--Chapter One

The score was five to eight, home team (the Tarantulas) lagging behind their opponents (the Cyclones). It had been an exciting game; all of Dakota's friends had almost worn themselves out whooping and cheering for him between bites of hotdogs and nachos soggy with cheese.

The puck came to Dakota. The stout brown ram teased it along the ice, legs graceless, arms a little more skilled. What Dakota lacked in finesse he made up for in raw strength: he was only five-foot-four, but he could lift twice his weight, floor anybody twice his size. And that was exactly what he did when the smarmy horse on the away team tried to take the puck from him.

Dakota hooked his stick under the boy's leg and ripped it out from under him. The horse wobbled and tried to bring his blade back down into the ice but Dakota rammed him into the wall with his shoulder and took the puck back for himself. The stallion's face seemed to flatten out against the plexiglas and a long streak of drool followed his smearing lips and gums. He hit the ice as limp as a corpse just as the ref's whistle tweeted.

Dakota's friends cheered like maniacs for him when he was ushered again to the penalty box. He had been surprisingly well-behaved; nearly a minute on the ice this time before getting himself incarcerated again.

The game went on like so, Dakota in and out of the penalty box like a drunk in and out of county jail. The Tarantulas lost two to ten.

The walk back to the locker room was a cheerful one. The game hadn't mattered - it was just a so-called friendly match with nothing on the line. This had become an inside joke pertaining to the ram's brutality and Dakota lapped up the attention from his teammates.

"Nice friendly tackle out there, Dakota."

"You were really friendly to that horse's teeth, dude."

"Very friendly there, Dakota, I bet you made a lot of friends."

And so on and so forth. Dakota played hockey not because he liked to skate (he was bad at it) and not because he liked sports (it was nominally better than playing video games) but because he liked to beat people up and get cheered on for it. He was not a bully, not really - he had too many gay and effeminate friends to be taken seriously as a bully anymore - but the violence was fun. One of his more learned friends had once said he belonged back in time a few centuries, clubbing his enemies with a mace and conquering foreign lands for his king. Dakota was pleased with the idea.

In the locker room, Dakota showered with the other boys. They snapped towels and giggled like faggots at odds with their tough talk and macho dick-wagging. Dakota handily won all the dick-wagging contests when no stallions were present; his penis was a large uncircumcised thing and it hung almost to his knee. Boys being boys, Dakota was considered a freak of nature due to his large penis.

"Dakota!" a tall, dark wolf said as he soaped up near the ram. "What the fuck you feeding that thing?"

"Rice, man," Dakota always answered. "Shove it in one grain at a time. It puffs up."

The wolf snickered. "You know, it's actually only like three inches long." He clapped a paw down on Dakota's head and held onto him as if preventing his shrimpy body from escaping the Earth's gravity. "You're just such a fuckin' midget that it [i]looks[/i] big."

The ram snickered and smacked the wolf's paw away. Then he flicked the wolf's balls as hard as he could. The wolf gagged and laughed like a faggot as he backpedaled, clutching his sack.

"Fuck you, ballgazer," Dakota laughed.

"Fuck [i]you,[/i] balltoucher," the wolf replied. "Asshole."

After he showered and put his civvies on, Dakota found his friends waiting for him in the gymnasium. He was glad to see the four of them had come to his game: Chad the bull and Bento the Shiba Inu, the obvious couple who would not admit it; Desmond the foxcoon, their Appalachian transplant; and Brett the black bear, a plump-bottomed thing who Dakota had once bullied, but now considered a friend.

"Nice job out there, Dakota," Bento said, his Japanese eyes slim and sly. "You really showed that plexiglas who's boss."

Dakota grinned and laughed along with them. "I bet you guys were all having some fag orgy while I was actually doing something constructive."

"Yeah, since we're all totally gay and have no other traits," Brett said dryly. Everyone chuckled at that.

"Nice job out there, really," the bull said, and clapped Dakota's shoulder. "You did a really good job with that one goal, that was a tight shot."

"Too bad it was his own fuckin' goal," Desmond drawled in. He smiled, winked at Dakota. "Benny-boy, we gonna go home and have our lil' game now?"

Chad grunted. "Aw, crap."

The Shiba Inu dog chuckled and rubbed Chad's back. "Cha-a-ad. You know you can join us."

"Don't worry, Chad," Brett cut in, "I think D&D is lame, too. Come to my house and we can play video games."

Chad looked from Bento to Brett and back. "You don't mind if me and Brett-?" he asked quietly.

Bento smiled. He was about to say something understanding and comforting, but then Dakota started to talk. "Actually, dude, it's more fun without you two losers there whining anyway."

"Eat me," Chad snorted.

Dakota grinned. "Nah, you and Brett are gonna be doing that. [i]Video games,"[/i] he intoned, air quotes making the words suspect. "Yeah, right."

The bear nudged up to Dakota. He was the shortest of the whole group, smaller than even Bento the small dog. He cooed softly, "You could join us too, unless you're scared. I bet a guy like you - guy who yanks down other boys' shorts and giggles about it - yeah, a guy like you probably loves [i]video games."[/i]

The ram pushed Brett away, snickering - and blushing. "Shut up, Kushner." He sized up Bento and Desmond. "So we gonna go get our quest on then, dudes?"

As Chad and Brett walked off together, Dakota leaned close to Desmond and asked, "You think they're gonna actually play video games?"

"I'unno, fifty-fifty shot of that or rubbin' their lil' peckers together," the foxcoon mused. "Rubbin' lil' peckers is what [i]I'd[/i] be doin' with either of 'em."

Bento cleared his throat. "Shall we go? The forecast tonight looked pretty rainy. I'd rather not walk in that if I can avoid it."

"Yeah, you're made of sugar, after all," Desmond teased, and smooched Bento on his cheek. "C'mon, ya nerdy faggits, let's go roll some dice."

--Chapter Two

Bento entered through the garage door with Desmond and Dakota in tow. The rain seemed to be a no-show but the humidity was outrageous. All three boys were sweaty from the evening heat by the time they entered into Bento's home.

The dog's mother and father were home, as to be expected at this hour. They greeted Bento warmly - though not with the usual hugs and kisses Desmond got from his mother or the claps on the shoulder Dakota got from his dad. They had a very noticeable restraint with regards to physical contact. Bento's friends had once found this alien and cold, but that had been years ago.

"Hello Desmond, Dakota," said Bento's father. He and his son might well have been clones, though his father wore thick yet fashionable glasses compared to his son's insistence on contact lenses.

[i]"Konnichiwa,"[/i] answered Desmond, his smile fixed and bashful.

"Hi," said Dakota, smiling also. Bento's parents always made him feel odd. He felt especially [i]American[/i] around them, uncomfortable in a way he couldn't articulate and didn't bother trying to vocalize. Desmond and even Chad always seemed at ease around them. He supposed it was racist how he looked at them differently, but didn't they look at him differently too? Did they worry about all the dumb American kids their straight-A son hung around with? Or was that the whole reason they had transplanted themselves into a small American suburb?

Desmond gently nudged him in the ribs. "Dakota," he whispered, snapping the ram out of his thoughts, "they asked if we're hungry."

He looked sheepishly at Bento's mother, who shot a thin smile at him. "Sorry, uh, I was thinking about something."

