Back Stage Pass Chapter 1

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.
ca
Backstage Pass
Copyright Fred Brown, Kevin Trott, Jan 5, 2009

fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca
Chapter One:
"Good Lord 'n butter, Kylah-kitten, you know this ain't doing y'all any
good," I whispered at the big mirror over the bathroom sink. As if saying out
loud what I already knew might influence matters.
Didn't seem so. The short, pretty, sopping wet meerkat fur in the mirror
stared back silently, some tired on her slightly pointed muzzle. I'd asked myself
that question more than a few times recently.
Well, more drowned seeming than pretty, what with just out of the
shower. Hot Georgia summers plus two big brothers led to me always getting
chucked squealing into the pond. Who says felines don't like water?
That didn't mean the wet look exactly flattered me. Fur all sleeked down
revealed a slender, not-well-curved young-girl body, the girl being proven by the
two gently pert breasts and nipples. And the cute pussy between my legs. Kinda
proud of that. Oh yah, girl, not boy, all right; my left hand found out early on
about the difference. Why didn't I ever fill out like Momma, I wondered idly.
The meerkat in the mirror smiled. Would it have made a difference?
Probably. Instead of growing up a tom-boy, thank you Jack and Bill, likely
would've gotten buried under a ton of pink bows 'n dresses 'n high heels 'n Barbie
dolls. And gotten hit on up one side and down the other when the age was right.
Disaster.
I shuddered. Then reached for a towel and started drying off. Might be
ears-deep in a pickle of my own making here but at least I never had to deal with
bullshit of that odour. You punch Jimmy-Bob in the muzzle just once for pulling
your tail, remarkable how no boy ever tried it, or anything else, again.
I rubbed the towel vigorously down my legs. Would've sold my soul for
Felicity Jackson to do it, though. Your first real sexual crush tells you a lot, don't
it? Why she didn't spot me blushing my fur off to glowing in the girl's locker
room I'll never know. Perhaps for the best. Later on she got strongly into football
players. Who were well known to be into her.
I stopped toweling and scowled down at my pussy, that being the source
of the current problems. "And now you're doing it to me again, aren't you?" I
growled at what I couldnt see. "Once, just once, would you pick a girl who's as
struck on me as I am on her? Trust me, it'll work out a lot better. I can only
fantasize about Jamati for so long before I run out, y'know."
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Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca
Pussies can't talk, I've noticed. But they can tingle. Just saying Jamati's
name out loud was all it took. I found a hand drifting down between my legs.
Hey Jamati, wanna take a shower? We can get all nice and... wet. I mean clean.
All right, I mean wet.
Mmmmm...
Damn. Now let's not start that. I pulled my hand away. Damn and damn
again. This had been going on for six weeks. Not exactly unpleasant, when I
fantasize I don't fool around, except that just drove home the fact I was fooling
around by myself.
I stared wearily at the mirror. "And now you're gonna go out again, to
ogle her furry butt again, and spend another week giving her fantasy ass hickeys
until next Saturday rolls around so you can go out and do it again," I whispered
at Damp-Meerkat (in several senses). "And with all the homework you've gotta
do? Lotsa fine hospitals here in Atlanta. Must be a spare meerkat-sized bed in
some psych wing somewhere. The rate this is going we're gonna need one."
Since I've started talking to my mirror let's not place any bets. I growled
again, then finished toweling off and turned to the dryer on the wall. I punched
the button then gave in to a few moments of bliss.
Came close to a good grooming session, what the dryer could do for me.
Short dark hair quickly got done, then my front white underfur, then I clipped on
the hose and went to work on the rest of my tan-brown pelt. When I finished art
school and got a decent job, first paycheque was going for a full-size dryer stand,
no debate about it. Just step up and the jets would do all the work. Luxury.
Luxury with a side-effect: Fluffy the Meerkat now stared back at me
from the mirror. Couldn't help but giggle. "For once, why don't I just go like
this?" I snickered. "Jamati'll take one look at me, squeal, 'Oooo, you're so cute!!'
and pounce on me."
Meerkats aren't actually genetically feline, just close cousins, but looking
this kittenish could fool anybody.
Funny fantasy. Also the dead opposite of how I wanted to look. I picked
up the brush and got hair 'n fur under control, then reached for the hair gel. After
that the make-up kit. Cologne, what cologne to wear tonight?
Within minutes Fluffy was banished. Natural fur shading on the face got
a little more so. Clean razor-sharp part went into the hair, ears done as precisely.
Eyebrows and eyelashes and whiskers were trimmed just a tad, nice 'n neat.
Around the eyes, just a trace of dark. I've always been surprised at how little it
takes.
But then the clothes helped; makes the man, dontcha know. On the door
hung the dark tailored suit and shirt and tie I'd chosen earlier. Tailored before it
hit the thrift shop, that is. Good white shirt, won't show the white sports bra
under it to squoosh the boobies down, and a frankly Southern string tie with a
silver clasp. My favourite. The suit, also a favourite. Kinda rakish. Had to modify
the pants to accommodate my tail, but easy money and worth the work.
Eventually I was done. Now I really stared at the mirror. Or in this case,
clothes makes the girl meerkat into a pretty good looking male, albeit a bit
feminine. Not a problem. Olde Southern stereotype: the slightly effete but highly
cultured bourbon-sippin' gentleman. I could pass with ease. Or rather gentlemel,
not man. The language has picked up a new gendered pronoun since furs came
along. Which, on appearances, now fit me almost as well as the suit.
It started in the junior high drama club, I know that much about it.
Should I blame Tennessee Williams? We did a bunch of his plays. I always took
a male part. And liked being that way and learned the stagecraft to look it. Never
let it out much back home except very in private, just maybe with some little
masculine grace notes to my usual neutral outfits.
But I wasn't a week in Atlanta before I dressed and went out, heart
thudding, and did some shopping. At school during the week, nothing outright
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feminine. You'd have to look twice. I just don't send out female signals. But
elsewhere...
I ran a hand through my hair, then turned to study myself in the mirror on
the back of the bathroom door. Do all sexually frustrated lesbian meerkats have a
secret identity? I'll have to remember to ask sometime if I get the chance. It's also
a little spooky how easy it is. True, nobody in Atlanta could give a hoot, or at
least hasn't in the two years I've been here, but I'm almost certain I could go
home and not even my brothers would know me.
I wonder if that's what something in me really wants. It's a puzzle. And
not a small one. Except that it just feels... right.
I sighed. Let's decide: I could stand here all night in front of a mirror
trying to figure myself out, or I could go out and get another look at the naked
tigress who'd gotten under my fur. And into my pussy. If not my heart.
Let's not say that last out loud too often now, Kylah-kitten. Might be
true. And then where would I be? I don't suppose I'm making it simple for
myself.
But there was nothing left to do to The Look. As good as it gets. I opened
the bathroom door, killed the lights, and stepped into the one-room shoebox the
landlord jokingly calls my apartment.
On scholarship student pay suppose I'm lucky it's not a real shoebox.
Amendment: first paycheque goes to bigger accommodations, with or without a
drying stand. Although real meerkats were known for digging extensive cozy
nests into the ground. Some old-ancient burrowing instinct in me felt right at
home. Plus or minus the instinct to claw through a wall every so often.
Late afternoon light came through the dusty single window--no balconies
in this dump--and illuminated the neat 'n tidy accumulation of two years of
student life. Foldaway bed-ne-sofa in the middle of the room opposite the big
flatscreen and entertainment system comp. A batch of favourite posters to hide
the grey concrete. Storage shelves around two walls loaded with bric-a-brac and
books and a long rack of file folders; the portfolio archive. Three tall shipping
cartons doing wardrobe duty. Don't look for dresses.
And in the other half of the room was the well-kitted-out kitchen nook
which was what sold me on this place. Furs like to eat, wonder why. An
apartment with a crappy kitchen won't ever rent to one of us. With Momma's
training eating well on a student budget has never been a problem.
Kitchen table's been turned into an artist's workstation, mind you, with
easel and small light, pen-and-drawing-tools kit, a small high-powered laptop,
and an expensive graphics tablet/scanner. All piled high with messy work-inprogress. Small sacrifice of a table. When I'm really steaming away I tend to
forget to eat anyway.
All told, the place was in perfectly fit shape such that I'd have no real
problem inviting Jamati over for dinner. And then maybe more. Save for the
problem of inviting her.
God, I hate crushes.
Right on cue, my stomach grumbled. Lunch had about exhausted itself, it
would seem. Hate being hungry more. Going out clubbing on an empty stomach
was a bad idea. Layers, the place I was headed to, had a good restaurant that
would sooner or later ensnare me if I wasn't fueled up first. This night was going
to cost enough, thank you.
I went over to the fridge, opened the door, and studied the stockpile.
Thing was, I didn't wanna eat, I wanted to charge out the door, hit the subway,
and get my furry tail over to Layers. Then play meerkat-on-the-wall as Jamati
went into her show and try not to do or say anything stoopid. Or anything. Christ,
but I hate crushes.
Milk, apple, a quick dose of last night's gumbo: that's as fast a dinner as
it gets. A big mug of the soup was in the microwave in a trice. I grabbed some
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crackers from the cupboards above, crunched one down, then sipped straight
from the milk carton.
Most horrible thing about a crush? You keep fantasizing about what
you'd say to whoever it is. How you'd open a conversation. How you'd make joke
to get them to laugh. How you'd make a hot 'n dead serious pass.
Such as: Jamati, I want to rub my tail through your pussy until you
squeal.
Or: Jamati, let me put my muzzle in your twat so deep I'll be missing
whiskers when I pull out.
Or equally good: Jamati, I want to groom all of you with my tongue, so
much so you're never gonna need a bottle of fur conditioner again.
Or just plain: Jamati, I...
<Ding!> That was the microwave.
... Want to make love to you so bad I can't see straight.
<Thump>. <Thump>. <Thump>. That was me bumping my nose on top
of the microwave.
Growl. Didn't help. Oh well.
Crunch, crunch, and the apple vanished under meerkat fangs as the soup
cooled a bit. I dropped a spoon in the mug and stirred--oh yah, that smelled good
enough to take anybody's mind off sex--then sipped and promptly scalded my
tongue. That'll do it too as I guzzled more milk.
I picked up a few crackers and the soup, then padded over to the table. I
reached for the special file folder and opened it. I've always had art skill and I've
often carried around lust in mah vuln'rable 'lil meerkat heart for one sweet thang
or another, but this with Jamati was the first time the two thangs had come
together. Suppose I just hadn't been as good an artist before.
The first piece was a head shot, nothing explicit. Jamati looking over her
shoulder at the viewer, her long dark hair a tousled wildness. And smiling. Gave
her a red flower on one cutely rounded ear. Kinda Betty Page feel to the image. If
Page had been a tiger fur (in spirit, perhaps she was). The orange n black
striping was a bitch to draw from memory. Finding the right green for her eyes
had been even tougher.
Also gave her a dead-explicit and smouldering look in those green eyes,
her pink tongue peeking out of her muzzle. Tiger muzzles are larger than most
felines, a little more square and blunt, with a larger nose. Bigger fangs in there.
Her smile was open just a hair to show them.
I shivered. Do you want me to eat you alive? was the message I'd been
going for. Did I succeed or what? I took a sip of soup and flipped to the next
page.
Now we were into better explicit. Jamati nude and upright on her knees,
seen from a rear angle, knees apart and her long tail off to the side. Meaning this
was mainly a tush 'n' legs shot, and what a tush, and what legs. If this tigress
didn't work out and a lot she'd surely lucked out in how her genes got mixed.
Stripper legs and stripper ass. Since she was a stripper you gotta think she was in
the right job.
Getting struck on a stripper. My life, when my pussy wants to make a
truly futile gesture, it just goes for straight the Guinness record, don't it?
What had gotten to me perhaps more than anything else was just how
much Jamati did seem to enjoy herself onstage. Tried to capture it here, her hands
squeezing her big tits, her head ecstatically thrown back. She got off by turning
an audience on, an erotic display of a most erotic tiger body. She knew what she
was doing to us. Then did more of it. Favourite fantasy: her coming off stage
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after a scorching performance, so horny her tail smoked. Somehow I'd found my
way backstage. Then she looks at me...
I took another gulp of soup and didn't mind the burn this time. Said it
before: now let's not start that.
The greatest irony was, this was all a damn accident. Hadn't gone out
looking for predator fur strippers to drool over. I just thought I'd get out of my
rut, go exploring. I'd heard about this allegedly great club called Layers that
catered to furs. So went to see.
The great part was true: a big seven story building, nondescript on the
outside and looking like an ordinary apartment building, but a helluva good party
spot on the inside. And almost all furs. So Layer's wasn't a strip joint in the
slightest but it was a highly sexualized place--furs seem to let it all hang out a
little more than humans--and the second floor dance space held several stripper
stages, female and male. Third floor was a flat-out and very classy pickup bar.
Above that was a private club, details unknown. Presumably a lot more than
pick-ups happened up there. First floor was the restaurant and a more tame dance
floor. There was a small hotel next door. Good location.
But the way the second floor was designed, the strippers made sure that
everybody got their hormones pretty damn well carbonated over the course of a
night's partying, which probably would have gone over like a lead balloon in a
human-oriented club. The hot female fur strippers (Jamati apparently the star)
just inspired all the fur girls present to come on even harder to the guys. There
was this ferret fur stripper who just... whoo-hoo, is all I'll say.
As for the hot male strippers, well, I'm an artist, I can at least appreciate
beefcake, and male horse and wolf furs got tons 'o that. Result: same effect on all
the fur guys in the place who weren't gay, every one of them trying to out-hunky
whoever was on stage (even if they were gay). You'd think the bars were serving
shots of testosterone. Whoever built Layers, they knew fur sexuality.
Although the place does look a little different when seen through the
eyes of a meerkat with a lesbian sexuality. Especially when her eyes have just
been knocked clean outta her head by...
I flipped over the page: Jamati. This one was an erotic fantasy pic,
inspired by some of her on-stage poses. Lovely tigress on her back, head thrown
into the pillow, her legs spread and pulled up. Panting, eyes closed. Tail flicking
wildly. And a big working vibrator buried to the hilt in her lovely dripping pussy.
With knobbly bits on it. Tigress about to cum.
