Ba-thump ba-thump. The current ratio of my heartbeat versus the clock is very simple to calculate: two beats for every one second. That means my heart rate is one twenty. And I can't stop staring at my watch.
I have my left arm pinned on the kitchen counter and my whole body leaning into this pose, staring at my watch, watching the seconds tick up. Eleven A.M. is the time. And that psychedelic morning dizziness comes back and I think about all the times where, in my fugue waking state, I glanced over at my watch: four P.M. and six A.M. and a variety of other times that only make sense as dreams. Also even if I were to see conflicting information like this I would not really care because my mornings are all sensory and I don't keep any memories, even though now that I'm thinking about it, I remember seeing a stormy night, a wintry morning, and I remember the moonlight streaming in alongside overcast daylight, and all in the last time I slept, all in the last time I was wallowing around forever.
Memory and my senses require one another. I am standing here on the cold floor tiles and that's what grounds me to the kitchen, but then I think about being pinned to the bed by a six thousand-pound comforter and sleeping forever, with my limbs all pinned to the mattress. And that pitfall trap I've fallen into is making me stare at my watch and count my heartbeat, and freeze up like a goat in headlights.
Ba-thump ba-thump.
How long
have I
avoided
thinking about this?
Even right now I am inclined to just move on and calm down. This is fake-anxiety caused by coffee and Tabi is right there—Tabi is in view from this position on the counter, and I crane my head to the left and I can see him with his perfect wooly body relaxing on the right-side couch, reading Djiban, tapping at an erection and trying to act cool about it. There is so much pulling me away from these thoughts about my watch. And memory is overworked. Memory is, I personify, somebody with a lot of issues. Personal troubles. Memory has bags under its eyes, in a way of speaking.
Okay, memory says, but I am also the only part of you not taking crazy pills. So pay attention:
Last night was, as all nights in Tabi's home are, psychedelic. And I remember a lot of things in a haphazard sort of way. My world was all sensory information and none of it was processed. You can consider this like a pile of unsorted papers: some of the papers are completely useless, or they're at least not useful to me. And some papers need to be found. They have to be understood, it's a moral imperative. Meanwhile the rest of my cranium is perfectly happy wallowing in the happy emotions of Tabi's care, so if I don't process something right now while leaning on my arm in the kitchen, I'm not going to have access to the paperwork for another dozen or two dozen pages! Or maybe never!
This heap of paperwork is all scraps.
Imagery, striking my visual cortex like a Gatling gun. I remember staring out the window and seeing night and day and morning and noon. I remember rainy nights and I remember fog. I remember feeling so sick to my stomach that my only solution was to crawl into bed, curl up, and sleep some more. I remember forgetting where I was.
I remember—in almost comical fashion—staring at my watch, and seeing all the analog hands spin, spin, spin. I think this was a dream.
I think all of it was.
But memory insists that it's just delivering the papers, and that I should stop treating memory like a piece of shit. I have no response. My heart rate is too high and I'm feeling anxious just processing singular thoughts, and now I can feel every single exhale out of my muzzle, and I can feel my fur fluffing up, and God, my world is swirling down the drain—
—thesis statement, I think night in Tabi's home lasts more than one night—
—thesis statement, I think it lasts many many nights—
—thesis statement, I can't focus on this any more or I will die.
- - -
My gut is turning into spirals. I can feel my stomach trying to escape my body. Actually I lack words for what exactly my internal organs want to do because all they're doing is screeching discomfort, discomfort, discomfort, I don't want to feel this way, I don't want to be this way. And my head is two pounds lighter, and when I sway back and forth my vision of the bathroom blurs. And I want to throw up very very badly. This is what I blurt out to Tabi when he's holding me, his arm soft around my belly and his other arm soft against my back, and I am sure I sound blubbering and incoherent, but his teary-eyed, fearful face seems to sympathize. I want to throw up so badly, but my body doesn't actually need to throw up.
I am not food-sick. I am brain-sick.
But still I am crying and wailing and my hands are too weak to sign to Tabi, so I am just speaking, which my voice hates doing, and if Tabi is speaking I can't read his lips because he is a sheep-person, and the nausea continues until the discomfort is my whole body. I can't black out and pass the time, which is the only thing I want. I want to be anywhere but here.
Then, with an enigmatic look in his eyes, Tabi grips me tighter.
I am gone.
Three hours pass.
I am on my back, and the pain has gone, and the discomfort has gone, and the sense of time has gone. I have a throw pillow covering my torso and two pillows on my belly. Above me is the ceiling, the skylight. I am back in the main room on the flat sofa.
