FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Art, in the modern digital studio, is made in layers. With music, it can be individual tracks and riffs, shadings and nuances, even sampling of other audio media. Graphic work can begin on paper and be scanned in, or begun on a tablet and continued right through to its conclusion, with its own shadings and nuances, experiments made in separate layers that can be removed without having to disturb the basics of the original picture. It will, no doubt, cause the modern generation to forget the use of the word "pentimento," which is its own sadness, but that's how the future runs wild and rough over the past. There will be something left, somewhere, that will survive the catastrophes made from repeating mistakes that we should have learned about long ago, but that didn't survive the editing process.

Perhaps it's because I'm older than most around me (I'm 52 this fall -- damned ancient, so far as much of this modern world is concerned), but I still work with pencils. A lot of my work is in charcoals, and while other pictures are done in full color, charcoal pencils are still my primary medium. Something about the way it translates from my mind to the grain of the paper, the way the teeth of the grain brings out the intensities of the pencil, the sense of the art flowing through my forepaw and the wood-wrapped stick held carefully within it, like a conduit from the ephemeral muse into something tangible. I suppose that some writers still prefer a typewriter, or even writing by paw into a notebook. Some composers out there record their own live performances; Flare Starfire allows his own muses to guide his forepaws over the keys, recording without any preparation or prior composition, just the free flow of inspiration directly into music that gleams like glass formed by lightning striking desert sand, and the world is far richer for it. He's younger than I am, so perhaps it's not age; it's just how each artist wants to bring about his work.

When he can, of course.

I'm considered unusual, as lions go. Most of us, whether descended from royalty or not, are generally kings of their own domains, even if it's one room in a boarding house. Possessions are fiercely guarded, territory exclusively maintained, and doors remain sensibly shut. Mind you, I do keep my bedroom door closed when I sleep, to help cut down on the noise from the rest of the house. (It's also a courtesy to others; my occasional snoring has been described as sounding like fighter jets doing loops directly above the house.) However, the door to my workspace is usually open, which means that anyone can pad his way in, flop down upon my napping couch, and grunt out a pleasant greeting like, "They're at it again."

Smiling, I set down my Sepia Dark Koh-I-Noor charcoal pencil along with the Carson XL heavyweight drawing pad, then turned to the handsome young Husky who looked singularly put-out at the moment. "I love and adore you, Mason, but I'm going to need some specifics. Who are at what, again, and what about it is bothering you?"

His lovely clear-blue eyes looked at me with a stare of such baleful sarcasm that I wondered for a moment if he were to forego his usually benign nature just long enough to bite one of my legs. "C'mon, Val, you know who I'm talking about. Rosco and Jarrett are the only two multiple offenders in the household. It's like they can't break free of species stereotyping."

"The uncontrolled coyote and the ever-ready rabbit?" I had to chuckle. "I suppose that's true. Stereotypes happen because they contain at least one grain of truth."

"It's not like they never see each other. They share a room."

"But not a schedule. Rosco's hours got shifted again. They've had a lot of mismatched time lately, and they're a very tactile pair."

"That's the polite term for what they are," grumped the Husky.

I smiled again and considered my young housemate -- one of nine currently in residence. Mason came to Shrewsbury House about three years ago, a bright, somewhat shy pup of 28 difficult years who came to town to teach drafting at the local community college. He deserved better than that, but it was a decent enough job, and one that brought him into my unusual and extended family. A lean pup to start with, three years of independence, emotional support, and the use of the communal gym equipment in the basement had given him the opportunity to build himself up in all the important ways. That is the purpose of Shrewsbury, after all. Mason had much to be proud of, and I along with him.

"What, exactly, is happening?" I asked him.

He told me, bluntly at first, then with an unusual detail added. I found myself trying to visualize it. I asked for more specifics, and he provided them. My visualization wasn't aided by this further information.

"I'm not entirely sure, but I think that's anatomically impossible."

"The proof is downstairs."

That got my attention. "They're not in the upstairs den?"

"You probably would have heard them, if they were." Mason shook his head, his handsome features dimmed by his smug expression. He wasn't one to gloat, ordinarily. I made the unfair assumption that he hadn't been particularly active himself lately, chastised myself appropriately, then realized that it was true of myself. Thus doubly self-chastised, I rose from my chair. "All right," I said. "Let's go have a look."

