FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

"All right, guys, one round on me, and then we're off to the movies, whadda ya say?"

There's nothing quite as difficult as trying to keep up the morale of the morally impaired, and as much as I loved my friends, they were about as hopeless as it gets. Both of them were bemoaning a recent breakup, and as we took our seat at O'Fillion's, it was clear that they weren't going to make it easy for me to boost their spirits (jokes about alcoholic beverages notwithstanding). I can't say that their situations were entirely their fault, but their attitudes and activities didn't help them much.

Take Roland, for a start. That fox is far from stupid, in any ordinary circumstance, but he gets himself a whiff of a female looking to start something, and he'll fall muzzle-first into whatever part of her body she shows to him first. His brain is wired to catch any ride on the Pheromone Express, and he usually starts off in the first car out of any convenient station, slipping deep into the tunnel before you can say "All aboard!" Sadly for him, this also usually creates a complete disconnect of his higher brain functions, such as the ones that remember previously-scheduled dates, established plans, and locking his own front door in the event of visitors. Or worse, in this latest case, forgetting that he'd given her a key to his flat.

In a way, Lucien was no better, although he (contrary to stereotype) wasn't the least bit promiscuous. Easily swayed by a reasonably decent male, perhaps, but not a wanton. Tall, lean, well-formed, always stylish, the Morgan stallion was a Chippendale's wet dream. He fell into a category of sexuality that I could never quite fathom. The male was hung like a... well, I mean, he really_is_ a stallion, and there was nothing the least bit fake about that never-flagging bulge in his designer jeans. However, no matter how gay he was, that frequently sought-after Holy Grail was not now, nor had it ever been, a fanny-bandit. His hind-hooves might as well have had helium balloons on them, his tail raised higher than anything on a flagpole ever was. This did not make him a bad furson in any way; it just never quite made sense to me. It was rather like someone being equipped with a diesel locomotive but only wanting to be the tunnel for someone else's trolley.

I'm the odd-fur-out in this trio, in some ways. I consider myself "straight," not even "bi-curious," yet I never had the predatory appetite that made Roland a cliché among males in general and foxes in particular, and still further, I shared with Lucien a never-ending love affair of the same music, movies, books, stage productions, and all the rest of the interests that are presumably the realm of gay males. Some genius came up with the term "metrosexual," which confused the hell out of me. I mean, where on the Kinsey scale or in the Masters & Johnson manual does it say that a straight guy can't like show tunes? I'm a sucker for Sondheim, but that doesn't mean that I want to suck Sondheim (which, as is well known within and without the theater world, he might not object to). I'm a rabbit, which carries its own sexual stigma that I've worked years to overcome - please, no puns. I'm straight, I don't try to hump every female that has a proper pulse, I don't pop off in mere seconds, and despite the lop ears and slight build, I'm really not interested in being any male's anything. Roland and Lucien are my friends, and neither is a friend with benefits (much to "Miss Lucy's" disappointment, although I can't imagine why; I've nothing to brag about, somewhere between "lacking" and "packing").

The three of us found a convenient table at our usual bar. Lest I give you the wrong impression, let me amend that statement on a few points. For one thing, we don't really have a "usual bar," in the sense that we go out boozing on a regular basis. Like tonight, we might meet to imbibe a single cocktail before pursuing other activities, singly or as a group. More than that, O'Fillion's isn't a "usual bar." It's probably the only place in the city where there's not the slightest bit of territoriality of one gender, sexual preference, dress, species, or general size and shape over any other. It's an equal opportunity boozer. No one makes any assumptions about anyone else, and the only coin of the social realm is mutual respect. If you're not interested, say so politely, and all is well; persist beyond your welcome, and one of several preternaturally intimidating bouncers will show you a new way to define the word "relocation." They rarely break anything important, but there's certainly no shortage of rumor to the contrary, since it helps keep things orderly. This is a variation of the "gram of prevention" being worth "a kilo of cure" adage, and it seemed to be working just fine, thanks. And quite aside from all that, the owner, Nate, is a friend of ours who treats all his guests with the attitude of his tavern freehold being our castle.

