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Ohio:

Named after the Italian wildcat who took credit for discovering the New World, the city of Christopher, Ohio welcomed with open arms. I loved everything about the city from its clear weather, the Midwestern friendliness I'd come to expect, and a historic theater that caught my eye while casually browsing through a tourism brochure at the hotel. Not only did it date all the way to the early 1920s as a speakeasy during America's Prohibition Era, but it served as a popular gay night club during the 1970s sexual revolution, then re-embraced its early roots while presenting itself as a hotspot for Ohioans around Christopher to go to each night. Concerts, parties, films, magic shows, anything and everything happened each night at the Charlton Theatre, now called the Speak Easily Historic Theatre.

Standing at two stories and wearing its age proudly, the Art Deco movie theater's lobby/bar was stationed by a flamboyant lion in his late twenties and an aloof tiger who clearly didn't want to be there. Especially since it was a Friday evening and not as many visitors came to see the theater. As for the lion, while he did have his phone open on the countertop, the well-dressed happily put it away when I bluntly asked for a stiff drink.

"Your finest glass of red wine behind you, please," I smile seductively wow fishing out my wallet. My eyes didn't even try to hide watching the lithe lion's rear end as he reached for the wine decanter, then bent over to grab a glass to pour it in. "Mm, how long have you been working here? This is my first time visiting."

The lion's name tag read 'Wendell', who laughed. "This place or Christopher?"

"All of the above in Ohio," I let slip my German accent, handing him the appropriate number of dollar bills, plus a tip. "And thank you."

"Enjoy the show tonight, sir," he gave a subtle wink as I entered the main theater area.

According to the official website, the previous night's main event was a magic show. The night before had been a poetry slam. Tonight, the Christopher Jazz Orchestra planned two serenade attendees with smooth Music to bring them back in time to when the Speak Easily Theatre served its original purpose. After settling down at a corner table overlooking the main stage full of musicians preparing themselves and their instruments, I sipped my wine glass. It didn't compare to the finer bottles in my possession at Diamandis Isle, but it still tasted divine. It still teleported me back to when some of my tiring evenings were spent at classy nightclubs in Berlin. Too exhausted to shag but not enough to simply be in bed.

My thoughts returned to the bartending lion. Dismissing it as a bad idea to distract him from work, I instead opened up my phone, but not without taking some selfies and photos of the theatre's interior. For memories, plus something to show the boys back home.

Originally, I didn't plan for hookups within a respectable establishment. My original plan for the evening involved a few hours of exquisite dinner and messaging with various Howlr users in the Christopher area, all while listening to the wonderful jazz players perform onstage. Afterwards, I'd invite a potential lad to my hotel room not too far away from the theatre. What changed the evening on its head though was when I got a notification for a matched profile...within the building.

The same exact black panther in a waiter's vest, handing me my menu. "Welcome to the Speak Easily Historic Theatre, how may I serve you?"

I responded first by requesting a light entrée, then sent him a DM with semi-lewd photo showing my face. The next time he stopped by my table midway through the orchestral show, the panther--named Chance but called 'CatBoiNeeds2Suk' on his Howlr profile-- the feline lad blushed heavily in my presence. Luckily, he didn't need to keep assuming for too long. My smile and a playful wink told him everything.

"A-Anything else I can help you w-with this evening, sir?" He bashfully recited his job's script, trying not to stare at me or into my eyes. "I-If there's anything you need..."

"Not at the moment," I winked again with a click of my tongue, "but if you continue providing such amazing service, that might change. I'd be interested in...samples of something tall, dark, very limber, if you catch my drift?"

"I-I think I do, s-sir," he blushed once more, walking away.

***

So began a teasing cold war of sorts between me and Chance, the handsome panther. Whenever he stopped by to ask if I wanted any refills or to taste the other wine options, I gave subtle pinches and soft butt slaps out of view from other guests. Sam noticed but didn't care though, which made me feel bold enough to flirt more with my waiter. He went so far as to send me quite a few naughty pics on the app during a break, which then culminated into me surrendering the fight by motioning him to my table later in the evening.

"I'm having such a wonderful time, but need a place for some peace and quiet," I whispered to him under the eloquent jazz being played to attentive listeners. "Do you know where you could...come with me?"

Minutes later, Chance led me sneakily into the unoccupied projection booth of the theatre, then had me sit down with my legs spread and jeans discarded. He knelt down to grip my revealing cock tip, fondled the churning balls beneath, then opened wide around the former. I gasped for air.