Pretty easy to masturbate to this image. Just imagine the frame
expanding to show me on the bed too. I'm the one holding the vibrator. And
working it into her. And licking her clit at the same time.
Meowrr, is all we need to say here. The rest of the art was similar, all
heavily porny (wonder why). Did a rough sketch once that showed the two of us
in a 69, but that only raised an uncomfortable question that fantasy didn't like to
dwell on. What if Jamati was straight? No bi or lesbian in her? This was a real
tigress, nothing imaginary about her (and how), and that question cannot be
ignored. And it's just a little unethical to go creating feelthy peectures about
someone who hasn't given consent. All the torrid paws-between-the-legs
dreaming deflates pretty fast when you start thinking like this.
I dug into the mug with the spoon, then munched, then crunched through
more crackers. The other way of looking at this (that doesn't make me feel as
creepy) is just that I'm an artist, it's in me and I can't turn it off, and Jamati's one
of the most beautiful females I've ever met, fur or otherwise. I could no more
help drawing her than I could stop breathing, and any other artist on the planet
would say the exact same. If she were a model who showed up in one of the
college studios and shed her duds, a whole class of art students would pounce on
her, clap her in irons, and never let her go.
I choked as part of a cracker tried to go down the wrong way and kill me.
Oooo, Jamati in bondage. That could be a whole series right there. Purr for me,
'lil furry slave girl. Or rather big furry slave girl. Oh yah, I could see it. Getting
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obsessed with a hot tigress stripper can lead you to extend your technique in
interesting directions, it seems.
Not that I wanted to spend the rest of my career drawing sexy tigers, but
if I could get a model release out of Jamati for some of this stuff for damn sure
I'd be able to pay for a lot more than a drying stand.
I blinked. Now that... wasn't quite the dumbest idea I've ever had,
y'know? I put the mug down and flipped back to the second image. Probably the
best. And if she was that used to strutting around without her clothes, might she
also be interested in staying still without her clothes? Or trying; nude modeling's
not the easy work it might seem.
That's actually a reasonable reason for chatting with her. Could be
simple? A little more talking to a couple of instructors at the college, flash them a
few tamer images to prove her bona fides, or better yet she just shows up and
smiles. That'd be plenty convincing enough. She could almost certainly get on
the model roster if she wanted to.
I frowned. Or would that just give me more competition as a whole damn
school's worth of art students falls in love with her? Burn that bridge when I
cross it, I suppose. As likely a moot point, too. There's that other fantasy-killing
question: is she involved with someone already? Fur woman that beautiful, only
in fantasy could a horny cross-dressing lesbian meerkat imagine that the answer
was no.
I folded the picture carefully and slipped it into an inside coat pocket.
Then decision, and grabbed the first too. Not gonna let this idea sink its fangs
into me too deep, or at least not tonight. Come Monday, ask the college about
model details so I've got something to say, would be the best place to start.
Hmmm. Might also help to talk a little more to what's-his-face, that
raccoon fur bouncer. Seemed cool with a meerkat in drag. Derrick, got his name.
More important, he didn't laugh at a meerkat drooling over a tigress. And maybe
show him the art? Maybe.
Take your allies where you find 'em. Derrick might be counted as one.
His job was to see that no harm came to her; sure works for me. Highly likely
that she's fielded approaches from horny porn-oriented photographers. Derrick
might well have had to persuade them that raccoon furs are predators too. He
could have some tips to share about how not to come across as a horny pornoriented artist. Or not as much of one.
Heh. First time in, The Look fooled him clean. Second time, we had
quiet words, since he noted my reaction to Jamati (he'd seen it before). Then
politely, ah, advised me of the ground rules. Oh, but his face when I broke cover.
In that case, just don't purr so loud you drown out the sound system, he'd
chuckled.
I was more in danger of melting into a furry puddle in front of the stage,
but that was my problem, not Derrick's. Less risk of that now than at the start. I'd
begun to get used to her body, what with doing all the art. See her through artist
eyes, not horny meerkat eyes. That could be my way out of this.
Or she could kiss me and I'd be her furry slave girl for life. Dontcha hate
it when that happens?
I chuckled, then munched the last cracker, picked up the mug, and went
back to the sink to guzzle the last of the milk. Alternate fantasy: a charming,
suave, debonair young meerkat sweeps a beautiful tigress off her footpaws in a
flawless seduction, kisses her, she becomes the horny-slave-for-life, then off
comes the suit, ta-da! Even hornier, the thoroughly bi tigress growls, pounces,
and then there's a whole lotta yowling.
They're not called fantasies because they're chock full of realism.
Although I could probably get a funnily porny cartoon strip out of that one. Later.
Mug and spoon washed, milk carton and apple core in their recycling
bins, crackers put away. Only one last detail: shoes. Say this much about playing
the male, I've saved a ton of money on footwear. Male fashion trends are a lot
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more stable than female, at least for shoes. Small feet on me, and more human
style than feline, which makes it even easier. I've scored outright steals from the
teen racks that might've been worn for all of ten minutes from what I could tell.
Still, choices, choices. Dark suit, so the brown ones weren't quite right.
Not aiming to project a formal mood; the Italians were out. Let's go with the
wing-tips tonight; a bit on the sporting side. Surprising how tight male fashion
has to be. It's all got to fit, right down to the cuff links, or that one misfitting
element just jumps right out. Males get very close scrutiny by women (and other
males). By way of an odd route I'd gotten to be an expert.
Of course, a lesbian who's not up to speed on female fashion might just
need glasses. An unusual asset for a commercial artist, knowing both equally
well as I do. Potentially profitable; we'll see.
Oh, and the right socks count too. Don't forget socks.
Dark socks procured and on, I slid my feet into the shoes, tied laces, then
straightened up. Funny: it's the shoes that seem to bring it home for me, settles
the persona into place, hiding the last female thing about me under the guise of
the male. Pretty meerkat footpaws were now snug in a pair of shoes that could let
me hoof the night away if I wanted to, and not a single female dance partner
would ever know.
And I did like dancing. Layers was certainly pretty fun for that. Dance is
the coming-on before the coming-on, two people using just body language to try
and find out if they're attracted to each other. Trying to tell the other who they are
without using those tricky and difficult words. Pesky things get in the way of
everything. When you dance, you don't talk.
I smoothed down the breast pocket, then tugged on the jacket to settle it
on my shoulders. Looked at that way, the whole outfit was very akin to lying. It's
not a guy coming on to you, pretty fur girl, it's a cute meerkat underneath the
costuming who'd dearly love to come onto you for real and leave fang marks on
your panties. Among other places.
But that's easier said than done. It means saying out loud, 'I'm lesbian.
Are you?' Four simple words. It also means being ready if the word 'Yes' comes
back.
One of these days I'd like to know why those words are so damn tough
for me. This in a city that's got dozens of lesbian bars, a thriving Sapphic
subculture, and thousands of delicate young flowers out there willing and eager
for the, er, plucking.
I sighed, then buttoned the jacket and turned for the door. Give us this
day our daily neuroses. In lesbian terms you could say I've taken the word butch
so completely far over the top all I needed was some Y chromosomes to finish
the job. Would it help? Debatable. Lotsa guys out there who couldn't make a pass
to save their ass; ditto one tongue-tied meerkat.
I armed the security box, killed the lights, then opened the door and
stepped through. The door closed with a <Thunk!> of locks. Still, there was some
comfort to be found in knowing that beyond doubt, I looked good, damned good.
Count your blessings, Pastor Austin always said. Add 'em up against your
trialsthatre always easy to count--and see where God has put you at the end of
the day. You have faith, you'll always be ahead.
I stalked down the dingy hallway to the elevators. Pastor had a point, as
he usually did, but I never could buy into the spiritual balance sheet metaphor he
invoked. Careful with the sinnin' or your heavenly P & L statement's gonna take
a hit.
Blessings and trials. Well, how about that? By that accounting method
we're running a freakin' non-profit here. Hey Pastor, does God do blessings bailouts?
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I snickered as I punched the elevator button. Just the sort of question that
would wind him up to red in the face (he was human, not fur) like I'd done so
often as a kid. You can too have fun in Bible class.
Suppose if you've got trials that can't be dealt with, you can always get
some entertainment value out of giving a few to somebody else.
For now, not precisely useful, but suppose that notion would have to hold
me.
---
I pushed through the lobby doors and out under the long walkway
canopy. Warm Atlanta air smacked me in the muzzle, rich with scent after having
been pre-breathed by eight million citizens. I sneezed; always do. Fur noses are
just too good for city living. You overload in seconds. Sometimes I miss country
air.
I reached into a jacket pocket for a clean handkerchief and used it;
accessories, accessories. The summer day had been hot and clear and sunny, but
now it was cooling, the sun nearing its bed in the West and casting a reddish-gold
glow over the whole place. One sultry Southern evening coming up. And you
wonder why this city has such a night life.
I walked down the walkway, down the ramp to street level, then turned
right to the Atlanta Transit stop a few meters away. The display on the pole said
a two minute wait for a shuttle minibus. No one else around, which gave me a
few moments to study the panorama of the city.
It was a good vantage point. Cheap apartments are all the cheaper the
more you go out into the suburbs. Mine was way out and to the north of the city
proper. Thank God for the AT and their real cheap student passes. The shuttle
would take ten minutes to drop me at the light rail station, then it was on to the
subway, and then the city was mine.
And what a city. So much history to the place, going back more than four
hundred years. Now as modern and sophisticated as most any on the planet, but
still as Southern as the day founded, the city core and its plethora of skyscrapers
catching the dying sunlight and just glowing, colours and gleamings I'd have to
bust a gut to capture on paper or screen. I wanted to do landscape or cityscape
studies, I just walked out my front door.
Slowly, the lights of the city were coming alive as I waited. It was a vast
multi-hued sparkling riot of light laid on its side at night; can't come up with a
better image than that. Proud city, but then most were. Worked well, at long last,
but then most did these days. At night, though, you really could get your breath
taken away. I sometimes moved a comfy chair in front of the window, opened it
for the air, and just stared and fell asleep.
By day, on the other hand, there was so much damn green stuff around
you'd think somebody invited a rain forest to visit and just forgot to ask it to
leave. Try chopping a tree down, I dare you. 'Nother one'll pop right up in
seconds. If kudzu isn't our official city plant it should be. Also a very Southern
thing, I suppose. Civilization amongst the jungle. Also like most cities on the
planet. And perhaps just in time.
Jungles have wild animals in 'em. That's where us furs fit into the picture.
Y'think? Atlantas a very comfortable place to be, predator or prey, very
comfortable.
'Course after a few mint juleps uncork some of that wildness it's hard to
tell the difference. Why are drunk bunny fur girls so hornily aggressive? Bunny
lust. A tale for another time.
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But it was predator hunting predator tonight. Yah, some wildness was
definitely possible here. We hoped.
Lights to my left: the AT auto-minibus. It rolled purring to a stop, and
the one-eyed security cam where a driver should be swiveled as the comp
underneath it opened the door. It had room for twenty, but it was empty at the
moment. I stepped on board and took a window seat a couple back from the
front.
The pass in my pocket had been pinged and ID'd, and the guy or the girl
or the comp on the other end of the camera had greenlighted me as not-asecurity-issue, thank you kindly. I've seen wanted felons get tasered and darted
and netgun-immobilized when they unwisely stepped through a subway turnstile.
Unnerving.
Still an inexpensive and remarkably safe ride, albeit a little Damoclean.
Statistically you're safer in the subway than in your own home. AT Security goes
to lengths to project a sensitive and respectful image. The big orange can of
riot/sleepy gas on the minibus ceiling sorta dents this. Oh well.
The door closed, motors hummed, and the minibus accelerated. I closed
my eyes and thought about routing. The light rail would take me to the northmost
subway station. That ended its line on the ring subway that circled underneath the
city green belt; real easy to get to a park or rec area in this town. Then it was
either around the ring to the South side, then in, or to the Hub in the downtown
core grid and hop on a couple of streetcars. Or if I wanted to spend a little more
there was an express line that would take me straight in.
The Hub route. I liked the streetcars. Got to see things that were less
boring than subway tunnels.
The minibus slowed in front of a row of townhouses. I opened my eyes
as the doors opened.
Whoa. With regards to less boring...
Two beautiful young fur women stepped arm-in-arm into the minibus: a
fox and a bunny fur. Not quite holding each other up, and obviously affectionate,
but it was clear they were a bit high. If a security camera can frown this one did a
little, but otherwise allowed them on.
They ignored it. Giggling, they flopped down onto a side seat at the front
of the minibus. Dressed to party and getting started early, the both of them, both
in solid-colour lam-fabric miniskirts that hugged their bodies and matched their
fur. Bright red for the fox, clean white for the bunny, their purses and high heels
the same. Very simple. Their tails were coiffed and pretty. There was a bit of
gold jewelry on the fox and in her blonde page-boy hair. Unusual cut but cute.
Long silky dark hair on the bunny. And cleavage you could lose jewelry in, yum.
Oh, and blatantly lesbian. The bunny turned to the fox, grabbed a boob,
then leaned in for a smooch that belied the mismatch between vulpine and lapine
muzzles. I could hear the fur sizzle from here. The bunny's tall ears quivered.
Oh. Oh my. They're good at that. From what I could see, fox lust had
things to be said about it too (although I knew that already). I allowed myself a
direct stare to fix the sight. That was worthy of a sketch later, I think.
Foxy broke the kiss first. "C'mon honey-bunny, you can't make love to
me on the AT," she giggled.
"Why not? Just lie back 'n open your legs. 'S how we do it anywhere
else," Honey-Bunny growled, then licked her lips meaningfully. Really.
Something else to draw...
"We'd be busted in no time flat. Barely get our G-strings off."
"Too late. I'm already busted. Hmmm? Hmmm?" As bunny hands almost
buried a pretty fox muzzle between the proof of that statement. "And what Gstring?"
Page 9 of 30
A muffled and wicked: "Oooo."