The Husky rose from his place a little too enthusiastically, and I put a restraining forepaw to his shoulder.

"If you'll observe closely, Mason, you'll see that I am wearing neither a judge's robes nor an executioner's hood. We're going downstairs to talk, like adults. If you feel that you don't qualify, please stay up here."

That earned me a huff first, then a very slightly reluctant nod. Thus prepared, we headed toward the scene of the alleged crime.

I used the term "boarding house" earlier, and that's a wholly unfair description of Shrewsbury House. The house began its life as some rich fur's folly, with three huge floors and a finished basement of impressive size. I can't imagine what one family -- even if it were an enormous, extended family -- would do with all of this space. However, I was glad when a series of happy accidents put me into the role of "house sire" and general overseer of the place. The current owner (a wealthy fellow in his own right) envisioned the space as a safe haven for the unusual, artistically-inclined males who would benefit from the camaraderie and support of fellow creatures of a similar heart and mind. I suppressed the belief that our dragon benefactor used magic in his selection process, but he did seem to find exactly the right guys to fit into the household at any given time. I simply saluted his good judgment and thanked my good fortune.

My workroom is one of several on this second level of the house, an area we jokingly call the "mezzanine," since there aren't bedrooms on this floor. Like the others, it opens onto the "upstairs den" that I had mentioned a moment ago. The big-screen video system is up here, along with all of its attendant equipment, game systems, speakers, and huge quantities of et cetera. One of the rooms along its sides is a library of discs, as well as housing the equipment for streaming services and a computer that holds a plethora of MP4s (none of them unlawful rips of available films and shows, of course). In the middle is the huge space of sofas, pillows, and floor pads, with a comfortable variety of throws and blankets set about the place in a happy disarray of recent usage. This was the area where furpiles happened, since this and the upper floor were clothing-optional. The essential point of the furpile was sensuality without sexuality; it was also all but inevitable, given the various residents of Shrewsbury House, that the occasional bits of naughty would occur. House rules stated that nothing was considered shameful about sexuality. House rules also stated that each member had the right to request that such overt displays be removed to spaces behind closed doors. Not all of us are voyeurs, and not all of us are invited to join in, more's the pity.

Hey, I said I was considered "old," but I'm a far cry from "decrepit," or worse, "stodgy."

The main staircase to the ground floor has two twists to it, the better to keep more easily shocked guests from sticking muzzles where they don't belong. None of us is particularly shy, but there's such a thing as decorum. Trusted guests are welcome to visit, even to join in the furpiles, but they too have to abide by the rules. Guests of our residents may also be escorted to private rooms at the top of the house by way of the back stairs, particularly if they're shy. Both sets of stairs are well-maintained and carpeted, and thus no squeak of floorboards or click of wayward claws betrayed our silent padding down them. I'd no plans to roar out some variation on "Ah HAH!" or "Put your paws up and step away from the bunny!" I'll admit to the desire to catch them in flagrante, if only to see for myself how the position that Mason described could have been achieved. I wouldn't be so crude as to take photos. Then again, I have a very good memory, and I'm a pretty good artist...

Perhaps sadly, we were not presented with that exceptional example of contortion that Mason had told me about. What I did see was a breathless pair of lovers cuddled together, properly, in what was clearly the afterglow of an intense and athletic expression of sexuality that one could probably have sold tickets to, if one were so inclined. Much of their clothing had been removed, particularly over the strategically necessary areas, and there was every indication that each had achieved his objective with great efficiency and powerful result. Wherever that result had (you should pardon the expression) ended up, it had apparently stayed there, as there seemed to be no residuary evidence on fur, clothing, or upholstery. I wasn't entirely sure if I were relieved or disappointed.

Their brains were no doubt still benumbed by raging endorphins, or they would likely have heard our approach across the large front foyer and into the living room where we would entertain the majority of our guests (although not in this fashion). I confess to a touch of envy; I remember when sex could be this happily aerobic, but it had been awhile. I set aside such dreaming and, having eliminated other forms of attracting their attention, I cleared my throat softly and tried to keep my face as neutral as possible, perhaps to counteract Mason's scowl.

