The New Grind - Part One
#1 of The New Grind
All characters mentioned herein are (c) by me.
THE NEW GRIND Part One
By Stormcatcher
Sure is funny how we can all look at the same thing in different ways, ain't it?
I mean, really, when you think about it....isn't life and how we manage it mostly a series of perceptions? Sure, a lot of times we're influenced in what other folks want us to think, but thank goodness, there's always the option of making up our own minds. You can't learn and grow as an individual without that. And even if you make the wrong decision and it fucks something up, you can choose to learn from that experience so you won't make the same mistake again. That pattern generally works for everyone but the divorce lawyers, I suppose.
Okay, alright, I hear you... "Shut up, Don, and plug your muzzle with another beer."
Glad to. But you gotta admit, that's some pretty deep thinking for a middle-aged factory workin' ball of stripes like me.
Oh, and yeah, that's my name. Officially on the birth certificate, it's "Donovan Connell", and since that's a hell of a lot more officious and fancy-schmancy-sounding than I could ever hope to be, just "Don" will do fine. And whoa, Katie, bar the door, doesn't that just fill you with a sense of primeval bloodlust and feral carnal instinct worthy of a predator? Here comes "Don of the Serengeti", scoping the horizon for signs of movement so that he might stalk and kill his prey and provide himself with sustenance to keep him alive until his next feed. "Don", the mighty demon tiger-beast of the Wasabi Plains, shall fill the very marrow of your soul with fear as he...
Well, you'll find out, once he finds his contact lens. Dammit, where'd that little fucker pop out at? I knew I shoulda opted for that Lasik surgery thing...
And man, those zebras run fast, don't they? I think for tonight, "Don" the mighty is gonna let his fingerclaws scope out a pizza parlor number and have his "prey" conveniently delivered in the company of grated cheese, vegetable toppings, and a six pack of soda.
For all you Sherlocks out there, you might have noticed that I don't take myself too seriously. This is a good thing. It's a little trend that I'd love to see as mandatory for future generations.
I live in a mid-sized city called Brevard, and it's mostly an industrial town-although we do have two honest-to-goodness colleges that somehow managed to attract a big enough student ratio to keep them from going under, despite the much bigger state campus about two hours away. I've lived here for a pretty good chunk of my life, and it's hard for me to imagine living anywhere else-most of the rest of my family is scattered over the tri-state area, which is just fine by me, and if I get to hankering for some bigger-city adventure, the state capitol city is only about forty-five minutes away. I live in a modest one bedroom apartment that's close enough to the food stores and shopping places I need to walk to them, and my job as a mid-shift manager at a local packing and bottling plant is only ten blissful minutes away, which in combination with my age saves me a bundle on car insurance. And it's probably good that I don't have to drive too much, because I do love my beer. I hold my alcohol well, mind you-I've never gotten a D.U.I., and I don't plan to-but nothing tells me that the weekend's underway quite like grabbing a cold one from the fridge and plunking my ass onto the couch to watch a good (or even a bad low-budget) movie.
There's also the matter of my little addiction, and while it is related to alcohol, it isn't alcoholism. And I'm quite proud to say that while it may not always be the most sophisticated 'burg on the planet, I've compared the drinking establishments of my hometown with those at the capitol city, and I feel that the ones in Brevard win handpaws down, no question.
Oh, and that's my addiction-hanging out in bars. Most any kind of bar will do, but when it's all said and done, I think I like dive bars the best. They're the ones with the most character and the most interesting clientele. It's a fairly cheap habit, and one I indulge myself in often-but oddly enough, I'm not a highly social guy. I'm a bit on the shy side, and I don't look particularly spectacular-I've got a bit of a paunch in my gut thanks to the beer, but thanks to the factory work and my occasional workouts at the local gym, I've got the upper body muscle and stockiness to offset the belly. Wardrobe-wise, I usually stick to solid-colored T-shirts, flannel, jeans, and workboots, so not a chance of seeing me on the catwalk for a fashion show in Paris. I've been told I have an attractive face for an upper thirty-something guy, and a wonderful sense of humor, so given that I've heard this from a handful of folks and only had to buy one of them a drink, I guess I'll take their word for it.