This is all actually very familiar to me as steps inside of a panic attack: anxiety, physical nausea, headaches, dissociation, and finally emptiness. I am empty, and now the remnants of myself are filling me back up again with whatever scraps of sapience they can manage. My prefrontal cortex is flooding me with a low-lying stream of dopamine and warmth, and the back of my neck reminds me again and again, Tabi is close, Tabi is here.
I tilt my neck to the right. He is turned the other way, along the northern wall of the great room, floating twelve feet off the ground to examine the endless bookshelves embedded into the supports, nooks and crannies of the wood that supports the ceiling. The spines of old books can be found winding along this wall in every-which-way; were Tabi not able to float like he does, he could not possibly reach and examine them all. And even with the benefit of eyesight I cannot make out a single title I recognize.
I make a low-lying grunt to let him know I'm present. He turns his head instantly as if he's been waiting for it all this time. His vibrant eyes express so much to me that I can't describe; the midday sun is streaming through the roof, making his wool glow brightly and in a technicolor fashion. He is posed in portrait. From the tips of his cloven hooves to the points of his horns, Tabi is formed out of shapes drawn in stencil, he is made of dreams. He notes that my eyes are open—crimson and beady against my onyx fur—and that stencil-drawn ram descends upon me at pace.
The image is a little unnerving. He does not move with momentum. He just moves.
And he is by my side within moments. And I shoot him a tired smile, and I sign, "It's over." And the relief in him is palpable—all that stiffness of his form droops, and he lowers to the ground to float at his usual height above it. And here his beauty is overwhelming my senses; I feel as if he has appeared out of a dream and is now too real, too present. He is overloading my cerebral cortex. My world is all sensory around Tabi and soon memory will be gone and soon my self will be gone and soon I will be so horny and warm that nothing else will matter.
But I still have willpower right now. Just for a moment. I am not ready to be all senses yet.
"Tabi," I sign, my sickly form retracting further into the sofa, "how long are the nights here?"
And the lights dim,
and the house shudders,
and he becomes quite serious.
He floats back an inch, taking a deep breath, which I am sure must feel and sound heavy. And Tabi signs, after a few moments of consideration, "Did you feel like more than one passed while you slept?"
"No," I sign. "Not just now. That was three hours. I have a good sense of that."
"So you mean the night before. In bed."
I nod. "And you signed plural for nights before, and I started thinking about how badly I rested and how I kept seeing my watch spinning. And that's why I had that panic attack."
"Oh, my darling," he signs, that sympathy oozing, "I am so sorry."
He reaches a hand out to take me upright. And in all of my trust of Tabi, my endless trust because I have noplace else to put my trust, I take it without a second thought.
I feel the carpet against my toes. I feel the warmth of my outfit, composed to feel embarrassing in a good way. These are good senses. And Tabi takes a breath, and with such closeness I can actually feel that breath, feel every aching inch of it, embedded with meaning I can't yet entangle. Finally, he is ready to converse again. "I think I did mis-sign to you. Of course the nights last just one night. Or if they don't it is beyond my knowledge. I do sleep unpleasantly like you, though. I think it's due to all the magic and occult going on." He smiles as if he's just told a joke so I smile back.
Memory is here to tell me that his story checks out—it always does. Actually I think now that maybe I was mistaken. And this is how memory gets those bags under its eyes, because it admits that, yes, Tabi has had to struggle with American Sign Language and maybe I am not the best teacher. Plurals are not an integrated part of signing in ASL like they are with spoken English, so he never signed a plural and I made one up based on context. Yes, memory says, that was my own mistake.
Then, there are some other details that memory is bringing up again. We do sign in ASL, but more and more I have noticed that we fudge with the language. After all, I have not taught Tabi every word and he hardly knows them all, but I never lose the meaning of what he's signing. And when he signs something I simply understand what he means. The understanding comes naturally from my language processor in my temporal lobe, like Tabi has it wrapped around his three fingers. And those three fingers could never be precisely correct, nor can mine—we must make so many adjustments for our less dextrous hands. And I have never mistakenly interpreted a plural. A plural is always correct, with Tabi. His ability to communicate meaning is unparalleled. He is good at judging consent, of wants and wishes, he is always wired into my thoughts. And he did sign "night." And I did interpret "nights."
And yet he does not disagree with my interpretation of events, because I am generally not an unreliable narrator of my own life, just one who gets confused. And when I remember that moment, I think of a lot of things, including his body and his penis and his hands, but also "nights," and my watch spinning endlessly.
