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It's hard to respect yourself when you're getting fucked against a brick wall by a human you've just met. But since that human's giving you money in exchange for satisfying his misplaced bestialist urges, you can't afford respect.

Respect isn't something worth staying alive for, but love is. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

The heavyset man behind me yanks on my tail. I yowl because that's what he wants to hear: a whore of a calico tomcat begging a few bucks in exchange for a taste of the wild. Yes, because my tail is so different from all the other assholes out there. Most humans are stupid, and I've come to accept that. So I pretend to enjoy myself so he can get off and get the fuck away from me.

Eventually he settles down and just guides himself in and out, like they all end up doing. He can't keep me vocal for too long or someone's bound to hear. Then he'll be in just as much trouble as me. Perhaps even more, with the anti-crossbreeding laws here in Texas. Not to mention adding sodomy to the mix. Multiple sex-offender registries. I suppose I could try and call rape if he decides to mug me, but getting a fur-friendly judge around here is impossible. And tickets to Portland or Berkeley are expensive.

His thrusts slow down and become erratic. I know where this is going. He takes it out and slaps my hole with it, such a macho thing. He slides it up and down my crack, unmindful of the fact I don't have regular access to a shower. He teases me with his tip a couple times, clears his throat and hilts himself in one go. Gasps and pauses before carrying on with renewed passion. Bracing myself against the wall with one arm, I reach between my legs and feel where he spreads me open. Just slick skin. Fucker snuck off the condom. They all sneak off the condom. And they all get caught.

I hate having to go through this.

"We didn't agree on bareback," I say, keeping my tone neutral. You never know when you'll get a sexual sociopath. He stops humping, but his hips still move. "Don't pretend it fell off."

"Do you have any more?" There's hope in his voice, not that I have more but that I won't. Sometimes they try and stall, coming before we can reach an agreement. Sometimes they ask what the difference is. Plain and simple, the difference is money.

"Yeah," I reply. I have at least four in my pants, and a whole box in my backpack with Porter.

"How much to keep going?" Good, he's too far in to bother with haggling.

"Double." A rustle of clothing behind me, followed by the gentle raspy crinkle of paper. A ten appears to my right. I turn my head and stab it with my fangs. "Thanks." He resumes at a frantic pace.

Typical human male, he lasts only a couple minutes before he grabs handfuls of my fur and groans into my back, unaware that he's added his load to the other three already inside me. Telling him that might ruin the moment, though some guys really get off on it. Telling him I haven't been feeling well lately is definitely out. So I let him feel special.

Enjoy your disease, friend. You pay for the privilege, sometimes twice.

He collects himself and leaves without another word. Not many of my partners are much for pillow talk, especially if the pillow is concrete or asphalt or a Dumpster. I wipe myself with some napkins scrounged from a fast food bag and bundle back up, stuffing the ten into my pocket with the rest of my day's haul.

I need to piss, but I've learned to hold it until I really need to go despite the annoying tickle inside my sheath. Instead I pick up the cardboard sign I never use (HOMELESS DESPERATE ANYTHING HELPS GOD BLESS) and turn the corner onto Old Pecan Street.

I've tried holding my head up while walking from our home under the bridge to the places where I'm supposed to be panhandling. It's hard when most people, even the furry ones, look at you as if you're perennially doing something wrong. I'm not some purebred, and my fur isn't as white as it could be, but unless they're putting bread or money in my paw I've got no reason to care about what they think.

Across from me on the opposite sidewalk a stooped-over bull in clothing as ratty as mine lopes along. Brown paper grocery bags occupy each of his substantial arms. The groceries aren't for him, unless he's developed a taste for steak. His expression betrays nothing.

A couple blocks down I turn onto Guadalupe Street and meet the bracing north wind whistling through the streets of downtown Austin. It whips what leaves have fallen into miniature tornadoes of yellow and brown, dissolved by passing cars. There aren't many people out this late on a Sunday afternoon; I'm lucky to have made as much as I have today. Maybe God likes me after all, or maybe I'm just lucky. Either way is fine, because today is special.

Halfway down the block I turn in to a doorway with twin flags above it: one a rainbow, one a pawprint. The only fur-friendly GLBT resource center in the city. I open the door as silently as I can, tiptoeing on clawless feet over to the big stainless steel bowl on the reception desk. That's where they keep the condoms. I manage to get a pawful stuffed in my pants before a portly woman in a handmade green dress emerges from her office.

"Why must you sneak around, Henry?" she asks listlessly. It isn't the first time she's caught me like this.

"Just came to reload Paula," I say. That's really all I like to do here. The place is good for some people, but it's mostly geared toward humans. I don't need any more lectures on the dangers of...well...just about everything I'm doing. And I don't want to hear about how much I'm hurting Porter. I'm keeping him alive, at least. Alive and relatively pain free.

"You know they don't work all the time." Paula settles her bulk into a desk chair that groans under the strain. She knows better than to push too hard. She drove me away once, and while I still appreciate her concern I'm not about to let her know how much it means to me. "How does Porter feel about it?"

I roll my eyes. It's the best I can do if I don't want to tell her the truth.

"He doesn't know?" she asks, lacing her fingers under her substantial breasts. She'll never understand what it's like, being with Porter. Having to medicate him so much so he can just move around.

"He thinks I'm panhandling in traffic. I can take care of myself. Do you have any antibiotics?" I grab another bunch of condoms so I won't have to come back here for a while. Paula watches me with this patronizing kind of disdainful pity I'm certain she doesn't use on the gay kids who actually have their shit together. Then she just looks past me.

"In my office. There's a box with some samples. What symptoms are you experiencing, Henry?" I saunter into her office, kneeling beside her desk. If she weren't so big and her knees weren't shot, I know she wouldn't allow me in here at all. Lucky me.

