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“You’re still considering that offer.”

Abram’s voice held neither question nor accusation, no judgment or suggestion; instead, it held the immense warmth and sensitivity that I have relied upon since we met. We sat on the couch in his living room, both furclad, as we usually were when together. I was far more comfortable in my body than ever before in my life, and I think that was part of what had me still thinking about the idea.

Having been brought into the family that is The Menagerie, I had privileges and access to the living quarters above the bar and club. Some little time ago, I had gone through the infamous green ESCORTED ONLY doors in order to get to the secured door to the upstairs rooms. I was about to punch in the code when I heard the doors opening behind me. I turned to see Wilford, a rather slinky young otter who knows well how to pole dance, escorting a well-made skunk in his middling thirties to one of the downstairs rooms used for private engagements. As they passed by me, the skunk had given me a glance and quite a suggestive flick of his beautifully-kept tail. I learned from Wilford, much later, that the skunk had wondered aloud if he might be able to engage me some evening. The idea became intriguing for me in ways that I didn’t understand, and Abram had been good enough to help me talk through the proposition.

“I still don’t know what to make of it,” I said.

“The idea intrigues you.”

“For several reasons, one of them obvious.” He didn’t rise to the bait, and I hadn’t expected him to. “I don’t consider myself particularly attractive.”

“Eye of the beholder, sweet wolf.” He nuzzled my muzzle with his own before giving me a chaste kiss. “I find you lovely, for many reasons.”

“Some of them not at all associated with my physical features.” I nodded. “That’s another aspect of it: The fellow knows nothing of me but my appearance, which makes me feel that his attraction is solely physical and sexual. Our family members who indulge in engaging clients are companions, not whores.”

Abram smiled softly at me. “You think all he wants of you is your body? You know Wilford isn’t a whore, either; I think that he wants more than just our otter’s body. Perhaps you could talk to Wilford about this skunk.”

Moments passed before I finally got the message. Returning the kitsune’s smile, I said, “It’s the skunk I need to talk to.”

“Full marks, dear Tristan. Clearly time for tea.” He rose fluidly from the sofa and padded to the kitchen area of his flat, his three fine tails waving softly behind him. “Is there something else that concerns you, something within yourself, that you want to talk about?”

I chuckled softly. “I suspect that you know there is. Thank you for keeping track.”

“We look after each other.”

“Family,” I acknowledged, then drew a breath as I considered the question. “It’s my old way of thinking about it. The idea of the exchange of money for sexual favors has always been painted as sordid, that it soils the beauty that is possible through sexuality.”

“There are things that you won’t do for money?”

“Correct.”

“Give me an example.”

“Write a formulaic novel in some genre, providing literary Pabulum just to get money for it. Tried it, twice, in fact. Turns out I can’t write ‘down’ enough for the audiences such books attract. It seemed prudent for me simply to focus on my own style and stories.”

“Mmhmm,” the fox acknowledged, preparing cups and service for us. “So you won’t write just for money?”

“Precisely.”

“Do you think that you shouldn’t be paid for your writing?”

I smiled at him. “I’ve been trying to reconcile that argument for years. I’d like to think that my work is worthy of the support of patrons and readers, yet I am unknown to most of the world. I’m not ‘popular,’ to use the phrase. My writing doesn’t seem to find its audience as much I’d like.”

“Because it’s personal. It’s who you are.”

“Exactly.”

Abram was silent as the electric kettle heated water to the best temperature for the particular tea that he was brewing. Not all that long ago, I would have treated a silence like this as reproach, as disapproval, a shunning. The kitsune had worked hard to help me learn how to trust again, and I knew that he would not shut me out or intentionally ignore me. If he disapproved, he would find a way to tell me directly. His silence, in cases like this, was a cue for me to see what I could work out on my own.

Moving past my insecurities about our interaction, I then had to push back against the insecurities of my life, my writing, and everything else. It was a question of worth, and I’d spent decades finding wholly convincing arguments that I was utterly unworthy of anything — attention, respect, friendship, love, even money in exchange for office tasks that I was clearly qualified (or even overqualified) to perform. That sense of unworthiness was the source of my inability to find those things I most needed, in every area of my life.

