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You always remember your first. I mean, you're supposed to, right? Everyone has a story about their first, and it's always really good or really bad. They can be those sweet puppy-love kind of things or war stories that are great around a cold beer. A stiff, rain-dappled breeze ruffled my hoodie, and I stuffed my chilly hands into my pockets. Rain always made me nostalgic.

Blake was my first, but it wasn't your normal love story. Love is never normal when you're queer in small-town America, especially when your town has less than three hundred people in it. You learn right away that there's no such thing as secrets. Yet I managed to keep my cover for eighteen long years. It wasn't like I was one of those faggy dudes, the butt twisters. I mean, I'm a bunny, a white one at that, but I'm fit, not too femme, and it's not like I've got that silly lisp gays always have on TV. And I didn't have one of those names that just sounded gay, like Tyler or Blaine. You wouldn't expect a guy named Tony wants the D. I could've been on the football team, if it weren't that farming debacle...

That's why I'm eighteen and still a junior. It was one of those stupid accidents that happen so fast that the only seem real due to the soul-rending pain wracking your body. One false step off a hay barn and BAM: stuck in a hospital with a damaged spine and gimped leg. With all that physical therapy that there was no way in hell I'd have passed ninth grade and learned how to walk again. I was lucky, though. I managed to brush against the reaper and come off with just a bent ear and a shitty leg. I've gotten good at hiding my limp, and I can let the bent ear droop over my eye like it's a sort of fashion statement.

I really wanted to be on the football team with Blake. We were friends since grade school, because we did all the kiddy sports together. He was always better than me, fitter than me, more attractive than me after puberty reared its head. I still spent time with him after the accident, but things sort of... changed. There was a sadness to our hanging out, even if we were watching a Rams game or playing video games. It was like he was sticking around because pitied me. I didn't care, I just wanted him... to be his friend... to be more.

It was the biggest risk I ever took by telling Blake I was gay. Buttfuck nowhere Missouri is as gay-friendly as the Westboro Baptist Church, but keeping that secret inside me was like swallowing a snake that poisons your insides. He took it pretty well, with a nonchalance that made it clear it didn't change a damn thing between us. The risk of it leaking out was worth the relief that someone knew and didn't care. It's not like I could tell my family. Mom, Dad, and my brothers could find a way to blame gays for anything. Tornado? The gays. Sour elections? The gays. The latest movie was shite? The gays. It's like I was a comic book villain, capable of wreaking nationwide havoc, and I missed the memo on where to pick up my superpowers.

Our first time was in the fall, last year. We were just hanging out, down in Blake's unofficial man-cave of a basement. Blake started bitching about the girlfriend. "And she gets all holier-than-thou on me! All like 'but God punishes premarital sex. I love you, but I love God more.'" He rolled his gorgeous blue eyes. "Why's an allmighty god so concerned about who I bone?"

"You could try what the Mormon's do," I said, leaning back on the couch, not really paying attention to the game. "What they do is stick it in and lie on top of her. They call it soaking. Apparently God doesn't mind penetration as long as you don't do the-" I mimed with a lewd pelvic thrust. We shared a chuckle.

"But do they bust a nut inside her?"

"Unless she's got a second mouth for a pussy, I doubt it," I said, grinning. That was another thing that helped my cover. I could joke about tits and pussy without whinging.

"Urgh, don't talk about sex right now," moaned Blake. "I got hella blueballz right now."

I pouted. I never liked straight guys moaning about sex. At least they could fuck without risk of disownment, or worse. "Then why don't you whip it out instead of bitching at me." I clenched my teeth. I didn't mean to say it. It was the first time I'd referenced being gay since I came out to him in the summer. My good ear perked, listening for any activity from upstairs. But we were alone.

"Er.... did you mean that?" Blake was looking at me seriously, with those eyes the color of cloudless sky, just like mine. I paused for ten long seconds before nodding. I was trying to act casual, to not look at his tight, athletic clothing that showed every muscle under the fabric or the fact that his shorts twitched when I said, "Why the hell not?"

There was only a brief hesitation before his pants dropped. God, he was a juicy specimen of a coyote. Dappled grey and black fur, lean muscle, a face with sleek angles. I went weak at the knees just at his sheath. It was plump, and velvety. He let me slide it down to reveal a pointed, red, swelling cock. I was close enough to track every tiny vein that throbbed in arousal.

I learned a lot from that first encounter. I learned how hard it was to watch my bucked bunny teeth when pleasuring something so massive, that knots don't form until a man's about to cum, how good a man smelled when he was horny. I learned what a mouthful of spunk tasted like, and that I liked it.

It was probably the world's most impersonal blowjob. He wouldn't let my hands go anywhere, not even the balls. I desperately wanted to feel his corded muscle and that round almost-bubble butt that was the only fatty place on his body. I was hard too, but I didn't want to jack off and leave his carpet with jizz stains.

I left right after he came. It felt too awkward. An hour later I got a text from him. "U kno it ain't gay if u suck me, rite? A muzzle's a muzzle." He wasn't wrong. What difference was there between me and whatever bitch he was dating?

