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Kioga liked being naked. It wasn't, initially, the most thrilling aspect of being alone/being himself or whichever, as oftentimes he would leave stains and deposits--of varying viscosity--on whatever he might be sitting on. However, with timing and rhythm, as well as furniture that was outdoor-rated (regardless of the room it was located in), the incontinent cheetah got used to, at least occasionally, enjoying himself strictly in the buff. He thought his apartment was much-improved because of that, though now all his old furniture strictly resided at the gangbangers' place across the street.

The gangbangers had taken the adult crib as well, with the lame excuse that they could get crazy drunk and not fall out of bed (or soak the waterproof mattress, but that was unsaid).

The warmth wasn't much of an issue given the fur (which sometimes made Kioga wonder why they bothered wearing clothes in the first place, perhaps a courtesy to the less adorned species, along with the evident purpose of preserving their intimacy), unless he was overdue for a change, in which case the wetness would creep its way to his skin. Nothing that would take a long time to correct, if he felt in the mood to do so.

"But why aren't we naked all the time? At least, those of us who don't need diapers or coats, depending on, well, y'know, inside and outside conditions," he'd asked Lugo one night out on the town. It was a "grab as much of the Crew as possible" thing, but it was a Thursday night and short notice, so he'd managed to grab about half.

Lugo the wolf, however, was about three beers and twenty wings in at this point, and so the wolf merely inserted an entire piece into his mouth, then with a firm sucking sound returned only bones. "Dude, that's fantastic, but this time and place?"

"I think it's a good fucking question."

"Oh I don't know. I think it'd be weird for someone staring at your junk for twenty minutes."

"But perhaps in a society where this is mostly the norm," hopped in Ceylon, a gryphon, "don't you think that that unease would exist? A foot is a foot; a penis is a penis. They are all still a person's person. It's rude to stare, whether it's some deformity--quite rude--or extreme beauty: rude in turning a person into a novelty."

"Yeah, we can go about it two ways," Kioga said, pulling an errant eyelash until his lid snapped back with a little plip. "One, we can get into the nitty gritty and chase down the errant ramifications like chickens we let loose, or two, perhaps start at some utopia and work our way backwards. All I know, for sure, is I'm gonna be naked involuntarily if I keep torturing this diaper."

"Is it a one or two-person job?" Lugo said with a smirk.

Kioga returned the smirk, putting a paw on his boyfriend's winged shoulder. "If it's two, you'd best be calling the ambulance."

"Or the fire department, for the hose," snickered Lugo, leaving Ceylon and Kioga to it.

"It's not like I can wear shoes," continued Ceylon, "and sandals have to be very open-toed, but I can certainly understand why certain species would suffer from a climate they're not used to."

"Does that mean Fred would get to be naked only past a certain latitude?" grinned Kioga. "Boy's a foot wider when his fur is fluffy."

"Well, maybe, but that might lead to some rather strange relocalizations, if you were to enforce nakedness as a new standard. I don't see Kyrie joining Fred in that instance, which in turn leads to some rather weirdly predetermined regulations for which species are allowed where in our world. Frankly, the spice of anthroid diversity, with us living every which-where, stirs a lovely simmering pot to be proud of."

"Enforcement, yeah; the last thing we want to do is pile onto Nature's rules," returned Kioga, entering the restroom. A few locals recognized their hometown celebrity, of course, and the cheetah's amber eyes went a bit wide as a bidding war started over his used diaper. "Guys, guys, this special little pot of paradise goes to ..." he spotted a giraffe in the back flapping around fifty bucks. "Yeah, him," he said.

There was a bit of an uproar, especially because a ram in the front had two hundred and fifty clearly visible. Their lovely celebrity merely shrugged as he locked the door, got on the changing table, and Ceylon popped Kioga's quick-release slacks. Ceylon called out, "Buy it from him, then," which of course made the crowd turn toward the lucky giraffe.

