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I idly rub a finger around the rim of my glass while I slouch against the bar and run my eyes amusedly over the writhing mass of young furs on the dance floor. I'm long beyond trying too hard to not look creepy or desperate. Anyone who comes here more than once knows that I'm as much a fixture of this place as the plastic rainbow flag taped up above all the bottles of liquor, and that it's not my style to try and pick up any of the young things that come here to forget about schoolwork, society, and sobriety for a night. I come here to rest what little ass I have on my well-worn favorite barstool, quaff a few pints of my favorite suds, exchange bullshit with Marty or Ed behind the bar, and just to feel not-so-damn-old for a few hours.

I sit there thinking sometimes, though, that I don't know how the hell I got to be forty-fucking-nine. I hadn't even gotten the benefit of having the good time in college that 95 percent of the rest of the critters in the bar were having right now; I had gone right out of high school into the army. That was before even my first set of antlers had even grown fully in. Then again I'd been so green and oblivious that they surely would have been shot right off during training anyway. Then I'd gone right into choppin wood, then into construction, and now I've settled into a little bit of both, though my body gets tired a heap quicker than it used to.

I haven't done a lot of "things" in those years, but I've always been more or less content. I'm a watcher, a sideliner. Back in high school I sat on the bench for the biggest part of the football games, my specially-designed contraption of a helmet sitting damn near forgotten beside me, and I would just cheer on my buddies and be glad that I got a girl to go out with me every now and then. Hell, even in my time in the Army I never did see action; right 'round Reagan's first term was a pretty placid time to cast my lot in there.

I had also just sat and watched Daniel grow bored with me over ten years and finally fade away and then leave.

Now I come here most nights to sit and watch the naïve revelry of the more visible portion of the gay population in a mid-sized Minnesota college town. On nights where there's not music and dancing I sit and watch the more stable customers come in and nurse their drinks in twos and threes. And still I'm mostly just content.

I polish off the last gulp of silky liquid. Ed's on duty tonight, and he immediately spots my shortage, sauntering his slinky cougar self over to my corner of the bar.

"Another?" he asks, grabbing my glass because he knows the answer even before I nod and rap my knuckles on the wood of the bar. He's back in less than a minute with another dark, foamy glass. "You usually go for four on Fridays."

"TGIF, boy, I say Thank God I'm Fucked-Up."

Ed snorts, his tail curling and uncurling behind him in its usual flitty way while he taps numbers into the nearby register, adding another few bucks to my tab. "I ain't seen you really fucked-up for a few years, though. Which is a good thing." He tries to give me a stern-gay-uncle look, and my amused face makes it clear that I don't buy it coming from someone most of a decade younger than me.

"It's been a while since I've seen your ass get good'n'fucked-up, yourself. And I do mean your ass."

Ed makes a haughty harrumph and swivels on a foot, prancing away from me with his tail held prissily high. I can see his half-proud, half-mischievous smile, though, and I chuckle to myself, raising my fresh pint to my mouth and taking a slow draw on it, letting the liquid coat my tongue and flicking my ears, only mildly annoyed by now by the music they always pump when there's dancing here. My reference was to many years ago, before I was even seriously involved with Daniel, not long after Marty and Ed had taken over this bar and I'd met them. Us three were more than ten years younger then, and they'd been more of a hip, new-agey couple than they were now. They'd invited me into their bedroom more than a few times, and I still can imagine the reaming Ed's ass took from both me and Marty when I look at it bouncing away right now. Ed is teasing me with it, and I know it, but those times were long past. We're all plenty more sober, and more settled into our current roles as friends and barfly/bartenders.

I sit contemplating the good times and good sex I used to have, nursing both my beer and the sympathetic stiffening in my jeans.

That's right when you pull in.

You clank your gaudily-colored can down on the bar, a seat and a half down from me. The can's empty, and you're drunk. There are glowing armbands on one of your wrists, and a couple inches of your tongue are jutting happily out of the side of your mouth. You're a little sweaty from dancing on the tight-knit dance floor. I can smell the light musk from where I sit, but it's almost delicate and certainly not unpleasant. I notice how small you are. Only five-and-a-half feet, and a slim frame brought out even more by your tight, fluorescent-blue t-shirt. Odd choice of color for such a pelt, but then again the contrast matches the boldness of your black and orange stripes, and the sharpness of the line on your collarbone underside of your arms where the color scheme yields to stark white.

