Tales from the Patch.

Bonya I'm cool, me. Serious. Catch meself in the mirror and I think, I'd bang meself, easy. Why not, eh? Face is wicked, big eyes, lashes on point. Nose and ears, proper nice too. No clue how mum made someone like me. Straight up, I'm sex, yeah. But the only other fuckin' cool like me's in the mirror. The rest, well, it's just humpbacked Soothoof, and whinge-bag Ziggy. Pair of mugs, not even close to my league. Me though, I want one just like meself. Looker, flash, dead stylish. Someone to show off with, make everyone stare. Don't want no big bull, or some skinny worm either—just come into shape meself. I want someone right in the middle, perfect, like me. And he's gotta be a laugh, an' all. Don't want some bloke who's always on one or mopin' about. I want jokes, proper banter. I'm a right laugh, not like them lot. Soothoof tries for a joke, you may as well sit or fall, makes no difference, not a giggle out of anyone. Ziggy? Worse. Can't joke, just drags his snot about: "Foxy left me, waaah, nobody wants me." Well, 'course no one wants you, not when you carry on like that, bruv. Makes me ears bleed, it does. Nah, gimme a lad who's a laugh, spot-on – one like me. Gotta have a tail like mine, sittin' all neat just above a peachy bum. Little, tidy – and if 'e's hidin' anything under there, it's gotta be proper magic, like for the best of the best. Antlers? Don't want big uns, don't fancy blokes what look ancient. Let 'em be like mine – little fluffy ones. They ain't so 'cause I'm some kid, mind you—I've been grown long enough. Had me eighteenth a couple years back, so I'm good, yeah. Me hornies are proper wicked, no bullshit. Still got a bit of fluff on 'em, just my make, innit—not like I'm some kid. Been two years since I had me birthday with the big one-eight on the cake. So I'm good for stayin' out late, and all that, yeah... If only I had someone to do it with. Sometimes I think, "maybe I should star in a bit of peach, yeah?" Just so I can have a vid to knock one out to meself. Then I'm like, nah, can't dothat, right? I'm the decent one round 'ere. If anyone saw, I'm done for. Theyall reckon they don't watch porn, pretend they're dead proper. Fuckin'puritans, mate. So I've gotta play along, keep up the act. I don't even look like a slag, don't get the wrong idea. Straighten me bow tie, tuck me shirt in meshorts, right little bellboy, yeah? No need to gawk at me, you lot. Step outside – and who's there but old Foma, draggin' some tat across her back. "Oi, Bonya, 'ello there! How's yer mum?" "Yeah, she's alright," I shrug, starin' at all them brambles down her back, thinkin', "Got apples in there or what?" "Shop' sfine too, took on a new lad yesterday, give us a hand." "Ooh, well that's good, that's good," she nods, always moanin', "You not worn out, helpin' yer mum?" "Nah, course not, Auntie Foma!" I lie proper, "Love it there! Just a job, but mum's the boss, so it's sound." "That's nice, that is, give her my best!" she says, totters on. "Yeah, will do," I grin, still eyein' them apples swingin' at her sides. Never lets me help. Says I'm clumsy. But I'm not! Only thing is, I'd just nick them apples if I got a chance, that's me for ya. Rock up at work. Shop's not much: clothes, shoes, ties, all for the middle-size lot – deer, elk, wolves, bears. Got a bit for foxes, but bunnies, you're down the smalls aisle. Soot hoof's texting soon as I open up: "What we doin' tonight?" Fuck's sake, gotta do all thethinkin' for you? Just 'cos I got a job don't mean I'm buyin' everyone drinks. I go, "Nothin'. Bashin' the bishop." He texts back: "Fine" with a sadface, then shuts it. Our wood's by itself, innit. Well, "wood." Was proper back then, like them old postcards. Now? It's a bleedin' mess. Three roads, five hundred shops. Takes yonks to get to a big Patch. If I had me own lad, proper like me, I'd be off with him. Nothin' doin' here. "Alright," I hear from the side.There's the newbie. Little bum on 'im. Antlers just peepin' through, look more like zits. He's all spotty, too. Nose's always wet, lickin' the bloody thing. Right soppy he is. Was I ever like that? Nah, no fuckin' way. He's a year younger, but looks like he just crawled outta nappies. "Yeah, hi," I grunt, playin' the boss. Head up, gotta look important, eh. I nod, "C'mon, I'll show you the ropes." He scurries after, all wobbly-kneed. I takes him out back, size him up while he's gawpin' round – gotta say, his bum looks proper tidy. He's lookin' round, and so am I, sizein' up the goods. From the back, hundred percent. Shorts dead short, tail all clamped down, glancin' about. "Shirts over