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Hurt

He's panting like a bitch in seconds.

Oh, Martin, you're so hot. Your dick's so big. Fuck me harder. Fuck me faster.

Okay, okay, sure. Now shut up. I didn't bring you into the mansion to hear you speak.

You're a chess piece and some decent ass. That's all you need to be.

I don't say that though, I stay silent.

He's not worth the words. Frankly he's barely worth the dick, but I haven't had any ass in a few days and he was available, so...

I rut him for a while, making sure to check a nearby wall-mounted clock at regular intervals.

When I take my cock out he moans for me to put it back in.

Ride me Martin. Make me yours.

Maybe you think I'm being harsh to the poor dog, that it's rude to see a person as a chess piece. Sure. Okay.

If you could get the dog to tell you what he really thought of me he would speak the verbal equivalent of a string of dollar signs. I'm money to him, nothing more.

It doesn't feel so bad when we're using each other. He gets to hang out in the mansion, be awash in privilege, enjoy the sights, get high out of his mind and I get to shoot my seed in his tight hole and use him as a pawn in matters of more importance.

It's a mutual kind of abuse.

I tell him if he wants my dick back in he'll have to beg for it over there in the hallway.

He doesn't even question me. I really do like the obedient ones.

A maid walks past and my chess piece looks flustered, standing there naked and disheveled. The maid just rolls her eyes at me as she passes. I just smirk.

Soon enough I'm fucking him against the wall.

More of his inane chatter:

Oh yeah. I'm all yours. I'm your little slut Martin. Use me.

Look, he's literally asking for me to use him at this point. How exactly am I supposed to feel bad about it again?

I've got him moaning and groaning when father bursts in the front entrance.

"Hi dad," I call out between thrusts. God, my timing is perfect.

I let the exhilaration of the moment get to me and with a last pump I reach my climax. I pull out of the very embarrassed looking pawn's ass and spray his backside white.

I stare at my father with a confident smile, waving with one paw and gripping my cock, shake the last few drops of ejaculate off, with the other.

"You know, Martin, when you were fucking the fags at drama school in the privacy of your own bedroom that was not a problem. But now you've sunk to pulling gutter trash off the street and fucking them in the hallways..." He shakes his head and makes a guttural sound permeated with disgust. "This family has a reputation to uphold. You know that right?" My father - a dark furred, stocky otter - somehow looks down at me over the rim of his glasses, despite being noticeably shorter than me. He straightens his jacket with a tug and walks off in the direction of his office.

"See, I just think you're mad because you've never tried sticking it up somebody's butt. I'm guessing mom didn't go for anal?"

I trail him, keeping pace a few steps behind him. The aforementioned gutter trash calls out to me, confused. I ignore him and he follows after me. I flash him a growl and he stops in his tracks. He's been used now. It's his time to stop bothering me.

Father decides I'm not worth the conversation and keeps his muzzle shut tight.

"Oh, who am I kidding? At least one of your hookers must like it up the rear right?"

I see his ears twitch but still he keeps walking.

He refuses to talk.

"I bet you talk more to them than you do to me."

We reach his home office. He sits at his desk and starts reading some paperwork without even looking up at me. I close the door and stand opposite him.

"Maybe you only talk to people if they put out for you," I swivel and lift my tail. "Well, here you go. Some prime ass for you. I've heard I'm quite the catch. I'm the son of a millionaire don't you know?"

"For fuck's sake Martin, could you act with a shred of dignity? And get some damn clothes on while you're at it."

"Oh, am I getting you too riled up? I thought getting flustered looking at guys was for the fags." He keeps his muzzle shut again. His lack of response pisses me off, but there's no way I'm going to show it. I'm a damn good actor and I won't let him shake me out of my role. "So you want me to act with a shred of dignity? Really dad?" I walk around the table and before he can do anything I'm wrenching open one of his draws. I take out a hefty bag of white powder and place it on the table? "Mind if I have a go? Of course you don't, I know you enjoy a line or ten on work hours from time to time. Well, by 'from time to time' I mean every day." I pull the bag open. Pour a haphazard splodge onto the table and snort it right there in front of him. "Well that's the fucking ticket! Now we're both dignified adults, right?"

The high is like another layer superimposed on life, but I don't let it control or confuse me. I am well enough used to it by now to remain in charge.

"Okay son, you've got my attention. Are you happy? What was so damn important you had to put on this whole show to tell me?"

