Tales from the Patch.

Bonya Not, I’m tellin’ ya, it’s not good, right? So yesterday I spent the whole day studying strawberries-videos with moustaches, was gettin’ educated, and he invited the moose to the cinema. Where’s the mooser, and where am I? This humpbacked dead sure doesn’t know that every tomcat has bubble-wrap in his trousers. I’ve sussed it, I know now! When I seen it, I nearly went down like a sack o’ spuds right where I was sat. That mooser, the moment he lays eyes on it, will fuckin’ pass out right there. Dead cert, mate! I ain't takin' the piss outta ya. It's just proper hurtin' me. Nah, wouldn't ya be? I've already got meself set up! I reckon, well, fack it—them pimples there, maybe it's better this way. I dunno, the bell-end—a fackin' virgin loser, innit. Ohhh... fackin' hell. Looked in the mirror, as usual—cool lad, an’ soul claws scratchin’. That tomcat, blimey! Shorts sorted; at work, Tomarchik gets it proper. Not nasty, I am—just gutted. Swapped me for a moose! Where am I, where’s the mooser? That tomcat blind or what??? Walked into the shop, all angry, mum fussin' at the till. Tomar hidin' between the rails, as usual. So I sidle up to Tomar, and rib him, just to unwind: — You’re special today, — say and puff a breeze right into ’is ’orns. He twitches his ears and dries his nose. I see he’s holdin' it together, tongue tucked in his mouth, watchin'. — Wanna go to the storeroom? — I offer. Through his light ginger fur, I can see his cute cheeks glow. — Bonami… And it kicks off: “We’ve got the same dad, how can you?” So what, bleedin’ hell—’cause we share an old man? We ain’t here to be breedin’ fawns, are we? Just canoodle a bit, mind you—nothin’ serious. An’ if that’s the logic, on our patch every fawn’s our brother or sister, innit. So what now — no no cuddlin’ then, right, mate? I tell him this, and then sneak up behind him again, right by his fluffy tail. Lookin’ at his horns - there’s a touch more growth there now, a wee hint o’ fluff peeking out, tiny as. Well, I let me tongue off the leash, yeah. Like an anteater, quick as a flash. Each tiny bump a proper going‑over with me tongue, warming ’em up proper. The little fluff gets damp and the horns go pink, so cute! — Bonya! — Mum in worst moment. — Bring shirts, size twenty‑six! — How many? — I go. — ’Bout twenty! — Aye‑aye, cap’n! I lean back, but I’m eyeballin’ Tomarchik’s little antlers. Cute. They’ve even plumped up a bit. Kinda reddened now — proper sweet. Better ease off, or Mum’ll spot it and wallop me. In the evening I head to “Our Place” — it’s a club. Strictly for pulling. When I’m proper pent up, that’s where I cut loose. Couple times I even spotted lynxes there — that’s just the ticket right now. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a bell — just letting the tongue off the leash. Soon as I’m in, I slide into the corner and give the place a once-over with my radar eye. Wolves, bears, a couple of moose… Fuckin’ moose — can’t stand ’em! A few of my fellow deer, a bit older now — antlers, just antlers — not interested. I clock a lynx sitting there — not bad. Lapping at a cocktail and giving me that feline look. Lynxes are cool, but they’re small. I could do with a cheetah, or a big lion. Only ever seen those in the top‑shelf mags, though. They say we’ve even got leopards somewhere out there — just not here. Haven’t seen them either — supposed to be endangered. Man, I’m getting kinda down. Place feels dead. Nobody’s coming over, nobody’s in a rush to buy me a drink. I’m cool — what’s wrong with you lot?! Then I clock my mate Tomarchik walking in — straight to the bar. And he’s got this mean-ass alpha wolf with him, already stroking him with his fucking tail. What a fuck? Not on my fucking watch, man. I spring up, hooves clacking, and charge right at ’em: — Hey, - I go, — That’s my bro, man, — get that damn tail off him! Tomarchik’s gobsmacked. I grab him by the paw and drag him to the toilets. — Who said you could? — I lay into him, proper stern. — Your antlers haven’t even come in yet! What are you doing here?! — You get to, don’t you! — he sniffles. — Why can’t I? He’s smearing his tears, about to lick his poor little nose again. Fuck, I think, I pushed him over the edge. I scoop him into a big cuddle to calm him down, tuck my nose to his little ear, give him a soft nuzzle — and before I know it I’m licking his cute little nose and he’s licking mine back. We’re just standing there, muzzles smooshed together, our itty-bitty tongues twining, paws snug around each other — soooo damn cute, cool as fuck... Someone sticks their head in and grumbles: "Maybe you need a private room?" I haven’t got the faintest fucking clue what room they mean, man. If I did, I’d have dragged us both there already. I go: "Let’s go. Let’s hunt down a private." I twitch my ears, my little radar dishes swiveling every which