Warmer Climes
A friendship between two straight canines threatens to spill over into something else when one of them unwittingly falls for the other. What is the right thing to do? What can they do?
A friendship between two straight canines threatens to spill over into something else when one of them unwittingly falls for the other. What is the right thing to do? What can they do?
I wanted to pen something introspective in my own style. There's a tiny bit of smut, but that's not the main thrust.
"Warmer Climes," by Max Coyote
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A mighty oak arises from a tiny acorn; a mustard plant, from a still-smaller kernel -- but however miniscule, we can look back to that seed as the start of something new. Thus it is in the natural world. In the same fashion, works created by the hand of man have a beginning we can point to: did the great pyramids of the pharoahs not begin with laying the first stone? But what of the_thoughts_ of man? The_feelings_ of man? Can we trace the origins of affection between two disjunct people?
I will attempt it. Perhaps the telling will come easier for me than some -- perhaps.
* * *
I met the dog a decade earlier, when we were both fresh graduates, though_met_ may be an overstatement. Our first contact was a brief letter, written from one young researcher to another, that I sent with the hopes of encouraging a certain Misha Fyorodov to continue his studies on the indigenous canines of the Arctic tribes. I didn't know him from Adam -- I knew_of_ the Malinois only through what he had written, in this case a detailed, gripping account of his efforts to capture the tribes' oral history before their narrative passed out of this world, a victim of rapid post-contact modernisation. Our field of study overlapped, though just barely -- we both worked in the Arctic, he an anthropologist while I documented the lifecycle of various seabirds native to the boreal climes -- and thus I came across his journal article in The Pole Star (Where Arctic Adventures Come True!), published quarterly by the Explorers League.
At the time I wrote the letter to Misha, my aim was quite simple, quite selfish. Researchers, particularly those that publish, are very feedback-driven creatures. While the article had touched me deeply, more than it had any right to, I mainly wanted to join the voices of other researchers (who, no doubt, were likewise writing him small letters of support) in reassuring the Malinois that he had reached an interested audience. This reassurance, I hoped, would increase the likelihood that he wrote more on the topic. He did. I don't recall if I ever got a reply to that first letter, but it mattered not, since I received what I had aimed for -- Misha published several more articles on the trials and tribulations of the native Arctic canines.
Then he disappeared, or at least ceased actively publishing in the world of Arctic exploration. I noted his absence, but only superficially, and scarcely gave a thought in passing -- there were many researchers whose work I followed in The Pole Star and other journals.
Several years passed by; in that time I had abandoned seabird research, moved to a more temperate zone of the world, returned to university, and taken up a new career more suited to a hands-on Alsatian dog like myself: civil engineering. I left the Arctic for good and fully embraced the effort to reinvent my life, even going so far as to legally abandon my birth name. I adopted the name Roland, for reasons of my own.
I settled into the routine of my new career, finding it suited me quite well. Relaxing at home after work, I found myself flipping through the latest issue of Science Frontiers, a sort of general-interest scientific journal. Not for the first time, I debated whether to cancel my subscription. Idly turning each page, not really paying attention, I stumbled on an anthropology article titled, "Canine Social Interaction in Enclosed Quarters," namely, in elevators. The author's name was unfamiliar.
But it was him. Misha.
Before having finished half the article, I suspected; by the end, I was certain. The author's choice of words, his distinctive conversational tone -- it was unmistakable to me. Apparently Misha, or as he styled himself now,Mikhail Petrovsky, had had a career and name change as well. I was a little surprised at myself -- surprised that I had casually seen through the pseudonym of a scientist working in another field, whom I scarcely knew and hadn't thought of in years, but I did not dwell on this. I swiftly penned a letter to Mikhail, addressing it to his new alias. I kept my note short, and despite my certainty, I felt some degree of caginess was appropriate -- I simply asked if he knew a fellow by the name of_Misha Fyorodov_, then suggested Mikhail might like to peruse Misha's writing.
He replied to me the next day.
Mikhail confirmed without hesitation that he had indeed formerly been known as_Misha_ and inquired good-naturedly how I had sniffed him out. We exchanged a further round of letters on that topic before falling silent. As the months rolled by, I maintained my subscription to Science Frontiers. Mikhail continued to write articles there under his new name; in response, I periodically sent small letters of encouragement. It was a tidy, arms-length arrangement, not so different from the relationship I had with any of the other journal authors with whom I exchanged correspondence. He lived his life, a continent away, and I lived mine.