"Of course this makes me happy. Getting to speak to my own damn father? That's a rare fucking treat isn't it?"

"For somebody who doesn't have to worry about money or means because of my business, you can be an ungrateful little shit."

"Yes, money, that's what life's about. I keep forgetting that people are nothing more than emotionless robots. How silly of me."

"And I'm sure you'd be saying that if your working class parents couldn't afford to put you through the best drama school in the state. Now, what have I done to deserve your ire this time around?"

"Oh, this time? So you don't want me to bring up all those other things you did to scar me, like hiding your general neglect and disdain of me and sis throughout our childhood? How about that time you threw a knife at mom at dinner? I know legally it wasn't thrown 'at' her, but we were both there. What about your total absence from my life for the last decade? I barely get a word out of you a week. I know you wish you never had me, but I'm here now and mom's been dead for years so you may as well speak to me, right?. Anyway, we're not talking about all of that, are we? Today we're talking about one of your drivers, Zane."

To all of that he only responds: "I don't have time for your melodrama Martin."

"Yeah, yeah, you have Konroy Electric to run and assistants to fuck whenever they bring you coffee."

Right on cue there's a knock on the door.

"Mr Konroy, your coffee," comes a feminine voice.

"Not now," says my father. He only has to say it once. His word is law here to all but I.

"Anyway, Zane. I brought him up to you last week if you remember. You told me then that you'd deal with him, but I saw him come into work today."

"Of course he still works here, he does his job well. I'm not about to take the word of a fag and use it to fire a valued employee."

"Just to clarify, when you say fag here, do you mean your son?" No response. "See, I'm just wondering what position you got in to keep him on the payroll. First I thought he must have given you a blow job, but that's a little plain, so then I thought maybe you fucked him, but I know he's more of a top so now I'm wondering whether he fucked you." He looks up to me for the first time, a look of utter revulsion on his face. "Is that right? Did he get you moaning and squirming under him?"

"How dare you."

"See, the thought of getting fucked by Zane didn't particularly appeal to me either. So when he kept telling me that's what he'd like to do when he drove me around, despite repeated refusals from myself, I thought maybe he shouldn't work here. When he started putting his paw on my shoulder, or mussing my hair, or that one time he 'accidentally' tapped my ass, that's what made me sure he shouldn't work here. When my last lay told me he did much the same to him and even grabbed his wrist as he was leaving the car, well, that's when I told you that he should be fucking fired. So, why is he still working here?" Nothing. "Oh I see, it's the fag's fault. Not me of course. I'm not the fag you're talking about, I'm your son, no matter how many guys have their dick in my ass or how many asses I stick my dick inside of I'll never be a fag to you, only a disappointment. But that 'friend' of mine? Just another lying faggot. That's the problem. Zane being forward with me and touching my hair, that's fair game too I guess. Maybe I should stop being so openly into men and he'd stop trying his paw with me. I get it."

"If you get it then what are you doing here? I'm busy."

He is pure ice.

"If you don't fire him I'll have him take my ass in your bedroom and record it. I'll post it online and the whole world will know your son is a filthy fag who's father has no control over him or his staff."

He's alert now.

"You wouldn't dare."

"Are you so sure? Since when has a sextape had a negative effect on somebody's acting career? In fact it'll turn me from 'the Konroy boy' into a minor celebrity."

"He wouldn't."

I laugh out loud in his face. I drag the desk phone toward me and dial Zane. I put the phone on loudspeaker as it rings and mime for my father to shush.

Whether out of intrigue or surprise, he follows my command.

"Mr Konroy," comes Zane's disembodied voice.

"Actually, it's the other Mr Konroy," I say in a sultry, breathy tone. "I've been thinking about what you said you wanted to do with me."

He laughs a dirty kind of laugh.

"Very good, Martin. Have you come to any conclusions?"

"In fact I have. I want you on top of me, fuck it I want to do everything we ever talked about. I'll be honest I'm fucking horny. When are you free?"

"My shift ends at eight."

He's so damn eager. It's literally easier than taking candy from a baby.

"Daddy's going out tonight. Meet me in his bedroom at nine."

You can fucking hear the hard-on in his voice when he says: "I'll see you there."

There's a second's pause.

"Zane." My father says.

You can hear fear and shattered dreams in his voice when he replies: "Mr Konroy?"

"You're fucking fired. Get the hell off my premises and don't even think about getting within a mile radius of this house or my family again."

"B-but Mr-"

"Go home." My father ends the call and looks at me. "Are you happy now?"

