Tycho

My dreams have been getting so goddamn vivid lately and I hate it.
I was in the town I grew up in, up on the surface; it was
nighttime, everything was lit by moonlight or street lamps, and me
and my friend Lin were walking around out front of his apartment,
drunk and each smoking a cigarette, and then he broke away from me
and just started running towards the road; and I don't think at
all that he was trying to kill himself, but he couldn't see the
bus that was coming and I could, and I shouted after him "LIN!"
but it was too late; I watched him and the bus hit and I watched
his head get knocked off of his body in a wave of dark blood and
then I snapped awake, sitting bolt upright out of the blankets
that were restricting me in my sleep. And I'm really sure that
when I shouted Lin in my dream I also shouted it out loud, because
there is a person who was in the blankets next to me who is now
giving an extremely annoyed groan and pulling the blankets away
from me so that they can bunch them over their head and retreat
into the corner crevasse between the carpet and the wall.

Even having just woken up, this moment feels wrong, frozen. I
realize that besides feeling like I just watched my friend get
killed by a bus, I also feel like while my ethereal mind was
dreaming, my corporeal body has been suffocating, forgetting to
take in oxygen while asleep and unsupervised. I tell my body to
breathe. But it doesn't. I am frozen there, sitting upright,
unsure if I have a heartbeat, sure that I don't have breath.

Thankfully, the frozen moment, however long it lasted, passes. I
take in a gasp of the room's air. After I get the air into me I
hold it for a moment, cherish it in a way, and then breathe it out
again. With the breath taken I feel better, like I actually am
awake now, and can deal with the fact that I was only dreaming
when I watched my friend die. I still hate it, but, I can deal
with it.

"Sorry," I say to the person who I've woken up with. I don't get a
response from her--or him, I can't see much of them under the
blankets, other than long blonde hair which pours out from the
tangle of blankets here and there. It looks like red hair in the
technical lights--here in this station, every room that someone
could conceivably find the space to stand in needs to be outfitted
with lights. The folk etymology is that they're called technical
lights because technically you can see in the dim orange attempt
at illumination that they shed. Whether that's actually why
they're called that, I don't know. Take it or leave it.

I look around and gather my bearings. I am in a very tiny room; if
I leaned and stretched a little bit, I could probably touch all
four walls without getting up from where I'm sitting. There are no
windows, one door. Looking up at where the technical light is
fixed in the ceiling, I realize that above my head are railings
from which to hang clothes hangers. So I seem to be in a walk-in
closet. Or rather, someone and I seem to be in a walk-in closet
together. On one of the wire shelves above the hangers, I spot my
bundle of clothing, folded in the way that I usually fold it--I'm
very particular about what I tuck into what, so that I can tell if
someone's been going through my shit. At a glance it looks like
nobody has.

I stand up. As I stand, I realize firstly that my joints are sore
as fuck from basically sleeping on the floor last night, probably
all twisted up on my side cuddling with ostensibly another
stranger. When I have fully stood up and am making sure of my
balance, I also feel a swirl of lubricant pool down to the bottom
of my colon, and I feel a lot more confident that the person I am
sharing a walk-in closet with is probably a he. Maybe a she or a
they or a xi or an it who learned that I like it in the butt and
had the equipment or toys to accommodate, but, if I were betting,
my money would be on he.

I grab my clothes, and get dressed in the cramped space while
making an effort to disturb the other person as little as
possible. Long sleeved black shirt with a few holes in the sleeve
cuffs; black underwear with a couple tiny holes in the ass of
them; black cargo pants with the knees shredded to hell and the
cuffs having seen better days; black bandanna with white floral
decorative lines; the bandanna is already tied in a loop of the
correct size to fit comfortably onto my head and keep my long hair
out of my eyes.

I pat down my pockets. butterfly knife; toothbrush; resealable
plastic bag with laundry tablets; some small but probably accurate
amount of dollar bills and coins. I take the bills and change out
and count them. Five dollars, eighty five cents. Yup. Nothing
missing at all. I glance around the floor of the closet in hopes
of spotting a whiskey bottle in among the blankets with at least a
splash of something left in it, but, either I did drink all of it
last night, or I have lost the bottle. It's probably for the
better, because my stomach already feels like shit as is.

I open the door and step out of the closet. The creak of the
closet door must be louder than I realize, because as I step out
into the adjoining bedroom, there is a sheep man on the bed out
here who bleats at me, his eyes screwed up into an annoyed squint.
As he bleats, a woman in bed with him reaches over him and wraps
an arm around him, and pulls him back down flush with the bed. He
continues to let out annoyed bleats, but they are quieter as she
shushes him and pats his wool.

I tiptoe out of the room, aware every single time that the floor
creaks and the sheep man's next bleat at me comes out a little
louder before settling again.

When I have made my way out of the bedroom, I find myself in a
hall that smells overwhelmingly like cat piss. I open a door on my
left, see that it's a hall closet, close it. I try the next door
on my left as well, just looking for a bathroom. This time it is a
bathroom, but the light is on and I see that I've walked in on
someone: out on the bathroom counter are laid out the implements
of someone getting ready to inject themselves with something; the
'someone' in question is visible to me in the bathroom mirror,
standing in front of the counter shirtless; a sheep man with curly
horns, a little square shaved into the white wool on his left arm
over a vein, flinching back from the opening door.

"Sorry," I say, and close the door to just a crack, and stand at
it sideways so I'm not trying to peek in. I ask him, "You gonna be
long?"

"Yes."

I sigh, but I'll give him some credit that he's honest.

"There's another bathroom on the next floor," he offers.

"Oh. Thanks. Have fun." With that I close the door and continue
down the hall, leaving him to his business.

I find myself in a living room. A rat man is sitting in a big
cushy chair, reading a newspaper. Another rat man and a black-
wooled sheep man are both conked out on the couch drooling on each
other as they snore, and at their feet, a cat woman is sitting and
watching the TV, which is playing without volume. I glance at the
tube. Sports game from the surface is on. "Bulls are up," she
tells me.

I give an acknowledging nod and a thumbs up, look around and see a
beat-up spiral staircase, and slowly make my way up it, not even
touching the railing out of distrust, and taking each step slow so
that if a plank seems certain to break under my feet I can
backtrack.

None do break; two four-legged cats chase each other down the
stairs, dashing swiftly around my ankles as I make my way up. On
the next floor up, I find a white-wooled sheep man huddled up in a
hill of blankets in the corner, smoking from a bong. He exhales a
big cloud of smoke and then jerks his head back in a nod. I give
him a tiny wave, and ask, "Bathroom?"

He looks over to a hallway beside him, and says, "Third... wait...
yeah, third door on your right."

I make my way there, and am very relieved to find a bathroom that
is unoccupied.

There in the bathroom, I turn on the fan so that the muffling
noise offers some semblance of privacy, and then I get to work
mending myself. I turn on the sink faucet, stick my mouth under,
and take long gulps until my hungover dry mouth is, if not
perfectly reanimated, at least wet. I empty the contents of my
pockets out onto the counter. I stopper the sink drain, drop a
detergent tablet into the basin, and then turn on the water as hot
as it goes. Once there's an appreciable amount of suds available,
I take off my clothes and drop them in, and let them soak in the
detergent as the water continues to fill. I make use of the can in
the meantime, and am amused to myself once again that without a
doubt the me of last night got nailed, even though the me of the
present has no memory of it, only post-hoc evidence in the form of
the present feeling of the consistency of what comes out of me and
a feeling of having been stretched and internally mushed around.
The bathroom tissue comes back mostly clean, and with no pink
traces of blood. I flush it all down.

When the sink is full, I stop the water, and go hop into the
shower for myself. I borrow the bar of soap that's already in
here. When I'm done, I dry off with one of the two towels hanging
from the rack, and then I stick that towel into the sink with my
clothes and give the whole collection a wash. When it's all been
washed and rinsed thoroughly enough, I take out a dryer tablet
from the plastic bag, and drop that in. Before my eyes, the water
in the sink goes up into a shortlived smoke like watching dry ice
evaporate, and in half a minute, I have a bathroom sink filled
with dry, clean clothing. I put the towel back on the rack, dress
myself again, and leave two quarters out on the counter for the
use of the facilities--whether the fifty cents will actually make
it to the person whose things I'm using, I'm not actually
optimistic, but for my own sake I have to be able to say that I
made the effort in case it comes up.

