf shouted in his mind, but the wallaby just smiled slightly and took a drag of his own, wincing as he exhaled.
"When did you switch over to these?" Conversational, as if decades had not passed between them. "This isn't a real cigarette. If you're going to get cancer from something, it might as well taste good." The wallaby handed the Swisher back to Ray, who dropped it on the ground and smoldered it, having lost his appetite for much of anything.
"We promised each other we'd quit, Steve," the wolf managed, though it seemed as if he were providing the voice from miles away. Steve Schilling, he repeated to himself. Steve Schilling. Now his legs were weak. Ray put his hands in his pockets and leaned up against the side of the bar, realized Steve would see right through the façade, and didn't care. It was no use trying to fake the wallaby out. Even in the short time they had known each other way back, they had learned lots of little things.
"Promises are made to be broken. You can take the West out of the wallaby, but, you know..."
"How'd you find me?" Ray tried hard not to sound incredulous, or dumbfounded.
"I wasn't lookin', Ray. I'm on my way down through Denver from Coeur d'Alene, I had some extra time, and I figured, why not stop by the ol' stomping grounds and put back a couple? This is a pleasant surprise, though." Ray wanted to say the same thing, but his stomach was roiling too much for it to be completely truthful. The wallaby may have been nonchalant, but he was still checking the wolf out. If there weren't a pair of jeans in the way, his tail would have been curled up to his navel. Thank goodness he was leaning on that wall.
Steve, with the exception of age, was basically the same person he was in 1989, minus the Members Only jacket and Converse All-Stars. There were a few wrinkles here and there, and he'd gathered himself an appreciable belly (which Ray found cuter than the slender wallaby he remembered), but the person inside that body was still Steve, the only man he'd ever loved (hell, the only man he'd ever found he could love at all), who'd loved him in return with just as much gusto. He was a virgin back then, and far too stupid to know the difference between love at first sight and erection at first sight.
Leaning against the wall as well now, just as stiff as a truck driver would be in the tight Wranglers he was wearing, Steve pulled a pack of his own from a shirt pocket, a brand Ray didn't recognize, and lit up with a flick of his wrist. The wolf had, by now, gotten over the initial shock of the ghost of an almost-forgotten lover just happening to stop by his hometown, but the way his body was responding could be described as traitorous to say the least. Memories that had been all but repressed were now bombarding his thoughts like artillery fire, so much so that he couldn't pay attention to what the wallaby was saying.
"...higher than ever in nicotine, so no wonder it's so damn hard to give 'em up," Steve finished a sentence Ray hadn't heard him start. "Can't believe the paper, though."
"Tell me about it." He wondered if the wallaby was able to smell the fear and arousal coming off of him in alternating waves, and took his pulse with two fingers. It was something he did as an anxiety-triggered regulator, ever since he'd had that heart attack six years ago. Steve didn't know about that.
Steve puffed into the night air. The smoke seemed to dance insanely along with the muffled beat from the jukebox inside. It pooled against the rim of his cowboy hat and leaked around it in a little tsunami between long marsupial ears. In that moment it seemed that Steve could dress up any way he wanted to, and it would be right. Even the simple red-plaid-shirt-and-jeans combination looked bright against the neutral fur and complemented the masculinity he had always displayed, especially around the wolf. Ray thought he heard the Righteous Brothers, but he couldn't be sure and he was too preoccupied to care anyway. He caught himself stealing a glance at the wallaby's fly, toward the bulge that could either be the cut of the fabric or the object he'd desired so much as a young man.
"Do you want to talk about it?" asked the wallaby around his cigarette.
Ray averted his eyes and looked toward Steve's face. "Whaddya mean?"
"You spaced off. There's a lot I don't remember from the eighties, but I still know when you're feeling uncomfortable. I'm starting to regret stopping off here. Seriously, I didn't figure you'd still be around, and I'm happy to see you." The wallaby's mannerisms indicated nothing of the sort, but Ray knew better than to judge his emotions by his actions. "If it's me, I want to know it's me. I guess both of us shouldn't be expected to just sit here and make jovial conversation." Steve flicked ash onto the gravel and spit to the side.
Swallowing audibly, the wolf replied, "It wouldn't be fair to you if I lied. You just...go down to the bar for a drink and you're fine, and then something crashes into your life again..." He was rambling, and his voice was creeping up in register, and by the time he finished his thought he sounded like he'd gone back twenty years. Ray bit around his cigarette and listened to Steve's gentle, understanding chuckle (that in itself was unnerving, and unraveled his psyche a bit), fanning it away through his nostrils.
"It's this town, isn't it? Hasn't changed you a mite, because you haven't ever left. I'm probably not any better." Ray felt like airing a gentle protest, but for all he knew it was the truth. There was a lot of time lost between them, and part of the wolf wanted to catch up like friends, but they weren't exactly like friends. They never had been, in the strict definition of the word; at least he'd never considered Steve a friend as much as...well, there were better words to describe their relationship.
Another part wasn't so keen on the idea of digging up a treasure trove of confusion, expectancy, and an emotion Ray still struggled to include in the "love" category. He couldn't believe he was standing here, when less than ten minutes ago life had been proceeding just as normally as it always had, as slowly as it always had, and now...now what? More fear? More excitement? More discomfort?
All three. And Ray didn't know where to go, or what to do, just like back when he relied on Steve to lead him around and give him advice.
"Come on, puppy. What do you say we go inside, throw back a few, and jaw some, huh? I feel kind of responsible, and it's fuckin' cold out here." The wolf's decision was made much easier then, but he couldn't tell whether it was Steve's natural talent for persuasion, the use of his old pet name, or the words whispered so close in his right ear the wallaby's warm breath rustled the fine hairs inside its concave surface.
"Ayuh," he heard himself say, and pushed ahead from the wall so Steve could drop the hand that was leading him by the wrist. The wallaby got the idea (he probably didn't mean to keep that up inside the bar, for sure) and instead opted for holding the door open. Ray nodded curtly, Steve snubbed his smoke on the doorframe and they walked through into the dimly-lit din.
No one turned to stare at him and his new companion; no one dropped a glass and pointed an accusatory claw in his direction. No one even seemed to notice Steve's entrance behind the wolf, and that suited Ray fine and dandy. His heart was in his throat again, fighting for space beside his uvula. Could anyone in this place recognize the wallaby from so long ago? He didn't see anyone.