The water was ready by the time that I had gone over these all-too-familiar details for the gazillionth time. Abram brought the service to the sofa, setting it down on the table in front of us. He still waited for me to speak.

“You’re a stinker,” I said to him with a smile.

“Only after my dances, and you seem to enjoy it.”

“So I do.” I leaned over and kissed him warmly, then released a sigh that seemed to come all the way up from my hindpaws. “You’re right, as usual.”

“Far too much credit, gentle wolf.” The kitsune patted my arm gently. “You do sound like you’ve reached a conclusion.”

“I have. There’s a conversation that I need to arrange.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

About two weeks later, somewhere between Wilford’s information and Phil’s careful management, I found myself sequestered in a certain quiet booth at the back of the bar, waiting anxiously for the arrival of a particular mustelid who was (according to reports filtered back to me) very much looking forward to meeting me. I won’t say that flattery wouldn’t turn my head, but I did try not to let it go a full 360 degrees.

The booth isn’t “soundproofed”; the music and noise from the bar filters in. It is, however, a kind of cocoon, quiet enough in its own space that no one had to shout to be heard. Discussions of the sort that happen here are best not conducted at the top of one’s voice. I had arrived early, in hope of gathering my thoughts and my courage while nursing a mint-green nonalcoholic drink that Phil had dubbed Master Po’s Secret. I felt sure that he had taken the liberty of adding just a touch of booze, as he sometimes did with my cocoa, but the amount was small enough to be fully within the realm of “medicinal purposes.”

My nervousness had nothing to do with anything external. There was no actual risk to this meeting. It could not have been any form of police sting, and I was in no physical danger, not with my favorite liger barback only a few meters away. The issues were entirely within myself, and I’ve never been good at confronting those problems. I’ve always limped along rather than face and fix what was hobbling me.

“Hello.”

The voice surprised me out of my reverie, and I jumped a little in my seat.

“I’m sorry; did I startle you?”

“No worries. I was a million klicks away and counting.” I brought up a smile from somewhere and motioned for my guest to join me.

He slid into the opposite side of the booth, also smiling, putting forth a forepaw to introduce himself. “Randall,” he said, wisely declining any last name. “What may I call you?”

The old chestnut of Anything but late for dinner tried to fling itself out, but I choked it back. “Tristan.”

As I clasped his paw gently, in a proper greeting, WriterVision(tm) took over. The skunk’s primary fur color was more dark brown than black, and his secondary color was more cream-like than stark white. His tail was as large, lush, and well-groomed as I remembered it. Dressed casually in a lightly-starched, lightweight denim shirt of pale blue, matched with more traditional indigo denim jeans, he put me in mind of some film where the main character considered similar attire to be something he would rather be wearing than the confining suit and tie of his daily work (lawyer, broker, something stuffy and uncomfortable for him). The gentlefur was handsome, for many reasons; his eyes seemed kind, and the smile on his short, pointed muzzle was happily disarming. He had folded his forepaws together on the table in front of him.

“Glad to meet you, Tristan,” he told me. “What will you have to drink?”

I nodded to my glass. “Master Po is taking care of me tonight.”

He blinked, considering. “I’m not sure I…”

“Grasshopper?” Still no recognition. “I’m taking it from the old TV series of Kung Fu. Master Po referred to his young initiate by the term ‘grasshopper.’ These days, the equivalent would be calling someone ‘padawan,’ I think.”

“All that from a drink?”

“You can ask anyone here: I’m a wealth of trivial information.”

Randall chuckled softly. “I can believe it.” He cleared his throat and started again. “I’ll just get something for myself, if I may.”

“Of course, yes; please do.”

He slid out of the booth with a reasonable grace, and I sat back, wondering if he would return. My first impression of him was that he ordinarily was self-secure, but my reference seemed to have confused him, flustered him somehow. This was not how a companion was supposed to behave. One sets the client at ease, opens to him, supports him, makes him feel good about himself.

…as if I had any idea. Well, some idea, from books (very dated), a documentary film about escorts, and a few conversations with my Menagerie family. It’s not like there’s an instruction manual for this sort of thing. I found myself giving a passing consideration to writing one, with the caveat that every client and encounter would be different.