I brush my teeth, borrowing some toothpaste from a tube of it
that's sitting out. I spot a nail clippers and make use of those
too. I give myself a final tidy in the mirror, check my pockets to
make sure I haven't left anything that I didn't mean to, and then
I step out of the bathroom, down the spiral stairs, out of the
door, and onto a thoroughly unfamiliar street. Glancing up at the
rock ceiling overhead, it's at least clear I haven't left the
station, which is a relief.

I sigh, and smile to myself a little bit. Another exit
successfully made. Part of me knows I should stop doing this shit
literally every day of my life, but, another part of me knows I'm
still going to. What else is the point of taking a next breath, if
not moving towards a next caress?

I walk down the street until arriving at the nearest dirt cheap
fast food joint. There I buy coffee and an egg and cheese
sandwich, and have fifteen cents left over. I sit down at a table
in the corner and eat. I chew my first bite very, very thoroughly,
until it's the most pre-digested, unassuming, nonvolatile, bland
slur of mush that it can be, and then I swallow. I wait for a
jostling pain to shoot out from inside of me, as the bite of the
sandwich hits the stomach whose lining I rinsed a sizable bottle
of whiskey against yesterday. Lucky enough, the first bite of the
sandwich settles itself inside of me without any kicking. I work
my way through the rest of the sandwich, taking my time.

I have a sip of the coffee but quickly feel nauseous about it. My
stomach grumbles, protesting at the idea that I would have the
gall to give it black coffee right after it had treated me so
nicely by not raising a fuss over the egg and cheese. The stomach
does have a point. Black coffee might not be the move right now,
as much as the brain hates to waste it.

To call a human being a living organism is a misnomer. The brain
enlists the throat to attack itself with liquor, and the throat
burns, does its job, coughs, and then will seethe and tell the
brain that it has been harmed, but will obey the brain a second
time all the same if given the order to swallow once more. The
stomach shoots out stinging needles and demands blandness for the
sake of its own wellbeing, while at that same moment the liver
looming above the stomach radiates warmth in a contrary demand for
something to work on, something to process, whether that be
whiskey at night or coffee in the morning. The fingers tap
nervously on the tabletop while the brain has told them to do no
such thing. A human being is not, in effect, a singular discrete
living organism, but rather is a seared together collective of
organisms who are each currently evidencing various degrees of
being living.

I figure to myself that I might as well sit there in the corner of
this fast food joint and wait it out, see if the disparate parts
that constitute this amalgam known as "me" will come into
alignment on the matter of the black coffee, if given some more
time here to sit around and hash through the issue. If the
management tells me to beat it I'll beat it, but if not, fuck em,
my corner.

Looking through the corner window out to the intersection,
although I don't think I've been to this specific part of the
station before, it's really not a far cry from the parts that I do
frequent. Big lights embedded in the teal rock overhead, doing an
almost convincing job of imitating daylight if you don't look up.
Shops and apartments stacked on top of one another all the way
from the rocks at foot to the rocks above, usually about five
layers thick, but it wasn't all built in one go by one company, so
the heights of each floor aren't exactly homogeneous. And then of
course the people. It looks like an old zombie apocalypse movie--
those are actually really funny to watch nowadays, because the
relatable ones are the gaunt scabby creatures who make labored
steps and flail their arms, while the creatures in flattering
makeup with their hair done up seem alien. People in raggy
clothing shamble down the street in their various directions; they
aren't truly undead, of course, but much like me, most of them
have some part or another of living that's been heavily damaged
that they're deciding to carry on without. Me, at least organ
failure is only an inevitability, not a present state of being.
All the same, the presence of some memories can be as much a death
as the absence of some organs. In among the people, industrial
vehicles slowly tread forward with their flashing orange lights
and their warning beeps, taking up most of the height of the
tunnel and about half the width of the street, though they drive
down the center as most of the tunnels are one ways.

I sip on my coffee.

It sits alright.

I have a bigger sip.

I catch my own reflection in the glass. I grimace.

My name... well, the name of the amalgamate aberration in the
mirror, is Trevor. In spite of the fact that I am apparently
actively trying to induce liver failure in myself every night, I
would all the same consider myself to have my shit together a lot
better than most of the people who are down here leading a similar
lifestyle. For one thing I have bathed and washed my clothes
TODAY, let alone in the last month. For another thing, I don't
inject any drugs, ever, unless you would count reboosting my
vaccinations against STD's every year, which is another thing I do
that a lot of people here don't, because it is something that one
has to save up for; usually I take one of the more dangerous jobs
and work it with as much overtime as I can deal with for about a
week, and then feel happy in my armor that that affords me for the
rest of the year to be as promiscuous as I damn well like. I'm
also snipped, so, no scares of pregnancy, and the scar usually
helps convince people that I actually am forward thinking enough
to be vaxxed and that they wouldn't catch anything from me.

I have another drink of my coffee.

I glance out at the street again: I observe that this actually is
a pretty heavy amount of foot traffic, passing through here. I
turn and glance at this fast food joint's kitchen, more so
observing with my ears than with my eyes: They are absolutely
short staffed today. The line for food is now out the door, and it
sounds like there is all of one child back there in the kitchen
while one adult stands at the counter and deals with the
customers.

So, here's the play. Every day, wake up and count myself lucky if
I have woken up somewhere that has a private bathroom I can use:
if there is a private bathroom, wash myself up as I did this
morning; if there is not a private bathroom, wander the streets
until arriving at a public operation with coin-operated showers,
less ideal but it works. Once presentable, find work for the day
flipping burgers, washing dishes, sweeping and mopping, whatever
seems to have a demand as long as it's in a place that serves
food; these types of jobs will always be minimum wage and will
never allow overtime to happen, so all I can count on is eight
hours of work which after automatically subtracted taxes leaves me
with forty four dollars and eighty cents spending money, a lunch
break with a free lunch from the place, and dinner to go
afterwards as long as I make it quick myself before punching out
and have made a really positive impression on the management while
I've been there. After dinner, use the spending money to buy a
bottle of whiskey and a packet of lube and hit a bar with my
outside drink, and try to save enough during the night to have
breakfast for tomorrow, if possible.

That's about it. It's not perfect but it's gotten me through so
far.

Moving this play along for today, I slam the rest of my coffee,
throw my trash in the garbage, and approach the counter.

The woman behind the register glares at me, and says in a tone
like she's reprimanding a child's bad behavior, "BACK of the
line."

All the same, I stay where I am, and offer, "Need a hand in the
kitchen?"

Immediately her tone shifts--not to anything friendly, but she
swats the other unmanned register, and says, "Bring up your
profile."

I walk around the counter to come use the register's computer
screen. It takes a minute to boot up. The woman continues taking
orders, and the kid comes and sets them out on the counter as he
finishes them.

When the register comes online, I punch in my citizen ID. My
public information, including my work history, comes up.

The woman finishes with a customer, and then comes over to quickly
assess if I am acceptable. "Jesus," she says, punching the button
to go to the next page of my work history again and again, and
again, and again. If she intends to get to the end of it we're
going to be here for a while. "Punch in. Spare apron is in the
break room."

Without commentary I do as she says, re-entering my ID for the
punch-in. My name is added to the page of currently clocked-in
employees, which is indeed now three people long counting me. The
woman's name is Casey May, the kid's name is Leo May. Even though
I know that it doesn't matter, I do smile at seeing the kid's
pronouns are they them; it's legitimately becoming pervasive, and
I think the world is not the worse for it.

Anyways, I break myself away from the monitor and don't dilly
dally at getting the apron on, washing my hands, and stepping into
the kitchen. "Saw, brah," I say, and offer the kid a handshake,
hoping they take brah as gender neutral-ly as I mean it.

The kid does shake my hand.

"Trevor, he him," I mention.

