FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Thumbnail art by Spectral Bat

Sequel to this story.

---

Hey! You! With the face! Ears. Nose. Eyes. Mouth. Bang! Sure! Slide in. Join the crowd and listen up! Lyle's gonna learn you a thing or two!

Professor Cocksucker. That's me! Dear old Lyle! Dick sucking's a sport. This ott's a gold medal athlete! I'll tell ya how. I only give this lecture once a week. Here's Dating 101 for you. Gents? Ladies? Don't matter. No sweat. Let this ol' queen spill the tea. Got that one from a friend.

Good dicks. Turnips. Bang. One and the same, right? Right?

Confused? Let me bust your brain.

Turnips. Grab one or three on the weekend. Joan. Nice woman. Whosit now? Maisy Dae? Daisy Mae? Good kid. But the turnips. You wait a couple days. Look to cash 'em in, no sweat.

This is where I blow that mind of yours. He might text you on Tuesday. Says he's down to bang. But you know what happens if you hit him back? "Slut," he thinks. Pounds your ass and deletes your number after the most standard pants-off dance-off of his life.

Bang! That's where the turnips come in.

Ol' Lyle's played this game! He knows the tricks, knows the cheat codes! When Mr. Handsome hits you up, you wait a day, maybe two. He texts you again. Calls your ass "thicc". You're playin' with the ol' heart. Bang! He hits you up!

"Hello?" he writes.

Oh ho ho! Now you've got him at his horniest! Bustin' his chops! Just bustin' em!

So what do you do? You mosey on over to his place. Custom tailored tuxedo vest? Check! Bouquet full of this town's finest flora? Check! A gaudy thong that grips your balls like a catcher's mitt? Double check!

Then what? After dinner, you grab that dick and milk it like he'll blast a literal money shot! Bang! Liquid cash! Then again! And again! And once in your ass! You grab that cock and shake it like a ketchup bottle!

That's the game! You write back! Play the market! Buy those turnips. Wait for the value to spike! Moral of the story? Buy low. Sell high. Get a dick that wants ya! Boom. Yeet. Am I right? Is Lyle right? Please applaud.

Thank you, thank you! All of you. Too kind. Thank you. Lyle's here all weekend.

...

Alright, they're gone. Whew. Didn't think I'd see your face back at this joint. I know the look, though, the funny face. I'd never forget it. Your face? So funny it makes clowns cry. No offense. Don't go cryin' about it to your mama. Bang!

The crowd? What about 'em? Yeah? Uh-huh. Sure. Yeah. Right. Kid. Look.

Me? Great storyteller. But me? Total. Capital "i". Introvert. That's the truth.

The thing is, I'm just too cool. Lyle's basically a celebrity! Everyone loves him! Quick advice: you come out in this town, every girl wants a chat. Just how it goes. Loner ott to el-gee-bee-tee-cue mascot. Bang!

But that's not Ol' Lyle's secret.

Heh heh. Yep! More classified info between these two ears! Private info. Governments hate me. My crew? They don't even know. You're the first. Why? The funny face. Let me talk at ya. No sweat. Brass tacks. Here's the skinny.

Lyle's had a rough life.

Boroughs? Grew up in 'em. Had two parents: Ma and Pa. Two siblings. Both older. City slickin', middle class livin', y'know? Y'know. Went to a good school. Graduated. Got my first big gig as a furniture salesman. Found my talent. Got hitched to a nice girl. We had a couple kids. Both girls. Love 'em even more than a perfectly themed room.

But then, disaster struck! The recession happened. My boss, bustin' my chops, laid me off! My résumé. Sent it everywhere. The phone never rang. Things got tough.

I met some of the wrong people. Did some of the wrong things. Tried to set up my own gig. That failed. Money got tight.

Then I found out I was gay.

Me? Got frustrated. Hooked up with a guy. Thought I was safe. Sure I was. Right? Then. Boom! My wife, Charlotte, snooped on my phone.

She cried her eyes out, kid. I busted her chops! She left with the girls. Filed for divorce. Her ma called Lyle a monster. Pa wouldn't return my calls. Got joint custody. Lost the share. Thought my life was over. Why? Crazy Redd.

The gavel came down. Files cracked open. They knew what I did. Got caught up in some schemes. Dodged some taxes. The insurance firm? All a con. Did jail time. Friends? Dropped me from their contacts. Months passed.

Bang! They let Lyle out. He had a new lease on life. Opened a Bible. Went to church. Read Leviticus. Switched to Buddhism.

Lyle? Unhirable. Nothing I could do. Redd left dirt on my paws. Couldn't wash it off. Worst part? That résumé. Turns out, the phone number was wrong. One digit off. Lyle dug his own grave. Now, it was really hopeless. It really, really was.

BANG! Out of nowhere comes Tom.

Ring, ring! Lyle gets a call from Tom freakin' Nook! Said he had a new business venture. Needed some design experts for a project called the Happy Home Academy. By his analytics, I was the best guy for the job. How'd he know? I sold him the crib that his nephews slept in. He held onto my card. He knew I had the talent. The clout. The furniture expertise. He wanted me to manage the whole thing.

Lyle? He cried on the phone. Nook saved my life. I almost screwed this job up too, jerkin' it in front of him. Told you all about that. Whoops. Bang!

Mr. Nook. He yanked me from the gutter. I gave him my liberties. I'm basically his main guy, after his nephews. Support him in everything. He built a house for me, after all.

Life. It stabilized. No more sweats. No more busted chops. Then I get a call from my family again. Who is it? Not my ex. Not my kids. Not my parents. It's my niece, Lottie. Says she got her degree. Had a fight with my brother. Wonders what I'm up to. Lo and behold, she's in furniture too.

Nook welcomes her into the HHA. We share a house. Bang. Living the dream.

But you. Bored, right? Sit tight. The fun part. It's coming right up.

So. I'm just sitting alone at home, watchin' TV. Chilling. Vibin', as Lottie would say. Got one of those garbage action movies on. Sex scene. Lots of swearing. Lots of nudity. You know the kind.

Lyle? Half chub down there. He ain't straight, but hey, he had kids. Sex? It's sex. What more do you want? A cookie? Don't bust my chops. You get the picture.

Pent up. All the time. The reason? Lottie living here. Love the girl. Love her with all my soul. Said I can have all the guys I want over. You know what though? It's hard. I lack the balls. At least, I did.

So I don't really wanna jack it. Not in the living room. Only did it in my own bed. Tom took a nude for me after he caught me doin' it in his office, and kid, that view is etched into my brain. Lyle'd lose a lot before that photo. So much. Bam.

Imagine my surprise when, yet again, Tom rings me up.

"Is this Lyle, hm?" he says, in that whistling voice of his.

"Speaking, Mr. Nook! Lyle. Right at the phone. Bang! What can I do ya for?" I answer.

He quiets down for a second. Sounds like he's shuffling papers. "Well, you may be pleased to know that Nook Inc. is examining a new business venture."

"You're bustin' my chops, Nook! A brand new business venture!?"

He sniffles. "Yes. Or, new-ish."

Nook? Elaborating? Don't expect it sometimes. He's a mysterious man. You've gotta coax it out. "And? C'mon, Tom! Spill the beans! Don't keep an ott waiting!"

"And I'll need to ask something of you," Nook lingers.

"Me? Something? Lyle loves something! I'll do it! Whatever it is, baby! I'm on board! Just tickled to do it! " I'm basically on my hands and knees here. I did have his dick in my mouth, after all.