"I think I have an infected tooth," I lie. "It hurts like a sonofabitch but now it's starting to smell like it's infected." The box is filled with Keflex and Zithromax and a bunch of things ending in -mycin I don't recognize, but I take those too anyway. A quick scan of the office reveals nothing else, but when I open her side desk drawer I smile broadly. Jackpot.

"I don't have anything stronger than codeine for that, so you might want to get something topical until you can see a clinic." Bless her heart, but she's lying. Right under the codeine are nicely-stacked blister packs of OxyContin for bad pain and methadone to ween druggies off the hard stuff. Those will do just fine, probably better than the weed Porter hates because of his asthma. And I don't know anyone who can make edibles that kill the pain as well as a joint can. I fucking hate the stuff period.

I take the codeine too.

"I'll look into it. I can't afford seventy-five bucks to get a tooth pulled."

"I know a place that negotiates," Paula says with her trademark gentle know-it-allness. "It's in Waco, though."

"Okay." Because that does me fuck-all kind of good, doesn't it? My teeth are fine, thank God. Just because we're homeless doesn't mean we can't find brushes and toothpaste. Sometimes I have to force Porter, but I won't kiss him with a dirty mouth so he does it for me. I wish he would do it for himself.

When I can't fit any more into my pockets (I wish I could have taken them out of their packaging, but that would be too suspicious even for Paula) I close the drawer and come back into the main room. I see a wall full of brochures about coming out and safe sex and STDs and I look away. It's a lot harder to catch human viruses than bacteria, but it's not impossible. It's probably just a cold.

Paula leans on her desk, her fingers laced under one of her chins. She smells of dollar-store perfume and Arby's. "When are you going to take advantage of our services, Henry?" she asks evenly, as if she's afraid of incurring my feline wrath. As if I had any. I've been fucking declawed.

As soon as I lose all my pride and self-worth. "If I can convince Porter to come by, maybe," I say instead. "It's hard to get him to move."

She nods slightly. I can see in her eyes she doesn't believe a word of it. I don't blame her; neither do I. In my short lifetime I've had enough of the "It gets better" bullshit to know I never want to hear it again. No pamphlets, no keychains, no stupid meetings where they pat you on the back and tell you you're a winner. Because in a world where everyone is special, no one is. And if you have fur, you're even specialer. The kind where they make it as hard as possible for you.

So we live under a bridge, because at least that's easy.

"Well, you know how to get a hold of me if you ever need anything. I live above the shop. It doesn't matter what time of day." That almost does it. I feel it blossoming somewhere deep in my gut, that thing that--should I let it surface--would have me sobbing on the floor begging for her to do anything she can so we won't have to go one more day being dirty and sick and miserable. But I can get us out of it. I don't know how, but I know I can. It takes time.

"I know, thanks," I mutter. And I half-wave to her as I slink out the door, not once able to look her in the eye.

Halfway to Lady Bird Lake I slip into a Starbucks to grab a water. The aroma of coffee in late afternoon shouldn't seem as weird to me as it does, but it reminds me of waking up before school (back when life was okay) and stuffing my face full of pancakes while Mom watched the news and drank her way into the day. Her stuff was instant though, not espresso, but it's close enough.

I'm used to people staring when I enter a place in which I obviously don't belong. Some of them smell me, and even the vulpine couple in a corner give me a surreptitious glare. They look like they've made it out of the slushpile of "fursons" trying to mesh with the rest of respectable society. I want to ask the tod how much money he had to pay, or how many times he had to pimp his wife, to get where he is. But that's me being jealous.

When I get to the front of the line, the fag at the counter (all the males are gay, I haven't smelled a straight one yet) asks me what I would like with the best smile he can muster for a disheveled feline of impure heritage like me.

"Can I just get a venti no-ice water?" Wait for it...

"Sure, but you have to purchase something to go with it," he replies with an ear-flattening lisp. If I went and looked through company policies I doubt I would find anything like that in the books. Yeah, I'm homeless, but at least I have the decency not to buy a coffee and hang around all day long inside just to keep warm. Why do you think there aren't any twenty-four-hour stores anymore?

But I'm ready. "All right. Give me an iced venti no water no ice six equal black tea. Plus classic," I rattle off. The barista grabs for a cup, obviously unprepared for the fact that I actually have money, and can call a drink in order. Of course I have to repeat most of it, but I don't mind. It's Porter's favorite concoction, and he hasn't had one in ages. He can take his pills with it.

"Your name?"

"Henry." He rings me up, I pay with one of my "bareback tens" and pocket the change since the tip jar is full of singles already, moving to the side to wait for my drinks. I get no more looks, but the girl behind the counter doesn't hide her annoyance when I tell her no, I really don't want ice, just like it says on the cup. Nobody ever wants to read the damn call. I'd make a great cup of coffee if they could get over the fact I'm a cat. But I take the drinks and leave, ducking into the next alley to down the antibiotics. The sooner I clear my system, the better. My bowels won't like me for a couple weeks though.

I keep my head ducked and my ears tucked against the wind as I pad along the side of Guadalupe Street down to First. Tall, modern parking garages shadow most of my walk, monuments to the human and the opulent. Behind them are apartments and condos where people are preparing to sit down to dinners bought at the local Whole Foods or the farmer's market. Made from ingredients with less than ten letters. Some of those fathers and sons and brothers and uncles out there have had their cocks up my tail recently; four of them today. I wonder how they feel about the secret they're keeping from their families. I doubt they care. I'm just an animal. We don't count as cheating.

Then again, who am I to talk? If I told Porter it might kill him. But the money keeps him alive. He's the only one I care about, and I haven't spent the last two years of my fucking life like this because I'm selfish. If I were selfish I'd just steal a gun and blow my head off. But Porter would die without me, and he's got so much more life to live. Maybe we both do. We're only twenty-four. Seems long enough to me.