The kid smiles at me bringing it up, and introduces themself as
Leo they them or it it.

"Right on. Whatcha need back here, Leo?"

They list off the things that need to be restocked on the line,
and I speed off to go get all of that. Kid is professional as hell
and I love it. I normally have no inclination to work the same
place two days in a row, just not how I do things, but honestly I
might find my way back here again if they seem like they still
need the extra hand tomorrow.

For my ten minute lunch break--ten is what they have to offer me,
but I know better than to actually take the full ten--I make
myself a hamburger with no salt and all the vegetable fixings,
medium fries with no salt, and a cola. I get it all down in four
minutes and get back into the kitchen.

When the workday is over for me and I've made my dinner to go, I
punch out and Casey counts out my payment in cash from her
register. Forty four dollars and eighty cents on the nose. I thank
her, shout goodbye to Leo over the noise of the kitchen, and then
walk down the street until arriving at the nearest liquor store.
There I buy the night's bottle of whiskey and packet of lube, and
then I find a park to sit down in and eat my dinner. I've made a
salad inasmuch as one can make a salad at a burger joint.
Basically it's the same meal as lunch was, but more of the
vegetables and all jumbled together with the burger patty split up
around the veggies inside of a styrofoam to-go box. As I eat I get
started on becoming shitfaced.

The parks down here still seem kinda bizarre to me. No trees and
no sky. Essentially they are rock gardens with moody lighting. The
park I'm drinking in right now has a big boulder at the center,
surrounded by sand, and blue light shining down from above.

I lean back on my bench and stare at the rock for a while as I
drink, trying to appreciate some kind of artiness that the rock is
supposed to have.

By the time I'm feeling the drunkenness particles swimming around
in my blood--or however it works--I still really don't get the
appeal of the moody rock whatsoever, but on the plus side at least
I am shitfaced.

I think about getting up for a while. Then eventually I do get up
and begin walking. I don't really have any part of the station
that I need to make my way towards. I tend to hang out in region
6, one of the more eastern regions of the station, because that's
where the bespoke gay bars are at, and I'm down with that and
frankly it's usually easier. But there are gays outside of region
6--myself right now, for example--and again, I'm also down with
women or nonbinaries, so whatever. Anyone warm. Based on the
signage that I'm seeing as I walk around, I seem to have
blackoutedly made my way all the way to region 29, a region way
down on one of the station's southern arms.

Walking along the street and looking around, I pass by the open
double doors of a bar, glance inside as I keep walking, then I
backpedal and look in again as I realize that everyone inside is
dressed goth. Beaming, I squeal out a happy little noise and step
inside. If I'd have known this was here I would have come to
region 29 sooner.

I sit down at the bar. One of the two bartenders sees me, and with
a smile shouts, "Trevor!"

Well then. Apparently I did come here already. Zero memory of it
though.

Anyways, I give the bartender a big friendly over the head wave,
matching his energy.

Coming over, he asks, "Can I get you anything?"

I make a low key gesture of glancing down at my bottle of whiskey
and giving it a little swirl.

He gives a polite chuckle, and tells me to enjoy my stay before
going and tidying up some empties that people have left further
down the bar.

I'm not here for long before two sheep men and a rat man all sit
down to my left. "Hey sleeping beauty," says the sheep man who has
sat down on the stool right next to me.

I don't entirely understand the context of his jab, but I piece
together that all three of them were in the apartment I woke up in
this morning.

I give a little smile, and admit, "Imma be honest, I do not
remember last night pretty much at all."

The three of them laugh, and the sheep man next to me bleats,
"Whaaaat, noooo," with a huge amount of sarcasm. He then informs
me, "You owe me."

I don't think I like the sound of that, and I'm conscious of
watching for him to pull a knife as I mentally confirm which
pocket my own butterfly knife is in. He's acting friendly but that
can often be a front. "What do I owe you?" I ask.

"Last night you were gonna join in with me and my wife, but then
your gay drunk ass saw how hung Lloyd is and you IMMEDIATELY
started shyly flirting with him instead."

I snicker, shake my head, and take a drink. After I exhale a sour
cloud of whiskey breath, I admit, "Yeah that sounds about right.
Sorry not sorry."

"To be honest it was really cute," he tells me. "You were
seriously acting like you had a secret embarrassing crush on him.
Traci and I had a fun enough time just watching you try to get
with him."

I give an agreeable shrug, not really being able to add much
since, again, I do not remember any of this. I still don't even
really know how I ended up here from region 6.

"You do still owe me though," he reminds me.

Hell yeah: makes the rest of my night way easier if somebody is
not only already interested but is actually insisting on it.
"Trevor," I offer, extending over my hand.

"Shaun," he says, and gives my hand a shake. He also introduces
the others, and I do piece back where I saw each of them this
morning. Shaun was the one in bed who I woke up when tiptoeing out
of the walk-in closet, and I now presume the human woman with him
was his wife Traci. The other sheep here at the bar is Shaun's
brother, the one who was shooting up in the bathroom--I can still
see the square of shaved wool on his arm, though it's not too
noticeable in this bar's dim lighting. The rat man is the one who
was conked out on the couch.

We all chat. Shaun is into blacksmithing which is fucking rad and
he tells me a ton about it as I continue to sip on my whiskey.
Apparently there's a workshop in this region which he has a
membership at. At some point I ask if we can go there, but he
tells me he does not want to handle searing hot sharp metal while
drunk which I tell him is lame but also not unfair. From a coat
pocket he takes out some metal trinkets he's made to show off. One
is a twisty little bell-shaped cage kind of a deal, the other one
looks kind of like a throwing star but isn't sharp, it just has
fancy decorative rounded edges. He can get inside of my asshole at
any point he likes to. As he's going on about some technical
detail of how he did the metalworking on the throwing star I give
him a kiss. He perks up into a smile and then kisses me back, and
we make out at the bar for a little bit before he says, "Maybe
back to my place?"

It feels a little early for me to be moving towards putting a cap
on the night, but I AM horny as shit to rub bits with this guy and
feel his wool against my horny drunk tingly skin, so I tell him
yeah getting back to his place sounds good. I take another gulp of
my whiskey, take his hand, and walk along as he leads the way back
to his place--his brother and his friend say they'll catch up
later.

As we're walking he whispers in my ear, "Hey Trevor, what did the
sheep say to the human?"

I try to think of an answer, but nothing jumps into my head so I
ask him what did the sheep say to the human.

He makes a sex noise.

I laugh WAY too hard at this but I legitimately cannot help it,
and he actually has to hold me upright so I don't fall over on the
ground laughing in the middle of the street. When I'm over it
enough to keep walking at least--I still have the giggles--he
gives me a kiss on the cheek and then keeps walking me back to his
apartment. When we get there, Traci and the sheep man who had the
bong are intensely focused on a video game--they seem to be versus
each other, but I'm not too familiar. The cat woman is standing in
front of an open fridge trying to decide what to eat--she glances
up at me and Shaun, and mentions, "Bulls won." I give her a thumbs
up.

Shaun brings us over to stand by the couch, and says, "Traci, look
who--"

"Sec," she interrupts, and mashes the buttons in a way that's so
fast and specific that it seems like she's making it up. She leans
forward, and after a few more seconds, she and the sheep man both
throw their controllers. Traci shoots her hands up in the air
victoriously, sheep man grabs his bong from beside the couch and
does a big hit.

Now noticing me, Traci says, "Oh! Hi you!"

"Heyyy," I say with a big dumb smile, and rub my thumb over her
husband's hand which I have been needily holding ever since we
left the bar.

"Lloyd says we missed out," she informs me.

I make a gay happy noise.

Shaun lets go of my hand and moves behind me, and starts rubbing
my shoulders erotically and I melt while standing there in the
still-cat-piss-smelling living room. As Shaun rubs my shoulders,
he informs Traci, "We missed out on Trevor last night, but he has
agreed to amend this today."

"First on the bed gets the handcuffs!" Traci shouts, and then
throws a couch cushion at Shaun's face and darts down the hall.

He shouts and chases after her.