He kept coming back. It was always something different. Break up, couldn't get a date, bitch wasn't putting out... Yeah right. Girls were crawling over him. He was the star footballer this year, the division-winning pinch quarterback. But I never said no. Each time I got to try something new. He let me feel him up, squeeze his balls a little, run a finger playfully around his tailhole. But it wasn't gay, at least not for him.

But after the fourth time things changed. He wanted my ass. No homo if the balls don't touch, right? I lifted my tail and balanced my ankles on his shoulder as he stretched me good and tight. He always looked away, averting his eyes from mine or my cock, so I could be just a slutty cheerleader who didn't mind going in the backdoor. He was big enough to make me cum without tying me, but I wanted all of him. But he just nutted, dressed, and left. That time and after left me with this hollow feeling, creeping its way into the pit of my stomach after the initial euphoria left me. Any fool could see it was no longer a case of blueballs. But he wouldn't admit it. Was it pride? Fear? It loomed over us even when we just hung out.

There weren't that many people at Blake's party, not when our high school had a class of forty furs. I went because there was booze. Six months of cheap, totes-not-gay sex left me gloomy. I stopped caring about school, other friends, even my exercises keeping my leg from atrophying. Blake's mom had a thing for coconut rum, and apparently, so did I. I was halfway through my bottle two hours in. I dunno how I stumbled upstairs to Blake's room,

Blake was there when I woke up hours later, sloshed but coherent. He leered blearily at me as he finished a bottle of Seagram's. I raised my legs obligingly, struggling to keep them aloft in my stupor. The door clicked, and he was grinding into me as he sloppily ripped off our clothes. His cock was pressing into my hole, but through my hammered haze, a flare of indignation pushed me over a precipice I never would've crossed sober. I was sick of being a sex doll, of being just another hole. I dug my hands into his velvet chest fur and tugged him into a clumsy kiss. My first kiss. It tasted of Captain Morgan and Seagrams and another tongue that was probing my muzzle! I moaned, and so did he, and he clumsily pressed my body into his as his cock pushed me wider. We were too far gone to care about lube or how raw we'd be tomorrow.

His pace was clumsy, halting. There was no rhythm with so much alcohol in our systems. It still felt good, and not just sexually. We were both rock hard, but even through my haze it felt so erotic to grab and grope and Blake's gorgeous body, to feel every line, angle, and curve. To taste his mouth and fur, to smell his masculine scent. And he did the same to me, with even greater vigor. And suddenly, there was a loud pop as I felt my ass stretch to accommodate a fat knot, and my face grew hot and sticky.

A long, wet tongue licked my sticky face, and I heard a low, husky voice whisper, "You taste gooooood..." I moaned out, still clutching at his beautiful chest. Blake was talking again, voice halted and slurred. "You know... it felt good... to have sex with you. It's better... than a girl... you actually..." He kissed me on the mouth again, and the hollowness that had been sitting in the pit of my stomach for months lifted away. I didn't care how drunk we were and that he'd probably regret this tomorrow morning. I only cared that his breathing was slowed, and that we were falling asleep joined at the waists.

The weekend after was normal. Too normal considering what ended up happening on Monday. But then I walked through the red doors of Wheatfield High and the whole damned world was rocked off its axis. I was drawing too many angry eyes, the whisperings were too hushed... my locker was too pink, and covered in triangles. Blake wasn't too far away, and I hurried over to him. The hallway hushed.

My friend was glaring daggers at me. "You got some nerve talking to me, you fucking fag!" I couldn't respond. I was simultaneously nonplussed and pants-shittingly terrified. Blake opened his mouth again, and each word attacked every foundation of my life and sent it crumbling to the ground. "You think it's funny, huh? You think it's a fucking game to get my drunk and trick me into fucking you? And now that you're all done you spread the news so that everyone thinks I'm a fucking faggot!!" I stood there, unable to talk with the glares of a hundred eyes piercing me like swords. More words were spoken but I couldn't hear them. I ran. No, I limped away like a wounded animal.

Any hopes of this blowing over were dashed at dinner. My father, my mom, my three brothers were all looking at me as I sat down late. Ten different eyes bored into me, trying to reaffirm what they already knew. There was no preamble, no smalltalk. Just my father's gruff, dairy-farmer grumble. "Brandon's told me some rumors going around school..." I closed my eyes, blocking out the rant and just waiting for it to be over. I had no denial, no deflection, and I couldn't muster enough emotion to try.

I just exploded, ending as fast as I started. "Fuck it, I'm gay! I like cock! I LIKE COCK! FUCKING DEAL WITH IT!" Deadly silence.

I never thought it would be my mother. "Then you cannot live in this house." It was so simple, so fast. It was just over. And from my mother, no less. She was always the demure one, the advocate for when Dad tried to go hard ass on us all. But by the words of my own mother, I was out of the house with just the clothes on my back. And an hour later, I'm here.

Why was I even at the train station? I had no money, or relatives who'd take me once the news got around. I didn't even have a phone. A loud whistle broke me out of my revery. Even late at night, I could see the neon orange of a BNSF freighter, careening westward at fifty miles an hour. It looked far away, but I could already hear the bells of the crossing gates, and the clatter of a hundred tons of cargo.

I closed my eyes and stepped forward with my bad leg. I had a train to catch.