The sky's just as blue as it ever was, though. That's gotta count for something.

I've drained my water by the time I get to First Street and cross it to the park on the other side. I hear shouting from behind me and turn to see a group of people with signs on the steps of City Hall. Some of them say "Occupy Austin," others some crap about the ninety-nine percent. Hipsters, all of them, with thick-rimmed glasses and cappuccinos and warm-looking scarves. Taking time off from their college classes to complain about the successes of others. There's even a small group of furry ones off to the side, noticeably less vocal but with signs of their own. Most are focused on their cell phones.

Must be nice, being able to afford to bitch about the zeitgeist. I bet I work harder every day than the ninety-nine percent do in a month.

The grass along the embankment is half-dead and crisps under my feet as I high-step my way from the bike trail to the dirt path at the bottom, near the edge of the river. After almost losing my footing I put the tea cup in my empty water cup, saving the plastic for some later use. You never know.

I can see him up there, under the bridge, propped up in the very corner. He's awake, wrapped in a blanket and watching the river go by. My heart breaks for him like it does nearly every day.

After throwing my bag ahead of me, I scramble up the short concrete berm and pull myself over the edge, sprawling out like a rag doll. I can feel the fat man's cum leaking out of me, but there's nothing I can do about it. If Porter smells anything, he doesn't let on.

Instead he smiles and rocks back, letting his dreads hang free for a moment. His eyes carry the shine of the setting sun, but I know the pain behind them.

"Hey you," he says.

"Lucy, I'm home," I reply, crawling my way over to the pile of blankets and trash bags we've called home for a few months now.

"You were out a long time today." Porter rocks forward again and clasps his paws around his knees. When he turns, his left eye loses the light and becomes lost in its patch of black fur, shadow within shadow. He sits here all day and reads the things I collect for him: cheap comics, stray newspapers, books too old for anyone to care about them anymore. And when I come home he's always excited. Not because I'm bringing money or reading material, but because he's glad to have me around. I'm glad to have someone to come home to.

I force a smile. He believes it, though. "It was a good day. People were generous." Reaching back, I draw out my battered wallet (leather, though it's years old) and pull the bills before his slack-jawed wondrous face. After the tea, I have a little over seventy-six dollars left.

"Holy cow!" The mutt crawls over his blanket--in careful measured movements--and nuzzles the money as if doubting its realness. "Smells good." And he giggles, blushing through his ears, expecting me to chide him for acting childish. No reason to, when he's so happy.

The protestors at City hall are chanting something incoherent that bends my ears even though I try to ignore it. Porter's twitch but his eyes are on me. I wish I had his gift of ignorance. Only sometimes.

"Not as good as the food we're going to have tonight," I say. I'd wanted to wait, so I could make it more of a surprise, but it wouldn't have mattered. I bring food to Porter most of the time because it's safer for him under the bridge. Less painful, too.

He quirks his eyebrows and looks up at me, scrutinizing my green eyes with his brown. "What do you mean?"

"You mean you forgot?" I feign offense, sidling up to him just the same. "Well, I can't blame you. It has been two unbearably long years together..." At that he recoils, looking around like he'd forgotten something. Like our anniversary. If he did, I can't blame him. It's hard keeping track of the days when you don't have much to live for.

"Oh, Henry, I didn't know it was today! Why didn't you tell me it was today?" He doesn't let me answer. Before I can think of anything his eyes are already brimming with tears. Why does he do this to himself?

He needs to see a therapist, Henry. He needs medicine. Yes, I know he does. Good luck trying to get on a waiting list at one of the few free clinics in town, and once they discover he's not human...well, then you go to the bottom of another list. We can't even get out of Texas for less than a hundred bucks, and then what? Hitch it to California?

I've got pills for him. We still have some Xanax, too.

"It's okay," I say, chuckling through the words. But Porter's already started to panic; the scent of it rolls off him in waves. "You didn't have to get me anything. That's why I'm taking you to dinner." He recoils when I touch his wrist. It's going to take more than that to calm him down.

"Can't believe I forgot! Why do you love me? Oh my God, owwie, my stomach..." When I see the foam on his tongue it's time to use force. I pocket the money and crawl over to him and, despite his protests, grab his arms and fall atop him, pinning him to the concrete. He barks out in pain--it must be excruciating--but still he resists, his pupils wide pools of crazed darkness that reflect nothing of the Porter I know.

"Calm down," I try to say in a soothing voice. "You're fine. We're fine."

He flails and struggles beneath me. I don't know which is worse, the depression he suffers every day or the panic attacks that strike once in a while, seemingly caused by the most innocuous things. I'd initially thought he was bipolar, but I've never seen him in a mania. Even a good mood is a rarity.

"I need my pills," he asserts, his muzzle close to my left ear, spitting saliva onto me as the words form begrudgingly. "Please get 'em, my stomach hurts so bad."

"Can you stay still?"

"I'll try, Henry. Owwie. Ow!" It's moments like this when I wish Paula carried injectables in her little desk of drawers, but the only needles there are the clean ones for the junkies. They're empty. I could just jab one in the meat of his ass and calm him down. But pills will have to do. Porter manages to stay still while I rummage in my pocket for two of the methadone, breaking them out of their blister packs and palming them while I unzip the mutt's backpack. I find a Xanax I stole that he hasn't taken yet and break it out too. He holds the pills on his tongue obediently while I bring the tea. He drains a third of it.

"Mmm, yummy." He licks his lips. "My teeth don't hurt. Thank you, Henry." And then his face goes blank as he begins to shake all over. I watch his muzzle screw up, the lower lip tremble. "I forgoooooot!" And he's in my arms again, not panicking but racked by the deep sobs of a boy who doesn't know why he acts the way he does or why his body hurts too much to move most days. I hold him and pray for the pills to work fast.