It's all a soup.
Just like that, the overhead light—and even the light from the sky itself—seems to brighten.
And the house is calming down. And that jitter in my legs is better, too. All is alright.
And Tabi's smile is so wonderful. He is made out of pastel, out of flowers.
"Magic and occult," I sign back, giggling softly. "And yet coffee makes it all better."
"That is its own kind of magic." He grips me by the back and brings me in, and I can taste coffee just faintly on his breath as we think about it. And I can't stop myself from tilting my head forty-five degrees and embracing him in a kiss, a kiss, a kiss... something that always makes me feel better. And soon through this embrace all those memories dry away like water in a puddle. I am just here, kissing Tabi, the owner of the house, the master of the house, the god of my little universe, holding his stomach, holding his back. The moment is romance after a storm. The moment is love. I am in love with Tabi.
I must be.
At this moment, as if he has descended from the clouds to greet me, Tabi changes the mood. He changes the mood greatly. He signs, "What if we resumed where we left off?"
Before all this, he means. Before I freaked out. Before I interrupted things—when Tabi was there and I could not meet him.
But now I can.
"Yes," I sign. "Yes, that's what I want." I come closer to him, I lurch closer, I let out some kind of sound under my breath, and he pushes back, and I push back, and we dance like this a moment. And I can just barely—just barely—feel him getting excited. He's been excited and I just now reached him, and amidst my sleep I have found my libido intact, blossoming.
I want to love you.
"Then we will," he signs, and then we put our hands down.
He is so close to me that it only requires a slight movement for him to reach his palm down by my groin, and for him to pull up my robe with his wrist. His soft, keratinous fingers cup my genitals through my panties; my balls and folded-up limp penis form a bulge that is instantly warmed by his touch. I feel, again, his breath against my muzzle, as we've pulled away from a kiss. Now he can see that expression on my face. He can see me all flustered, he can see the blood rushing to my face.
A flash in his eyes. An intensity arises from nowhere. Suddenly he is that godlike figure I dream about and he is leaning in my space, and in those goat pupils I can see that he has intentions for me. And my control over the situation will be regulated. This is the divine splendor of bottoming, of being submissive to Tabi, it is the sensation of being in somebody else's care. Actually most prominently it is the sensation of being somebody else's plaything. And I can feel all three hours of Tabi wishing he had a plaything. I can feel all three hours of book-searching, of reading titles but not pages, of scouring the house for anything to do. I can feel his breath get so warm now. I can feel him assuring me, "Now you're mine." And Tabi grips me by the arms and he forces me to the sofa.
This feverish and horny version of him trumps all others. I am actually scared for a moment as I'm pinned by him, as my brainstem tells me I'm being overtaken by a wild animal, and Tabi is suddenly wild-eyed, and I finally feel his dick press up against my belly as he leans in. He is throbbing and antsy and could do something unpredictable if not appeased. My breath is all struggling now and I can feel the confines of my panties being hardly enough for my own shaft, unfurling and pressing up against cotton desperately...
Warmth, that is the theme. My legs and toes feel warm and God, Tabi is so warm, he starts thrusting desperately against my stomach, against the robe which blocks him from kneading my fur with his precum; I blubber softly to beg him to undress me, and I can almost sense the snarling enthusiasm by which he replies. He doesn't stop pinning me against the sofa, but instead forces me down with his elbow. Finally, he undoes my robe with that spare hand. It comes clean off.
I am revealed to Tabi, my black furry chest and stomach, compressing and uncompressing with my breath. And now as he presses against me, his cock, all nine inches of pink inflamed flesh, are felt against that motion of my breath. He is not cautious or loving in his movements, but instead feverish and needy, grunting and huffing in such a way I can feel his breath. Throb. Throb. Thrust. And my panties are not holding in my excitement at all anymore.
Finally, Tabi leans back for a moment to get a good look at me, and his cock is inflamed from all the frotting, coated in a glistening layer of precum that drools beneath him. This sheep is carnivorous, staring at this vulnerable goat that I am. Again that euphoria of being a fuzzy animal person, and of being dominated, and my breath is taken away. He is staring at my dick, and he is silently acknowledging that I am willing.
I lose a few moments as he lunges.
Discomfort against my thigh; he has my undergarments pushed aside such that my dick is finally free, and also such that my ass is no longer shielded. And I am, by this point, so excited by any degree of touch that I emit precum against his fingers, his warm touch, his palm, as he plays with me. I am shifting involuntarily. The arousal is a squeeze of feeling, it is shots of tight, tight, tight pleasure. My shaking hands can only grip his backside. I am so fucking shaky and only Tabi's abdomen, his fluffy wool, can give me any sense of being grounded. And it is right then, as I am shuddery to the point of comic relief, that he starts to fuck me.
