Camo's Tail ~ Chapter 2
#2 of Long Live Love Life
They always run out of fucking ketchup.
No, I'm being serious. Since my move here to Dayton, the last lunch grouping, C, never gets the easy pump-and-dump-on-tray ketchup. It's the annoying repitition of taring open thousands of little portable ketchup packets into your tray and having to wipe the dirt and grime of the french fries and salt off that adds to the frustration. Another reason why I should just starve off this part of the story.
Anyways...where was I? Oh right, the hottie ram.
I think Spencer was born an Aries. If it's true, then it's just as ironic, if not hot, to think about. Yes, I enthusiastically jerk off to the thought of that perticular jock. Everyone has their own kryptonite. Mine just happens to be extremely hunky, ok?
So two days passed, and it finally became Friday. My parents were out of town for seporate meetings and left a wad of fifty in cash for grociery money. Or in my simplistic taste, pizza and a movie rental. Being my first week, though, I tended to let it slide. Sure, a few others asked if I'd wanted to join up at the local arcade, but I humbly declined, deciding it best to just knock off the attempts at trying to become a popular while knowing I'm not.
Eventually boredom did strike my fancy. By about Saturday afternoon, I'd hit solosville; population my left paw and a bottle of french vanilla body lotion. The stains of my pizza greese left that feeling that I had kept some sort of masculinity behind the whole 'I look so darn fuckable' eyes and face.
While googling google (don't ask why or how that phenominon happened), I eventually clicked my way back to Myspace and stopped long enough to clean up my paw to type my friends back home. Alot of information was left out.
This is the part where I'm supossed to insert the harsh truth about how bad it sucks to move, and never be able to hang with your friends. But I'd rather not get too close to my fictional base of viewers right now. After all, I don't want to ruin your keyboards with my tear-jerking heartbreaker of a novel right now.
On Myspace, I found a few people through the town of Dayton and had come across Spencer once again. It was about the same time my man-period decided to mix in with the emotions of having to take a dump and wanting to stalk the hottie on my screen.
His information continued to fill into that void where you just remember things. It's located somewhere between mathmatics and biology class I bet.
He was born three months before me, making him an older fur. That just adds to the 'Things I'd Bone Him For' checklist. On that same list included his hobbies, favorite music, religion and various other little insertables I like to see on a webscreen.
Then I became a pervert.
His photos were in the hundreds, and seporated in a few files. The first one had family times during holidays and birthday pics. Second batch had random silly stuff, and the third was my personal favorite. He posed in his uniform and kept only one secretly sexy one online. It included him teasing the photographer with only his shoulder guards and jockstrap, a banana out of the groin censoring that delicious image.
Goddamnit. Now I'm hungry again.
The one thing that made me a bit happier then the slow realization that I was alone in depression was that his sexuality wasn't clear-up straight. It made me think that he was either A) Screwing with his fellow sport-happy furs or B) Really, really fag-a-delic and on the menu.
What made him avalible to this montage of ferret thoughts of partnering up was a blog stating his singleness for the past three years.
That was the part of me that felt horrible. As much as I taunt the world and its shortcommings of population errors and single-minded fools, it stood the fact everyone needed to have someone. If they didn't, eventually they'd go mad and off themself like a bad sitcom. I actually felt like it could be on my responcibility to make him happy. Not just use him for delicious, hourly sex games but actually care for him. Some beating, if not throbbingly hot, part of me wanted to make him at least content in understanding my angle of the world. The only thing that snapped me out of this daydream was the raunchy smell of my pitfur that got me going, hard and quickly.
Water gushed out of the bathtub as I thought to myself how the ram could be happy. Holding each other tightly in our arms, seporating from the world and listening only to each other. Mute the busy hustle-n-bustle and relax knowing we were safe. My stages became a meditative euphoria, the suds clinged to my white fur as heat rushed up from the toes to my shoulders. The blue-green gaze I see every morning waded away and changed to his own eyes staring back to mine.
And so I got a hardon. Yes, I had to ruin the mood, it started to sound too romantic. We're not at that part of it yet.
At this point, I began to slowly realize that I fell for one of my natural enemy types, a jock, and that that jock could very well become the best thing I've ever loved or cared to value in life.