Bento and Desmond both had to bite their tongues. The same barb crossed their minds. [i]Thinking? That's a new one.[/i]

"Uh, nah, I'm all right," he lied. He had never found Japanese food appealing, again something Desmond and even Chad seemed perfectly at ease with. At least it gave Dakota material for quick jokes about those two, Desmond especially, would put anything in their mouths.

"Well, I believe given the circumstances - you will be playing a game, correct? - you three could order a pizza," Bento's father said in his calm, careful voice.

Bento smiled. "Thank you." He looked at his friends, saw no objections, and looked back to his father. Seeming to fill the role of an elected representative speaking on behalf of his constituents, he said in measured words, "Pizza would be excellent."

And so Bento was allowed to order dinner for himself and his friends, no expense spared because he had - as usual - been a perfect student. His parents had struck a balance between firm expectations and positive reinforcement in his upbringing. Hard work was expected of him but also rewarded.

"Go on. Enjoy your game. We will let you know when your food comes," said his father. And off they went in their separate ways, mother and father into the den, Bento and friends upstairs into the boy's room.

The game proved to be an exciting one. Bento was an excellent storyteller with an eye for balance and fairness, always ready for even the most absurd dice rolls. When the pizza came they ate like kings, Dakota especially packing away almost half the pizza. His torso felt like it was hollow; he hadn't eaten since before the game.

As the game went on and the hours ticked by, the rain finally came and brought wind and lightning with it. There was a slight bustle outside as Bento's parents moved their car into the garage. Hailstones plinked off the roof like ball bearings.

"Gettin' kinda excitin' here, innit?" Desmond asked, grinning.

Bento smiled, but it was hollow like Dakota's gut had felt. He understood the physics and the principles of storms but that was not enough to drive out a certain nervousness he always felt. Regular thunderstorms did not bother him - but sheets of rain, falling hail, and crashes of thunder so sudden and sharp that walls resonated, that struck fear into him.

Dakota scooted beside the dog. "You all right, man?"

"I will be. Yes. I'll be fine," Bento said, looking distinctly ill. He smiled guiltily. "It's just funny. Nothing in a storm is particularly scary, it's just-." Lightning crashed and Bento flinched, his eyes shutting tight, his ears splaying down. His chest rose and fell quickly and shallowly.

The ram wrapped a burly arm around Bento. Desmond closed in from the other side and kissed his cheek.

"Gay," Dakota sneered.

"Shaddup," Desmond hissed, grinning.

Bento forced himself to chuckle and nod. "No. No, it's all right. That was pretty gay."

The thunder and lightning began to wind down. Still sheets of rain came down, but without ice - only tumescent drops landing with great popping splashes.

The Shiba Inu looked thoughtfully at the black window. "All right. It's-, the worst of it's gone now. I'm okay." He squeezed the other boys and kissed Desmond back on the cheek. "Thank you. I'm sorry."

"Hey, dude, don't be sorry," Dakota said easily. He patted the dog on the shoulder. "Stuff's scary sometimes."

"Heck, yeah," Desmond chuckled. "Where I done grew up, stuff like this happened all the time. Tornadoes an' stuff like that. Ain't no shame bein' scared."

Bento looked at the game board set up on the floor. He rubbed the back of his head and neck, exorcising a mild ache he'd gained from sitting with his snout tilted downward. "I'd like to stop for tonight."

"Yeah, all right," Desmond said, not hiding his disappointment very well.

The boys all packed up their campaign, putting papers and figures and of course the dog's master plans into a Rubbermaid container which Bento then slid under his bed. The time was just after ten PM when they were finished.

Peering into the black night, Desmond murmured, "Shit, I don't wanna walk home in that. An' my mama's in bed by now." He turned and looked at Dakota. "'Bout you?"

"As if I'm scared," the ram scoffed.

Bento chuckled. "You could sleep over. Both of you. Just don't keep my mom and dad awake."

Dakota couldn't help himself. "Desmond can be quiet through [i]anything.[/i] Even having things put in his butt."

The Shiba Inu covered his mouth to laugh. Desmond looked at Dakota intently, grinning a foxy grin.

"You suggestin' somethin' there?" he drawled.

The bedroom door opened and in peered Bento's father. Immediately all three boys looked upon his stern, but fair face. The senior dog was not wearing his glasses, and in fact had on striped pajamas, but still he was a respectable figure.

"Dakota, Desmond," he said affably, "it is late. Will you be staying here tonight?"

The foxcoon and ram looked at each other, then Bento, who nodded.

"Yes sir," Desmond and Dakota answered in unison.

Desmond added, "If that's all right with ya, sir."

The dog smiled, though his eyes barely reflected it. "You are always welcome here. Please keep quiet, however. The rest of your pizza is in the fridge. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, dad," Bento said.

After the door snicked shut, Desmond slid a paw around Dakota's hip. The ram turned, looked at him with a startled expression.

"The fuck are you doing?" he whispered, imagining Bento's father just outside the door, ear pressed up to it and just waiting for something incriminating to slip out.

"Well ya got me curious," the foxcoon whispered back, and then he kissed the ram. It was something of an awkward kiss; he wasn't used to being the taller boy.

Bento watched, smirking, blushing. Part of him wanted to put his foot down and say [i]no way, no how, not here. Not getting busted watching, possibly even participating in some live gay sex by my extremely conservative Japanese folks.[/i] But there was that naughty part of him too, the part that still thought about those innocent days when he and Chad compared penises, about surreptitious kisses with boys, and about Desmond and his quite frankly wonderful oral sex. Yes, he wanted to see something happen. He was a teenage boy with a teenage boy's wants and needs.

"I'm not gonna fuck you," Dakota murmured, pulling away.

Desmond followed after him. His paw cupped the crotch of the ram's shorts where something [i]big[/i] was hiding.

"No? Ya don't wanna fuck a fox in the butt, do ya? Lemme tell ya, we're the [i]best[/i] for bein' fucked in the butt." He turned and looked at Bento, smiling. "Ya got some lube?"

"Uh, no," Bento answered.

Desmond's brow furrowed. "Seriously? What, you an' Chad don't-?"

"No," Bento said, smiling and blushing. "Sorry..."

The foxcoon turned back to Dakota, huffing. "Well, that's all right, then. Guess I don't need my butthole reamed out tonight anyway. Even though I figure you're [i]good[/i] at it."

Dakota grew stiff with embarrassing suddenness under Desmond's groping touch. His cock stabbed out into his shorts and made a tent of them.

"Yeah-, uh, yeah, I'm great at it," Dakota murmured. "Just with girls, you know, I'm into girls."

"Girls," Desmond repeated, smiling. He kissed the ram on the lips and wasn't kissed back, but he took the lack of any resistance as a good sign. "Lemme tell ya somethin' about [i]girls.[/i] Girls ain't got peckers. Girls don't know how to handle a pecker, not the way us guys do." Under the waistband went his paw. He clutched the naked shaft and excitement fluttered in their hearts, Desmond with gay delight, Dakota with virginal desire.

"Girls don't know how to suck and smooch and [i]stroke,"[/i] he illustrated the last point with a gripping tug, "on a pecker. Boys do. I know how to make ya feel real good."

Bento, sitting on the floor, surreptitiously touched himself. Whether or not Desmond's seduction was working on Dakota, it had certainly worked on him. He wondered what Chad and Brett would think. And his thoughts turned to the ram's dismissal earlier: [i]video games.[/i] He covered his muzzle to stifle a giggle.