way — where’s the manager, the admin, whoever hands out the keys to the privates!? Tomarchik’s on my heels, nearly tripping; I’m towing him by the paw, and I’m moving fast. I spot the admin, roll up on him, full tilt: "Could we get a key to a private room?" The admin — a sly fox — squints at me and gives this contemptuous little snort: "Sorry, sweetheart, but this little treat’s not in your budget." Fuck! I’m left standing there, stunned. Tomarchik fidgets beside me. Where the hell am I supposed to drag him now? "Let’s go," I say. "I’ll get you home." And I haul him the fuck out of the club. He’s got no business here. Not on my watch, man. Yeh, right! * * * Next day I roll into work, slide behind the till like nothing’s happened, have a look round. I’m the guv’nor today. I’m easing off on Tomarchik for now. Next year, once his antlers come in proper, harden up—then it’ll be on. By then mine’ll be bigger anyway—velvet off and all—so I’ll still be the boss. Swear down. After lunch the mooser rocks up—proper barges in. Stands in the doorway all shifty, all scrunched up, the little sod—eyes on the floor, snout down with ’em, wringin’ his two‑fingered mitts. Mine’re two‑fingered an’ all—plus a little third digit off to the side, smaller—but mine’re proper tidy little fingers; his are bleedin’—proper fuckin’ rakes! — Wot? — I go. — Nicked me fella an’ now you’ve come to make up? — and I slope off, moochin’ down the aisles. — Well, ain’t my fault he fancies moose, — he catches me up, goin’ all low an’ gross, proper nasal drone. — Some mate you are, — I says, standin’ there like a right little sulky sweetheart, hidin’ behind the shirts. An’ the mooser’s taller, innit, lookin’ down at me, givin’ these sad little puff‑sighs, like he’s askin’ forgiveness. — ’Ow was the film? — I ask. Just so we ain’t standin’ here in silence. — Alright, — he says. And that’s it? “Alright,” me bleedin’ arse. — Wot ’appened then, spill, — I growl, not too ’ard, already thawin’ — Any lickin’? — Nah, — he goes. — Bit of a purr, that’s all. Well, he purred. I can’t do that. — Pfft, — I snort, proper disdainful. — Bony, I ain’t doin’ it for nuffin’. I’m tryin’ to suss wot sort of geezer he is. Might be dodgy, innit. — An’ wot d’you suss? — Ain’t found nothin’ dodgy so far. The mooser’s shufflin’ about, an’ I’ve thawed out, ain’t half as pissed off now. Ain’t really his fault that pervy tomcat only goes for the hump‑backed, big‑snouted sort. Reckon they only had a purr‑’n’ cuddle yesterday, but they’ll get down to the main bit soon enough. Soothoof’s a bit thick, innit—hundred percent he ain’t even clocked toms’ve got spiky bits down there. — You clock he’s got spiky bits down there? — I go. — An’ little bristles an’ all. Wot you gonna do ’bout it? — Got what? — he goes, surprised. Pfft, knew it — this thick sod ain’t even watched any vids with tomcats. — Spikes, — I repeat. — Count yourself lucky his tongue’s normal, not all sandpaperylike that titchy‑breed lot. I’d’ve had a right laugh then. — An’ what do you do with ’em? The spikes? — Nothin’. You just cop it. — Cop it? So it hurts, yeah? — How’d I know? I never had no toms. That’s on you. The mooser shuffles even more, an’ I clock beads of sweat gatherin’ between his nostrils. Ugh, I think, how you s’posed to snog that? — Anyway, I’ll send you the vids I managed to rip off the net. Have a look, maybe you’ll prep yourself somehow. The mooser nods and legs it, and I look over at Tomarchik and think: “Not bad, that one — no big nose, no spikes. Proper my type. Maybe ask him to the cinema?” So I did. Why not? Like that’s a problem? Same evening we head to the pictures. I cadge some cash off me mum again, so I can treat Tomarchik and feel like the main man. I lace my fingers through his, he does too. Proper happy… We spend half the film snoggin’. He’s got such a cute little nose, and his tongue’s proper tasty — wicked. Then I start nibblin’ his ear, right on the tip, till someone behind us goes: — Pack it in with the snoggin’. Let us watch the film. We don’t even get miffed it’s not allowed; we just cuddle up tighter, he settles his head on my shoulder, and I spend the rest of the film eyein’ up his antlers, lining up the shot. Imaginin’ how I’ll be suckin’ on ’em once we’re alone. After the flick we go for a wander — park, all that. We plonk ourselves on a bench, back to snoggin’, this time proper allowed, yeah? Not botherin’ anyone. I slip two fingers between his legs, and with the third I stroke along his thigh up top, make it nice. And then, as luck would have it, security shows up — move along, they say, no snoggin’ here. For fuck’s sake, I think, is everyone on this patch out to kill my vibe tonight? I take Tomarchik’s paw in mine, lace my fingers, and right in his ear: — Come on, I’ll see you home. He smiles, proper chuffed. We linger by his place a bit, have another cuddle. I’ve