Unbelievable. Simply put, the petite panther blew me as if my dick was a high-quality trumpet. His experienced lips delightfully made me create noises akin to a moaning chorus, occasionally intertwined with soft growls and hissing breaths whenever his fingers fondled my hanging scrotum just right. His muffled gagging and focused purring filled the background like percussion, vibrating through my dick and making my tailbase sore from how fast it wagged from the immense pleasure.

I felt certain we weren't the only gay men to have fun inside the historic theatre let alone in the projection room. We also weren't the first to suck off or get sucked during a live performance on the ground floor. I could smell faint evidence suggesting otherwise, as well as spotted in stains on the floorboards. Plus, nobody kept boxes of tissues in or sprayed such a small room so many times. The dreamy thought of countless elicit liaisons and copulating lovers finding private refuge in the booth made my balls churn and my cock throb inside the purring panther's maw, who couldn't resist stroking himself through his workplace pants.

We both heard the Christopher Jazz Orchestra climax as I did. Nobody could've heard us Halloween trumpets and bashing drum-fare, followed by clapping and loud cheers from the unaware mammals. It made me suddenly hard again.

"Didn't bring any lube with to work," Chance whimpered. "Did you?"

"No," I licked my canine chops, imagining the rest of the prospective evening. "But I know another place to go after you're done with your shift. My treat."

Indiana:

The bat femboi getting fucked on my dogcock didn't dare to make a sound. If not because his species was able to screech to the heavens and cause me to lose my hearing, then to prevent the local cops from showing up at his doorstep. Not that they would likely show up anyway, given the state of things in Garfield, Indiana.

The nameless bat twink stared devotedly into my eyes and drooled a river down his chin, wings wrapped around my broad shoulders like a cloak and ankles resting behind my thrusting hips. We didn't say a word, partly due to his mom and dad watching reruns in the living room downstairs. The same ones who didn't turn to see or question him after inviting me upstairs.

The bat didn't know me, and I didn't know him, but it didn't take a genius to figure out his personality and backstory from visual cues. Based on his choice of feminine, loose clothing in his Howlr photos versus the plain jeans and t-shirt he wore when opening the front door to quietly invite me inside, the bat twink grew up in a judgmental household. He desperately wanted to move out, even years after turning the appropriate legal age, but Garfield's state of decline and sprawling abandoned homes/store fronts made it difficult to find better employment. I also chalked it up to a mom and dad who didn't harass him over being...different so long as he helped pay the bills.

I slowed down my movements. Leaning down to sniff his shivering neck, the bat twink let out a soft squeak when my teeth grazed his skin. He moaned into my maw and orally surrendered to its dominant tongue, which then explored his sweet lips and beyond. By the time I did sadly part away to gather air in my lungs, my twink for the evening had ventured into sub-space. The beautiful space between pleasure and nothing where most bottoms found themselves in thanks to dominant men like me.

My muscular pecs grazed against his dainty nipples, both of which begged to be pinched and pulled and brushed at, the bat squeaked once again.

"Easy there," he whimpered. "Don't tease me too much, my parents are downstairs!"

"Kiddo, you're the one moaning, not me," I snickered whilst nosing his chin. "Besides, didn't you say there are obsessed with the TV?"

The unnamed bat twink gave a half audible reply in the form of another moan, mixed with squeaking and chirping each time my balls slap against his perfect cheeks. If we weren't comfortable already in our missionary position, I would have felt the need it to knead those surprisingly wide mounds like round balloons wrapped in well-groomed black fur.

"You're also kneading into my shoulder blades back there," I pointed out, only to feel his fingers pull back. "Hey, I didn't say to stop."

I kissed the winged lad again. I let his long bat tongue gain passage inside my muzzle, dancing lusciously around mine and suckling on my spit as if it were delicious ambrosia. His eyes watered in immense pleasure. I stared back into my eyes with such lustful devotion, my flexible appendage gliding and tasting the crevices of those teeth and long tongue literally capable of touching the pointed nose.

He was so perfect, like a mythological creature sculpted from fresh obsidian. Even though I knew a little about the lad, I had no doubt he would be a good little boyfriend for any lucky homosexual still living along Indiana's Lake Michigan shoreline. Rich or poor, big or small, older or as young, fiercely independent or contend to live with his parents like him, any gay resident in his hometown would be thrilled to date him.