Not even remotely.

I leave the office without another word.

*

I'm laying on my back in our garden pool, counting the stars.

I feel empty. Hollow, even.

The sex, the highs, the drama. None of it really matters to me.

I feel alone.

It's hard to make friends when everybody either avoids you or idolizes you. There he is: the son of the CEO of KE. He must be fucking loaded. You can see the silver spoon sticking out of his muzzle if you squint hard enough.

Sure, sex is easy to come by when you're rich, handsome and charismatic, but emotional connections are almost impossible when you're as aloof, arrogant and single-minded as I am. Combine that with the notoriety of my moneyed name and you have a potent cocktail for isolation.

Don't even get me started on family. The absent father, the dead mother, the sister who's become so focused on business and money that she no longer sees you as more than a nuisance.

I wave my thick tail back and forth underwater, propelling myself gently across the pool's calm surface.

I'm not an idiot, nor am I so insular as to fool myself about who I am.

I know I'm an asshole. I'm abrasive, hedonistic and brash. I'm idealistic, cunning and manipulative.

Maybe that means I don't deserve love or closeness.

Fuck it. All I want is to act anyway.

Acting lets me escape my life for a while and become another person. The truth is, most of the time, I'd much rather be somebody else. Martin Konroy is kind of just a spoiled prick with daddy issues.

I stroke idly at my crotch as I drift through the pool. After talking to my father I decided it would be too much effort to put clothes on so I've spent the rest of the day walking around nude.

I think at one point there was still some degree of shame left in me, but it's long gone by now.

Just as well, if I want to act in front of thousands of people, I may as well leave my shame in the long-forgotten dust.

I idly jack one out imagining a lover who truly understands my passion for acting and my disdain of the mundane.

Maybe I'll find a person to truly love one day. Until then I'll keep covering my chest and filling the pool with white spurts of my affection.

Hollow

I met her in a bar, this vixen, I told her I was a lawyer. She asked sarcastically if she was in trouble, if I was going to sue her. I asked If I could buy her a drink.

I was suave, dressed in a suit and tie. She said she could go for a cocktail.

A couple of hours later she's riding my dick like I'm the director for a movie she's auditioning for.

Don't give me crap for that. It's a fucking joke, lighten up.

Like I said, she's riding me. I'm lying here with my paws on her hips and she's grinding on me in practiced motions. Vixens always see to know how to have a good time. And hey, it's cross-species fun, so no condom necessary.

She's moaning, of course, and yelling out ridiculous things. They always do that.

Oh yeah, Marty! Fuck me!

Yeah, Marty. So, I wasn't very inventive with the name, but it doesn't really matter. It just makes things a little easier if she isn't calling me another man's name during sex.

Maybe I should have told her my father's name, it might have added some spice to the evening if she happens to enjoy angry sex.

I satisfy myself inside her and send her on her way with some bullshit about an evening client meeting. She buys it, of course she does. They always do.

Alone again, I spark a blunt on the hotel balcony, not giving a single fuck who sees me. What exactly are they going to do about it? I'm Marty fucking Konroy. Or Martin, rather. Whatever.

The mellow high calms me. Staring down at the world below I mindlessly mime crushing the tiny people with my thumb and forefinger.

Ugh. What am I doing?

How can the weeks blend together so easily when I'm in a different city or state every few days?

I'm at a bar, I tell her I'm a police officer. She asks to see my badge. I say she can see a whole lot more than that if she wants. She forgets about the badge. Maybe you think this is too forward, it would never work. Maybe you should learn to pick the right girls and talk with confidence. Act like you own the world and you might just start to.

I'm at a club, I tell him a sob story about my grandmother who recently had a stroke. He was sat alone looking distressed. Maybe you'd look at him and think: why the hell is this guy at a night club in the first place? I see him and know he's hoping to meet another outcast, somebody else who doesn't belong but who still wants to find a lover. These people usually don't want one night stands. I thought it might be a fun challenge. In the end he was as easy as the rest of them.

All you need to know is what to say and how to say it.

All you really need to do is pretend you're the person they're looking for.

That's all it is: acting.

None of them were more to me than a fuck. I'm getting sick of it.

I feel hollow.

On the balcony, lungs full of smoke, brain wired on weed, I wonder if anything will ever make me happy.

The momentary pleasures of sex and deception are not enough. I wanted to act. People told me to go into TV or cinema. That's where the money is. They had connections, I had the talent. A match made in heaven right?

But no.