I need to get us the fuck out of here. Even if the weather holds, Porter won't last the winter. Just a few more weeks of doing this and I can have us on a westbound Greyhound. They'll have people out there who can help. They have to. Silicon Valley is like furry central, or so I hear.

The protesters have either broken up or quieted down, leaving the river to play its wild urban melody against the underpass and our ears. I listen to it, a willing yogi holding his very own downward dog, letting it lull me into a blank state of mind, if not nirvana. The rumble of a heavy truck brings me back to realize Porter has slumped against me. From his deep, regular breathing I can't tell if he's sleeping or high, and he doesn't respond when I lay him on his back, pulling the blanket over both of us.

I wrap my arm around his chest and try to keep the world away as I watch the sun set in its dingy sky over the west side of Austin, thankful Porter can't see me crying. It would kill him.

*

Once you get past the heartache and loss of pride that come with homelessness, you start to realize how easy it is compared to "real" life, in some respects. You can get up whenever you want, go to bed whenever you want, piss on any bush you want. You can fuck in public, though Porter and I try to respect the sensibilities of others and do it at night under cover of darkness. During my day job, however, I don't have much say. If the cops see, I can use my fleet feline feet to get away pretty easily. The johns, not so much. If the john's a cop...well, that hasn't happened yet.

You also lose track of time. Not because you don't have a watch (I do), but because you don't have a purpose. Yeah, my purpose every day is to go out and fuck for as much money as I can get, but when you wake with the sunrise and do your little things and go downtown and boom it's noon already, you wonder where the time went. It drains through the cracks of purpose when you're not looking. When you think you're being productive but you're really wasting that time. Or when you keep scrounging for pills and cash when you really need doctors and shelters.

There's a loss of pride that comes with homelessness. But you don't have to lose it all.

It's Porter's shivering that wakes me up, jerks me from a dreamless sleep and jangles my nerves and reflexes into looking around for the nearest APD officer. But there are no lights and no sirens, just my puppy underneath a wholly inadequate blanket underneath a wholly inadequate bridge. I pull it up tighter over the both of us and tuck it into his nooks and crannies, draping my body over his.

"Do you hurt?"

He thinks this over. Moves his limbs as much as he can in my embrace. "No," he says, spellbound. "I don't hurt anything." It's as if this were a revelation that's never happened before. I'm glad he can numb out each time like it's the first time.

"That's good." He backs up into me under the blanket and his shivering goes away in a few silent minutes. His breathing is regular but I know him well enough to know he's not asleep. These are the little moments I cherish, the snippets when it's just us in our own space, and the rest of the world could go to hell for all I care. As long as I'm holding onto my puppy nothing can hurt us. It's faulty logic but it keeps us alive, Porter especially.

We stay that way for what seems to be a long time, but like I said, time is relative. He shifts this way and that, trying to keep comfortable. Maybe too comfortable. As soon as he snuggles back into me--more like grinds--I know what he's doing, but I don't stop him. It means he's feeling better, and I'm not going to deny him what little pleasures he can get. I sit my muzzle atop his head between his ears and hold him while he rubs his rump over me, gaining the expected reaction.

He must be pretty high, to be so eager.

"Henry." Gingerly, the mutt takes my paw and places it on his pants so I can feel his arousal, bulging out the fly. That was quick. I clutch his clothed sheath and stroke it up and down over his length, making him moan as if this was yet another first time. I wish, more than anything, I could respond the same way. When I do it with Porter it's special, but I wish I didn't have to worry about making him sick. I just don't know.

After my paw takes over he moves his own back and finds my hardness, strong and ready after a day of what was, essentially, edging. I'm just as ready as he is.

"Pants off, puppy," I whisper, and in a flash he obeys, rustling under the blanket until his newly-bare hip slides back under my paw. The scent of unwashed musk trickles up from him but it can't be helped; the river's too cold to bathe in, and I'm sure I don't smell any better. Still, I reach down to cup his sac and tuck his sheath neatly behind his knot while he groans and nuzzles back against my throat.

"Pants off, kitty," he reminds me with a giggle--God, it's been ages since I've heard that--and a moment later I'm grinding my hard sheath under his wagging tail, letting his rump skin me back to the base. I don't much care what's gotten into him. I just care that he's not in pain. I put the condom I snuck out of my pants right behind me where it'll be handy.

"How long has it been?" I ask, nipping along his floppy ear in between words. He pants so hard he can't answer right away.

"I...don't remember...a looooong time." While he jerks and writhes back and forth in our small pocket of warmth, I ring my fingers around his shaft just above his knot, feeling where it widens in the middle before tapering down to a neat blunt point at the end. Rubbing a couple pads there brings back copious moisture, a sign he's enjoying himself.

I'm not going to make him wait.

Gripping him, three fingers above the knot and two below, I jerk him using my wrist. It's not a fast motion and it's not a stroke, but it's guaranteed to get him off fast.

"Henry," he pants, "what're you doing?"

"Making you feel good."

"What about you?"

"It's your turn first." Keeping it simple keeps him from thinking too much.

"Oh, oh, oh..."

So it goes for the next little while, me having more fun than I have a right to in my position, Porter having just the right amount of fun for his position, which is in my grasp. His slender body is warm against mine, his mottled fur a mirror of my calico coat. Soon the bothersome itch in my sheath gives way to a more primal need, and pleasure trumps any memory of pain from earlier. I know I shouldn't be matting his fur down with pre, but I can't help myself this time. We'll find a way to clean up.

Several times Porter backs up into me and I feel the heat of his bare flesh in there, slickened and accessible. The closer he gets the closer I want to get, but I can't no matter how much I want to. Not like this. I'd planned to finish him first, but when he jerks and impales himself the split second of wet warmth whittles my resolve down to nothing.