I take another gulp of whiskey, stand there for a few seconds as
it ripples through me and settles, and then jauntily walk down the
hall after the two.

On the bed, Traci and Shaun are play-wrestling for the handcuffs--
Traci has them behind her back, and quickly clicks them on while
fending off Shaun with her feet. Both of them are already
shirtless.

I set my whiskey down on a desk in here and come join them on the
bed. We all have a fun snuggly time undressing each other, and I
find myself caressing my body against Shaun's as much as I
possibly can: he is SO soft and lovely. Traci is a really lovely
kisser and she is extremely pretty. Rubbing and playing happily
with both of them there on the bed, I figure I am probably the
luckiest drunk motherfucker in this entire station right now, and
that is NOT a list without competition. When we've ramped up to
actually taking care of business, I end up being in the middle and
I would be happy for this to last literally for the rest of my
life, but we do all eventually finish, getting our various fluids
in or around each other's parts.

We all snuggle after. I am split on whether I want to fall asleep
right now or get up and have another sip of my drink and try to
angle towards a round two with one or both of them. Eventually
though they settle the question for me as they both get up to go
have a cigarette outside.

Well, "outside," but. Out on the doorsteps. I grab my whiskey and
follow after them, having a few sips along the way. I don't smoke
but I like these people a lot and I want to hang out.

As we're hanging out out there, standing around and shooting the
shit, I suddenly lose all focus on what Shaun is saying as I see
someone walking up the other side of the street. A man with long
black hair similar to mine, and a tattoo on his face of a snake
that comes up from the neck, bends at his right cheekbone,
slithers over the bridge of his nose, and then ends at his left
cheekbone with its tongue flicking out. I blink hard, and I try to
disbelieve that this is my friend Lin, because I can't imagine
what in the hell he'd be doing walking around down in a station
like this when he was always doing so well with his life up on the
surface. But sure as shit, it's my old best friend walking around
down here. He has a black eye, which means I very well might have
a son of a bitch to stab if he knows who gave the shiner to him. I
haven't been a murderer up until this point in my life--I only do
tricks with the butterfly knife to impress people--but Lin is a
person I would start for.

I leave Shaun and Traci's doorstep and make my way across the
street, shouting and waving, "LIN!"

Lin looks in my direction. When I get to him he asks, "Holy shit,
TREVOR? How the fuck you been, dog?"

"Shit man, better than any fucking person has a right to be down
here."

I step forward and hug him, which, after I've already committed to
it I do realize is a lot, we were never huggers back when I knew
him before. But he takes it in stride, hugging me back.

I ask him, "What are you doing down here?"

He huffs out a sigh. "Heard Tommy got hurt on the job, been trying
to find him and bring him back up to stay at my place for a
while."

"Oh, shit."

He nods.

"What happened with the black eye?" I ask.

"Fuck, is it that noticeable?"

"Bro I saw it from across the street."

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck that's unfortunate."

"What happened?" I ask again.

He glances off to the side and smiles a tiny bit as he says, "I
was talkin out the side of my neck."

"Oh god what did you say?"

"Some kind of emu lady was hitting on me last night."

"Sure." I have partaken. It wasn't not fun for me, but, I
acknowledge it isn't for everyone.

"And--oh you wouldn't know, me and Janie got hitched." He holds up
his hand which has a gold ring on it.

I gasp. "Congrats, man! You two are awesome. Happy for you."

"Yeah! But uh, the emu lady was hitting on me, even though I told
her I'm married--"

"That doesn't mean quite the same thing down here," I tell him.

"Yeah, I got that impression. But anyways, I tell her I am NOT
interested, many, many times, but she's not letting it go. So. I
make a REALLY loud point of ordering some chicken wings."

I snort laugh, and say, "You did NOT."

He giggles a little to himself, and nods, and says, "I did. And so
she bamfs, thank god. But then I don't know if he knew her or just
overheard part of it, but a dog dude comes over and just fucking
POUNDS his fist into my fucking face. And then he left, before I
could really get my bearings again. So. Yeah. My fault. I'm a
dumbass."

"I fuckin missed you man," I tell him. "Tell me, specifically,
what the dog man looked like."

"Cmon, man."

"I will straight up commit murder with a knife."

"No, don't. I told you, I deserved it."

I consider, and then offer, "Assault with a lame flabby punch?"

"Oh, sure! I think he was more of--" he begins, and then stops
talking and glances around. I realize he is double checking the
dog man doesn't actually happen to be present to overhear this. I
giggle to myself. Not seeing any dog men around, Lin continues, "I
think he was more of a mutt than any specific breed, I didn't
recognize him as anything, anyways. Longish brown fur, tall
pointed ears."

"German shepherd?"

"Ehh coloration wasn't right, it was more of a uniform light brown
than a brown and black."

"Hm. Anyways."

"Yeah. Besides that, I don't know. But if you see him leave him
alone man."

I take a sip of my whiskey, and offer the bottle to Lin--he is the
first person I have ever made this offer to.

He does accept the bottle, has a sip, and then coughs and wheezes
and looks down at the bottle. "Jesus dude. Are you ACTUALLY
drinking gasoline?"

"Hundred and ten proof," I say smugly.

He gags, and hands the bottle back.

I take it, have another sip, and then ask, "So what are you up to
now?"

"Pretty much barhopping looking for Tommy."

I gasp. "Onward!" I say, and then Lin reaches out and on reflex I
reciprocate our handshake. I'm surprised I still have the muscle
memory for all of the steps.

Lin leads the way, and at the bar he buys me a beer, and for the
rest of the night from there forward I pretty much don't remember
anything else.

Usually with my dreams I actually do end up remembering them--like
part of my brain wakes up sooner than it's supposed to, and my
memory is recording while the last parts of the dream are still
playing.

I dream that I am in an alleyway lit only by the technical lights,
chewing on an invisible granola bar. I can feel the crunch of it
every time I bite down. It feels like chewing on a regular granola
bar, I just know that it's invisible. Sometimes it disappears for
a bite and I chomp my teeth together uncomfortably hard, but then
it comes back and I keep chewing again. Then without ceremony, a
man steps in front of me and shoots me in the forehead with a
pistol causing a bang and a bright flash.

I snap awake, screaming. The snake lady who was sleeping beside me
also snaps awake at me screaming, and she bites me in the neck.

I feel all of my muscles lock up, and involuntarily, I slowly
recline back onto the ground: I gather my bearings and see that we
were sleeping on a pile of garbage in a dim alley. There is almost
relief in the fact that my lung muscles are as paralyzed as the
rest of my body, and so I can't breathe or smell right now.

The snake lady gasps, and scoots backwards away from me,
fingertips anxiously pressed to her mouth. "I am SO sorry!" she
says, and then reaches out a hand towards me, but then pulls it
back and puts it back to her mouth. "Ohhh my god, I never do that,
I am so sorry, I didn't mean to!"

Not that I know her, but I actually don't doubt that she's telling
me the truth. That said, I am not much comfort anyways, as I
cannot breathe or move my tongue or lips or give a thumbs up, so
my capacity to tell her not to worry about it is unfortunately
limited.

"You'll be fine in a minute, I promise," she tells me.

Again, I believe her. It's not my speed but there's actually a
market for people getting bit intentionally for the high of it.
The venom causes full body paralysis for about a minute, and then
for some people there's a deep euphoria afterwards. I guess we'll
see how I take it.

The snake lady glances around, reaches over me to grab her purse
from our garbage pile, and then without any other commentary gets
up and walks quickly out of the alleyway.

I hope that last-night me had fun with her, because it certainly
did lead to one hell of a way to wake up. I don't think I'll be
needing coffee today.

When I'm finally able to breathe again, the smell is about as bad
as I figured. I have to have been OBLITERATED last night for the
smell of garbage juice to be an acceptable perfume to sleep in.

When I can crudely move my arms and legs, I jerkily slap my way
forward off of the garbage pile, and have a seat sitting back
against the alley's opposite wall. I take in deep breaths. I
realize how much my heart is racing and it's really uncomfortable.
Probably to be expected, but still, uncomfortable. I don't want to
die. Sometimes--sometimes like now--it feels like I know a heart
attack is coming. I am not a healthy, well maintained body--I beat
up my insides every day of my life and then the different parts of
my body have to work together to fight to correct the consequences
of their earlier bad decisions, and someday some part of my body
will give up that fight.