Ray sauntered as best he could to his well-worn stool and found it easy and comforting to slide his narrow frame onto its cushion, minorly dismayed at the rush of air as Steve did the same next to him, as if Steve could have magically changed his mind and decided to run away like a part of the wolf wanted him to.
Now, sans-glass but marrying liquor, Morrissey side-stepped from watching the far-end television to the two gentlemen now occupying the opposite corner. "'Nother soda for you, Ray? Hi, Steve," nodding to the wallaby. Ray's jaw dropped, it felt, almost to his groin, and he fought to control of it before Steve could put that to rights with a finger as well.
"Just gimme a bourbon water, don't skimp on the bourbon, don't upsell me but don't give me shit in a bottle either."
"Maker's Mark it is." Morrissey nodded.
Steve continued, "And Ray here'll have a margarita on the rocks, no lime, with a sugar rim instead of a salt rim." The wallaby turned to look expectantly at the wolf, who was becoming mildly angry--at Morrissey's recognition of his ex-lover (was he really an ex?), at Steve's ordering him a drink when he was clearly (to himself, at least) trying to keep dry, and at the way Steve remembered his favorite drink all the way down to--
The wallaby was still looking at him, studying him.
Ray raised a single eyebrow.
"That's it," snapping his fingers, then, "Cabo Wabo or nothing. You got that here?"
"Uh-huh," Morrissey said, almost embarrassed by the fact.
"Good man. Any other tequila messes with Ray's stomach. Doesn't it?" Ray nodded deliberately.
"You want me to go ahead, Ray?" Morrissey asked, knowing all about the bandwagon himself.
Ray slumped down to the counter, ears lowered in defeat. "Sure, whatever." And Morrissey went back to the television for a few moments. It's not like anybody was ever in a hurry down at the bar, and if you were then you didn't belong there in the first place. The wolf turned wearily to Steve. "Why did you do that?"
"What, order you a drink? It's a simple gesture of good will; besides, we are in a bar. I didn't mess anything up, did I?" The wallaby's long, slender ears twitched toward Ray.
"No, you remembered it fine." There it was again, the beginning of a swelling in Ray's jeans, unprovoked and unwelcome...well, not entirely; a half-erection felt good any time of the day. He was patently certain that Steve wasn't trying to seduce him on purpose; was also certain that the wallaby hadn't been trying to seduce him ever since he stepped oh-so-suavely off that truck and sauntered back into the wolf's life, purposefully or not. Ray was using Steve to seduce himself, and though he didn't like it he found it difficult to stop.
"Then what's the deal." More a statement than a question; it had more gravity that way.
"I'm just out of AA, Steve. You're makin' it pretty hard for me to stay straight."
"You never did react well to alcohol," said Steve without a trace of empathy. Which was good, because Ray wasn't looking for any, though the wallaby made no indication of wanting to take the drink back. Then again, back in school you were a thin wolf. Still are; beer got the best of me. Wife likes it, for some reason." Steve patted his belly with his free hand, and the wolf had to bite his tongue to keep from saying he liked it too.
Morrissey returned carrying the drinks in one hand, his fingers set up in a complicated pattern learned with much practice and, indubitably, many errors, threw out a couple napkins and presented the males with their spirits.
"Payin' now, or running a tab?" he asked.
"Let's wait and see," replied the wallaby. He swirled his glass, leaning back and crossing his legs as he studied the amber liquid before him. "He did a good job," taking a liberal first sip. "Very good." Steve twirled the glass between long, delicate fingers before replacing it on the bar. Morrissey obviously wasn't invested much in whether or not Steve liked what he had prepared, engrossed as he was in marrying liquor. Looking over at the wolf with a casual tilt that seemed meant to further tease Ray, he started, "What the hell you been up to for all this time? Seriously, I thought you would've gotten out of this town as soon as you could after we split up."
Split up. Is that what they had done? Or was Steve just calling it what it was, which was they had gone their separate ways, because life was happening, and Ray had never voiced his opinion (or his love, for that matter). Steve had never been in it for commitment, and the wolf had come to know that over the years, but he felt slighted anyway. It seemed, however, that Ray was the only one who held that view. The details of their relationship were fuzzy, so many actions and words forgotten, that the wolf really didn't know what to think anymore. He hadn't been thinking, not until that truck had pulled into the parking lot.
Ray swallowed dryly, chased it with some alcohol, fought back a coughing fit and spaced his words carefully. "You know, Steve...I don't have much to tell you. I mean, yeah, seventeen years, but...I'm not good at this stuff. Ask me a question."
An enigmatic smile creased the thin fur around the wallaby's eyes. Ray was waiting for an expression he could trust. "You never were good at conversation. Well, where do you work? You already know what I do."
"Same old. I was gonna go to college, but Dad got sick and I helped out on the ranch. That was for about two years, and then he got better. I moved to Denver to try and get out again, but Dad got worse and they needed me. When he died, I..."
"Your father passed away? How old was he?"
"Forty-seven. Throat cancer."
Steve shook his head and lay a hand on Ray's shoulder. He could feel its warmth even through his heavy coat, and when he glanced up to continue, there it was--the honest expression he was looking for. He seemed so much older now.
"I'm sorry, bud. I liked the guy."
"Yeah. Yeah, so did I," the wolf replied, and actually felt pressure behind his eyes. It was only the second time he'd felt like crying over his dad. The first was at the funeral. "So yeah, I was stuck on the ranch, taking care of the family, and I just kind of grew up. Mom's at a retirement home, on her own, and I have the house. Janie keeps it nice and clean, plenty of room for the kids and dogs. I guess I just never felt a reason to leave. What?"
"You're married...with children." The tone of disbelief was unflattering, but not disappointed. Steve had taken a cigarette from his pocket and was manipulating it with his fingers. He wouldn't be able to light it in this place.
"Raymundo Jr.'s seventeen and Eve turns thirteen in about a month. You seem surprised."
The wallaby looked across the bar at their reflections, squinting as if trying to find something that wasn't there, or partially hidden. "Just never figured you for the marryin' kind."
"You thought I would keep chasing cock?" And then Ray bit his lip, hard; it was a joke, but it was the first mention of sexuality either of them had made. The wolf immediately regretted airing it so blatantly. Blame Steve for making him uncomfortable, then tearing down his reserved guard.