Couldn't have said it better myself.
More giggling followed that as the minibus accelerated, then they settled
themselves, stretching their legs in the aisle. Impeccable; expensive hose on
them, the fine fishnet stuff that worked with fur. Wherever they were going
tonight two very sexy fur lesbians were out to turn heads, that's for sure.
And I almost, almost succeeded in turning mine before I got caught
staring. But think I was too late. Looking out the window, there was enough dark
outside to make it reflective. I saw Foxy look straight at me. Then whisper into a
bunny ear. Then Honey-Bunny looked. Then whispered into a fox ear.
Uh huh. Girls, whatever you're thinking about me, I can almost surely
guarantee you're wrong. Saving for the fact that you've surely enough turned my
head.
Though not for the reason you might think.
Uneventful ride from there. The minibus stopped once and let an old lady
on, a lioness, dressed in an un-old-ladylike set of Lycra athletic duds and trainers.
She carried a small duffel bag, the logo of a better-known gym on the side;
presumably her destination(?).
Both fox and bunny stared, a little wide-eyed, and moved their legs. A
top predator. All lion furs get that from folks. The lioness frowned, sniffed
disdainfully, then headed towards the wide seat in the back. Not a fan of slightlystoned lesbian party girls, it seems.
Although she might have a fan in them to judge from their covert
glances. "Nice ass. She's ripped," Honey-Bunny whispered, just loud enough to
hear. Foxy's nod spoke of agreement.
Beefcake will out, whether it's on a male or a female. Age immaterial.
Me, I would have given the lioness merely a very fit, not ripped. Somebody
wants to live forever, I guess.
Although Honey-Bunny was perfectly correct about the tush.
A few minutes later, the minibus pulled into the light rail terminal at its
appointed station on the long concrete platform. Several of its kin were there
already, idling, either having disgorged their passengers or waiting for new. A
mystery to me how the AT juggles the dispatching, but the minibuses ran like
clockwork on ironclad twenty minute schedules. First time I was late for class
and fibbed that the AT had been delayed I got laughed at.
The girls got up, I got up, and the lioness trailed us as we trooped out of
the minibus's air conditioning--yet another thing to like about the AT--and into
the heat of the Atlanta night. Or the Atlanta dusk, anyway. The terminal
streetlights and overheads were on, the bright LED light bouncing lively off the
girl's dresses as they moved. The fox had changed colour a bit.
Yes, how they moved, as we all strolled to the nearest doors, then
through. The predator's bushy tail on the left, the prey's impossibly cute puff-ball
on the right, the two of them chatting as their heels clicked sharply on the tiles in
terminal concourse. We had a hundred meters to go to the train platform. Light
traffic for a Saturday night, also heading that way; my travel timing was good.
Oh yes Lord, thank you for the little erotic blessing here. There is
something about a woman with a tail, my life, so there is. Just watch one walk.
Or watch two of them walk. The lioness behind me simply could not miss the
flicking of my own tail as I appreciated the view.
If I were a guy you might call me an ass man. What was our first clue?
Purrrr. Ass mel? Ass girl? Whatever. I know what I like, and I'll follow it while it
lasts. Three meters separation seemed to be the optimum distance. Highly
optimum tushes.
Page 10 of 30
Whoops, and lifted my gaze off them as Foxy gave me a tiny glance over
her shoulder. What, the handsome meerkat is stalking you, girls? Perish the
thought.
As you can plainly see, I am a gentleman. Snicker.
Not understanding this business hardly means I don't have fun with it,
y'know. And hey, don't all boys have implicit permission to stare at beautiful
women, lesbian or otherwise? Of course we do. I wonder just how much of a clue
that is.
But carry on strutting, girls, all perfectly normal, nothing to worry about.
You're not at risk of a mischievous horny meerkat tearing those purty dresses off
you with her fangs. Or not in reality, anyway. Fantasy, now that's different. See
why this is fun?
Or maybe Foxy had some mischievous in her too (a fox fur; what were
the chances?). She whispered to Honey-Bunny. Big ears perked up.
Then Foxy took a light skip, and now two beautiful fur women were
sashaying in step towards the light rail platform, tails 'n tushes in perfect sync.
You had to see this, is all I can say.
Then it hit me: I'm being flirted at! Flirted at by two tres hot fur lesbians,
who know I know they're lesbian, who know I know how pointless it is to be
interested in them, and they're waggling their lovely fannies at me anyway. Why,
those wicked little...
Wait. Not flirting: teasing. This was look, but don't even dream you've
got a hope of touching, Mr. Meerkat. Nothing in the world more impossible for
you to touch, but we're just going keep sadistically walking this way for your
enjoyment.
And ours.
Ah, Lord, you snuck a little evil into this blessing, did you? 'S alright; I
can take it. And maybe, just maybe keep from bursting out laughing. Of all the
males who were going to look at them tonight, they chose me to do this to?
Completely hilarious. Was I going to have to stuff a handkerchief down my
muzzle to keep a straight face?
Thankfully, I didn't have to. We arrived at the doors to the light rail
platform. Ah ha, and as they pushed through there was another fast look-back by
Honey-Bunny to see how I was taking it. Why, just a calm, cool, collected
meerkat, Miss Bunny. With a tiny, really really tiny glint of amusement in his
eyes. What were you expecting to see?
I pushed through the doors myself as my two teasers headed for the
nearest waiting car. The light rail system vehicles were glorified streetcars, a
little bigger and faster, on their own overhead track. We'd be at the subway
station in about fifteen minutes.
Lioness couldn't wait, apparently, and strode past me into the car. I
followed, she took a firm seat between me and the girls, so I took a side seat by
the door. The wide window beside me promised a good view. Not like I was
going to go sit down next to them and strike up a conversation, now was it?
Look, but nothing more impossible than doing more'n that. Would there
be a point? No.
But now my turn for a tiny glance. Yup, both trying not to look like they
were looking at me out of sideways eyes. A <Bingle!> came from somewhere
overhead, a pause, then the doors closed and the train began to move. I think we
have a little game going here. Of a sort.
Things tilted as the train moved up the rampway to the overhead track,
then leveled out. Heading south as we were, couldn't see the city, but the
panorama of the suburbs as they scrolled past us was as interesting, the night
Page 11 of 30
descending and hiding everything. And not succeeding, since it was all lit up by
all manner of display, signage and buildings and streetlights glowing brightly to
ward off the dark. Lots of city to Atlanta.
I leaned an elbow on the seat back and watched it go by. Don't know if I
love this city but I know I'm sure fascinated by it. Bowled me over for a month or
so when I came here. Big city, everything the country wasn't. Had almost
everything the country didn't. Freedom, for one thing. The main ingredient of city
air, even if it made you sneeze.
But you had to think sometimes that the country was everything the city
wasn't, had a lot of things the city didn't. Farming breeds a kind of pride into folk
that you just can't find here, no matter how hard you look. A good thing, on the
whole. I might not stand up as straight had I grown up here.
But a difficult thing too. Hard on the folks who are different, whose pride
might not bend to the same winds as what everybody else felt, like all the wheat
in a field pointing at the same angle by the end of the summer (wheat doesn't
really do that but it's a decent metaphor; we'll keep it).
And let's be honest: the country has its freedoms too. If you belong
you're free to do anything anybody else can do. That is not insubstantial and very
secure. Can't dis it, you know.
But there is that 'if' there.
Atlanta, on the other hand, has no ifs to worry about. You're here, and
that's that. But notice that there's nothing and nobody to belong to. Unless you
can find somebody.
Yah, and you take a smart country meerkat girl out of the country and
drop her in the big city, this is what she thinks about. Heavy thoughts for a party
Saturday night, no?
Then again, that's what this mission was all about: finding somebody. Or
wanting to find somebody. Wanting somebody in particular. Or wanting to find a
way to tell Jamati that. Or something.
Heh. If I were that smart I wouldn't be putting myself through this
goddamn square-dance. Just pounce on her...
Mmmm. An angry raccoon would have some more words for me, I think.
All right, cancel the pouncing. Back to the original plan: make it up as I go along.
The window was even more reflective now. In it, I could see the two
lesbians. Foxy had her head resting on Honey-Bunny's shoulder. Honey-Bunny
dug into her purse, pulled out a small vial and tapped a trace into her palm, then
sniffed it into her button nose. Her ears shot up as she emitted a petite <KaChoo!>.
Perfect opening there to hand her a gentlemanly handkerchief. Used to be
a common female move, back when handkerchiefs were common: fake a sneeze,
then start a conversation. There's reason to think the offer wouldn't go over well
here.
I closed my eyes. Damn, and I didn't exactly need them crossing my path
tonight. I should be thinking about Layers, and how to play things, and maybe
what to say to Derrick, and... and...
I opened my eyes and looked at them. And I was jealous of them. That
was what clicked in that moment. Both of them: beautiful, sexy, beyond doubt
furry fireballs in bed, but more important, together. As unselfconsciously out
about being lesbian and in love as it gets.
I oughta be taking notes. If fantasy came true what those two have is
what I wanted to have with Jamati. To kiss her like those two kissed, anywhere,
anytime, and to damn with the audience. Why no, Jamati, I'm not wearing a Gstring. That give you any ideas? (Actually I was; male underwear's just plain
boring is all I've got to say about it).
Page 12 of 30
Crap. Jealousy ain't it. I wanted to be them. Pour myself into one of those
miniskirts, doll up, then knock Jamati's eyeballs out the way Foxy and HoneyBunny clearly do to each other. Female fashion aims to display and attract. Those
two had the right idea. Squeeze the budget, go shopping in a different part of the
thrift store. I already know I can do it. Just haven't.
I sighed. Now, about the plan for getting out of this suit and into Jamati's
arms? Nooo, I can't be accused of thinking all this out very well.
I leaned back and closed my eyes; or made it look like eyes were closed.
And looked at them. Foxy had dug her phone out of her purse and was chatting.
Honey-Bunny was looking out the window. Whatever she'd snorted probably
made all the shiny lights look more interesting. Okay, we're back to jealousy
here. How had they done it, I wondered. Become a couple. Made it work.
Somebody had to have come on to somebody. Was it the fox or the bunny who'd
made the first move?
Then another click: a fox and a bunny. The two women I'd managed to
make love to, back home. Girls, that is. Now I hadn't thought about them in a
helluva long time.
Carolyn: the fox, who had caught me looking at her a little too hard in
the girl's locker room. Since shed been doing likewise. Then finding ourselves in
the shower together, alone. You'll see this scene in some bad lesbian porn vids.
Didn't do anything, but we were almost radioactive with instant horny,
we both wanted to so much. To be fair, this is what sex is supposed to do to you.
Then that shy first touch, her paw on my breast. And mine on hers. Literally, first
touch. For both of us.
Later that night I snuck out and we met in her Dad's barn. Then did a lot
more than touch. Only that once, though. She was too scared to do more. I
couldn't blame her. Her Dad was a dangerous guy.
Hurt like hell to be friends with her after that. Eventually we weren't
anymore. That hurt too.
Then Kathy: the bunny, who I miss like hell whenever I think of her.
School band set up an exchange trip, I packed up flute and PJs and stuff, and we
all motored to Savannah. It was a gas to play in a school auditorium that could
actually be called an auditorium. I boarded with Kathy and her family.
And found out I didn't need the PJs. Kathy slept in the nude. Then we
slept together in the nude. I've got a thing for bunny tails; ask me why.
Well, didn't sleep so much as spent a lot of time yawning during the next
four days. There was a very wonderful reason for that.
When Kathy came to board with us, same wonderful. But I don't think
we were quiet enough. Suspicions were raised. After Kathy went home, Bill told
me he'd followed us when we went out for some late-night skinny-dipping in the
pond. Well, not so much skinny-dipping. Bill didn't call it that either.
What he did call it led me to think he'd been listening to the Pastor too
much. His promise to not talk about it was a dubious one. That was the day I
began laying plans to get out. A fuse had been lit.
How I wish I could have gone to Savannah. But Kathy had long since
moved on.
Yes, such a wealth of experience your new meerkat lover brings to your
bed, Jamati. On the plus side she's damn good at fantasizing. We can work with
that.
I flushed under my fur. And what about Foxy and Honey-Bunny here?
No way they're not going to show up in the fantasy art studio sometime soon. Oh,
and I knew what I'd do with them. I declare, it'd take me months to grow back my
muzzle whiskers.
Page 13 of 30
I cracked an eyelid to look more clearly. Both Foxy and Honey-Bunny