We shuffle to align with the sofa lengthwise, and my head is back against the cushions, and my horns rub up against a pillowcase. And Tabi is above me with that inane look in his eyes. And his thighs collide with mine, and my legs wrap around his backside, and his shaft—that lovely thing which I could worship for hours without tiring—is in me. It's in me and the tightness and discomfort is masked out by the sensation of being had. My fluffy asscheeks tell me that something completely unexpected by my genetics is happening: something is going into my ass. It is his tip. He knows my contours and enters without warning, without slowing up, slipping that thin end into me three inches and huffing out and melting on top of me.
I pump again onto my own belly. I feel that sticky precum mat up my fur, but I can't help it, I can't help anything, I am pinned and overwhelmed and hot, and my panties aren't off they're just aside, and Tabi thrusts further, further, further.
One hand of his keeps gripping me, but he's no longer jerking, just slicking my length with his own thrusts.
I yelp out involuntarily. He squeezes some part inside me that is directly connected to the pleasure centers of my brain, and I am flooded with dopamine. My prostate is a cheat button to making my brain release tons of dopamine, as it is the lone device in my body that produces semen. And I think Tabi colliding with it, pressing the walls of my interior against my prostate, is a very direct way of telling my brain, "Hey, we will need to cum soon." And it takes all my will not to cum immediately. Actually there is no way I would be able to stop an anal orgasm with sheer force of will, but I can at least stop the vibrant, tight climax that would result from his death-grip around my shaft.
Tabi continues until he's very, very deep in me. I don't know how deep because I am starting to become dizzy and can't see anything but his eyes, but I know that it feels like I have a brick inside my ass. The discomfort is, perhaps, what's getting me so thoroughly here. The sensory experience of sexual discomfort is, in of itself, deeply arousing. And Tabi is drooling on my muzzle. Here is Tabi's drool, and his wild, enigmatic gaze, and here is his tip fondling my interior so deep that a caver couldn't find him.
It is now that Tabi gets a rhythm in his head. He is good at rhythm, as he taught me how to count those heartbeats. And it is now that he thrusts in a rhythm of sixty BPM, or approximately one forwards and one backwards per second. In, out. In, out. Like the ventricles of my heart he is using me as a cocksleeve. Like a metronome. I can stare into his eyes and see his pupils dilate.
Actually I can see behind the glass of his retina. Actually I can see his pupils swinging like that metronome.
Waving. Hypnotizing. Back and forth. One-two. In-out.
For some reason, fear is once again here with me, and I am losing track of the world. I have kicked memory out of the house. And I am drooling and my limbs are nearly out of my control, and I squeeze my toes in the stockings so hard I fear they'll rip, and I dig into his backside with my digits. Tabi, Tabi, Tabi, I have nothing but shaking and begging and I have Tabi.
I am
a black-furred,
gay,
horny goat
and I have a God.
He is jerking me off now. That flash in His eyes as he gets a sense for my emotional state and senses that I want to cum so, so badly, so He is making it happen. That tight grip around my length slicks up and down and up and down and He fucks my ass until I am crying and I am begging wordlessly with all my breath taken away, and he slams my prostate again, and He exhales with force, and He kisses me
and I cum. I feel it well up in my ravaged prostate first and then the pleasure strikes me like lightning bolts across my entire nervous system. My brainstem explodes into a thousand little pieces and my eyes shut and I am in a sensory deprivation tank of pleasure, hitting me like arrows against my belly. I feel cum, hot seed that has been begging for release for hours or maybe weeks, sputter out onto my belly and His belly, long sticky lines. I shut my muzzle around His muzzle to lock us together.
My world is all sensory; I am experiencing the divine.
The squeeze of intense arousal is compressing my body from the outside in. And He does not stop fucking me, because He has not reached climax, and He is slamming my prostate every half-second and then rubbing against it on the backwards motion, and then back in again, and I am tearing up from the sensation. I keep kissing Him with saliva and drool and I can feel my vocal cords all twisting up in yelps and moans; and finally after a few more pumps His eyes shut and He shudders violently, and I can feel His heartbeat
ba-thump
ba-thump
ba-thump
and now He slams His seed into me. His cum is thick and beady and I can feel my asscheeks vibrate with one, last, definitive slap against them, as He ensures little of it escapes. And He is pumping like I am a stuffed donut, hilted against my butt, exhaling and desperately contorting His body against mine. I can feel every bit of His orgasm through his heartbeat, racing, racing, racing. And He kisses me even harder, and the moment is a soup.