Two pairs of eyes snapped open, but there was no scrambling for clothes or cover. As I may have mentioned, none of us in Shrewsbury House is overly shy. Any embarrassment wasn't due to having been caught at what they were doing so much as where.

"We know, Val," Rosco said for both of them. The gallant coyote dared a quick kiss to his lover's cheek before the rabbit had a chance to react fully. "How much trouble are we in?"

"Trying to decide if it was worth it?" I smiled softly.

"Absolutely worth it," the coyote grinned.

"Even if it meant expulsion?"

I hadn't meant to put quite that much terror into them. When I realized that even Mason was shocked, I knew I'd gone too far. I put up my forepaws in a placating gesture.

"That's not on the table," I said softly. "It's not even in the same room. I'd intended to make you take it seriously, not to hurt you. Let's start with your getting dressed. We are downstairs, after all."

Rosco and Jarrett are both in their early twenties, but they looked now more like younger high-schoolers having been found out in the locker room by the principal. I felt even worse about my outburst, especially after having chastised Mason, not five minutes ago, for being bloodthirsty. It didn't help that I was still standing; being close to two full meters in height, it was intimidating to those more than 20cm shorter. I moved to take a seat on one of the couches, with Mason in tow, as our two lovers finished donning their clothing.

"First of all, I need to apologize, properly, for frightening you just now. I was wrong, and I ask your forgiveness."

"Thank you, Val," Jarrett said softly. He managed a smile, in spite of his transgression and my ill manners.

I nodded gently. "We have some things in our favor here. First, the sheers are drawn over the bay windows. The house is a bit back from the road, so it's not likely that you've attracted the attention of passers-by. Also, no one walked in one you before this."

"We thought we had the house to ourselves," Rosco tried.

Casting as benevolent an eye upon him as I could, I observed softly, "Rosco, there are ten of us living here, and how often am I not in the house? I work here as well as live here."

"You go out sometimes, and you don't come down through the living room often. You use the back stairs to get to the kitchen."

"I might have indulged in a whim."

"No one else came in."

"They might have. Perhaps they would bring guests."

"Yeah, but--"

Jarrett pressed an index finger to the coyote's lips, his smile growing warmer. "We're busted, hon. It's not about excuses, at this point." He turned to look at me, adding, "It was my fault. We couldn't wait."

"Blame the bunny for a high libido?" I chuckled softly and (I hoped) kindly. "I've been young, dear ones, and I remember that sensation of having been denied for too long. There's also that amazing sensation of lightning striking, when sudden, sharp, and sweet combine into an amazing treat for the senses. I understand it. I shouldn't admit it, but I envy it! Could there have been any options for you to have gotten a little further into the house instead of out here in the front room? Even the dining room is less exposed to the rest of the world."

"The cushions are better in here."

When it comes to delivering a smack, rabbits are lightning-swift, and the coyote's arm was likely to feel the sting from that one for quite a while.

"Let's not resort to violence," I chuckled. "Why don't we go to the upstairs den and talk further? If nothing else, I'd like to know--"

No one was allowed to find out what it was I'd like to know as the front door annunciator interrupted us all with four notes of a proper Westminster chime.

"Expecting anyone?" Mason asked those present, and none of us was.

"Unexpected company," I observed, rising from the sofa. "Another good reason not to indulge on the lower floor."

Making sure that all of us were sufficiently clothed to receive visitors, I padded to the front door and opened it with a reasonable facsimile of a smile on my face. I held onto this expression, as the expression on the face of the sow in front of me gave new meaning to the saying, "If Mama Bear ain't happy, ain't nobody happy." A decade or so younger than myself, her headfur in a painfully tight bun, the female grizzly stared accusingly at me, adding ammunition to a descriptor of "frowzy" that went with her unflattering clothing. At her side, her cub of perhaps ten years looked perplexed more than anything else, and with good reason. He was dressed in an outfit that he clearly didn't want to be wearing, proclaiming himself to be part of the pre-adolescent subset of a young males' collective that advocated gaining badges for completing various tasks that few yowens had any genuine desire to do in the first place. He was also carrying, by its handle, a highly-decorated box declaring itself to contain various chocolate bars of questionable quality and no doubt outrageous price.

"Good afternoon," I ventured in what I hoped was a civilized tone of voice. "What may I do for you?"

"You should be ashamed of yourself."