Reluctantly, I let him go, reaching back for the condom before he can notice. He whines at me but stops when I rub my tip up and down his crack while tearing the wrapper silently with my teeth, fishing the thing out and feeling blindly for the right side. It takes only a few seconds to slide it down, spitting into my fingers and pushing the makeshift lube up under his tail, which is lifted and twitching from side to side. Hearing me, he adds his own saliva to the mix, nearly touching my cock. He can't know, and he's probably too horned up and out of it to realize the difference anyway.

I redirect his paw to his chest, grabbing his cock again to distract him from any odd rubbery feeling as I slide forward to feel him give way. He cries out softly when my head breaches him, my barbs stimulating like always, even through the non-studded latex. Then his tail frizzes out against my belly, wriggling as if electrified, and that curtain of heat slides all the way down to my sheath. I just know I've injured him; it usually takes a few slow tries before he's ready. Even then I have to be gentle.

"Fuck," he grunts, which is surprising because he swears so rarely. I grip his knot and hold him to me, feeling him surrounding me, sliding the rubber around and it actually feels good. It's been too long since the last time and I won't hold out even with the barrier. "No, not like that."

"What?"

"Just jerk me, Henry. I d-don't care, I gotta go..."

"Okay." Hearing him so exposed, so desperate, I realize how badly he's numbed up. Not so long ago in our halcyon days (if you could call a one-room apartment that) we tried some pot with a friend. I remember the burn in my lungs, the coughing fits, and the high-flying buzz a few minutes later. First it made us hungry. Then it made us horny. And bottoming for the pony seemed like a good idea. I'd bled, but I only felt pleasure.

I've never tried morphine, but I believe in solving problems rather than dulling them away. Until we get to a clinic, though, we'll do whatever works.

Porter begins to shake, and at first I fear he's having a seizure. But once I pull my nose from his fur and open my eyes, I see his left leg pumping the air, kicking nothingness. He swells in my fingers, crying out softly as the scent of his essence fills our little corner of the bridge. I stay still, his leg doing my work for me.

Once he settles down I glance over his shoulder, noting several thick ropes spread across the concrete.

"Good boy." He sighs in response, leaning into me, bottoming out until his ring swallows the edge of the condom. It feels so good to have his flesh on mine, and I can't wait to get my system cleared. I just hope it's all clearable. "It doesn't hurt yet, does it?"

"Oh, Henry, no," he replies, reaching back to my hip to pull me close. "Please go. It feels...so warm." He's imagining things, but he's not suffering. So I withdraw a little before going back in, so slowly I can barely stand it. As I hold his concave belly for leverage I listen to his steady, soft breathing, nuzzling up into his neck, my own breath returned to me with the ghost of his scent.

The condom rolls up and down as I go, varying my sensitivity, and I use Porter's hole to that advantage. I wish he would clench and peel it off by accident, so I could breed him properly, like I'm supposed to. But it never quite comes off, having barely moved halfway to my tip before I come forcefully into it, my own seed splashing back against me but keeping him protected from my job.

Still, I don't pull out right away. No harm in a little afterglow.

We almost fall asleep again, but when I glance at my Goodwill dime-bin watch I shake Porter awake. It's already after eight o'clock, and the place I want to take him to closes at nine. I want this night to be special for him. I've been working and saving for weeks, and we both deserve it, even if it isn't the most practical thing to spend money on.

"Whuzz wrong?" he asks through the haze of half-sleep, and doesn't even notice when I slip out of him and toss the condom over the edge to the ground. The itch is back, just enough to be annoying.

"Nothing. We have fooding to do."

He turns over, his eyeshine eerily bright in these shadows, two smoldering candles in his head. "What?"

"Do you think you can walk some?"

"I feel great," he says, nearly hugging the air from my lungs. "You got me a present?" I don't care that he's forgotten about dinner. Makes it easier to make him happy. How can I lie to that waggy tail?

"Kind of. But you gotta follow me."

"Anything for you, Henry." My heart aches to hear the absolute trust in his voice. I don't feel as if I've earned it.

"Okay." We get dressed and I help Porter onto his feet. He folds the blanket neatly and places it next to our pile of meager belongings, and then we're off.

Three blocks north of the bridge, at the corner of Fourth and Lavaca Streets, is I Campi D'Oro. It's not the best Italian restaurant in Austin, not by a long shot, but it's close and it's not Olive Garden. It's also one of the first places I saw when we moved here. So long ago, it seems. I promised myself that day that I would take Porter there for a romantic night out.

Not long after that, the world crashed down around us.

Porter stands next to me, wavering slightly while he looks the welcomingly lit building up and down, seeming not able to understand why we're here. He asks me just that, his paw tighter in mine.

"Happy anniversary," I simply say. I can't help my smile; even when Porter tackles me and bathes me in sloppy doggy kisses it doesn't waver. But it's a short celebration.

Peering into a window taller than either of us, Porter looks back at me. "It's not for real, is it?"

"Sure it is." I fish the bills out of my pocket, flashing them in front of his face.

"How did you get all that?" He gets serious, whispering conspiratorially: "You didn't steal it."

"I don't steal," I say. That's not entirely true, but it's the truth in this case. "I just had a run of luck." That's the lie.

"I haven't seen that much in a long time." Just then, the aroma of cooking tomatoes wafts around the corner of the building from its kitchen. Porter closes his eyes, his snout wrinkling up to a dreamy smile. "Smells so good."

Putting my paw on his lower back, I nudge him ahead of me. "Let's go get some, then." When we reach the door I hold it open for him, and he looks like he's about to float away on a cloud.

Seeing the hostess's reaction, however, darkens my spirits. She looks like a college student who works nights to help with tuition. She also looks as if she's not too excited to have to deal with us "riffraff." Through her smile I can practically smell her derision.