"I just knew you were a loner. You can't deny that, after all we talked about way back when." No offense taken, so good.
Ray watched the wallaby, even as the wallaby kept staring at his own reflection. "You can't help who you fall in love with."
"No, you can't, and I don't blame you." I didn't think you blamed me anyway. "That's why I'm sure my wife and daughters appreciate me when I'm home." Steve looked back at the wolf, because he knew the look that was going to be on Ray's face. It was there. "Didn't think I would, did you?"
"Touché," said Ray, and found it easier to drain his glass, easier than it had been before AA. The burn in his gut had turned to a comfortable warmth, and a slight detachment that somehow still made him feel more in tune with the conversation. It was false thinking, but maybe a bit of false thinking would do him more good than harm right now. "So, what does that say about us?"
"What do you mean, us?"
Ray backtracked; this could take a wrong turn very quickly. "I don't know. Are we failures because we had dreams and they took off for somewhere else, and we talked about it so much, and none of it's happened? I mean, life gets in the way when you're trying to git 'er done, and then you go off on some tangent and then you're all grown up and you're complacent."
"Are you satisfied?"
The wolf had to stop and think when he heard Steve ask that. Part of his brain was telling him no, not in the least, that he wouldn't--couldn't--be satisfied until he told the wallaby he loved him and wanted to be with him for the rest of his life. But that was the part of Ray that was still twenty-two and immature, the part that could leave everything and follow the pursuit of the day. But he wasn't that person anymore. If anything, by now he'd surely grown up. The mortgage was paid, the wife was happy, the kids were in school, and he was good at his job. Was he satisfied with things as they stood?
"Yes. Yes, I am."
"Then that's why you stayed." Ray felt, as the wallaby swiveled on his stool, their legs brushing, and Steve's denim-clad knee slid halfway up his thigh as he turned. The wolf's erection was suddenly there, aching dully and probably not well-hidden.
"Are you?" As he asked the question, trying to see if his bulge was noticeable (it was), he automatically went to Steve's fly, and fought to keep his ears forward as he saw the material twitch.
"I am, really. I love my family to death. Hate being away from them so long, but this job pays too well for such little work. That's what cell phones are for, right? Nothing like being able to read a bedtime story to your kids while you're working." The wallaby tipped his head back, ice cubes piling around his muzzle. Licking his lips, he said, "I got my wallet in the truck. Wanna break out the baby pictures?"
"Sure." Ray had plenty of his own, and he was getting tired of the slow country music in the bar. Steve put some bills down, patted the wolf's leg and stood, stretching. Ray followed suit, keeping quiet about having his drink paid for (when Steve took care of something you didn't contest it), and sauntered into the parking lot. A thin veil of steam rose from their bodies as they walked, dancing for a second or two before winking out of existence.
Ray waited at the passenger door while Steve opened up, cranked the engine until it purred throatily, and threw up the locks. It was more of a hoist up than the wolf had been expecting, but once he was firmly planted in the chair it didn't seem that high at all. The air coming from the vents was very warm, almost hot, and he shed his coat without thinking of it.
"Pardon the mess; I haven't stopped at a travel center in a few days because I'm all stocked on food. That means the trash piles up wherever I can throw it," said the wallaby, twisting his frame around the pilot's chair and into the narrow space between the cab and the sleeper. "Seems I'll always be a packrat."
"Just as long as your wife never sees it," said the wolf.
"Never." Steve motioned for Ray to follow him into the sleeper, and the wolf winced when an overhead fluorescent light flicked on above him. The sleeper was basically all a trucker could want for on the road, and nothing more. There were storage bins on either side stacked floor to ceiling, more storage around the top of the sleeper, and two bunk beds. The bottom bed was made up, and the top had been folded halfway to prevent head injuries in the dark. Ray presumed there was more storage underneath the bottom bed. It was nicely laid out and, had it been clean, it would have been nicely organized too.
"This looks comfortable," Ray said while he waited for the wallaby, who was bent over, to retrieve his wallet from the crumpled bedclothes. He admired his view of the thick tail swaying to and fro, and the way Levi 501's had just the right cut to grip a nicely-shaped rear end. He was just about to adjust himself when Steve pulled up, and his hand quickly detoured to his back pocket, and the wallet within.
Looking around, visibly embarrassed by the state of things, Steve said, "This is how things get when you leave 'em too long." He began to open his wallet, but swore when a bunch of cards fell to the floor. "Shit, hold on."
"I'll get 'em." Ray was already bending to help even before the cards had reached the end of their descent. As he began to pick them up, he saw the names--Petro, Pilot, Flying J, TA, Love's, AmBest--and realized they were fuel cards for truck stops. He faced the cards in the same direction and was about to straighten back up, but found he couldn't so much as breathe when he felt fingers around his tail base, curling and tightening and pulling his tail up just enough to be indulgently gratuitous.
The wolf was still facing down, his gaze fixated upon the "J" on the Flying J card that was tilted to seem like a plane taking off. He bore a hole into that letter while another hand bunched up the hair between his ears and gripped it, hard but not painfully, and a grunt filled the sleeper. Ray's head was pushed up against something hard and warm, and it slid off to one side. His nose was filled with the aroma of wallaby; it had grown much stronger in the last few seconds. He was let go from both ends and he shot up to find Steve breathing deeply, looking down at him from his two-inch advantage.
There were a lot of things on Steve's face, too; one thing the wolf could tell was that neither of them had seen it coming. The possibility had always been there, yes, but never in Ray's imagination would he have expected the wallaby to make a move. But in doing so, he'd opened up a can of worms the wolf was afraid could not be resealed. He was too horny now to just ignore it, and the opportunity was too damn convenient. It was two feet from him.
Conflict was apparent within Steve, though it didn't show much. One of the things you don't forget about a lover is how to read their face, even if it's more wrinkled than you remember it. A little conflict, a little doubt, a lot of lust. The wolf knew which one would win out; it was always the winner, even in the later days of their sexual relationship it had seemingly been the only thing they had in common. Steve leaned forward, Ray leaned back until he could go no further, and he watched, breathing as shallowly as possible, until Steve turned sideways and their lips met.
