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The next several minutes of my life are sort of hazy, as I was hopelessly drunk on emotion. I stood in his foyer marveling at the affluence like an open-mouthed fish, dangling from his words as he answered the questions I formulated in my half-aware state. I remember him saying that this wasn't really his place; that the manse belonged to his father, who lived across the Atlantic words words words. Alistair usually got to be house-sitter when Dad was away. The tangerine McLaren out front was a graduation present from the family. The Wellesbys were old English money, with stocks in words words and company majorities in more words and a "familial tradition of success" that his father was now working to bring overseas. Alistair was most proud of his Great-Uncle Tobias's accomplishments, who words words House of Lords words words not living just off the family name and squandering their fortune.

Okay, I'll admit, I was being incredibly rude. The gorgeous, charming, muscled object of my desire was sharing his family history with me, and all I was doing was gawking at the pretty baubles. I must have been cognizant enough to pass for socially acceptable; that, or I've forgotten any subtle requests for decorum. But seriously... How many of you know cars? Google a McLaren (like I did later) and see what comes up. Even if that ride was a hand-me-down, this family was so ridiculously wealthy that they could afford to think of MacLarens as hand-me-downs. That should give you an idea of the sort of extravagance we're talking here, even in the hall. It boggles the mind still as I'm telling you about it. At least I wasn't ogling his package anymore. That's what he wanted, right?

We walked past incredible artwork and under the glorious chandelier that sparkled in silent observation to the living room, where four of the other Barracudas were waiting: Harold, Ian, Victor, and Stephen. The group was spread out fairly evenly on Alistair's (well, his dad's) upholstery, imported beers in hand, talking about--what else?--team statistics and cleavage. As we rounded the corner and they came into view, I took a deep, apprehensive breath. Alistair gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder, and my nervous smile became a lot less forced. Maybe I should just act anxious all night, I thought: It wouldn't be much of a stretch, and Alistair would be good enough to keep petting me.

The gathering started as expected: Poorly.

"Hey, it's the homo!" Stephen called. "There's finally someone here who can appreciate this sausage-fest." Ian and Harold chuckled. Victor didn't even bother to look up from his cell phone.

I scowled a bit and kept my distance from him. "Hey, Stephen."

Now that it was brought up, none of them had arrived with girlfriends. That was a bit surprising....

"C'mon, guys. His name is Lex."

Victor sighed, put his phone away, and crossed the room to greet me. "Hi, Lex..." The tiger looked me in the eyes and smiled awkwardly as he shook my hand. "But you probably knew that."

"I did, but I appreciate you treating me like a person." I pointed the tail end of my sentence at Stephen, whose mocking face of a retort only served to make him look like a child.

"Ian? Harold?" Alistair had the tone of a passive-aggressive nanny. I looked up and into his eyes. He was so polite... and beautiful... and rich... and clever... and oh god he was beautiful....

They introduced themselves with less enthusiasm than Victor. Was Alistair's magnetism such that he could get straight boys to spend an evening with a gay guy they didn't like against their will? He cast a reproachful glare at Stephen. Stephen remained seated, and responded with a flailing gesture of indifference that made him look like a child and an uncivilized orangutan. Okay, so I was never going to make friends with this bitchy breeder seal. I could live with that.

"So, Alistair," I chimed as my gaze returned to him. "You said we were going to go for pizza?"

"Plans have changed, I'm afraid. Pizza's coming to us."

Stephen finally got off his ass. "What the fuck, man? What the fuck? You call us up and ask us to hang out with this fag all night so you can, what, act like you're so much better than us, and now we're stuck sitting in your living room with him, and--"

Alistair interrupted him with a heavy sigh. "Try and calm down, Stephen. My father's living room has every kind of electronic entertainment you could reasonably hope for, and his kitchen is stocked with better beer than any piss-water you'll get at some pizzeria. Also, I'm paying for the food that's coming because I was the one who changed the plan... and you don't have the decency to appreciate my generosity, or the fact that Lex just might have a brain and a personality. No one's threatening your sexuality."

Stephen slammed his beer down on the table.

"Fuck you, man! Fuck you! You three can blow your night with this cocksucker and this English fairy--or they can blow each other while you watch--but I'm outta here."

"C'mon, Steve," Ian pleaded.

"Nah, man, fuck it. I won't be talked down to by some pretty rich boy who thinks his accent's cute." Stephen made his way to the door, and would've shoved me out of the way had I not moved. I couldn't help but notice that he had still bothered to place his half-finished beer on the provided coaster.

"See you at practice, Steve," Alistair sang.

"Yeah, whatever..." He pulled the double doors open wide and paused. "I don't need this shit! I've got half a dozen bitches waiting for a chance to ride this dick!" And with that he slammed the doors behind him.

The house was briefly still.