"I need you to go to an island and have fun, yes?"

I sit there. Mouth open. It goes long enough that he asks, "Lyle?"

"Yes? Yes. Island? Got it. Go there? You betcha. Have fun?" Me? Hesitating. "Mr. Nook, are you asking me to take a vacation?"

"Why, yes! You've worked incredibly hard, haven't you, Lyle? Indeed so. So much done for our company!" His voice. Quivering like it's dancing to a song. "What more to reward your effort than with some paid time off, hm?"

"Floored. Baffled. Thrilled. Glad. I'll tell Lottie and we can pack our-"

"Oh, no, no!" he laughs, "This is your trip alone, Lyle!"

"But-"

"Lottie knows already, hm? She just got back from her spa retreat. She said you deserve to have some fun, and..." He flips through some more pages. Trails off. "So, I've taken matters into my own hands. You will be having fun, Lyle."

I exhale into the microphone. Love this guy. "That's great! Superb. When am I leaving?"

He makes a noise. The tongue tapping noise. And then I hear a pen on paper. "Tomorrow. Staying until Saturday night, with resources provided and paid by yours truly, hm? Would that be fine, Lyle?"

"I--er...sure! Why not?" Me? Minding it? Not at all. Work? Things? Stressful things. All ramping up. Too many headaches.

"Fantastic! Meet me at work tomorrow, yes? Be ready to leave and all that jazz. Take a suitcase with clothes, toiletries, and other essentials. And, oh! Don't worry about food. That should be covered, hm? Food, drinks, men..." He underscores that last one. "So yes, the new business venture is this trip! You'll serve as a guinea pig of sorts, if that's alright with you."

"Oh. Amazing! Pig? Guinea? Lyle'll be both of those things! And each individually! As long as it doesn't hurt."

Nook chuckles for a moment. "No. Quite the opposite, I'd say. Rest up and have a good night, alright?" Then he hangs up.

Well. What does Lyle do? Boom! He packs his bags. Gets himself ready for a half-weekend away from home. Bathing suits? Check. Aloha shirts? Check. Pink undies? Why not? You've gotta let your freak flag out! Hear what I'm saying? Of course ya do!

So, Nook? He's a stack of turnips too. Sometimes you don't know what the hell's going on with that man. Other times? He makes you bank.

I'm not done here. This ain't any old vacation. Stick around. Let Lyle lay this on ya. This is the tiny, tropical island of Aphrodite. Bang!

Tomorrow rolls by. It's a windy Friday. I'm eating breakfast. TV on. Golf documentary. Kitchen counter. Stool. Bell bag pajama pants. Bachelor style. Lottie's bedroom door creaks over the sound of my chewing.

"Morning, Uncle Lyle!" she calls, strutting down the white-tiled stairs of our quaint little place. Lottie's got a bit of that Brooklyn inflection. I get it if it sounds a bit funny to you. What? I talk like that too?

"Bang!" I say, "Top of the morning to you! How'd ya sleep!?"

"Well enough," she goes, and pads into the kitchen. She's wearing the green nightgown with white polka dots. Got her that for her birthday. Matches her fur. She said it was gaudy. Still wears it most of the time. That's a win for Lyle! "How about you?"

"Three words! Fan. Tas. Tic. It's the trip. Today. Lyle's excited. Pleased as a puppy! Bang!"

She searches around in one of the cupboards above the sink. Retrieves a box of cereal. "Of course! You deserve a break, you know?" Lottie proclaims, and sets down a bowl for herself next to my toast.

"Yeah, yeah," I go. This girl? Too nice to me. "You. Here. Alone. How you feelin' about that?"

Lottie slides onto the octopus chair beside me and--

Kid? What's with the look? We're interior designers. We've got a fish theme. It's trendy. Give me a break. And don't come crying to me when you need it for a set and the price shoots up past ten-K!

...And she answers the same thing as usual. The Lottie answer. "Aw, don't worry, Uncle Lyle! Digby and I already have a date set up!"

I watch her pour the milk first. "Alright, Lot. But the fridge. Halibut. Don't forget to eat it! Bang!"

She snickers around her first spoonful. "Oh, I won't!"

"And with Digby. If chops get busted..." I trail off, fumbling for the words.

Lottie turns. Face. Amused. "Yes?"

"Take it to your bedroom. Not the couch."

My niece tosses her head back and bursts into laughter. "Wig!" She cries. I'm still getting a handle on this slang. She's explained it a couple times. Flies in one ear and right out the other. Bam. I'm old. Lottie slaps an arm around my back. "That won't happen again, Uncle Lyle! You know I know what I'm doing now!"

The conversation shifts to our décor. Interesting stuff. We take off for work. Lottie in her uniform. Lyle looking like a luau party guest. Short drive. Then we slip out of the car. Parking lot. Nook's Homes. The raccoon himself steps out of the front door. We approach.

"Ah, hello! Or should I say, 'Aloha!'" Nook chuckles to himself. "Lottie, please step in! We have a new client today: a mouse named Limberg! He wants a cheese theme for his home. Now Lyle, I would like you to follow me. You'll meet the attendants of our partner organization. Nice guys, yes! They got the ball rolling on our vacation project."

Lottie twists her head. Purse. Hefting. Over her shoulder. "I better go off to meet this mouse!" Her warm smile grows into a smirk. She leans over to peck me on the cheek. "Have fun on your island, Uncle Dorothy!"

Meaning? Of that? Lyle has no clue. But Nook has his paw behind me. Leads me away. We enter that big new orange building he bought. Busts my chops whenever I see it! And he takes me upstairs, right to an office. Suitcase. Heavy. Lyle has to lug it up.

Nook opens the door. No key. He turns back to me. "Right after you Lyle, hm?"

I see why there's no key. Two people stand in the room. One at a desk, the other leaning back against a big window wall. Two birds. Blue. Yellow faces and beaks. Both wearing headsets. Wings a bit shorter than most birds. Bodies a little chubby. Never seen their species before.

The one at the desk is saying something to the other when I step in. He bolts up from his chair with a wide grin on his face. He stops mid-sentence. Then he waves. "Hey hey hey! Nice to meet you! You must be Lyle!"

The other bird nods cooly. He's got a pair of brown-tinted sunglasses on. Nothing's slippin' by him.

"Bang! Lyle's the name! Chief of the Happy Home Academy! Pleased to make acquaintance!"

The first one perks up and stumbles around the desk. "Ah, sorry! I'm Orville, airline receptionist." Paw. Wing. Handshake. He's vigorous. He half-turns to the other one. "This is my brother, Wilbur!"

Wilbur strides forward. Light glints on his glasses. He takes my paw like his brother and speaks in a lower tone. "Copy, Bravo Romeo Oscar! Delta Oscar Delta Oscar is proud to dispatch you to our target island on behalf of our partner organization in Nook Inc.!" He lets go of our grip. Beams wide behind his beak. "This is your pilot speaking November Oscar Whisker, stovetop socket wrench to Yankee Oscar Uniform, copy?"

Ol' Lyle needs to run that in his head. Then he can reply. "Bang! Copy that! Roger."

"Yes, yes, we're glad to work with Dodo Airlines!" Nook announces. "Now, shall we get into the details?"

Simple conversation between the four of us. An island trip, Nook says. Place? Unpopulated, apart from some current visitors. The plan? Lyle interacts with them. Nook records the feasibility of the trip going mainstream.

"Though," Nook delineates, "you shouldn't see this as work, hm? Treat it like a fun time, because it will be."