"Oh, god," Dakota mumbled. An immense stain of precum dampened his shorts. His fingers clumsy played at his pockets and sides. Suddenly Desmond's unoccupied paw found Dakota's hand and brought it to his round ass. The ram held Desmond's bottom curiously in one hand, then brought in the other on his own impulse. He squeezed the cheeks and said quietly, his voice ever dopey, "Whoa, your butt is so... it's really good."

The Shiba Inu pulled out his cell phone. Grinning, he sent a text to Chad.

[i]Desmond's making Dakota play "video games."[/i]

His phone buzzed a few seconds later. Chad replied, [i]desmond can make anybody gay[/i] followed by an emoji of a winking bull, and then an eggplant.

The dog smiled and moved in closer.

Desmond tugged down Dakota's shorts. Over the ram's soft gasp, the foxcoon whispered, "Now don't you get all nervous on me. I'm gonna suck ya off." His green eyes flitted to Bento. "Ask Benny here. I know what I'm doin."

The dog blushed. "It's true. He does." [i]Just ask Chad. And Brett. And hell, every other boy in the school. And a bunch of grown men, too.[/i]

"Dude, this is-, it's gay," the ram feebly protested. But god, he couldn't take his hands off of Desmond's ass cheeks. And that soft black paw felt so good, like velvet compared to his own rough fingers. "Do it, just do me," he said desperately, quietly. "And don't tell anybody."

"Nobody here but us chickens," the fox said. He giggled at the puzzlement on Dakota's face. He kissed Dakota and to his surprise was kissed back, only a smooch, but that was a marked improvement.

The ram groped Desmond's behind and then let it go. "I'm not kissing you again," he groused. His cheeks were hot, ears hotter, cock throbbing. Precum dribbled copiously from its slit. The shaft was so big, so vulgar and plump that its foreskin rested around the helmet-like ridge of the glans, baring much of it.

"One kiss is all I needed anyhow," said Desmond, and winked. "Proves what a queer ya are."

Dakota groaned and looked to Bento as if expecting help. The dog could only grin and shrug. Dakota suddenly wondered who, if anybody, could corral this foxcoon.

Desmond knelt and huffed hot breath pointedly across the ram's penis. Dakota's breath seized in his chest. His penis twitched, then for one long and visceral moment he thought it was going to fall flaccid, the blood driven out by nervousness. But it stayed thick and stout long enough for Desmond to grasp it again. The foxcoon's paw stroked, tugged back the foreskin, fully bared the glans. A thick honey-like dribble of precum rolled from the slit, much falling to the carpet, but the last little morsel of it was caught by the fox's lolling tongue.

Desmond's maw opened wide as his eyes closed. He engulfed Dakota, moaning as he descended. Sucking hard, lapping, tugging what his mouth did not envelop as if trying to pull it further inside.

"Ooh-, ooh crap," the ram wheezed, hands flying to Desmond's head, to his hips, then nervously to the fox's head again. He cupped the other boy's skull awkwardly and said in a stunted voice, "Uh, the girls-, the girls don't want me messing up their hair, so I just-, I don't always touch 'em like this."

Bento moved in closer. He slid down his shorts around his ankles, kept his tented briefs on. One paw held his phone, waiting for another reply. Its twin, his dominant right paw, fondled his erection through his briefs. Watching Desmond gulp and bob made him feel a twinge of jealousy. But Bento was not a bitter boy, and the jealousy was playful. He was happy for the ram. He knew firsthand the pleasure Dakota was feeling.

Another buzz in Bento's paw signaled Chad's next message. Without prompt, the bull asked, [i]what up?[/i]

The Shiba Inu sent him a brisk reply between fluffing rubs of his erection. It made a seeping, growing stain of precum in the fabric of his briefs, turning spotless white to a dull gray hue. [i]Desmond giving Dakota the suck magic. I think Dakota is a virgin. Not for long LOL.[/i]

"Ooh, oh gawd," breathed Dakota, his words sounding terribly loud to him in the stillness of Bento's bedroom. Every suck seemed as loud as a gunshot. And the sucks were firm, coaxing him to give in and cum early. The tongue curled and tugged and twisted around like a worm feeling sightlessly about an obstacle. Its throb was dull but quick, the foxcoon's heart pounding with gay lust. The go-to gay fantasy was to blow a straight man; Dakota was close enough.

[i]pics?[/i] Chad asked. Tailing the request was a winking bull emoji.

Bento giggled. Dakota looked at him sharply, said nothing. He threaded his fingers through Desmond's long blonde hair, the bullshit about girls fading into the rising pleasure. His balls felt snug, almost painful the way they did sometimes when he lifted too much, but unlike overexertion, this was a pleasant pain. It was a pain like working out, a good burn. He hunched over Desmond slightly, thick breast heaving, big lungs pumping in the air in voracious puffs. "Shi-i-it, shit dude," he whispered, whimpered. "Fuck, dude, Desmond-, dude, this is hot..."

The dog leaned in. His phone snapped a couple of pictures of Desmond's bobbing maw, Dakota's fat pink phallus holding it open like some overlarge sausage inside a hoagie. Drool rolled down the girly fox's chin and glinted attractively in the camera flash.

"Dude," Dakota hissed, swatting at Bento. "What the hell."

"Shush, enjoy your blowjob," the dog said, grinning so much that his eyes were almost impossible to see. He forwarded the pictures to Chad.

A few streets away in the neighborhood, Chad's phone buzzed. He and Brett Kushner looked at the photos together.

"Christ, what a lucky fox," the bear huffed. And then he went back down on Chad. He didn't mind the bull's tiny size.

Bento sat back against the dresser. He slid down his briefs and bared his modest, knotted penis. His masturbation was slow and lazy, performed with his left paw to add an extra dimension of casualness to it. He watched Desmond gulp and slobber the heaving ram with the same coy jealousy as before. [i]My turn soon,[/i] he guessed from his look at Dakota's red face.

The ram bleated softly. He was shuddering, squirming, holding onto Desmond for what seemed to be dear life. His fingers cupped the fox's ears, pinching them, but Desmond didn't react if it caused him pain. His paws groped the ram's exposed shaft and fondled his heavy scrotum, juicing sweat from the fur. Dakota's body still had an earthy, musky smell his post-game shower had not eliminated.

Bento's phone buzzed. The dog looked at his new message. It was a picture not unlike what he had sent: the young, eager maw of Brett Kushner engulfing Chad's crotch, cock and balls in one easy mouthful, drool running down the bear's chin. Bento grinned and turned his attention back to the foxcoon's work.

Dakota's stout legs trembled. His body buckled, hips bucked, breathing slowed and hitched. From somewhere deep in his chest came a grunting, coughing sound. He held fast to Desmond who gulped something down. What looked like a knot no bigger than the foxcoon's Adam's apple slid its way down his delicate neck, then another. The ram shuddered and groaned out, "Oh-, oh fuck, that's [i]so[/i] great, that's-." Then he remembered where he was and the silence that was expected of him. He looked sheepishly at the masturbating dog, then down at Desmond, whose emerald eyes were glazed with whorish satisfaction.

The fox pulled back and wiped his lips on the back of a black paw. He rocked back on his knees and sighed. "Mm, heck, ya taste real good," he cooed to the blushing ram.

Dakota felt the weight of the day's activities hitting him all at once. He wanted to slam his ass down on the floor and be done with it but shaking the floor and awakening Bento's snoozing parents just wouldn't do. He lowered himself with exaggerated slowness, legs trembling as he neared the end of his journey. He put his bare cheeks on the carpet and sighed. His spent penis hung heavily over his balls, a snake out of venom. Saliva and the dregs of an orgasm dribbled from its tip.