"Who's got the movie listings?" I asked.

Despite being more depressed than a pawful of drama queens, Lucien took the prompt, rattled off a half-dozen current titles, and noted the summer film festival that the local theater had when it took time off from its live plays for a much-needed break. "It's Bette Davis week," he moaned, "and I'm hardly in the mood to enjoy it."

"Betty Who?" Roland asked. I'd have smacked him, but I had had my paws full keeping Lucien from actually doing it.

"Philistine!" declared the stallion, nostrils flaring.

"Betty Page, now that's a name I know."

"You don't know her name; you know her tits."

"Given the chance."

"She died in 2008, Roland; you blew your chance."

The fox looked at me faintly dumbfounded. "How can you carry that kind of crap around in your head and still be a normal male?"

"What's Betty Page's bra size?"

"34B."

"The defense rests." I turned to Lucien to discover that, to judge by his eyes, he'd just become a metaphorical deer, and someone in the room had become headlights. I knew that look, even though I couldn't quite tell who it was trained on. "Lucien," I said as gently as I could, "calm down, you'll be okay, just don't--"

"He looks... like..."

"Lucien," I pressed a forepaw to his arm, "easy, it's okay, just--"

"...like...!"

Too late. I braced myself.

"PEEEEEEETER!" the stallion whinnied loudly, painfully, throwing his head back and letting the entire length of his impressive throat get involved in the sound. Fully two-thirds of the bar had stopped whatever they might have been doing, pretending to do, or wanting to do, heads pivoting toward the truly remarkable display of agony centered around one of the few males' names that was inherently its own dick joke. I made a show of slapping the horse's solid back several times.

"That's right, cough it out," I called out above the sound. "Probably just a bit of pretzel; it'll come out all right, that's the way." I glanced quickly around to see if even one of the patrons bought that line. I was just as glad I'd not made book on it. I smiled reassuringly at them, still patting Lucien on his back as he finally dipped his great head, burying his muzzle in his forepaws and making an increasingly impressive show of his sobbing. "Good lad," I said, all too boisterously myself. "Close thing, that. Just breathe easy, you'll feel better soon."

A svelte serval feline stepped up to our table, her eyes wide with concern. "Is your friend all right?"

"He's all right," Roland cut in ahead of me, "but you're downright fine."

The feline looked at the fox, her face appearing confused by the response, and wouldn't you know that he took that moment to try flipping on his best Open All Night smile. To her credit, the serval didn't even bother to register it, instead squatting to her haunches near Lucien, a concerned forepaw to his shoulder. "Are you going to be okay?" she asked softly.

Happily, our mournful Morgan at least managed to acknowledge her and choke out something close to, "I'll be okay." There was no way that he could begin to hide that he'd been crying, and I was still debating whether or not to go back to the choking-on-the-pretzel story when the feline actually took the stallion's head into her forepaws and pet his mane softly.

"Who was he?" she asked.

"No one you'd know," the fox said quickly. "I'm Roland, by the way..."

From the look that she tossed the vulpine, this bar would never have to worry about needing a back-up ice-maker. She caressed Lucien's cheek with a tenderness that, I had to admit, I wouldn't have minded experiencing myself. He cast his watery gaze at her and managed to say, "Peter. His name was Peter."

"Well, he's a jerk," she said with some finality. Tenderly, she patted at the tears on the stallion's cheek with a few clean napkins, then kissed his muzzle, quite chastely. "Don't you give him another thought. If he couldn't see what a great prize he had in his paws, then he doesn't deserve to find anyone near as wonderful as you. Now, how about I get you a drink on the house? Just one, though. You don't want to get soppy on a night like this."

"Thank you," Lucien managed to smile a little. "Grasshopper?" he asked, a little shyly. "Weak on the alcohol."

"Good choice," the serval smiled back at him.

"Sex on the Beach," Roland announced, smiling. "At least until it can be taken elsewhere."