* * *
It was like dying, a little. The French had a word for orgasm: le petit mort. "The little death," they called it, but this wasn't an orgasm. This was a kiss, just a simple touching of lips, but never before had Ray, twenty-two years old and still a virgin, experienced the array of emotions he had just gone through in the last few minutes. Oddly enough, anxiety about being discovered behind the sheep shed at the Northern Colorado Rodeo Fair was not one of them.
Steve was a great kisser, as far as the wolf was concerned. Sure, he'd only kissed a couple of girls before (both of them wouldn't put out fast enough, but he had a feeling Janie'd come back eventually), and that was okay, but the wallaby kissed like he meant it, not like it was something you were expected to do. He kissed like a man, with purpose and passion, and for some reason it set the wolf's system on fire.
Ray had been in various stages of erection since he met Steve at one of those stupid carny games, trying in vain to throw a dubiously-sized baseball through an even more dubiously-sized hole. Wandering around the fair and watching people was what Ray did, because he didn't much like to participate, and it was a hell of a lot cheaper. Besides, he was saving his money for funnel cakes and fried cheese and other assorted unhealthy fair fare.
"Fuckin' gay-ass ball," muttered the wallaby as Ray came within hearing range. He was bent over the fence separating the players from their futile goal, far enough that he was cheating, but the carny operating the game was turned away. Like it mattered. Perhaps feeling a bit overly confident (Ray had a way of sticking his snout into things that weren't necessarily his business; you couldn't very well describe him as shy), or perhaps because he was getting bored, the wolf stepped up behind the wallaby and tapped him on the shoulder. He got a look of aggravation for his troubles.
"Whoa dude," Ray put his hands up. "May I?"
The wallaby looked at his two remaining balls, sized up the shorter wolf, and kind of sneered. "Sure, why not? A laugh at somebody else's expense would cheer me up right about now." He handed a ball to the wolf.
"Stand back," warned Ray, making a show of massaging the ball, breathing on it, winding up nice and big and throwing it--overhand--right into the hole. When the carny heard that, he whipped around so fast a cloud of dirt appeared at his feet. The ball was in the bucket, Ray was finishing his follow-through, and he was well behind the line. He was also trying very hard to hide his own astonishment.
"Motherf--" mumbled the wallaby.
"Sorry, gentlemen," sung the carny, a dirty-looking ferret with yellow teeth. "The one who pays gets to play, any other winner gets nary a prize, so why don't you move along, youse guys?" It was horrible and improvised, and it grated on both men's nerves.
"Gimme my toy," said the wallaby with just a trace of threat.
"Tough luck, kiddo," said the ferret, who went back to taking the money of a seven-year-old boy.
The wallaby stepped to the fence and said, "I have Greg Wilson's number on speed dial on my portable telephone, and I'll pay the outrageous fees just to report you." All at once the ferret looked stricken, as if Greg Wilson owned the fair or something. Ray had a feeling. "Unless you want me to make a strongly-worded call, I suggest you give me my toy like a good boy."
Abject fear gave way to cautious annoyance as the ferret grabbed a large plush husky from the collection hanging above, and stiff-armed it out. "Couldja just go now? I got kids waiting."
"I'm sure you do," smiling and taking the toy. Ray followed him as they started walking.
"You're welcome." After all he'd done, even though he didn't care about winning a stupid toy, Ray hoped this guy wouldn't turn out to be an asshole.
"Thanks," said the wallaby quickly. "You're a showoff."
Yes, Ray was. And yes, he'd been lucky. But he wasn't about to admit to that. "I dunno, I just thought I would try." And that's when the wolf realized he was hard, just enough to notice himself. "What are you going to do with that silly thing, anyway? You look too old for stuffed animals."
Clutching the husky to his chest, the wallaby said, "I'll probably cut a hole underneath its tail and use it for masturbation." That stopped the wolf in his tracks, but the wallaby's step never faltered. He stopped a few feet ahead and continued, "What? Jacking off gets old."
Ray waited for the wallaby to follow up with an "I'm kidding" or something, but nothing was offered. "Okay," he said in a small voice, and kept walking. He was even harder now, and although it made him vaguely uncomfortable while talking to a guy he didn't even know, there was always that taboo arousal. "I'm Ray."
"Steve, formerly of Bixby High, currently of the Double-R Ranch."
"You went to Bixby? Wow, I graduated from Crocker! I bet our teams played each other all the time."
"Huh, go Crusaders," chuckled the wallaby. "So why'd you want to play with my balls?" What was this guy's deal with the sexual innuendos, anyway?
Ray played it off. "I was bored, and figured even if I made a fool out of myself I would at least be entertained for a minute." They were walking a little faster now, and the wolf swung his tail to compensate. Plus, he was genuinely having fun. Conversations usually didn't start this easily, no matter who he started them with. "Plus, I spend my money on food, not carny games."
"You hungry?" Steve asked, canting his head Ray's way.
"Yeah, actually." The wolf hadn't thought about it until Steve mentioned it, and now he was irrevocably hungry.
Over heaping and expensive plates of unhealthy food, the two males talked. It was just guy talk, too, something he didn't do with his dad very much even though they worked together on the farm. Having that much in common was a great benefit to Ray as well; he found himself talking up a storm about his family, his high school years, the farm and general small-town Colorado things to which Steve could fire right back with his own stories. A relatively boring day was turning out to be worth the four dollars he paid to get into the fair.
Ray finally realized how long they had sat and talked when the midway lights came on above them, showering everything in a seizure-inducing rainbow. Both expressed regret at having to get home in time for an early morning, but hey--that's farm life, right?
"I plan to get out of here and to a college as soon as I can," the wolf said as they made their way to the front gate and their respective trucks. "Dad's guilting me into working for him, because he's got some problems. Beyond high school, parents can be a nag."
"That's why I left as soon as I got my diploma," replied Steve. "You just gotta have a job all the time, you know? That's what life is after school...paycheck to paycheck." There was a certain sadness to the wallaby's voice, and Ray found himself hoping it wouldn't turn out the same for him. Knowing his dad, though...
They were walking in the 4-H compound, in between the showing stadium and the sheep shed, the faint smell of manure preceding them. Sunset had come and gone, leaving a dull glow behind the trees which marked the beginning of the gravel parking lot. Halfway down, Ray was in the middle of asking if Steve drove a Chevy or a Ford (turned out he drove a Dodge after all), when he realized he was walking by himself. He turned around; Steve was standing in the dark, holding the husky to his chest, looking really a lot younger than twenty-four.