Your bright eyes find Ed as he's mixing a drink halfway down the bar. You're content to wait for him to notice you.

And then you notice me. And you notice me noticing you.

You grin a hopelessly sozzled grin. "What's you drinking? Looks like ink." You point at my glass.

I chuckle again, more out loud now. "Milk stout, my boy. You wanna try it?"

"Sure!" Your rounded ears turn towards me, and there's that row of rings running up the edge of the right one. You plop down on the stool next to mine, scooching your empty can over closer to you. I slide my glass in front of you and laugh warmly at your confused expression when you take it in paw. "So...it's beer?"

"Sure is. Hell of a lot more body and flavor than what you're probably used to. Go on, if you don't like it I ain't gonna huff and call you a dumb college boy."

You giggle. Not even Ed actually giggles. "I'll try anything twice!" you declare with all the cavalier-ness of being young and drunk. You lift the glass and tilt it toward me in a toasting gesture, then take an actually respectable quaff. I see your eyes widen, and they're green.

The glass leaves your lips and you audibly exhale. "Wow, that's...awesome! It's like...creamy."

I smile, inordinately pleased. "It's my favorite. Ed keeps it on tap at all times, mainly just for me."

"Really? I might hafta take a break from this stuff'n cool down with one." You look regretfully at your garish shiny can. "My parents're visiting tomorrow afternoon. Can't drink much more..."

"The folks are hard enough to deal with when they're invading your new separate life, even when you're not hungover."

"Hah! I wish they would've picked a different weekend. Today's my twenty-firsssst birthday." I notice you having particular trouble finishing that word, drawing it out almost into a hiss but grinning the whole time.

I smack my palm on the bar. "The big one, no shit? Congratulations, son. I know what this calls for, then. Ed!" The mincing cougar's ears perk and he looks towards me, then heads over, a slightly puzzled look on his face.

"Another one of these, then?" Ed looks disdainfully at your can of energized, pumped-up swill, picking it up between two claws as if he's afraid any residual liquid on the aluminum will fry his fur off like acid if it touches him.

"Get him a pint of this--" I flick a fingernail against my glass, "and another of water. On me." I wink at Ed and he shrugs.

"You got it. Comin' up, birthday boy." The cougar pads away to fill the order, still holding the empty can like it was a dead, stinking fish.

"Dude...thanks! You didn't have to."

"Shush. This'll help you slow down a little bit anyway. And with your parents not even giving you the required full day to recover from your twenty-first damn birthday, I wanna do my part to at least make it nice for ya."

"Wull then...thank you." A hesitation. "I dunno your name."

"It's Bruce." I turn on my stool and offer you a hand. I can see the thought occur to you as you take my paw with your skinny but firm little one. "Go ahead and laugh, I know how ridiculous it is."

Another giggle. It's genuine but not derisive. I smile and turn back to the bar, long since used to it.

"Bruce the Moose? What were your parents thinking?!" You shake your head. "I bet that was fun in grade school."

"Kids were even ruthless with names back in the '60s, sure. It's not so bad though. I could be Brian the Lion."

"If I was Brian the Lion, I'd be more like...cryin' and dyin'."

My turn to laugh, heartily. "At least I'm not a goose, eh?" I get another giggle for that. "But really, I'm Bruce. Bruce Hodges. It's nice to know ya..." I quirk my own eyebrow.

"Seth. Seth the tiger. Doesn't have quite the same ring to it..." You grin anew and flick the ear with the row of piercings. "And it's good to talk to you, too."

Before we could keep going in circles too much with our pleasantries, Ed returns with two glasses and places them in front of you. You thank him and I smack a dollar down for his tip. He gives me a really weird and vaguely reproving look but takes it and leaves us alone at this end of the bar again.

I see you reaching for the glass of dark liquid, but I rap a finger in front of you. "Ah-ah, water first. If you gotta see your folks tomorrow you're gonna want as much hydration between drinks, and as early as possible right now."

You roll your eyes half-jokingly and grab the water glass. "Thanks, dad."

That doesn't offend me. I know how old I am, and how I'm acting. "That's Mr. Dad to you, sonny!" You sputter at my retort on your first gulp of water, but quickly drain most of the glass. Poor little tiger, you must be thirsty from sweating it out on the dance floor with your friends. Speaking of which...

