FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

2

I hold Robin's phone number tight in my paws as Paul and I walk back to our apartment. I found the little paper scrap to be a bone of fortuitousness tossed to me: the literal and proverbial dog; to Paul, the paper is more of a symbol of his life devoid of romance. He hasn't stopped scowling since we left the gym, and jealousy isn't his prettiest attribute. It bothers me, but I still feel bouncy and light about how my first ever workout went.

"You know," I say, gently nudging Paul in the left side with my elbow, "That lioness, Aurora, said you were cute."

He chuffs irately and bumps into me as we turn right on Prince street. I glance at him and he apologizes with a brief smirk and squint of his blue eyes. With both paws, he grabs a hold of his gym bag strap slung across his right shoulder. It makes him look helpless, like he's holding onto a lifeline.

"Well, she kind of scared me," he says, ears drooping.

"I had no idea," I say sarcastically with a roll of my eyes. "I thought you were running away because you had to pee or something, not because she came onto you."

The streets are surprisingly void of pedestrians, so the two of us can walk side by side on the narrow sidewalks without much trouble. It also gives Paul free reign to smack my shoulder and not draw any strange looks.

"Ow," I bark, laughing afterward. Paul follows suit, and I feel better knowing his gloomy attitude is fading. It doesn't really take much to cheer him up, and I'm always happy to be a smartass for his sake. Not that it takes a lot of effort, but friendly sincerity is always there regardless of what I say.

The Airedale terrier sighs, but he's still grinning. "I can't believe you got a guy's number. I mean, geesh, what do I have to do to get some girl's digits? Beg?"

"Apparently, you just have to nearly kill yourself," I say, referring to my bench press mishap that lead to me meeting Robin and almost crushing my throat like a cardboard tube. I unceremoniously rub my neck then cock my head at Paul. He gives me an unnerved grimace. "Hey, worked for me!"

He shruggs. "Lucky."

The apartment we share isn't too far away from the gym, and that's one of the perks Paul offered me before taking me there. We could go and be at school in no time. The gym itself wasn't one of the biggest and well equipped in the area, but it was cheap to be a member; they even had a student discount and were open 24 hours. Plus, you know--Robin.

I stare off into space imagining the warmth of said wolf's arm against mine while Paul heads up the stoop and opens the door to our building. He chuckles and draws me back into reality. I look and he's shaking his head.

"You've got it bad," he says, like he's embarrassed for me.

"Got what exactly?" I ask as we head inside and up the stairs to the second floor.

"A little thing I like to call 'The Crush.' Not 'A' crush, or 'some' crush,' but 'The' crush." Heading out of the stairwell we turn left, Paul gesturing madly with his paws the whole time, the key to our apartment dangling from his right and swirling on its ring around his finger. "The kind of crush that leaves you a loopy, drooling, fantasizing mess until you get their phone call and actually talk. It's both fascinating and sad to watch, actually, like Japanese Kabuki or a romantic comedy with Adam Sandler in it."

"I think you're onto something," I say matter-of-fact as I pass by him and into our home. I slip my sneakers off next to the door, and Paul does as well. He heads into the kitchen while I turn right toward my room. "So, just an FYI, I'm going to go and drool on my pillow while I stare at my phone, anticipating his call for hours until I fall asleep slightly disappointed but, regardless, still hopeful."

"Have fun," Paul calls after me, untouched by my attempt at humor. "I'm going to make a protein shake. You want one?"

I pause and stare back down the hall, my ears perked. "Do I need one?"

"If you want to build some muscle, yeah," he says.

"Okay. Shake a shake for me."

"Coming up," he chirps as I enter my room and close the door behind me.

I change out of my sweaty gym clothes and switch my computer on out of habit. By the time I sit down on my bed to check Facebook Paul has my shake ready. He knocks on the door, so I begrudgingly slide off my comfy bed and open it. I swear my chest and arms are already getting tight and sore when I take the cup Paul offers me.

"It's chocolate," he says, taking a sip of his own mocha-brown concoction. It leaves a yummy looking froth on the fur around his mouth. "I put some peanut butter in it, too. It's pretty good."