"Welcome to I Campi," she lies. "What can I do for you?" No asking how many in our party; she probably assumes we're here to beg for scraps.

"Two for dinner," I reply flatly, getting some satisfaction at seeing her brows raise just so. Still, she hesitates, browsing the restaurant, which is less than half of capacity at this hour. "A quiet, private corner if you can," I offer, and her relief is palpable. The bitch.

She leads us into the dining room past couples and families who can't help but glance our way. After all, we're out of place, and we probably stink. A boy and girl watch us with curiosity while their parents try to mask their disdain. Their pet, a Labradoodle, kneels at the side of their table. We exchange knowing looks: This is how it is, though it shouldn't have to be. At least he's got a job and a home.

The hostess sets our menus at the booth farthest from everyone, bidding us a curt farewell so she can get back to wasting time at her station. Porter bounces on the smooth vinyl seat.

"Isn't this exciting? Thank you so much, Henry! Do you think they have bread?"

We're still being stared at, but they can all go fuck themselves for all I care. I can't help smiling at my puppy. I haven't seen him this happy in ages. I don't think it's the drugs anymore. Handing him his menu, I open my own and we pore over our choices.

A thin red fox backs out of the kitchen tail-first with a tray in his paws. When he sees where he's headed his expression goes from indifferent to pained, avoiding my eyes while he bends to set a basket and plates on the table.

"Bread for you, gentlemen," he says, then turns away quickly, but not before our eyes meet. I don't need to see to know how he feels. It's in his ears, in his tail, in his scent. I can't blame him, but I don't hold it against him either. I wonder how much he's paid. There is no minimum wage for people like us, and with the furry lobby as inconsequential as it is I don't see that changing anytime soon.

But when the fox busses the table next to us and laps at the top plate on his way back to the dishroom, that's more of an answer than anything he could have said.

The bridge doesn't seem so bad compared to other types of shame.

With the scent of fresh bread so close, Porter can't help himself. He dives for the basket, shoving a whole roll into his muzzle, tearing a second in half while he chews. My stomach can't take it for long, and I do the same, albeit with more decorum.

Two rolls in (with butter, it's so simple and decadent), I notice two servers arguing near an ordering terminal. They think they're being quiet, but they discount my superior ears. I cup them forward and listen while pretending not to. I hear enough to know neither of them wants our table, which isn't surprising. The female eventually throws her hands up in passive aggression and her male coworker sighs before coming over.

He tries to be genuine, but he fails.

"What can I get you to drink?" he asks without preamble.

"Just two waters, is fine." His sour expression and wrinkled nose say it all.

"Do you know what you want?"

"We're still looking," I reply. "We'll just stick to the bread for now." He abruptly turns and walks away. If I were him, I wouldn't be judging our book by its cover. Kind of hard for humans, though, capricious as they are.

His cheeks puffed out like a squirrel harvesting nuts, Porter picks up his menu and starts flipping though it. "Uhmuhguh," he mumbles, "So muh fuhd!"

"I know," I say. "Do you see anything you want?"

Porter swallows. "What can I have?"

"Whatever you want."

"I'll never decide. Too many things!"

"Perhaps nothing too big. It might upset you." Nodding, he studies the menu closer. There is indeed a lot to choose from: antipasti, big heaping plates of pasta and entrée options. My stomach rumbles right through the rolls I just ate. But when I look up it's a manager I see, instead of our reluctant server.

He looks as though he's stooping to some distasteful task. I hope he's not doing what I think he's doing.

"Hi!" Porter waves to him. The man wrings his hands nervously. Because a tom cat and a mutt are so intimidating.

He gives a small wave to Porter, then turns to me. "Good evening, sirs," he says very professionally.

"Good evening," I say, straightening up and looking him square in the eye. Don't you dare.

"It...appears we have an issue."

"Huh?" Porter asks.

"It's okay." I put a paw on his, making the manager grimace.

The guy continues, leaning down so he won't be overheard. The rest of the dining room stares without making a sound. "Several diners have expressed...concern, and although we don't have a formal dress code, we feel we must maintain a standard--"

"We're too dirty to eat here?" I keep my voice just as low, though it's difficult not to reach up and throttle this man, this obese excuse for a human being. "Because I didn't see anyone talking to you about us."

"Please," he whispers intensely. "I don't want any trouble."

My paws are flat on the table. I'd be digging furrows into the wood if I had claws to dig. I'm too mature to blow up in front of this joker, but don't I wish I could slash his face open. Wouldn't have taken but a second. Instead, I bring my money--all the money we have in the world--out from my pocket and hold it up so he can see we can afford his food, though I'm less and less hungry for Italian the more I look at him.

"My money's as good as anyone else's. It's our anniversary, and we're trying to have a nice dinner." Porter's looking at me with mild horror. Not at my flashing the cash, but at the way we're being treated. He doesn't need to see this side of the world. It won't do anything but damage him.

"I understand...sir...but the other diners--"

"I don't care about the other diners."

All pretense falls away from his face, and I can see the ugly person behind his mask. "I don't want to call the police. Don't make this difficult." And despite all my anger, my pride, my love for Porter...I'm not going to risk a run-in with cops just for a dinner. The guy looks at the bills like I stole them, anyway. He sighs in relief as I take Porter's paw and lead him out of the booth, but not before taking the rest of the rolls with me. The manager doesn't stop me.

"Out the back, please," he says.

I snap around, fighting to keep my temper, whiskers vibrating. "You got what you wanted. I'll leave however the fuck I want to."

"You can't talk to me that way." And he reaches for my shoulder, but rears back when I hiss at him, ears down, hackles up, the whole cat shebang. The little girl who watched us come in whimpers off to my side. Their "pet" is grinning at me. Solidarity. If only we had more.