But I don't really go to the bars to meet anyone in particular. I just like to watch and listen to folks. I have always said, and I will argue this with literary and philosophical minds far more developed than my own blue-collar brain, that some of the most interesting stories to be heard are the ones you glean from the cigarette-smoke-infested shadowy realms of a good dive bar. It's gotta be one that isn't too upscale, with some blistering and cracking paint on the sides of the bar counter and a sparse menu with crappy, overpriced food. Might be decently-lit, but usually isn't, might or might not have a few pool tables and electronic slot machines...and the presence of a "Karaoke Night" should not discount the bar automatically from the pub crawler's discretions. No matter how painful the giggly sorority girls or pudgy housewives or red-cheeked, big-assed salesmen may sound on the mike, you're not gonna get me to believe that you aren't having fun listening to them try to belt out "Delta Dawn", "Boot Scoot Boogie", or any Elvis song after they've had a few. You'll have had a few by then, too, just to make their caterwauling more bearable, and before you know it...you'll either find yourself admitting that some of the singers are pretty damn good, or you'll be too blitzed yourself to care (probably the latter).
In fact, I really have to give credit to those Karaoke nights, because I wouldn't have met my best galpal and greatest drinking buddy in the world without 'em. But I'll tell you more about her later. I think first I better fill you in a little bit on my ex. For a near-stereotype, I think you'll agree that he was quite the character.
What's that, you say? 'He'? Yeah, I said 'he'.
Ahh. I knew I was leaving something out! Heh. The memory starts going to swiss cheese on you when you get to be my age. I'm kinda into other guys. Yes, Virginia, that's right, we DO exist outside the boundaries of metropolitan cities. And while I can fully understand why some gay males my age may decide to blow their dough on a flashy, kicky little convertible and a good rug to cover any tophair and fur receding pattern problems, I kinda decided to skip all that. I need every cent I can get my handpaws around to stash into my 401K, and besides-Brevard's in the upper Midwest. We get snow up here in the winter, and lots of it. I don't really relish the thought of scraping my stripes off of a convertible's seat and shoveling snow out of the back seat in wind chills that are about fifteen below zero.
And besides-my sexuality isn't ever really anything that I've cared to wear on my sleeve. It's a fairly big part of who I am, but it's not the core of my being; and anyway, when we were together, Richie-boy pretty much projected enough flame to cover for us both.
I still remember how he used to bristle when I called him that. "Richie-boy." The pet nickname I had for him that I could only use behind his back, and man, would that fluffy fox tail of his poof up big-time when I got him riled! I don't think that tossing a bushel of cotton balls into a wind tunnel could've produced more floof. But try as he did to stifle the effect, he's one of those types of guys that looks so cute when he's hyper-pissed that it only makes you wanna hug him a good one, and that usually tends to incense them even more-but what makes that so dangerous is that it becomes way too damn easy to dismiss their anger about some things that might be better discussed openly. I learned that the hard way, among other things.
I suppose that what puzzles the most, though, was that I never really actively pursued Rich. HE came after ME, when we first met. It was a warm night in early August and I had decided to head down to the Rawhide bar, a local Levi/leather hangout that's usually pretty casual and often has beer bust specials on Sunday afternoons when things are kinda slow. I know a couple of guys in the local leather community, and while I only count a handful of them as friends, most of them seem to be a pretty good bunch, and a lot of them know me by name. I've always found the tendency of gay males to limit themselves to certain cliques to be inwardly amusing, especially since I've never really tried to fit into any of them-and those archetype names are a riot! Although no one would consider me a pushover physically, for instance, I don't consider myself to be intense and forceful enough to be a "Rough-houser", and my slight paunch isn't big enough to qualify me with "Sumo" or even "Pudge" status. And even in the worse drag I can fathom for myself in my mind probably wouldn't pass me off as a "Pixie", even with someone who knows zilch about gay males. But when Richie showed up that day with a pair of swisher buds that were as young as he was, it was pretty plain to see that the only thing missing from their "Pixie" vibe was the magic fairy dust. They were decked out in atypical show bar gear, in designer labels that I probably couldn't even pronounce right, got their mixed drinks from the bar, then perched themselves at an empty table. Their eyes had that casually judgmental look in them that only Pixies can seem to portray accurately as they whispered and giggled to themselves, their visages shifting with almost liquid ease between mocking, disdainful, approving, and only occasionally to lustful as they skimmed their gaze over the crowd. Given the fact that most of the rest of the guys were done up in jeans, Tee-shirts, tank tops, or the occasional dual-cloth harness and vest, Rich and his friends stuck out like a sore thumbpad. I had already been into my fourth beer and had done my own dismissing of them early thanks to the heat and my mild buzz, figuring that they'd ogle some of the more muscle-bound guys, flirt with them shamelessly, then get bored and move on. But when I happened to look back their way a few minutes later, I noticed Rich staring at me with a quirky little grin on his face. I blinked at him, then looked away and finished off my beer, figuring that he was just hoping to see how I'd react and maybe make a joke about it to his friends. So when I found him still staring at me later still, I was taken off-guard. This time he actually waved at me, and his friends were looking at me now, too, and I half-heartedly waved back. That encouraged him to get up and come over to me, introduce himself, and offer to buy me a drink. Young males like him, especially foxes, for some reason, never seem to have to buy their own drinks anytime they go into a gay bar unless they're just buying a first round for themselves, so the fact that he was willing to spring for my brew tweaked my curiosity. We got to talking, he laughed at my jokes (which admittedly aren't always knee-slappers, especially after I've had a few), and I found that despite our age difference and the fact that I'm not normally attracted to young males of the Pixie persuasion, his cute factor was growing on me, and he struck me as reasonably well-mannered and quite intelligent. He ended our exchange by asking for my phone number, and we exchanged digits. I figured that would be the last I would see of him, but he proved me wrong again by calling me two days later and asking me out.