"Jesus Christ, I can't believe I let you do that," Dakota said, shaking his head. "Fuck. That was gay."

"It was gay, yeah," Desmond affirmed. He smooched the ram's cheek. Dakota seemed about to smooch back when he remembered where the fox's lips had been and recoiled instead. "But hey, I betcha it was better'n any suck ya ever got from a [i]girl."[/i]

"Maybe, I guess," the ram mumbled, looking away.

"Desmond," Bento said gently.

Without a word, Desmond leaned over into Bento's lap, and he went down on the Shiba Inu gladly. The dog sighed and smiled. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the sleek black surface of his dresser. "Tha-a-ank you," sighed the dog, resting a paw on the back of Desmond's head.

The ram watched closely. His eyes were wide and fascinated but the curiosity was morbid in its way. He made fun of his friends being queers, he knew they did this kind of thing, but now he was part of it. Now he was watching Desmond do it, and those lips had just been on his penis moments before. He looked at Desmond's bottom, perked out and heart-shaped under blue jeans which seemed improbably tight. He touched the foxcoon, followed the curve of a cheek, but pulled back his hand as if he didn't care for what he'd found.

Dakota got up and put his shorts back on. In the time it took him to go piss, eat a slice of cold pizza and drink a cup of tap water, Desmond had finished Bento off. The ram returned to find Bento masturbating Desmond, the fox on his back, small penis bare. This reciprocal pleasure took only a few minutes to come to fruition. The dog giggled as Desmond writhed and huffed. Desmond cooed, "Thank ya, sugar. Mmm. You got nice paws. Them sweet lil' Japanese fingers."

"Yes, my little Japanese fingers," Bento said dryly, wiping the mess off into a tissue, "perfect for your tiny redneck dick."

The ram grinned. His first grin since before this gayness had all started.

"I'm pretty tired. I'm gonna crash if that's cool," said Dakota, throwing his book bag down as a pillow.

Ever the good host, Bento took a pillow off his bed and a blanket from the top shelf of his closet. "Please," said Bento with ingrained politeness, offering the items to Dakota.

"Oh, thanks, dude," Dakota murmured, taking the pillow and blanket. "You didn't have to."

"I'd feel bad if you didn't have at least a pillow," the dog said, shrugging. He pulled off his shirt, kicked off his shorts, crawled into bed. Dakota was about to ask where the foxcoon would sleep when Desmond answered by entering Bento's bed in a similar state of undress.

"Ya let me know if ya get lonesome down there, sugar," purred the foxcoon. Bento turned off the lights and the bedroom became black and still. "I'll come snuggle up to ya."

"Night, [i]fags,"[/i] Dakota scoffed.

"Goodnight, fags," Bento reiterated, chuckling.

All fags present slept very well that night.

--Chapter Three

Dakota woke up before either of his friends, but not before Bento's parents. They were enjoying a light breakfast, speaking in their native tongue about the storm and the encore set to take place tonight.

Bento's father noticed the bleary-eyed ram coming down the stairs. His switch from Japanese to English was fluid, done without thinking. "Good morning, Dakota. Are Bento and Desmond still asleep?"

"Yeah, yes sir, they're pretty tired, I guess." Somewhat self-consciously, Dakota went into the fridge and got a piece of cold pizza. He had that and another glass of tap water, then he went back upstairs.

Sunlight was beginning to filter in through the bedroom window when Dakota reentered and latched the door behind him. Desmond, on the edge of the bed, looked at him with a sleepy smile. He sat up and stretched, his back arching and popping in a series of satisfyingly wet crunches. After that he got up and pulled the blanket over Bento's exposed body. The dog was still fast asleep, his snoring soft and droning.

Even in his briefs with hair distressed and crust in his eyes, Desmond was still an attractive young man. He maintained a respectful distance from the ram, expecting some of the post-gay jitters most straight men experienced. "Sleep well?" he asked, keeping quiet, mindful of Bento.

"Yeah, fine," Dakota answered curtly. He looked away from Desmond and picked up his book bag. "I gotta go. My dad's gonna be pissed."

The foxcoon yawned. His morning wood was small but noticeable. Dakota pretended not to notice it.

"I'll walk with ya," said Desmond. He pulled on his clothes and gave Bento another glance. "My mama's probably makin' breakfast right about now."

Dakota nodded. He had heard about Desmond's mother. She wasn't his real mother - there was something Dakota understood.

"Let's go then. I need to go, like, right now."

"Then let's get a move on," the fox said, gesturing at the door, his smile easy and cool like his laid-back speech.

The ram and foxcoon passed by Bento's parents again. They said their polite goodbyes, Desmond thanked them for their hospitality, and then they left into a summer morning. It was already humid, or perhaps the humidity of the night before still had not left. Downed branches dotted yards like bones on a desert floor and the cars parked along the street had a few more dings in them than before. Desmond remarked on the damage with a kind of [i]schadenfreude.[/i] Dakota thought only about going home. He said next to nothing and his replies were monosyllabic for the most part.

"Here. I live up here," Dakota said, indicating a modest two-story home on a large, well-groomed lot sullied by branches and twigs. A Ford truck with dualies and a badge proudly proclaiming [i]Cummins Turbo Diesel[/i] sat in the driveway, its silver paint dinged but not from last night's storm; it was a truck his father used for work.

"I never met yer old man before," said Desmond, beginning the walk up the driveway.

Dakota grabbed the taller fox by the shoulder and pulled him back. "Dude, you ought to go home. Your mom's wondering, right?"

Desmond had the uncomprehending smile of a bimbo but Dakota thought something flashed in the foxcoon's eyes. "Well shit, I been out all night. She ain't gonna miss me another twenty minutes."

"Seriously," the ram hissed. "Just-, just go home."

The front door opened. A burly, braying voice called out, "Dakota, get your ass in here!"

Desmond and Dakota both looked to the source of the voice. Behind the storm door was a glimpse of a silhouette. Tall, stout, curled horns on top of the head. The fox gazed at Dakota again; now there was no mistaking that knowing look in the fox's eyes. Alongside the understanding was a hint of pity.

"Go on, sugar," he said, a firmness entering his voice. "I'll see ya later on."

Dakota nodded. "Bye. Later, Desmond."

The fox leaned in somewhat. Dakota tensed, knowing the old man was watching, and thought for sure [i]he's gonna kiss me. I want it and he knows it but he's gonna do it in front of the old man and get us both-.[/i]

Desmond clapped Dakota on the shoulder and winked. "You got a real nice dick, sugar," he whispered. "Seeya later."

The fox turned and left. Dakota's father called out again, this time in a rising, dangerous growl. "Dakota..."

"I'm coming," the ram said. No bluster in his voice, just a boyish diffidence not lost on Desmond's ears. The ram trotted double-time to the front door and slipped in alongside his dad.

Dakota's father - Bradford, Brad to friends, and Mr. Youngren to the men on his construction crew - stared the boy down with eyes so deep-set and darkly brown as to appear black except in bright light. He pushed the door closed with firmness enough that the frame rattled, then clapped a burly hand down his boy's shoulder and shoved him, adding unstable momentum to nervously skittering steps. Dakota staggered into the kitchen and grabbed the island countertop to balance and stop himself.