I guess it's not today though. As I sit there breathing, my heart
rate does settle down a little. My lips are still tingly, and I
try to say something to myself and am unsurprised when my words
come out a slurred mess. I look down at my hands, wiggle my
fingers, make fists a couple of times. She told the truth: the
paralysis passes, and soon enough I'm just a garbage juice scented
dude sitting in an alley. No rush of euphoria from the venom comes
to me. Which is honestly good. I don't need to add "try to get bit
by a snake" to my daily agenda.

I pat myself down, checking my pockets for everything. Butterfly
knife, tooth brush, laundry tablets, all present where they should
be. I feel something in one of my cargo pockets that CANNOT be
what it feels like, because it feels like a wad of cash. I pull
open the pocket, reach in, and take out the wad of cash which it
does indeed turn out to be. My eyes go wide as I thumb through the
bills: five hundred dollars in twenties.

I stuff the bills back into my pocket before anyone can see them--
not that I have any company here in the garbage alley, but that is
a LOT of money to be handling out in the open. And I'm not
completely sure of what to make of the fact that I have it. I
don't think I would have gotten it by dishonest means, but the
fact that I don't know where it came from at all still makes it
concerning.

But as I think about the fact that I basically get to take a
vacation from the eight hour grind for a while, a weight feels
like it's lifted off of me. It's gonna be a really good week or
two.

I look around for my bandanna. Eventually I do spot it, tied up
around a cowboy hat which is sitting on the garbage pile. I say to
myself Jesus fucking Christ, and then beam at the way the words
came out so articulately. Once the paralysis goes away it really
does go away, no lingering effects at all, it seems.

I pick the cowboy hat up off of the garbage pile, take my bandanna
off of it, put on the bandanna, and set the hat back down. I leave
the alley and go find a place to shower.

At the nearest shower house, I use the change machine--it accepts
a twenty, fortunately--and after feeding some coins into the
machines for the soap, the shampoo, and then the shower itself, I
do an even more thorough job than usual of cleaning myself. I wash
my clothes in the farthest sink down. I never feel more homeless
than when I have to wash my clothes in the public sinks, standing
there naked while I do so, but on the other hand fuck everyone, I
am not going to go about the rest of my day literally smelling
like garbage. Luckily I'm done with the process quickly enough
that only a handful of people happened to come within sight of me.
I give my teeth a courtesy brush even though I don't have
toothpaste on hand to do the job entirely properly. Always seemed
like a weird omission that these places vend soap and shampoo but
not toothpaste, but whatever. All in all, I have put myself
together acceptably well by the time I step out onto the street
again.

I glance both ways, spot a diner, and go in and splurge on an
omelet with my newfound mysterious wad of money. I almost order a
long island iced tea, but I catch myself.

Here's the thing, is I've come into money before down here. It's
easy to get stupid with it. Last time I had two hundred to my name
it was gone that night, between getting fancy drinks and cocaine.
With five hundred here, I'm sitting on a very good thing, but to
be honest I'd pass on the very good night if it means a very
needed break. So instead of the long island iced tea, I leave the
diner after paying, then step into a liquor store, and get the
usual bottle of whiskey and packet of lube.

I go sit in a rock park, fail to appreciate the moody magenta
rock, and sip my whiskey. When I'm good and morning drunk, I step
out onto the street and begin wandering, feeling a friendly
amicability towards really just the world right now, and everyone
else walking around in it.

At some point a short ways into my walk as I'm feeling like
getting to know someone, I happen to pass by a sports bar. My
usual repulsion towards sports bars tells me that I probably never
would have entered the place before ever in my entire life, which
means I probably won't encounter anyone I know, which seems ideal
right about now because I am having a really strange day and I
don't want to tell anyone about it.

I step inside. Glancing around, I don't recognize anyone, and
nobody seems to recognize me. It seems surprisingly busy for this
hour of the morning, but I gather that some important game is on.
Again, not my world, but whatever.

"Getcha anything, boss?" the barkeeper asks.

I hold up my whiskey.

I don't think he likes it, but he doesn't make a stink of it. He
just turns his head back down to the puzzle he's doing from the
newspaper, leaning back against a post behind the bar.

At the far end of the bar, I see a glass of beer rise and fall
with nobody holding it. I screw my eyes shut, open them, and look
harder. The glass is now sitting there on the bar, its contents
waving back and forth as though it was only just set down.

You know, fuck it. I go sit down at the barstool beside the drink.

"Saw, brah?" I ask.

Only silence greets me. I glance down at the drink, which has now
basically settled--sometimes this deep down there are tremors that
could easily account for a slightly wiggly glass of beer. Shit,
that and I'm probably hallucinating from the snake venom from
earlier.

I take a swig from my whiskey, exhale, and say, "Ghost or just a
glass of beer, you're a friend of mine dude."

A squeaky laugh comes from the air beside me, and I laugh a little
back at how unintentional of a laugh it sounded like.

"That's such a friendly thing to say to someone invisible," the
voice tells me. "Usually it's all 'ah what the hell!' and 'get out
of the lady's room, perv!'"

I snort laugh at that, not having expected to be hearing invisible
man humor today. The voice does sound masculine at least, if a bit
on the soprano side.

"Trevor, he him," I offer, and hold my hand over.

"Oh," he says.

After a brief pause, I sense that my handshake is unwanted--no big
deal--and I retract my hand.

After I do, the voice stammers out, "Sorry, uh, just. Anyways, hi.
Rex. He him."

"Pleasure, Rex," I say, and nod. I have another sip of my whiskey.

"RIGHT, you cannot see I was holding my hand out to shake when I
said that."

"Are you always invisible?" I ask.

"Not strictly. Put this on."

With that I hear a weighty tap on the bar counter, and look down
to see a black ring. I pick it up. It's heavier than I expected,
almost like it was a part that fell off of one of the machines
instead of a piece of jewelry. I slip the ring on.

Beside me I can now see a dog man, wagging his tail and smiling at
me.

At first I have extremely mixed reactions, because on the one hand
he is adorable, but on the other hand I've been on the lookout for
a dog man who punched my friend. This dog man here with me is the
wrong breed though, some kind of long furred, white with patches
of other color.

"Well ain't you handsome," I tell him, and he wags harder. "What
breed?" I ask.

"Australian shepherd. You?"

It takes me a second to realize that what he's saying is a dig on
me for asking his breed, but taking it in stride I do answer him.
"Oh, Chinese. I will say for an Australian shepherd you sure don't
have the accent."

"I can summon it if needed," he says. Watching him talk, I realize
that it's not strictly that his voice is high pitched, but more
the tone of a happy, excited dog.

"You need the ring back just ask, by the way."

"Nah," he says, and then he snaps his fingers and the ring is back
on his finger, and off of mine. Within a second I'm again sitting
next to what would look like an empty barstool.

"You watching the game?" I ask.

"No, not at all. Just needed a breather, thought I'd grab a beer
somewhere."

"You wanna see me do tricks like you do?" I ask.

"Ooh. Please, go ahead."

"Ay, Barman!" I call to the bartender. He looks up and raises an
eyebrow at me. "Knife trick!" I tell him.

He raises his eyebrows harder, and then just says, "No liability.
Don't hurt yourself," and turns back down to his newspaper.

Nine times out of ten they do not care, but it is usually for the
best to declare it, instead of waving a surprise knife around.

"Stay away," I mention to Rex, and wave a hand over in his
direction, feeling my hand brushing against dog hair.

He giggles, and insists that he's away, he won't get cut.

I take out my butterfly knife, give it a few safe basic moves to
make sure it's not sticking or anything like that, and then I go
into a routine that apparently looks very impressive and
dangerous, because it's gotten me in the door with people more
times than I can remember, though to tell the truth it is the same
routine I've done every night and every day since I've been down
here, and the muscle memory is so tight that it is literally
impossible for me to mess this trick up. I actually find it easier
when tipsy. Sober I realize I'm about to overthink it, and I throw
the knife away from myself before I do overthink it and cut
myself.