"What's up?" walking back into the shadows. Soft bleating came from the other side of the shed.
"Come here." Steve's voice was urgent.
Ray came up close to the wallaby, looking around warily in case it was something he couldn't see. "What?" He leaned in so his ear was close to Steve's mouth, so the wallaby's warm breath rustled the fine hairs inside its concave surface. Instead, he heard nothing but felt a finger underneath his chin, turning his head so smoothly and swiftly he did nothing but breathe as shallowly as possible until Steve turned sideways and their lips met.
It was like dying, a little.
The wolf's legs just about gave out; it was silly how weak he felt, but how much could you expect when you were being kissed by a man? It just wasn't something that happened every day. Intimate contact happened so seldom for the wolf anyway; he swiveled against the wall of the shed, triggering a round of startled bleats, and let Steve push into his mouth. It was warm, it felt damn good, and the half-erection that had been pushing at his fly was now a screaming, swelling distraction pressed tightly against the wallaby's thigh, which drove relentlessly forward.
Neither of them talked, or even so much as moaned; Ray didn't even really know how to react to the wallaby's forward actions. Steve kept pressing and the wolf kept letting him, trapped as he was but not wanting at all to move. If someone came by at that moment and saw them, he couldn't have cared less as long as the wallaby's hands kept roaming over his shoulders, down his sides and over his rump.
Steve's tongue was left to do all the work when the wolf just lost control of his mouth, and the wallaby made sure not to seem too insistent, satisfied to maintain languid contact without concentrating, as Steve was busy moving on to other things, like Ray's tail. He would stroke it from base to tip, pulling it up the whole time, skritching right up against the button-flap on the wolf's jeans, and that would make Ray clench and hunch forward. It was oddly pleasurable, and finding a new place his body liked to be touched was always fun. This time he did moan, right down Steve's throat, and he did nothing to stop the wallaby from unbuttoning that button and putting his fingers in places fingers had never been before. An exposed board dug into his back, but it only helped aid Steve's deliberate, lustful touches front and rear.
* * *
An exposed shelf in the side of the sleeper dug into his back, but it only helped aid Steve's deliberate, lustful touches front and rear. Ray's hands were busy propping him against the oddly-shaped cubbyholes where the wallaby's clothes and cold-weather supplies were stored. It's just like the first time all over again, the wolf thought, because Steve's fingers were in the same places--skritching around his tail base, and scrambling over his fly looking for an easy way into the tight jeans--they always had been.
If the wallaby was anything, he was predictable, and whether or not it was purely for Ray's sake he didn't know. He did know what logically would happen next, and ultimately, and the hope attached to that knowledge forced a whimper from his muzzle into Steve's, which the wallaby accepted and swallowed greedily, silently.
Steve's fingers worked deftly, and the wolf's pants were around his ankles, suspended by one upraised foot (Ray'd always done that when they kissed; it was so very gay and he couldn't help it, even with Janie). As the wallaby planted kisses all over the poofed-out fur of his neck, Ray flexed his erection against the inadequate confines of his boxer shorts and into Steve's waiting grasp. And grasp it he did: parting the open fly, then separating flesh from fur, the wallaby was stroking a fully-knotted wolf with all the practiced skill of a man who wasn't married on the side with two daughters.
The only other sound above the thrumming diesel engine was the gentle clacking of Steve's wedding band on the plastic cubbyhole behind Ray's arched back and tail.
At last, Steve decided to pull away from the kiss a bit, and when he did Ray could see just how much he'd been working after all: the wallaby was breathing hard, his lips moist, his blunted snout just as such. He did not look directly at the wolf, but instead seemed to be looking at a point on his upper chest, as if making eye contact meant admitting something distasteful or weak. Then the wallaby tugged on Ray's shirt, and they managed to get that off without unbuttoning it, and it was only then that the wolf felt just how hot it was inside the truck.
A bar of arc-sodium light, eerie and greenish and lonely, illuminated the two males in partial silhouette through the windshield. Ray's erection stood out in stark relief, immodest and shiny and throbbing in the small open space between them. The boxers did no good now. With his unrelenting and steady hand, Steve hooked two fingers behind the wolf's knot and squeezed. Predictably, still after all those years, the member twitched and oozed two thick gobbets of precum, which stood at the tip without quite dripping down its length.
Ray stood and looked down at himself with a kind of detached wonderment: I never do that with Janie; she wouldn't be pleased to know what it takes to get me to pre. As if watching from a perspective outside his experience, the wolf saw his hand fall over Steve's, and squeeze gently. This time, the drops of precum (they seemed to glow from within) made their reluctant journey down to his sheath, pooling there and clinging to the short fuzz.
Just like Ray was expecting, the wallaby knelt in the confines of the sleeper, his ears splayed rearward in a rare display of submissiveness, the only time he showed it, really. Steve had once warned the wolf never to divulge his weakness for sucking cock, or else suffer a fate worse than death, and Ray had never seen fit to tattle on his friend. He did enjoy the mounting feeling of domination as he petted the wallaby between the ears after removing his cowboy hat with a flick of his fingers. This would be the only chance he got, if he knew Steve like he thought he did.
Letting Ray aim his wolfhood downward, the wallaby leaned forward and tasted long-forbidden fruit.
* * *
"Never, ever tell anybody I'm doing this for you, or else you will suffer a fate worse than death." The wolf nodded as best he could. Aiming Ray's wolfhood down for him, the wallaby leaned forward and tasted like it was forbidden fruit.
His toes and tail curled against the hay in the stall, blending perfectly with the animals surrounding them on both sides. Steve had drug the compliant wolf through a side door and into the 4-H sheep pens, which at first had reeked of stale urine and manure, but Ray's nose had gotten used to the scent quick enough. He felt more like a kid than the rancher's son he was, partly because he was doing something he knew (or at least it was assumed) he shouldn't be doing.
And it thrilled him terribly.
Not to mention his cock, fairly underused until today, when a random guy (A Guy! Ray's brain still reminded him, as if it mattered anymore who got him off) decided to take him into the shadows at the fair and make love to him.