"First I have to find out you lost the goddamn game from Anton's father, and then - rather than come home and admit you fucked up - you go and hide out for the night with your buddies."

"Dad, the game didn't even matter," Dakota said quickly but diffidently in a familiar attempt to mollify father before his temper broke. "It didn't matter. It wasn't-."

Brad's open palm cracked against Dakota's cheek, cutting off his nervous chattering so suddenly that it was like a needle had been yanked up from a record. The younger ram's head jerked and the tears rushed up like vomit waiting at the back of his throat. He pushed them back down because crying invited ridicule and further abuse. And once, when he was twelve, he had given into the anger and shoved his father. It was the first and only time his old man had ever punched him. Dakota firmly believed he'd deserved that one; only scumbags laid hands on their parents.

Dad gestured at the front door. "Now who was that? He a faggot? Sure looked like one. Boy with long hair like a girl..."

"His name's Desmond," Dakota sputtered.

"Is he a [i]faggot,"[/i] dad repeated, his face stolid, eyes seething in a way Dakota was painfully familiar with.

"No," the boy - and that was all he felt like, a boy - answered softly.

"I won't have a boy associates with faggots," warned father. He moved sharply closer. Dakota didn't flinch. Oh, he wanted to, but flinching only ensured that a smack would follow; only pussies flinched, and Brad Youngren didn't raise pussies.

Brad clapped a friendly enough hand on his boy's shoulder. "Clean up the yard. Your mother says it looks like shit now and I'm inclined to agree. Just throw the branches in the bed of the truck. You and me, we'll go dump 'em off once you're done."

Dakota nodded. He eagerly brushed past his father, taking the shortest path possible to the back door. Sweating outside was fine; dad would stay inside in the air conditioning and Dakota could relax. A few hours peace at the very least while dad fucked his wife. Dad could shill her as [i]your mother[/i] all he liked, but Dakota did not care for the frigid elk doe his father had remarried.

The young ram had the back door halfway open when dad's palm pushed on it, forcing it shut. Now Dakota did flinch. But Brad didn't hit him.

"Your shorts are on backwards," said dad lowly. He pulled at the drawstring hanging over his son's behind. Icily, "Why, exactly?"

"It was-, after the game, everybody was just in a rush to get out of there, dad," the boy said, failing to keep the worry out of his voice. "I'm sorry. I'll fix them, I'll do it right now."

His father interrupted his attempts to lower his shorts. "I think," dad said, ice in his voice, "you had your shorts off. And you had to put them on in a hurry. Say, so your faggot buddy's parents didn't catch you with them off."

"That's not true!" Dakota cried, and was smacked for his trouble.

"Don't raise your voice at me." Brad's hands gripped his shoulders. Fingers made meaty by construction work dug into Dakota's shoulders, sending ten lances of pain through his nerves. Dakota grimaced but did not cry. Dakota would flinch and cower and beg, but crying was the one thing he never did in front of his old man.

"Dad, I didn't-, I'm not a faggot," he protested.

Their eyes locked for many seconds. They felt to Dakota like individual minutes. Finally his father let him go. He pointed to the stairs. "Go fix your shorts. The next time you hide from me, I'll come find you."

Dakota's lip quivered but a familiar old father commandment echoed in his mind: [i]thou shalt not talk back to me, boy.[/i]

"And if I find out that sissy fox has something to do with you coming home in ass-backwards shorts, I'll put his ass into the hospital. Then yours." Another clap on the shoulder. "Just so you and me are clear on this, son. I didn't raise you to be a [i]what?"[/i]

"A pussy or a faggot," Dakota obediently finished. "I'm no pussy or faggot, dad. I swear."

Dad leaned close. He smooched his boy on the forehead, then nudged him along. "Get going, boy. Then clean up that yard."

For an hour, Dakota gathered branches up and tossed them into the bed of his dad's truck. The twigs he pulled into piles with the rake. [i]Faggots,[/i] he thought, and managed to smirk. Bundles of sticks. That had been one of Bento's pieces of trivia which first came up in his campaign. The party had come upon a vixen tried and convicted as a witch. She'd been tied to a post, and laid around her feet were many faggots doused with flammable sap. Dakota and Desmond had just about giggled themselves into hysterics when Bento described the scene to them. It turned out, after her rescue, that she had been a witch after all. Dakota's character was cursed for his troubles.

He paused and dragged his arm across his forehead. It was toasty outside. Thunderheads billowed up what seemed to be miles in the sky, but that was how it went in the summer: days of oppressive heat before the pressure blew off in mighty storms. A few days of cooler weather and then the cycle started up again.

The ram moseyed to the house and unscrewed the garden hose from the spigot. He drank lukewarm water from the tap until he was sated, and then he screwed the hose back into place. Going inside was the last thing he wanted to do; drinking like a dog from the spigot was preferable to seeing dad.

"Hey, killer," a familiar and sweet voice said, catching Dakota's attention. He looked up and saw Desmond coming around the side of the house. "Need a hand?"

Dakota looked over the yard. He was nearly done. "Just gotta move a couple [i]faggots[/i] to the truck," he said, grinning with the emphasis. Then he thought of his father. He stepped closer to the foxcoon and said quietly, "My dad's pretty mad at me. You ought to go, dude."

Desmond glanced at the windows overlooking the backyard. His green eyes rolled down to Dakota and his smile grew wide. "Ya know, maybe your old man just ain't had his pecker sucked-."

"I'm [i]serious,[/i] and don't say shit like that," Dakota hissed, his eyes huge. "Go, man. Just go."

The fox's smile lessened. To Dakota it looked sad - even pitying. His paws sank into the pockets of his very snug jeans. "Sugar, ya ain't gotta be scared, ya know. It ain't right."

The back door squeaked open. Dakota flinched but the way the door swung put it between him and his father's gaze. His blood ran cold and his testicles seemed to migrate up into the same space as his lungs.

"Dakota, buddy. Sorry about that business earlier. I brought you some-." He looked at Desmond, seemed about to say something, and then looked at Dakota again. As if he had not seen the fox, he continued, "Got some lemonade for you. Drink up. You know you gotta stay hydrated, right?"

Dakota wordlessly took the lemonade and sipped it. Country Time, his favorite. Better than Kool-Aid by far. "Um, I'm almost done, dad. And my friend was just leaving. He was-."

"Desmond, right?" Brad interrupted, wheeling on the fox. "You come over to play? Dakota's busy."

"Was just sayin' hello, sir," the foxcoon replied, his tone respectful and unwavering. For a moment he and the older ram looked at each other, and then he turned his eyes on Dakota. "Seeya later, buddy. Oughta come on by if ya can."

Both rams watched as Desmond sauntered off, bushy tail swishing, blonde hair glinting in the overwhelming sunlight. The fox never looked back.

"He's a queer if I've ever seen one," Brad quietly spoke to his son. "He's your friend, is he?"

Dakota wasn't thirsty but he gulped down his lemonade to occupy his mouth. The ice cubes clattered against his teeth. He exhaled, said, "He's friends with my other friends, he comes to my games. And he goes to the same school. He helps me with my homework sometimes."

"Stop chattering, yes or no, boy."

Dakota looked away. "Yes, sir."

Brad took the empty glass from his son, then patted his shoulder and said, "At least he's respectful. You know, much as I hate to say it, you could learn a thing or two about manners from that boy."

"Yes sir," Dakota submissively agreed.

"Back to work now, son," dad said.

Dakota went back to work.