My brows bob up in anticipation. I've never had a protein shake before, so I don't expect it to taste as delicious as it does: like melted Reese's Pieces churned into some Nesquik.

I sputter after my initial sip and stare in disbelief at the drink. Paul gives me a look and I wipe my mouth. "Fuck me, this stuff is good for you!?"

He simply nods. Clearly, his first impressions of this nectar of the Gods is lost in time, and he's gotten too used to it.

"Yup. It's got vitamins and minerals, BCCA's and hefty amount of protein and calories."

More of the drink disappears down my throat. "BCCA's--sounds good." I don't know what those are or why they're important, but Jesus Christ this drink is delicious. I tell this to Paul and he grins and tells me to slow down and that he's going to shower. I salute him and close my door, carefully hopping back onto my bed so I don't spill my cup of holy-crap-awesome.

My e-mail holds nothing interesting in its inbox, so I switch to Facebook to see what all of my old friends, acquaintances, and general people I don't know are up to. A few notifications come to my attention from the corner of the screen, so I clickety-click on them.

Someone liked one of my statuses, someone commented on a link I shared, and...

I almost spill my drink.

A "Robin Arrowood" had sent me a friend request. Of course, I knew it was gym-Robin, but I still click on the wolf's picture and snoop around his profile to be sure. It was set to private, though, so I accept the request and prepare myself for a social media overload.

Giddily, I scroll through his photo albums. We'd talked after our initial meeting while he helped me workout (he helped Paul too, even), and he'd told me he went to the same school as us; I recognize a lot of the landmarks in his photos (class buildings, parks, the library) and confirm that was true. For the life of me, I didn't know why we hadn't run into one another before, but it was what it was. There were pictures from when he was younger, too (sixteen, seventeen), and even then he was built like a model. He must've been into fitness from the start, which I admire. I wish I would've been.

As I continue to scroll, I see lots of pictures of him with another wolf: a boy, frail looking and always in a wheelchair. Their fur is the same steely silver, hair a dark brown, eyes seemingly the same sparkling hazel. I bet the boy is Robin's younger brother, because in all of the photos the two have their faces mashed together, smiles extraordinarily wide, their arms wrapped around one another like only brothers will do. In one, Robin stands amidst a crowd of spectators with the boy held and sitting aloft on one of his shoulders. He's wearing a tight, red and black outfit that accentuates his physique, and I blush just looking at him; there's a gold medal around his neck, too. The people in the crowd are clapping, their paws frozen; there's a banner on a wall in the back--a red, white, and blue shield emblazoned with the letters AAU. A quick Google search reveals that it stands for "Amateur Athletic Union," a power-lifting association. Robin had competed and won, thus the photo. There's a beaming couple beside him; his parents I suppose. His father is a well built guy, too, with rusty brown fur, thinning hair, and a contagious smile; his mother is small and fair, with silver fur like her son's and beautiful brown curls draped across her shoulders. They look like an exquisitely happy family.

I scroll, scroll, scroll through more pictures--more of Robin at competitions, family get-togethers, vacations--but then I switch to videos he's uploaded. I mean, if I'm going to Facebook-stalk, I have to see the videos, and there's no turning back now. I'm thoroughly invested, as creepy as it is.

There are only a few. One is a quick clip from Robin's point of view as he stalks his mother in the kitchen while she's cooking something he_definitely_ wishes to sneak a taste of. She beats him away with a wooden spoon after a minute, and that's that. Another is his father taping him as he competes, lifting insane weights over his head and doing things I've only ever seen Olympian's do. The last one I look at is one of him and his brother.

I click play and it loads for a few seconds. When it starts, the camera is fixated on the brother sitting in his wheelchair and wearing a green, floral print Hawaiian shirt. They're outside, the wind buffeting the microphone, and Robin's camerawork is shaky and nausea inducing as he tapes.

The sickly looking wolf grins and shakes his head at Robin, waving his hand as if trying to brush the camera away.

"Come on, man; Not now," he says. His voice is stronger than I anticipated, if a bit scratchy and emotional.