were enjoying the city night-light show, Foxy snuggling with HB after getting in
a quick hit of powder of her own. The giggling bunny had tapped out a trace onto
her shoulder. Whatever that was it looked like primo stuff. Had to be headed for
a dance club, then. The mild euphorics that were legal were never so strong as to
blitz you out. If it was anything other than that doubt those two would be
walking.
That was one freedom the big city offered that I'd eschewed, and didn't
miss it. Can't draw while you're stoned, period, full stop.
<Bingle-Bingle>.
I started, as the AT snapped me out of my musings. End of ride coming
up.
Then everything tilted gently down, and it was so as the train headed
towards the station. Lioness and a couple of others passengers were already up
and moving to the doors on the other side of the train. Fox and bunny grabbed
hold of seat backs and poles and got high heels oriented, giggling, since it took
them a bit of work. Male footwear's less sexy but much more practical, I've
noticed. Honey-Bunny reached out and smoothed down Foxy's dress, ending it
with an ass-pat that was more foreplay-caress than pat. A mock-slap from Foxy;
down, horny bunny.
I stood up and stepped to the doors opposite me. Hmmm. Seemed like
Honey-Bunny was the more aggressive member of the pair. A reversal there, if
true. But predator and prey doesn't completely define us. I was seeing their public
personas. Behind closed doors, every chance it was the dom Foxy who was on
top, all the bunny coming-on just a show of willingness and eagerness intended
to inspire a wild pounce. On the basis of one example that sounded kinda
familiar.
Some comfort, perhaps, that I know how it all works. Or was supposed to
work. Grew up around a lot of people who'd made it work; I haven't been blind.
And some differences don't make a difference, y'know? If Foxy and HoneyBunny could do it, why couldn't I?
Forget jealousy. I should be taking these two as an inspiration. Simply
smile and say, hello Jamati, you're looking beautiful tonight. Can a sharp-dressed
meerkat who's not what he seems take you out for dinner and dancing some
night? It really could be that easy...
Something must have shown on my face. In the door window I saw
Honey-Bunny's eyebrows rise slightly. Theyd come up beside me. They could
see me in the door window too. We had a little AT Moment of ignoring/notignoring each other as we waited for the train to roll to a halt. I caught a whiff of
Honey-Bunny's perfume. Erotica, I think. It suited her.
But on the other side of Honey-Bunny, the game was still on for Foxy.
The touch of wicked-playful on her muzzle was plain as day. She took her lover's
hand, hitched up purse, <Bongle!> and the doors opened, then skip again as they
turned to the left and we were back at it. I slowed a pace and dropped back. I
swear, that gorgeous bushy tail was laughing at me.
Oh Foxy, Foxy, Foxy. If you only knew.
Honey-Bunny's ears rose; now she was back into it too. Which was
hotter, the pretty bunny cottontail, or the fox's white-tipped luxury? You don't
often get the chance to compare and contrast like this. Maybe by a hair, the
bunny. Liked her ass better.
No pun intended, by the way.
We paraded down the concourse in formation, headed for the escalators
to the subway tracks like everyone else, everyone else oblivious to the little show
we were putting on. Or how much fun this was. Much busier now, traffic coming
from minibus routes as well as the light rail trains. I'd lost track of Lioness.
Page 14 of 30
Now wouldn't it be funny if they were headed for Layers too?