--Chapter Five

The Ford idled out of the driveway, Dakota in the passenger seat, Brad behind the wheel. The bed was loaded high with branches and twigs. A blue tarpaulin lashed down with bungee cords kept the load in place.

Brad backed out into the street and drove slowly out of the neighborhood; often he complained about the assholes who sped through the neighborhood and he tried to set an example.

A few miles away, adjacent to the trash dump, was a dumping ground provided by the county for brush and garbage wood. The short drive there was a quiet one, only the engine's blatting and the turbo's rising and falling whistles adding noise to the cab. When they were there, emptying the truck proved much easier than filling it had been; dad backed in to the pile and Dakota, up in the bed, shoved the wood out onto the ashy ground. Eventually city workers would come by to burn down the pile. Dakota thought it sounded like a nice gig, getting paid to watch a bonfire.

"Good job," dad said as Dakota got back into the cab. It was six o'clock and the sun had just begun its retreat over the horizon, lighting the tremendous thunderheads up like light bulbs.

Halfway back to the neighborhood, Brad pulled off the scenic road into an unpaved lane leading to one of the long-dead farms in the countryside. He put the truck into park but left it running. Dakota looked out at the desolate field, then back at his father.

Brad punched his son, knuckles cracking against the orbital ridge of the boy's left eye. Dakota's head whipped back and thudded against the window with a hollow sound.

"Dad!" Dakota yelped, and he began to cry, bellowing sobs wrenched out of him by feelings of confused fear. He threw up his arms to protect his face but the punch remained singular.

"You lying faggot," Brad hissed, acid in his words. "You and that fox. That Desmond. Both of you, goddamn faggots."

"I didn't do-, we didn't-, nothing," Dakota blubbered.

"Stop crying, boy," Brad warned him. "Stop that crying or I'm gonna give you a reason to cry."

The young ram trembled in his seat. He choked his blubbering back to gasps. The tears came but it was the sobbing his father hated. Any man got some tears in his eyes when he smashed his thumb with a hammer; pussies sobbed and bawled.

"Lie to me one more time and you're done, buddy," his father said. "After that faggot came by, after I got a good look at him, I went and checked those shorts of yours. Those ones you came home wearing backwards like some-," he grunted and found that he couldn't even finish the sentence, he felt so betrayed by his lying faggot of a son. "I checked them and I found cum in 'em. Is that yours or is it his?"

Dakota felt a sharp lance of fear. The copper flavor of terror rose in his throat as though he had a mouth full of pennies. "It's not-, it's-, it's-," he sputtered like a broken toy, the tears cascading over his snout.

Brad's hand cinched around one of the boy's horns. Close now, nearly nose to nose, he said, "Don't lie to me. Don't fucking lie."

"It's mine," the ram mumbled.

"Why? What were you doing? You jerking off with him? Huh? Letting him look?" He jerked Dakota by the horn. Blood seemed to slosh around inside the darkening flesh of Dakota's eye socket. He moaned like somebody with a terrible migraine pulsing in his temples. "Or did he do it for you?"

[i]"Dad!"[/i] Dakota yelped. And his dad smacked him, made him scream more out of helplessness than fury or pain. Dad smacked him again and Dakota went dreadfully silent.

Brad pushed his son back by the horn and slammed the shifter into reverse. He backed out into the road, put it in drive and took off hard enough that the tires squawked against the pavement. "I see him again, I'm gonna cave his skull in. I see you [i]with[/i] him and you're gonna wish you were never born, boy."

[i]Can't threaten me with that, I already wish for it,[/i] Dakota bitterly thought. He leaned against the window. His eye hurt like a bitch. At that particular moment, what he wanted was to be with Desmond. Complex feelings stirred like fireflies in the pubescent mess of his hormonal brain. Mighty rebellious and spiteful urges collided with the strangeness of new pleasure and the desire for more of it like when he'd first discovered masturbation.

He wanted Desmond. It was the only thing he knew for sure anymore.

--Chapter Six

Desmond knocked on the front door of the Porterhouse home. Chad's mother, a sweet cow who openly adored Desmond's twangy accent, was the one who answered. "Hello, Desmond," she said, smiling. "Chad's outside."

"Thank ya, Mrs. Porterhouse," the foxcoon replied, smiling back. The loving grin of Mrs. Porterhouse was a welcome change after meeting Mr. Youngren face to face. That had given Desmond his first taste of Stranger Danger in years. He had seen that look before, that blend of paranoia and reproach which seemed to be the hallmark of the abusive parent.

He found Chad in the backyard, sweaty and muddy, working out on a homemade obstacle course made up of old tires fetched from the trash of various families. The bull finished his run and trotted up to Desmond, grinning and huffing. "Hey! Sup, ringtail?"

"Not a whole lot, quarter-pounder," Desmond sneered. "Makin' them muscles all big, huh? Guess ya gotta have [i]somethin'[/i] big on ya."

Chad blushed, snickered. "Fuck you, Desmond."

"Don't ya threaten me with a good time, sugar," said the fox with a wink.

Chad laughed. He shoved the fox's shoulder and started walking towards the house. His smell was thick and musky, something Desmond would have ordinarily loved. Even now he was struggling to stick to the intended reason for his visit.

"I got a question for ya," the fox said.

"Yeah?"

"Serious question."

Chad stopped and turned. A distant rumble of thunder caught the attention of both boys briefly. As it passed, they looked at each other closely.

"Okay," the bull said. "Hit me."

Desmond sighed. "Ya know Dakota's dad? Anything about 'em? 'Cause I was over there... 'bout an hour ago, and somethin' about him is [i]weird."[/i]

"Mr. Youngren?" Chad shrugged. "I don't know. He's nice whenever I visit Dakota. He says, like, he hopes Dakota gets to be as good as me, stuff like that." He began to smile, small and embarrassed. "Uh. He complains about gays a lot."

That was when Desmond perked. "Does he?"

"Oh, yeah. Like, I feel kinda," he seemed to retreat into his mind as he searched his small vocabulary, "not safe around him sometimes. I don't think he can tell though."

Desmond huffed and folded his arms. "I think he can with me."

Chad nudged Desmond. "Anybody can tell with you."

"Eat shit, burger boy."

Chad laughed. He stretched, looked up at the thunderheads, and then sighed. "Man, look at that. Dad says it's gonna be another rough night."

"Mm," Desmond murmured. "Chad? Your folks know that you and me, uh-, you know, do they know?"

"Don't think so." The bull eyed the fox. "What's this about?"

The fox waved him off. "Never mind it. Just worryin' about nothin' I guess."

Rarely did Chad have moments of epiphany. A typical jock in most respects, Chad was large, muscular, and dumb. The sweetness he possessed was mostly the result of his friends' influence. When he did manage a leap of deduction, however, his insights tended to surprise those around him. In one such leap, he asked, "You think Dakota's dad knows what you guys did?"

Desmond looked at him, surprised. He was never embarrassed about matters of sex. He asked the bull, "How'd you know about that?"

"Bento sent me a picture," the bull said, grinning slyly. "You and your blowjobs," he admonished the fox.

"Well. Well, [i]yeah.[/i] I think he knows." He folded his arms and looked up at Chad's blue eyes. "Dammit, Chad, I think I got Dakota in trouble. Ya know, my mom used to beat the hell out of me."

"Your mom did that?" Chad asked, hurt. "But she's all nice and cool."

"My [i]other[/i] mom. Remember I'm adopted, ya retard."