I was about to respond that such an activity was not on my agenda for the day when the sow continued.

"Putting on such a lewd display where innocent cubs are forced to bear witness to them!"

Several things about her phrasing told me more about her than did the words of her complaint. My approach was made clear to me. "Perhaps you could be more clear, madam?"

She tried the hauteur card. "Don't you 'madam' me. How dare you! You know perfectly well what I'm talking about!"

I countered with mere logic, and a little vocabulary to back it up. "I only know that something appears to have affronted you, and you have decided that I am somehow a party to it."

"My cub saw... males doing unspeakable things!"

Nodding shortly, I observed. "Indeed, such things have yet to be spoken of. What, exactly, has happened?"

The sow threatened to explode, but she regained herself, set her jaw, and plunged ahead. "My cub is on his official rounds to sell chocolate bars, raising money for his Junior Lookouts troop. When he got to your house, he bore witness to... to..." Her sputtering threatened to derail her comments entirely, but she rallied enough to keep going. "...things that males should not do together, much less force others to watch!"

"He was here to sell chocolate bars," I said, giving the appearance that I was following the conversation. I looked at the cub, without rancor. "Why didn't you ring the bell?"

"Did," he said succinctly. "No answer."

"Did you think we might not wish to be disturbed?"

"Gotta sell the candy."

A finger tried to find the cub's nose, and the sow slapped it away. This, I determined, was a long-established reflex action on both their parts.

"I see." I did my best to keep my tail still. "And what do you do when no one answers the door?"

"Knew you were home."

"Ah, persistence. Usually an admirable trait. And how did you know we were home?"

"Looked in the window."

"And you saw...?"

"PERVERSION!" the sow shouted loudly enough to be heard by anyone wishing to eavesdrop discreetly within a range of perhaps half a kilometer.

"Well." I put on my most serious expression. "How shall we resolve this?"

Mama Bear looked at me with her nastiest scowl. "Maybe we should call the police!"

"I hope that's not necessary. I'd hate to see your cub arrested."

The scowl changed most satisfactorily to shock. "How dare you!"

"Quite easily, under the circumstances. First of all, your cub is a liar. Apart from the ring that you made, the annunciator hasn't sounded all afternoon."

"Says you!"

I fought the temptation to laugh at the ridiculous expression, turning it instead to my advantage. "Says me and three others in the house. Further, your cub said himself that he looked into our windows. That opens him to charges of invasion of privacy, voyeurism, and perhaps even trying to see if we had things worth stealing. Quite a record, for a juvenile."

"My cub said no such thing!"

"He did indeed."

"Your word against mine!"

I opened to door a little wider, to allow her to see Mason, Rosco, and Jarrett, all piled into a huddle just behind my (if I may say so) imposing form. "Four to one, by my count. Now..." I pulled my cell phone from my shirt pocket. "...shall I dial?"

The protestations from Mama Bear couldn't quite get past her spluttering, inarticulate, blathering attempts to invoke anything from "common decency" to God to misquoted biblical invocation against us and our household as she hauled the bewildered cub down the long walk to the curb. I had the impression that she was well aware of how far the front windows were from the front door, and that the little bear would have had to be "looking" quite actively in order to see our amorous duo "accidentally." I closed the door before taking a deep breath and turning to face my housemates.

As expected, Rosco cheered and Jarrett was thanking me profusely. They grew quiet as they saw the more somber look on my face. Exhaling slowly, I used some of the breath to say, "Let's take this up to the mezzanine, shall we?"

My intuition proved correct. The sow's loudest protestation had roused another member of the household. Taz had padded into the upstairs den by way of the back stairs, probably having come from his room. He became a resident of Shrewsbury House not long after he'd won a prestigious art scholarship at the university. At 1.5m, he was the shortest of our residents, although the young hyena was huge in heart and spirit. His amethyst fur, shot through with golden highlights, surprised everyone who met him, yet all were at ease within moments of being with him; his deep sky blue eyes calmed as much as they entranced. A little bit shy, even having been here for six months, he generally wore shorts around the house until such time as someone called for a furpile. He still considered himself shy, even when furclad, but he was also blissfully tactile, and we all appreciated his presence.

"I heard a commotion," he said quietly.

"Can't say I'm surprised." I smiled at him. "Anyone else upstairs?"