Hmmm. No, not really. They'd be thoroughly creeped out by the time we
got there. And there was no way for me to tell them I wasn't stalking them. I was
after much hotter prey. Considerably hotter.
Bunny and fox asses have their merits, but I know what tiger ass looks
like. Meowrr.
Hmmm again. Now would they be insulted or not if I told them? Let's
not do that and say we'll never know.
We were nearing the escalators. Oh ho, and they were headed into the
Hub too; the big sign said express platform. No stops at the stations, just straight
to the downtown. A few meters ahead, the girls stepped onto the escalator,
careful with their high heels, then I followed and leaned on the rail as we
descended into the Georgia earth.
Idle thought: what would happen if I told them everything? Hey girls,
Mr. Meerkat is really a Ms. About that absence of a G-string: meowrr. After you
glue your ears back on, why don't we make a troika of it and we go and eat this
town alive? And you know troika is just another way to spell threesome.
Yah, that would really be letting the meerkat out of the bag, wouldn't it?
I'm having trouble making a pass at a tigress, and now I'm contemplating hitting
on a fur lesbian couple who could probably eat me alive. Was there something in
that gumbo I should know about?
Never let it be said that meerkat lust doesn't have some fire to it. Out the
corner of my eye, I watched them leaning on the rail the same as me. Really, they
were both perfect, utterly beautiful, utterly sexy. Hell, the city was bursting at the
seams with perfect women (they can't all be straight), and if there was any
freedom this place boasted of the most it was the simple freedom to walk up to
any of them and say Hello, I'm Kylah. I think you're both wonderfully pretty and
I'd love to make your acquaintance. Which isn't a euphemism. Or not at the
moment.
And they're free to say, bug off, creepy meerkat. And stop staring at our
asses or we'll mace you. Think that's what you call the worst case scenario.
I sighed. Freedom's just another word for whether or not you're gonna get
kicked in the fangs, I suppose. And was it any different back in the country?
Truth to tell it was, or seemed so as I observed the mating habits of my peers
from afar.
It was the opinions of others that mattered more greatly, and if they
approved or not. Meaning families, specifically. It was as though the kids from
the 'right' families all but had a license to boink with each other. Could've done it
on the school principal's desk and everybody would've said, fine, fine, fine. Do
you think your Daddy would like me? Yeah, maybe. Great, wanna go skinnydippin'? That's a direct quote.
Interesting insight there. You feel like you've got permission to do sexual
things, you can do 'em with ease. Back home, that permission (or disapproval)
came from other people. In the city, that comes solely from the other person. As
you give your permission to them. Small wonder there are so few lesbians (or
gays) in the country. Or for damnsure not very visible. Hey Daddy, can I have the
car tonight? Kathy and I want to go back-roadin'.
POWIE!!
Or worse.
I shivered. I got out before the fuse reached the main charge. I don't
dwell on how close a call it was.
I looked at Foxy and Honey-Bunny again. A blast of air from an
incoming train rushed past us, making Honey-Bunny's hair fly and riffling Foxy's
fur. We were nearing the bottom of the escalator. Almost wished I could talk to
Page 15 of 30
them. How'd that permission happen for you two? Where'd the first spark get
struck? What's the 'lesbian way?'
Not as dumb as it sounds to say that, either. There's sure as hell a 'straight
way,' and everybody gets pretty thoroughly dipped in it by the time they finish
high school. This is how you're supposed to get together and make it work, boys
and girls. This is the sexual party line, and God help you if you stray from it
'cause no-one else will. Although if you get too together too often somebody's
going to have trouble finishing high school.
Can't say I was ever at risk of that. There's a spin-off benefit to being
lesbian for you. All the time spent not chasing boys, or being chased by them,
went into the marks that won me the scholarship that enabled my escape. Credit
due also to Mrs. Reynolds, the school art teacher, I suppose, who would have
fired me out of a cannon to get me to some more advanced training.
Although if a certain very strict Baptist Collie fur ever finds out whose
body I used in fantasy to get so good at nude studies, mortified wouldn't begin to
describe her. Milf with an arf. Meowrr again.
I stepped off the escalator and headed for the waiting train; timing was
working well on this expedition. Foxy and Honey-Bunny had disappeared inside
and sat down. Flicker of a thought: should I head for another car? The game
couldn't go on for that much longer or they were going to get nervous.
Then flicker vanished. Not my problem, and they started it, and as much
as they had my attention I did have other things to think about on the trip
Hubward. So I'll just take a side seat here, a good ways away from them, and
stretch out my legs and stop looking at them. That make you more comfortable,
girls? Mr. Meerkat's going to just relax and look like he's napping.
<Bongle!>, and the doors closed, and we all felt it as the train engines
engaged and hurtled us forcefully out of the station. I closed my eyes and sat
back to enjoy the smooth ride. The express trains could hit a hundred kilometers
an hour through the spaghetti-mess of tunnels under the city. Fortunately, the
folks who'd programmed the AT supercomps that ran it all believed that the
words fail-safe should mean something.
People here took it so much for granted. I never will, coming as I do
from a part of the world where people still regularly ran their trucks into
telephone poles. Hey Jimmy-Bob, does the ethanol go in the tank or down my
gullet? 'Nuff said.
When they were younger Jack and Bill trashed one of our pickups in a
rollover, bootleg beer being the causative liquid. Freedom's just another word for
being able to smash yourself to jam in an old Dodge? Yeah, there's a ring of truth
to that one. Bill driving and banged up bad. Jack less so, but he said later he
almost forgot his seatbelt. Otherwise we'd have been picking up pieces of him for
five fields over, he'd have been thrown out so far.
For absolute certain Bill told Jack; the elder. I know the odd look I got
from him a few days later was not kosher. But might've been my saving grace
too. Jack had picked up some unusual brawn for a meerkat, could ass-whup Bill
in a country second, and I truly do wonder if he enforced Bill's silence with the
threat of a mega-ass-whupping.
Bill was a fun guy in a lot of ways, a little on the roly-poly side, but
when God was handing out horse sense I think Bill somehow ended up at the
wrong end of the horse. Just didn't think it through when he opened his muzzle a
lot of times. Blabbing about me would have been done without an ounce of
thinking about the consequences.
But Jack: now thank God for the blessing of a head on top of all that
muscle. Loved him, just loved him, a baby sister and [real] big brother thing.
Couldn't possibly fight back against him, but never needed to since there was no
meanness in him, just play, even when I was screaming and hanging upside down
off his shoulder. Bill, now, he would make me cry sometimes, and got a kick out
of it. Then I got a kick out of Jack rescuing me and making Bill cry. How do
things work with your brothers and sisters?
Page 16 of 30
But for that dynamic, no idea what could have happened. Bill's talking
would have done big damage and Jack knew it. Had to've known. And no amount
of muscle could have paid it back.
Since our neurotic, high-strung, quick-to-snarl loving Momma was
getting more neurotic and snarly about her odd pretty meerkat daughter by the
day. Think of a spring getting coiled tighter and tighter. Attached to a bottle of
pure nitro. Now hide that under a slightly chubby feline body, tack on a tail that
could whip things off the table, and you had Momma.
No way we could have lived in the city. She and Daddy were made for
each other, and fought screaming like cats and... well, more cats (yes, yes, we're
not cats; so sue me). Then always made up in a way that was equally loud but
thankfully short. I know where I get my meerkat lust. Likewise anybody who
happened to be within a kilometer of our house at the right times.
So, daughter, have you met anybody yet? There's a dance coming up; do
you have a date yet? There's a good movie in town, we're going on Saturday, can
you think of anybody to bring? I hear that nice Minter boy's joining the church
youth group; have you met him yet? Have you picked out who you're giving
Valentines Day cards to yet? Huh? Huh? Have you? Have you?
When, odd daughter, are you going to find somebody who you want to
FUCK??!!
She didn't actually scream that last. She didn't have to. But as the last
year of high school drew to a close, Momma knew there was more going on than
meets the eye, and all my protests that every boy around was a complete dweeb
(true) just raised her blood pressure even further.
So was your father when I met him, she shot back tartly. Our job in life is
to marry them and un-dweeb them. And have children. I'll be happy to advise you
on both projects.
Didn't say out loud that this would require finding an insane dweeb. He'd
have to be to buy into the idea of Momma as mother-in-law. Although Daddy's
reply to this proposition told me where Jack got his brains.
Male's job in life is to make his wife think she's 'un-dweebed' him, he
chuckled (well out of Momma's earshot). That's why Adam took a bite of the
apple too. If he hadn't, Eve would have had a tactical advantage and he'd have
been completely screwed.
A dry, humourous religiousness to Daddy. I have no idea how he would
have taken it if I'd come out to him. I cared for him too much to find out. I
suspect it would have caused him terrible pain. Not the least because it would've
forced him to take a stand between his daughter and his wife.
Needless to say, I think I know how Momma would have taken it. There
would have been no end to her horror and rage. Absolutely none. Don't know if I
would've needed to run for my life but it was on the top of my options list. From
about grade six on.
Chilling to say this, but when you live in a farming community you do
come to notice that most people around you have both skills at, and attitudes
towards, killing things. And that a call to 911 wasn't going to magically turbocharge Sheriff Rupert's cruiser. Big beefy fox fur. Nice guy. Well-liked. He'd
have felt guilty as hell at being too late.
Chilling?
I opened my eyes.
Across from me was a colorful ad poster for a bank. Well-lit, clean
subway car. Foxy and Honey-Bunny a few seats down, talking quietly. A
smattering of other passengers. There was Lioness down there. I couldn't be
further from Momma, and home, and the country, if I was on Mars.
Page 17 of 30
And my mind had cast me back to all of that stuff? How'd that happen?
Quelle digression, waaay away from what I ought to be thinking about. Tigers,
tigers, tigers, is what I'm supposed to be thinking about.
And wasn't all that two years and more behind me? Just a few phone
calls and e-mail since; inconsequential. Not completely cut off but my life is here
now. I'm free now.
I glanced at Foxy and Honey-Bunny. As free as them? Now, now, let's
not be the dummy meerkat. They'd surely had their own passages here in the big
city, that made them what they are now. Tell them that story of mine and I'd get
blank stares of bafflement back. You mean there are places in the world where
two pretty lesbians can't kiss in public? Oooo, ick, how horrible for you, growing
up there.
Except it wasn't horrible. It was just home. Good things about it. Weird
things about it. Ominous things about it. Can't really say I've left it, now can I?
Just... home. I could miss it, sometimes. Sometimes I do.
What if Jamati and I did hit it off? C'mon lover, let's go visit my parents.
Seven words I might never be able to say to her.
I reached into the coat pocket and slowly brought out picture #1,
unfolded, then stared as though I'd never seen her before. What in God's name
was I really trying to do here? Seduce her? Woo her? So we end up in luuuv?
Then we live happily ever after in Lesbian Heaven. She never wears
clothes again so I can draw tiger nudes all day long. And well kiss each other
whenever the mood strikes us. Then we'll pounce on each other all night long. In
between the intensely erotic showers. For food I'll cook her the best gumbo she's
ever tasted.
Hmmm. Looks like the part of my head that does the thinking's been
mugged by the part of my head that does the fantasy. A robust hypothesis; fits the
evidence.
I traced a finger over her lips. Then smiled. And if I were to say that silly
drivel to her I'd have a giggling tigress on my paws in milliseconds, rolling on
the floor and helpless. Of course it was silly. And it wasn't what I wanted. All I
wanted was to...
A shadow fell over me. Hmmm? I looked up.
Oh. A bunny.
"Pardon my forward, but are you following us?" Honey-Bunny
demanded, her hands on her hips. Serious had overridden high, or by at least a
little.
"If you are, I could politely ask you to stop it," she frowned. "Or I could
do other things."
Well, I did I say I'd like to talk to them. Seems somebody with a sense of
humour heard me.
"No. Ah... no need for pardon," I said slowly. Damn, up close her boobs
were even nicer. "A meerkat following you, a meerkat who's taking exactly the
same route as you: hard to tell the difference."
I essayed a smile, as warm as I had. "Might be easier if I'd remembered
the sign I usually carry. In big letters: 'I'm sorry, I thought you were leading.'"
Ha! It worked. Honey-Bunny's jaw dropped. Then she giggled, as a little
of the high came back. "A sign. Oh boy. Now that is rich," she snickered.
Let's capitalize on that. "On the other hand, if you two are headed for a
club called Layers, when we get to the Hub let me get out first and you can
follow me," I drawled. "That's where I'm going."
Page 18 of 30
I cocked my head, as if trying to look around behind her. "Although I can

tell you with confidence the view won't be nearly as interesting. Or in stereo."
Now take a risk. "Pardon my forward, but visually speaking, the two of
you do make beautiful music together," I purred.
Honey-Bunny's ears shot up. To my left, Foxy hurriedly snapped her
phone closed, then dropped it in her purse and got up. Ah: Honey-Bunny had
taken the moment of distraction as opportunity to move. The game didn't call for
that.
Foxy came over to put a paw on Honey-Bunny's shoulder (fox-style
hands, not human, I noticed). "I do trust my slightly-stoned 'n over-touchy bunny
lover hasn't said anything that needs apologizin' for here," Foxy said, with a
warning glance at Honey-Bunny. "We're all just out for some fun tonight. Which
don't necessitate givin' offense and interferin' with anybody else's."
Louisiana was thick in in her voice. I had them pegged right; Foxy was
the dominant one after all. Which didn't stop Honey-Bunny from bristling. "Now
you hold on! I'm being perfectly polite..." she began to growl.
I waved a hand. "Please, hardly any offense taken," I said smoothly.
"Perhaps a mite of jumping to conclusions, but that don't signify. I find admiring
from a distance a pleasure. Keeping that distance just prolongs the pleasure, now
don't it?"
Oooo, we are smooth tonight. Was every second word I said to them
going to be a flirtatious one? Down, horny meerkat.
Foxy looked nonplussed. Honey-Bunny blinked. Then giggled (ah, that
bunny giggle) and whispered to Foxy: "Translation: I think he likes our butts."
"I think we already knew that," Foxy smiled.
I pointed a finger at Foxy. "And I think part of your pleasure arises from
making the most of 'em in front of eyes that are most likely to appreciate. Male or
female, I'd speculate, and not the first time you've done it. I saw your little skip
that put you two in step. Not once but twice."
Furs can't blush--all the fur--but Foxy looked like she was trying. "And
I'm busted?" Honey-Bunny laughed, and bumped Foxy with her hip. "C'mon,
'fess up. He caught us."
"Ah, ah, ah," I said quickly. Diplomacy here; let's not make Foxy do that.
"Nobody's caught nuthin'. And wouldn't it be a passing foolish thing for me to
catch you? Oh, oh, a beautiful lesbian fox and a luscious lesbian bunny, prisoners
of the charming straight meerkat. Why, whatever on Earth would he do with
them?"
Everything? Nonono, don't say that...
Foxy and Honey-Bunny looked at each other. "Only several billion guys
out there with fantasies to answer that question, and in considerable explicit
terms," Foxy said dryly.
"I don't think that's how he meant that," Honey-Bunny snickered.
"Although if youre referring to the fantasy where the two horny prisoner lesbian
pussy-slaves are forced to have wild, torrid, endlessly creative sex with each
other while he watches, then heyyy... You do know how hot you'd look in a
harem outfit, don't you?"
Pussy-slaves? "That's it: no more midnight-cable lesbian BDSM porn for
you, horny bunny," Foxy giggled.
Gulp. Ah say, ah say, gulp. And Horny-Bunny would have gotten it past
me too but for the tiniest flash of mischievous in her eyes. These two were fast.
The game was not over. Quickly now, we need a good riposte...
Page 19 of 30
I spread my hands. "What can I say? I've always wanted to direct," I