We had fun together, in spite of everything-and by that "everything", I mean everything from the warnings of my own gay friends, to the warnings from some of my straight friends, to my own mother's uncertainty and my own niggling feelings of doubt. My pal Charlie, a big ol' draft horse buddy of mine that can put the pitchers of brew away like nobody's business, saw how serious things were getting between Rich and I, and he sat me down at one of the Sunday busts and gave me an affectionate admonishing for my folly.
"Have you forgotten the 'Dr. Suess' rule of gay fur dating already, Don?" he asked me, with that big rubber-lipped smirk on his face.
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about, Charlie, but you can't be drunk, already," I winked at him, nodding my head at his pitcher. "This is only your second one."
He winked grimly at me over the rim of said pitcher as he hefted it and drained it in a few big swallows, then he gave one of my handpaws a squeeze to make sure he had my attention. "Allow me to 'educate' you, then, my striped friend! 'Never, never, in a box.... Never, never, with a fox. Even if he's all the rage, but ESPECIALLY.... not if he's half your age!'"
I had rolled my eyes then, and mumbled something into my beer in my defense about Rich being only eleven years younger than me as opposed to literally half my age-but the big hoss had made his point, and I think that a part of me knew all along that Richie was really just the equivalent of junk food, in my case. He had attractive, vibrant packaging, was appealing to the eye AND the taste buds (don't ask, just take my word for it), and was oh-so-irresistible and felt so good to indulge myself in.... but ultimately, he was bad for me. I was just too steeped in denial to admit it. He got my psyche past the fact that I had broken several of my own personal rules in dating him, and then he managed to ramp things up further still by moving me from wondering what he saw in me in the first place, to wondering how I had ever existed without him. We got past the honeymoon phase, settled into everyday routine, and slowly began to try to formulate plans together for the future: most notably, preferably a house together. He had decided a few years after high school that he had wanted to go into business for himself, preferably into a clothing retail specialty store for gay males, and he was working diligently towards a bachelor's degree in retail management, planning on doing some time for a big department chain before he tried tackling entrepreneurship. He worked part-time at the campus bookstore to help pay for his tuition, and I started to pick up a double-shift here and there at the factory to both help him with his book costs, and start putting away extra for the eventual house I hoped to buy for us. We were busy, but happy, and we thought we had all the pieces in place... or at least, that was my perception of things.
You know what's coming next, and even if you didn't, there isn't a bartender or even a patron at a single dive bar across the country that hasn't heard a similar sob-story like the one I'm about to lay on you a million times over. It actually happened quite suddenly, and I was totally and completely blindsided.
I'd come home early from work after stopping by the grocery store. Richie and I had both been working especially hard for the last three months, and other than a few shared meals and cuddling in bed at night, we really hadn't gotten to spend too much quality time with each other. So I had knocked off work early, picked up the makings for dinner and dessert for that night, and rented a DVD or two, hoping that he and I could curl up on the couch together after we ate. I heard some frantic sounds coming from our bedroom, and I dumped the groceries onto the counter, looking worried and wondering if Rich had hurt himself. The door was open, and I saw him and a young dalmatian guy about Richie's age frantically trying to get dressed. The canine was obviously trying a little harder than Richie, who was sitting upright on the bed and had covered himself with a sheet-but given that I'd gotten a glimpse of the mutt's cock as he'd bounced it hurriedly back into his bikini briefs, it was pretty easy to see that he'd been pretty excited a few seconds beforehand. He finally despaired of even getting his legs into his pants as he gave me a wild-eyed look as though I was Satan-goat himself, and he grabbed his shirt and shoes, made a wild dash for the door, and literally darted under my arm as I propped myself up against the door jamb, too dazed and numb to react as he tore out into the hallway and pounded down the stairs. I stupidly watched him go, my mind reeling and a finger pointing dazedly after him as the door to the apartment swung open a bit further from a mild breeze in the hallway outside. Some perverse, insane little section of my brain found me wondering what I must have looked like to Rich or anyone else that might've seen me at that moment, and the only thing that came to mind was a passage from a first grader's reading textbook: "See spotted dog. See spotted dog run. Run, dog, run!"
