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Perspectives

By Laz Briar

Ozzie mystifies me.

When I was growing up, coming to terms with myself - my sexuality - was challenging. Like I assume it is for most who chase the same sex. We grapple with early confusion, sometimes resistance. I certainly did. Surrounded by a conservative family in a purpling southern state, attending private school, the whole concept of dating a boy seemed unruly, untouchable. Back then, ungodly.

Stifled and cautious, my relationships were few and brief. I vaguely recall a quick kiss one weekend at a museum field trip, a young ferret boy, but nothing came of it. Then, of course, came Jasper – but that wasn't until sophomore year.

I suppose I'll always be thankful for the time with Jasper – fleeting as it was. I truly did love him. I was ready to do things with him, and for him. And I did. I hurt someone, badly.

So then comes the period where my reservations kick in, the years after I don't see Jasper. I'm so shattered from everything that I don't form any serious relationship. Not in the boyfriend sense, anyway. Once I had that “encounter" with Lanner, I was sent to a different school, and meeting anyone genuine was just too daunting – if not impossible – a task.

I get to southern California and everything changes. I think, in a way, my family suspects my orientation, but perhaps I'm able to glide past their scrutiny because I move for a job. They're partly right.

I meet Ozzie. My world changes.

At this point, I've spent so much time away from gay relationships I don't know if I understand the “culture." I don't know if I “fit" with the nuances or requirements which comes with the territory. I distinctly recall picking up a chimera romance book, in hopes I'd find revelations and answers.

I did not. More to the point, the book made me feel more distant and alone. The main characters – a rowdy, cutthroat wolf with a strong body and a whispy, posh fox – confused me. I could never be the wolf, I didn't possess the strength or the charm. The fox? He was like a caricature. Pinky out, wine drinking, snarky, sharp-tongued mischief maker.

The fox possessed narrative elegance, was well spoken, eloquent, an intellectual. The wolf was bravado, confidence, written in a way that he could jump from one sexual encounter to the next like breathing. I felt intimidated.

Then Ozzie comes along and turns every expectation and concept of what it is to be a gay man on its goddamn head. At least to me.

It is, in retrospect, silly of me to form concrete opinions about my sexuality and the community from fictional interpretations. Never did I think it could be the way it is now. Always, it looked like some shapeless, ever-moving shadow running on the horizon.

Now it's got a shape, and that shape is Ozzie.

We're having dinner tonight. His choice - The Merrick. He picks something a bit highbrow, but not prudish. Nothing uppity, that's the stuff he can't stand.

But here's where he gets me.

I'm lounging in the bedroom while he gets ready, reading the daily bucket of news or catching up on political shifts via smartphone – my usual routine. Ozzie, however is busying himself with himself. He likes doing it, and I love watching him do it.

He hasn't moved in with me _yet _but it's starting to feel like it, because he _insisted _to keep lots of his things at my place. I prefer it now, because it feels like our lives are merging together.

He combs through his gray frosted mane, getting it to just the right sweep. He's post shower, the specialty conditioners making his fur shimmer; it's luscious and soft now. He rubs his gums with a cleaner directed for canines, dabs on just the right hint of cologne to perfectly accent his own natural musk, then checks his teeth for any blemish.

It's an art form, it really is. He leaves the bathroom, begins rummaging through his closet, selecting some fine, classy clothes. Well, classy for him, anyway. It's a buttoned top with dress pants and a belt – all of which compliments the hell out of his lean, lithe form. Snug, tight, hints at all his shapes and curves.

But he's not done. He finishes the rest with jewelry. I have to smirk. I can almost hear his thoughts as he tries on a piece, then another, trying to determine what accents him most.

Oh, is it silver tonight, Oz? Yes, nice choice. Just one stud earring? Yeah, I love it. Bracelet on the other wrist, really gives a you a dash of playful asymmetry.

He takes one last glance at himself with the body sized mirror, then turns to me.

“I'm feelin' this," he says. “What'cha think man?"

What I think might fill a bible. I want to say, “you're gorgeous, you're beautiful, you're perfect, and goddammit get over here so I can hold you forever."

I can't lay it on that thick though. “Handsome, handsome. Really clean, Ozzie."He's my 'yena, and that thought sends shivers through me.

So, what gets me? Because, this boy. This Ozzie. My Ozzie, my 'yena, could just as well be found in some rotten dive bar getting wasted with cheap beer and bad tunes. All this attention he applies to himself, like he's gone to get his nails done, is just a side of him. It makes him feel powerful, he's told me. When the world says 'fuck you' for being who you are, he's said, “you just gotta' look incredible and piss em all off."

He's not the obscure, hard-to-pronounce diner dish, not a bottle of aged wine in the cellar.

He's broken glass and blood on the table. He's a new stud earring and bottle of expensive cologne. He's a classic vinyl record and a scream during a metal concert. He's a leather collar and eyes full of lust.