grinned.
Bingo. Both girls burst out laughing as I chuckled. If the ice hasn't been
broken it's surely been reduced to cubes.
I still held the picture of Jamati. Foxy noticed. "As entertaining as your
pussy-slave bunny's fantasy might be, I've got more important ones on my mind
tonight," I said, and handed her the paper. Honey-Bunny leaned in to look.
Poing! In stereo, as both fox and bunny ears went straight up. "Oh. Oh
my," Foxy whispered. "Now that..."
"...Is one very beautiful tiger," Honey-Bunny murmured, unconsciously
licking her lips. "I'm obviously partial to hot foxes, but I think my bunny heart
can spare a pitter-pat for her. And I feel no shame in saying that 'cause I can hear
a certain fox heart going hiccup too."
Honey-Bunny looked at me. "You drew that?"
"Uh huh."
"You're damn good. Available as a poster?"
"Thank you. Better'n me at the art school but not by much. Poster, not at
the moment. But could be, if things work out."
Foxy was still staring. Then shook her head. "Then I surely pray they
do," she said. "And that you can get some copies to Lillian's Book Nook on Fifth
street; we work there. You got her with that image, you have."
Her eyes narrowed. "Or am I jumping to conclusions?" Foxy said. "Did
someone pose for that or did you make her up?"
I opened my mouth. Then shut it. "You know, that's tricky to answer. Her
name's Jamati. She didn't pose, so in a way I did make it up. But she didn't have
to pose. I've sure as hell spent enough time looking at her."
Now I not-blushed, that calling to mind some of the poses that she was
sure good at. "You mean fantasizing about her," Honey-Bunny said slyly. "And
you're carrying around a picture of her over your heart. Oooo, romantic artist you
are."
Foxy turned and sat down on the seats to my left that faced me, then
handed me the picture. "Somehow, I think he's got reasons that truly suffice," she
said to Honey-Bunny, who joined her.
I chuckled as I tucked the picture back into the jacket. "If you don't pass
the blood test for romantic they don't let you join the union. All right: we'll be
honest about it and say fantasizing. Wotta surprise. What do you call a nonfantasizing artist? Dead broke. I've just had tigresses on the brain recently, and
yeah, with reason. I've gone through a lot of orange and black ink."
"I speculate that's because you haven't been putting many clothes on
her," Honey-Bunny teased.
I shook my head slowly. "Nope. And again, with reason. But hey, any
excuse to practice nude technique."
More honesty: I've never seen her wear any clothes for longer than it
took to get rid of them. Should I show them the second picture? Ohhh, why not? I
dug back into the jacket and unfolded.
As one, a fox and a bunny sighed deeply. That sounded a little familiar.
"Oh. Em. Gee," Foxy breathed. "You say you still have to practice nude
technique, Mister Meerkat? Pull mah foxy leg harder; the glue's gotta give
sometime. Wow!!"
Page 20 of 30
"And we thought our behinds would make him sweat," Honey-Bunny

said ironically. "Too late: he's already been inoculated. I'll see your wow and
raise you a drool. Any advance on a drool? "
"Yeah: the hard-on he had while he drew this," Foxy whispered, and
Honey-Bunny giggled.
Close but no cigar, girls. Snicker.
"No, this is really excellent," Foxy said, holding the picture up. "And my
eye for art is a good one if I do say so. I mean, tigers are tigers, predators par
excellence, and they've got a sexy like nobody else, period. Especially if you've
got fantasies about your lover eating you alive, the both of you in ecstasy as you
go down. I could mention a certain bunny in this context. But you can see right
here: she's got that ecstasy in her, and more. Or at least she's got it in this art. You
gotta turn this one into poster size. Your Jamati'll have most of the lesbians in
this city at her feet if you do but I can't imagine her tiger ego'll suffer much harm
from that."
Whoa. "I... won't say the idea hurts the meerkat ego either," I said
weakly. "Always nice to come up with art that makes an impact. In your
pocketbook."
Although the thought of hordes of lustful lesbians worshiping my tigress
was good for a little hyperventilating. He-llo? Over here? The lesbian meerkat
who started it all...?
Again, Honey-Bunny picked up on me; must be those sensitive ears. "I
think... my foxy lover is making a teensy assumption," she said slowly. "When
she says 'your Jamati,' that is. Using the term the same way I truthfully do when I
say 'my foxy lover.' Implying that we do a pile of rollin' around without our
clothes on."
My, but we're storing up a lot of material to sketch on this trip.
"Could be jumping to another conclusion, to think that's true of you and
Jamati," Honey-Bunny said softly. "Is it true? Or are you just in love from
distance too?"
Suddenly, it occurred to me that apart from the raccoon these were the
only people I've remotely talked to about Jamati. Friends at the school: just
casual ones, no good for romantic heart-to-hearts. Especially lesbian ones. Now
guess who's sitting beside me?
Thank you, Lord, for the lifetime supply of irony you just dropped on
me. Hope I didn't deplete your inventory.
I looked at Honey-Bunny. "I've always had my suspicions about bunny
furs. You use the ears for mindreading, right? To answer your question, no. Full
disclosure on a postage stamp: Jamati and I aren't lovers. Met her about a month
and a half back. She's the star erotic dancer at Layers. And yes, that raises some
huge technical questions. I may be redefining the term 'going after big game.' I've
spent the last few weeks scratching my ears trying to think of what to do. But at
least my pen hasn't been sleeping."
A loud <Snnnk!> from Foxy, as she looked at the picture; with her long
muzzle that meant something. "Oh yah, he's drawing tons of art like this, he's not
sleeping much either," she snickered. "And no worries about runnin' outta one
type of 'ink.'"
Quite correct in several ways, but that earned her a light punch in the
shoulder from Honey-Bunny. "Dirty fox, you take that back," she scolded. "That
ain't much polite. I think I was dead right about the romantic. This is something
out of Paris, and the Moulin Rouge, and Toulouse-Lautrec doing hot paintings of
those strippers. Less the stripes and tail. And the sexy fangs."
That said as she glanced at the art. And licked her lips again. There's a
difference for you between human and fur sexuality: we eroticize teeth. And with
reason.
Page 21 of 30
I rubbed my muzzle. "Hmmm. Layers isn't the Moulin Rouge, I'll say
that much about the place. And the meerkat artist ego'll take the comparison to
Lautrec and preen a little. Other than that it fails. I don't drink absinthe and I
don't meet the height requirement. Although I suppose a pair of kneepads could
remedy that."
Foxy handed me back the image. "Since going down on bended knee in
front of her is what you most desperately want to do," she smiled. "Suspect she
gets a lot of that from guys. And the occasional lesbian. I surely don't wonder
why."
Whoa again. Out of the mouths of foxes. Then again, what's usually
supposed to happen when a crush works out between two people? And they fall
in love? Really, seriously, in love, like a certain fox and bunny I could name (if I
learn their names; can't keep calling them Foxy and Honey-Bunny forever).
Heart inspection, Kylah-kitten. Fine: you've got it bad for a tigress. But
who Jamati is on stage, and when she moves, isn't necessarily who she is off
stage. If everything goes astonishingly right I could just end up finding out that
she's a vain furry airhead who can only love who she sees in the mirror. Exit
crushed meerkat, stage left.
Or no: I'm right about her. My art is right about her. And I'm in love bigtime...
I swallowed hard. "You know, it probably could go that far. But can't say
that's been part of recent fantasizing, indicating that maybe there's still some
sense left under my fuzzy ears. That fantasy requires the co-fantasy of finding a
bigger apartment; much more difficult. Although now you've got me wondering
how to draw a wedding dress that goes with orange 'n black 'n a long tail.
Hmmm, a challenge."
I shrugged. "But hey, what's one more? Small beer compared to the
present mountain of 'em. I mean, can't just jump on stage and say 'Hi Jamati,
wanna go out on a date? Say two weeks from now; should be healed up by then
from the ass-whupping the bouncers are about to hand me.'"
I looked at the picture. Yah, I'd caught the joyful in her, all right.
"Although it might be worth it. If she said yes."
"I recall you're supposed to suffer for your art, but not to the point of
committing suicide-by-bouncer," Foxy giggled. "Do try and come up with a
different tactic. First time you talk to her it shouldn't end with you screaming
from a shot to the kidneys. And I assume correctly that you haven't talked to her."
Honey-Bunny cocked her head. "Actually, he might already have a pretty
good tactic." She pointed at the picture. "Your art's your calling card. Not a
guaranteed one--save the hot stuff for a second date--but if you're able to hand
that to her directly and keep your footpaw out of your muzzle it might impress
her better than proving how well you can take a punch. Although you never
know. Some women get hot when males fight."
"I'll take Foxy's advice and not test that theory. Knowing the bouncers at
Layers, fight wouldn't last long enough to prove anything one way or the other.
Except for proving that a meerkat can fly. I can fight, but you could say there's a
mass differential to consider."
"Then the lesbian bunny's matchmaking advice is cut the romantic
bullshit and try the direct approach. Straight business proposition. You're the
most beautiful tiger I've ever seen, I've done some hot art, there's a market for
some posters. Let's find a lawyer and talk rights 'n contract."
Foxy stuck out her tongue. "Bleagh! That makes their first date a
threesome. In an office."
Honey-Bunny raised a finger. "Ah, but notice how that ensures there'll be
a second date," she said craftily. "And maybe some nude modeling sessions. She
Page 22 of 30
might wonder why you're not wearing any clothes either, but just tell her it helps
you work and go from there."
Gah! And did that get the three of us laughing or what? And it was a
significant improvement on the modeling concept. Didn't involve the school, did
involve a lawyer, but I knew a lot about how commercial art worked, legally
speaking. Make some test posters on the school's hardware, round up some preorders, score a micro-loan, do a run...
Then I noticed Honey-Bunny had stopped laughing and was looking at
Foxy with a strange expression on her face. "What?" Foxy chuckled, as she
noticed too.
"Oh, just a funny thought," Honey-Bunny whispered, reaching out to
brush at one of Foxy's ears. "Serendipity handing us an opportunity on a platter.
This fellow's obviously damn good at tigers, and it ain't no assumption to bet that
his other tiger art could not be turned into posters. Not unless they came in a
poster-sized brown paper bag. But if he's even half as good at foxes as he is at
putting tigers into naughty poses, and if he takes commissions, then I for one
wouldn't mind a poster on our bedroom wall of you posing. And doing something
delicious that would curl your Momma's tail."
Commission?
Then Honey-Bunny blinked. "Wait. Knowing your Mom and Dad,
whatever he draws she's probably done it already. No matter." She looked at me.
"I'm an impulsive bunny, and this is an impulsive idea, and I'm a little high here
as I think about it, so no reason for anybody to take it seriously. Especially since
I haven't checked to see if my foxy lover wants to pose nude. But I am curious if
you've got an opinion about it."
Wasn't hard to tell Foxy's opinion. "Wow. And I do mean oh wow!" she
squealed. "Bunny, hold me back! I'll do it if you'll do it. Two posters. Both of us
in stripper poses; Mister Meerkat's specialty, or at least one of 'em. Make us look
like the girls at Pussy Galore, only hotter."
"Lesbian fur strip club and bar and dance floor; really raunchy," Foxy
added, as I tried gamely to catch up with them. " That's where we're going
tonight. They use sex toys onstage."
Gulp. "Oh. Of course," I said weakly. "Why, never visited a lesbian fur
strip club where they didn't." Commission?
Honey-Bunny snickered. "Unless you've got a talent for drag, 'never
visited' are the operative words there. And the bouncers--real big girls--are
remarkably good at spotting that."
"Oh, I don't know," I murmured. "As challenges go that's a bit on the
kinky side. But I've got some theater experience. Make a threesome of it, we
might pull it off."
Both Foxy and Honey-Bunny went a little wide-eyed at that. "Purely for
research purposes, y'understand," I said dryly. "Not to commit to anything, but if
I'm to have even a faint hope of making you look like lesbian strippers, could be
helpful if I've seen some." I'm pretty sure if they could've seen my tail twitching
behind me the game would have been up.
"Let's skip the risk of getting banned from Galore's and just say either of
us can do a reasonable imitation," Honey-Bunny giggled. "But you're not
sounding pessimistic."
Could I draw these two in erotic poses? Hold me back. From doing
backflips down the length of the subway car. Also model material, the both of
them; should steer them towards the school too. And good also to spark a thought
about a minor career track: lesbian erotic portraiture. Want to see your pretty
lover as hot art, the way you've never seen her before? Who you gonna call?
Serendipity. You can't turn it down. Especially if it lets you stare at
naked bunnies and foxes to your heart's content.
Page 23 of 30
I still had picture #2 in my hand. I folded it and put it away. "It's