Then we part. Nook, out here bustin' my chops, waves goodbye.

Lyle. Dodos. We travel to their little airport. It's on the edge of town. Structure? New, never seen it. Size? Small. Tiny. One plane. That's it.

I sit and wait for a total of thirty seconds before Orville calls me up. Lyle boards Wilbur's little seaplane. It's tiny too. Just a couple windows. Fits Lyle and Wilbur, but probably not many more.

Flight. Quiet. Not too long. Halfway through, Wilbur looks back to me. "Comfortable back there, civilian?" he asks.

"Lyle? Comfortable? You betcha. You do." We're flying over the ocean. Thought I had a fear of heights one day. Lost it on a ski lift. It doesn't haunt me here.

We sit in silence for a bit. Just plane noises and wind. Wilbur breaks the ice. "Sentence fragment rudderbutt, this is alligator onion ring. You're Golf Alpha Yankee for Mr. Nook, four-ten?"

I'm dumbfounded. "Golf Alpha Yankee? Lyle doesn't speak..." then it hits me. "G-A-Y...Wait a minute, gay!?" Dumbfoundedness. Exponential. Bustin' my chops. Just bustin' those puppies!

"Affirmative, traveller!" He goes, smugly. "Your eyes tell no lies."

Defensive? Lyle? More than a little. "Nook? Hot? Sexy? Seductive? ...Really?"

Wilbur says nothing.

"You. Wilbur. Dodo. Right. One-hundred percent! Wish he had a thing for Lyle! But...y'know. Him. Straight. With a question mark. Shaped into a 'not Lyle's partner'. Bustin' my chops! Bang! Sad story? Yeah. That's the whole skinny."

"Mmm..." Wilbur grunts. Then he flicks a couple switches and speaks into his headset. "Copy, Brave Romeo Oscar? Our twenty is approaching the Aphrodite Airport. We'll initiate the landing sequence."

---

Sand. Hot. I step in it. Sun. Feels like it's kissing the Earth. Bang. Ya follow? It's a beach. There's sand, deal with it. But the water, you'd catch me dead before I swim there.

I turn back to Wilbur. "Hey. Buddy!" I call. "This is the place? This burgh? With a beach this big?"

The bird shrugs behind his sunglasses, then slinks away, back to the plane.

Listen, I ain't a saltwater ott. You'll never catch me out there in the sea. Know what's in there? Microplastics. Saw that in a documentary once! They're in your soap. Toothpaste. They go down the drain. Where do they go? They end up in the water. Bang! The fish eat 'em, get their chops busted; we eat the fish. Rinse and repeat. The cycle never stops. Nook thinks I'm a beach bum? He's got me dead wrong. I look around anyways.

Smash cut. Beach mat. Two dogs. One ripped like an orange peel, one plump like a pear. Brown and white, that's their fur. I get closer. Burly's in a Hawaiian shirt, up on one elbow, talking to Chubby, who's in nothing but a speedo and sandals. Both got sunglasses too. Hands behind his head: that's the pudgy sunbather. Letting the belly flop out. Hefty chunk 'a fat below his saggy tits. On that meat rests his partner's hard cock.

"Hey! You the otter?" goes the muscled mutt.

I'm shocked to hear it. "The otter? You two. Waiting for me? In this dump?"

The portly pooch finally shifts his head. "What?"

Dicks-out muscle boy just grins back. "No, sir! Tom just told us that we had a couple more coming."

Other dog pulls a paw up and lowers his sunglasses. The bulldog takes a long look at me. "Hey...welcome to the island," he mutters.

Muscle boy slips off his glasses and slides them into his collar. He sits up and extends a paw. I step forward. Grab it. His grip's iron. Definitely one of those big first impressions guys. "Pleased to meet you. My name is Copper," he says, formally.

"Lyle," I answer. I kneel down and shake with his friend. That one says nothing.

Copper barks. Guttural laugh. "My pal's name is Booker. He's bad at talking to people. And everything else, including diets."

"Copper...stop..." Booker complains weakly.

"Huh. Yeah, sure. Right, right. No sweat." I go, and then I look between them. "So, uh. Little question. Big question, actually. Stay with me."

Both stare intently. Copper's dick twitches. Can't keep my eyes off it.

"Bang! Pants. You know them? Most people wear 'em. Yeah? Well...you allergic or something?"

The two glance at each other and snort. After a moment, Copper speaks up. "Heh, no. I've just gotta wear them at home, with my girl around and all. It's nice to let loose with your buddy sometimes, you know?"

Booker rolls his eyes. Then the chubby dog stares earnestly at me. "Um, is it offensive? I can make him cover up...if you want."

Copper scoffs, flashing his perfect whites. "You can't make me do anything, butterball. I doubt Tom would like anyone covering up on his sex island!"

"Wait. Hold on. What?" I ask. "Wait. Just. Wait. Hold up. No sweat, alright? Tough question. Did you say, 'sex island'!? Are you two prostitutes?"

Copper laughs. Short and sharp. "No, Lyle. We're officers, and we're on vacation."

My gaze. Bemused. They're playing me like Slider. "Sure, okay, alright. Officer Copper. I get it. Officer Booker. Yes. You two."

Copper's staring at me like I'm an alien. Maybe it's because my blue fur looks a little green right now. "Yes."

"Whew...okay. Crazy Redd? I don't know him. I know nothing. Trust me. Never been in on his schemes. He's a criminal. A crook."

"Um..." Booker mumbles, "okay...?"

Calm, Lyle, calm. In, out. Waves. Rising and falling. "Okay. Yep. Alright. Cops. Sex island. But wait...where are all the girls?"

Copper sinks back onto his elbow and drags another paw down to hold his dick. That thing. Whew. He slides a glance to his fellow policeman and back to me. "I mean, Booker squeals like a girl when you plow him!"

"I do not!" the hefty dog snarls. "I, uh..." he responds to me, "I don't look at girls. I like boys. We're gay..."

"I'm not gay!" Copper interjects.

"He isn't gay," Booker continues, with an annoyed glare back at his friend. "He's got a, uh, girl at home, and stuff."

Copper raises his eyebrows and leans forward. "It's not cheating," he says, preemptively. "You see, Booker has difficulty with guys at home. I help him out sometimes. It's no big deal." He trails the fondling paw up. Tugs on one of Booker's nipples.

"Right," Booker goes, with a growl behind his voice, "no big deal..."

I've got a little chub poking at my shorts too, peeking like a hermit crab. They're a cute couple. Decent lookers. Copper's bod? Gay porn mag. Booker? He'd fit in on a fetish site. There's a niche. It's my niche too.

It's silent apart from the waves, so I say, "Wow! Your balls. Quite the testicles. Hangers. Big ones. Your gut? Your thighs? Magnificent. Fantastic. Boom! That dick? No sweat, no sweat." Focus on the positives, Lyle. Focus! "Mind if I bust your chops? Play around? Quick. Easy. Simple. Bang!"

"Sure," the fat dog answers, "I think that would be fine...I guess..."

Copper winks at me. "You guess, Booker? You think? I think you really want it, don't you?"

Booker frowns above his floppy jowls. "Um, yes...I want it."

"Ya do!? Ya do!?" The slimmer dog goes, tail wagging as he squeezes his partner's tit. Not gay. I went through that phase too.