He's also a smile.

“I don't know about the one piece on the ear, maybe another. . ."

I wave him off. “No way. I like it. It's very. . . you." Then I check the clock.

“Besides, if we do this all night we'll lose your reservation."

I can tell Ozzie wants to fuss over himself some more, but resigns to his current look.

“Fiiiine," he says, exaggerating for emphasis. Cute.

I'm ready, of course. I've settled on something similar – what's described as 'business casual.' Ozzie picked out most of it for me, in fact, and I trust his judgment. The shirt is a faded pink with a vest over it, and Ozzie insisted I have a hint of gold on me. I admit, I like it.

We take my car.

“I might have a drink or three," Ozzie insists. I'm happy with that.

-*-

Look at my man. Look at my Anson.

I did good tonight, I think. The streetlights are catching off the pink shirt nicely, and the faint glimmer of jewelry just gives him that extra dazzle.

He's not like this, usually. Nah, man, reserved, a thinker. He'll approach situations from a distance – he likes to know what he's getting into it. Stability.

I tell you, my life is often a series of impulses. When my dad pushed me into the sales position at Songbird, I remember my income taking a big bump. I also remember spending, a lot. I still kinda' do, I find it hard to resist my nature. But before, it was chaos and discord and shit. I was going through my paychecks, not thinking about tomorrow, paying bills whenever, just burning.

Truthfully, it was scary. I couldn't let go of me. The 'yena who got together with his rowdy friends after they just scored a twelver of beer and got piss drunk. That one. I liked him. He's still there, with me, today, but just in shades. Letting go of that felt like a mini-death.

But it was also scary because you can't really run through life like that. You do have to settle, and play by the rules. If you don't, well, “get fucked," life says.

Anson gave me that. No, not the “fucked" part (okay yes that too but the good kind), the rules part, the stability part. He got me in order, pulled me out of my rambunctious haze. But the coolest part, the part I really appreciate, is I'm still me.

I look at my man. He's got a sturdy face but it's a bright expression, a happy one. Safety, that's what I'm seein'. When he's doing great, the future is great. Everything is okay when he's right there. He's got a plan. He knows what happens tomorrow. He's on top of it. And then he's on top of me.

But his affluence for stability, his reserved demeanor, it does come at a price. He's in a shell, most of the time, kind of an act. Sure, we do that, the collective us, the people of the world when we're out in society. Yeah, yeah, you know, “we all wear masks." So getting him out of that shell, getting that hidden Anson to come out, that's tough sometimes. My boy's been hurt in some strange ways, and he's also been really happy. So he's cautious.

Tonight though? I can see it, I can see him loosen up, get comfortable. That's what I want.

I'm not scared of tomorrow because he's with me, so I don't want him to be scared of himself. I think, in a way, he's still trying to piece together the “himself" part, about where he stands in the whole “gay relationship" thing. Not in the “does he love me" sense, just, the whole boyfriend angle. He still thinks – and it's super cute – there's a routine to this, like, as a gay dude, he has to do things a gay way. It's funny as shit.

He's my anchor, and it's like he's got all the answers. And then, he doesn't have answers at all.

We get to The Merrick on time, in the nicer part of LA. It's a newer place, not a chain (yet), but it's got space and ambiance and some good ass food. If you want elegance you can get it. If you want a slop ass burger you can get that too.

When we get there, what comes up is the 'boyfriend' angle. We're not philosophical or anything, just chewing it over, before we chew our food. We find a table pretty easily and soon enough we're swallowed up by the busy restaurant night.

I order a 12oz of draft Longboat and some crispers, these tasty chicken cuts laced with sauce and peppers. It comes with seasoned fries too, and buttered corn cob. I've been a good boy this week so I'm cheating the fuck out of tonight.

Anson grabs a rare steak fixed with potatoes, vegetables, and a tea.

We sit and we're surrounded by ambiance, distant chatter, and the faint glow of some romantic lighting.

“I don't think that part was real, though. At the end." Anson says this as we wait for our food. Here's the angle.

We're still on the movie. Last night Anson found something on stream, a sort of theatrical interpretation called “Candelabra." It's surprisingly good and was a really interesting take on the 'gay' thing.

See in the movie, this handsome, bisexual guy, Thompson, hits it up with the “Amazing Ray." Ray is this super wealthy, incredibly talented entertainer. Singer, pianist, showman_._ Older too, like by a decade or so between himself and Tom.

But, where Ray is this guy of appetite, a man who likes his men, going from boytoy to boytoy, Thompson is just a guy. He's studying biology, has a single gay friend, but isn't exactly strip clubs and martinis. When the two start falling into it, forming a relationship, Thompson's caught off guard by all this. He doesn't really know, in a way, “how to be a boyfriend." Not to mention, Ray's lifestyle is excessive. I mean this guy made royal princes look like peasants in comparison.