here, belts there," I tell him. He nods, twitches his ears, tail still jammed to his buns, not even a gap. Little wimp, I think. "You know your sizes?" I ask, "or need instructions?" "Instructions," he says, all the while lickin' his nose. Jesus, mate, at this rate you'll be eatin' your bogeys next, I think, but the nose lookin' all shiny's almost cute. "Right," I go, "Standard sizes..." He's listenin', ears goin', nose lickin', and I'm just meltin' inside. All that damp's doin' my nut in. I'm imaginin' him tonguein' somewhere else, not even his nose... Woah, calm yourself, Bonya, shit. "Trousers and shorts further up. All standard sizes..." I'm starin', feelin' the heat. Sack's on fire, startin' to fan meself like a right prat. Then I think, sod it, why bother holdin' back? He ducks behind a rack, tail lifts just a smidge – I clock it, then he snaps it down again. Wimp. But not me. I swallow it down and sidle up before he slips away. Grab his cute little tail, press up against his slim back, nuzzle into his sweet little ear. "Uh...?" he goes, scared. "Tail's cute, that," I says. We freeze, me just holdin' his fluffy little tail – all gentle, not pushy, right? Lift it, pop a button, slide the fabric down and there it is, little pink patch. Bare, dead smooth. Just like mine, so I don't fret. Tail up, fingers on the popper. "Boniamin Varkhangovich, what you doin'?" Bloody hell, remembered my full name! I don't even know his, swear down. Buttons undone, my fingers right in his pants. Same hole under his tail as I got, slide the cloth over and feel that tight, soft skin... "Boniam..." "Bonya!" Mum's shoutin' from round the side. "You there?!" "Yeah!" I call, stickin' me head round, "Showin' the newbie the ropes!" "Alright, just don't be long, I need you after!" "Aye aye, cap!" little joke, as usual. Mum gives a grin and heads off. Only now the newbie lets out a breath. "You alright?" I ask, steppin' back and buttonin' 'im up. "Y-yeah," he goes, all shaky. What a wimp. Starts lickin' his nose again. "Oi, pack that in," I bark, dead serious, "Quit lickin' your bloody nose, pisses me off, that does." *** After lunch, I start givin' that newbie Tom the wide berth. Tomar, for fuck's sake, what a name. Couldn't give a toss about the little spotty prat. Looks like he's proper in heat already – his cute tail's glued to his arse. That's on me, innit – got the little sod all riled up, no doubt. Now he's sufferin', tryin' to tuck his tiny furry ball right between his buns. Ears down, nose all dried up, keeps palmin' it to check, but at least he's stopped lickin' it, so that's a win. And me? I catch a look at them little antler nubs and, fuck, my pouch is on fire again. What's that all about? Ain't no way I'm makin' it to the end of the day at this rate—gonna bloody cark it, right here on the floor. Mum's eyein' me too. I'm her little flower, the bloody sunshine. God help anyone tries nickin' me – I'll be snatched away in no time. Just barely make it to quittin' time, slide up next to her and go: — Mumsy... — Hm? — Can I get some pocket money? — Didn't you take some from the till yesterday? — S'all gone already! I only took a bit. She sighs, fishes in the till, scribbles it all down in her book for the records. She's soft, my mum, just likes to keep me in line. Out the shop I go, straight round Soothoof's – our dodgy garage hang. He's a moose, couldn't give a shit what's goin' on with me, but it's a laugh to chill with him. Grab a cheeky beer from the shop and off I go. If I tell him I'm so horny even spotty noses turn me on, he'd never believe it – but we'll have a proper laugh. When he's got the rut going, mate, it's a right giggle, rolling round howlin', can't stop laughin'. He's a moose alright, but soon as I walk in, I just drop my bag. There's a tiger on his sofa, honest to God. Legs crossed, cig in his gob, rumblin' and purrin' away, proper. — Alright, mate. I'm Bonya. — Give him the paw, top one, got hooves down below, right? His paw's bigger, dead firm shake. Looks me over and gives another, like, rumble-purr. Gets me shivery, that. — Cat, — he goes, — but you can call me Tiger. No way. Serious? That's proper original. Didn't expect that. — Thought you was gonna be bashing the bishop, — Kopyt laughs. Right, mate. Nice one, piss-take over, yeah? — Would do, — I fire back — but there's no one to bash it over. Boys crack up, beers get cracked, I keep shootin' glances at Tiger, knowin' full well who I'd be tossin' off for. He rumbles away, flicks his sharp teeth with his tongue – fuck me, all the fur down my back's stood up at that sight. Good thing the shirt covers it. We're