The man I’ve met on a furry dating site adjusts the Velcro on the crotch of his fur suit. I’m unzipping my pants when it really sets in I’m about to have sex. He’s dressed in what looks like a Mickey Mouse costume except softer, like one of those giant stuffed animals won at a carnival. I think a gazelle, but the fur is purple, so he could be a Kirin or one of those unicorns with psychic powers.
“I’m going to do your back first,” he says and has me lay on the massage table. He removes his paws or hooves and struggles to pour oil onto his human hands without getting any on his suit. His studio apartment is freezing and all I can think about is draping his animal body over me. The suit even has the smell of fur, a mixture of BO and steamed rice.
For my part, I’m dressed in a fluffy tail that represents a tiger, a t-shirt with a tiger face on the front, and my baby-blue boxer briefs, which have nothing to do with tigers. If I knew when I started exploring the furry scene that I’d be here two hours later, I would’ve at least bought white mittens beforehand. All I had in the apartment was one tarnished gardening glove under the sink, and when I put it on, I looked like a Disney Afternoon cartoon parody of Thriller era Michael Jackson.
“Remove your shirt. I won’t bite.” I don’t have a response that involves an animal-based pun, but I’m trying. I slip out of my shirt, and the hair on my neck rises when the oil touches my back.
“How’s that feel, Toby?” he says in a deep voice, obviously not his voice, his fursona’s voice. Toby is my fursona name. Toby the tiger – I thought that was pretty clever. He rubs the back of my shoulders, the oil heating with friction from the opposable thumbs he shouldn’t have.
“It feels puurrrrfffect.”
As he makes his way over my shoulder blades, I think about how I ended up in half a furry costume whispering animal noises to a stranger. The short answer is that I have begun my second act.
“A little harder. I want to feel some pain.”
My second act began when the partner of my life, the man I graduated college with, the man I got my first real apartment with — the one with the dishwasher and laundry — left me for another man.
“Gggrrreat.”
My second act began when the man who taught me how good a tongue feels between my toes, the man who stayed overnight on our first date telling me “I’ve been waiting for you all my life”— appeared at the bathroom doorway ten years later and said instead, “I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
“Reveal your inner tiger, Toby.”
My second act began when the love of my life left just one of his work shirts when he moved out, and I wear it, even though it’s two sizes too big and has a coffee stain on the cuff. It smells like him, not the cologne he wears, but the thin smell of his skin, of his life – faint, but enough.
For a moment I think I’ve chosen wisely by trying out this furry thing. That my desires to be with someone decked out in soft fur, something warmer than my lonely body, is the perfect remedy, the safe haven where only pleasure is allowed. For a moment, there’s total relaxation, and my jaw slackens, a bit of drool slips out, and a soft grunt escapes my lips. I’ve finally found something I can enjoy again.
At least until he starts punching my spine. I wonder if I’m a bad playmate. I wonder if being new is making me selfish and only concerned about my own orgasm. So, I moan out his name. “Ooohhhh.” But I don’t even know his name, so I stop moaning. He moves to my side and lights four candles.
My ex never forgot my birthday. He planned it months in advance, and took the day off to clean the apartment and get me little gifts – a chocolate truffle, movie tickets, some sexy underwear — like the twelve days of Christmas. On my last birthday, my ex emailed me. I was so surprised I couldn’t open it until lunch. It didn’t say happy birthday or, as I’d hoped, I miss you. Instead, he asked me to repay the security deposit.
“You need to get out of your headspace.” My furmate says.
The kneading is intense now; the weight of an iron as it smooths a bed sheet. He hits something, like a bruise, or a pimple, or cancer. I imagine him continuing to rub this spot. He’ll say “this is the center of all your pain.” I’ll think back to when I returned to an empty apartment with keys on the table, a cup flipped in the sink, a single stray button. I’ll say “yes” to my furmate and my eyes to well with tears. He’ll press down hard on the tumor, I’ll beg him to press down, until there’s a sharp pop and we share a long sensual howl.
But it doesn’t happen. He passes over it and then moves on to my ass. He lowers my underwear and slaps my rump. And then he pauses. I feel his breath on my ear and he whispers, “Lift up your tail for me. Let yourself go.”
And I really do try. I growl and grind my thighs against his polyester-covered chest, hoping to create a static charge that flashes through us both, settings off wild orgasmic ecstasy. He thrusts back with everything he has, but the shock never comes. My arms give out from under me and my growl breaks into a whimper.