That' not real acting. That's a fucking dress rehearsal. It's so fucking fake, you can do five takes or fifty. They can coach you over and over until you're exactly what they want to see. There's nothing personal about it, nothing real. Real acting happens on the stage. It's do or die, thrive or fail.

It's about being as perfect as possible as consistently as possible. There is no real safety net. If you fuck up it's on you, and you can bet your ass the critics will be ruthless. That's where the real thrill is.

So why am I not doing it?

Honestly, I'm not quite sure.

At first I said it was the connections. If I do this it has to be from the ground up, for real. I don't want any outside assistance. Unfortunately my family name will always carry some amount of weight, but I'm no celebrity, just the son of an incredibly wealthy man.

I was stubborn about it to the point that my viewpoint was reluctantly accepted. I can start from the bottom if I want to.

Yet... I didn't do anything with it. Sure I auditioned a few times, I worked a few plays, but I didn't put my all into it.

It's this hollow feeling dragging me down. It's like something is missing, as though a part of me that should be there simply isn't.

I started traveling the country, taking the acting away from the stage and into reality. It gives me some sort of satisfaction, but still that hollowness persists.

I'm awash in the hedonism I was doomed to since the day I was born into money. My days are a mess of sex, drugs and whatever other entertainment I feel like partaking in.

Nobody ever holds me back. Nobody ever tells me no and means it. Nobody ever stays by my side.

I push a lot of people away, true, but those people don't interest me. I meet them and chat or fuck, but they're boring, shallow people who don't understand what matters in the world. All this droning day-to-day bullshit is holding them back.

I know I'm lucky, and moneyed, but wasting twenty-four hours a day, every day, on work, family and escapism isn't going to get you anywhere.

When you push past the lies and the distractions and the delusions, you realize that the only thing that really matters in this world is art. To me, the truest form of art is theater.

Then again, maybe that's only a half truth. Something I tell myself so that I can continue to feel superior and untouchable.

There is something else that matters, clearly, or else this hollowness wouldn't follow me everywhere I go.

I need somebody. Somebody I can really talk to, somebody who can truly understand me and my desires. I need somebody who knows how to act, and understands why it's so important to me. I need somebody free, intelligent, determined and unique.

Maybe my standards are impossibly high.

Maybe I've just been looking in all the wrong places.

Hm.

How did something so simple take me so long to realize?

Time to change things.

*

It's been a while.

I had been looking in the wrong places, that had become obvious to me, so I started looking in the right ones. The process was neither quick nor easy.

It was an avalanche of experiences.

I tried dating again. A woman in one city, another in the next, two men in another city - at separate times - and two men in a city after that - at the same time, polyamory not cheating - and so on. Some lasted one date, others a few weeks. Once or twice I thought I might have found the right person. Months would go by, they'd get to know me. Eventually I would realize they weren't what I wanted. Too shallow, too nice, too clingy, too something. Sometimes I'd realize all they cared about was the money. Fuckers.

To be fair, I wasn't great at the whole 'dating' thing at first, maybe it was good that I got all that practice in before now.

More than anything, what those dead ends helped me with is figuring out exactly what I was looking for.

I scoured the country and the internet finding artists, especially actors. I visited acting troupes and enthusiast groups, sometimes I stayed a while and got to know people, took part in a play or two. All of that just to find a cure to my hollowing.

Like I said,it's been a while.

It doesn't matter.

Tonight I'm in Canada, driving back to the hotel I've been staying at, lost in thought. You might think I'd have a chauffeur, I could if I wanted, but ever since Zane I've been driving myself.

Tonight, though, things are different.

I found him.

He's exactly what I need.

He's everything I was looking for.

For the first time in my life that I can remember, I feel good. I feel whole.

His name is Ryan. He's a handsome, intelligent, talented, confident, caring husky. When performing he acts as though he truly is his character. It's wonderful. As if that wasn't enough he's thoughtful and funny and we share the same sense of humor. He's passionate and driven and determined and artful.

I can barely believe he exists.

Perhaps it's too soon to claim love, but I like him. A lot.

He likes me too.

I didn't make up some bullshit profession or spew lies and he doesn't know about my family name, yet still he likes me.

Ryan likes Marty. Marty likes Ryan.

God, it's like I'm in a fucking high school sitcom.

I shouldn't complain. I'm smiling.

I've not even known him for two weeks, but I know. I know. I've never been more sure of anything.

He is what I need.

Healing

We make love all day.