Now his pants and briefs (not to mention the poor plush husky) were discarded against the stall wall, no doubt soiled with sheep matter, but it just might mask the odor of randy wallaby so Ray wouldn't have to answer dubious questions whenever he got home. The wolf leaned against the back wall, Indian-style and effortlessly comfortable on a pile of slightly damp hay.
Steve (how could he stand to keep his clothes on?) knelt prostrate between Ray's legs, bobbing at the torso in a comical sort of prayer fashion. Ray would get used to the feeling of a warm muzzle on his cock long enough to notice the way Steve's tail would tilt to and fro like one of those weeble things and find it amusing, then the wallaby would do something new and unexpected with his tongue to send the wolf's eyes rolling again. "Erf," he said as he felt Steve lapping at the edge of his knot, and gyrated his hips the straw in approval. He petted the wallaby's head in dominant complement to Steve's show of submission.
But Steve wasn't really the kind of person you would think to be such a bottom...bottom, that was the word Ray assumed was used in a situation like this. So, when it's a guy and a girl, is the girl always the bottom, even when she's on top, or does it matter what she's doing, or... "Guh!" as Steve actually got his tongue inside his sheath, against the very root of his member, a place he'd never even touched himself...and it was good and weird at the same time. The wallaby gagged a little.
"You like to swell up a lot, don't you?"
"I never noticed," the wolf blushed.
"I bet your girlfriends do." And with that, Steve lowered his head again.
A bass, guttural moan took the place of the blush, and Ray figured the way Janie had screamed at intervals the last time they'd fucked proved the wallaby correct. Then, like sex had a tendency to do, the wolf completely lost track of the time, or the fact that he had an early wake-up tomorrow...he could sleep when he was dead. He had his eyes closed most of the time, but Steve was so damn good at what he was doing that the wolf didn't even need his usual slideshow of fantasies to get him closer to the edge.
Ray did find that it was most difficult to keep from climbing that ladder too fast, and at one point he actually tried to imagine his mother naked...and that was just gross, so he gave up and focused on finishing what had been started.
It was when he finally did look, when he saw that Steve had taken out his cock and was stroking it into the ground, that he found he could not look away. Mostly it was the fact that this was Steve's bag, and he was not merely doing the wolf a favor but taking personal pleasure from sucking him off. Steve was gay, and Ray was not, but he was a willing participant.
Then the wolf saw a confusing picture in his mind, one that excited and scared him at the same time with its novelty. He could see them as a couple, not a couple of guys but together, saw Steve's delicate fingers around his knot and admired them...saw his closed eyes and what they might look like with tears of joy, or sadness...saw a lot of things he knew he was insane to see, but he could not stop them.
And his heart broke. And the wolf was filled with a love for Steve he could never have mustered for Janie or anyone else. He wanted to give himself to the wallaby, and a second later he was doing just that, biting his hand to stifle the full-throated yelling of a wolf in orgasm, as Steve fought to swallow what must have been an unusually copious load.
When the stars faded from his vision, Ray saw Steve sitting back against the door of the stall, still stroking a little and picking at his teeth. "Tanks," he said around a claw, "I hadn't gotten to do that in, like, a long time, so I thought I was out of practice. Feel good?"
Ray was still reeling a bit, but recovering quickly. Already he felt his desire draining away, and even though he was sure most of the things he had experienced were true and heartfelt, they were fading even faster. "I know it sounds unoriginal, but that's the best blowjob I've ever had. Never shot in somebody's mouth, and certainly not a guy's."
"But it felt good."
"Oh, yeah."
"Then that's all that counts," the wallaby replied, and clicked his tongue.
"But what about you? I'd feel bad if I didn't..." Ray circled his hand.
Steve waggled an index finger at the wolf. "I was just thinking the same thing. Now, since I was the bottom, you can be pretty sure what I'd like." Ray had seen that coming, but hearing it from the wallaby's muzzle was a different thing entirely. Now that his testosterone was effectively leveled out for the evening, it didn't seem like that promising a prospect. It was romantic and all looking at Steve's fingers and such, but now it was, well, really raw and physical.
"And I knew you were going to do that too," said the wallaby before Ray could struggle to make a complete sentence. He crawled over to the wolf and set a reassuring hand over his sheath, rubbing life into it once again. Ray had to admit, it sure felt great when Steve touched him. Maybe he really knew what he was doing? Maybe? "Don't worry. I've done this before, as if you couldn't tell. I can make it so that you don't feel anything but pleasure. If it didn't feel good, there wouldn't be any homos out there. Right?" The matter-of-factness was stunning.
Ray nodded at this absurdity, laughing a little just because he thought it was expected of him. Hell, he was already a couple inches out and growing; that meant another climax was now well within range if he worked for it. "Promise?"
Steve leaned in and planted another of those light, yet deeply intimate, kisses on the lupine muzzle. By the time the wallaby was done, Ray was fully unsheathed, which surprised them both. Steve grinned, "I can see you're a very eager puppy," and broke into a full-on smile when the wolf murred at the term. He was finding, and pushing, buttons Ray never knew he had, and the wolf once again found himself accepting it and welcoming it. This was just a night for weak constitutions.
The rest of the night became a blur to Ray, but would come back to him in sections of uncompromising clarity in later days (before his marriage; after, life kind of just erased it bit by bit), often creeping into his mind during sex with Janie...many times, it was the thought of Steve in bed with him, cuddling him, fucking him that would get him off quickly and intensely. He actually ended up using it to time simultaneous orgasms, and weren't those just about the best things ever.
Later on in their relationship, Steve would teach Ray a lot of what he needed to know about sex. Well, sex with other men. And Ray would soak it all up like a sponge, but that was later on. This one night, this first night, the wolf just lay back and let life happen to him, climb on top of him, and come inside him. It was incredible how the wallaby, as experienced as he was, could muster the patience to let Ray become comfortable at his own pace.
First with a finger under his balls and then a well-placed tongue (rimming would not be part of Janie's repertoire, and Ray would end up hating her in a way for that), the wolf had plenty of time to adjust to the awkward pleasure of it all before Steve actually poked something inside him. Granted, it was just a finger, but for a start it was enough. They must have spent the better part of an hour in the whole act; the wolf found that Steve's naturally slender cock was a perfect fit for a person like himself ("ass-virgin" was what the wallaby called it).