Richie had the good grace to look at least moderately embarrassed, but his brows were drawn together in what I also thought might have been mild irritation, as though he found the idea of getting caught in the act by me not only terribly inconvenient, but somehow, a slight upon his intelligence as opposed to mine, which he apparently had always hoped to be inferior. He didn't dive for his own clothes, he didn't start babbling a thousand apologies, or telling me that old standby "I never meant for it to happen". Instead, he picked disconsolately at some fuzz on the blanket next to him and let the silence hang in the air for a moment before he finally spoke, crossing his forearms over one raised and covered knee.
"Well. I see that you're home early."
I lifted my brow at that, and my muzzle opened, but no sound came out. My mind was still nuked. It was trying to sort through all the potential options for my mood at the moment, and the big wheel o' responses spun madly from rage, anger, confusion, puzzlement, shock, tears, and sorrow-but I'll be damned if it let itself stop on any of those long enough to let me brain kick in so I could follow up.
Rich finally looked up at me, the stunned silence on my end arousing his curiosity enough to see what was registering on my face. He saw my blank look and slack jaw, and he sighed and rolled his eyes a bit, apparently deciding to hit me with the truth despite the overwhelming chore that seemed to be to him.
"I'm sorry Jason took off like that. I was actually hoping to introduce you two eventually, and the way he reacted just then was pretty undignified."
I pointed again at the open door, and finally, my voice found itself-dry and haggard-sounding though it was. "You...you WANT me to meet someone that...that I caught you in the middle of getting FUCKED by?" I gasped at him incredulously. "Do I....do I even wanna KNOW what triggered this? Or how long this kinda shit has been going on behind my back?"
Richie lowered his ears a bit and gave me a sharp frown, and if he showed any fear inwardly at my sudden reaction, it didn't register on his face. He pushed the covers off of himself, letting the tube of K-Y jelly that had fallen amidst the tangled bedclothes skitter to the floor, and he started to dress himself as calmly as if he were about to go see an elementary school play.
"This has been...'going on', as you put it, for the last two months-although this is only the second time he and I have had sex together of any kind, if you can be convinced of that..." He glanced up and over at me as he stretched to reach for one of his socks, and he grunted lowly at my facial expression before he continued, "...and from the look on your face, you probably can't. He's in my management class, and he apparently lives off-campus with a gentleman of the 'sugar-daddy' persuasion who is fairly well-off, and looking for an extra live-in sex toy. He owns a strip bar as well, and he thinks that I could make big money as a dancer and potentially pay my way through college working even fewer hours than I am, now."
I listened to him try to explain himself, and as his words sunk in, the amount of shock in my mind ratcheted up to levels that made my frantically-sorting emotions suddenly click off and enter a flat-line zone, my subconscious almost hearing the dull buzz inside my head as my logical and rational-thinking nodes seemed to snap themselves in half.
"You're...going to become a stripper. For a 'suger-daddy'. For some greasy old pervert that you barely even KNOW...all because...you hope he'll help pay your way through school?" I repeated, my eyes wide as saucers. "Holy fucking JEEZUS, Rich, what're you gonna do as a follow-up, sell crack cocaine?"
Rich sighed then, as he pulled on his shirt, then tugged up his underwear and pants, then sat back down and calmly pulled on his shoes. "Look, Don....I don't know if you've noticed, lately, but you and I haven't seen much of each other, you know?" He got up and stood looking at me, his gaze even and his posture and words amazingly steady, all things considered. "I know that you're busting your fur trying to save money to buy us a house, and don't think that I don't appreciate that, but...I'm just beginning to wonder if we're going about all this by doing it the hard way."
I blinked at him, my mouth still hanging open, and I began to wonder if I was going to be stuck that way permanently. My handpaws spread slowly outwards and upwards as I said to him, "And you think that the EASY way is worth throwing away what you and I have together?" I gaped at him some more. "Holy fucking shit, Rich, if you stopped loving me, why the goddamn hell didn't you SAY so!"
Rich frowned deeper at that, the furrowing of his brows lessening a bit, and for the first time since this sudden nightmare began, he looked at me with his first trace of regret. "But that's just it, Don, I DID love you. I really did! It's just that... " He pondered for a few moments, his gaze falling to the floor for a few seconds, then raising back up to me as he continued, "Well...I'm still young enough to try to be feeling out all my options, and...before I started college, my options were kinda limited. And then I met you, and they expanded a little, but things still seemed like they were gonna be a hard uphill battle... but now, I've got a chance to make my own way with very little effort on my part, and even if the 'sugar-daddy' thing might be mildly unpleasant, who cares? It's not like it's gonna be forever. I can compromise my body till I get out of school."