Before it can escalate further I stride out of the restaurant, knocking the hostess's stack of menus onto the floor when she gives me this disgusted smirk. I don't look back.

We make it two blocks before I have to duck into an alley to scream. Porter draws away, covering his ears while I pummel a pile of flattened cardboard boxes. I imagine I'm tearing them to shreds, but even though my knuckles ache I barely dent the top layer. When Porter tries to stop me I jump, and I almost punch him too.

"I'm sorry! I just wanted to make it better," he whines. But he flinches when I try to hug him, and that does it for me. All the hoping and wishful thinking in the world can't fix this anniversary, and it sure as hell can't fix this goddamn world. What's the point in selling myself to the perverts of the human race when I can't even spend the money they give me? My stomach rumbles and I break.

Suddenly I'm in Porter's arms, sobbing and mewling my eyes out, and it's embarrassing because I'm the breadwinner, and all I can do is get free bread from a fancy restaurant before we're kicked out.

"Come on, Henry," he says, rubbing my heaving back. "We didn't need to spend the money anyway. We could save it." Yeah, we could save it, that's more practical, but I wanted to do something for him! For us! Anything to make our lives seem less like a desperate hell and more like anything approaching normalcy. But here we are, in a back alley with the rest of the trash, where society has put us, where we belong.

After a few minutes I collect myself with the help of a dirty rag from Porter's jacket pocket and some deep breathing. He sits me down and pulls me into him, the regular sound of his breathing a comfort like no other.

I take care of him, but sometimes I think he keeps me alive more than I do him.

"It hurts...so much," I croak into his chest.

"Where?" the mutt asks, bless his poor oblivious heart.

"Never mind. Just...everything." Then he holds me tighter and pets my head, and I'm embarrassed until I begin to purr, losing myself to being taken care of instead of the other way around.

I still have the money. I suppose I should be thankful for that much.

"I don't like seeing you sad," Porter says to my forehead. "It hurts more than when I don't get enough of the pills." I almost break down again, but I've just about cried myself out.

"Sorry. I'm trying to make things better, but sometimes it doesn't work out."

"I still love you, Henry."

"I know you do." He further proves it by tilting my head up and kissing me gently. His lips are warm against the cool alley air. I could stay there forever, so I let him control when we stop. That doesn't happen, and so we huddle there against the concrete, making the best of our anniversary before it becomes the day after.

Somewhere during our embrace Porter finds his way down my pants to my sheath, his paw trembling from hunger but strong and firm, stroking first with the grain then against, setting my already jarred nerves on edge. I reach out to return the touch, finding him with no trouble.

Beyond caring, I allow the world to fade away while my puppy brings me out into the open for the second time in just a few hours, transformed from his usual meek self back into the carefree lover he was back when we were in lust, not yet love. Darkness provides the privacy, a gentle breeze provides the cover, and his muzzle provides a welcome home for my cock when he breaks our kiss to go down on me. I hold him by his ears, more than happy to give him what he wants.

The flashlight is on us before we can move. It blinds as it moves up the alley toward us, bouncing in and out of my eyes. I shield Porter's as he pulls off and covers me back up, as if our mystery guest is dumb enough to not know a blowjob when he sees it. Or she.

It's a he. And he's an Austin police officer, tall and round and mustachioed. His face would be jolly if he were smiling, but he's not. He's scowling down at the both of us like we're vermin. To him, we might as well be.

Hands on his hips with the light trained on us, he says, "Someone called in reports of some noise around here. She said it sounded like someone was torturing a cat. Don't think 'torture' is the right word, though." I can't read him. That mustache hides him too well.

"We didn't mean it," Porter squeaks, fumbling to zip me back up. He quits when I push his fingers away. "We were trying to have dinner, and they made us leave, and then..." He shrugs, as if the cop should know the link between Italian food and fellatio.

"You looked like you meant it," the man insists. Squinting, I see his name tag identifying him as McCall. "People don't usually commit lewd acts in public by accident." I want to ask him what the hell is public about a dark alley at night, but it's bad enough as is. I can only sit there and look up at him and try to appeal to his human weakness for cute furry things.

It doesn't work. "Fuckin' disgusting freaks," he mutters, spitting to the side for emphasis. "Why, in my city..."

"We don't want to be here," I blurt. Porter just gawks at me.

"What about our bridge?" the mutt asks.

"Shut up," I mutter under my breath.

"Yeah, homeless. About what I thought." McCall's fleshy lip curls up in a sneer. He might as well have a fly-swatter in hand, ready to strike us out of existence. "Give me one reason not to arrest you right now." He leans down, close, and I catch a whiff of his scent, my ears perking as I realize he's not as disgusted as he claims to be. Porter's nose twitches but I doubt he knows what I know.

I think about my response very carefully. I take my time, which McCall doesn't seem to mind. I can see the gears turning in his head as well as he can see mine. Several excuses, several games come to mind, but none of them get me very far. Honesty, I decide, might be the safest way to go.

"I don't have a reason," I admit. "We broke the law."

"You broke about four," McCall says. "I'd put you in Travis County Jail, but how would you post bail? How would you pay the fine? You got no job, like most of your sorry asses."

"He has too got a job!" Porter cries, and this time it's my turn to gawk. "Go on, tell him how you go out every day on the corner." He couldn't have made a more perfect mistake. Sighing, I lean back against the wall and close my eyes. We can't run away. Maybe it's time we stopped. Leaving our lives in the hands of one fat human might not be as bad as I fear.

McCall doesn't know how I've lied to protect Porter. He only knows what he sees in front of him. His scent grows stronger while his gaze drifts from the mutt to me, and I see the silhouette of his bulge growing at the edge of the flashlight's beam. He's just as perverted as any of the men who pay me.

I call him out. "You don't get enough at home?"