But, even more memorable and clearer than the sex, was what Ray saw while he was on his back, matting down the fur of one hand where he practically bit it in half because he was moaning so loudly. Steve was a man with a purpose, and he was the kind of man who would go after his purpose in a direct, straight line, almost with too narrow a focus, but when he went after it, nobody better stand in his way. The way the wallaby dominated him that first night, with a fragile balance of empathy and selfishness, was a major contributor to the wolf's final climax: he would make sure Ray was okay, and when Ray said yes, his hips would fly. Steve was a silent partner, but nothing could help the sounds of their coupling.
For the second time now, the wolf felt himself being drawn--there wasn't much about this that was voluntary, really, except consent--toward the end, through no manipulation of his own. He was okay with it, because he'd pretty much given up to just experiencing more than anything. Steve was actually grunting too, the first signs of the wallaby's own loss of composure. The wolf's tailhole was almost numb, but the intense pressure there kept him going, going, going.
And then he was gone.
* * *
The wolf was gone.
Steve continued to pound away, his fingers in a death grip on the top bunk for support, but Ray had already checked out mentally. The truck thrummed beneath his side-turned head, and he could hear clearly the rumble through the one ear that was mashed against the grey vinyl wall of the sleeper. He was feeling good, sure he was, but he was also carefully gauging the wallaby's actions through until the end of their affair. He knew, absolutely knew, that Steve had come by purely on accident, but from the time he stepped onto the parking lot it had seemed scripted.
And this was why the wolf wasn't paying as much attention to his cock or Steve's cock in him or anything else external, but why this night--like the majority of nights spent with Steve when they had been together--was turning out as predictable as ever. As far as he could remember, the wallaby had always been a bit repetitive and aloof, and when it came to them--as a couple, Ray always put, but Steve neither agreed nor disagreed--there was always an air of vagueness. That air hadn't ever bothered Ray, per se, but it didn't feel like that belonged as part of a relationship.
Ray no longer had clumps of comforter in his hands; it was hay, damp and odiferous. The semi's engine became more distant, an old Ford or diesel-powered carnival truck idling in the parking lot just on the other side of the 4-H pens. There was a wind picking up outside, and though there was no conceivable way for it to happen the wolf swore he felt a cool, humid draft enter through some crack or other. Even the soft bleating was audible, so vivid was Ray drawn into the past and his first encounter with the controlled, confident, changeless wallaby who now hovered over him with a grim grin and closed eyes, about to blow.
Of course Steve wasn't in love with him anymore, if he had been at all; they both had wives and families and lives outside of this. It was entirely possible that the wallaby still held some level of affection. You couldn't do what they did, as intensely and for as long as Ray had done with Steve, and not feel at least something for the other person for the rest of your life. There's always something there, something unique and special and shared, and no matter how much changes in twenty-two measly years it doesn't go away.
But Ray knew what had changed, and it was him...rather, his view of things. First it was puppy-lust (literally), and that grew into affection and full-blown love in the months the wolf was involved with the wallaby, and it wasn't the simple collusion between love and lust either. But now he saw that Steve had had a different view of things, a more casual view, and it was the wolf's mistake for being too young and stupid and...no, not stupid. Just alive. But he didn't hold Steve's ambivalence against him then, and it would do no good to now. Besides, when put into perspective, nothing had changed at all.
A purple velvet curtain drew over his vision, his toes curled, and his tail thrashed against Steve's balls. The wolf wished that Janie would learn to like playing with his tailhole, even if she viewed it as "icky." Ray would do much more disgusting things to her in return, if she would only get over her anal-phobia. There was a puddle of wolf drool under his muzzle, a stain that was joined by other multiple stains from his second release. Like most other times, Steve's cock was enough to milk the semen from him by itself. The wolf realized he would stink to high heaven when he got home, but by now it was unavoidable.
Steve came to a crashing crescendo a moment or two later, apparently having been waiting on the wolf's spasming hole to bring him over. For once, the wallaby did utter a couple grunted f-words while he struggled to hold his shaky legs steady. Ray managed to pull the curtain from his vision to watch Steve wipe a heavy layer of sweat off his brow and deposit it onto one quivering thigh, then meet his eyes with that same old I-Just-Conquered-You look. The wolf wondered how many men, if any, Steve had conquered since 1989. He didn't seem as out of practice as he had indicated.
As usual, Steve didn't waste time on pillow-talk after he'd busted his nut, which Ray had also predicted would happen. The wolf had never been one for it either, so no big loss there. Steve did take care to pull out slowly, though, for which Ray was eternally thankful and wrong in his prediction, for once. After wiping down, the wallaby tossed a much-used cum towel (it had the word "Woof!" embroidered on it in garish black lettering) to the wolf, who cleaned his groin and the bed.
"I'm gettin' a smoke in. Want one?" Ray was just finishing up with the towel, but Steve had already thrown on his pants and pulled a heavy jacket from one of the laundry cubbies on the side. Yup, same old wallaby, all the way down to the cigarette after sex. If it were up to Ray, it would be ice cream, but ice cream was a little less masculine.
"I'll join you," pulling on his own clothes with more care. There would be no question to stay the night, no offer of another drink, or another round. "But I'll smoke my own, thanks."
"Suit yourself, pansy." Steve hopped outside and closed the door, and it was then that Ray paused, lacing one shoe. He sighed; his rear was pleasantly sore, he reeked of man-on-man sex, and he had just relived an integral part of his younger days and found the answers to some questions he'd never really thought to ask or needed to anyway. All in all, not the most boring night at the bar.
When he got outside, the wallaby was already two cigarettes down; he could smell the difference between a lighter light and a butt-to-butt light. The wolf leaned against the truck and offered his smoke, and Steve touched it off.
"Thanks."
"Ayuh."
It was getting on time for Ray to be expected home; even if Janie was already asleep he would wake her up coming in no matter how deep she was under. Standing there, against the idling truck with smoke drifting into the half-dead maple above, with nary a wind to disturb anything, Ray knew Steve was thinking. Hard. And the only reason he knew this was that there had been so few times when Steve looked like this. Eyes squinty but focused on an imaginary point on the ground, muzzle drawn down in a painless-pain sort of way, mindlessly flicking his cig after it was devoid of ash.
"Penny for 'em."
"The fuck does that mean?"
"You look like you're thinking hard on something. Penny for your thoughts." Ray took a drag and watched Steve's face carefully.