drinkin', havin' a laff, and I'm sneakin' touches on Tiger's tail. He's gotta know, but he don't pull away – means he likes it, right, little puss 'e is. Fidgetin' on the sofa, bumpin' him, he's nudgin' back too. Bloody hell. Suddenly Ziggy comes barging in. He's called Ziggy cos he's twisted in the 'ead, not cos of, you know. Like, a wolf, but dumb as a brick. Now he'll start whingin' about Foxy dumpin' him. Well, she's Fox, innit! Course she'll dump ya. Don't even get why he bothered with her – sly thing, bound to mug him off. Goes without sayin'. — Who owns that slick motor outside? — straight off, no manners. — Mine, — says "my" Tiger, leanin' back all kinglike. I melt even more – spotted the car, but didn't dare ask first thing like Ziggy. Nice ride, means you can nip off somewhere private, shady, round the back... — Oi, well nice, how much is she drinkin'? Looks like she sips. — Three litres per hundred clicks. — Ah, that's sweet. And off we go, chattin' about cars and cash. I'm playin' with Tiger's tail tip with me hooves – they're all soft, proper sensitive. Just wanna stroke me face with his tail, sniff 'im, y'know? Even from here, I can smell him – that scent, all Tiger, all mine. My Tiger, yeah. Piss brews hittin' me proper now. Next thing, I've melted right across the couch, half sprawled on Tiger, and he's not budgin'. Result! Snuggle my nose into his stripes, breathin' him in. Christ, that smells good. Chattin' on, turns out Tiger's only moved to our patch lately. Rented a flat off Soothoof's mum on the cheap. Keeps his wheels in top nick, fixes 'em up himself, knows his shit about cars. All round, proper top bloke, bloody catch, that one. Suits me just fine. — So what brings you here? Reckon we've never had a tiger round these parts! — Oh, fuck's sake, Ziggy. Thick or what? Who says that to someone's face? — Just fancied it, — my Tiger goes, voice all serious, like he's not sippin' with us, just sniffin' the place. — You're massive though. Amur? Not one of them scrawny Indian types. You on the weights? — Yeah, a bit. — Sound. Oi, Ziggy, hands off, he's my Tiger, yeah? Eyes front. — Right, boys, I'm out. Tiger peels me off him, moves to get up. I'd got all comfy, now I'm cold, so I let out a whine. He grabs me by the shoulders, sticks me on me little hooves, then pulls my head in tight to his chest. I'm fuckin' gobsmacked, mate. Didn't see that shit comin', honest. — Where'm I dumpin' this carcass, then? Boys just stare, don't clock a thing. Me gettin' pissed—old news. Soothoof can just lob me on the sofa, stick a word in me mum's ear, no worries. She'll give me a right bollocking for showin' up pissed, but, fuck it, she'd kick off anyway. Only live three doors down—can bounce home on me own bloody hooves, innit. — You driving him home drunk, mate? — Didn't drink that much, honest. — Alright, then. Boys ain't thick, clocked what's up between us. It's proper obvious if you look. I've got my nose buried in his chest, loving it. Still a bloody virgin, me — time to fix that. Boys tell him where to drive, he walks me out, sticks me in his sweet ride, climbs in next to me, starts her up, and I go: — Maybe we go to yours? — Mine? — surprised. He's properly sober, actually. Why am I so pissed, anyway? — Ain't set up yet. Just moved in today. — That's alright, — I purr, or try to, anyway, just beggin', soft as owt. — Don't wanna go home this drunk. Fingers in his fur, making it dead obvious what I'm after. Then I just climb right onto his lap, fold me hooves, settle my thighs across his, give my bum a wiggle, then lick his big pink nose. Nice nose, that. Got a thing for it. He's lookin' at me, puts them big paws right on my bum, squeezin' away. I'm proper wriggling, nose twitchin', tail and ears up – I'm bloody ready to go! And him: — Let's not, yeah? — and slides me off his knees. — Oi, what's up? Don't fancy me? — nearly boo-hooing. — Just ain't into deer, no offence. I slide off, pull me hooves up to me nose, turn away and proper start bullin' up. He puts me on full ghost the whole ride, drops me at the gaff—right on me doorstep—and just sits there, dead silent, waitin' for me to boot meself out the car. I get out, slam the door nice and loud, let the whole street hear it. Bloody hell. No one wants me. Might as well whinge like Ziggy now. Walk in at home, mum's rustlin' up something in the kitchen, pops her head round to see me. — Sweetie, want some dinner? And I just go — Waa-a-a-aah — just like Ziggy. Whinge away. She forgave me straight off. Didn't mind I was pissed. Fed me and tucked me in. At least someone wants me. Such a fuckin' cool lad, eh.