"Oh, yeah. You are." The bull shrugged at the name; half the fun of friendship was calling names, in Chad's opinion. "So wait, you think-," his expression began to turn sour, "you think Dakota's dad-?"

"Yeah. I think his dad's gonna hurt him 'cause he knows what we did." Guilt was not something Chad was used to seeing on Desmond's coy face. Seeing it was distressing, like seeing his mother cry.

Chad rubbed Desmond's shoulder. It was small and bony. "Maybe his dad doesn't know?" he hopefully suggested.

"I don't know what he knows. I just feel like I might'a gotten him in trouble." Desmond leaned in closer to Chad's sweaty, smelly body. He thought of leaning on the bull, then thought better of it. No sense getting two of his friends in trouble in one day. "I feel bad. I was just havin' fun with him. I didn't know his dad was one of those people."

The bull looked around. The stockade fences walled off his yard and the kitchen was empty, the lights in the window off. He stole a smooch on Desmond's cheek. "Don't be upset, Desmond," the bull gently said.

"You're sweet," Desmond sighed, smiling and blushing. "Benny's a lucky guy."

Chad blushed too. He shoved the foxcoon. "Shut up, nerd."

They headed towards the house again. Desmond started to break off for the driveway. He was about to tell Chad he was heading home when the back door opened. Mrs. Porterhouse stepped out onto the stone patio.

"Desmond," the tall cow said. "Would you like to stay for dinner? We're having stir-fry tonight."

Mrs. Porterhouse's cooking was always spectacular. The foxcoon said without hesitation, "If it ain't any trouble, ma'am."

"None at all," the cow said happily. "You can help out. I know you love to be in the kitchen."

While Chad showered up, Desmond helped with dinner. The stir-fry was wonderful. After dinner was over, Mr. Porterhouse drove Desmond home. The raindrops were just beginning to fall when the foxcoon got inside his front door.

Desmond had some fresh dessert his mother had cooked - peach cobbler with a dollop of butter pecan ice cream - and then sat up, first playing video games, then reading a book after the lights began to flicker and it became too risky to leave his video game systems and computer plugged in.

Around midnight, the storm still raged on. Desmond was tired. He kissed his mother goodnight and crawled into bed.

In his bed a few streets over, Dakota listened to the storm without paying much attention. He was crying. Not blubbering, but weeping. He had a cold compress against his bruised eye socket, but the tears weren't for his eye.

--Chapter Seven

Another morning after a storm, another bundle of faggots to clean up in the yard. Dakota was up bright and early and he filled the truck bed with the felled wood. The heat had finally broken like a fever, replacing low nineties and humidity thick enough to swim in with pleasant seventies and a much more reasonable dew point.

He and his father took the wood in without incident compared to the previous day. The only reference to that day came when Brad looked thoughtfully at Dakota after he unloaded the truck and got back in.

"Eye's not looking too bad," he had remarked. And that was all. They went home in silence save for the engine and the turbo whistle.

At home, Dakota had a glass of iced lemonade, then asked his father if he could go out.

"Sure. You did good today," dad said pleasantly. His mind was off the foxcoon; a little tough love had straightened things up, pun intended. Whatever his boy had done, he wouldn't dare do it again. And if the little homo thought it was safe to come around, well, accidents happened - especially to clumsy kids.

"Thanks, dad," Dakota lifelessly said. He left his home and walked down the street for Chad's home. Being in the open air was like letting a bad smell out of a room. Weight lifted off his shoulders. Claustrophobia turned to relief. A block in, and he had a little of his dumb jock swagger back. He passed some other kids, most of them faces he recognized from school, and waved.

At the Porterhouse home, Dakota ignored the front door and let himself in through the gate to the backyard. Like Desmond, Bento, and most recently Brett Kushner, he was always welcome. More than a few times, Mr. and Mrs. Porterhouse had admonished him for knocking on the front door like a stranger.

As he put eyes on Chad, cleaning up his own yard with far less militarism than Dakota cleaned his own, the ram realized it wasn't here he wanted to be. But it was so easy to imagine his father following him. Watching him go to Desmond's home, and then-

"Hey! You're up early," Chad said.

Dakota smiled stupidly. He took a moment to marshal his thoughts. "Uh, yeah. Well, I had to clean my yard up. Again."

"Wanna clean up mine?" the bull asked, grinning. He pulled a pair of large branches effortlessly, dragging them to a muddy patch of land scarred by bonfires.

Dakota shrugged and helped the bull. Inside of twenty minutes the yard was cleared and a tall pile of brush waited to be burned. It was too wet for that kind of thing, of course. Chad remarked as much and led the ram inside where they had glasses of Kool-Aid - cherry flavored, the best kind, if you asked the bull.

"Hey. Chad. I wanted to, um, ask you something," Dakota mumbled. He looked around briefly, then asked, "Your folks around?"

"Dad's getting overtime, mom's buying groceries," Chad said, and shrugged. His expression went suddenly from indifferent to concerned. "Shit, dude, what the heck happened to your eye?"

Dakota answered immediately, "Oh, man, I fell." Disbelief struggled to coalesce on Chad's simple face. The ram felt stupid when he realized even Chad Porterhouse saw right through his lie. He waved it off, then said, "Uh, can you have Desmond come visit?"

The bull seemed to consider this, running through all the variables as best that he could. Desmond was welcome, of course; but Desmond's mom was nice and why couldn't Dakota visit Desmond at home? But Dakota's dad might follow him... and then the bull was on the same paranoid thought process as Dakota.

"Yeah, dude. Sure."

"And keep the gay jokes to yourself, okay? Please?" Dakota asked, pleading in a way the bull had never heard from Dakota before.

Somewhat disturbed, Chad said, "Sure, yeah. No problem, dude."

Although there was a landline phone in the kitchen, Chad used his cellphone to text the foxcoon. In a few moments he had a reply. "He'll be over in a few."

The ram sat down in one of the kitchen table chairs and sighed. His heart was beginning to pound - and why? he thought. They had already had sex. Wasn't that the thing to be nervous about? Now was just talking, and talking - well, it wasn't sex, that was for sure.

A straight friend might have been more guarded, but Chad had a lick more empathy with his male friends than most boys his age would exhibit. He sat across from the ram, set down his plastic cup of Kool-Aid, and idly trailed a finger around its lip. "So, um, you look worried. What's wrong?"

"It's stupid. It's nothing," Dakota grunted. He felt a knot in his stomach, the same knot he felt when his old man had grilled him about the state of his shorts.

The bull chanced a smile. "Stupid, huh? Then you probably have a handle on it."

Dakota uttered a laugh which was almost shrill. "Oh, fuck you, hamburger."

They both started to giggle, then laugh. The tension had begun to drain from Dakota when the front door opened. Dakota knew it was Desmond before he saw the fox coming around the corner into the kitchen.

"Dakota," the fox said, surprised, but pleasantly so. His soft smile turned to worry. "Jesus, the fuck happened to your eye?"

"Fell down," Chad relayed to the fox, keeping his skepticism out of his voice.

"Yeah. Yeah, I fell," Dakota mumbled. Lying then and there made him feel horrible. Here he was about to spill truth like he was in a confessional - and he was covering for his dad. He stood up on shaky legs and took the foxcoon by the bicep. "C-, can we go talk?" he asked, stammering.

The bull got up and headed for the back door. "I'll just, uh, let you guys-, yeah." The screen door banged shut behind him.