The lynx-osprey gryphon did his due diligence in pulling the tapes, opening the garment, pulling a wipe, and of course making a comment of the prodigious toilet Kioga had made in his briefs. "Goodness, it is bigger on the inside!" Kioga chuckled with the cheery jab, replied that his buttocks clearly knew better than Ceylon's eyes--this was not so much a mound as it was a mere clod of soil--and the gryphon countered that the diaper was, at least, properly soaked.

"Fine, fine," assented Kioga, then pointed up. "Phones."

Ceylon turned around and saw a couple of phones hoisted above the stall door. With a deft paw, he pulled a little blankie out of their diaper bag and clamped it to the upper supports of the stall.

"But more seriously", Ceylon whispered, trying to gather the remainder of intimacy, "would you really allow them to pay for what you--naturally, very passionately, and sometimes quite prodigiously--produce?"

The cheetah snickered, naked from the waist down with his knees luxuriantly spread and his groin cool from the moisturizing, lightly-scented cleansing wipes. His new spin-off company, Pendrael, Davis, and Co., had the wonderful vision to create a unified, thorough line of personal-care hygiene products for head-to-toe/hoof/talon, for male to female and beyond. As such, the variety was excellent, and Kioga preferred wipes that stung a little: make sure he was really clean. "Feh, hehe. You know, I had an initial hesitation against that: same as I'd suppose used panties or Gamer Twink Bathwater are a strange, overall useless product, but:" he said, thrusting a claw into the air, "it's also, in effect, the same as a humble USA tourist on their first transatlantic vacation, and saving a rock from a Swedish beach. They've chosen a phylactery to represent their love."

"Hmm... I suppose I could make an analogy with my diverse band or video-game shirts... I just hope they're not wearing it. I wonder how they'd keep it, really." Ceylon rolled up Kioga's spent, swollen, musky, and lightly-fecal brief, then called out over the wall, snickering slightly, "All right, where's our giraffe friend? Fifty dollars; you got yourself a steal!"

The giraffe's head thrust over the wall and blankie, and rather than cover himself, Kioga just lay on his changing table, bare below the waist, with his sheath flopped against his left thigh. His fan gawked at him for a second, but then quickly got to business when the cheetah so much as cleared his throat.

"Oh yes, yes, h-h-here you are!" he said, and reached up and over with the money.

Ceylon lifted the ball of waste-laden gel and completed the transaction.

"You might want to vacuum-seal that; encase it in film," called out his celebrity-boo. "Trust me; coffee and cat pheromones will clear an apartment floor."

"Th-thanks!" said the giraffe, who was quickly assailed by offers of $500, and also a few critics that it wasn't a proper Kioga-brand dumpster-load. The giraffe balked at both offers and critics and shuffled his way out, garnering still a great majority of the crowd.

"Aha, see? Staring at genitals loses its novelty."

"Or he remembered propriety," said Kioga. "As you said. Only two reasons for you to stare at my asshole."

"Because I want to clean it or I want to ... engage with it?" grinned the gryphon.

"Or I have a funny bump in the area."

"It's good to check!" protested Ceylon. "And let's not forget the third reason."

"Which is...?"

"I just wanna."

Kioga snickered. There were occasions that his meticulous boyfriend dovetailed their love making into a medical checkup session.

"You're the goose that lays the golden egg," commented Ceylon, slightly lost in thought. "It's a lighter yellow, but the density and the luster are somewhat close..."

Kioga grinned, listening to the din of the crowd die down (save for the few fans that actually remembered that Kioga was still in there). In it, however, he heard the thick, baritone resonance of Lugo laughing on his stool. "I try with the density," said Kioga, "one must be as environmentally sound when dealing with biohazards on the regular. But you do a good job," he said with a wink.

"Oh, well, thank you," answered the gryphon, "it's indeed best to use them as much as we can, to optimize the process. Though you take it to a whole new level, given that one of your diapers pays for fifteen others, depending on the brand. And that wasn't even the highest bid."

