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I blow out another puff of smoke, adding to the stale haze already hanging in the air. It's another habit I could obviously do without, but I can only take one change at a time. The smoke turns green, yellow, red, green with the traffic light from outside. It's the only light there is in this midnight room. I sit in a ragged overstuffed chair, still naked; it's too hot for clothes. My fur is sticky, I can barely keep my tongue in my muzzle, and I feel as if my tail has taken on twelve pounds of hot water. The rattling fan from some 1940s B-movie doesn't help much, except to make the smoke move slightly, like a snake dance.

The room is small. Originally, it was all that I could afford; now it's just habit. I don't want much. Don't need much. I've got a few clothes, a guitar, a smoke, food when I want it. You don't have to do much for food these days, if you know how. This pup knows how.

The windows are open, but I don't care if anyone looks in. I'm not the only gray Husky in the neighborhood; seen me, seen us all. It's been raining. You'd think that would cool things down a little, but Houston is one big humidity factory in the summer. I can hear the occasional sloshing of cars down below. I'm sure that he's not coming back, but once in a while I wonder if maybe the wet sound of tires comes from his car. Probably not. It's probably too late now.

Somewhere in this low-rent prison is some fur with a horn. He's good, this guy. Blues on the sax, every night, like he's trying to practice up for some big gig, or maybe just trying to say something about how much it hurts to live through one more day. I remember feelings like that, from a long time ago. Haven't seen them around here lately, though. No big deal. But that horn... that's a Lonesome like I've never heard before.

Another puff of smoke rises thickly through dead air. I oughta quit.

You know, that's not quite true -- what I said just now about never hearing. Lonesome is no stranger in this neighborhood. I heard some tonight.

He wasn't an ugly guy, but he wasn't a looker, either. For a young bear, he was actually not as round-bellied as he could have been at his age, but he wasn't the athletic type. His type has trouble fitting into the scene down here. Montrose is pretty cliquish, and there's not much you can do if you can't drink, dance, and look good in or out of your clothes. I was set. Sometimes, all I can get is my drinks, but usually I get more. A lot more.

I take the towel from the table next to me and try to dry the fur across my arms, my chest, my flat belly. Visible assets. I never got that far in accounting, but I remember the term. Funny. Never thought I'd apply it to myself. But it works. So do I. I'm good at it.

The bear was too quiet, I knew that from the start. Early on, I could see he'd be a good mark, but I waited to make sure that he started things off. If I'd gone to him, it would have made him think I was really interested in him. I tried to make myself look amiable, approachable. His type never wants to approach, usually. They sit in the corner, maybe tucking their tails around themselves, or worrying with their whiskers a lot, making sad lonely eyes at the bodies they wish they had, or the bodies they once were, or the bodies they could have been, or the bodies they want to be with. Most have a few drinks, get depressed, and go home alone. Some manage to buy drinks for the pretty pups and kits they've been eyeing, and they still go home alone, just a little more broke. Others look for furs like me. The bear was in the right category.

It took a while, but he finally came over. Said his name was Alan. I said Hi, Alan, I'm Rick. He didn't flirt with me, like they usually do -- trying to live the lie that they won't really be buying it, even when they hand me the bills later on. He offered to buy me a drink, I said sure, and I settled back to play the small talk game. That didn't last long. He didn't make the small talk. He said, I've seen you before. I know who you are. I said, Oh, yeah? He asked my rate. I said I usually type fifty words per minute. Dumb line, borrowed from the days when I thought being an office slave was good pay. It's a dodge for the vice -- they can't cop a line like that, even though everybody knows what it means. The bear smiled -- that was the funny part, he really smiled at that cornball line -- and said that fifty was a good value for a social secretary. It was a good comeback; I didn't have to force the laugh very much.

I grind out the cigarette. My lungs are thankful for the change, and I wonder if I'll really want the rest of the pack. Green, yellow, red, green. That horn really makes a noise around here, but no one ever bothers to complain. Wouldn't do much good. Nobody cares about this section of town very much. Not even the people who live here. Besides, it's not really noise. That's music. Good music. It'd hurt you, if you listened to it too close.

Alan didn't ask me to his place. Not many guys do; it's smart not to, because it could set you up for being ripped off later. I have a deal with a hotel manager at a place near the bar, but Alan didn't want to go to a hotel room, either. He said he'd rather see my place. I tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted. I sized him up, figured he wasn't out to mark me, and shrugged. You're buyin', you're flyin', I told him. We got into his car, and I gave him directions here. It's not far from the bar, which is convenient; the rain was still coming down, but it didn't slow us up any. He made quiet little comments about the streets and the houses as we drove by. He knew something about this part of town. He said he used to take walks through here late at night. It wasn't too late at that point, maybe nine. If the bear was quick to get his honey, I thought, I might end up with a few more tricks tonight. I told him to come on up, but not to expect too much.

He walked into the place. I expected some comment about the mess, but he didn't say anything. I walked over to the window and opened it; the rain was still going, not the hint of a breeze to move it half an inch sideways. The guy with the sax wasn't playing at that point. I kicked on the fan, trying to make some kind of breeze in the room, finally gave up. I wasn't here to make him comfortable.

