FSE

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The bar was half-empty, which wasn't unexpected for a weekday night. Mostly the regulars, looking around between sips of their drinks, seeing if there's any new talent around, or any new ways to make old talent interesting. That's the harder part, of course. Truth is, in a place like this, if buttsex could be compared to the normal variety we'd have the kind of inbreeding that made the Habsburgs look normal; all the regulars that fancy each other have done it so many times it's become a routine that would make Busby Berkeley weep with jealousy.

So I was sitting at the bar, nursing a third Manhattan that I didn't entirely want and didn't entirely not want, since three of those on a weekday night can be dangerous, when he walked in. There wasn't much really going for him, if you know what I mean: he was neither attractive nor unattractive, he didn't stand out and nor did he grab the attention of the room. He walked in almost apologetically, as though he knew he wanted to be there but wasn't quite sure what to do when he arrived. I've seen a few of that sort, too, often kids arriving at college for the big city, the ones that don't fling on their gay apparel and make the most of their youthful exuberabce, that is.

So there he was, edging slowly towards the bar as though he expected some authority figure to charge up, toss him out on his rear and tell his mother. I felt pleased because no-one else seemed to have noticed him yet: another thing about this kind of place is that the act of noticing tends to move like a wave, with one person starting it and the rest following suit. None of that yet, thankfully, and so the guy made it to the bar with the bare minimum of ocular molestation.

"ID?"

Hank, the barman, likes to get things settled first. I can't blame him for that: it cuts out a lot of possible misunderstandings, after all. And his memory is so good, doubtless from years of training, that he can see an ID once and remember the person that goes with it, fake or otherwise. So the guy digs around in his hip pocket, and from where I'm sitting I can se his jacket come up and expose his behind; this takes my attention for the duration of showing of ID, since to be fair it's a fair ass, round and not pert but not flabby or saggy, either, just a decent pair of buns in a decent pair of jeans.

"Okay." Now, Hank gives the guy a smile, and it's a warm one, too. Hank is genuine in all his emotions, and very easy about expressing them. "So, what'll it be?"

"Uh..." The guy looks around the bar, as though seeking inspiration. I get the feeling, and so does Hank, this is his first time in a bar; now I may be wrong, but that's the impression I had, and I'm sticking by it. His gaze lights on me, and sees the glass in my hand. With the cherry in it. Yes, I have the cherry in a Manhattan. Vitamin jokes aside, I like the cherry. I don't like it just because I'm gay. Though that maybe plays a part. Maybe. "Can I have one of those?" the guy says finally, gesturing at my glass.

"One Manhattan, coming up." Hank turns away and starts to work. The guy looks along the counter at me and I, ice cracked if not broken, have the privilege of a frank and open stare, if only for a few seconds. And so does he. What I see is a youngish Rough Collie guy, brown eyes, of medium height, medium build and, I must report, medium-looking bulge. What he sees is a slightly older bobcat, a little thinner, a little greyer around the muzzle, with, I confess, a bulge that has never elicited any complaints. There's a certain winsome, simple cuteness to him that makes me tip my head, and I don't know why. He isn't exactly my type.

Despite that, "Hi," I say. "Welcome to Ted's Place."

"Hi." His face curls into a little smile. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. I'm Cal."

"Jack."

"Nice to meet you, Jack." There's no point asking if he's new here, new in town or anything like that. If he wants to, he'll open up.

To my surprise, he moves over and stops a stool away. "Mind if I sit here?"

"Free country. For the time being." I take another sip of my drink as he sits. Hank poles up right about now and money leaves one set of paws for another, and an alcoholic beverage is given in return. Jack looks at the glass, and I swear he's nervous. Eventually he takes it, lifts and sips. The coughing fit that follows is all the answer I need to past questions and several others beside. "You okay?" I ask.

"Yes - yes," he replies, giving a sheepish grin and coughing a little more. "That was a bit stronger than I expected."

"Hank makes 'em strong, don'tcha Hank." The burly ursine behind the bar looks down at me, nods, and goes back to tidying up. "You'll get used to it. So, at the risk of being cheesy, what brings you in here?"