Our waitress switched on the ice-machine stare once more, then turned kinder eyes to me. "I guess I'm sort of the Designated Responsible Adult in the audience tonight," I said. "How about a second weak Grasshopper? I promise to have only one as well."

"I'll take as much Sex as you're willing to bring, doll." The fox smiled as if he'd actually said something clever. I physically cringed, partly because of the horrifying nature of the line, and partly because I actually thought that she'd slap his muzzle into next week and leave his tail in the chair, wondering where the rest of him had got to. Happily, the serval had far more poise than to resort to physical violence. She leaned in close to Roland and said, "You know what I love to do on the beach?"

"What's that?"

"Pound sand up a fox hole."

She rose fluidly and went to place our orders as the white-tipped foxtail bristled somewhat at the image that she had put into his head. What surprised me most was that he actually seemed to mull over the idea briefly, a strange look in his eye and a lower lip pushed out with the odd sense of forming a mental picture which I, truthfully, did not even want to consider.

I was glad to note that, whoever it was that had sent Lucien into his crying fit over his long lost Peter (you should pardon the expression), the fur in question was no longer in view. Miss Lucy was clearly still in her cups, even though our weak Grasshoppers hadn't been delivered yet, but at least the Morgan wasn't openly weeping. I'd no wish to be cruel to either of my friends, but it was difficult trying to get them both to deal with their breakups in some way that would help each of us be there for the other. Lucien's answer was a crying scene worthy of Sarah Bernhardt coming into the home stretch of an on-stage revival of_Camille._

Meanwhile, it was clear that Roland had set his sights for our waitress, and he was going for the heavy artillery. He brought out a fur brush from who-knew-where and began to primp his foxy fur in ways usually reserved for the females of the species. He also rearranged things in his shirt pocket to make sure that the outline of a condom packet was quite visible to any who cast the slightest glance in his direction. Worse still, it was clear from the outline that said condom was one of those designed for canines, so that the swelling knot would be covered in case matters got that far. Even non-canine species would flaunt them, with the implication that their particular equipment was sufficient to require the extra coverage, not to mention that their orgasmic output was sufficiently copious to spawn an entire cricket team at one go. Frankly, even Lucien didn't need that style of coverage, not that he was likely to need it for that particular sort of preventative precaution anyway.

"Her pants are on fire for me, boys," the fox declared. "I won't go home alone tonight."

"No," I agreed. "We'll probably have to escort you there just so you don't fall snout-first to the pavement when you arrive."

The subtlety was lost on Roland as he looked around the bar as if searching for a something -- probably a back-up, in case his wiles really were lost on the serval. If there were some sort of award for an over-aged Boy Scout being prepared, the vulpine was certainly in the running; he seemed ready for just about anything. I wondered if there such a thing as a demerit badge.

"So, who wants Sex on the Beach?"

I looked up, surprised by the impressively deep baritone of the voice, and I was even more surprised by who had provided it. From my vantage point, the bull seemed to be two and a half meters tall, although I wagered he was merely a good 20cm or so over the two-meter mark. His hide was a shaggy dark caramel that was greatly revealed through the livery -- or lack thereof -- that branded him as one of O'Fillion's bartenders. He was shirtless, to begin with, and the long, thick curls of his coat spilled out with exceptional enthusiasm. White linen cuffs, well-starched, were clipped together just above each massive forepaw by distinctive, elegant onyx cufflinks, and an equally well-starched white collar hovered, elegantly bow-tied, above a particularly low-cut wine-colored vest, all of this garb floating above well-tailored and spectacularly revealing black slacks. (I might be straight, but only a blind eunuch with clogged sinuses could have ignored the well-sculpted glutes and impressive package within such close range.) In an effortless and elegant move, he brought the round serving tray down like a flying saucer on silent magneto-drive engines. He seemed to know exactly who the drink was for, because he used his other forepaw to collect the drink and present it to Roland with a single, smooth, elegant motion, proffering it to the confounded vulpine with a world-class leer on his muzzle.

"Uh..." said the fox eloquently. "That's me, thanks."