The skunk did return in short order, with a modest amount of liquid and ice in an Old Fashioned glass; from the color of it, I made a guess at a whiskey on the rocks, but not a double. He was not trying to create courage for himself through drink, something which brought my estimation of him up a notch. Perhaps better still, I’d not scared him off.

“Now,” he said conversationally, “where were we?”

“Just introductions, mostly,” I said, hoping that my smile was comforting to him.

“Yes. Right.”

A moment of awkwardness that surprised me, and perhaps the skunk as well.

Leaning forward a little, I asked, “Randall, can you tell me what it is that you really want from me?”

“You mean, what am I into?”

I offered a small smile, shaking my head gently. “I think Wilford gave me a discreet idea about that. Let me put it this way: When you saw me in the hall that night, you gave me a looking-over and a very flirtatious flick of your tail. What brought that on?”

The skunk paused, then grinned at me. “I thought you looked hot.”

“Kind of you to say,” I demurred. “Do you just want sex?”

“Sort what we’re here for, enit?”

“Is it?”

While he pondered that for about two seconds, I thought about it myself. How many hook-ups had I experienced in my remote youth? Not all that many, as I was never a member of the Speedo Of The Month Club nor a call-out performer for Thong-And-Dance Strippers. Abram and I had discussed my poor sense of self-worth on many occasions, and it was at the root of my certainty that I didn’t deserve a real relationship, therefore the hook-up had been all I’d ever be able to expect, if that. I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that this skunk wasn’t what I had hoped he might be.

And what, precisely, was that?

“Maybe,” Randall was trying to say, “not just that. I mean, we can talk, too, maybe, if you wanted.”

“Some people say that I talk too much.” I let my expression soften. “Randall, can you tell me why you engaged Wilford?”

“I like the way he danced,” the skunk told me. “He’s so very sexy, and I found out that, you know, it would be possible to… meet with him.”

Nodding, I said, “And you met him back here, like we’re doing now. And you talked, and…?” He simply nodded, so I continued. “What did you talk about?”

“Mostly what we would do together. He called it ‘screening,’ said it was to stay safe.”

“So you started right in there, when you got to talk with him?”

“Well… no.” The skunk squirmed a bit in his seat. “He had just been on stage, you know, maybe ten minutes before that. He had on some warm-up gear, casual stuff. Said he was cooling down, but it looked too warm for that.”

“Protection against sore muscles. It’s bad to cool down too quickly; the fleece helps keep the heat in a bit longer.”

He nodded. “I think he mentioned that. I said how good his dancing was.”

“So you did talk about other things.” More nodding from the skunk. “How was that first time with him?”

“Great!” His response was enthusiastic and genuine. “He was really… erm, do you wanna know what we did?”

“Whatever it was, you seem to have enjoyed it. Maybe that’s what I’m looking for from you. What made it so enjoyable for you?”

“Maybe the… um, when he…”

I held up a forepaw to stop the poor skunk before he went into turbo-blush. “Randall, I know Wilford reasonably well. He doesn’t engage with clients who just want their knob polished.”

The skunk’s flustered response would have been comical had it not been so surprising. I let myself take stock of the last few minutes, trying to understand what was happening. At one level, he was right: We were here to talk about going into a room to make some whoopee, with my time and (I hope) talents negotiated for a fee. However, there are more levels to it, with Wilford and especially with me. Is that an excuse? Is that why he’s so flustered?

Leaning forward, I tried again. “Randall, I’m not doing this very well. It’s my first time having this conversation, and maybe I’m getting it all wrong.”

His expression turned disbelieving, and I grinned at him.

“This is my first engagement, not my first time at the rodeo itself.”

My reward was a laugh, a genuine, heartfelt laugh that shook gently through the skunk’s body and broke up whatever was worrying him. The look in his eyes calmed, felt more open to me. “Okay,” he said. “Do we start over?”

“Let me try something first. You said that you thought I looked hot, when you saw me in the corridor. Can you tell me what caught your attention?” I continued my grin. “Face? Tail? General size and build? Have I got a good butt?”

“All of the above… and one more thing.” He sobered before continuing. “You sure it’s okay?”

“Name it.”

He swallowed and took the plunge. “Your age.”

That made me shut up in a hurry.