Desmond smiled at Dakota patiently, though his blonde brows furrowed with confusion. "All right, sugar, ya got me alone in Chad's house," he said with a hint of tease in his voice.

"I-, I love you, I think," Dakota blurted.

The fox's green eyes opened wide, then dialed back to their usual coy slots. The patient smile on his lips turned into more of a grin. "Dakota," he said softly. "Honey..."

Dakota unhanded the fox, then tried to find something - anything - to do with his hands that didn't look awkward. In this, he failed. "Desmond, no, seriously. I-I can't stop thinking about you and what you did."

"Well, jeez, thanks for that," the fox laughed, "but-, Dakota, look, would ya? A blowjob's-, it's just a blowjob, all right?"

"But-," Dakota murmured, seeming to deflate. "Desmond..."

The fox fumbled with his own paws a moment. Then he took Dakota's hands and squeezed them. "Sugar. Please. What yer feelin' is puppy love, it's-, all right, I know I was yer first time. Ya ain't gotta bullshit me. I took that from ya and I'm sorry."

The ram, with incredibly sweaty palms, squeezed Desmond's paws tighter than was necessary, but the fox didn't wince. "What do you mean you're sorry? That was amazing, it was so good."

"Aw, well thanks," Desmond giggled, then reminded himself what was happening. More forcefully he said, "Dakota. Look. Gawd, how do I make ya understand this? Look, everybody likes bein' sucked off, it just feels great, all right? And ya notice how right after I did you, I did Benny? An' then Benny did me with his paws?"

The ram's eyes drifted from Desmond's. He stammered badly, "Um, um-, but-, but-."

"I ain't boyfriend material," the fox explained as gently as he could. "I was just tryin' to make ya feel good that night and I did a little too good a job, I suppose."

It was then Desmond realized the ram was crying. Silently weeping, but crying. He hesitated, then tried to slide his arms around the ram. But Dakota batted him off and put a few paces between them. He looked into the living room at nothing, just looking anywhere to look away from Desmond.

The silence was painful. Desmond hoped Chad would come in just so he could try and get the bull to explain what Desmond was: a whore who belonged to nobody.

"Dakota, honey," he whined, "look, I been where you are right now, I [i]get it.[/i] You're hurtin. You're alone." Nothing from the ram but a sniffle. Then Desmond said, "Yer dad hit ya, didn't he?"

"No!" Dakota blurted, voice husky and raw, throat fat from crying. "You fucking take that back, you don't know what my dad's-, my dad didn't-!"

Desmond growled and yanked Dakota around by the arm. "Look at this. Just look at this, would ya?" He held up an arm, slim and orange-furred. It was impossible to imagine a blemish on the fox, as perfect as he was, but then he began to split the fur as if looking for a tick. On the inside of his forearm was a splotch of puckered scar tissue.

Dakota felt a shocking and protective rush of anger at the sight of it. He asked in his choked voice, "What's that?"

"That's what happens when your mom decides to put her Newport out on your arm," Desmond answered so flatly that even his accent was suppressed. "An' I got another here," he touched a spot on the back of his neck under his hair, "an' here." Now on the hip. "So maybe I ain't never been cold-cocked the way you been," he said, a cold fury in his voice, "but don't you goddamn tell me you got that from fallin' down."

The ram looked at Desmond helplessly. "I don't know what to do," he said in a small, very small voice. "I'm scared of him. I'm scared." As if saying the words was sapping some great strength from his soul, he repeated breathlessly, "I'm [i]scared.[/i] He scares the fuck out of me."

Now Desmond cinched his arms around the ram. He kissed his cheek, and Dakota recoiled slightly. "I was scared, too. But I'm here for ya, sugar. Ya got something I didn't when I was scared."

Dakota huffed. He kissed Desmond, forced himself to it. Desmond kissed back, the motion more of a reflex. "Dakota," he murmured.

Dakota's hands slid down the fox's body. They were in Chad's kitchen but it didn't matter. He felt over Desmond's rear, round and hot. He squeezed it and he ground against the fox. Desmond began to give in and fondle him. He kissed Dakota back, nibbling his jaw, all wordless.

"Come on," Dakota grunted, squeezing Desmond, pressing against him. He felt the fox's small erection against his flaccid penis. He heard the fox's soft moans. He wanted the fox. He had been certain of it. He wanted to fuck Desmond - didn't he? Wasn't he a faggot? That was why he had been branded with a black eye.

"It's not happening," Dakota said, almost frothing with anger and frustration. "It's not-, I can't get hard..."

Desmond, huffing gently and leaning on the ram, caressed his groin a moment longer. Then he said with his disappointment hidden carefully away, "Sugar, that's nothin' to be upset about. Sometimes ya just get nervous and ya can't do it."

"It's not that, it isn't-, it's like I don't want-," Dakota almost said [i]you[/i] in that sentence, and changed after a tiny pause to, "sex, I guess."

The fox pried himself off of Dakota gingerly. He was smiling, blushing. He looked the ram in the eyes as he said, "Hon, maybe you ain't queer."

"But the blowjob," Dakota started.

Desmond nodded. "Yeah, the blowjob. Ya see, that's-, it's kind of an old joke. A blowjob ain't gay. Any ol' guy can lean back and get his pecker slobbered. But when ya start kissing, and you gotta acknowledge that you're [i]actually[/i] doin' something queer... and if ya [i]ain't[/i] queer..."

The ram leaned back against the wall. He said with some relief, "So I'm not gay."

"You feel gay?" the fox asked. He gave a three-quarters turn, perked his butt out somewhat, and gazed at the ram with an amorous smile. "Even a lil' bit?"

Dakota huffed. "Quit it, Desmond."

The fox giggled softly. "Right. Sorry. Fox stuff, ya know?" He leaned in close to Dakota and was about to kiss the ram. Instead he patted Dakota on the shoulder and asked, "So, ya want me to stay away? Not play Bento's game anymore, don't come to your hockey games?"

"No, god no, I don't want you to stay away," Dakota said, almost sounding disgusted. "I just don't-, I guess I don't want sex. I guess I'm not gay, after all."

Now Desmond did kiss Dakota on the cheek. It was brief and friendly. Dakota didn't pull away. "Sex is just somethin' I do for fun with friends who like it, sugar. You ain't gotta put out to be my friend."

Dakota was able to smile. His wet eyes seemed to sparkle. He nudged the fox, said, "You know, you're okay. For a redneck foxcoon, at least."

The foxcoon smiled back. Gradually his smile faded, and he said, "With your dad, ya know, it ain't gonna be easy. I'm sorry I got ya in hot water."

"Just as much my fault for letting it happen, I guess," Dakota said listlessly, his smile vanishing. He seemed to consider this for a moment. Then he said, "I'm gonna go bug Chad. Wanna come?"

"Ah, nah, ain't my scene, exercisin' like that." He hooked his thumb to the front door. "I'mma shove off, go see what Brett's doin, maybe. Enjoy playin' with your balls, sports-boy."

Dakota watched him go. In a way, he loved the fox. It was nothing gay. Nothing romantic. It was a kinship he felt, two teenage boys bonded by abuse. He thought about the puckered, old cigarette scars and he touched his eye socket thoughtfully. It made him hiss. He wondered how long it had been before Desmond's fur had grown in around the scars. And he thought about how close he was to adulthood.

He let those thoughts decay away and went outside. He played with Chad on his obstacle course. Getting muddy after a storm never felt so good.