"I could have guessed," the bartender practically purred. "I saw you over here and made a very special one, just for you. After all, I don't give out my best Sex... on the Beach to just anyone."

Roland attempted gamely to accept the drink, glancing at it cautiously, perhaps to see if any unasked-for garnish had been added. The bartender set the first of the two Grasshoppers gently in front of Lucien, who smiled softly in gratitude; neither seemed to wish to flirt with the other, which confused me just for a moment. As he set down my own Grasshopper, the massive bull gave me the slightest wink, without a hint of flirtation about it, and I began to get the idea. He then turned back to Roland.

"If you need any more Sex," the bull all but whispered, leaning in close to the fox, "just send up a call for Randy." He chuckled low in his throat as he said, "Lucky guys get to call me Sir."

In an astonishing display of balletic grace, the massively-muscled mixologist shimmered away, his hooves making barely a sound. Nearly half of Roland's drink seemed to dash down his throat, to be followed by a tough swallow, a surprised cough, and an attempt by his eyebrows to fly off his forehead. The concoction, it appeared, was more stout than expected; from the pale color, I'd guess that it contained more vodka than the ordinary recipe called for. To disguise the smirk on my muzzle, I sampled my own drink, finding it wonderfully chilled and, as requested, light on the alcohol. It was like a very gently spiked mint milkshake. Perfect.

Roland was still trying to get his breath back when the serval cat padded up to us again, moving to stand next to Lucien. "How's that drink, hon?"

"It's good, thank you." The Morgan looked at the feline with an affectionate look in his eye that he didn't usually reserve for females. "You're very kind."

"And I know just what kind," Roland attempted, his voice a little raw and not entirely steady at this point. It wasn't one of his better lines, and not one of the three of us bothered even to acknowledge him.

"I'm Samantha," the waitress said softly, "or just Sam."

"Lucien. Or Lucy." He managed a small grin for the female that seemed to do wonders for both of them.

"And I'm Roland," our fox added, "as in roll-in-the-hay." Strike two, in my estimation.

Sam stroked Miss Lucy's neck again, just sweetly, nothing inappropriate about it, and looked over to me.

"Max," I provided, a friendly, non-predatory sort of smile, although I've not heard of too many predatory rabbits. Well, okay, not in the sense of actually stalking and consuming something ambulatory. I'll admit that I've terrorized my share of carrot patches in my time.

She nodded at me, smiling. "What brings you all out tonight?"

"Must have been you," Roland persisted. "I can hear you crying out from across town."

"Crying is the right word," the serval shot back, aaaaaand yer out. Lucien managed to cover a smirk about a half-second too late, and our lady cat turned back to him with a smile. "You didn't actually come in here to drown your sorrows, did you?"

"We were going to go see a movie," the Morgan said, unsure if he thought that would still be a good idea or not.

"Wow, that sounds great. Which one?" And she then proceeded to rattle off Lucien's list, adding one that he'd somehow managed to miss.

"When did that come out?" he asked.

"Last weekend. I haven't seen it yet. I was thinking about going to see it after my shift tonight. Would you like some company?"

"I sure would!" Roland piped up, as I was afraid he would.

"That sounds like a great idea."

The fox nearly jumped out of his fur, as did I. I have no idea how such a huge, shaggy bull could walk so quietly on his hooves. It was as if he had appeared from nowhere to stand directly behind Roland's chair, his impressively-muscled arm reaching around to place another drink in front of the frightened vulpine.

"Some extra-special Sex for you," the great bovine nearly purred. "And I'd love to go see that film with you after my shift is done. You could sit on my lap before the show, and we can talk about whatever happens to pop up."

Sitting across from the fox, Lucien had the best seat in the house to see the interplay. He did his best to stifle a snort, while Sam stood behind him, forepaws on his shoulders in an almost protective fashion. She was enjoying a smirk herself, and I have to admit, it was all I could do to keep my face (you should pardon the expression) straight. The opportunity was too good to pass up, and as Miss Lucy seemed faintly preoccupied, I looked at the bartender and observed, "I'm sure it's a subject large enough to be spoken of at... great length."