He seemed friendly, if a bit paranoid and antisocial, but the literature on his shoulders and the number of familiar band posters lined up along his wallpaper made me certain the bat liked to learn and listen to different tastes in music. The thought of inviting him to do a trial run as another one of my paramours did cross my mind. It flashed across my eyes when I finally ejaculating today inside his accommodating tailhole, during the afterglow when I cuddled him into my strong arms, as well as after he planted a sensual kiss during our shower in his neighboring bathroom. It felt nearly off, somewhat. It felt melancholic and sad, like the bat wanted it to last longer despite the opening for it to continue standing right in front of him.

"I'll think about it," he simply stated. Holding a paw up as I almost asked him what his considerations were, the bat said, "I appreciate the offer, but I'm not interested in dating or having a sugar daddy. At least, not right now. Besides, what will my parents think when I explain how I'm getting more money out of the blue?"

"That is absolutely fair," I nodded in understanding. Dressing myself and thanking him for the good time, I told the bat to do his best on an upcoming online exam. "And good luck."

He beamed like a lighthouse at my encouragement. By the time that he sneakily led me through the backyard out past a picket fence leading to where I parked, his smile started to slowly disappear. The poor bat almost looked on the verge of changing his mind, and I stood midway outside to glance back at him. Yet when I did, resolve hardened his gaze back to a determined glare, and the nameless bat disappeared inside the household.

I heaved a heavy sigh.

The best way for me to describe Garfield was by saying it resembled East Berlin once the decades-old wall finally fell. Sparsely populated, buildings either vacant or left to rot to the elements from uninterested officials, plus many areas full of rubble or littered trash. Vivid memories of abandoned homes and discarded cars came to mind when citizens of the east wanted nothing more than to escape into West Germany. If not to be reunited with their family after decades of separation between the Americans and the Soviets, then for a better life for themselves. I had been one of those mammals with nothing left to lose, but unlike back then, Garfield's decline had been slow. Neglected homes and graffitied buildings left and right faced lake Michigan to the north, while toll booths stood westward between the once-bustling suburb of an automotive capital and the shining metropolis skyline of Lakertown. Those who left for a better life for mostly teenagers and young people who didn't cling to the past, well those who stayed in Garfield either couldn't afford to leave or outright didn't want to. Seeing all the decay and smelling it for myself once I made it back to my truck, I did feel sympathy for both perspectives. As a former citizen of East Berlin, I did feel some nostalgic ties with the Soviet city during my childhood years, but when the time came to make a choice, I made mine.

What a waste of beauty, being trapped. Nothing personal against parents, since I happened to be heavily biased about them due to my lack of any growing up, but I couldn't imagine someone with aspirations reluctantly giving up their future for a mom and dad who didn't even love them for being who they were. How could anyone do that to themselves?

Not thinking too long on the subject though, I restarted the Fjord truck, looked one more time towards the bat's residence, then drove west to Lakertown. All the while I wished the unnamed bat luck with determining his future.

Illinois:

Ahh, Lakertown. The Windy City. Paris of the Prairie. The Third Coast. The Heart of America in a literal and figurative sense, nestled up close to Lake Michigan with an iconic skyline. It especially felt nostalgic seeing it slowly appear on the horizon as I drove from Garfield into Illinois, the lakefront stretching for seemingly endless kilometers along my right. Unlike last time, where I'd flown in by private jet and hailed a limousine to my hotel, I endured the claustrophobic traffic inside my Fjord rental truck, narrowly making it for a gas stop after being stuck in traffic. To pass the time as my vacation crawled to a snails' paced halt, I phoned two old friends who were expecting me.

"Hello?"

"Hey, John, it's Sebastian!" I answered him. "How's the Big Bear doing?"

"Sebby!" cheered the fox on the other end. "He's so excited to see you in town. I am too!"

"Mind putting him on the phone?" I asked whilst in the middle of moving two feet. "I'd like to talk to him about where he'd like to do the interview."

"He's in the shower getting ready right now," John playfully whined, "but we can discuss it more during dinner."

I could not help but grin, "And will the remote be brought to the restaurant?"

"You're damn straight, Adonis." The fox giggled. "It's fully charged and so am I."

Kurt and John Thornton, built as a stocky yet huggable bear and a lithe red fox respectively, were two Americans I had the pleasure of knowing for years. Kurt worked as an editor-in-chief for Patrochilles, a popular Lakertown-based publishing house while John operated as the company's social media specialist, and together, both were the most talented duo in terms of multitasking publishers. Primarily when it came to a speculative fiction book and one novella-sized memoir (following my childhood and teenage years in East Berlin) I'd written in the past during some earned free time after my first million Euros were made.