Saturday night, and you've got Monday morning idea there," I said. "Meaning
we're going to be at the Hub soon and onto other subjects, so turning a fox and a
bunny into hot art--or rather, hotter than they are at the moment--is something
that can wait until Monday. That said, I expect to be thinking about it tomorrow.
Lillian's Book Nook on Fifth; I know how to reach you. No promises now, but I
like the idea so far. My name's... Kyle. Perry."
"Samantha Reid," Foxy said. "This is Theresa Lee under the ears.
Pleased to make your acquaintance." Samantha put out a hand and we shook.
Theresa did the same. "You'll forgive me if I continue to call your tails Foxy and
Honey-Bunny," I smiled.
Samantha and Theresa looked at each other. "If we go through with this
we could tell him some of the names we use," Theresa purred slyly.
"Hush up, bunny. After he draws the art, not before," Samantha grinned.
"Lest he have difficulty drawing the art." Then reached out and brushed the back
of a paw against a bunny breast.
Yes, wise idea. Although a few names for that pair came to mind.
"You're very much in love, aren't you?" I murmured. That just slipped out. And I
know there was envy in my voice.
"More than I think I have a right to be," Theresa whispered, looking at
Samantha. "Fox of my dreams just touched my boob. How good is that, hmmm?"
"Some people say lesbians are all too flighty," Samantha said quietly to
me. "True for quite a few, actually, who go through partners like chocolate chip
cookies. When the box is empty, get another one and keep munching."
Now a loud <Snnnk!> from Theresa. "Metaphorically speaking, dirty
bunny," Samantha growled, as I chuckled.
"But I just touched the boob of the bunny of my dreams," Samantha said
softly. "And if I did it again we probably would get busted by the AT; won't tell
you about some close calls. I'm a fox. She's a bunny. Predator and prey. Good to
eat. The only bunny I'll ever want to. No metaphors there in the slightest."
"Awwww," Theresa awww'd, looking like she was going to melt on the
spot. "You say the sweetest hungriest things sometimes." She leaned in and put
her arms around Samantha's neck and kissed her lightly on the nose. "Anything
you wanna bite, fox, anytime, anywhere, you know you got it," she growled.
Samantha rrrr'd, deep in her throat, and her muzzle opened a bit to
display sharp, sharp fox fangs. "And you're gonna get it," she purred. "Turns me
on when you squeal, you know. And do you squeal." She licked Theresa's nose.
"And you bark when you cum so we're even."
"Hush. He doesn't need to know that. Us lesbian pussy-slaves have to
have some secrets."
"Hee hee hee."
Fewer than you think, girls. Pussy-slaves to each other. There's a
definition of lesbian love you don't hear every day.
Theresa let go and scritched between Samantha's ears; the fox mrrrr'd
with pleasure. Then to me: "As much as you're a predator, you're going after a
bigger one, so a helpful hint from a prey species. You'll feel her hunger like a live
thing sometimes, very strong, and very hot. And very good. There will be play
that'll involve her fangs at your throat. Scary. But also one king-hell of a turn-on.
And you'll get to do it to her too. I could be jealous."
"Nothing to do with lesbian or straight there," I smiled. "I'm well aware.
Hickey's take on new meaning for furs. Got a friend at school whose girlfriend
just can't help herself. He's always sporting a bandage somewhere. If Jamati's in
Page 24 of 30
the mood for that, well, what can I say? When it comes to romance risk is
supposed to be a man's middle name."
"She's a tiger," Theresa said wryly. "If she's in the mood for it your
middle name is Lunch."
I snickered. "Memo to self: in the interests of self-preservation let's take
her to the best restaurants we can afford. Look for all-you-can-eat offers. We can
probably ignore the salad bar."
Giggles all round at that. "Or you could be going on the basis of
stereotypes there," Samantha smiled. "Body like hers, salad might be all she
eats."
"No. Not enough calories," I chuckled. "The way she performs she can't
be depending on lettuce for fuel."
"Yesss, erotic dancer, you said," Theresa murmured speculatively. "Who,
if my limited knowledge of the biz is any guide, is a trained and skilled expert at
using her body to inspire fantasy in the male viewer. Or female, depending. Had
a chance to talk to some of the girls at Galore; same principles apply, plus a little
more hardware. Not to pry, but is it just meerkat hormones ensnared by that
fantasy, or do you think it's something more? I ask because, with respect, there is
cause to be skeptical of a male claim of love at first sight when it's a stripper that
he's sighted in on. Ditto a female claim of same; see previous source."
I blinked. Now out of the mouths of bunnies. That was not an unfair
question, or wouldn't be if it was a male meerkat they were talking to. Not quite
as applicable to the lesbian meerkat they were actually talking to.
Or was it?
"The first show I saw her do, yeah, ka-zap: flood 'o hormones, just like
the fantasy was supposed to generate," I said slowly. Just not the hormones you
think, I added silently. "In principle that shouldve been that. Most folks can take
that kind of sexual rush without getting too twisted up. Then I saw her second
show, and started to watch her more seriously. Artist's eyes kicking in, I guess.
Saw how she pulled it off, how and why she moved the way she did, watched the
effect she created in the audience as they got zapped with the fantasy. As you
say, I'd gotten inoculated. I'm fascinated by her now, not the show. Her body
astounds me, and by now I've seen a lot of it. Didn't take me long to get her right
on paper."
I paused for a moment. That wasn't all there was to it, and I knew it. 'Fess
up, meerkat.
"And her body tells me little about who she is," I said in a low voice.
"But all our bodies do tell some things. I've got some especial skill at
understanding how that works. I like what I see. I want what I see in my life
because she's good, very good. If I'm wrong about her, poof, that's it, I'll never
make it as an artist with eyes like these. Is City Sanitation hiring garbagemen?
But I'm not wrong. How to get her in my life? Non-trivial question there, no?
Prior to the poster notion one thing I was thinking of, shades of Lautrec, was
finding out if she'd be interested in a nude modeling gig at the school."
I looked at Samantha and Theresa. "As an aside, thought the same about
you two. If we do decide on some erotic portrait work thats probably where I'd
prefer to do it. The school studios have the lighting systems I don't. I'd point out
it would be one way to pay for your portraits. Fair warning, it isn't the easy work
it seems. And not that the word portrait calls to mind anything erotic, but after
I'm through with you, it will."
Samantha and Theresa brightened. "I knew we picked the right dresses to
wear tonight," Theresa said. "I think it's what's under 'em he's paying compliment
on," Samantha giggled.
I raised a hand. "Please, I am an artist. Purely an artist. The thought of
seeing two beautiful lesbian girls in their birthday suits--birthday fur?--does
nothing for me whatsoever."
Page 25 of 30
A dubious fox and a disbelieving bunny stared at me.