We do it every which way. We're both utterly spent and full of cum by the end of things.

I've never had a lover so tender and yet so raw.

Afterward we share a joint and talk about life.

Well, not so much 'share'. He doesn't smoke, or touch drugs at all really, but every now and then he'll take a drag.

In his presence I'm glowing.

My vices and destructive tendencies have waned into near nothingness since I found him. But that doesn't erase the past.

He makes me feel something I haven't felt in a long time: fear.

I'm scared to show him the real me. The family name. The money. My excesses and eccentricities, my passions, my desires, my facets and flaws. What will he think when he knows who I am? This rotten, arrogant otter surely isn't worth his time.

He's so perfect.

He's that ideal blend of empathetic and realistic, intelligent but not self-important, skillful but humble.

We're laying down in one another's arms. I feel more at home here and now than anywhere, anytime.

"Marty, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, what is it?"

"Why the hell did you come to Canada and visit a random fucking theater troupe? " It's a fair question. "Don't get me wrong, I'm thankful for it - I'm glad I met you - but you have to admit it's not a super normal thing to do."

Here it is. This is where I lie and ruin any chance of a future between us or tell the truth and risk him seeing me as a monster.

It's not much of a choice.

It scares me, but I have to do it.

"Well, there's a lot I have to explain. I'll start here: my surname is Konroy."

Blank expression. Then he looks confused and tense. Then he laughs.

"Next you're going to tell me you own Konroy Electric."

"Don't be silly," I say. The tension leaves his face. "My father owns it."

*

"I can't."

"You can. I want you to."

"But it's too much. I could literally never pay you back."

"I don't want you to pay me back. I don't exactly need money do I?"

"But-"

"I don't care about any of that. I want you to be happy. I want us to be happy. I know your job makes you miserable, I know you want more from life. Why stay here, letting time eat away at you, when you could come with me and live how you want to live?"

"Marty, I don't know. It's such a huge step to take so quickly."

"Ryan, this is what you've always wanted. I'm offering you time, freedom and a better place to live. I know it's a big change, I know it's moving fast, but think about it logically: this is the chance of a lifetime."

He takes a while to think, but in reality he only has one choice. What's the point dwelling in stasis when he can choose a better life?

He does the right thing in the end.

For our last night in Canada we hold each other and talk for hours about the details and particulars of what we want to do and achieve in our new life in the US. We talk about how we'll approach our acting goals and how long things might take. We support and encourage each other. His presence infinitely enriches and improves me.

Every moment we're together my life gets a little better.

I love him.

More than that, I need him.

I'm becoming used to his presence. He's made me into the person I want to be. I'm so glad I've left behind the man I was without him.

"Ryan?"

"What is it?"

Somehow, in all our time together, we've never made it official.

"I don't really know how to phrase this in a way that isn't either awkward, arrogant or alienating."

"Then just say it."

"Are you, uh, fuck, I'm going to sound like such an idiot."

"Ask the question Marty."

Internally I curse myself for bringing it up.

"Are you my boyfriend?"

He laughs, then stares at me with an expression that asks: are you serious?

He reads the answer of my face just as easily as I read the question. He laughs again.

"Come on Marty, don't be ridiculous."

Aware of the ludicrous nature of my own question, I'm laughing when I say: "I'm being serious."

Then: something I don't expect.

He forms an expression I can't read. For once I don't know what he's thinking.

Then it passes.

"Of course we are," he says. I let out a sigh of relief and we kiss. "I know I tell you pretty much every time we meet, but you kiss better than any mortal being should be able to."

"What can I say? I've had a lot of practice."

He aims a playful jab at my shoulder and we tussle, soon enough things devolve into sex.

Once we're both spent I let him know that I love him.

The words slip off my tongue without warning, but I don't regret them.

I drift to sleep in his arms.

Harming

Returning to life in a city was nothing new for me, for Ryan it was a total paradigm shift.

Things happened fast. We act in local plays now. We live in an apartment together. We're free and bold and artistic.

It all started perfectly.

Then he began to drift away.

I still love him as much as ever - I need him as much as ever - but I'm starting to lose him.

There's more to do here: more things and more people.

We started spending less time together.

No longer isolated in a small town in the middle of nowhere, Ryan was bombarded with thousands of ways to spend his time with a variety of options he'd never had before.

With so many new things to try, his time was less freely able to me.

I can't blame him for it, I'm sure I would have done the same in his spot.

It affected my mood a little, but I didn't hold it against him.