Here with Rex though, the trick is of course going off without a
hitch. The final move is to toss the knife up in a ballerina spin,
where it seems to hang in the air for a moment, and then reach up
and snatch it out of the air and flip the knife closed. I know
well before I do it that what I'm about to do is really dumb, but
I already made up my mind to do it while my mind was wandering
during the routine course of the trick. As the knife is spinning
in the air, I add a snap to the routine, clicking my fingers
together like he did when he called the ring back to himself. Then
I catch the knife, flip it closed, and count myself lucky that
deviating from wrought memory didn't just cost me a finger.

"Wow," he says, which is a relief to hear because I couldn't see
him during the entire routine. Hard to gauge the reaction of an
invisible guy.

I put the knife away, and have another swig of whiskey. He has
another sip of his beer, or at least, I see the glass levitate and
then go back down to the bar.

"You want the ring back, or is it more fun to you if I'm
invisible?" he asks in a little bit of a tongue-sticking-out-y-
face tone.

I point over towards him with the index finger of my whiskey hand,
lean in closer with him, and say, "Can I actually be candid about
something?"

"Heh, I guess. If it's too terrible I'll just like, leave, so,
yknow."

"When dogs have sex they get stuck ass to ass afterwards."

Amused, he answers, "That is a fact of the world, yes. I am so
here for this question please go on."

"Does your... junk... situation... do that too? Why does THEIRS do
that?"

"Bro you never seen dog cock?"

"No! There are like almost zero dog men down here, I was always
curious!"

With another loud tap, I see that he's put the ring on the bar
again. I back off--I realize I have been leaning on him--and I
grab the ring and put it on. He sips his beer with a little smile
and a sideways glance towards me. "Wanna go back to my place and
see?" he offers.

"Oh my god yes," I tell him. "Chug your beer let's go."

He actually does, which I didn't expect. As he chugs I notice his
wardrobe isn't wildly dissimilar to mine: he is also a fan of
black. Black button up shirt, black cargo pants, black bandanna
but he wears his as an accessory around his neck that goes down as
a triangle over the top of his chest. His long light hair really
is beautiful. I wonder if he combs it or if it's just like that.

When he's finished chugging, I mention, "So eager to get down to
it."

"Yeah it's such a weird departure for me, because as a dog I
normally haaate humping things," he says with coy sarcasm. I want
to give him a handjob right there at the bar but I think the
bartender is already fairly grumpy with me, so even if Rex is
invisible to all but the person wearing the ring, we'd probably be
better off actually just getting back to his place.

"You lead the way," I tell him, and then take his hand and take a
swig of my whiskey.

As we walk, I ask "Why are you invisible" even though I'm pretty
sure I know the gist of it.

"Treasure hunter. Down spelunking in a deep system underneath
Region 22--son of a bitch of a system, all ups and downs--I found
a bottle of gem wine and a ring. I'd already met my minimum of
treasure to sell off from that trip, so I thought I'd roll the
dice on drinking the wine for myself."

So yeah, about what I figured. I stop in my tracks, still holding
his hand, and he comes to a surprised halt along with me. I drag
us over to a little alley, press his back against the brick wall,
and plant a deep kiss on his dog man mouth. He lets out a moan--I
know it's not a big deal but I love the little vibrating feeling
of someone moaning, in this case the little vibrations of the mmm
as I press my lips against his wet fuzzy muzzle. After a moment he
kisses me back, muzzle effortlessly opening bigger than any human
mouth ever could, and he sticks his tongue into my mouth. Our
tongues slide over each other like competing tentacles, his tongue
trying to explore every bit of my mouth from the lips to the back
of my throat, and my tongue trying lick his tongue wherever it is
that it goes to.

Eventually we step back from each other and catch our breath a
little. I give him a smile. "Anyways. You were bringing us
somewhere. Your place? Actually is this alley fine?"

"Heh. My place is like another block. And it smells better."

"THAT is fair, you lead the way," I tell him, and have another
swig of my whiskey.

We keep down the street and then head around a corner, and find
ourselves on a stretch of this region where it's not all stacked
shops and apartments, but actual bespoke houses, with little sand
lawns in between them. I actually find myself a little thrown by
the spaciousness of it all.

He leads the way up to a home that has a pink exterior. I tell him
that pink is pretty gay, he tells me that I'm pretty gay, I tell
him he's not wrong, and then he places his hand on a scanner
beside the door. After a moment the deadbolt shunks open, and he
holds the door open for me. I skip into the living room, and take
a big deep sniff of the air. It smells like scented candles,
pumpkin-y and cinnamon-y. All along the walls, above the couches
and chairs and all that, are shelves on which rest crystals. There
have to be a hundred in the living room alone. I wander away from
Rex for a sec to look at some of them. Pyramids, spheres on little
stands, cubes, prisms, shapes I wouldn't quite know the names of,
and a good number that are more chaotic fractal kind of things.

"What does this one do?" I ask, looking at a sphere of some kind
of very pure blue stone.

"Makes my living room look pretty," he answers, and sidles up
beside me and licks the side of my face. I snort in a little
laugh, and turn and kiss him on the side of the fluffy neck.

He grabs each of my wrists, and brings my hands--and my whiskey
bottle--up to his eye level, turning them around and around and
examining them. "Yeah your nails are good," he says.

I am internally glad for whenever the last time I used a nail
clipper was, because apparently it had to have been fairly
recently but I'm blanking on when exactly I would have had the
chance. I take a swig of my whiskey.

"Are you going to be okay?" he asks. "Do you need food? Can I make
you food?"

I take another tiny sip of whiskey, and then admit, "Food would be
good but let's do that after."

He gauges me for a second, and then nods, and says, "If that's
what you want."

With that, he takes my hand again, and leads me through the living
room to a flight of stairs leading upwards. We go up to the second
floor, down a hall a ways, and he opens the door into what I
presume is a guest bedroom, though it's very well decorated, with
paintings of farm life--four legged farm animals mostly, although
one painting is a barn, and there is another wide painting of a
field of wheat.

"Are you from the surface?" I ask as I flop backwards onto the bed
and start taking my pants off.

"Yeah," he says with a smile at me. He begins unbuttoning his
shirt. "Paintings of the farm I grew up on, actually. Good read on
your part."

In another moment we're both naked and making out on the bed, and
I get to stroke his beautiful long coat from his shoulders all the
way down his back and down to his butt. I eventually break it off
and look at his package, which he is happy to accommodate, sitting
sort of cross-legged leaned back, propped up back on his hands.

Balls, very familiar, they are basically the same as how human
balls hang. Sheath, also familiar: a lot of beast men's penises
don't hang out all the time like a human's; instead what's on the
outside is like a sort of elongated pouch of skin that the flaccid
penis rests inside of, with an opening at the end, comparable to
how a retractable pen works, or a tube of lipstick. Speaking of
lipstick: there is the tip of a somewhat aroused red shiny penis
sticking out of his sheath, which is, in my past experience with
beast men, also also a familiar sight. But I do need to find out
if there's more here that I need to keep in mind. A lot of beast
men and women are generally what you would expect, but do have
their own particulars that you should really know about before
getting all gung ho about it and assuming everything will work
out.

"Sexy boy," I tell him, and he wags. "How do I... I don't want to
say 'use it,' but, for lack of access to more sober vocabulary,
how do I use it?"

"Heh. I mean it sounded like you're into being on bottom--"

"I REALLY am, thank you for picking up on that."

His junk does a little excited twitch, and he says, "If you assume
the position I'll kinda do the rest."

I feel a moment of dizziness, and then when it passes, I tell him,
"That sounds awesome but since this is new I wanna just... see it,
first. Maybe a handjob?"

Again he wags, and nods. He gets up onto his hands and knees, and
crawls forwards and nuzzles against me. "Go for it," he says.