In all honesty, meeting them had been a happy perchance. Years prior, I could have published under some of the major houses in either Las Estrellas or Manhattan City. However, after having been forced to endure some of their elitist publishing galas and finding out that one popular publisher had been mocking gay authors behind closed doors, I never returned their calls. I decided to go for a more...modest option: Patrochilles Publishing. They catered to LGBTQAI+ community readers, didn't treat my own phone calls with them like a waste of their time, or ignore my suggestions on marketing.

Kurt and John were also talented in more ways than one when it came to the bedroom. My first memories with the duo could attest to that, and my stay in Lakertown for the next few days would be fun. After finally escaping onto the proper exit, I tiredly checked into a hotel suite on the southern side of the city's Rosecrest neighborhood, then texted Kurt about wanting to catch some light sleep due to the stress of traffic.

First though, they invited me out to a well-liked restaurant deep in the Loop, where they served some of the city's world-famous deep-dish pizza. Our conversations immediately became animated and jovial the moment we hugged for the first time in a few years. During dinner though, as we waited for our meals, I couldn't help but grin at the sight of John squirming adorably in his seat. Neither could Kurt, who'd sometimes switch the vulpine's vibrator from high to low and join me in quieting our snickers mid-conversation.

What a teasing bear. Then again, following a delicious dinner and some meaningful pillow talk, we ravished on the real meal; John's ass, stretched by his husband and I in shifts.

"Ahhhh!" Kurt spurted an ursine-sized load inside the fox's gaping tailhole. "Phew!"

"Is that all you got, big guy?" He teased, only to earn a spank to his cheek. "Yiff!"

"Your turn, Sebastian."

A smirk grew on my hot and bothered muzzle. "My pleasure!"

I had been slowly stroking myself to full manhood while watching the burly grizzly stuff his dick inside the editor of my books. John knew how to make a manuscript beautiful as much as how to make delicious noises in each thrust. Giving a delirious sigh, then craning his neck to give me a needy, hot wink for the ages, his bear pulled out of that plump fox ass. The scent of leaking bear jizz filled the entire room, the off air conditioner making me inhale the smell of bear cum and fox musk like an aphrodisiac, and I stood up from the sweat soaked chair.

His slim waistline almost made my fingers touch. His tail tickled my nose in the expert seduction. John literally guided his used hole like a space pod from ground control until it lined up with my throbbing, rocket-like member, then wordlessly let momentum push the dogcock past that cum-filled ring. I thrusted once and easily brushed his prostate, which made the fox editor sing. hearing him moan and seeing his husband watch hypnotically from the sidelines as he recovered, it caused me to chorus a few loud moans as well.

After a few previous hook ups or I needed to keep quiet, it felt great to let my vocal cords loose. No more muffling my orgasms, or worrying if a neighbor downstairs, upstairs, next door, wherever they were, happened to hear me in the throes of a satisfied climax.

I groaned.

I moaned.

I snarled.

I growled.

I panted.

I yipped.

I barked.

Then, I ultimately howled to distant moonlight as I emptied a load inside the cushioned fox rump, giving each cheek a playful smack to feel him clench tighter around me. It caused him to finally spurt out his own seed. The first climax of many that night.

Sometimes, I watched while masturbating to a nice edge. Other times, I simply listened to the fox's moans, waiting for my turn to fuck him senseless. Eventually, it became a race over who could fill enough loads into his husband.

"I win...again..." Kurt panted and boasted sleepily on the bed.

I smirked back at the bear and planted a kiss on a delirious John's forehead.

"After tomorrow's interview," I proposed, "wanna try to go for two out of three?"

"Very much so, Sebastian!" Kurt laughed.

If only I had all the time in the world to stay with my dear friends-with-benefits of Lakertown. We could have done much more together than a couple of nights fueled by sexual debauchery. More public playing with the vibrator, an illicit tryst with a fourth or fifth member somewhere in the city's parks, or perhaps a night of poppers and cooling pizza ordered between deeply intense sessions. All sounded wonderful to do for more than just a couple of days.

Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on someone's point of view, I still had other states to visit during my American road trip. Kurt and John understood, but tried insisting how I could write about my sexual experiences in each U.S. state for a potential new project. A literary monument to my hookups and the gay lads happy enough to let me fuck them in each region of the massive country.

"How about 'Twinks From Around America'?" John suggested.

"Or how about 'Twinks From Around the World' for its sequel?" Kurt snickered.

"We'll workshop it," I answered wryly. "For now, I wanna enjoy our remaining time together, my friends."

To be continued this May 15th, only on Domus Vocis' Patreon!