He moves as if to strike me but pulls it at the last moment. He realizes it was answer enough. "That's none of your fuckin' business." I make it my business, however, when I reach up and grab him. And though he jerks away, we never quite lose contact. He was rock-hard just thinking about it. "Add assaulting an officer to your other charges. That's a felony."

"Henry?" Porter asks. "What's going on?"

"Just wait," I say out the side of my muzzle. This McCall wants to play games, I'll play. When you've got nothing else to lose, you do a lot of stupid shit. Like sell your body for money. To McCall, I say, "You could have arrested us without a word. But I smelled you before I could see you." That's a half-lie, but I doubt he has any idea how strong our noses are.

"I want you out of my city," he replies, also a half-lie because where would he find fodder for his furry fantasies? "You disgust me." He might as well be talking about himself.

"But not until you take what you want." His cock pulses beneath my pads. "Fine. But you have to pay."

"Bullshit, I do."

Squeezing his shaft, I continue. "We can't afford to leave. What're we supposed to do?"

"I'm not payin'."

Now or never. "I could always go to the sheriff's office claiming rape." I doubt anyone would raise a stink beyond an internal investigation, but even an accusation would haunt him among his buddies and his family for the rest of his life. McCall sees I mean business, too. He doesn't call my bluff.

"The fuck you want? The fuck I have to do to get you out of my city?"

Portland.

"Hey, Porter, how would you like to move to Oregon? They got medicine there for you."

"Really?" His voice, so full of hope.

"They have shelters, too."

McCall narrows his eyes. I narrow right back, speaking to him: "We need bus tickets to Portland. And a motel room for the night. I'm sure there's something cheap in this part of town." My fingers move to his zipper, pulling it down and fishing him out. It's respectable, for a human. If he's the only way we can get out, I can turn on as much charm as it takes.

I can see I had him a long time ago. He may not have been thinking it when he discovered us, but it didn't take much to get him going.

"Whatever gets you as far away as possible." Sounds like he's used this tactic before, but he smells so nervous I can't tell. "Bus is too slow. I want you on a plane. I have miles."

"He's buying us a ticket?" queries Porter, too confused by our little back-and-forth to butt in much.

"Sounds like it," I say. "We just have to do what he says for a little bit."

"And then we can get food? The bread's all gone."

"Sure," McCall answers for me. Pulling out his wallet, he throws two hundred-dollar bills at me. Porter stares silently. I start stroking, but he backs up. "Not you."

"What do you mean, not me?" I ask, trying not to sound indignant while putting his money in my pocket.

He smiles then, sending my hackles up with its insincerity. "I'm allergic to cats. You could say I'm a dog person."

"You can't. He's off limits." Another lie. It's for our own good. Even as I speak I hear the jingle of cuffs before I see them, glinting from the streetlamp at the end of the alley.

"Gimme your paws."

"Henry?" Porter's starting to panic. So am I.

"It's okay, Porter," I say, not believing in the slightest.

"Not gonna hurt you," the man says, taking my wrists and cuffing them, running one of them through a pipe on the wall above my head. "Just making sure we have a deal. As gentlemen."

It's pretty hard to trust a man who's just strung you up to a pipe. "We can't afford a plane on two hundred dollars."

"Ah-ah-ah." McCall takes a card out of his wallet and opens a smart phone. He asks our full names. He makes reservations on the first flight to Portland tomorrow. He writes down the confirmation number, throws it onto the ground next to me and puts his phone back. "I'm nothing if not honorable," he says. "My wife don't use the miles, and the office don't miss petty cash. In the end I get two more degenerates out of Texas." At least he didn't mention the Order difference this time.

If he expects me to thank him, he's not going to get it. I watch as he takes his pants down to his knees and kneels on the folds behind Porter. Behind my boyfriend. He reaches for the mutt's belt and pulls his jeans down; he's so thin they just come off.

Porter looks up at me as McCall bends him over. There's mildly-disguised terror behind his brown eyes. He doesn't understand; whatever demon in his head that makes it so hard to process reality won't let him comprehend the greater good. He only knows we're in trouble, and somehow I'm letting this man punish us (him much more than me). But Henry knows best, Henry always knows best, and Henry won't let anything bad happen to him.

Then what is this?

McCall rips the top off a package of lube and splits it between Porter's hole and his cock. "Was savin' this for my favorite prostitute over on Rundberg, but oh well."

"Got a condom in my pocket," I say, indicating as much as I can with my nose.

"Never use 'em," McCall says almost proudly. "Against the Church. Don't need to worry about kids this time anyway." He leans over Porter, pulling one floppy ear erect. "Go on, keep doin' what you were doin'." But I'm not hard anymore, and I don't think I could be if he had his gun to my head. His attention is on Porter's tail anyway, pushing it out of the way as he pushes in. Compared to me he's huge.

The flashlight goes out to cover our deed in darkness. I still see the fat man, grimacing his way in and letting out a deep moan as my boyfriend's hole finally gives way. Clutching me about the waist, Porter looks at me, and all I can see are his eyes glimmering in what light makes its way from the street. Then the glint doubles as his tears brim over.

I can't even hold him to comfort him. All I can do is keep my eyes on his and try not to cry because he can't know how bad it really is. He's in enough pain.

"Henry..." he whispers. McCall grunts, sending the mutt's head against my belly where his tears soak through to my fur.

"Tomorrow we'll be far away," I quaver. "Just...just think about how awesome it'll be." Not even I can be sure of that. How many fires exist outside the frying pan we're boiling in?

"Okay."

"I love you, Porter."

"Oh, Henry...I--" My puppy's last few words are cut off in a choked sob as McCall starts to get into it with his full weight. I close my eyes, but there's no Portland in my mind, just darkness. Porter's body heaves with his sobs, and then he quiets down once he stops resisting the man's thrusts. Pretty soon it all sounds the same.

11/20/11-3/17/12