Weird-ass position to assume for a handjob, but I'm not doubting
that he knows what he needs. I hang out on my knees beside him,
and fish out the packet of lube from my pocket. The packet has two
sections to it: one containing powdered lube, and the other
containing a liquid solution that mixes with the powder to produce
the most effective slimy lubricant in the entire world. I twist
the packet to break the seal between the two sections, squish the
packet around for a sec to make sure it's all mixed, and then rip
open the top. I press the lube out onto my hand, rub it around for
coverage around my palm and fingers, and then reach under him and
touch his sheath.

He pretty much takes over from there. He pushes his temple down
against my shoulder, grabs my hand in both of his, and more or
less starts using my hand as a sex toy, humping my hand like a
dog-dog would hump another dog-dog's ass. Right away his cock
pokes all the way out of his sheath, and its full length begins
sliding back and forth against my hand. I'm not in a position to
be able to see it, but for a few seconds, it feels pretty much the
same as what most sheathed red-penis-having beast men are working
with. Suddenly though--and I wish I could look--I feel his penis
growing outwards. Every thrust, the base of it swells bigger and
bigger, while the rest of the shaft stays the same size and
continues to do its business. I wonder if it's going to stop,
because the base part keeps growing, and growing, and growing. I
think it's finally stopped when it feels like something the size
of a tennis ball, maybe even bigger, and my entire hand is wrapped
around it.

He starts letting out adorable "ah!"s as he keeps humping, making
my hand slide back and forth around the slimy bulb. I feel his
warm loads hitting the side of my body. He keeps going for a
pretty good while, but eventually settles to a stop, continuing to
hold my hand on his junk. The bulb pulses inside of my grasp,
about a beat per second. He's stopped with his cute noises, and
he's just quiet, holding my hand really firmly on his crotch. I
let him have the afterglow, let him have my hand for as long as he
needs, let him have his own internal euphoric state that he's
having without interrupting.

After maybe a minute, he lets go of my hand and flops over onto
his side, facing me, big smile on his dog face, tail wagging, cock
very much still out of its sheath.

And goddamn, I haven't seen anything quite like it before. At the
base of the red slimy shaft is this enormous bulb--the part that
was growing. It's all veiny and throbbing.

I ask him, "Is that what goes IN the other dog? That's what makes
them get stuck ass to ass?"

"Yeah," he tells me, and then pets my head, and his tail thumps a
few times behind him. Mine would too if I had one.

"How long does it last?" I ask.

"Depends, but, for me usually forty minutes--"

"Forty minutes?!"

He snickers. "Yeah. But that's if I'm actually tied in someone.
Since I'm not it'll probably be less--"

"Can I suck it?"

I see a shiver go up his body. "I already finished so I can't
promise to be like, the MOST into it, but yeah just be gentle."

It's a fair warning on his part, although again, that much is
territory I am familiar with already. If it's red skin that comes
out of a sheath, it's going to tend to be pretty delicate, and
it's important to be gentle with it in the interest of not hurting
anyone.

I take the end into my mouth, and we pass the time this way as his
bulb goes back down and I get to really familiarize myself with
this new corner in the realm of genitalia. Sometimes I stop
sucking head-on to approach it from the side and slob on the bulb
directly. As promised, he seems agreeable to all of it but more
like he's just getting a casual massage than anything else. He
keeps a hand on my shoulder as I go, petting and stroking me.

Eventually, the bulb goes down enough that it no longer holds the
cock outside of its sheath, and the red member slips out of my
mouth and retracts back into Rex.

"Round two?" I ask.

"Oh my GOD, give me ONE second maybe," he says with faux
exasperation.

I lick his balls.

"Gay," he tells me.

I give them a longer, more meticulous lick, and suck some of the
scrotum into my mouth for a second and then let it fall back out.

He shivers, and then answers, "No but really, it's usually like,
one per night for me. Sorry."

I snuggle up against him and fall asleep.

I have a dream that I'm an eagle, soaring above the surface in the
daytime, looking down at the green flora-claimed landscape that
glimmers in the sunlight. The wind is cool on my breast and warm
on my back. Without transition, I'm a rabbit in a dirt tunnel dug
into the ground, and a wolf is pushing his muzzle into the mouth
of the tunnel: soon he breaks through, and chomps down on me and
kills me.

I awake with a scream, snapping upright. I look around, and
recognize the room with all the farm paintings--I think it's the
first time in a while that I've woken up in a room that I actually
fully remember going into. Woken up by my scream, another person
on the bed stirs--Rex. I remember him too. He had apparently
fallen asleep right on the edge of the bed, facing away from me.
Not a cuddler I guess. As he sits up, his sleepy face gives me a
concerned look.

I wipe drool off of my cheek. He does the same, running a hand
under his jowls to get his.

"Nightmares," I tell him. "Sorry."

He scooches towards me, makes himself higher than me on the bed,
and gives me a hug, cradling my head in his arms, pressing my face
against his soft fluffy chest. I let him cocoon me, happy to exist
in this warm pocket that smells like the fur of a caring stranger.

After a while, he asks, "You want breakfast?"

I nod, and say, "Yeah. Please."

"I think it's like 5 PM," he mentions.

Well that doesn't seem quite right. "When did we go to bed?"

"Like, eleven. AM."

"Oh." I did get a very early start on yesterday. So yeah, I guess
that tracks.

"I can make breakfast food or dinner food," he tells me.

"Chicken?" I ask.

"No," he tells me. "It's... look, I told you I grew up on a farm,
and there's a reason I'm not on a farm anymore. I really just,
can't, with taking life like that."

"I just meant because it would be good for the whole hangover
situation--"

"No I know, it's just, a sensitive topic for me."

"Okay," I tell him, and then I snuggle my way up him until we're
lying on our sides face to face. I give him a peck on the front of
the muzzle. He gives me a polite lick on my lips. "I didn't mean
anything by it," I tell him again.

"I know," he says again.

"Eggs?" I ask.

"I have eggs," he confirms.

"Cheesy eggs?" I ask.

"It's fake cheese," he admits. "Not for lack of wanting real
cheese, on the surface I know ethical sources, but it's difficult
to get that shipped down here."

"Oh I'm sure I haven't had real cheese once since I've been down
here. Eggs and fake cheese sounds perfect."

He leans in for another kiss, and I kiss him back, and we do that
for a while before he eventually slinks away from me and prances
out of the room, naked, to go start on the food.

I gather up my clothes. Checking all of my pockets, I still have
all of my shit, including hundreds of dollars in mostly twenties.
I also still have the dog man's black ring on my finger. I fidget
with it, twisting it back and forth over my finger. Lying on the
floor with the cap screwed on is my whiskey bottle with half of
the whiskey left. I really did conk out early. I pick the bottle
up, open it, and take a gulp. After wheezing and coughing at the
high-proof liquor hitting my throat, I muscle down a second sip
and then screw the cap back on.

Dressed, I step out of the room and begin down the hall towards
the stairs. As I shamble across the carpet of this very nice home,
I kinda don't know what to do with myself. Normally I would wake
up in the morning and get back out onto the street as soon as
possible. This time it's... not morning, I guess. And I have also
been promised food. And I still feel I have unfinished business
with Rex's dog man junk. It feels like I'm going against the
natural order of things to be hanging around after being up and
ready to go. But, when I get to the bottom of the stairs, I go
shamble around looking for the kitchen instead of escaping out of
the front door.

On a side table next to a couch, I see a stack of unopened mail. I
stoop over, and although I don't touch, I peek at the address.
Besides having the address of this house, these letters are
addressed to Trevor Rex. Hungover--and very slightly drunk--I have
to squint at it for a pretty good while, trying to get the blurry
words to make sense. I can't conceive of why these would be
addressed to me, Trevor, if I just got here. When I realize HIS
name is Trevor too, I shake my head rapidly back and forth, trying
to get my stupid self a little more awake.

I wander into the kitchen and lean against the doorway as the
Australian shepherd man is getting all of his ingredients out onto
the counter. "Is your name T-Rex?" I ask.

He stops, freezes, and then deflates with a sigh. "Yeah my name is
T-Rex."

"That sounds amazing," I tell him honestly.