I am floating in this with Him.
Time passes, but not much time.
Disembodied and panting lusciously, I am reeling from the experience in all sorts of ways, with my nerves melting into the sofa. Suddenly gravity is a factor: and the floating Tabi above me is no longer floating, he is settled down on me, and I can feel every pound of his weight. He is the heaviest blanket, even heavier than that comforter that trapped me last night, and he is a reassuring factor by proxy that I do not have to move. He can stay penetrating me even as I am leaking cum from both my own engorged member and from my puckered hole. We can lay and wait for our sexes to soften naturally. And as he gyrates against me... well, his shaft does not soften quick, and mine keeps pumping out the last remnants of orgasm. Every little spew reminds my nervous system to jolt.
Actually I think I can feel gentle laughter from Tabi as he notices me jitter, and I can't help but laugh with him, although I am totally out of breath at this point. And milking the sensation by thrusting against his belly is easy enough, so I keep doing it, I keep grinding against him, and my tip starts to flare up in sensitivity. It is saying, 'no, you idiot, you already came, stop.' But I don't care. I am horny and dizzy and drooling on his neck now.
And he caresses my belly, and then my thighs, and it feels as if it will never end.
This moment I am blind and deaf but I can feel him. I feel him in me, still, and that discomfort is a form of reassurance, because we are locked together. And I feel him on me, his chest, his neck. And with my hands so weakened I can feel his contours, the contours of his body, where his wool masks a soft skin underneath, where his features are utterly inhuman along his shoulderblades and hips, so animalistic in shape; and this all in silence, in noncommunicative bliss. My hands teach me an entire world that is his figure. All seven feet of his height, painted in ivory white pastel, on a canvas so wide, Tabi rests upon a foundation of dreams. And he rests on me. And I make sounds to try to put this into words, but there are no words for this. There are no words for this.
Just murmurs and rumbles and squeaks.
My world is all sensory.
What does that mean for me?
And for a moment I worry that, like that comforter in that bed that wasn't mine, I will lose myself. I will lose myself in time and space and believe that multiple nights have passed when surely they haven't. I will be so hypnotized by thoughts of Tabi, and his presence on top of me, that I will lose my memory. After all, I don't have any of that most of the time. Memory is baggy-eyed and tired of this charade.
Memory writes me a short biography of itself. Back in those shitty apartments it was my method of causing panic attacks unto itself. It was also eidetic, and maybe synesthetic, but I never got myself diagnosed with any of that, so I will simply describe my memory as unusually vibrant. Such is the method that I stumble into pitfall traps. And now that I am in Tabi's home, his presence and my incessant thoughts of him often stop my memory from functioning properly. And memory, so resigned to this fate, has no real qualms about this. Though I suppose that disaffected tone is more a form of defeat than of peace.
But, defeated as memory is, it sticks with me. It has never left. I don't think I've forgotten a thing—just stuffed it in a drawer somewhere. Even the most fleeting of conversations remain in me, because my memory has a very large archive.
Here are the new papers it is serving me, with Tabi as a blanket, still half-fucking me:
What did he mean by "magic and occult'?
Why did I gloss over it before?
Why do I feel so tired of the subject?
And then the situation of his flight, his controlling of objects with his mind, which is something I've been over so many times before, and again memory shrugs off with dejection. Memory says that no matter how often we do this dance, I return here, with Tabi on top of me. He is the way I avoid responsibility.
He is the way that I avoid the subject. But the subject is him. Tabi has now told me that there is magic in the house, and occult in the house; and Tabi has claimed that the night is only one night, even though I actually do not think he is correct, but I didn't want to challenge him, because I just wanted to fuck him, and
and this is it.
This is why memory is so, so tired.
If I questioned all this for too long, then it would reduce the chance that I can stay pinned to the couch by him. If I ask Tabi the same questions, and make him answer me, he will get tired of me. And maybe I will not have him. And maybe the lights will dim and the tone will grow serious, and I will lose the only thing that lets me forget about those shitty apartments, these shitty panic attacks, the human body I used to have that made me miserable.
Is that a reasonable fear?
His breath against me is utterly real. I do not know Tabi well enough to know if he would leave me or make me leave. In fact, I don't know anything about my world except for the sensory details. My amygdala, my detector for danger, has no idea what to say.
I know the feeling of Him, but not His meaning.
So I do not think about it again for a while.