I seriously wish I could spend every moment of my life by his side, but he needed space and time to do his thing and that's what I gave him.

But I can never seem to control myself when something is bugging me. In some kind of pointless retaliation I closed myself off from him partially. I acted more distant and less concerned with him as he gave me fewer of his hours.

I suppose I was hoping it would make him scared, that he'd want to spend more time with me and put more effort into our relationship because of it.

Unfortunately it seemed to have the opposite effect.

The distance grew.

It wasn't too much later when he asked if we could be more open sexually, you know, if we could sleep with other people.

The question surprised me. We had talked about the kind of things we both used to get up to. Neither of us are strangers to the more open side of love, but for some reason I didn't expect him to ever want that kind of relationship for us.

I didn't want to disappoint him, and considering my past I thought it would be somewhat hypocritical to say no. But honestly it made me feel uncomfortable. I asked if we could make it only a temporary thing.

He agreed. He assured me that we're still a couple.

That cheered me up.

But it wasn't so easy.

Something else I noticed: he almost never tells me that he loves me. I wonder if that started recently or if I've only just begun to notice.

I think he does love me, or I hope he does, but he rarely says it.

Whenever he does speak the words there's always a tension to his voice, as if he wishes he could add some kind of disclaimer. I wonder if that tension was always there or if I'm seeing things that never were.

It eats at me, but I don't say a thing.

We started going clubbing together. It was fun at first, but seeing other guys touch him didn't feel right to me. Seeing him flirt with horny men and go home with them made me feel anxious.

I started getting high when we went out in attempt to lose my mind and enjoy the night. Cocaine, LSD, Molly. Half the people out clubbing are high anyway, I wasn't so out of the ordinary.

I started making it a competition. If he leaves with a guy, I'd fuck at least two. I'd make a threesome appear out of thin air. It's amazing what I can do when I put my mind to it.

He started complaining about my behavior. He said I should lay off the drugs. I realized I was making things worse.

I stopped going out with him. I stay home and he goes dancing or I visit an acquaintance or family member or waste my night in a bar.

Sometimes I just lie in bed, take a psychedelic and see where the night takes me.

I think that's what happened tonight. I have vague half remembered hallucinations and memories of how I got into this situation, but that's all.

My cock is buried in some cute fox's asshole, I'm in what I can only presume is his apartment, but I'm not currently fucking him, I'm on the phone with my father.

"And that's why my life is ten times better than yours has ever been," I seem to be saying.

I need to stop doing this. If I'm not careful, Ryan will see how much of a fuck up I am and leave me.

I need him, I really do. Even the idea that he might leave has fucked me to the point that I'm in this situation.

Or maybe I've always been this way. Maybe I've never changed.

The fox who's ass is warming my cock is on his forepaws and knees, classic doggy style, his neck craned back to see me. He looks a bit scared, a bit confused and a bit turned on. I feel sorry for the bastard.

"Okay Martin. Just stay out of the news and don't call me, then you can keep living your amazing life and there won't be any problems."

I'm not entirely in control of my own actions when I say: "That's right. I know you think the measure of success is counted in dollar bills, but do you want to know what I measure it in?"

He sighs audibly down the phone. In my mind's eye I can see him running a paw down his face.

"You're going to tell me anyway, so just get on with it."

"This is success." I put the phone to the fox's muzzle, he looks flustered beyond comprehension. When I drive my dick deep inside of him he squeals. I bring the phone back up to my ear. "Did you hear that?"

The line is dead.

I put the phone down.

Really, I should just apologize to the fox and leave.

Then again, I'm already in.

I grab the fox's hips with both paws and give him the ride of his life.

*

Ryan and I fought today.

I asked if we could go back to monogamy. He accused me of suppressing his sexual freedom.

He said he still sleeps with me, he still spends time with me, we're still a couple so what's the problem?

He asked if I love the time we spend together.

It means more to me than anything. I need him still. He keeps me sane.

I've been letting our relationship slide lately, I know, but it's because I feel like he's slipping away.

He says it's all in my head. The only thing that's pushing him away from me is the way I talk to him in conversations like this one.

I ask him why, if he loves me, he can't be happy having sex with me alone.

He laughs and says I have more sex with other people than he does.

It's true but I do it out of a base sense of blind, stupid spite.

For the first time, I admit it.

He wears a look I can't read. It scares me. I don't like being scared.

He says he needs to think about this.

I get defensive and angry.

I leave before I might say something stupid.