Anyway, Anson really liked it. He kinda' relates to Thomson – this normal dude swept up by a strange, exotic world. I have to remember, Anson's still a human. He's surrounded by others who are a different species than him. It's easy to feel alone and alienated. Then you throw the whole “I'm in love with another man" thing and yeah, it's an island.

“Well no," I say, as our waitress – a blonde haired human woman – brings us our drinks. “That was the point right? He imagined it?"

We're talking about the end of the film. It's a bittersweet finale. Ray and Thompson don't work out (Ray's appetite for men exceeds his loyalty to Thomson), Ray gets sick, and ultimately passes away.

Anson shakes his head. “Not that part, the phone call. When it's holiday. Remember? Ray's on his deathbed?"

Ah, I see now. “Oh, when he's calling him up, yeah." This is sort of before the actual ending.

“Right," says Anson. “I don't think that really happened. This was all in the guy's biography. He could've lied about it."

I think I remember what Anson's talking about. This phone call takes place on Christmas. It's after their nasty breakup, Ray checks in with Thompson (whose now working a meager job, not the elegant lifestyle). Ray, I believe, says something to the effect of “you were real to me."

What he meant is that, of all the men Ray was with – and there were plenty – his love for Thomson was genuine, instead of a fling.

Now that I recall, Anson's angle is kind of morose. “Huh? You don't? Why not?"

Anson shakes his head, like he's disappointed.

“I dunno. Ray fell back into his old habits. I'm sure what they had was nice, for a while. But it sure didn't take the guy long to find himself another piece of ass."

Anson sips, continuing. “The whole movie is about Ray fighting with his cravings, it comes up everywhere. Thomson, I dunno. He probably took some creative liberties there. He had a drug problem, after all." By creative liberties, I figure Anson refers to the book the film was based on. Thomson wrote it, so maybe he gave us a rosier ending. We tend to want things to go our way, after all, right?

And drug problem? Yeah, that he did. Thomson was pretty fit for a while, then got overweight, but starting taking the “California diet" to get back in shape. Problem is, that just so happened to include Obetrol, a fancy word for addictive amphetamines (and meth, for good measure).

“Hmmf, bitter way to look at it man. I'm sure Ray said that stuff." I'd like to believe he did, anyway.

Before Anson continues, our food arrives. The scent of crisp meat doused in sauce hits me. Oh fuck it's a good smell. My carnivore biology kicks in and I take a big, orgasmic bite out of one of the strips. It's perfect.

“I'd ask him in person if I could."

As it turns out, the drugs weren't too kind to Thomson. He ended up in and out of jail, violating probation, in part to his addiction, years after their falling out. Not exactly the stable mind for writing a book.

“Wllf," I try to say, chompin' food. I gulp. “He'd flower up his answer, I bet. If he was lyin'."

Another nod. We don't really settle on what happened or didn't. Instead, our attention turns to the meal, and it's hard not to get swept up into the flavors and atmosphere.

Anson starts cutting into his steak, and oh man does he look good. I can't help but harp on it again, despite our conversation. There he is, there's my Anson, all classy, eatin' classy food, wearing classy gold.

“God, I gotta' dress you up more," I say. I know I'm changing subjects, but I'm both prideful and, just a tiny bit horny. A bit. That part comes later, I know. Heh, come.

“You've got an eye for it," says Anson. “I think I'll defer to you from now on."

I grin. “Yeah? Careful what you wish for, man. I'll get you in leather and g-strings before you know it."

Honestly that's my line, and my preference. But, the Anson, the relaxed one, just smiles.

“Maybe."

And you know what? That's a genuine 'maybe.' I can tell – I mean I can practically hear it in his heart, the way it ever-so-gently skipped a beat. The Anson of before, the pre-relationship one, probably wouldn't give it a second thought. Now? Mmm, I gotta' wonder what's going through his head right now.

-*-

We play with it for just a little bit, the idea of clothing. Food, I must admit, is a source of both comfort and euphoria for me. I tend to get an extra rush of happiness when I'm having a good meal. Probably the dopamine. In that rush, that pocket of “feel good," my mind gets to wander a little bit, sometimes to fun places.

So, briefly, I prod Ozzie's foot with mine. “You always did like leather," I say. Mostly I refer to his jackets (and he is dying to wear those again once fall comes around), but I also mean other stuff.

“Sometimes just leather," he says. His tail wags, blood rushes to his cheeks. He sips his beer. Mischief maker.

I can feel something. But we're only just getting started into our meal, we can't get rowdy now. Still, I let myself fool around a moment longer.

“You had a thing for collars, huh?" I state this in a cool, rigid way, like it's such a casual question. Like 'oh this was your favorite song?'

He smirks. “Sometimes, when it's the right occasion." Hehe, sneaky 'yena. He's not much for subtlety, but sometimes, he knows how to do it. I know what he means. If things go right, if the mood is there, maybe there's a future Ozzie in collars.

