Love, or Something Like It
UNEDITED, UN-NITPICKED, UNPOLISHED...FICTION AT ITS MOST RAW.
Love, or Something Like It (c)2008 Whyte Yote
Inspired by doodles by Kyell Gold and K.M. Hirosaki
Based loosely off a drawing created by Nduli
FEEDBACK always welcome to: [email protected]
So...
Here I am, standing in front of a familiar club in a familiar part of town with a familiar outfit clinging tightly to my body, wishing it all was a little less familiar. Been a long time since I had a Saturday night by myself. I couldn't think of anything better to do. Couldn't stop thinking about dancing. Couldn't stop thinking about you. But that's why I'm here, isn't it? To just stop...thinking?
I wish I had stopped by Shelley's place for some drugs. Maybe then the music wouldn't seem so loud, so gauche. I can't believe how quickly I grew away from the scene; you'd think in Palm Springs it would be ingrained in every fag's genes. Monogamy does strange things to people. But you wouldn't know that, would you, because during our year of being togethers and moving in togethers and having sex togethers there was no real together at all. Because you were together without me. And drove me to stand outside the door of this club, loathe to enter but afraid to walk away.
Shelley's number's right there...*666 because he's a hardcore satanist but I don't judge because look at me, a twinkboi rat in a baggy polo and jeans that hide a mesh tanktop and patent-leather capris because he's too insecure to go around town looking like a whore and getting beat up by the first gang of Dobermans that walks by. I twirl my cell phone inside my pocket, its smooth, painted, artificial surface _click-clack_ing off my claws, claws on which I spend hundreds to maintain. I could dial it without looking, I've done it so many times before.
And I do it anyway. Before I can regret it. Four rings. Five. Six. He must be stoned or passed out. I kill the call and shove my Bluetooth into my pocket with the phone, scratching at the piercings in my left ear. The ones you did. I like them too much to let them heal. I've changed the studs, though, just like you changed studs on me.
"Fuck it." One stiff arm in front of me and I'm inside, engulfed, deafened and instantly heartened. They've got the same DJ as always, some impossibly thin, impossibly energetic fox with a sunvisor and yellow goggles who spins vinyl with his claws. He rules the dance floor from on high, his own personal box above the din. Past the bar, past the tables, past couples and wallflowers and even the sexy wolf with the ponytail in the corner, my hips leading the way, I'm dancing even before I hit the floor.
Music is inside of me. The fox is inside of me, thrumping and buzzing about, vibrating the fur in my ears and around my tail. For once, you're gone, and though I'm completely sober I might as well have stopped by Shelley's and done three or four lines. I don't have to think about the tiger you fucked in the back of your Mustang. I don't have to think about the husky who fucked you in our bed while I went to see Bolt alone because you said it was for cubs (I can smell better than you think, you know). I don't have to think about you, back in our apartment, nuzzling your snout up under some other guy's tail and sliding your tongue halfway to his stomach because that sexy wolf in the corner with the ponytail has been staring at me for the past two songs and he's making pretty obvious eye contact.
He's licking his lips. He's hungry like the wolf. Like the dance mix I'm gyrating to right this minute. I'm prey, big boy. I'm easy. I'm yours. I know you're stalking me. Make the kill...make the fucking kill. Deliver me from my own evil thoughts.
I twirl my tail and he grabs his crotch. I smile and he squeezes his fly. Hook, line and sinker. I've still got it. Pretty unmistakable in this kind of atmosphere. So I'm not surprised when I look up and he's gone, sidled up behind me through the throng of bodies and scents to lay two purposeful paws on my shoulders and whisper in my ear, "Let's go outside." He dances right behind me, pressed up close so his hardon is hard to miss. I grind back against him and he takes my paw, practically jerking me toward the rear exit. He knows the game.
You could take lessons from me. I'm better at it than you are. I bet I could at least hide my indiscretions.
The wolf's older than me, but not too old for the club scene, and definitely not too old too look bad. Out of the club lights, he's got a grey tint with black hair, dark green shirt under brown leather vest and jeans. Older chic, but still nice. Bet he knows how to treat a guy. At least he knows how to skip preliminaries; once we're out of the door his mouth is over mine, pressing me against the bricks, paws up and down and everywhere in between. He can do anything he wants to me; he's paying attention and that's all I want. He would care if I walked away.
Neither of us really cares much about surreptition here in this dark back alley, behind a rusty green Dumpster amid boxes and puddles. I've got his cock out in no time, pinching behind the knot and getting a nice baritone moan in return. He busies himself grinding against my belly while I strip below the waist, smiling into the kiss as I realize I was too tempting to pass up, even in baggy clothes. Wasn't it at this same club that we met not so long ago, and you later told me I wasn't slutty enough, that you took a chance on a "mundane" guy like me?
"Turn around," Mr. Wolf breathes into my nose, actually making eye contact. I like to see that feral look, the look that says nothing can get in the way of a canine and his dinner without consequences. I go against the wall, and his heavy length slimes its way up my crack, nudging against my tail, making me hiss and splay my legs. I hear him spitting into his paw, then his pads slide around my hole. The alley is open at both ends; anyone walking by could see if they really tried. If they were good, I'd let them watch. Hell, I'd let them take seconds if they happened to be short on scruples. I've got two lupine fingers up in me, and I could fit a lot more than that.
His knees spread my own, and just like that his tip breaches me in a way you haven't been able to do since the first week you used me as your own personal fucktoy. Wolves produce the slickest saliva! I'm sure his pre's helping things along, but as long as it keeps filling me I don't care. I can feel again, this wolf's very existence hinges on my presence, and I feel special in the worst way possible but I'd rather feel special than not feel anything at all.
The guy knows enough to be silent, but it's hard, though, to keep quiet when you've got a thick piece of wolfmeat up your hole. Once he settles into a rhythm, it's like coming home to the nice, warm, familiar place where you feel most like yourself and where you don't have to worry about dealing with assholes and vague duplicitous relationships. I've got a relationship right here, and it's getting ready to seed me in a dirty alley behind a club I didn't want to enter in the first place.
I'm exactly where I want to be. Can you say the same?
FIN
11/30/08