Randy favored me with a grin. "I think it fair to say that it might set tongues wagging."

"Or tails?"

"Oh, most certainly." He leaned in close to Roland's head and delivered the coup d'gras. "Most of my favorite guys find it to be a deeply penetrating topic."

"I gotta hit the loo," the fox squeaked, oozing from his chair as if made of something even more fluid than vulpines usually are. He headed in the direction of the males' room with a speed that might be difficult to register even on the most sophisticated of speed-detection devices. I feel fairly sure that he exceeded the speed of sound, as there were was no apparent acknowledgement of the laughter from around the table.

"Thanks, Randy," Samantha acknowledged. "I wasn't really in any danger, but it's so much easier not to have to resort to an actual slap to a customer's muzzle."

"Like I always say," the great bull grinned, "why break a fur's kneecaps when you can mess with his mind?"

"Words of wisdom," I agreed. "Think I heard that on_The Equalizer_ once."

"An Edward Woodward fan?" the bartender asked, his eyebrows raising toward his hairline.

"Got all four seasons at home."

"I can attest to that," Lucian grinned. The Morgan was in much better spirits, and not for the mild amount of spirits in his drink.

"So, Miss Lucy," the serval patted his shoulders gently. "I get off shift shortly, and I'd rather not be here when the not-so-fantastic Mr. Fox gets back. How'd you like to go see a movie?"

"Are you asking me on a date?"

"Your reputation is safe, girlfriend. You can tell everyone that you and Sam went out to a movie. Besides," she smiled back at him, "it's really just Girls Night Out. We can see a great movie, go for a snack afterwards, and bitch about how horrible guys really are."

"Gee, thanks," Randy huffed through a smile of his own.

"Present company excepted," Lucian assured us. "I'd love to. Max, don't think I'm ditching you..."

"Lucien, my dear, my entire purpose tonight was to try to boost morale, and I think Samantha here is just what the doctor ordered." I gave them my most beneficent royal wave. "Go forth and be happy. Just be sure to get back to me with the best bits of bitchery; I can always use creative new insults to add to my vocabulary."

Rising to his hooves, my friendly Morgan leaned over and kissed my cheek, which only caused me to grin (partly, I admit, because those supple, velvety lips tickle a bit against my long whiskers). "You're the best, Max. Thank you." And with that, he chivalrously looped his arm around Samantha's, and the two set off to prepare themselves for what I suspected was going to be a great night for them both.

"Well," I said to the bartender, "that's Miss Lucy settled."

"You sure he's gay?" Randy asked.

"Absolutely. Sam's perfectly safe."

"Not why I asked."

I had to smile. "Did you want me to pass along your phone number?"

"Unless you want to give me yours."

I truly hate being a cliché, especially when it involves my ears, but species instinct reacts quickly. I could feel them bolt straight up even as I tried to keep the rest of me (with one important exception) from stiffening up.

"Hey, easy there, bunny," the bull smiled benevolently, putting up his forepaws. "I'm only predatory when someone really deserves it. Usually, it's because I've figured out that the guy wants to be bossed around a little. In your friend's case, it was more for comedic effect." He chuckled, then sobered a little. "He gonna be okay? I wasn't trying to scar him for life, just for tonight."

Remembering to breathe, I managed to croak out, "He'll probably be fine. Once he thinks he can get out of here without you following him, he's likely to go to another bar and try his old tricks."

"I feel as though I'm responsible for the fate of some poor female out there."

"He's not quite that bad." I managed a short laugh. "From all reports -- especially his own -- he's very good with the females, when he's able to pay attention to them. The only problem is that his attention wanders too easily. He keeps his sexual appetite fed, but none of it seems to provide enough nutrition to improve his mental functions."

The bull's laugh was full, boisterous, and contagious. I found myself laughing along with him in no-time. When finally he regained himself, he asked, "So... your two friends seem taken care of. How about you?"

"I have no idea. It's already been quite an adventure."

"What were you going to do before?"