But that rush of euphoria fades out and I shake off the excitement, at least for now.

We start getting through most of our food and then catch up on other stuff. Ozzie talks about the work week, how he's doing a lot better in sales. How, the week previous was just sort of a rough patch and the department was getting their ass kicked by some financial errors.

He tells me other things he's excited about too. Lead singer from one of his favorite bands (The Kelvins) is doing a dual project with someone. I don't know much of what it means, in terms of names, but he's thrilled, so I'm thrilled.

Then we get into more movie talk. Some films are coming later in the year. I tell Ozzie about a sequel, simply called “Warrior," about mercenaries and Mexican drug cartels, which I'm eager to see. I also voice my concerns, in that it looks too “shooty," where the first was like a horror film dressed up like an action movie. Ozzie just tells me that's trailer stuff, they have to sell it to the casual viewer. We plan to see it, judgments reserved.

But damn me, I suppose I can't keep myself away from deeper subjects tonight. I don't mean to, but I get eager when I'm talking with Ozzie. I feel like I can jump into anything with him, and he'll have all the words I want to hear.

“Agh, damn, sucks what happened with Hampton."

Now again, the music knowledge lies with Ozzie. Get him a drink and ask him about how Howard Orven's departure from The Kelvin's in 93' deeply affected the tone of their following album; he'll go on for hours.

Me, not so much. Except, recently I found myself enjoying the Hamptons, a loose collection of young men who formed a band. Their style is everywhere, from sappy, heartfelt love songs to trashy pop mixed with rap.

But, one of their members recently left (or was removed, more accurately), and it was the first time I felt 'secondhand tragedy.' I understood, at that moment, why people got so upset when bandmates rotated out or big changes occurred with their musical style.

Ozzie's with me though. “Yeah. Eli tried to make up for it, I guess. I'm glad he came clean, at least. You know a lot of musicians don't even own up to it, or confront the problem."

We're referring to Eli's open apology, in which after accusations of various forms of abuse, he owned up to most of them.

It's not just that, though. I'm still caught up on the movie from last night, and our previous discussion.

“Seems to happen to a lot of gay performers," I say. In reality, it can happen to anyone. But I lean more towards the sexuality aspect; I'm locked in a head space._Hampton, _after all, isn't just a band - several of their members are open about their sexuality. And when you find problems "among your own," so to speak, it feels like a tragedy.

Ozzie's torn through most of his crispers, now starting on fries.

“Easy target," he acknowledges. “But I don't think it was a gay thing, I think it was 'he did some shitty stuff' thing."

And really, he's not wrong at all. So, we peck away at the future of the band, though Ozzie isn't worried. He reassures me their talent and flexibility will keep them afloat for a long time.

But, this whole thing's got me on the subject of rights now. And I feel the sense of 'responsibility' come through me. As if to suggest that Eli's leaving and events similar are, in some part, my fault. Or, I have an obligation to speak out in defense of guys like him. So, for better or worse, I take the conversation somewhere new.

“Oz, you know, it doesn't really come up. Uh, this subject, I mean."

His ears perk, though he's still digging away at his food.

“Mmhm?"

I realized, if I didn't phrase this question correctly, it might come out sounding all sorts of wrong. Well, maybe it was wrong to begin with.

“I notice you're, or I guess, we, aren't too much up on the topic of gay rights. Not to say we have to be, not up to our necks in it. But, all things considered, you think we should be?"

Now this grabs his attention. His gaze rises, and he hurriedly munches through his mouthful, finishing off his last crisper. His green eyes scan me, probably trying to find the sudden change in tone.

“What do you mean?"

I shrug. “Well, I'm not sure how else to mean it. We're a couple, we're gay, and history hasn't been too kind about that."

Ozzie is a lot of things. Political, however, is not one of them. And I understand – there's a lot of nuance in that field which often requires diligent attention to all sorts of things. Those sorts of things can affect people's lives, and it's usually a question of the “right" way. You cast in with your lot and you pick sides, and sometimes it's just easier to ignore it all.

“Not kind to a lot of people," he says. A non-answer. He can probably see the delicate frustration on my face from that.

“Very true. But to gays in general? You have to admit, the scales are kinda tilted." I study him, because I am quite curious. He's not afraid of much, so why did he never seem so 'out' about himself?

“Yeah, they are." He looks away, pensive. His eyes are on the ground, but that's because he's pondering.

Finally, he says: “I just fight on my own terms, Ans. Can't think about others too much."

Hmm. “Hmm," I say.

I admit, I may not know a lot about the gay community, but I do support it still. Granted, I support a lot of things. It was the one aspect I could take from my religious background: be kind to others. The world is filled with cruelties and pain, so if I can put in some kindness into it, I want to. Especially when it comes to a group about my own sexual identity.

So, Ozzie's answer is a little disappointing.