He shrugs. "It's a little grandiose." He gets back to preparing to
cook, flourishing a pan and setting it on a stove, then setting
the burner and turning back towards the ingredients. He has a pink
apron on and nothing else. His butt is cute.

"Well, Trevor Rex, if we ever need to differentiate between
ourselves, I'm Trevor Wong. And if you need a hand, I mostly work
in kitchens."

He does look around, but then says, "I think it's all ready,
actually, but thank you. If you want to wait in the dining room
it's just down the hall, I'll bring this out when it's done.
Shouldn't be long."

I raise my whiskey bottle and tip it towards him in a salute, then
saunter off down the hall he pointed to. I have a sip as I go. The
dining room is actually cozier than I expected--a little round
table with four chairs around it, light fixture overhead,
paintings and shelving around the walls, the paintings mostly of
natural landscapes, the shelving mostly occupied by plush woodland
critters and wood carvings of dogs. Another hall leads out at the
opposite end of the small room.

Feeling nature calling, I actually do sneak my way down the
farther hall, and try a couple doors before one does turn out to
be a bathroom.

I wash my hands after. When I come back out and get back to the
dining room, there is a steaming platter of eggs at the center of
the table, a plate of tortillas beside it, a couple glasses of
orange juice, and a long haired dog man sitting at one of the
chairs, chin planted on his hand like The Thinker, wagging at my
arrival. He has taken off the apron.

I slide a chair over to be right beside his, and sit down.

He turns and gives the side of my face a lick, then says, "I was
thinking of going a breakfast burritos route with this, but I'm
not really great at folding them. Everything comes out of the
bottom. So, you can roll yours if you want to, but if you want me
to do it, accept it at your own peril."

I reach forward and grab a tortilla, lay it over the table, scoop
a bunch of eggs into it, fold the burrito in one second, and offer
it to Rex.

"Wh--really? That easy?" he asks.

"I worked a lot of kinds of fast food," I offer.

He takes the burrito, and bites into it. I make one for myself
too, and eat it with intermittent sips of whiskey and orange
juice. The eggs are great, very cheesy as requested, but also
mixed in with tomatoes and onions and that sort of thing. When
we've each finished our first burrito, I roll up another for each
of us.

"You're naked," I mention to Rex.

"My house," he counters. "And I'm a dog."

"Fair."

"You're welcome to join me," he offers.

I start with my shirt, and within a few seconds he and I are both
naked on the floor, him on top of me, the two of us making out
again. I drape my arms around his back, hugging his fur-covered
athletic frame. His mouth tastes like the cheesy eggs we're
eating, which is not a bad thing.

"Round two?" I ask.

He presses his fuzzy muzzle against my lips, and we kiss a little.
"Are you ready like, right now?" he asks.

I reach down and pat a pocket. "Oh. Already used the lube on the
handjob."

"Oh I got us covered there. I just mean are you ready to bottom."

"Always."

"Always?" he asks incredulously. "You never have a bad butt day?"

"Literally never I don't even understand what people mean when
they say they have problems with that, like eat two vegetables in
a day, Jesus."

"Low key you have no idea how jealous I am of that."

"Basically a super power," I agree. "You said you have lube?"

"Yeah! One sec," he says, and gets up and leaves back down the
hall towards the kitchen.

I stand up, wolf down the remainder of my second amazing delicious
burrito, and sip on whiskey until he returns.

When he does get back, he throws a little cardboard box onto the
table--it's the display box that the packets of lube come in in
the liquor stores, but he just has the entire box of them here,
and like thirty packets scatter out onto the table.

"Okay dude I wasn't planning on THAT many rounds but that is
pretty great."

"We should probably get back up to a bedroom," he suggests. "More
comfortable to snuggle after."

I snatch a handful of packets and begin running out of the dining
room on a path for the stairs--Rex chases after me, shouting after
me that I am so gay and to wait for him to catch up. I make it
back into the farm-painting-decorated room on the second floor,
and fling myself onto the bed. Rex comes in after me, and the two
of us are soon making out on the bed once more.

When I am MORE than ready, I open one of the packets and start
preparing myself, making sure my insides are slimy and receptively
aligned. We keep kissing as I do. His huge tongue is really
amazing, as is getting to pet his long sleek hair with my free
hand. When I'm definitely ready, I roll away from him, and get on
my hands and knees.

He's on me in the next second, crouched behind me and laying his
whole body weight onto my back, his hands hooked around me and
gripping my hips. The tip of his dick pokes me a couple times,
then finds the target and he's in, and I am getting my world
rocked, thinking of how rad it is that that big red thing I saw
earlier is sliding around in my ass now, getting the dog man off.
He makes cute huffing noises just like last time, and I stay there
on my hands and knees and bear it, swimming in euphoria from the
fucking and from having been drinking and even a little bit from
the oniony taste of the breakfast burritos that lingers in my
mouth. I start to feel an extra pressure around my hole as he
keeps thrusting, and I make pleasured gay noises as I realize that
it's his bulb thing growing inside of me, and I tell him not to
pull out.

By the time he's finished, that thing is HUGE, but it manages to
sit fairly comfortably inside of me anyways, being that it's
actually deeper inside the wider colon, rather than stretching the
tighter anus itself--the very base of his penis, which is the part
of him that my anus actually settles around, the part before it
expands into the bulb, is pretty comfortably narrow, at least, for
me anyways.

Rex grabs me tight in his arms, and very carefully rolls us over
so that he's lying on his back on the bed, and I'm lying on my
back on his chest. He continues to hug me.

"Are you gonna be alright?" he asks, sounding kind of sleepy, but
also a little nervous.

I nuzzle the back of my head into him, and answer, "I'm great,
thanks. You?"

"Awesome," he says, and gives my cheek a lick. "You said you'd
never been with a dog man before? Because you're taking it really
well."

"Why shouldn't I be, it's stupid crazy fun. Also if you mean the
size I have been with donkey men, so."

"Ah, I see. Bit of a thing for beast men?"

"I mean, all the same, but I am a bit of a beast man."

I can't see his face since he's behind me, but the second of
silence is telling as to his perplexion. "How so?" he asks.

I tell him, "My grandmother was a rabbit woman. I had my genes
profiled once, back when I lived on the surface. Turns out I still
have the recessive traits for rabbit. So, if I ever got
unvasectomied and had kids with a fully human woman, or, one who
seemed like it but also had the recessive trait too, twenty five
percent odds that the kids would come out as rabbits. But, in my
day-to-day life it doesn't really mean jack, other than that it's
easier to feel a sense of kinship with hairy people."

He licks my cheek again, and I turn my head and we manage to share
a little moment of kissing.

As the kissing settles down, he's about to say something else when
a piercing loud noise goes off, and we both flinch.

Outside, there is a loud digital alarm siren going off. There are
no words, but the sequences of tones all mean unique things--most
of them mean different reasons why a region is being immediately
evacuated.

"Is that HVAC?" I ask Rex.

"Yeah, uh, that's the oxygen in this region about to be gone," he
affirms.

I wiggle my butt around on his bulb, and tentatively try to pull
my ass off of him--he gives a small yip, and I stop, settling back
down on him.

I mention, "If we're about to DIE, I could get you out of me at
this point, if that wouldn't too seriously hurt you."

He grabs me by the hips, and moves me up and down on him a couple
times. He could do it a couple more for all I care. But after he's
assessed the situation, he says, "I think I would also be fine at
this point, but, I have a way crazier idea."

"Oh my god I live by those what's up?"

"This house has its own HVAC, all separate from the station's.
Treasure hunter thing, we have some paranoias about redundancy
when it comes to survival. We could stay here and wait it out by
ourselves while everyone else is evacuated. Worst case, we put on
the spelunking gear and leave that way if we have to."

In spite of my guiding instinct to flee, I kind of love this. A
multi day sleepover with this dog man sounds actually pretty
amazing.

I ask him, "If it goes on longer than today can we rob a liquor
store?"

"I will invisibly walk into a liquor store and get us drinks and
leave money on the counter," he offers.

"Perfect," I tell him, and with a smile, I relax back onto his
soft muscular chest and his big throbbing dog man penis.