"Well, guys," Alistair began, "remind me to never mix Steve and alcohol again. He's a terrible lightweight."

Ian and Harold exchanged a quick glance.

"Yeah, man. Steve's always going off about something, and beer just makes it worse."

"Sorry about him," added Harold. "You may not know this, Lex, but he's kind of jerk. He scares off most of the girls who talk to him."

Straight men, gay guys, girly girls, bull dykes... we all gossip. We just call it different names.

"And I don't mean to be rude to you. It's just... well, this whole thing is a bit... weird... and we're not sure what to think, or expect." Ian nodded in agreement.

"It's okay, mates," Alistair confirmed for us all. "I'm just glad I could get even a couple of you to agree to this." My knight in shining designer jeans.

The next part of the night went better. Alistair grabbed me a beer as well, and while we waited for the pizza to arrive, the five of us sat around the elegantly carved coffee table making chit-chat. They gradually got comfortable with my presence as I sank into the Italian leather cushions and mostly listened, figuring out what makes everyone tick.

Victor, who had been quiet this whole time (aside from the introduction), turned off his phone and slid it into his pocket. He pressed his paw pads together and looked at me curiously as he began asking me how much I understood about water polo. The attractive tiger, dressed a bit more urban than the rest of us, had chosen the ideal icebreaker. In my two years of Barracuda fandom, I'd picked up a lot about the rules, team positions, and offensive and defensive formations. As words such as "umbrella", "hole-D", and "wings" escaped my lips, the players just ate it up. Everyone seemed really impressed; they must've thought I was so focused on appraising their bodies that I tuned out my other senses for better focus. When they brought up memorable plays, I could usually help them relive it. They could recall final scores and MVP's better than I, unless of course the winning guy was Alistair. The others quickly figured this out and teased me about it a bit, but as one would tease a friend. Alistair, for his part, seemed embarrassed by all the attention I'd paid to his playing career. He even blushed a little, and his adorable-ness reached a new plateau. Anyway, Victor's phone never came out again that night, and as the conversation shifted, I noticed he was now completely at ease: leaned back in the sofa, his muscled chest rising as he breathed deeply, genuinely smiling. Were Alistair not in the room, he'd have been my pick for most desirable man. The shy tiger act worked for him, and watching him unfold in personality and body made it better.

I was less comfortable with Ian at first. He started to warm up to me after a bit, but he's a croc. I'd never known many reptiles, and I'd never been with one, although I'd heard all the stereotypes about how visceral their sex was. Occasionally they bit and rolled out of passion and came away with a chunk of flesh. But that was nonsense. He just stuck out in a room full of mammals, and his anatomy was sufficiently different that I couldn't help studying his ridges, claws, eyes, and profile. Maybe my problem was that we all carry genetic memories of our ancestors being crocodile food. At the same time, I wondered if Ian ever felt as out-of-place as I did. I told myself to work past this unease and give him a chance, the only queer and the only scaly. He was pretty funny, and I almost choked once so as not spray beer all over Alistair's living room in unchecked amusement. It also helped that he was wearing drawstring shorts. Just one tug and I could've gotten an idea of what I'd been missing.

Harold, by contrast, was about as standard as they come. He was of typical height and size for a muskrat, dressed in typical clothes for our socioeconomic class, talked about typical things, made typical references, and had typical opinions. He either tried with every fiber of his being to fit into the role society had cast him, or was one of the dullest people alive... I guess he was buffer than your average rat from all that water polo; he just had a lithe, lean frame, as opposed to his beefier buds. And he didn't have that lingering musty smell to him, so he took care of himself. That's a plus, too.

And finally... there was Alistair. You already know how perfect I thought he was; that I was a satellite hopelessly in orbit of him. He conducted the conversation as a meastro of multiloquence, gently steering towards things we had in common and away from touchy subjects. He laughed and smiled and kept things alive as only something as playful as an otter can. Every moment I spent in his company only made me more delirious, desirous, and (as I'm sure Eliza would say) delusional. I was thoroughly enthralled, and I was sitting next to him, surrounded by his friends, with less than a foot between us two. My mind conjured a fantasy of us sitting in a his-and-his throne room, his teammates the loyal knights who would protect our kingdom. The dragon that was my will was vanquished, and from its heart's blood grew a thorny rose of fealty. The thickest castle walls could not withstand the assault of my catapulting--

The doorbell rang. Pizza was here.

Alistair had gotten the good stuff: restaurant pies with rare cheeses and delicate meats, vinaigrettes, and reductions for sauce. And yet we tore into the boxes like it was standard cheap fare. He didn't seem to mind. We didn't even bother to get plates; we just ate over the boxes and downed our beers as everyone got cozy and our lives took on a warm haze, the five of us huddled closely around the coffee table, smiles on every face.