-*-

Ah, fuck me. Why this question? We were having such a damn good night. A nice casual one.

Damn you, Anson. I know it's important to him, and I know I probably let him down here. I guess I can't blame him. All the attention I put into myself and the things I do. Yeah, you figure the 'yena who huffs haze and gets smashed might be pretty into it about activism, eh? I got an essay's worth of opinions on my favorite band, I should have the same for this kinda' subject, right? I'm the experienced one, so I should know about it. Probably what Anson thinks.

Well, he's kinda' right.

I dive into my fries now. Then the beer. Beer helps. It's almost gone and I feel myself needing another 12oz soon.

“Why?" I say after taking a fat swig of the good stuff. “You wanna' head to a parade or something?"

I say it half serious, half prodding.

“Not exactly," he says. “I just feel it's important."

I can tell a part of him is thinking about the whole activist role. Damn him, he's got the mind for it too. He'd be amazing at organizing events.

“It is," I agree. Because I do. “But I think we're important too." And we are.

Problem is, I've been here before.

I groan. I just want to have a nice, quiet dinner with my man. But I know this is bugging him. A lot of things do, bless his goddamn heart. He wants to belong, like everyone does, and be good, and make up for things he feels he's responsible for. He deserves to. But, at the same time, I gotta' dig up a lot of memories for this. At the same time, sometimes the folks you thought were in your corner have their own games they're playin' at.

He takes a sip of his drink, probably searching for some new words. I fill the gap for us.

“Okay, Ansy, you want me to fill you in? Yeah man. It's important. But, I've done it before. The activism, the rights, the parade, the 'in your face attitude.'"

His expression shifts, intrigued. "Oh?" I don't think he's that surprised.

I look around. I've got opinions on this, I sure do. Mostly negative. But I try to remember a lot of what I didn't like, still, helped me get here. Us get here. I'm having this nice outing with my Anson because people got the shit kicked out of them, got called 'faggot' and 'queer' and 'sinner' and all sorts of horrible shit. They put in work, and they fought so we could eat together without worry of harassment. But when you fight. . .

“But when you do it man, you draw the lines. You take positions. And I don't just mean about folks who think you should burn for eternity, I mean within the advocate groups."

Now it's his turn to ask. “What does that mean?"

My ears peak, and I look around. This conversation isn't exactly savory, but no one's looking.

I don't answer this directly. “Look, I dated a guy who was all about this. Back in university."

Now I have his attention.

“Oh really?"

I take this nice and slow. Shit, there's a whole lot to sort through. I nod. “Mmhm."

Then, I shake my head. Remembering this guy, I can't help but feel my hackles rise. The sting of an old memory.

“Fox. Well dressed, well spoken. Wrote for theater. Kind of bitchy. He liked his wine, his philosophy, and his conversations."

I wipe my muzzle, hiding a quick grimace.

“Not gonna' bore you with the details, but he was kind of the showrunner for one of the college advocacy groups. Real mouth on him about it. He was proud. And I think he hooked up with me because I was some fresh, exotic new blood or some shit. 'Oooh, the wily hybrid from the rougher part of town.'"

I do a mock, high pitched tone with a timid lisp.

“Yeah, must've been a real thrill for that prissy bitch."

Okay, the venom is starting to come out. Probably more than I intended, because Anson looks concerned.

“Oh, damn. I'm sorry. You don't have to explain if you don't want."

I roll my eyes. More at myself, at the idea I'm still all mopey about this.

“Nah, it's fine man. It was just, I dunno. I didn't exactly share his message for gay rights. I was all about it, in my own way. I was outspoken at first, but then. . . ah, he had this whole thing about presentation. He didn't approve of my friends, that I was setting a bad example. That I had to adhere to, fuck, a code?"

I shake my head, because god it sounds so stupid thinking it over again.

“I wanted to be me Anson. Sure as hell wasn't gonna' start attending Critical Thinking and figuring out how to petition our congressman or whatever. And when that came to blows, when I started 'leaving' his movement, well, I became an enemy. I was with em' or against em'."

I make a face. Anson's looking away, mulling over my words, I figure.

“God he was so full of it, man. He didn't know shit. Had no idea what could happen to a gay person. He was just the princess on the sidelines."

I'm bristling. I try to stop myself from getting angry. But one particular point of contention comes flooding back.

“I remember one night, as a kid, mom came home late. Me and my bro were up past hours, playing games. Well, I remember opening my door to listen out for her, but all I remember was hearing her just, matter of factly, explain to dad she had to arrest a couple of dudes for killin' a man. They beat this person, this person I'll never know, to death."

Haha, I'm an idiot. At this point, I'm about to ruin my own evening.

“I offhand heard he was a gay man. Got banged up with a pipe by his lonesome. And that's the kind of shit that could happen in our happy, loving state. That stuff, Anson. The kinda fight my ex would probably run from. And his lot tried to tell me I wasn't on their side? Shit, well, I certainly didn't see any parades for that guy. Didn't see any public fuckin' outrage."