Robin's laughter is as warm, sweet, and thick as caramel. "Yes, now! Say hello, August!"

"Hello, August," his brother replies cheekily.

Still focused on his brother, Robin seems to bob up and down given the camera motion. His voice is excitable. "How are you enjoying your birthday so far, hmm? I, for one, am having quite a bit of fun."

August rolls his eyes and grins toothily. "Well, I'm a year older, my ass is killing me, and there's this insane guy following me around and video taping everything I do." He looks away from the camera, his shoulders rising and falling. His face is lit intensely by an orange gleam, like there's a fire nearby. "But, you can't beat the view."

"So, on a scale of 1 to 10..."

August laughs, and his eyes squint up sweetly like Robin's had at the gym. For a moment, the resemblance between them is uncanny, but then the camera lists sideways as Robin holds it away from himself, coming into the frame and huddling close beside his brother. He's so much healthier and built than August, the epitome of fit, while August is so thin in comparison that I cover my mouth, shocked by the contrast.

August grins. "It's definitely a 100, bro--no doubt."

"Success," Robin croons, planting a wet smooch on his brother's surprised face. He then turns the camera about, revealing the most breathtaking ocean view I have ever seen. "Pretty nice, right?"

The sun is setting, the crystalline waters blazing fuchsia, vermillion, and azure while the sky is a soft shade of lavender, tinged white across the horizon line. From what I can tell, the two are high atop a cliff overlooking the sea. I see palm trees below and a stretch of white beach curving off to the west.

"Hau`oli la Hanau, Gus," Robin says. "Happy birthday."

"_Mahalo,"_August returns.

The video lingers on the Hawaiian sunset a bit longer and then cuts out. I take a sip of my protein shake, admiring the relationship between Robin and August.

I have three older sisters, all of which I love to death and who love me just as much, but we don't really spend a lot of quality time together. Nothing like the two wolves on my screen. We share a sibling bond, but the love that Robin and August have is on a completely different level. I wonder if it has something to do with whatever ailment August has, but that seems to be a moot point and a little unfair. Pity, I believe, is no supplement or double for affection.

There's a knock on my door. "Shower's free," Paul says. "Stop drooling and clean up."

I close my laptop and finish off my protein shake. "Yes, dad!"

The shower is refreshing, as they tend to be, and I admit that the hot water was a welcome relief to the soreness that had, in fact, been building in my chest after all.

"Are you supposed to hurt so quickly after working out?" I ask Paul, having dried and dressed in a black tee shirt and boxers and come into the living room where he was watching TV. I stretch my arms out and grimace as pain blooms from my front.

He turns a little, watching me but still watching the tube, too, his ears perked. "Well, you've never done anything that intense before, so it's possible. I just hope you didn't pull something when you went solo. That would suck."

"Yeah, it would."

He shrugs and gives the television his undivided attention. "Plus, your man did push us afterward. I know that I'm going to be sore tomorrow."

Chuckling, I wash out my shake glass and pour myself a glass of water, taking a quick sip. "My man, huh?"

"Yeah," my friend says. He turns back around, both eyes on me this time. "He liked you a lot."

My glass clinks as I set it down and wipe my muzzle. "Is that right?"

He gives me a confused look and drapes his arm across the back of the couch. "Well, yeah. I guess you were too caught up in the moment to notice, but he never took his eyes off of you the whole workout." His curly brows droop into a straight line. "And not in a creepy way. Like, he wasn't just checking you out or anything. It was like an...appreciative look. A caring one. Warm and stuff with gut-fuzzies. Made me feel like the third wheel."

My tail wags of its own accord. "Your words wax poetic, my friend. Truly inspiring stuff."

He grins and flips me a bird. "Shut up. He likes you. You like him. Get your gay on, man. Hit that hot piece."

I guffaw, quite obnoxiously, and make Paul jump and swear at the outburst. He quickly ignores me in favor of whatever is on the tube: some action movie, it looks like.