I felt myself taking a slightly involuntary stagger-step backwards, and luckily, my back nudged up against the door frame, which was a damn good thing-because for a moment, I thought my knees were gonna buckle. I shook my head slowly in disbelief at him, as though seeing him for the first time as his true self. "I...can't believe what I'm fuckin' hearing. And here I thought I knew everything about you...!" I stared back around at the open door of the apartment as though I was expecting the dog to poke his head back around the edge of it and point and laugh at me, then I stared back at Richie and murmured the only thing that popped into my mind at the moment, and it just so happened to be just hurtful enough to make me feel like I didn't humiliate myself totally with the whole affair: "For the love of all that's friggin' holy, at least tell me that the fucker was clean....or do I have to worry about getting myself tested to see if I'm positive, now, too, in addition to losing you?"
Richie's eyes widened at that, and his ears stood straight up as his muzzle parted in a close approximation of what I'd been doing for the last ten minutes. He stared at me that way for a few seconds, but then frowned fiercely at me as his ears lowered and he bristled at me in that way that somehow I couldn't find funny this time around if I prayed for such. He shot daggers at me with his eyes as he clenched his fists and murmured to me, "Oh, that's cold, Don. That's really cold!"
I blinked at him. "So was that a 'yes', or a 'no'?"
He glowered at me again, then coolly stepped past me and into the living room, headed for the door. I gasped at him and pried myself off the wall through sheer force of will and followed him three steps towards the living room. "Where the hell are you going?" I demanded. It felt and sounded lame, but at the time, it was the only thing that would come to my dry lips. My throat felt like a slice of the Sahara desert, it was so dry.
He turned to face me with his hand on the door and shrugged. "Where do you think? It's pretty much over, since it doesn't look like we'll ever be able to be friends, after this." He sighed a bit, and his expression eased up long enough for him to look into my eyes and say, "Look, Don-I'm sorry things didn't pan out for us. I truly am. But as sweet and hard working as you are, I... guess I just need someone with a little more ambition in life, you know? Someone who doesn't have to work double-shifts to rake in the money." He looked around the apartment one last time, then murmured, "You don't have a bad life, here. You work, you come home, you have a beer or three, you go out to drink, occasionally... and that's enough for you. But it's not enough for me. I need someone...I dunno, who's... exceptional. And like I said before, you're sweet, but..." He looked at the floor again, frowning as he tried to find the right word, then he shrugged and looked back at me, finishing us: "...you're just.... average."
He closed the door quietly behind him, and just like that, he was gone.
That last phrase of his...even just that word, 'average', resounded dully in my head like the ringing of some great bell tolling for a western-style hanging. The quieter I stood in place, the louder and more resonant it seemed to get, and although it felt like my eye sockets were burning in pain from that din in my head, all I could do was stare at that closed door. My boots didn't want to move, and my handpaws felt dull and clammy. Time seemed to slow down to a steady, ticking crawl, but simultaneously, I found that I was suddenly more fascinated than I had any right to be with the patterns that the mingled sun and shadows were making on the far wall, and the hours that it should have taken for them to gradually shift towards twilight seemed to go by in seconds as they tilted slowly before my eyes.
I'm really not sure how long I stood there, and after awhile, I felt the dull presence of something flat and warm under my ass. It was a seat cushion, and I realized that my body had taken over for me once my mind had temporarily shut off and moved me a step sideways to let myself sit. The chair seemed to meld itself to me, and I wondered how many days I could spend in it without having to get back up. My head was pounding, the clock on the wall showed 10:30 at night, and I looked over towards the kitchen area dully and realized that I had never gotten around to putting those groceries away. A steady dripping mess of something-most likely, then now completely-melted ice cream-was spattering onto the floor from the corner of one of the bags after it had overrun the counter, and I told myself that I should clean it up before I went to bed. I forced myself to get up, despite a thudding pain behind my temples, and my foot kicked something over with a light clattering sound. The noise was distantly familiar, and I looked down to see what it was, stretching my fingers slowly for it. I picked it up and peered at it. It was a beer can, quite empty. I furrowed my brows, shifted my other foot a little, and heard the sound again. I looked down once more, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see that the can in my hand had what looked to be about 24 siblings lying in disarray all around me.