Wooboy. I'm way into it now. I'm stabbing my food, muzzle all flared, my voice coated with a growl. My tail is thumping the chair, but not because I'm happy. I'm probably wrong about the isolated incident – there were likely some grumblings about the hate crime, but I don't care.

I can't help but dig further into it. Anson's gotta' know, and I want to be honest with him.

“Of course we broke up and, not long after I think he started dating some big fucker. Din. . . Dendri. Dendri Lawson or some shit. Like an Athelete. Oh, it was real easy for him to take that brave, brave road with a meathead behind his back. Egh."

I look away. Not from disgust, I'm just tryin' to find the words. Anson's listening, considering them.

“He sounds familiar," says Anson, in regards to the fox. “Hmm. Was he really that bad?"

Ansons question sits in the middle. It's kind of rhetorical, but also partly serious. He's making an offer, challenging me, in a way, to reconsider my position.

Thing is, no, Scott wasn't that bad, by any means. Much as I can't stand the idea of that snooty, high tailed queen, he was a good guy, in his own way.

“He was a stuck up, snobby prick, Anson. I think he ruined me on posh guys. His way or no way. My friends? No thanks, only his groups. I gotta rearrange my schedule to see this fuckin' drama he's whipped up with his boys, but when I wanna' get smashed on a Thursday night or whatever? Nope."

I finish my beer. Yeah, it helped. Then I sigh – because it's nice to finally say this to someone. I try to reconcile, since I got the poison out.

“Scott Isiah," I say, like I'm calling him up. “We had our own ideas about fightin', Anson. Everyone does. But everyone, especially in our big band of fags and queers, thinks their way is the best way. And that we all gotta' be on the same page, because if we're not, we're divided, and we can't afford to be divided. So the thinkin' is."

I'm about done with my fries, and this memory.

“And the really suck ass thing, Anson? The community has its problems. Look at Ray, and Tom, and Eli. One was a cheater, one was a drug addict, one was an abuser. We're not perfect."

I want to somehow tie that back to Scott, like I could grab the fox and say “here!? See!? Get over it! Get off your high horse!" but I can't.

Anson nods. The waitress comes back a moment to give us a quick tension break. I order another 12oz, maybe get this buzz to a nice, tipsy drunk.

The pause is enough for me to find my thoughts.

“I guess I haven't even answered your question. 'Should we be about gay rights?' I mean sure, Anson. I got no problems with that. But my idea of a protest is hangin' with my trashy friends and breakin' some shit."

Anson, thankfully, seems none too bothered by this. “That's fair," he says.

It is. But now, I have to know, is it what he wants?

“You feelin' a protest, then? Are you asking because you want to get out there, go to rallies, get active?"

I'm serious in my inquisition. I really don't want to go back to all that. I've got enough on my plate – we both do. But fuck, man. If my Anson wants it enough, I'm with him, one hundred goddamn percent.

-*-

I'm rethinking myself.

I can sense the hesitation in Ozzie's voice, the tinge of anxiety laced over his words as he prompts me. Perhaps, before he explained, I might have said yes. About propelling us into a more active role in regards to gay rights (or the rights of anyone dealing with sexual identity politics).

But after his words, I kind of realize, my intent was misplaced. Maybe I feel I owe it to the community to fight for them? Or, again, maybe I just want to be a part of something bigger than myself.

But Ozzie's not wrong. We draw lines and pick sides. Everyone fights in their own way. And to be fair, I'm not exactly on the front lines here, not in the sunshine state. Now, maybe back home, maybe in the heart of the south, sure. Despite it purpling over (and by this I mean there's an equal representation of left and right leaning political spectrums – red and blue) it still has lots of issues when it comes to rights. Chimera, homosexuality, religious.

It's easier for me to want to throw myself into a skirmish when I've got someone so strong at my side. It's easy for me to take arms in a state that probably looks fondly at a protest, rather than discourage it.

Hah, I've just realized. He's my Dendri. I look at that beautiful, handsome yeendog face with renewed reverence. Goddamn.

“Eh, maybe not so much," I finally say. “I think I'm active in my own way. Like you say, it's my way to fight."

It's why I check the news every night. It's a quiet battle, watching representatives go at it. Scrolling through articles and looking for unbiased information. Checking for that 'double talk.' Seeing what senators voted for a bill that restricts the rights of minorities somewhere, penning their names.

But Ozzie's curious. Since I've never been outspoken, he probably wants to know.

“And how's that going?"

The waitress comes back with his 12oz and he licks his chops. I settle on a refill, and some new words.

“Well you know. Rallies, protests, anything, it's all well and good. But unless you put someone at the levers of power – in your interest – it's not enough."

I'm tempted to start going on about installing proto-democracies or regimes thanks to vacuums of power left over from military action. I don't.