Booker's panting, so I kneel down and pat into his doughy gut. I scritch through his fur. Short coat. Dry from sunbathing, not from saltwater. Good dog. Body shape? Rotund. Got a bit of muscle. It's just hidden. One-too-many-donuts kinda physique. Kind of a stereotype? Yep. Stereotypes. Speaking of. Know another one? He's a pooch. Whines when Lyle rubs his belly. I sink my head down and give him a smooch on the chest.

When I pull back, he's locking lips with Copper. He's also got a hard-on under that speedo of his. I do him a favour by sliding a paw in there and lifting it off, giving his meat some fresh air.

He's got foreskin, unlike Copper. Little pink cock. Smaller than me. Score! I can stroke it with only a couple fingers. That's what I do.

Copper and Booker break apart with a wet peck. The muscular one glances down to my stroking, nods approvingly, and transfers that look up to my face. "He's a sloppy kisser, alright. You want a go?"

Booker stares at me. Sensual stare? Bored one? Hard to tell. Hard to tell if, let's say, you didn't have his hard cock in your paw and a steady pant in your ears. I'm craning out to his face before Copper even finishes the offer.

Surprisingly wet. Surprisingly cinnamon. Tastes just like it. He draws a paw up over my shoulder and pulls me in. Then he pulls tighter. Whines into my whiskers. Then he breaks free from the kiss.

Quick History Channel factoid. Ever heard of Krakatoa? Here's another Lyle story: Indonesia, 1883. Volcano. Erupted. Sent shockwaves around the world. The sound? Deafening to everyone within a couple miles. That's what it feels like when Booker blows his load.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

...

Kid, how come this place goes silent whenever I get to an orgasm? Awkward.

But anyways, yeah. That's right. The big guy explodes. Seed sprays up the length of my arm. Decent shooter, he is. Hell of a screamer.

"There she blows!" Copper chuckles. I can hear the fwip-fwip-fwip of his own paw working himself.

"Whew...oh my goodness...oh my..." Booker gasps into my cheek fur.

"Hey, that was pretty good," Copper goes, behind a glistening grin. "Might've been a record! It's a bit hard to measure time when you can't even measure his length! It looks more like my girlfriend's clit than-"

"Shut up..." Booker groans, snaking his paw off of my back. He glares at Copper.

"Hey. Fellas...friends. Let's be 'em. Booker. Listen. Kid. Not everyone gets a bell bag in their pants! I'm not too big myself!" I say, mostly for the big guy's benefit. Five isn't that small, right? Right?

Lazy look. The hound fixes me with one. His frown curves into a smile. "Thanks..." He says in that low, dopey voice of his.

But suddenly, another voice calls behind me. Still low. Not dopey. "Hey! Mud duck electronica! This is stovetop steamroller! Do you copy?"

I flip around. Wilbur stands a few feet away.

He lowers his sunglasses. Eyes. They scan the scene in front of him. "Everything Oscar Kilo Alpha Yankee in this vicinity?"

"Yep!" I flinch, "We're doing A-okay! No chops bustin' going on here! Bang!"

Copper stops jerking himself. Wipes that paw on the mat beside a content Booker. "Everything's good, Will! Booker's just a screamer."

"Roger!" Wilbur shouts, before barking into his headset. "This is whirlwind gambit. Cancel the code red! I repeat, cancel the code red, Bravo Romeo Oscar! Over." He then turns his attention back to us. "You three wanna pack it up and scout out the ground?"

Booker sits up with a grunt. Shifts off of the mat. Plods to the water. I stay there. Hold my messy arm aimlessly.

Copper's up on his feet, motioning for me to slide off the towel. I do. He grabs it and shakes it out in the wind. Wilbur drifts behind with his wings in his pockets.

"So hey," I go, and the two look at me. "You guys bustin' my chops here? This a prank? There a hidden camera?"

"Only on the Soaring Lily," Wilbur answers in his southern drawl. "Horseplay like how, skipper?"

"Well, uh...I..." I stutter before Copper cuts me off.

"Listen, I get it, Lyle. It's weird. Officer Booker and I are cops. We aren't here to getcha though."

Booker returns and Copper hands off the towel. I talk 'cause everyone's looking at me. "Weird? Boom. We just had sex. Or something. Out here. Bang! Lyle. Law. He knows it. No bueno. Isn't this that?"

The three share an awkward look. "That's sort of, uh," Booker grumbles, "I guess, the point...? Kind of..."

Wilbur just struts on ahead. "Let's show stovetop disco the grounds and escort him to the hideout, copy?"

"Wilco!" Copper calls back. Smirk. He fixes Lyle with one.

---

It takes a bit to sink in. Ya know? Big brain buster Tom Nook fired at Ol' Lyle that day. Bang!

There I sit in the so-called "hideout". Not much more than a shack, really. There's a door. A desk. A couple chairs. A couple branching rooms. They have doors, too. And knobs. That you turn. You know?

I'm not the only one there, so I don't keep my voice too loud as I speak into the phone, panting, "Nook, Nook, Nook. Baby. Kid."

The older raccoon speaks through a choppy mic. "Yes, yes, yes? Lyle...slow down. I'm older than you, by the way." He clears his throat when I shut up. "What seems to be the issue, hm?"

"Let me get this straight," I sputter. "You bought an island..." I gesture abstractly with my paws. He can't see it, and Wilbur's looking at me funny from the entrance. I'm a loud non-verbal speaker. "...For sex!?"

"Yes," the raccoon answers, and you can hear the smug-ass grin he wears on his black mask. "Gay sex!" he clarifies with just as much bliss.

"Mr. Nook. I thought you said you weren't gay! Boom! Is this even legal!?"

His breath. Whistling. Funny what you notice about someone on the phone. He takes a second to reply. "Yes to both questions."

Brain. Whirling. "Okay. Wait. Hold it. You said this was a business venture."

"Yes."

"And. Nook. You said it was a vacation."

The speaker crackles for a second before he answers, "Indeed. You are a guinea pig, but I never said you couldn't have fun, no?"

I'm losing the thread of this. How did he organize this!? "Yeah. But. But..."

Wilbur stands attentive at the doorway. "Attention hot dog eclipse, our base of operations has a strict communications limit, and your long-distance conference may be terminated once the data ceiling has been reached." He coughs. "In other words, please get off your phone soon."

The raccoon sighs. "Lyle, if you don't want to do this, you don't have to. I just thought it would be a nice time away for you, to be with other guys, and such. That makes sense, yes?"

I sit for a second, trying to come up with something to say. Then I get something. "Look, Mr. Nook. I never said no. This idea? Big money. BIG. MONEY. Was this a proposition all along?" He starts to respond, but I cut him off before he spits even a morpheme of language. "Bang! Ol' Lyle's on board. You. Nook. Your mind's where the money is. Me. Lyle. Proud. Happy like a well-furnished home. Us? A perfect pair. You know the market. You know the niche. Gay people? In our burgh? Where do they meet? The Roost? Fat chance!" This place is pretty good, though. Brewster can knock you out with a fresh cuppa joe. Or do the opposite, I guess. "Here? This island? Boom. Needs more furniture. Needs more tourists. Needs. More. Swag. But this is how we do it! Just come here! This island! A secluded place for guys to fulfill their ho-mo-sex-e-al desires! Brilliant! Wonderful. I'll get back to ya, Tom! More ideas will be on this ott's brain! Just you wait and see!"

Nook is silent for a solid five seconds. I grin at the wall. "...Right," he finally says.

"Alright, Mr. Nook! Bang! I'll be heading out right now! Catch ya later!"

"Talk to you later, Lyle." He sounds amused as I click off the call. I hope I did that well.