"Probably a movie, but I don't really like the new stars these days. Not like the old stuff. I was thinking about the summer film festival."

"What's playing?"

"Probably nothing you've heard of. It's called_Now, Voyager."_

Randy's face took on a look of something close to rapture. "Bette Davis, Paul Henreid, Claude Raines; Warner Brothers, 1942. A three-hanky movie, if you're easily moved."

"One of my all-time favorites!"

"Are you sure you're straight?" he quipped.

I nodded, smiling. "Sorry to disappoint."

"Anyone who loves Bette Davis cannot disappoint me. Want some company?"

"What about your shift?"

"Over, half an hour ago; I just came by the table to help out Sam."

I raised an eyebrow. "Gonna make me sit in your lap?"

"Only if there's just one seat left. Although look at it this way," the bull grinned. "With the theater most likely filled up with gay males, it would guarantee that you'd be safe from other propositions."

"And the envy of one and all," I laughed and rose from the table. "I'll settle the tab."

"Consider it done, and you buy the movie tickets." The bull stood to his full height and, from that perspective, caught a glimpse of something happening across the bar. "Your fox is indeed up to his tricks."

I looked over in the direction of the bartender's gaze, across the great variety of guests always welcome at O'Fillion's, to see Roland working his wiles on a terribly coquettish young poodle who appeared to be dressed to impress. Perhaps not as buxom as Betty Page, she still was just as flashy and nervously flirtatious as the fox liked his females -- somewhere short of vapid, yet fawning enough to flatter his ego and keep him tap-dancing for his anticipated prize. He was, so to speak, singing for his supper, and it very much appeared that she was likely to be his chosen dish of the evening. "Looks like he'll do all right for himself," I observed.

"Depends upon how far he wants to go."

"What do you mean?"

"Danielle is really in good form tonight. Best female impersonator I know." Randy grinned. "He's female till proven otherwise. Your friend may be in for either an astonishingly good time, or the shock of his life."

I couldn't have stopped the bray of laughter if I'd been paid for it. I had to wipe tears from my eyes by the time I was through. "I have to admit, I'd love to see the look on his face at the critical moment. His expressions of disbelief could win the prize for the Ultimate Kodak Moment."

"That sounds like something that shouldn't be missed." A slow, rather wicked smile passed over the bull's muzzle as he looked at me with a glint in his eye that made me worry once more about his intentions. "How'd you like to give him one last thrill before leaving him this evening?"

...and so it was that Roland stared in something between disbelief and terror as he looked up to see me leaving, riding atop Randy's shoulders, my head nearly in the rafters, my legs dangling over the massive expanse of his chest, me safely holding onto his long, curved horns and with his meaty forepaws wrapped around my calves (there's a joke in there somewhere). I waved to the fox, calling out, "Randy tells me that Danielle is really terrific! You two have a good time. We're going to the movies. Don't expect a call from me tonight, but don't worry -- Randy promised he'll give me a safe ride!"

Half the bar hooted and howled with laughter as the bartender and I waved our farewells for the evening. Just in case you're worried, Randy was the perfect gentlefur. He changed out of his livery at his van and into a rather form-fitting sweatshirt. As a courtesy to the other viewers at the theater, we sat at the back in one of the seats usually reserved for couples; he'd have had trouble ladling himself into one of the standard ones. Yes, I sat on his lap, and nothing at all popped up; instead, we both cried on each other as we watched Bette Davis in one of her finest performances. Harlowe's Deli provided a great late-night snack, and when we parted, he graciously accepted my kiss to the back of his forepaw as he followed the gesture with an amazingly elegant curtsey (not easy to do in those tight-fitting pants).

Randy's a terrific guy, and I imagine we'll be good friends. We're meeting tomorrow night to enjoy the comedic side of the great actress in_The Man Who Came to Dinner._ I think Lucy and Sam may come along, although I'm not sure who might end up with whom by the time the evening is over. Should be fun to find out. Want to join us?

Oh, and don't worry about Roland. I hear he's taking Danielle to dinner that night. I'm_definitely_ going to have to get the rest of that story...