The wallaby smiled faintly. "Smartass." That was true, to a point. "Not thinkin' about much. That feel as good as ever?"
Ray flexed his cock, still a little hard, and his knot throbbed in response. "You don't know how much you miss something until you've gone without it for so long. It's like poison, the way it felt."
"Poison? Huh. I guess so."
"As much as I love my wife, there are some things she just can't do."
"So she says."
"So she says."
"She'll come around if you make it worth her while." Steve drug in an extended breath, drawing the glowing ember line on the Marlboro down past the filter, and blew it out rather forcedly. "I gotta beat feet. My load picks up in La Junta, last night. A few hours ago. I'll be fine, but I have to get rollin'. My clock's running out."
"I understand. Didn't expect you to stick around too long anyway; it's not like you." Ray's thoughts faintly touched on the raw truthfulness of that for a split-second, but he really didn't mean it that way. If Steve noticed, he hid it.
"Get tired in one place. You're different; you can do it no problem. You know, sometimes I wish I were you." And Steve gave Ray a hug that fell somewhere between homo- and heterosexual, patting him on the back while their crotches ground against one another.
"Nah, you don't want to be me. Wishing is good, but it only gets you so far. You got family waiting for you."
"So do you. You going to tie one more on or call it a night?"
The wolf ground his cigarette under a boot. "I'm tired, no wonder there. Got an early day tomorrow."
"Every day here is an early day."
"Right."
"See you around, puppy," slapping the wolf's shoulder before climbing back in, and it sounded so damn expected. Ray was only halfway to his own car before he heard the wallaby grinding into gear and taking off in a cloud of fine night-dust down south towards Denver.
* * *
The sound of Ray's Silverado was like Diet Diesel, but comforting nonetheless as he made his way leisurely home. He selfishly relished the rough ride against his rump, and he couldn't stop his tail from waggling against the bench every time he hit a set of railroad tracks and jounced over. Regret and satisfaction fought for his thoughts, and in the end the wolf settled for just letting himself feel good for getting laid like he hadn't been in years. And, unless he met Steve down the line, never would be again
There had been a point after, when they were smoking, when Ray had wanted to ask a bunch of emotional touchy-feely questions about them, and their relationship, and other things, just to try and get an answer out of Steve. To try and understand why things had gone like they had. But the more he thought about it, the more Ray didn't see the need for questions. He may have been justified, but he also had slowly come to the conclusion that he could live without more questions and answers. He hadn't agonized over it through his adult life, and he hadn't suffered mentally for it either. Not really; that's not the way you lived out here in Green Hill, Colorado. People with issues lived in the city. In Denver. Even Laramie. You could at least still accomplish something there.
No lights greeted him as he turned into the end of his driveway and shut off the engine, letting the truck roll the rest of the way to the garage. Maybe, just maybe, Janie would stay asleep this time. Either way, the wolf would need a thorough shower before climbing into bed.
Guy, his Dalmatian, trotted to the front of his run at the side of the house to welcome Ray home, and the wolf gave him a few pats on the head before checking his food and water. For once, his son had remembered to do his chores...at least one chore. Guy circled himself back to sleep, and Ray eased open the back door and stepped inside.
Every time Ray came home from the bar, most times after two o'clock when his family and most of the town was asleep, he marveled at the difference between day hours and what he liked to call "Oh-Dark-Hundred." Everything that was part of their lives, everything that beeped and whirred and whooshed and moved at all--it was gone at night, and Ray could be the only person on the planet for all he knew, or cared. Then the refrigerator cycled and dropped a noisy load of ice, and the spell was broken.
Chuckling at his morbid romanticism, Ray stripped in the kitchen and threw his clothes down the laundry chute. He would do them in the morning, while Janie cooked breakfast. Jesus, was it only four hours away?
Janie was turned away from him when he sidled around the bedroom door and eased it shut behind. Tiptoeing across the carpet, the nude wolf actually let himself think he was home free to the bathroom when his wife rolled onto her back and mumbled, "Djuvun?"
"What?" Ray whispered back, because not answering would do no good anyway.
"Did you have fun?" She wasn't really talking to him as much as into her pillow, just awake enough to make sure Ray got into bed before zonking out again.
"Lots. Had sex with a guy in his truck. It was nice."
"Wuh?"
"Had a Sex On The Beach for the first time. It was nice," Ray said, smiling at his deviousness. He crawled onto the bed on all fours, an idea growing his smile into a full-toothed sneer.
"Oh, okay. What are you doing, hun?" as Ray uncovered her nude body, still perfectly slim after so many years of marriage, especially to him. He spread her legs, turning her onto her back, and she was so sluggish she didn't even react when he licked long and lovingly over her sex. "Ray, no...oh, not now, Jeezus." But the last words were more moaned than spoken, and the wolf's second lick across her clitoris triggered an explosion of scent across his tongue. What could he say? Steve had left him horny still, and Janie was just as good a lover. Just minus a cock.
It didn't take long to complete the act. Ray knew they both had an early morning, and Janie would complain all day long about him getting her all worked up in the middle of the freaking night, but he knew that secretly she would be grateful. It was a matter of minutes, spent pushing each one of her buttons, one by one--much like Steve had done to him--before she writhed on the bed, grinding upwards into his muzzle as she came. Mostly silent, Ray took special satisfaction in getting the whole of his tongue inside her as she twitched herself down from orgasm.
After that, just like Ray had expected, Janie was dead to the world and nothing would bring her back into it except the morning alarm. She would only remember the sex, not the smell of wallaby or anything else out of place. Assuming she did smell wallaby on him at all.
The shower would take a minute to warm up, and despite the late hour the wolf had every intention of taking his time...after all, he was good and hard again and he could pump another one out in the shower, with just his thoughts and nothing to bother him or tell him all was not right with the world. Because at this moment, it sure seemed that way. When it came down to brass tacks, Ray thought as he stepped into the steaming cascade of his modest but adequate shower, predictability didn't always have to be a bad thing. Expectation could be half the fun. It had been with Steve, and it was getting to be that way with Janie too. And if things changed, they did so with a speed that could be predictable in itself.
Hot water was good on his ears and face, and Ray drank it in with predictable pleasure.
Sometimes things never change. Sometimes they change too much.
And sometimes, but luckily not too often, they get better with time.
FIN
8/29-12/20/06