Now for the other shoe. "Of course, actually seeing two beautiful lesbian
fur girls in their birthday suits will probably cause me to walk slightly funny for a
while, but hey, that's normal enough," I purred mischievously. "Not a problem,
since I draw with my fingers."
"Eep!" That was from Theresa. Samantha had a hand in front of her
muzzle, giggling silently. "Oh my," she finally laughed. "This guy gets five
minutes to talk to this tigress, he'll be eating her G-string off her in the next five.
Presuming she's wearing one."
"Now, now, false sense of confidence," Theresa chided, chuckling. "But
yes, agreed: he's good at the talking part." She eyed me frankly. "And likely good
at the rest of it. Meaning it's unlikely his muzzle's going to end up with shoe
leather in it. And that means it all hinges on whether Jamati's smart enough to see
that this is one of the good ones. If she does, you two get to start something. If
she doesn't--and you listen good to the cute bunny, y'hear--fault's wholly on her,
not you, and you're free of her. Her eyes are screwed up, not yours."
I considered that. "If this is the kind of ego-boost it gets me I should
follow more lesbians around more often. Although I notice a clear attempt in that
advice to armour me against failure."
Theresa shrugged. "Love's the hardest damn thing in the world. Look
how many who either don't find it, fuck it up, or who just suck at it. Cupid's
actually a shitty shot with that bow of his. Luck 'n prayer, luck 'n prayer; you
want to score as much of both as you can."
"Cupid seems to have nailed you two pretty clean," I observed. "How'd
you get started?" Which was something I was rather curious about.
Theresa took Samantha's hand. "What, the longest lesbian courtship in
history, wouldn't you say?"
Samantha smiled. "Depends. How far back do you want to go? My
family moved next to yours when I was five; you were six. Does best friends
while we were growing up count as courtship?"
"Yes," Theresa said promptly. "On account of that's when I learned
everything about you. And you about me. And that I loved you, more'n my own
sisters. And we learned to play with each other. Good God 'n gravy, you think
that's not important? Girls and girls, and boys and boys, are able to do that in a
way that girls and boys don't really, or at least don't as easily. Then sex comes
along, boobies pop out, hard-ons do more of it, and is sex all the two of you are
going to do with each other? You love someone, you gotta be able to play with
'em in ways that don't involve the sound of bedsprings. Keep that in mind with
your likely very playful kitty, meerkat. Lotta folks think bedroom play's the only
thing that counts. As horny as I am a lot of the time, even I know that's rubbish."
"I don't think I've got twenty years to get to be play-friends with a
beautiful tigress," I said wryly. "If we're not on our way to friends after twenty
minutes, could be an uphill fight. As for play: well put, stone-true no matter your
lover's gender, and words I could've said myself. Meerkats like to play too. I'm
counting on us having some points in common that way."
Samantha spoke up. "Partly the differences that helped too," she said
mildly. "Foxes and bunnies: there is a thing between us, the attraction between
predator and prey. The thrill of it, to be honest. Even as much as none of us furs
have more'n a fraction of animal genes inside. Must be enough. Hey, pretty
neighbour bunny, do you like to play chase 'n pounce games? I promise I won't
bite. Insert picture here of gleeful fox girl jumping around and wrestling with
laughing bunny girl. Who was bigger n me and was always stuffing my tail in
my muzzle."
"Looking back on all that I have to classify it as foreplay," Theresa
grinned. "We just didn't know it. Scared my Mom, though, the first time she saw
Page 26 of 30
us. Theresa, you're a bunny fur and she's got fangs! Yeah, and when I pull her
tail, she lets go. Your point is?"
"I can still see her rolling her eyes at the wedding," Samantha laughed.
"The funniest thing she said to you: 'All right, so you're marrying a fox. Fine, but
for my peace of mind I'm still gonna ask your honeymoon hotel to keep some
EMTs on standby.' I think she was joking."
Yet again whoa, as fox and bunny giggled. I looked at their fingers. Yup,
two small gold bands in the right place. "And I'm the artist with the sharp eyes,
am I?" I said. "By Jove they are married."
"Five years," Theresa said quietly, holding up her hand. "Soon as we
finished our BAs at Georgia State. But I think we were mated well before then."
"Not without some stumbles," Samantha pointed out. "Your tits came
out, what, at eleven? Mine a little later. And we both went through how many
futile boyfriends? Before we finally realized that hetero was not something we
could honestly put on the resume."
Theresa scowled. "Didn't help that we were surrounded by dweebs with
tits on the brain. Do you remember the Saunders boys? Who tried to take us out
on a parking double-date? You bit Tom on the tail to stop him as he tried to
swarm me, then I got in a lucky muzzle shot as Dan tried to stop you. He forgot I
took karate. We walked home feeling ten feet tall and bulletproof."
Now why was I starting to really empathize with these two? Must be a
reason...
"Oh yah. Good times," Samantha growled. "Not. And even more of a
pleasure, we gotta count all those sex-ed classes that didn't even know how to
spell the words lesbian or gay. By way of assuming everybody was straight. Very
helpful."
Theresa looked curiously at Samantha. "Would it have made a difference
if they had been? I mean, my fantasy life by then was giving me enough clues,
mainly due to the singular absence of penises. Vibrators have their advantages, so
I hardly missed the real thing. If we had come out separately, might just have
gone chasing after other tails than each other's."
Samantha reached up and caressed one of Theresa's ears, then down for a
scritch between them; Theresa closed her eyes and mmmm'd. "I think the way we
did come out worked pretty well," Samantha whispered. "I'd just been dumped
again, and you dragged me and an icebox of wine coolers to the beach to take my
mind off it. You fit damn well into that blue G-string. Three wine coolers later
and much gnashing of fangs at yet another bastard--think we both kinda expected
the horny to wake up someday when, ha! we found the right cock--then I dozed
off for a bit in the sun."
"Cultured, refined, well-educated fox here," Theresa said to me. "Who
can curse like a drunk Marine. I'm forever astonished."
"Well, so was I when I woke up," Samantha said fondly. "And found you
looking at me with something real strong in your eyes. You thought I was still
out. And horny woke up. And I said to myself, hey wait a minute, lesbian
epiphany time: this is the one I love, and have for a long time. I want to kiss her.
I really, really want to kiss her, since she's more beautiful than sin and oh, she'd
be good at doin' it."
"Then you did kiss me," Theresa said in a small voice. "Which is what I'd
started praying for. Since I'd started fantasizing about you. Screw the Pope: I
have my own proof for the existence of God."
"Then after we barely got off the beach, we sure enough did some
sinnin'," Samantha growled hotly. "Interesting how we got to make it a twofer.
Women not supposed to lie with women, women not supposed to lie with
animals. Tsk, Devil's gonna have a puzzle figuring where to put us in Hell."
Page 27 of 30
"So long as you're on top of me, don't care if he decides on a shoebox,"

Theresa whispered. Then leaned in, her arms going around Samantha's neck
again.
Mmmm. That had to be the most sensuous, the most loving, and also one
of the most steamy kisses I've ever seen two women do. Might have to work to
get that on paper.
Have to say as it'd be worth it.
It ended. "I think we owe our meerkat friend here," Samantha murmured,
her hands rubbing on Theresa's waist. "Haven't thought about that beach in a
while."
"I know I've got that blue number somewhere," Theresa said, breathing a
little faster. "Think I'm going to dig it out. See if it works again. Didn't somebody
speak about eating G-strings off of somebody?"
Rrrrr, from Samantha. I'd have said about the same.
"Think I'm going to stock up on blue," I said. "The colour of bunny lust.
For one bunny anyway. And no mystery about the colour of fox lust: fiery, fiery
blood-red. No worries, I can order by the gallon."
Theresa licked Samantha's nose. "You'll need every drop; I should know.
Just how much can we get away with in those school studios anyway?"
Samantha giggled, then looked at me. "I've got a bunny lover with a bit
of an exhibitionist streak. Meaning you folks may get to draw a bunny nude
model real soon. And a fox. And you may be about to get a tigress lover with a
big streak of it. Helpful hint: let her go with it just up until you're both about to
get arrested. More fun that way. And/or budget for fines. She knows what I'm
talking about."
"Now come on. I didn't know it wasn't a clothing-optional park. And I
did talk us out of it. And you enjoyed the skinny-dippin' too."
"For as long as it lasted. And we weren't skinny-dipping."
"No matter."
There's a healthy shot of deja vu for you. Barely, I kept a straight face;
don't ask me how.
As quiet as the subway was, the sound of it changed: slowing down.
Deceleration tugged at us. We'd be at the Hub soon.
"Tell you what I think: I owe you," I said quietly. "Some things are more
settled on the subject of tigress strippers, which weren't very when I started out
tonight, I'll tell you. And a possible money-making idea, and a possible
commission, and some romantic food for thought seasoned with some
practicality. I'm getting a lot for my ticket price tonight."
Theresa let go of Samantha and shrugged. "What are lesbians, I mean
friends, for? I still say you're on a romantic mission. If it succeeds because of
something we said, wunnerful. I know damn well how lucky we've been. So why
shouldn't I hope some of it rubs off on you two, hmmm?"
"He and the tigress aren't lesbian, so let's also hope our luck is
orientation-neutral," Samantha said ironically. (That's me over there trying to
keep my muzzle from exploding again).
Theresa snorted. "Orientation, schmorientation. It's horny that counts.
Gender's really only incidental to how or if that happens--'s what's between the
ears that matters; look at bi folks--so if Jamati can't get horny over this fellow
then she's a tiger twit, and good riddance to her. Heck, if we can notice how
handsome you are, so can she. If you were a lump you wouldn't have been treated
to the patented Hot Fox 'n Cute Bunny Ass Distraction Show."
Page 28 of 30
I fingered a lapel. "I knew I picked the right suit tonight," I quipped.
"Now, about fitting my head through Layers' front door..." Samantha and Theresa
laughed.
"That's it, keep the humble attitude, now," Samantha giggled. "Don't
want to seem cocky. Although if y wait until after her show to talk to her, could
be a problem there."
"Nooo, I don't think so," I chuckled. "Ah am the gentleman, y'know."
I declare, we keep this up my muzzle's gonna hurt.
Theresa cocked her head. "A gentleman with a refreshingly polite
attitude towards lesbians too," she said. "The lack of which is the more frequent
amongst some males, which is part of what had me in your face back there. Oh,
here we go again, another boor. For which I politely apologize. But then a prey
fur who punches first and asks questions later--if at all--can get away with a lot,
I've noticed."
"In light of how you're shaped, can see how that first punch might
occasionally be required," I said, eyeing her breasts. Theresa's eyes flashed,
amused, and she straightened up a bit. Yum. "As for my attitude, let's just say a
family member who I'm very close to is lesbian. Not out to the rest of the family-I'm from the country; Momma's punches would be the least of the trouble--but
we'll see what we'll see."
Funny, isn't it, how easy it is sometimes to speak the truth and yet not
speak the truth. Was that laying the groundwork for telling them? Probably some.
Samantha and Theresa looked at each other. "Ah, well now: families,"
Theresa said. "That could keep us talking for a while, or at least about mine
anyway. Thank God your Mom picked my Mom up by the ears and growled,
'Now listen...'"
The train slowed as tunnel signal lights flashed by. Samantha stood up.
"For now, no more advice, just sympathy, she said. But hey, your sister--or so
I'm assuming--can always move to Atlanta. Which way do you go from here?"
Theresa stood up and fussed with her purse.
Yeah, she could, couldn't she? I stood up too. "To the streetcars, then
west a few blocks. You?"
"Eastbound line three more stops, then walk a bit," Theresa said. To
Samantha: "I'm almost tempted to drop in on Layers later. See how he did. And
see this tigress for real."
"After a few hours at Galore, beyond doubt the Layers door won't let us
in. Galore will have gotten all our booze money and it'll show."
"True. Some other time."
Samantha came up beside me and tucked her arm in mine to guide me
towards the doors. "We have to part ways soon," she cooed, smoothing down her
dress. "So let's practice something new: the Handsome Meerkat Parading the Hot
Fox 'n Cute Bunny Around Show. Every little bit of ego boost helps."
All together now: whoa!
Theresa had found my other arm. "In case I hadn't mentioned, my foxy
lover is a ferocious flirt," she whispered. "Even when it's pointless. Which just
seems to add to the hotness."
After a little searching I found my voice. "Oh hey, foxes just have
mischievous burned into them, comes with the tail. I knew that," I gulped. Then
smiled. "Of course, this will create something of a false impression in the
audience."
"What, that we're all lovers? They'd be two-thirds right," Samantha said
airily. "That you're more of a stud than you look? Now, y know you just can't
Page 29 of 30
buy that kind of rep. As correct as it probably is. Take that with you to Layers
and go bag a tigress with it."
"You mean fuck," Theresa giggled, as the train slid to a halt.
"After he takes her outta th bag, certainly."
The doors opened and a laughing fox, meerkat, and bunny stepped out,
skipped for a step, then we got it and strode off down the platform looking
exactly the way you can picture us.
The icing on the cake: we passed the Lioness. Dear God, but the look on
her face was worth pure gold. Might try a sketch of her too.
Tricky. Have to stop laughing first.
---
Page 30 of 30

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Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.

Copyright Fred Brown, Kevin Trott, Jan 5, 2009

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

A muffled and wicked: "Oooo."

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

I cracked an eyelid to look more clearly. Both Foxy and Honey-Bunny

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

Now wouldn't it be funny if they were headed for Layers too?

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

I cocked my head, as if trying to look around behind her. "Although I can

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

I spread my hands. "What can I say? I've always wanted to direct," I

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

"And we thought our behinds would make him sweat," Honey-Bunny

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

I still had picture #2 in my hand. I folded it and put it away. "It's

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

A dubious fox and a disbelieving bunny stared at me.

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

"So long as you're on top of me, don't care if he decides on a shoebox,"

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

Backstage Pass (v3) -- 2009 Fred Brown, Kevin Trott fwbrown@nb.sympatico.ca

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