It's around ten o'clock, and I tend to be an old soul and hit the sack early. Paul doesn't understand why I do it (we're in college after all), but a good night's rest is always welcome in my book, especially since I feel like a truck had backed up and over my man-boobs.

I grab my glass of water and head to bed, but Paul catches me before I can retreat into my room. "You feel up to the gym tomorrow, too? Get into a routine?"

Tomorrow was Saturday, so I didn't have a lot going on. My chest pinches, but I figure I should work through the pain. And, who knows, Robin may be there; I'd have to text or call to see. Maybe that could be routine, too, meeting my so called man at the gym for a workout.

"Sure," I tell him, my heart beating a little quicker. "Sounds good!"

"A'ight, we'll go a bit earlier since it's the weekend. Night, bud."

"Night."

I grab my phone immediately after closing my door and pull Robin's number out from my wallet where I'd stuck it. I plug it into my device's memory lickety-split, and just as I'm wondering if it'd be too soon to call or text him, my phone vibrates and a text notification pops up.

Speak of the handsome devil.

"Hey, Tuck," Robin says. "How are ya?"

I grin like a love-struck school girl and type in earnest, my hands trembling a little.

"Kind of sore, but good otherwise."

A few seconds pass.

"Hope I wasn't too rough on you, haha."

I shake my head as if he could see.

"It's all good."

"Nice," he says. "You busy?"

"Nope," I reply.

"May I call, good sir?"

Good sir. My adorable meter goes off of the charts, and I whine a little.

"By all means."

The phone rings soon after, and I shakily answer it and hold it up to my ear where Robin's warm voice greets me.

"Good afternoon."

I nearly squee. "Hi. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

His laughter makes my skin tingle. "Impatience mostly. I hope me calling doesn't come across as too earnest."

"No, no, no," I say, because one no just isn't enough. "I was actually debating on whether or not to call, too."

I can tell he's smiling just by his voice. "Like minds, huh?"

Crossing my legs on my bed to get more comfortable, I notice--to my chagrin--that I'd gotten a little excited. In my pants.

"Something like that," I say, flattening the tent in my boxers, my cheeks blistered by heat. Regardless, my tail can't stop wagging.

He clears his throat and my ears stand at attention, ready to eat up anything he says. "Anyway, the reason I called is because I wanted to know if you'd like to come to dinner with me? And, again, I hope I'm not being..."

"You're not being too earnest," I quickly say, hopefully sounding as pleasant as I feel instead of just rude for interrupting. I switch my phone from my right to my left and blindly grab for my water on my night stand where I'd sat it down. "And of course I'd like to go to dinner with you."

"Really?" he blurts, pleasant tenor rising into falsetto range. "That's great! I can't believe it!"

I find that hard to believe given that he could probably have any guy he wanted, guys way more attractive than me.

"I think that's my line to state over dramatically," I chuckle. "I'm, like, a three on the hotness scale and you're, like, a five-hundred. I'm the one who should be stuck in disbelief, not you."

"Bullshit," he says, eliciting a gagging laugh from me as I attempt to not spit out the water I was sipping. "You're way more attractive than a three, and I am_not_ a five-hundred; that's, like, Adam Levine or Tom Daley territory. I'm more of a humble seven."

"Humble is right." I set my drink back down to avoid making a mess, because--clearly--Robin has a knack for making me laugh. "And Adam Levine isn't that hot to me, especially since he went platinum blonde. And Tom Daley's that Olympic swimmer, right? The one who came out?"

"Yep, he's the one. Major kudos to him."

"You a fan?" I ask, laying down.

He's quiet for a bit, but then he speaks, sounding shy for the first time. "A little. Gay athlete and all that. I admire him, I guess."

"That's understandable; you're in the same boat." Since I can't recall what dear Tom looks like, I once again call upon the almighty Google for assistance and find a picture of him: an otter, well built and toned, baby-faced and all smiles. "And he is cute."

"You looked him up, huh?"

"Yeah," I admit. "You're still better looking in my opinion, though."

He chuffs, and I think his lips smack. "I really like how open and honest you are, by the way."

I clam up immediately.