"I don't think so."

"No worries. C'mon, let's all sit down."

The five of us spread out a bit, rather than gathering in the more usual cuddle. I had the sense that Rosco had wanted to take advantage of the clothing optional rule, making a move to take off his shirt, but Jarrett managed to keep him from pursuing it. I took a few moments to give Taz a discreet retelling of recent events (leaving out Mason's vivid descriptions of in flagrante, no matter how curious I was to figure out if the rabbit really was that flexible). The hyena gave out with a giggle when he heard how I had managed to deflect the sow's verbal abuse, and he confirmed that the cry of PERVERSION had been what had attracted his attention.

"I wanted to make sure that I wasn't missing out on something interesting," he quipped.

There was no option but to smile. "I'm just glad that she was so easily intimidated. There's no way we could have pressed charges."

All of them looked surprised. It was Jarrett who asked, "The cub looked directly into our windows; isn't that illegal?"

"At some level, probably," I admitted. "I'm not a lawyer. What little I know comes from cop shows and such. Peeking into the windows isn't exactly legal, I'm sure, but there's a whole bunch of mess regarding intent, not to mention how easy we make it for someone to see us doing gods-know-what. It is a kind of two-sided problem. No one is supposed to peek in, but also, we're not supposed to be doing anything that might shock passers-by. It's why we have a rule about wearing clothes in the ground floor rooms. Up here, it's more difficult for anyone to see in, unless we're actively doing the naughty directly in front of curtainless windows."

"We have sheers on the downstairs window," Mason reasoned. "Expectation of privacy?"

I made a teeter-totter movement with my forepaw. "Debatable. That's the whole point, my dear lads: It might go one way or the other. Lawyers are expensive, long-winded, and easily excited by making arguments that will pad their billable hours. Mind you, when they're necessary, they're indispensable. Let's not make them necessary."

"All this because we wanted to..." Rosco grumped, stopping himself before the critical verb.

"We were lucky," Jarrett allowed, nodding in self-acknowledgement. "We really didn't think about it involving anyone from outside."

"What about someone inside?" Mason's voice was a bit spiky with indignation.

The coyote grinned at the Husky. "We've been known to share."

Rabbit-slapped again. I noted that it was the other arm this time, which was lucky for the canine. He vocalized his annoyance, which gave the rest of us a certain satisfaction. I could see Taz trying not to giggle.

"The rules exist for a reason," I intoned sagely. "That's the point. We've had a particularly important reminder regarding the clothing-on-the-ground-floor rule. I think it's important that we also remember another house rule: Sexuality is not shameful. We're allowed to request that it be taken behind closed doors, but there's no shaming allowed." I looked at the lovers, smiling softly. "It ain't what ya done, it's where ya done it."

"So we can do it again?" Rosco grinned at me.

"Not downstairs!" Mason answered for me.

"The rest is up to your stamina," I grinned. "Oh, and you're still subject to the rule of being asked to take it elsewhere. There's one other thing that you should take into account."

"What's that?" Jarrett wanted to know.

"You've got a few artists in this room who might capture your activities in drawings."

"My figure sketching is getting better," Taz offered with a giggle.

"You probably move too fast for me to capture properly," I demurred.

Mason rose from his place on the sofa and surveyed the rest of us. "I've got student drafts to grade. Besides, I've already seen it."

"I think we'd best be in our room," Jarret smiled. As he rose, he helped to guide his wounded lover toward the back stairs. Looking over his shoulder at Taz, he grinned more broadly and asked, "Got your sketchpad?"

The handsome hyena gulped once and followed them. I wasn't at all sure that he'd be doing any drawing until much later. I always thought it a good sign that the lads were friendly, healthy, and enthusiastic.

I looked over to Mason, who lingered nearer to the front stairs, shaking his head.

"Was justice not done?" I asked him.

"I suppose so," he allowed.

Considering for a moment, I wondered aloud, "Could you describe to me, once more, just what they were doing?"

The Husky smiled at me. "Going to do some sketching?"

"It might be important to have a pictorial record, and since we didn't get a photo..."

Mason followed me into my workroom, warming to the idea considerably. So did I, for that matter, but I still thought it anatomically impossible. At the least, I was reasonably certain that I couldn't bend that way. Perhaps Mason could...