Yet somehow it's just as stupid to leave. What kind of message does that send?

Why is it so easy for me to manufacture closeness, but when it comes to real, important interactions with people that I care about I have absolutely no skills whatsoever?

Maybe I've lived too long inside my own characters. I think I'm better at playing a part than being myself.

I head to a bar and order a drink before allowing myself to think any more.

I sip on a strong liquor, I look around the room on autopilot, unsure really of what I'm doing or why I'm doing it.

There's a wolf here that I recognize. He's more than a decade older than me, I'd guess he's going on forty by now. He hasn't seen me yet.

I stare at him, wondering how the hell he ended up here. I'm sure he'd wonder the same about me.

I've never been one to avoid a difficult situation. In fact I enjoy confronting things head on. Perhaps Ryan excluded. Maybe I find the drama enjoyable or maybe it's just a distraction from all the mundane worries and concerns of everyday life.

He's sat at a small two-person table alone. I take my drink, walk over and sit down opposite him.

"Hi Zane," I say.

The gray-furred wolf's gaze shifts suddenly from his beer to my face. The sight of me causes him to flinch, then a mixture of confusion and annoyance seeps across his features.

"Mr Konroy."

"Don't call me Mr Konroy, that's my father's name. Call me Martin. Or Marty if you prefer." I flash him a wink. "Isn't it nice when you bump into an old friend in the middle of nowhere. How did you end up here anyway?"

"I'm just passing through." He is terse and suspicious. I cost him his job after all, however much he wanted to fuck me, I'm certainly not on his Christmas card list. "What brings you here?"

"I'm just trying out the usual sex and drugs lifestyle in a different state."

"So you're in the bar looking for a hookup?"

I smile and consider his question while I take a sip of my drink.

What exactly am I doing here?

Am I trying to get back at Ryan again?

What exactly has he done wrong?

He refused to feel satisfied with me, refused to love me as much as I love him, refused to accept my twisted way of dealing with it all. If I keep lashing out like this I'm going to bring an end to us, but what the hell else am I meant to do? Sit around wondering what he thinks and what he's doing?

I need to take some kind of action.

"What if I told you that I am?"

And what exactly am I going to achieve through this kind of action?

Nothing. I need to sort myself out.

From a distance I can see myself stuck in a self-destructive loop, but as I approach my own reality I find myself more and more powerless to stop it. When I feel far away from Ryan I act out - I return to my manipulative, hedonistic self - but by doing all this I push him away.

If I can't escape this cycle I'm going to rip my life apart, or rip somebody else's apart at the very least. There will be shattered remains left underfoot either way.

For a moment that fact is crystal clear to me.

I need a savior. I need an outside force to guide me to the light.

The problem is, the only outside force that has ever fucking helped me is Ryan. I have no idea how to even begin looking for another one. I suppose I could start the same search all over again, but the very idea of it seems so pointless to me now. I've already found Ryan, nobody else is going to be better.

"I haven't forgot that you got me fired." Zane says in a dissatisfied grunt.

My mind locks on to his words and returns to the present.

Despite my own logic and concerns, I can't help myself.

I become the character I need to be.

This is what I do for fun without Ryan here.

It's all I have.

"Is that what you think happened?"

"Well if you want to play dumb, how about I tell you what I think happened? In my version of events there's this sexy otter wearing revealing clothing and flirting with me while I drive him around in the family car. I make a pass or two at him but he never seems seriously interested. One day I get an explicit call, he wants to do all those sexy things we'd discussed. Next thing I know I'm being fired for inappropriate behavior on the job. You set me up in front of your father and had him take me down. That's heartless. Do you know they accused me of multiple cases of sexual harassment after that too?"

I don't flinch at his twisted recounting. I absorb it all word by word.

Of course, it's all bullshit.

He came on strong several times, he used any excuse to lay a paw on me. He said I flirted with him and wore revealing clothing? Okay, apparently wearing what I wanted to wear and being polite to the staff is a no-go zone. Apparently that's an invitation for sex.

I remember, he would intimate that he wanted to go on a date or have sex. I wouldn't encourage it per se, but at first I wanted to hear where he would go with it. I'd tell him to keep talking. He'd tell me his fantasies of riding me, the ways he'd do it, how big he was. Now he has the balls to say that 'we'd discussed' these things, no. I listened. We didn't 'discuss' them.