"And I'm not being sarcastic," he adds. "It's hard to find people who freely express their thoughts like that, who aren't so repressed by our society."

"Bit of a nonconformist are we?"

"A bit, yeah," he says with a wistful sigh. "Hope that's alright."

My eyes bug and I grin wide. "Are you kidding? Of course that's not alright. I am appalled, sir. That you think freely and live undirected by absurd societal norms is a travesty. This is America, land of the sheep and home of the naive."

"I'm a wolf," he says after a roll of deep laughter. "We don't do too well with sheep according to stereotype."

"And I'm a Border collie," I say affably. "We herd; we don't go with the flock."

"I knew I liked you for a good reason," he says. "You're an interesting guy, Tuck, candidness and all." He sighs, clearly content. "Dinner should be a blast."

I'm flattered into tingles by him, but I am also bombarded with curiosity...but mostly the tingles. I like the tingles.

"I'm glad you think so," I say. "But you've got more of an allure on me. I'm quite positive that I wish to know all there is to know about you."

"Same here. It's an odd realization, if a bit exhilarating."

He's right--it is. I've been submerged into society like everyone else since I was born, and people have always garnered my attention, but there's something about Robin beyond his attractiveness (although that sunk the hook in my jaw) that keeps enticing me and reeling me in. There's a lot to him, a lot of good. I just met him, but I can tell. I've always been excellent at reading people on a first impression, and I don't feel like he's the one exception to that ability.

"So, what fine establishment did you have in mind?" I ask him, anxious to hear his answer.

There were restaurants all over this city (many of them the high-dollar "puttin-on-the-ritz" kind of affairs), but there were just as many affordable places to pick from. And, of course, they varied in quality. I always found it fun to hear a guy's suggestion for the first date (not that I've had so many to catalog or anything) because their reasoning behind the choice is always so oddly subjective. A few years ago, a guy took me out to an Egyptian place because I'd been wearing an Ankh necklace and he'd seen it, thinking I was into that kind of thing. The food was delicious, don't get me wrong (say Kushari or Konafah and I'll start drooling), but it was the rationalization to the choice that took me by surprise. It also tells you a lot about the guy asking you out, too, but I won't get into that.

"Oh, uh," Robin stutters. "I think you misheard. I asked if you'd like to come to dinner. As in, at my place."

He pauses, and the reality of the situation sinks in. He wants me to come over. That could mean, and lead, to a few different things. My wagging tail grows still.

"Oh," I mutter.

"But, please, don't get the wrong idea," he interjects, not defensively, just rationally. "I'm not suggesting I want to, you know, try anything. I just wanted to cook, that's all. I'm kind of nit-picky when it comes to food, and I like to handle it myself."

Well, that's reassuring. I let out a sigh of relief, and I guess he hears because he starts to laugh.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't handle that very well."

"No, it's alright. I'm just glad you followed up with an explanation." I relax, and my tail resumes its wagging. "And that actually sounds nice. I've never had anyone cook for me before. Well, besides my mother."

I can hear the smile in his voice again. "I like to make an impression."

I cough gently. "But, uh...you're...good at cooking, yeah?"

He laughs so loud this time I have to pull the phone away from my ear. When he speaks, it sounds as if he's crying. "Yes, I'm good at cooking. I wouldn't have suggested it otherwise."

"You never know! I could've gotten there to find grilled cheese and Fruit Loops waiting on the table."

He groans, disgusted. "Oh, God, no way. It's bologna and Captain Crunch or nothing at all." There's an awkward silence as I try to determine if he's serious. "I'm kidding," he finally says. "You'll enjoy it. I don't do things half-assed."

Grinning, I pat my stomach, not doubting him for a second. "I believe you. What's on the menu, though?"

"Not telling," he sings. I expected as much. "But you're not allergic to anything are you?"

"No sir, I am not."

"Very good. Are you free tomorrow night? Eight o'clock, maybe?"

"Yes, indeed I am," I say, my grin so wide that my cheeks ache.

He chuckles lightly. "It's a date then."

I can't help it; I squee.

I've got a date!