I didn't remember drinking them. I didn't remember getting up to go to the fridge to get them. For a moment, I wondered if Rich and his little dog-fuck lover had snuck back into the apartment while I had been so out of it and added final insult to injury by drinking all my beer, too. But the taste in my muzzle, now that I'd let myself concentrate firmly enough to acknowledge it, told me that that wasn't the case. I clutched my stomach carefully and could hear the brew sloshing in my stomach, and suddenly, I felt not only a bit queasy, but scared as hell. Too many things were happening inside my mind, and as badly as what had happened hurt me, the thought that I might be literally going insane because of it filled me with a primal sort of fear.
I stumbled over to the couch, the very notion of sleeping in the same bed where my now-ex lover had flushed my relationship with him down the shitter making that queasy feeling in my stomach lurch and threaten to explode up through my muzzle. I managed to flop down onto it, my feet scattering empty beer cans in their wake as I did so, and I laid on my back and held my gut with both hands, praying to any gods that would hear me as I mentally begged not to throw up. I kick-shrugged off my boots, then shredded my shirt down the middle with my fingerclaws, not giving the slightest damn about it and only wanting to feel some coolness on my fur, which suddenly seemed almost too hot in and of itself. In my mind, Richie's voice continued to torment me, that word 'average' rolling though my subconscious once again-making me feel useless, inferior, unloved...and worst of all, making me wonder if everyone else was secretly feeling that way about me, too.
Sleep finally overcame me mercifully after I felt like I'd been tossing and turning for a good hour. I awoke the next morning feeling hung over, still queasy in my stomach, and having raspiness in my voice that any chain-smoking widow would be proud of. I then proceeded to do two things that I never do regularly: the first was to stumble into the bathroom and throw up vociferously into the toilet, and after I was done with that, I struggled to my feet, staggered back into the living room, and called the factory to call in sick. My boss, who had only been chiding me for the last eight months or so to take some of my stored-up vacation time before I lost it at year-end, was only too happy to let me call in, and indeed actually seemed worried about me. He told me to take all the time I needed, and to let him know if I needed anything from the pharmacy. I hung up with that as a reminder of why I liked him so much, and why I worked so hard for him in the first place.
It was when I sat down again that things really began to come to a head. My previous night of troubled sleep hadn't improved my disposition on things much, and I could feel the battle starting up between the two conscious halves of my mind. The rational, practical side tried to reason with me and convince me that what was over will stay over, and the best thing I could do now would be to set a time limit for myself to get the mourning done, then get on with my life. That would've been fine, except for the fact that now the more emotional side of my mind had kicked in and was demanding action on what happened yesterday. The feral instinct of my non-domesticated ancestors descended upon me and roared with a need for vengeance. It told me to find the dog and kill him with my bare hands while Richie watched. It tried to tell me how blessedly good it would feel to grip my blood-covered handclaws around the fox's neck and squeeze until my ex lover's eyeballs bugged out at me, silently begging me for mercy. But it didn't stop there. I found myself wondering if I shouldn't track down the shitbag of a "sugar daddy" that Richie had referred to and show him just how strongly I disapproved of his mode of living. It'd be no less than he'd deserve, and who knows-I just might be doing the public a service by ridding it of a so-called male that used and exploited young furs that might otherwise have a world of potential were it not for their desire to take the easy way out. Heck, maybe watching me sling the gasbag's bloated soon-to-be-corpse up against the walls of his fancy home a couple times might traumatize some of those vapid little "boi"-toys into realizing just what a mistake they were making with their own lives. At that point, I don't really think I cared much who I hurt, just as long as I got to hurt somebody. I felt my fingerclaws digging into my jeans, which were still sweaty from the night before. I saw a few tiny droplets of blood well up in the tears of the denim, and I felt a pressure behind my eyes that felt like two fists pushing them away from my brain. I jerked my hands off my legs before I accidentally shredded myself good, but my fingerclaws were shaking so hard that I could feel the air around them as they moved. I jumped to my feet, my heart hammering in my chest so hard I swore it was going to burst out of my chest...and the pounding of it in my *ears*....it was almost as if time froze, and everything else in the world got muffled until the only thing I hard was my ragged, panting breath. On a subconscious level, I congratulated myself for getting riled up enough to invite what felt like a heart attack. Only it wasn't. One thing was for sure, though.
If I didn't do something to quell this rage I felt, I was going to kill somebody. I was literally seeing a flash of red in my eyes, and the level-headed, grounded me that I had always taken pride in was vanishing. I pounded across the floor with feet that felt five times heavier than what they really were, and I jerked the curtains back and peered out and down into the parking lot below. It was sparsely-filled, most of my neighbors currently at their jobs. Good. I only hoped that I wouldn't be disturbing anyone unduly that was at home unduly with what I was about to do.