Wilbur saunters on over. Grabs a magazine from the table. Sits down on the little couch across from me and leafs through it. It's quiet. Copper? Booker? Out building a campfire.

But suddenly, BANG! Two chops bust out of the door! I flip around to size them up.

A beaver. Stocky. Muscular. Handsome. Wearing nothing but a puffer vest and a backwards cap, with a big flaccid cock dangling below. The other one: a red chameleon. Twinky. Feminine. Punk. Shirtless. Wearing black swim trunks adorned with a pattern of purple bugs. I wave as they step out of their room.

"Hey! 'Sup bro!" The beaver goes, "You the new guy?"

I stand up from the couch. Hold out my hand. "Lyle. Friend of Tom Nook."

The chameleon blinks at me. Clasps my paw. "The bellionaire capitalist. A conduit for one of the world's purest evils." His eyes go wide. "I mean...hi...!"

I'm not sure what that means, so I say, "Lyle's pleased to meet you too!"

"I'm C.J.," The beaver informs me as I go on to shake with him, "and my partner's Flick, nyuk, nyuk!"

I notice the phone in his other paw. He starts to spin it idly. Like a bored school kid with a pencil. I roll my eyes up to the pair. "Flick. C.J. Partners. Got it," I say. "And, uh...married?" I don't know many other gay guys here.

C.J. laughs deep out of his chest. "Haw haw haw, nyuk! Not quite! I've asked the stream chat about that! My followers think marriage is so last Thursday!"

"C.J. and I are already soulbound for life as we are in our fascination with critters," Flick announces with grand severity, "he understands the beauty of the insect's form and affirms my intrigue. Bugs make me whole, fish make him whole, and we are whole together."

"That's sweet," I say. No clue what this guy's talking about, so my gaze drifts between C.J.'s legs. I play my hand a little. Turnips on sale. "You two. Quite the handsome pair." Out of the corner of my eye I see Wilbur grin.

Flick. Blushing. "Well, I'm an artist...and stuff. My standards of shapeliness are sort of refined."

"You should see some of the work he does with the fish I bring 'im! His models get me shook!" C.J. reveals. Shook? I know that one from Lottie. Yeah. Ol' Lyle's still hip! "Anywave, thanks for the praise, bruh! You're a fine DILF yourself!"

"Thanks! Lyle tries! He's a--wait. Excuse me?"

"Delta India Lima Foxtrot..." Wilbur mumbles from the other couch.

"That's 'Dad I'd Like to Fuck', by the way," Flick clarifies for me.

Me. Baffled? A bit. "What? How did you know Lyle has kids!?"

"Naw, 'dad' as in you're old, but you're hot!" C.J. suddenly snaps to attention. "Wait a sec, did you say you have kids? Oh fish, that's even hotter! Wait till my followers get a taste of this!" Phone. Up. In my face.

I hold up my paws. "I'm forty-three! Lyle ain't old!"

"That is pretty hot..." Flick nods in agreement.

Paw. C.J. He lays one on my chest. Fondles his phone with the other. "Flick and I'd love to shoot a flick with a daddy like you!" He squares out his paws. Squints between 'em like Lyle were a billboard. "'Scruffy Otter Dad Eats Dick Like a Fish Filet'! Imagine the ratio on that, Flick!"

The chameleon giggles. Stares dozily at his boyfriend. "Ah...haha. Yeah...that'd be transcendent...artistically prodigious..."

Wilbur sips loudly from his mug.

"I bet you'd get lotsa dick when you get back too!" C.J. goes. "More than ya already prolly' do, nyuk!"

Hardness. Location? Boom! My shorts. Like a teenager. Not many guys tell me I'm fit for porn. The beaver's dick is gettin' there too.

"Tell ya what, nyuk, nyuk!" C.J.'s eyes narrow. His voice deepens. Steams. Like a scorching summer noon. Sultry around the lisp of his giant front teeth. "You slide down on that couch and I'll slide something else into your maw." He waves the phone around. This time with intent. "Right here in HD."

I'm on my knees. Figuratively. Though you may expect where this is going. Ol' Lyle? On video? Suckin' dick? That thought gets me horned up. Chops busted. And, as you may know, when Lyle's got his chops busted, his brain goes too. "Flick. Your boyfriend. He gonna take my other side?"

C.J. barks another short laugh. "My partner? Strict bottom, nyuk! You don't wanna become a meme bottoming for Flick!"

"Yeah, I'd rather--er...I mean, uh..." The lizard stutters quietly, before composing himself. "My idyllic erotic experience is characterized by the control of masculine individuals--such as my well-endowed companion--over my body."

"Sure, sure," I say, like I've fucked anyone other than my ex-wife.

"And please allow me, for the pleasure of my partner," Flick continues, "to retreat momentarily to our room, so I may transform my outfit before we begin." He steps away, still talking. "Like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon..."

Flick dips back behind the door. I sit on the couch. C.J. plops down and wraps an arm around my shoulders.

"He'll be back in a split." C.J. rubs his whiskers with the other paw. "It's just a kink of mine, heh." Careful. Calculated. He glides the paw slowly down to my crotch.

Quick motion on the zipper. Pawing at the belt. The shorts are loose, and I wriggle them off for him. Next, he squeezes me through my briefs.

"Mmm..." The beaver exhales.

I meet Wilbur's eyes behind his sunglasses. They twinkle on top of a sly smirk. He sips again from his mug when C.J. hoists the elastic over my member.

Lyle? Penis size? He says nothing about it. Instead he stares into me. Penetrates me with sea-blue eyes. A red chameleon shifts back into my peripheral vision. Naked, when I look over, except for the fishnet leggings embellishing his thick thighs.

C.J.'s gaze shifts with mine. "You look gorgeous, honey," the beaver mutters with the same sensual tone.

I open my dumb yap. "Seductive. Stunning. Mystifying. Synonyms. If you were a home, you'd be in my catalog. Absolutely fantastic." I have to say something, right? That's how tops talk.

Both of them? Caring? Hardly! C.J.'s stroking his fat meat. Drinking in the sight greedily. "Why don'tcha flip around like a fish and show Daddy Lyle that FishHub ass, nyuk, nyuk?"

Flick rubs his neck timidly but then turns around and flaunts his rear. I gaze on.

Bang! Sculpted. Plump. Shining. Excessively lubed. He rests a hand on it and grins back.

Kid, you remember the first time your dick got hard? Probably, right? Yeah? In drama class? Presenting in front of everyone?

Sorry. Ol' Lyle got off track for a second.

It was like that, but for topping. And way less embarrassing. You see, I bottomed every day of my life up until here. Bang! Every day! Even with my wife! But Flick was an awakening.

Air. Thick. Scent? Two words. Pre. Ejaculate. Or is that one word?

C.J. bolts up off the couch. Motions for me to follow suit. Beckons his partner over.

Flick saunters over with some swagger in his step. Cute cock bouncing. My eyes are heat-seeking. He's got that punk-ass, knowing smirk.

When he gets to the couch, he bends down over it. Rests his arms on a back cushion. Reels his tail in like a Fruit Roll-Up. He wiggles his ass a bit. Theatric. At the moment, though, I'm a bug to his lantern.

Eyes. In a candy store. I can't imagine what C.J. sees, so I peek over. The beaver's staring into his phone.

"Hey, hey, hey! What is goin' on, fishionistas!" C.J. howls, making me jump. "It's the Fishin' Freak--a.k.a. Fish Hooker--comin' right back atcha with a new part of..." he poses with a flexed bicep, "Masterbaiters, nyuk, nyuk!"