Ozzie makes a face. “Eww, voting."

He's half joking.

I nod. “One of the hardest things to do." I'm half joking too.

“Well, it's okay," I continue. I reach out to touch his free hand, squeezing it. He returns it, gently scratching my palm.

“Really I just wanted to know. We never get into it much."

Ozzie chuckles. “I have my reasons for it, babe. I mean, I can hook ya' up, if you want. I know some queens through a few people. There's this one place, man? 'Leather Bricks.' Whole fuckin' bar full of biker dudes who are outrageously gay. They make a big fuckin' deal out of it. They get in fights, man, they dare you to call em' a fag."

I get the feeling Ozzie is trying to dissuade me, though I admit, the place sounds fascinating. Still, it's another example of how limited my understanding of the whole 'lifestyle' is. Or was.

I start to wonder, why in particular, this is a point of importance for me. And then, I realize, just like everyone else, it's a point of validation. We all need it.

I also realize, I need to back off. This is a clear point of irritation for Ozzie. I need to concede that.

“Haha, nah, it's all right Oz. I admit, when we started dating, I thought I had to become all that, you know. Like, all right, I'm in a real relationship now, it's serious, and I have to be serious."

I'm thinking about the fox again. Both, actually. The one I thought I knew, from a narrator's world, and the one Ozzie actually knew. Then I remember Thomson. The world, the lifestyle.

“I'm a boyfriend and it means knowing the culture, the people. I've got responsibilities. I guess that's how my thinking was."

Ozzie rolls his eyes. His warm paw-hands come over mine now, squeezing and playful.

“Baby, I promise, you just need to be one person: yourself. I don't want anyone else. I want my Anson."

My heart shivers. Hearing Ozzie say that pours liquid warmth into me. I belong to him, and I wrap my own fingers around his to reaffirm this.

He's a bit tipsy too. So, he kind of pulls up my finger and wraps his muzzle lips around it. I feel a thrill spike through me, and I look around to see if anyone noticed. Of course not, they're too gone in their own conversations.

I don't pull my finger away. In fact, I push a little, joining my middle with index. Ozzie gives a low yip. He licks, and sucks, and kisses. I think we're about done talking.

He finishes off his refill and I pay our bill. I might have given an extra big tip too; that euphoric rush is hitting me again.

“Get me home," Ozzie says. It's husky and raw, and I feel myself twitch.

We're at my apartment after a quick drive, a drive made harder because Ozzie can't keep his hand off my crotch.

In my room, Ozzie snickers, the alcohol scenting his tongue. “Shit, man, all the work I did. . ."

He says this as we start to strip out of our clothes, our hands exploring the dives and rises of each other. My palm sneaks around his back, lifting his shirt, stroking through his luscious, soft fur. Muzzle and mouth are locked together, tongues playing. His long flat rug easily overpowers mine, but that's okay, I like it.

When I get a chance, I kiss his neck, and breathe deep. He's got a wonderful, masculine aroma. Chimera have the benefit of unique, strong scents locked into their fur, and mixed with his cologne it's an amazing ambrosia.

“Nnnf," I hear him grunt. I hold his cheeks, his face, and kiss. Again and again. He whimpers.

Then he laughs. “Ahah, asshole, get me out of these pants!" It's from need.

I sure as hell don't mind. He yanks off his belt and shoes, where I get those tight-fitting dress tethers off. Then his briefs. His satin, ebony cock springs out and it's, well, beautiful. Lamplight rims the edges with a hint of orange, and I can't help but stroke it. Smooth, warm, twitching. It starts to leak, and I chuckle.

“Is that what my puppy likes?"

He kind of humps my palm, nodding. He licks my face, then pulls out of his shirt, so I can see his lovely, lean body. I strip free too, and in a moment we're both bare to the privacy of our home.

He nibbles my ear, and whispers. I get chills. A soft voice always gets me hard, and I'm a rock when he's talking.

“Mmmhmmm, stop fuckin' teasin' me," he says, playful.

“Gonna tease you all I want," I challenge.

I get him on the bed now, to his back. My palm comes to his testes, and I can't help but massage and caress them. He's got a cute tuft of fur that runs between the sacs, where the rest is hairless, though smooth and supple.

“I've always like your cute little nuts," I say. I didn't drink tonight, but damn do I feel drunk.

His neck rolls and he moans, watching me play with his cock. I lower myself to get a taste, kissing his crown. Deep savory salt. A little strange, but it's him, so I love it anyway. A bonus, I can smell his arousal, the musk of his crotch. It's earthy, a bit stronger than the rest of him.

“The hell's so little about me?" he grunts, as I caress his flank. I give him one more kiss on the shaft, making him wriggle.

“Nothing much," I say, rubbing against him, letting our loins contact each other. “Butt's getting kind of big, actually."

That, of course, is a complete lie. He's got a nice perky backside, for sure, but Ozzie watches himself.