Then, one day, quite unexpectedly, Mikhail suggested I might visit him at one of the many scientific conventions he attended each year. In particular, there was one convention to be held the following month -- and it was only a few hours' travel from my research station. I agreed with some trepidation. I didn't know Mikhail, really, and the convention was geared more towards the social sciences. What would an engineer do there?
The day came and I found myself at the convention, anxious to meet Mikhail. It would be inaccurate to say we became best friends straight away -- he was a strange fellow, more strange than I had anticipated, displaying a curious mix of genius and ineptitude, confidence and hesitation. Over the course of the next few days we had several occasions to philosophize on our shared interests and the world at large, which I enjoyed greatly, even if the convention itself was lackluster and uninspiring. In person, Mikhail displayed the same thoughtfulness and insight shown in his writing. Still, I didn't know what to make of him, and as the convention drew to a close, I thought perhaps it would be no great loss if our paths did not cross again.
Our careers next kept us both busy for nearly a year. In the intervening time, Mikhail continued his prodigious writing output in the anthropological journals -- while I, as a practicing engineer, had little occasion, and less inclination, to publish in scientific journals. We exchanged a few trifling letters in which I commented on his publications.
I was surprised when Mikhail once again invited me to a convention, a different one, much larger than the last. As before, this convention was closely situated to me -- I had just recently taken a new job that placed me only an hour's journey away. I had no reason to decline his offer, and in any case, I found it easy to recall the past through rose-colored glasses, forgetting the ambivalence I previously felt. I accepted the invitation.
Arriving at the convention, I scarcely recognized Mikhail -- the Malinois had lost a significant quantity of weight and was now a trim, short dog, rather like myself (not_all_ Alsatians are tall and strapping). With the benefit of hindsight, I can recognize this as the moment I first began to look at Mik in a slightly different light. I did not realize it at the time -- I had never had eyes for another man, nor had Mikhail -- neither of us were tail-chasers. Still, there seemed to be a slight tension between us each night -- or did I just imagine it? -- when we climbed into our separate beds, sharing a room at the local inn.
No matter. The energy of the crowded convention hall was infectious, and each day I found myself less inhibited, less restrained than before. For the first time, I genuinely enjoyed the experience and it was obvious Mikhail did as well. I did not dwell on any latent tension between us, real or imagined. We parted company in good spirits.
Less than six months later, it was_my_ suggestion that brought us together that summer. We had planned a two-week jungle safari in the Akkhanian wilderness. I was to be the guide, having done some fieldwork there in the past.
Mikhail arrived first, tasked with procuring transportation for our safari. We made arrangements for him to meet my ship once it arrived in port. Standing on the deck, eager to disembark, I spotted a slim, tawny figure waiting on the dock, waving. Ears perked, I strained to hear his greeting, a sudden, unexpected elation welling inside me. My tail wagged uncontrollably; I had_missed_him.
Making my way down the gangplank to the dock, we shared a friendly embrace between men and hastened on our journey. We had many miles to cover and made good time that night, stopping only to refuel our conveyance. Over the next two weeks, our safari was, by all accounts, a success. Clichéd as it may be, there are few better ways of getting to know a man than discussions over a campfire in the wilderness. Each night, I found myself opening up to Mikhail in ways I had not with any other person -- I felt comfortable expressing thoughts never before given voice. In turn, as Mikhail gave his own story, it struck me how much we resembled each other in our flaws and strengths, interests and dislikes. To be sure, we had differences in opinion and experience -- but those differences inspired fascination, not hindrance. Above all there was a sense of understanding between us, even where we did not share the same vision. That two people could share such a peculiar mix of traits -- I had never known the like.
During the day, the tension that had lurked in the background was now much closer to the surface, for me, at least. The thought of romance with another...man, with Mikhail, was unsettling, but I was beginning to make peace with it -- can we control who attracts us? Should we? How many chances does a man have in a lifetime? Some more than others, to be sure.
Let come what may.
* * *
It was near the end of our safari that I could remain passive no longer. The day had started off overcast; rain threatened constantly during our travel that morning. Our spirits were dulled, having canceled some of the day's planned events as a precaution. Shortly after noon, making our way down a gentle mountain slope, we were surprised to find a window of sunshine illuminating the terrain, the distant landscape all around us still obscured by gray rainclouds. Eager for an opportunity to explore the area, we dismounted and wandered around on foot, examining the gullies where flowing water might expose something interesting. On a day like that we would have been happy to find Akkhanian artifacts, spot a rare lizard, or simply pick up colorful rocks. Unexpectedly, we succeeded on all counts. Several hours later, feeling accomplished, we began to make our way back to the trail, hoping to travel to a more suitable campsite before nightfall.