Time for the show. Locking my eyes on him, I took off the denim vest in careful, calculated movements, stripped off the wife-beater, ran my paws over my hard chest and belly. About this point, most tricks start making noises over the merchandise. I stood in a sexy, come-take-me sort of pose, my tail moving back and forth with an unmistakable message, and inched my paws slowly to pop the buttons on my jeans. The pants wouldn't come off until they were peeled off, and I don't wear underwear, so he got a good look at everything but the main event. Tricks and marks expect that sort of crap. But the bear just smiled at me, real soft, said Don't try so hard. You're beautiful anyway.

There was nothing fake in his manner as he reached into his pocket and took out the wallet. The bill was a fifty, clean and new, and he tossed it onto the counter, put his wallet back. He unbuttoned his shirt slowly, not trying to be sexy, just being slow. He peeled it off and tossed it on the floor like it didn't matter. His chest was big, with smooth, well-kept brown-black fur. Clean, silky fur that glistened with reflected green, yellow, red, green. Even I have likes and dislikes -- not that I'd refuse the cash just because I didn't like something. Thick, clean fur, though, is always a plus, and too many guys these days think it doesn't matter, or that it matters too much. No fake boutique scents on this guy, just clean, healthy bear, the very slightest tang of musk starting to build. He didn't have a lot of muscle on him, and his belly was a little big for his size. Like I said before, he wasn't ugly; he just didn't fit the skinny, slinky, hard-abs pattern that Montrose demanded. He'd do better in Italy. I was there for a little while in my Army stint. Didn't get as much as I thought I would, even giving it for free; big-jowled mastiffs, plump bichons... they got all the action. Definitely the Italian type, this guy.

He came over to me and kissed me. I started pushing back, making the usual tongue stuff that tricks always seem to expect, but he pulled away again. He shook his head, said, Ease up, Rick. I said, Come on, man, what do you want, all night? He said, Yeah, that would be nice. I tried to bluff him; I said, That's double. He reached into his wallet again and pulled out a hundred. He said, No problem. He just padded back to the counter, tossed the bill on top of the fifty like he didn't want change. Something in my face must have asked the question for me, because he said, It doesn't matter. I tried to ignore the words. They sounded like the sax. I didn't figure he'd last too long anyway, so I just shrugged and said, Go for it.

He kissed me. That's the weird part. I mean, he kissed me, not like he was hot for getting on with it, but like he just wanted to kiss me. He didn't grab for my nipples, my basket, my tail, nothing. He just put his paws on my shoulders and spent a long time with his muzzle closed, moving his lips so slowly, taking his time, even when I poked my tongue out to see if I could get him to move it along. He took one paw and brushed it across my cheek, slowly, tenderly, pushing some kind of feeling with it. He kissed me like--

I get out of the chair and get my guitar. It belonged to Marty once upon a time, but it's mine now. That sax has got me thinking in directions I don't like much, but maybe I can do something about it. The guy with the horn has settled into a real basic blues pattern that I could probably follow. I get back into the chair and put the guitar against me. I can feel it stick to my sweaty fur already. I start playing along with the sax, finger the strings easy, no sudden moves. It's not bad really.

I want a cigarette.

This bear Alan really took his time. I mean, usually, guys either want to get off fast, or they want to get it from me, one of us has something in some part of the other of us, and it's all hot and heavy and very quick, all sound and fury and whimpers and yips. But this guy, this bear, he started out by giving me a back rub. I couldn't believe it. We got naked, and he saw clearly that I was ready for it (I'm not exactly small out of the sheath), and he just sat on the bed, and got me to lay down, and he started rubbing my back. The sound of the rain and the fan, the steady firm pressure of his paws, tender against my muscles, careful with my fur, working past my knots and bricks -- he spent so much time on me, I almost lost track of what I was supposed to do. Every part of me had gone limp, and I mean every part, but he only smiled -- not laughed, just smiled -- and said, Now I get to start all over.

The room was hot, still; we were both sweating, our paws rubbing smoothly against each other's damp fur, our pads damp from the humidity, from each other. He was slow, gentle, knew a lot about how to make a male feel good. I mean, if he'd've worked out, gotten the weight down, he could have been a high-priced hustler, no problem. What his tongue could do, tasting the sweat from the pads of my hind paws, was enough to light a fire in an ice bitch's igloo and have enough left over to roast the salmon afterward. And he insisted that he get me off really good, bringing me to the edge maybe five times before finally letting me go. I gave him what he wanted -- after all, that's what he paid for -- but I have to tell you, it was as good as anything I'd ever had, even when I wasn't being paid to fake it. And believe me when I tell you, there was enough of my juices on him, on me, on just about everything, to prove that I wasn't doing any faking tonight. I actually wanted to take what he gave me. No artificial grunting, no litany of sex words; the sounds I made were all but involuntary, and when he took his pleasure, it was my pleasure too. I don't yip like that for just anybody.