I thudded back into the living room area and turned my stereo on, switching the radio station over to a heavy metal station that I listened to, sometimes. I turned it up a little louder than average, then I made a beeline for the bedroom, my fingerclaws unsheathing as they went to a length I honestly don't think even I was aware that they had. I stood in the doorway with legs partially spread, old west gunfighter-style, hands and claws clenching at my sides as I looked at...the bed. The place where my relationship with Rich had more officially began, as well as where it had most definitively ended. I sprang at it and landed on it hard enough to make the frame creak noticeably, then felt my razor-sharp handclaws sink through the carefully- manufactured, taut-stitched mattress surface to the cotton stuffing and coils beneath. I was lucky-it was one of those kinds of beds where the springs are all individually wrapped in foam, which is what actually provided most of the cushioning--so I didn't rip out any of my claws by getting them snagged on a coil. I dug into the mattress hard enough to hear that deliciously cruel ripping sound as my claws started to make short work of it, and I buried my face into it and let out a roar of hurt and rage that I could feel down to my toes. The sound temporarily dwarfed even the metal music noise coming from the living room, and my lungs let out a silent groan of temporarily stinging hurt after the effort, but that didn't stop me from taking a deep, hitching breath and doing it again. I went quite crazy for a little bit, there, my arms and hands pinwheeling wildly down and into the mattress as I ripped it apart around me. Bits of stuffing and foam were flying all over the place, and if someone who hadn't known what was going on had walked into the room at that moment, they probably would've thought that a henhouse had exploded-especially after I finished with the mattress and grabbed for the pillows and shredded them, as well. My muffled roars mingled with the hollering voices in the music coming from the living room, and the combined noise helped me better imagine the sound of Richie's and his new "sugar daddy"'s voices screaming in terror as I "killed" them in my mind's eye. I sheared the sheets, tore up the blanket, ripped the comforter to hell and back....and finally, when I'd trashed the whole thing, my emotional and physical exertions finally gave way to the intense fatigue that one feels after such a purge. My limbs stopped thrashing and my chest continued to heave, and my ears flicked as all the noise except for the music from the stereo disappeared. I squinched up my eyes tight, listened to the sounds of my labored breathing, and was just starting to catch my breath when the tears came.
I wracked my body with sobs. I cried out my anger at myself for not having seen the signs, for letting Rich use me, and for ignoring the advice of my well-meaning friends, who had turned out to be right all along. I cried for the hole in my heart that I knew might never be filled again, so deep it had been hollowed out. I cried in righteous indignation at my ex-lover labeling me as "average", and I cried in fear that he might be right. But I think I cried hardest because I knew that now I would be alone and lonely again. Oh, sure, I'd not felt so bad about myself before I'd met Rich-I had a handful of pals to hang out and drink beer with, and I've always been the kind of guy who's perfectly happy being in the background, as opposed to being the center of attention anyway. Guys like me don't really need companionship or affection; or at least, that's what we tell ourselves. But it becomes quite the different matter after you get to spend your evenings and weekends in quality time with someone who wants to talk to you, be around you, and have sex with you. Rich had tried his utmost to improve my taste in clothes, music, and many things cultural-some of which I'll admit I probably needed, as my "fashion sense" before I met him typically was limited to flannel, sweatpants, jeans, and the occasional T-shirt with a beer logo on it. I guess that's another thing about our relationship coming to an end that pissed me off. I realized now that while some of his "assistance" in the areas I mentioned really were earnestly helpful and good advice, I couldn't help but wonder how much of it was designed to keep him from being embarrassed to be seen with me in public. It sank in, now, that for the most part, we didn't go out in public very often when we were involved with each other; the only forays we usually made was to the grocery store and occasionally to the mall to look for clothes (mostly for him, mostly paid for with my money, and mostly designer labels that I could barely afford). And realizing that made me truly wonder if most of the time we'd had together was some kind of lie. Had he really fallen out of love with me months ago and was really just waiting for the right time to drop the bomb on me? Or would he still be cheating on me behind my back if I hadn't caught him and the slut-hound in the sack together? How in the blazing hell could someone make himself "pretend" to love someone for any length of time?
It just didn't make sense to me. I know that it's not a new concept-straight couples get through a lot of their own marriages in very similar ways, I guess, especially if the marriage is one of convenience or for money. But the very idea absolutely chilled my blood.
The digital numbers on the face of my clock radio read "3:24PM" as I peered at them through the haze of the feathers and foam that drifted down all around me. I was a bit surprised at how late it was, and I wondered if I might not have blanked out for a bit-I thought that I'd began all of this a little bit before noon.
My clothes were all rumpled, and as I slowly dragged myself up and off the bed, covered in foam and feathers, my hands moved, and I felt a sharp sting of pain from ALL my fingerclaws-and I looked at my hands to see blood trickling down from around the edges of the clawholes, themselves. Looks like I'd snagged them on some of those spring coils after all, and it was hurting like the devil. But I couldn't let myself dwell on that, annoying as it would be for the rest of the day. Now that I'd vented my spleen, I needed a new bed to sleep on.