"So are you here with anyone?"

"A couple of my friends from the dorm brought me here as a birthday thing, but I haven't seen them in a while... And Jené was looking pretty drunk last time I saw her. Lemme text 'em." Out came your phone, one of the smart ones. You tap carefully on the screen, trying to make it through your drunk text with a maximum of coherency. It's finally sent off into the air in search of your wayward friends, and you finish your water and start in on the other glass. After your first swallow, you swirl the glass and look down into it. "This really is good. I'll never drink Dud Light again."

I laugh. I've laughed a lot tonight with you, more than my usual haul for a whole week. "I'm sure that has its time and place, especially if you go to a lot of parties."

You make a face as you finish another drink. "Not really my type anymore. And when I do go I don't mess around with beer; I drink those cheap energy-drink infused things just because they're fast. And they taste like--" You either hiccup or burp, I can't tell which. "Like candy."

"Ed hates stuff like that, as you could probably tell. Never tried any, myself..."

"I don't blame you. Gets me too drunk and hyped up sometimes and I forget to stop drinking! And the hangovers from it are terrible."

"I bet. I'll stick to what I know I like." On that note I lift my glass toward you. "Cheers, Seth."

You clink your glass on mine and drink again. We're both almost done with our glasses. I sigh, not unhappily. "I'm too much of a cranky old crone to change my ways much, eh?"

"Well I'm too young to know better about anything. Good match, we are."

The remark seems innocent, but I do remember where we both are. I decide to sidestep the whole messy issue. "Two dopes of the deep woods, aright."

There's a buzz, from your phone vibrating on the bar. You flick your finger across the screen to read the message, and you groan when you do. "Jesse and Carolyn had to walk Jené home. None of them could drive, and they'll come get the car tomorrow." You exhale. "Fuck, I guess I'll have to walk too. Well, it's not that bad out." You down the rest of your beer with a big gulp and smack your lips. "I better get going."

I finish my drink too, making up my mind easily and standing up. "I'll give you a lift back. You live in the dorms?"

I can see you hesitate. The old guy from the gay bar that plied you with drinks is asking you to get in his car. I'm painfully aware of how it seems.

Ed comes over with a surprised look. "You duckin' out, old-timer?"

"Yeah, close out my tab. This young man's friends had to scram, and he needs a ride."

"Sure then." I don't miss that weird look he gives me again before he turns to go get my card. I internally sigh. I'm at that age where offering to help a boy out is potentially creepy to everyone.

"You parked out back?" I turn back to you at your question. Seems you've decided to trust me. I'm disproportionately touched by it.

"Yep. Need to get your coat?"

Ed returns with my card and I sign the receipt, then you and I head out, stopping at the coat rack. We don't talk on the short jaunt to my truck, and I just take in the differences between us. I'm six-three even without my antlers. I'm on the brink of 50 and you're barely past twenty. You're skinny enough that you probably wouldn't break 160 pounds, even with big-cat bones in you, and I'm well over 250, with the remnants of a lifetime of ropy muscle and just the hint of a beer gut. How'd we two end up spending most of an hour chatting in a gay bar? I'm not even sure what I'm doing. Am I trying to get in your pants after all? I've never been a predator before. Always dated solidly in my own age group. Though for ten years or so I thought I'd never have to worry about dating again.

There continues to be some chit-chat once we're in my car, and some directions given to the correct dorm. It's only September, but it's awful chilly out already; it's Minnesota. I can't imagine your friends walking over half an hour back in the cold. Guess being wasted warms the walk.

You've seemed to be on a plateau of "pleasantly tipsy" since we started talking, so I don't worry too much about your next morning as we pull in front of your dorm. I caution you again to drink plenty of water before you hit the sack.

"Sure, Mr. Dad," you reply with a smirk. "Thanks so much for the ride...and the chat."

"Anytime, for both. If you ever visit the bar again, you'll probably see more of me!"

You pause and nod. "That'd be really cool."

We don't need to say anything for a moment. I finally break it to shake your hand again. "It was great to meet ya, Seth. Take care."

"You too. Thanks again."

I sit and watch to make sure you swipe into your building okay before I pull away. Your scrawny little form and your sense of humor and your endearingly contradictory nonchalant flamboyance fill my mind the whole ride home with pleasant thoughts and no ulterior motives. I swear at this point that'd be perfectly honest to say.