licked his face all over, rubbed noses, had a sniff at his ears, copped a feel of his bum — and then I head home, whistlin’ some tune. Happy as. Walkin’ down the road, I’m thinkin’: “Sweet. Being the main man’s better.” Hundred percent. *** Three days later I bounce over to Soothoof’s garage. Buzzin’, pleased with myself same as yesterday. In the meantime I’ve already had a rummage in Tomarchik’s shorts, felt his pouch, even had a feel of his little fuzzy pompons. Every time someone would cut us off right at the best bit, but I’m not fussed — I’m savouring it. — Hoofy, you gonna give me the garage keys today? — I go. — Proper need ’em. — What d’you need ’em for? — Oi, don’t be thick. If nothing’s happening with you and your Tiger yet, I’m already good to go. The mooser drops onto the little sofa and, all shy, tucks his big mitts between his knees. — Why d’you say nothing’s happening? — he drawls, a bit nasal, not much. — We’ve already done it. I damn near bounce. Clamber up on the sofa too, hooves and all, and I’m straight up all over him. — Spill! — I go. — What did you two get up to? — Well, we were sittin’… — Uh-huh. — Purrin’ and cuddlin’. — And? — Right here, on this very sofa. — Ew, can we skip those details!? — I’ve got all that comin’ up myself! Don’t want to be picturin’ a moose when I’m feelin’ up my Tomushka. My Tomarchik… Mine. My lovely little cutie. — He’s got a nice nose, I liked snoggin’ with him. — And? — And I like his murrs too — he doesn’t fake it; if he’s feelin’ good, he starts purrin. It’s so great. And I still can’t quite believe he’s properly into me, so he explained he likes ’em big and strong — but not predators, the gentle sort, like me. — Right, big softie, get to the juicy bit. What’s he got in his pants? — I didn’t really get a look. He kinda did it all himself; I just enjoyed it. — Not even a sneaky peek? — Nah, I peeked, sure. No spines — there’re little bumps, but they’re soft, kinda fun. But that’s not the point. It’s lush just lyin’ there with him, havin’ a cuddle. Once I realised he’s not dodgy, I felt so relieved. He told me everything before the first time — so I’d stop frettin’. He came here to set up a business; things back there were fine, but growth had stalled. So he picked our patch — says the location’s good… — Oi, don’t drone on, get to the main bit. — Well… he said since he ran into someone like me, he reckoned everything’d be brilliant here. I’m headin’ over to his tonight, stayin’ the night. He says that and smiles, scrunches up his big nose, and I look at him and I’m happy too. It’s great when Hoofy’s happy. Kinda cool! Got the keys, texted Tomchik — waiting. Nipped to the shop, grabbed some goodies, a bottle of wine — waiting. I wait, wait, and wait. Time’s crawling like treacle. I’m checking my phone every five minutes, and it’s like time’s frozen! Bloody time! We set it for six, and he’s still not here. And then finally, six — my Tomarushka shows up, all clean, smelling gorgeous, pure sex! I sit him right down on the little sofa and start blowing in his ears, telling him how wonderful he is. — Bonya? — Mm? — Do you like me? — Uh-huh, — I moo. If I didn’t, I probably wouldn’t be nosing around in your undies, would I! What kind of question is that!? — Honestly? — Uh-huh… I’m licking his little face, rummaging in his undies; he’s trembling all over, nervous, but he still won’t drop the questions. — I told my mum I’ve got a boyfriend, — he says in my ear, once I’ve laid him back on the sofa and settled on top, — so she won’t worry where I am and who I’m out with after work till late. — Mmm — I’m rumblin’, and I slide me mug down to his shorts, havin’ a nibble at the buttons, workin’ ’em down. I tug his cheeky little checked boxer shorts down; he’s breathin’ deep, proper twitchy. I nudge his pants a touch lower — lad’s already all stirred up. I’m burnin’ meself, pop me own kecks, but don’t fish the handsome fella out yet — ain’t the time. I get to work down there, slow and round, all sides. He’s startin’ to whine, I’m buzzin’, thinkin’ how bloody slick I am at this. — Can I? — he pushes me back. — Tellin’ my mum you’re my fella? She’s frettin’ I’ve found someone dodgy. Wot? I’m very busy down there and he’s bendin’ me ear about his mum!? I pull back too, givin’ him a look, proper baffled. — And it’s alright, yeah? Us bein’ sorta… bros? That don’t freak you now? — Ain’t bothered no more. — And your mum? What if she bans it? — And yours? — Pfft, I ain’t tellin’ her nuffin’, — I’m grinnin’, proper playin’ the div. He inches away from me, an’ it dawns on me — I’ve been flappin’ me gums too much. Gobshite and thick, that’s me. He buttons up, smooths himself down, and hops to his hooves. — I’d best go. And off he goes. I plonk meself on the little sofa, bite two of me fingers, proper gobsmacked. There, I’ve proper bollocksed it! A fackin’ idiot I am.