Having nearly regained the trail, pleasantly warm from our hike and our continued good fortune with the sun, I gathered my courage to say what had been on the tip of my tongue since the day I arrived.
"Mik, is there a...tension between us? Am I just imagining it?"
"I-- I don't know what you mean."
"I think there is -- I felt it months ago, last time we met. Mik, we both like women, right? But, have you ever considered fooling around with a man? With me?"
I felt guilty for raising the topic. I worried I might too easily push Mikhail, who had submissive tendencies, into something he wasn't comfortable with. But I_wanted_ this -- wanted to see him naked before me, with a fierce surety that set my heart pounding.
Cautiously, Mikhail admitted, "I have...thought about it. It's an experience I...should be open to. I would like to be open to."
"I've never done this before, Mik. No one has ever seen me naked. No one. I'd like -- I'd like to share that with you. Sit down with me?"
Someone had to go first. I sat down on a fallen log and pulled down my trousers. My sheath began to stir in the open air, my arousal increasing unbidden. Mikhail sat next to me tentatively and began to remove his leggings -- I could not tell if shyness stayed his hand, or_reluctance_. I hoped it was not the latter -- hoped, as I watched eagerly. I had not wanted anything more in my life, and I wanted Mikhail to want this. What did that mean for me? What did that make me? I resolved not to think about it, not now.
"Have you ever masturbated outdoors, in the sun, Mik? I...sometimes do that. Feels good down there, doesn't it?"
"No, I haven't -- it does. It does feel nice."
Glancing over at the Malinois' lap, I watched as his red, veiny dog cock crawled from its sheath, contrasting nicely with his cream belly fur. My own red rocket surged forward, spurred on by the sight. My mental track was nearly wholly occupied by a single thought, a shameful obsession. _What if he's larger than me? What if he's smaller than me? What if, what if? _I was so keyed up, either outcome held equal allure for me. I_had_to know.
I was rock hard by now, which Mikhail pointed out.
"That's...that's very respectable, Roland." Mikhail had reached a firm erection as well.
"Is it?" I stood up and motioned for him to do the same. "Can I touch it? Can I touch you?"
"Sure."
Standing facing him, I moved nearer. Placing our shafts side-by-side so that the tip rubbed against our stomach fur, leaving wet trails of precum, it was clear we were nearly identical in size -- like us in so many respects.
We spent nearly an hour on the hillside, bathed in afternoon sun as we inspected each other's_respectable_ doghood, experimenting with frotting and handjobs, before at last we took turns finishing off in each other's muzzle. Despite the pleasant breeze, we had become a sweaty mess.
Mikhail and I made our way back to the trail rather later than we had hoped, but were able to reach the next campsite before dark. In the final days of our safari, we got together several more times -- always at my suggestion. I felt guilty each time for having initiated. What did it mean? Did it mean anything that Mikhail never came to me with his urges?
We returned to civilization after our tour in the wilderness to spend a few days recovering. It had been...pleasant dreaming that we were a couple, though I hid this from Mikhail, not wanting to burden him. My father, a wise old dog, had warned me as a teenager, "Son, don't fall for the first woman you fuck." No, I had fallen for the first_man_. I felt foolish. I had promised myself as a teenager that I would not let this happen, and had mentally renewed that vow prior to messing around with Mikhail, but here I was. I appreciated the sentiment my old man was trying to convey, I really did, but wanted to believe this situation was somehow different.
Eventually our time together drew to a close; we each had to return to our work on separate continents, leading very separate lives. As each time before, we parted in good spirits, though neither of us was entirely dry-eyed as we said our farewells.
Settled again in our homelands, we wrote each other more frequently now and on more diverse and personal topics. Sharing that intellectual and brief physical intimacy with the little Belgian dog had been addictive. Mikhail had a uniquely beautiful mind. That's what drew me to him, and I hoped he felt similarly. I had never before found someone whom I was so...hungry to tie my fate to. After our safari, I told myself I could love someone regardless of their gender, a trait which I had previously doubted in myself. I wanted to believe I had found someone.
But had I really?
In our continued correspondence, the Malinois made it clear to me, tactfully and compassionately, that he was not certain he could be romantically invested in another man. Spurned, I wanted to hate Mikhail, to resent him. But I could not. I could not. I tried -- anger usually came easily to me. Why couldn't I turn this into rage?
I admit I had my own misgivings, though perhaps not to the same extent. Were we ideal for each other? Hardly. Is anyone? Was it only gender holding us back? If one of us had been born a woman, what would have stood between us? God only knows.
He and I have many years left on this earth. When we are old dogs, standing at the end of our life, will we reflect on what might have been, and look back with regret?
Let come what may.