"The cases or the carbon tax?" he said with a smirk, then arched his back, letting it crack a few times.

"Ah, haha, 'Use a Diaper, We Plant a Tree! Send It Back Used to Fertilize It!' How is Evanstrom's plan coming along on that?"

"Planning to run it around Arbor Day, calling it 'Ardour Day' because it's love you show for both your pelvic cradle and for the environment. I'd imagine our detractors would say that, overall, it increases diaper use, therefore landfill use, but I think we're still behind on something biodegradable in R&D."

"Well, the gel technically is compostable... as well as those, ahem, other solids. Maybe we can find a suitable polymer for the outer shell, it'd just have to not decompose while you're wearing it; which could be a problem when..." He looked towards the stall door and the bar, where both the giraffe and diaper were long gone. "You know. A delayed gel bomb in one's trousers, safe and contained until it's not."

Kioga laughed. "Oh man, and then we have something like Lot's wife, where the treasure vanishes before their eyes; Bismillah. Or decorating their shirts. But yes, not only that concern, but even if we had a reasonable material and complemented it with plastic pants, we'd just need to make damn sure the thing just doesn't turn into sludge. Plenty enough of that at the end of the day." He stretched out on his table, then dropped a hand to flip through their supply bag.

"Looking for anything in particular?"

"Ah, just gimme something absorbent. I'm not quite sure when the Praetorians will pull my 'Stupid Leash', but the public in this adult setting sure loves seeing me in my," he sighed, sardonically smiling at himself, "natural form."

"Right; I'll get you something extra-absorbent, but not decadent, hopefully that will be enough to keep them, well, off your scent," snickering slightly himself. He pulled an American Apogee, as well as a decently-sized booster, and gently motioned for the cheetah to raise his hips once more, deftly getting to work with the powder and tapes.

"Oh, that won't be until tomorrow morning; this grease and beer's gonna be a disaster. Hope you're looking forward to it," he said with a laugh. The entire process was nice: he didn't see much of it himself, busying himself with staring at the ceiling as the rustle and whoosh of diaper and powder took place about his lower region.

"Remind me to buy sealable bags on our way back. And deodorant pads."

"Shoot, out already?" he asked, setting his hips back down on the table with a comfy crackle. The brief bound about him, he put his legs up to receive his pants, then took them both back out to the bar. Lugo was spinning his spoon around a bowl of ice cream while a steaming cup of coffee wafted away by his right arm. The tiger Evanstrom was sitting beside him, starting on a glass of wine.

The wolf's ear tweaked, and he followed it. "Ah, ever figure out your nudity question?"

"Nudity question?" asked Evan.

"Oh, Kioga simply asked how it would be like if everyone were constantly naked," replied Lugo while Ceylon excused himself to get some coffee for him and Kioga.

"Or generally so, conditions permitting," said Kioga.

Evan yawned, and Lugo passed him a glass of water. The tiger stared at it. "Fuck's this?"

"Water, dumbass," said Lugo. "If you're tired, you might be dehydrated. Try water before any other supplement."

The tiger looked down at the glass, then took it. He drained it in one gulp, realized it was full of crushed ice, then held his palms against his temples as his face crumpled.

"You'll feel better after the headache," said Lugo, trying not to grin at his manager. Evanstrom, for a while, had stayed as a team manager in their old department, and had remained there for five years while Lugo, Wesley, and especially Kioga got catapulted up the ranks. That said, when Evanstrom was elected to do a TV interview for some of Ferris-Chalmpers's more ridiculous ventures--this time about the "Purple Diaper Fascists" known as the Praetorians and the 'Stupid Laws' that Prometheus "Prociev" O. Pendrael had "snuck" into Puerto Panuela's city ordinances, as well as the general influence the company seemed to exert on an ever-growing portion of territory--the tiger's confident, firm tone laid down the law in a most fatherly manner. There was a mix-up, however, and F-C had intended their middle-manager to address the local news. They instead put him in front of the national news. Evan noticed it, but didn't tell anyone until cameras were rolling, much to the amusement of Pendrael himself, quietly watching.