C.J. points the phone at Flick. He draws a paw back on his meat. Records the chameleon's backside. "Today, as usual," C.J. huffs through his teeth, "My partner will be takin' a pounding! The skipper of today's ship will be our new friend, the otter DILF!"

He lurches the camera in my direction. I throw up my paws defensively. Me? On camera? I didn't expect it that fast! "Say hello to Captain..." C.J. pauses and glances over my crotch. "...Goldfish! Captain Goldfish! But first, a word from our sponsor!"

C.J. fishes an item out of his vest pocket. Whips it at me. One-hundred miles an hour. Had to be. It hits my leg and bounces onto the ground. I pick it up. It's a condom.

"Today's video is brought to you by none other than Nook Inc.!" The beaver calls. I freeze. He goes on. "Nook Inc. Expanding your horizons, everyday, everywhere, nyuk!"

I hesitate, glancing for a moment between the two. Flick smiles encouragingly. Shimmies his ass a twitch. Bang! I've got it on in half a second. Snug. The beaver must keep a number on him.

"Oh yeah. Guys, one more thing." C.J. speaks, gravely. "Strong NSFW warning on this video! And also, my partner and I are both over the age of eighteen, nyuk, nyuk! Don't need to say anythin' for today's captain, he's clearly a daddy himself, heh! And we all agreed to today's stunts! Nothing fishy going on here! So don't go swattin' us like room service when my partner lets his bugs free!" He sighs, just as dramatically. "Whew! With the legal bullshit outta the way..." His eyes narrow. He grits his teeth. His seductive voice turns cold. "Go get 'im, Captain!"

Me? Trip? Never! Always sure on my feet. But I stumble to the couch right there, with the camera on me. Rubber. Bouncin'. Bang! I'm on Flick. I wrap my arms around his scaly chest. Clamber up onto the couch. My dick first slides in between his thighs. I hump there, animalistically. My coated cock rubs against his bare balls. My breath? On his neck. Boom. He shivers. Fuck, kid.

Lyle transfers his weight to his paws. Stands up on the cushions. This time, I drop my tool on top of his ass. Lubed like a Slip 'N Slide. No hyperbole. I slither back and forth on him. That's pleasurable in its own right, so a contented sigh slips out of my jaw. Head. Mine. Inclined. I catch Wilbur's eye. Fucker smiles. Scratches at his own crotch. It's bulging.

"He's easing in slowly..." C.J. commentates with the calmness of a golf broadcaster. His paw? Urgently stroking.

BANG! I plunge into Flick! I go a bit fast, I think, because he tenses up. It only lasts a couple seconds.

"There's the hook-up on my slut!" C.J. lisps. He catches the wince. "Aw, but my partner needs a sec for these five inches!"

Dick. Thrust. Slow. Steady. Then I process what he said. "Hey!" Ol' Lyle bites back. "That's five and a half! At least! Give me some credit, okay? Bang!"

Flick shoves his hips back at me. Sign he's ready for me, I'm sure. Not talking. Just lookin' cute. Huffing little audible pants. Fuck.

I'm thrusting in and out of him quickly. Don't have too much, so I try to use it right. I'm sure I'm more vocal than Flick. It's lost in the moment, though. Bang!

C.J. slides beside me. Trains the camera on Flick's ass. "Well, Daddy, while you're busy poundin' my cutie boyfriend, why dontcha take a real hung fish in that maw of yours, nyuk, nyuk?"

Flick looks away after the compliment, even while I'm bangin' him. Bustin' his chops. Well. Say it with me. My chops? Busted too. "Ah! Me? Fish? Eat yours? Why of course, uh, Captain Fish Hooker! Bang! Nyuk, nyuk, and all that!"

C.J. lowers his eyebrows. Places a paw on top of my head. "Scroll down then."

Flick obediently slides to the side when C.J. lifts a leg on the top cushion. He steps the other on a pillow. He towers over me.

I gaze up. Blue eyes. They stare expectantly. Camera pointed right at me. His cock bounces in the air. Lyle's on it in a half-second.

C.J.'s cock fills my maw. Paw. His. Promptly grabbing behind my head, holding me there. I try to keep my hips movin' on Flick too, who squeezes back on me like a kitchen sponge. I need one paw to keep us balanced, but I drop the other down to play with the chameleon's package. Grab his chops. Quick strokes. Bang! Just as a reward. That's what tops do, right?

It's something right, because he moans back a little approval.

The beaver dick, though. Don't let me forget. Longer than Nook, I think, but it's similar. A tough, meaty sausage of a cock, heh heh.

As you may know, this ain't Ol' Lyle's first rodeo. Bang! He plays nice with the dick! Keeps his teeth off. Bobs along the length like a busty porn girl. All that jazz.

Funny. Lyle can pound a man's boyfriend and still be his bitch.

"Louder, boys," C.J. coos, scratching between my ears. Thrusts against Lyle's humping. "Let the chat know how good it is!"

Flick immediately pipes up. "Ah! Oh! Sweet golden stag!" he grunts. His cries become more throaty. Definitely put on a bit. He's a sweetheart, though. Sure he meant it to make me feel good. Maybe to sell it for an audience. Either way, good for Lyle PR.

Speaking of Lyle PR, C.J. goes on. "Dayum! We've got a few hundred viewers!"

What!? Viewers!? No one told me this was live! I try to jerk back but he holds me there, rubbing behind my head. Conscience versus desire!

The chameleon I'm shagging tips the scale heavily. Soft groaning. My toes curl. The camera's in front of my dick-sucking face.

"'Wow! Where'd they find the new otter whore?'" C.J. reads from the other side, around his own huffs. "'I'd love to have a go at this dad!" After a moment, he peers at me over the top of his phone. Eyes. Piercing. "Looks like a blowfish on that dick!" Cock. Sliding. Tip. My throat.

His length. Plunging back and forth, never leaving my maw. The motion knocking my glasses askew. With creased eyebrows I glance down. Grope my paw around for Flick's cock. Rub it haphazardly.

"POG!" C.J. clamors obnoxiously, "We've just doubled our viewer count, hookers! Whalecome on in!"

I whine like Flick. I see flowers. Trees. Rivers. Bob Ross shit.

"Hm!? We have a new subscriber! He left a note for you!"

Caves. Sparks. Fires. Shadows.

"Quite a cutie! Sucking that dick with fervor, hm?" C.J. huffs.

The self. The other. The subjective. The objective. Beauty. Perfection.

"Yes, yes! I'd love to drop my fat bells on him!" C.J. sputters, locking his eyes with my distant pair. "You know who that is, Lyle?"

Planets. Stars. Galaxies. Superclusters. The secrets of the universe.

The endless void in his eyes. The great beyond. "TOM. NOOK!"

BANG! With a gasp, I clutch my paws on Flick's chest and explode into his rear. C.J. releases me. I slump onto his boyfriend. Hips like a rabbit. Pounding like a mallet. I cry incomprehensible things into the air. Encouragement. Verbal. Those two make it. Not even sure what they say. Semantic meaning is lost. Holy son of bells!

After a moment, I slow my thrusting to a stop. Slide out of Flick with a wet squelch. Fall back. Press myself against the couch. Heavy breathing. I look up and see Flick turned around, embracing and kissing his boyfriend. When the two break apart, I notice C.J. stroking both of their manhoods.

"The...the phone?" I muster, "T-Tom?" Afterglow covers me. Boom.