Maybe that one sip of Hank's extra-strong Manhattan gave the fellow a decent shot of Dutch courage since he grins. "Guys. What else?"

"Well, there's a good supply here." I take another sip of my drink, turn on the stool and study him a little more closely. He's nothing special, really he isn't, just your plain common-or-garden Rough Collie, all gold-red-and-cream fur with that cute pointed snout, fur that won't quit but brushed tidily from what I can see. He's pretty plain, really. Maybe it's boredom on my part that's getting my dick twitching. Maybe. I tell myself that and decide to go with it for now. He's not my type. "Plenty to go around."

"Really?" He looks about, ears twitching. "Seems a little quiet."

"Well, it's midweek. At the weekend, when all the kids come out to play, it gets a bit rowdier."

He nods. "I don't doubt it. So, what brings you here, Cal?"

"Ass." The word's out of my mouth before I can stop it. I have to bite down, clench my fangs hard together and hope for the best. There's a peculiar expression on Jack's face, as though he's never been exposed to quite such naked, brutal honesty in his life.

"O... kaaaaaayyyy..." A mild frown creases his brows, lingers a second or two and then is replaced by a grin. "That's pretty plain speaking, Cal. Do you do that with all the guys you try to pick up?"

Dammit, I'm blushing. I shouldn't be blushing, not here, not now. Damn my mouth, damn my dick, damn that little grin he's flashing my way, and damn, damn and thrice damn that third Manhattan. Half drunk, swaying lightly in the glass, I swear if it had a face it would be smirking, too. And I don't have a good answer for him. Hell, I barely have an answer at all. "No," I mutter, almost to myself, "not really."

Somehow he's one stool closer, and there's a soft pawhand on my arm. "Cal, I'm sorry; I didn't mean to embarrass you." Those soft brown eyes, ordinary plain brown eyes, are quite sweet up close. His breath, warm and rich from the alcohol, carries another odour, and his personal scent fills the air between us. All that fur and fluff.

"You didn't. I embarrassed myself." My voice is gruff as I try to cover my awkwardness.

"Really? Joking aside, I quite liked your honesty. If I had to pick a word, it would be 'refreshing'."

My turn to look surprised. "You're kidding."

"Not at all." He takes a sip, and so I do, too. "I mean, let's be honest: we're in a gay bar, of course we're thinking about dick and ass, tail and cock. Who takes it, who gives it; who's blatant, who's shy, who's the slut in Puritan clothing." He looks into my eyes. "Your mouth just took a short-cut, that's all."

"Some shortcut. Make that turn in some bars, you'll get a flat nose and a bruised keister, and not in the happy fun way, either."

Now he laughs. "Oh really?"

"Yeah. Friend of mine..." And I'm off, telling the tale about how Malcolm, lovely Malcolm I'd known since high school, walked into his second bar and told a cute guy he had a cute ass, and the ramifications of saying such a thing to the boyfriend of an ungentlemanly gentleman with somewhat of a possessive streak. "... So let's just say he didn't get much of anything for the next week or three."

"Good grief." His face hovered somewhere between disbelief, concern and amusement. I'd've just gone for all three.

"Nothin' good about it, I'll tell you." Somewhere along the line my glass had got emptied and I knew that a fourth, of anything, was going to be a bad idea. The clock behind the bar read a depressing hour and I had to teach rather earlier than I'd like. "Damn. I'm sorry, Jack, I have to go."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Cal. I was looking forward to you sucking my dick and then giving me a good fucking."

I grin, slowly. Stand. Glance into his glass: it's empty. Of course. "That's pretty plain speaking, Jack." His eyes gleam as he looks up at me. Somewhere along the line that plainness has become attractiveness, his honesty a panacaea for all the dancing and ducking and diving we regulars do. "Do you do that with all the guys you try to pick up?"

Slowly he rises, and I find to my pleasure that we're about the same height. "Only those who can appreciate it." God knows what he sees in this slightly-past-his-best kitty, but I'm not knocking it.

"I have a car."

"You're pissed. We'll take mine."

So we did, and later we took each other. And, to be plain, it was fucking incredible.