"First of all, I'd like to say that as an official representative of Ferris-Chalmpers, we have a full company news-feed of our own, available to the public, accessible from our homepage and our app, and it's been up for about ten years now. Our Praetorians are city-sanctioned, approved by direct vote in a referendum that was made available to all of you --actual democracy, if you remember what that is--and as a matter-of-fact are paid for by our own company: in no way is it an additional burden to you, the taxpayer. As for any allegations that the Praetorians are a Private Military Company, let me assure you: they are, and are fully licensed."

Evan let himself pause so that the nation could panic. Pendrael exploded in his office with laughter, cracking one of his skyscraper windows.

"We work in direct cooperation with the local police and city hall to ensure that, with the marked increase in private sexual expression and exploration, that this is kept out of the public eye to a percentage that even antibacterial cleaning companies would deem satisfactory. I would like to remind you that Prometheus Pendrael is doing this out of the kindness of his own bank account, and requests no compensation except that you would check out the fine array of personal hygiene and lifestyle products at our new retail company, Pendrael, Davis, and Co., and of course all your marketing, accounting, business-to-business, and private appeasement needs at Ferris-Chalmpers. All our domestic products are available at local shops, or the Carcer Contempla's Mercatio Munerum--the baby jail's gift shop, yes. To conclude, all complaints and feedback will be gladly received by our legal office; all the means of contact being available through ours or the city's official website, as well as on cases of our fine Ferris-Chalmpers 'Nine-to-Five' professional-grade protective briefs."

"But sir," demanded the toucan reporter, "what say you to accusations of being Purple Diaper Fascists?"

Evanstrom's face firmed. "I'd suggest to all these Social Media and web blogging enthusiasts that they look up the proper definition of fascism: we are openly cooperating with the public; not suppressing opposition. We are not fomenting a dictatorship of staid civil discourse. Is there some sort of 'dictatorship' when it comes to one's behavior in a public venue? One could argue 'tyranny of the mob majority,' but we must draw the line at some level of general offense. Be agnostic, secular, neutral to one another if not kind. We are simply providing the city with a contracted police force suited to society's needs, none of which is tied to or infringing upon the economy, society or the rules of decency themselves-- they merely ensure they are being upheld. As for any concerns regarding the enforcement of the law, it seems rather evident that Pass-Thru wouldn't allow for much of a coup, at best a temporary disruption. I'm sure that all those who've encountered the Praetorians for various reasons will know exactly what I mean."

"But Prometheus Pendrael is the first city official in fifty years to ban PRIDE parades!"

"He's not a public official: look to your Mayor, its Council, and your referendums. He merely suggested that Puerto Panuela ban 'porn' parades, regardless of sexual identity, expression, etcetera etcetera. All we ask is that those parades are done in a responsible fashion; need I remind you of what happened two years ago? If I remember it was your very news network criticizing the parade, that time around. Ah, yes: we had a different President then, which then might imply different standar--"

The reporter quickly cut the feed, and Pendrael promoted Evan as far as he was comfortable. Which, amusingly, was right above everyone in the Crew except for Kioga, who by this point was near to being chained to the building like a ship's figurehead, given his appointed role in the company's rise.

Kioga remembered this whole event as he received his coffee. He sat down at the bar with a hushed crinkle, then smirked at Evan. "Remember your 'porn parade' interview?" he said with the smooshed face of a kitty emoji.

Evan, on the other hand, returned the smaller cat's grin with a slight scowl. "I do, yes."

"Well, what if everyone was naked? If we lived in a society that permitted such."

The tiger's jaw cracked with a thud, and he turned to his glass of wine. He took a sip, rolled it in his mouth, then exhaled as it ran down his throat. "I think that would be fine."