They both spare a glance at me, look back at each other, and heave the same breathless chuckle when they connect for another kiss.

I spy the device on the ground, discarded. I don't reach for it.

"What about the...the..." I wave my paw, abstractly, "...thing?" Jesus, how many brain cells did this bang leave me with?

Their muzzles separate once more. Flick squeezes around C.J.'s middle, who frots their tools together. "We were never livestreaming," the lizard answers, like it was obvious.

Hey, don't give me that look! I don't know how social media works! I'm not one of your baby boomers, but I ain't a tech whiz either!

"But...I--" I stutter, "you made it up!?"

C.J. looks at me now. He doesn't really slow his jerkin' pace, either. "Aha, sort of. That's a half-truth! We were recording, not streaming; the service is pretty mid here! It was to help you get off, nyuk! And I'll still post it on my private! I can hook you up with the numbers of my fishing buddies back home! Anywave...oh...Flick..."

The two catch each others' eyesight again.

"Ah! Ah, fyuck!" C.J. spits.

The beaver shoots across Flick's abdomen. Busts his chops. One. Two. Three. Thick spurts. Hit the chest. Slip down along his smooth scales. C.J. doesn't moan as embarrassingly as me, but he's still loud.

They kiss. How romantic. Bang.

"Almost hit your chin!" C.J. laughs. "Close to your record!" He keeps stroking the other cock until his boyfriend lays a hand on his wrist.

Flick smirks. "'Hold my beer,'" he says in an estimation of his partner's accent.

Beer? Where? No one shows me. Flick slithers out of his partner's arms. Shows me something of his own.

Now, on his knees, in front of me, the chameleon jerks his twink dick off. I lay back, watching him. "Stick your tongue out," he demands, finally.

Bam! Now we're talking! Horny? Not as much. I got off. My cock hangs limp in the condom. I feel he deserves something from me, though, so I go, "I'm yer Daddy, kid. Daddy Lyle. Bang! Busted my chops in you!"

Flick's eyes go half-lidded. His boyfriend meets my eyes, then sneaks a paw around Flick's rear to probe inside.

Not sure if I'm helping. I keep going. "Yeah, kid! C'mon! Bust your chops, kid! Boom! Gimme a taste!" I point at my muzzle. "Give Daddy the sauce! Papa the protein! The bee the nectar!"

He's so quiet, there's no bang! A spurt slaps me in the face! Coats my glasses! I stick my tongue. I catch some. One flies right in my maw! Ropes hang from my whiskers like a gymnast routine! Thank bells I brought spare clothes!

Lyle closes his eyes, so it takes him a second to grasp his bearings with semen-covered glasses. Beyond the white raindrops, Flick slumps back in C.J.'s arms, catching his breath.

"That was so extra!" the beaver declares. To who? Everyone, I guess.

I peer around. Wilbur's gone from his spot.

"I just...or, I, er..." Flick stammers, slipping back onto his ass and wincing. "that was just...delightful!" He stares wide-eyed at me. "That was an inferno of bliss, pleasant like the sprawling, vibrant wings of a butterfly in the cool glow of moonlight." His face goes normal again. "Lyle."

"Yes? That's me. Lyle."

"Your dirty talk." He sheepishly rubs his neck. "You're a genius. Your style...your style of prose! It is rhythmic. It is bombastic! Streamlined...aerodynamic...spoken fast, gliding through the air like an agrias...containing all of the meaning with none of the verbosity of our common language. You revel in the inadequacy of verbal speech, and account for the lack of meaning between the words to punctuate the carefully curated, sacred phrases you do dare utter. Especially that one about bees."

I blink. "Eh?"

"In other words..." Flick breathes in, gathering himself. "Words. Lonesome. Low energy. High effort. Sublime effect!"

"That's not--"

"Bang!" He yells. "Me? Sorry? Excessively! I have just begun practice under the craft."

C.J. looks at Flick in that dopey, lovesick cartoon way.

Movement. In the corner of my eye. It's Booker. He pops his head in the door. Looks at us a second. Doesn't say anything.

"Reel it in, boys! The po-po are here!" C.J. jokes after he notices the dog's presence. Attention. He turns it back to me. Eyes glimmering. "You were great, though, Lyle! I'd love to play with you again: maybe really on stream next time, haw haw!"

Booker strolls over. Sees C.J.'s limp dick. Flick in the leggings. Me covered in semen. "No showers here," he says, reaching out a paw to me, "but you could hop in the ocean, I guess..."

"Saltwater? Catchin' Ol' Lyle in it? Haha! Fat chance!"

"Um, whatever..." Booker grumbles. Then he glances at the ground. "Someone dropped their phone, by the way."

---

That night goes well. Six. Us. Alone. Around the campfire. Mostly-clothed to nude. Six guys on a beach. Copper and Booker fry up some fish C.J. caught. Bang! It's a grand old time.

The dogs talk about their work. They basically just run a lost and found. No crime to fight. A faceless organization, Flick snarks. They don't disagree. Then they get into their lives. Copper? His girlfriend. Booker? His backwards parents.

Copper considers himself straight, with exceptions. He has two modes, though: Copper, and the Cop. The latter comes out under pressure. One of these moments? He tells me later. Confident, proud Copper faked a night as shy Booker's committed partner to show up the bulldog's devout parents. Their defiance rewarded Booker with some much-needed knowledge: he didn't need his family, he needed his friends.

C.J., Flick. What about them? They grew up together. Both products of single dads. Childhood buddies. Childhood sweethearts. They knew they had the hots for each other early on. Shared their first kiss in high school. Their dads? Cool with it.

Turns out, I knew their fathers. Graded both of their homes years ago. Nat raised Flick. Chip raised C.J. That awkward for me? Maybe. Maybe not. Who cares?

They ask me about Lyle. You know what I say. I gave you the spiel. I hit all the plot points. Let me list 'em out for you! Family life. School. Charlotte. Recession. Coming out. Nook. Et cetera.

Oh! Lyle forgot to mention the time he met K.K. Slider! Did karaoke with him. True story! I told 'em that.

To Lyle's big surprise, they listened! Listened just like you. That's my litmus test. If you don't wanna hear a story, just walk away. Bang! Not like there's some fancy computer code keeping you in place.

But lastly, Wilbur. I've met his brother. Those two are tighter than a vice. Both somewhere in that "not-straight" region. Wilbur, the older one, flies solo most days. Sometimes he grabs Orville and the younger dodo's boyfriend. Takes them up in his seaplane to look at sunsets. When the two cuddle in the back, it's, as Wilbur puts it, "mission accomplished".

He's the escort. Sticks around because he's supposed to. Doesn't love waiting, but it's his job. Now, he says, he isn't particularly waiting for anyone to leave.

You know what Lyle does? Him and Lyle. The two without a partner. The two middle-aged guys. Ten to midnight. We're stepping back in the hideout.

Bang! I escort him to his bedroom. Not for sex, just some TLC. Don't know if I could get it up if I wanted to, after that day. Gets me a bit aroused, but not quite ready. Instead we cuddle. My snout on his chest. His beak on my ears. There's a bit of patting. We pass out in each others' arms.

It's weird. We aren't old time buddies. It just feels good. Intimacy. Affection. Bang. Even if he talks funny.

So what's the point, right? You. Wondering. That.

Nook. The dogs. The lovers. Wilbur. What does it all mean, right? I think that too, waking up beside the dodo. Going about a second day with much less sex. Playing chess with rocks. Volleyball on the beach. C.J. even gets me to take a dip in the sea! I hated it.