He growls, chuckling, cheeks red. “Oooh, you bitch."

-*-

Ghh, Anson, you shit, stop playing with me, you handsome lovable asshole. His hands and his mouth and his weight, god, I can't get enough.

I love subbing him for him. I guess if you wanna' qualify me in the bedroom I'm a power bottom. I'll suck Anson's dick but I call the shots. Sometimes. Heh. This time though, I'm just putty. I'm all tipsy-wipsy. He's touching me in all the right ways, he's leaning to kiss me, palms are rubbing my thighs, my arms. Mmmf, so good.

“Get the knot," I say, kinda desperate. It's been a while, and I wanna be sore for him again.

He doesn't question it, he knows. We keep a lot of my stuff at his place now, the Bulb bein' one of them. Soon as he's gone he comes back, bottle of lube too. He slicks up his prick, slips it on, then puts his fingers near my hole.

He teases me, running a digit around the rim.

“Nnf, just give it to me," I say, snagging the stuff away. I might be a bit off tonight, but I sure as hell know what I need.

I shiver as the cool stickiness fills me a little, nice and slippery, pushing my fingers past the rim for a little fun. I relax, I breathe, and then Anson comes over me. Not cums over me, not yet.

He positions his crown and pushes. I whine, growling. I spread myself for him, wiggling that tight, sticky space against the welcome intruder. I wrap my legs around him, pulling him close, until we're wound up and just a mess of body and fury and fuck.

Ung. I can't think. S'kinda hard. He's pumpin' into me now, and I'm spread so right for him, so perfectly. I know his pace, his warmth, how his first strokes take a few seconds until they become a gentle rutting. My tail would be busy thumping he bed if it wasn't curled around him - best I can manage at least. He hits my little spot just right, not too much, not too little.

It's love. It's stupid and noisy and messy and moans, and I can't get enough. Love is his kiss, his hand finding mine, or how he breathes into my neck, or how he slows pace and then starts quick again. It's his play bites, that he knows I like, his digits circling my cock while he applies forceful thrusts.

I'd look into his face, by my eyes are closed, because I'm riding a dream. I'm thinking about Anson, about tomorrow, about my anchor, and I feel safe and happy and warm and things no one else's given me in years.

My. Anson.

He shudders, and bucks, then groans. It's the one you have to let go because you're so compromised by the sheer emotional and physical intensity it's painful to keep it in.

“NNN!" I have to yip, I reallllly do. Because then he puuuushes in with that knot, and 'pop,' in it goes. He's tied me down. I'm the bitch pup all over again. Agh, he's claiming me, and agh, I love it.

He's first, and that's okay - I feel _him _soak me from inside. I want him nice and pleased. I'm able to get myself off too, with his help, until my cock explodes with a mess of hot white. Soaks into my fur. Gets stuck on his stomach. What the fuck ever, we're a sandwich now, and we collapse, and just kinda hold.

-*-

Ozzie mystifies me, because I understand him. He's a riddle that I don't have the answer to, and yet, I feel like I know it anyway.

I've gone through most of life as a stranger. Among my family, my new school, the job, the state. But Ozzie is the familiar, the shape I make sense out of. I have a hundred questions about myself, my sexuality, what it means, where I belong. Ozzie just shrugs and makes sense of it all.

I groan now, again and again. I whisper “I love you" into his ear and we bathe in the afterglow. Granted he's a bit twitchy, he's stuck.

Then, cautiously, I pull out. The pop is audible and issue leaks free, but Ozzie growls with approval.

I'm on top of him, and he laughs.

“Agh, you idiot!" He points between us. “Big fuckin' mess now."

Yeah, we're kind of soaked with each other.

“It's okay. We can clean up."

He whines. “Maaan. You're gonna get into my fancy washes."

His protests don't last long. We shower up, and I take the extra time to clean him real nice, right down to his rump and hinting near his hole. He nudges me. We'd go at it again, but we're both a little tired.

I dry off and get back to bed, settling in the for the night. I have a television on our dresser now, so I flick it on, and go back to my 'fight.' Ozzie takes a bit longer though, needing to dry his fur.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm myself again.

-*-

I've always wanted a boy to warm the bed while I clean up. Silly fantasy of mine.

Then I get done in the bathroom, dried up, and see my Anson. It's surreal. It's like out of a future memory, like I'll see this again and again and again. It hits me. Holy shit, we're building a life together.

I snuggle up to my man. I'm just checking through social media now, I like to see what my favorite bands are saying. Then I glance up, and I see the news, and I realize – quietly – Anson's finding ways to fight for us. Maybe not out in the street, but by knowing the “levers of power."

I feel safer than I ever have in my goddamn life, and mom was a cop.

I'd like to say something profound.

“Love you babe, thanks for dinner."

There, that'll give the poets something to crow about.

He kisses me. We rest soon. We dream.