Kioga's mug scraped across the bar, splashing a bit. "I'm sorry?"

"You see," said Evan, "we are all buttoned up, private with our private parts, as we place sex on a very high pedestal. As it should be, to a decent extent," he mused, rotating his glass, "but I believe clothes, above all, are better suited in the realm of the functional and the aesthetic. Wear what you want and/or need; perhaps we can de-stigmatize what is effectively just another body part. We can de-sensationalize so we're not caught up in all these social morays: in the end, 'sexual' assault, just like a 'hate' crime, is merely a flavor of assault, of a crime, of the imposition and/or harm against another person: intent may differ, but there's a million ways to cross the Maginot. And the crossing is the problem; it's as simple as that.

"But there's a certain social aspect," said Kioga. "If you suffer sexual assault, or a hate crime, isn't that worse than just being, I guess, assaulted?"

Ceylon chimed in, having brought the coffee he finally managed to obtain from the well-occupied bar. "Well, crime and law exist within a context; a hate crime today might have been perfectly normal fifty years ago--not to imply it was forcibly better, but if we want to go forward we might as well remember the purpose of our rules and standards, not entrench ourselves in them, forgetting where they came from. In addition, shouldn't we disincentivize these arbitrary attacks? 'How dare you be this species,' whammo. It could be said that the attack may not have happened had they been from another species."

"True," said the tiger, "though the disincentive of a larger punishment must be used responsibly. A dog could attack a cat because it is personally annoyed at its natural feline tendencies, or it could attack merely because he had a long day at work, his wife broke up with him, and that anthroid just happened to be sitting in his usual seat on the train. He was just pissed that a warm body was in his way, but a lawyer would love a big payday by stacking up charges. Regardless," said Evan, his tail waving languidly, "You have to prove intent. It's almost always a given that a rule or law was made in response to some problem. But horses had their purpose back in the day: now we just use them for pleasure and no, not in that way, Davis."

Kioga wrangled his fit of immature giggles.

"And perhaps I'm too much of an optimist," continued Evan. "No, that's not the term. An optimist believes good things will happen. A dreamer, I suppose, wishes good things would happen. Life is one of heartbreak and beauty. All that said, yes: unfortunately women will usually be attacked for their genitals, not their pocketbooks. Yes, those of differing religions, sexualities, cultures--any sort of mental proclivity--may inspire hatred via their differences; you are right, Ceylon. That's not to say I tacitly tolerate a religion or culture that would behead/castrate their dissidents or molest their prepubescents--I believe there's founded distaste in that--but all in all, I suppose I'm disappointed that we need such laws. Hmm," he said, draining his glass further and grabbing a few spicy nuts from the counter. The flavors clashed, but he swallowed anyway. "If only we could calm down. Spray-painting a bad swastika is more of a hate-misdemeanor ... or just a childish prank."

"Oh, I do very much agree", said Ceylon, setting down his coffee cup and quickly wiping his chin. "The fact that we need a framework to deal with these is in itself disappointing, somehow, much like the necessity of armies and such. But I suppose it's an unfortunate reality we have to work with, much like plumbing in a way. We build awkward machines in order to best approximate improvements on our reality."

"Much like diapers," Kioga chimed in.

Evan frowned. "Much like you in your entirety, Mister Davis."

Kioga's eyes widened. Lugo attempted to glare at Evan, but the stone-dead face was dry as pottery in Death Valley. Lugo failed to maintain his giggle.

Kioga threw a shotgun burst of peanuts at Evan. "Fuck you, man!" he said, vibrating with laughter.

The peanuts bounced off the tiger's hard, large visage. "I insist, Kioga. You are a blight upon the anthroid race and I love you."

"I love you, too, asshole."

"You might want to avoid wasting food," added Ceylon while picking and eating a few of the nuts scattered on the countertop, "enough of it goes right through you already."