But we exchange numbers! I add them on Twitter (yes, Lottie made me get one). Booker tells me when he's dropping by our town. C.J. hooks me up with his gay fishing buddies. Wilbur takes us up in the plane, shows us the sunset, and drops us back down before I leave with him.

And that's the trip. Each of the boys give me a kiss on the muzzle, apart from Copper (Dude hug. He opts for one of those), and Wilbur flies me up. Moonlight-bound. Nook left me a Sunday free at home. Why did he do that? The turnips.

I know, I know! I won't shut up about them. I'll tie it all together here.

Me? Silent. Back of the plane. Wilbur. Whistling. Radio on. K.K. Ballad, if I'm not mistaken. Lyle's lost in the song.

Suddenly, the dodo pipes up. "Ironwork afternoon. Do you copy?"

I think he's talking into his radio. Then nothing happens. I realize it was at me. "Yes! Hey. Bang! What'cha want? I mean, er, affirmative!"

"The Soaring Lily is approaching Tango Oscar Whisker November. That's it. Over."

"Roger!" I say, indulgently, and he doesn't move.

His face. Reflecting in the glass. Focused. Still wearing his sunglasses. Sounds like a detriment to vision, but whatever. But then I look at the stars in front of him. Much clearer than those in town. I gaze at them for a moment. Then back to his face. I don't see any better time. I slip off of the seat.

Bang! I place a hand on his shoulder. He doesn't jump. He doesn't look back. His eyes meet mine in the dim reflection.

"Wilbur," I go.

He studies me. Still not moving. "Yes, traveller?"

I fidget for a second. "The, uh...the other boys gave Lyle their numbers--"

"Bebop bellbottom did too," he cuts in.

"Who? I, uh," I mumble. He waits patiently. Then I realize. "Oh! I know you did. But Lyle...er...Lyle wants to, y'know..." I stand still. Wilbur's wings shift quietly on the panel. "...go out with you. A date. One of those things."

He also takes a second. "A date..." the dodo repeats, neither as a statement nor question. He stares at me longer in the glass. Then he flips a switch on the control panel.

Wilbur's up on his feet so fast it makes me jump back. He turns around. His sunglasses? Finally off. His irises match the lens shade. The chubby dodo kookily grins at me. Same trademark awkwardness as my little proposition. His voice is a velvety baritone. "I'd love to, Lyle."

Lyle. Bewildered. He skipped the codewords. I hardly even process his answer until his arms wrap around me. His beak presses against my muzzle. We stay like that for a moment. Then we break apart.

"I need to fly the plane," he says, apologetically.

I sit down in the back. Look out the side window. See the dotted stars. They blur into long streaks of light before I slide off my glasses and wipe my face on my forearm.

When we land, I'm dizzy with more than just altitude sickness.

---

Orville waves at me. I'm stepping out of the DAL building. Air. Less humid. Cooler. Lottie sitting there, parked in her car. Half-past ten. I step up. We wave. Lyle slides in.

The first thing out of her mouth. "Did you find a husband?"

I swat at her and tell her to shut up. She laughs. Of course she knew what this was about.

I say that, but she responds that It was her idea, after all.

The gay island? Her idea? No way! That was that perverse raccoon's plan, she clarifies. Though she knew what it was when she asked Nook to send me along.

Yep. Cue the dramatic music! Hotel guests standing in a circle. The detective points at the pink-furred otter with the pretty blue bow: Lottie! The one behind it all. The meddling schemer. All in good faith. Bang!

She just wanted Lyle to meet some men. Find someone. Might be good for Lyle, she thought.

I tell her it was. And that yes, I have a date.

She nods with a grin. Then, she tells me Digby spilled tomato sauce on one of the octopus chairs and he's sorry, but he spent two hours cleaning it out.

I tell her it's fine, as long as he got the stains out.

---

So. Where are they now, right?

Soon after Lyle gets back, his buddy C.J. links him to the video they shot. It's got five likes. It turns out C.J. is a big internet star, and Flick semi-anonymously posts his art online, but they only keep their sexy stuff open to close friends. Bang! Looks like I'm one of 'em now! Hip with the kids!

Copper. Booker. Right? Remember them? The glorified lost-and-found workers? They take a little longer to get back to me, but they do. Copper sends me a link to an internet group. He posts workout progress pictures there. Booker uploads pictures of cute dogs and the cakes he bakes. Turns out he's a cake guy. Hands out recipes for Lottie and me to try.

Tom Nook. You know him. Bang! Apparently, this vacation package was one of many. He bought several islands, the madman. This one isn't too successful. But wait. He's keepin' it for us! We gotta go somewhere to bust our chops! Good guy Tom, right? Charges us basic fees. It's whatever.

Lottie and Digby? Full dating. She spends three nights a week at his place. He spends three nights here. We don't talk to my brother, so Lyle gave Lottie that "dad talk". Bang! Digby calls me Uncle Lyle. It's only a little weird. He showed me how to video call my boyfriend.

Oh yeah! Spoiler alert! It's gone well with Wilbur. Lottie calls us a "thing". We've been on a few dates. One at my place with Lottie and Digby. We watched an action movie. It was awkward. She's bustin' my chops here, but Lyle likes the push. Boom. Lyle couldn't do this without her.

Wilbur. Lyle. Our sex. We've had some. I don't wanna get too into it. It's a bit more personal. It's bumbling. We have no clue what we're doing. That's the fun part. Bang!

But my ex-wife, right? I brought her up. What did she end up doing?

Lyle has no clue.

Boom. There's the point. It didn't work between us, so we split up. It took me ages to recover. Get my mojo back. Slide back into bein' old Lyle. But you know what? There is no old Lyle. Just me. The gay uncle. Givin' raunchy advice in a café. Telling you how he met his boyfriend. The old Lyle? He would've told you to buzz off. Then he would've tried to sell you on window insurance.

This is where I really bust your noggin.

Remember the turnips? That metaphor? The one that made Lyle a poet? That's my strategy.

My whole life, I've been buying, waiting till the weekend, panicking, and scammin' some kid to make my last minute buck. And hey, you should do the first part. Take on the risk, but don't forget the responsibility. And never sell low because you chickened out. Afraid Saturday's gonna be worse? You. Smart. You know better.

If your own prices crash, they'll be booming in the next town over. Bustin' my chops and exploring myself was how I found those other towns! Metaphorically.

That's not to say you should leave your wife if your prices drop with her! God knows I did worse to her than she did to me. Maybe Lyle shouldn't've bought from her town in the first place. Bang! I was the gay uncle this whole time. I wasn't mature enough to understand that.

And hey, thanks for your time. I'm still figuring this out. Y'know, it's nice to tell someone about it all. Give you the run-down. The sit. The four-one-one. The secret intelligence, as my dodo would put it.

Moral. There has to be one, right? The moral of the story? Here it is: confidence? Like turnips. Your prices are high? Invite your friends in. And hey. If you're one of those friends, you might end up like me, with a dick in yer mouth and a brand new boyfriend. Bang!

But I'm glad you let me blab at you. Turnip day is tomorrow. If you need Lyle's advice, you know whose chops to bust. And. You. Your first question.

Ol' Lyle? Yep? Him? He thinks you should know well enough now not to ask him about the weather. Makes him think you wanted him to talk at ya for an hour. But. Since you asked. Yeah, it's nice out. There's a chop-bustin' breeze. Good night to take a walk outside. Great night to trek to the beach, sit down, and gaze at the stars.

Bang!