I went into "auto pilot" mode, and despite the light gashes I'd made into my own legs and my stinging, bloody fingerclaws, my mind seemed to breathe a huge sigh of relief now that it was able to go numb for awhile. I washed my face off a little bit in the bathroom, brushed off the debris from my clothes, then swept everything up before I began to dismantle the wrecked remains of the bed. Piece by piece, I carried it out to the dumpster in the parking lot and chucked it all unceremoniously inside-and despite my fatigue, I felt a huge surge of relief that the one object that would potentially remind me the most of Rich's indiscretion would be out of my life forever.
After going back inside, I got one of my two credit cards out of the lockbox that I stashed them in, put it into my wallet, then headed for the discount mattress warehouse store not too far from my apartment complex. I sat in my truck and stared at the neon in the window, blinking stupidly at it....and then, the damnedest thing happened. I heard Richie's voice in my mind, chiding me. 'Honestly, Don,' I heard his prissy little voice say, '...how many times do I have to tell you that sometimes, it's worth paying a little bit extra to get something made with higher quality standards? If you get sheets with a higher thread count, they'll be more expensive, but they'll last longer-and they'll feel so much better against you than this discount store tripe!'
As much as I hated to admit it, the little fucker's voice had a point. Not so much about the sheets, but I was thinking along the lines of the whole bed. The old one hadn't been a disaster, but I'd noticed that the occasional back flare-ups that I would get after doing some weight training moves at the gym actually seemed worse if I'd tossed and turned the night before-whereas if I spent the night at my parents' house, the bed in the guest room was major-league firm, and any back pains I had usually vanished by morning.
Rich was gone. I was single again. And I seriously doubted that I'd be having anyone over to my place for quite some time for a night of lechery and cuddling, so why the hell not? I started the truck and pulled out of the parking lot, then headed over to the pricier and more ritzy home store at the mall. I bit my tongue to keep from cringing at some of the prices listed on the tags in their mattress department, even though they were high-quality brand names. Still, I knew that I could pay the bed off fairly quickly, and one of the firmer mattresses I tried out felt really good against my back and ass. I got up and looked around for a staff member to assist me, and almost as though on cue, a nicely-dressed young female Afghan hound was coming towards me, high heels clicking pleasantly on the tile floor as she brought her pretty face and long blonde tresses closer to me. She was smiling pleasantly enough, but I noticed that it seemed a little hesitant as she took me in...then I noticed that two of her co-workers standing behind a nearby armoire were also giving me the eye....along with a handful of customers in the room. I blinked at them all, then stared down at myself to see if I'd left my fly unzipped, or something...and to my horror, I realized that my preoccupied mind had totally forgotten to remind me to change clothes before I ran this errand. The rips in my jeans, the slightly bloody edges of the frayed material, were still there--and I felt the flush of embarrassed discoloration enter my cheekruffs. I slowly and reluctantly panned my gaze from my own body up to the young femme's eyes, and thank goodness-my own shock and surprise must have been evident. She gave me a more disarming smile and one more once-over, then murmured, "Hi! Is there anything I may help you find today, sir?" She reached demurely out and carefully brushed a small piece of foam that had been wedged between my head and the edge of one of my ears, then she narrowed on eye partway at me in good-natured speculation as she added, "...Although I have a strong feeling that you're in the market for a new mattress."
I gave her a slow but grateful grin and nodded. "As a matter of fact, I'm in the market for a whole new bed." I patted the gashes in my jeans and blurted out the first and only plausible lie that popped into my mind. "I got to have a wonderful learning experience, today. Never, ever offer to sit on your bed and hold a box still for a friend while he tries to open it with a box cutter," I chuckled, my cheekruffs burning.
The lady canine smiled wider as she glanced at my denims, then beckoned for me to follow her as she said, "Looks like he really went to town on it, then-and you, as well! If he does yard work that vigorously, ask him if he's available for hire part-time for me, won't you?" she winked. She tapped a elegantly painted claw tip onto her nametag as she said, "My name's Diedre, by the way, and you're in luck. We're having a sale on mattresses and bed linens." She took me past some of the bedroom display sets, then lead me towards the lower level, where all the mattresses were. She glanced at me over her shoulder and asked, "Do you prefer your mattress to be soft, medium, or firm, Mr...?"
"Donovan", I rumbled to her. "Or just plain 'Don', if you would, please. And I'd like it to be just a bit short of being marble. I need all the support I can get," I murmured grimly.
End of Part One