He even wanted an afterglow. You don't get that with a whore, I told him. Humor me, he said. Just like that. Humor me. He wasn't trying to be funny, he wasn't making jokes. He didn't even try to remind me that he'd paid for all night, or thought he had. It wasn't about getting his money's worth. It was about his lying on his back, with his arm around me, and cuddling. I wasn't sure I remembered how. I guess I did it all right, since he didn't say anything for a long while. He pet my hair so softly, so lazily. I probably might have dozed off, in some other circumstance. I remember the scent of him. Male, musky, salty, but somehow just as gentle as the rest of him. It caressed my nostrils like his paw touched my hair. It was like completing something.

A little later, he said, Do you play? and motioned his chin toward the guitar. I said, Yeah, a little. He said, Would you play for me? I said, That's not part of the service. He didn't say anything. Still no sound from outside, but the memory of the sound of that sax floated thickly around the bed -- even if it hadn't been around when he came in, maybe somehow he heard it. I did. I always do. I don't know why I got the guitar and played. Maybe it really doesn't matter why. He sat there and listened, watched my fingers moving on the strings. He stared at me, like he wasn't really here but someplace a long way off, yet I could feel that he never took his eyes off of my paws. I played for a long time, or so it seemed, and he never interrupted and he never stopped me...

The fur with the horn has stopped for a while now. I'm not sure if he'll be back or not. Sometimes he comes back. I'm still strumming the guitar a little, sort of not thinking about it. Thinking about other things, though. Thinking about a cigarette. Thinking about quitting. Things that Marty said. Things that Alan said. Thinking isn't one of my best abilities, but I'm doing it anyway.

Alan got dressed. I didn't; figured I'd gotten enough for a mid-week night, and truth told, the bear had pretty much tired me out. Then came the weird part. He took out his wallet again, took out this big wad of bills, and dropped them on the counter with the hundred and the fifty. He came back to the bed and kissed me again, that soft closed-muzzle kiss that he started out with, and for a second I really thought it was doing something to me. He pulled back and he said, That was for my soul. I didn't understand him at all. I said, What's with the money? He said, I won't need it anymore. Not where I'm going. And then he smiled, and he said, Use it wisely, Rick. You've got real talent on that guitar.

It was right about then, right about when Alan just told me that, that the guy with the sax first started up. The bear turned toward the sound, and he stared for about a minute. I watched him, watched his dark, deep eyes. He looked as if he recognized something. His face was utterly still in the dark room, green, yellow, red, green. And then finally, he said, I wish I could say that. I didn't know what he meant there, either. But he kept on, saying, That horn says everything I wanted to say about what I feel. And then he looked at me, and he said, You have that voice in your guitar. Don't lose that voice, Rick, he said. And he kissed me again. And he said, I won't see you again, but remember me, just a little, will you? I said, Sure. It was the right answer. He smiled at me, and he said, You've made it okay for me to leave. I know now that someone heard.

He left about an hour ago. After he closed the door, I moved to the counter and tallied up the bills. Over four thousand in hundreds, fifties, and twenties. It's still sitting there now.

I don't know what he meant by all that stuff he was talking about. My folks tried to raise me Catholic, and there's that Last Confession thing running through my mind, but that can't be what he had in mind. I don't know where he went. I know where Marty went, and he said almost the same things. Marty went about two years ago, and it's been about that long that I've been a hustler. Marty went down the tubes, out the gutter, the long way down. Marty climbed a fence over the Dunlavy walkway that crosses above U.S. 59 and jumped into the traffic from about fifty feet. The timing was perfect, they tell me -- he bounced from no less than four cars before what was left of him ended up on the easement.

Sweat in my eye. I rub it out.

I'm not going to watch the news for something about Alan. I don't have to. Either he'll do it or he won't. Not my problem anymore. The guitar feels sticky against my fur, like I can't put it back down without ripping something away. Nobody else ever listened to me play, except Marty. Nobody else wanted to.

I pick up the cigarette pack, glance at the free news rag that lies underneath it. There are ads in there for all the local services in Montrose, all the little shops, the tiny galleries, the make-shift recording studios where people turn out demo tapes for next to nothing. The fan rattles the pages slightly.

The guy with the horn starts up again. I can hear it, softer than before, faded like wedding photographs that never were. I crumple the half-full cigarette pack and throw it in the corner. My fingers move on their own, joining in with the sax, making the strings say things that I don't have words for. That's for my soul, Alan said. Love me anyway, Babe, Marty said. Remember me, just a little, Alan said. It's a cancer, Luv, you can't get it, you're safe, Marty said. You've made it okay to leave, Alan said. I don't want to make you suffer, either, Marty said. Someone heard, Alan said. Someone has loved me, Marty said.

That sax really says things. I don't know if anyone hears it but me, but I hear it. My guitar is trying to talk. The air moves in the color, green, yellow, red, green, making patterns, waiting. I don't think I know how to speak. But Marty thought I could. And Alan thought I could.

Somewhere, unseen paws riffle the sensitive keys of a sax that cries as it plays. I play, too. Maybe someone will hear. Maybe someone will understand. Alan paid for that understanding with cash. Marty paid in fear. I think my payment will be in pain.

But I keep playing.