I suppose you could see it from another angle. You could say I lead him on by not stopping him divulging his fantasies, but I never said I was interested. I politely declined every time, yet still he kept flirting. He started bringing up the fantasies without any encouragement at all. I started telling him I don't need to hear them. Still he went on.

He was a creep and I wasn't the only guy he came on to. Frankly he deserved what I gave him. He disgusts me.

That's exactly what makes this all so exciting.

"That's the part you're missing. I meant everything I said on the phone that day. I had no idea my father was home, I thought he wasn't due back for another hour. In fact what happened is he realized I was in his office and waited outside, listening through the door. I had you on speaker so he heard the whole thing and shut it down." Zane looks at me with a deeply suspicious glare. "I felt awful after that. I got you fired and it was eating away at me. I never told you how sorry I was. I want to tell you now: I'm sorry."

He leans back in his chair and considers me. He's still skeptical but his expression has eased up a little.

"I want to believe you Martin-"

"Call me Marty."

"Okay, Marty, but it's hard to trust anyone from your family after that. I know you're pretty out-there, but you have to admit your story is a bit far fetched."

I shrug in an exaggerated fashion.

"I know. That's part of why I never got in touch." I frown and sigh. "You know, we never got another driver even half as hot as you."

The comment curls his muzzle into a smile.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. And, by the way, you've been aging very well."

He runs a paw through his hair reflexively and poorly attempts a bashful grin.

"You have too Marty. You look like a mature young gentleman now."

"That's all surface level. Really, I haven't mellowed out at all."

He laughs and we drink. He's more comfortable now.

"You know what Marty? It's good to see you."

"You always did like seeing me."

"So..."

"So, what?"

"So what do you want to do about it."

He has that same lustful glint in his eyes I remember from years past.

"Well, after inadvertently getting you fired I kind of feel like I owe you."

He pauses, finishes his drink, looks me up and down.

"Owe me what?"

I reach out and touch his arm. Our eyes find one another's.

"I could show you what I mean back at my place."

He bears the expression of somebody with an inappropriate erection.

Hook, line, sinker. I'm too damn good at this.

We're in my bed in under an hour.

Nothing is as good as fucking somebody you love, but if you're as twisted as me you know that having sex with somebody you hate is second best.

He fills me three times in three different ways, finally enacting the fantasies he likely thought lost to time and circumstance. He's big, strong and - to be honest - sexy in a primal, powerful sort of way.

I had no idea whether Ryan would be home or not when we got here, but I didn't care. He wasn't, so here we are in an uninterrupted post-sex reverie.

Don't think me blind. I realize exactly how fucked up this all is, I just don't care anymore. To be more accurate I never really cared. I'm Marty Konroy. I do who and what the fuck I want to do, if something can give me pleasure in this banal world it's probably worth doing.

I lick the remaining cum from Zane's spent cock as he lies sprawled on our bed. To him this is a dream come true. To me this is merely an interesting, momentary distraction.

After another half-hour I grow bored of the whole thing.

I maneuver the situation and send him on his way with a last minute blowjob and a softly spoken wish that he'll enjoy the rest of his life. Even inside his delusions he knows this was just a one-night fling. When he's gone I smoke a joint and lie in my own filth. Several patches of my fur are sticky and matted with half-dried cum, but I don't care.

Ryan comes home very late.

The evening catches up with me.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

"Seems we both had fun tonight," he says upon seeing me.

I don't know what to say. And then I do, and I never could have said anything else.

I tell him that I love him.

"You stormed out earlier."

I tell him that I need him.

Somewhere inside the machinations of his mind something snags.

He starts to cry.

"I can't fix you Marty."

He's wrong.

I tell him that I'll fix myself.

"I know when you're lying. We've been acting together long enough."

Instead of responding I ask him if he thinks we can work as a couple.

He thinks.

"I don't know."

I tell him that he gives my life meaning.

He stares at me for a long while, face wet.

"That's a lot of pressure to put on a person."

I ask him if he'll hug me.

He wraps me in his arms and I nestle my head against his neck, losing my insecurities in his warm embrace.

I tell him that without him I feel helpless.

"You have me."

For now.

I want to keep him forever.

I ask him how he thinks he'd get along in life if we weren't together.

He's silent in thought for a while, then asks:

"Would you still want me here?"

I tell him of course I would. I would put him up for as long as he needed.

I tell him I would help him in any way he needed to find a job and a home of his own.

"Then I'd get along okay," he says.

I wouldn't.

Without him I wouldn't do well at all.

I don't say that though, I stay silent.