“I don’t know how old you are; you don’t have to tell me. I know you’re older than I am, and you just seem like you might be so… well, mature.” The sense of a blush came over him. “I feel that, maybe, you know a lot about… everything.”

My quiet disbelief lasted long enough that he started to apologize, and I raised a forepaw again to quiet him. “I’ve never been told that my age might make me attractive. It’s usually the opposite.”

“It’s its own kind of sexy. Experience. Knowing what you know.”

“Kind of you to say,” I said, repeating myself from earlier. I kept the frost out of my voice, since it wasn’t coldness that I wanted to convey. “Is it just my sexual experience that you would find attractive?”

He hesitated, clearly understanding what I meant. Casting his eyes downward, his ears splaying gently, he said, “I don’t know.”

Never let it be said that honesty isn’t attractive. I reached gently across the table, waiting until he took my forepaw into his. Squeezing his paw gently, I waited until he looked at me again. “Randall, I’m going to make a suggestion, but I need to know a few things first. Did you negotiate a price with Phil?”

“Not yet. He said to talk with you first.”

I nodded. “Would you tell me what range you’d be prepared to pay? I won’t tell Phil; you can still negotiate.”

He named some figures that, truth told, surprised the hell out of me. Mentally setting aside poor jokes about buying packages sight-unseen, I said, “I want you to make a bond with me, Randall. That bond is that you do not pay anything until after our time together is over, and that we make our connection through the Question and Response. When our time is done, if you are dissatisfied with what we do together, you pay nothing, and we part ways.”

With many confused expressions crossing his face, the seconds ticked by. He did not yank his forepaw away from mine, which I hoped was a good sign. He finally asked, “Why would you do that?”

“Because you want a companion, not a whore.” When he hesitated further, I said, “Think of your time with Wilford and tell me I’m wrong.”

After another painfully long pause, he nodded, whispering, “You’re right.”

I returned his nod. “I’ll go talk to Phil. Be right back.”

Outlining my reasoning to Phil, I had to wait another few moments for his consideration. He finally nodded, a look in his liger’s eye that was part skepticism, part admiration for my audacity. We pressed pads in a mutual offering of good luck. He would want to hear this story, as would the rest of the family, but only if I chose to tell it. Phil knew my preferences for happy endings (not in the sexual sense), so my goal was to do all I could to make one happen.

Randall responded to my beckoning forepaw with minimal hesitation. I could even imagine that I saw him gulp. We padded our way to the green doors where, this evening, Theo and Helena stood with gentle, caring smiles for all who visited there. The lioness looked at me with a tease in her eye; she had clearly been informed that I might be, shall we say, hosting tonight. “Good evening, Tristan,” she all but purred. “Are you looking for a nice bit of vacationing?”

The routine was familiar to me, hearing it used by others who arrived at this door, hoping for their own share of paradise. “Perhaps; it’s a lovely evening for it. Where might you suggest for a pair of travelers like us?” Smiling, I ignored Theo’s kittenish sniggering at my waxing eloquent.

“I hear Acapulco is lovely, this time of year. Shall I book passage?”

“Oh, dear lioness, please do.”

She waved us through the green doors with a smile that told of laughter waiting for a chance to be set free. Randall and I padded our way down the hall, past Rio, Paris, Tuscany, and the Bahamas before arriving at the door for Acapulco. Each door had a postcard-perfect picture reproduced upon it, along with the name of the destination, to ensure there was no mistake. I snuck a glance upward, verifying that the recessed red LED light was off; it would be lit when I locked the door behind us. Until that moment, I hadn’t associated the privacy indicator with the term “red light district.”

Randall entered first, looking over the room with a casual glance. All five rooms were more or less identical — an upscale hotel room, with an oversized bed (easily suited for more than just two, should the need present itself), a small sitting area with comfortable chairs, and a large and luxuriously appointed ensuite, tailored for both personal cleaning and the sharing of shower space or the oversized tub that had its own Jacuzzi jets. I joke that our family keeps a band of pixies who clean the rooms between sessions. Engagements at The Menagerie are not so brisk a business as to need swift resetting of rooms. In the deep quiet of this heavily soundproofed space, I waited for the skunk to turn his attention back to me before speaking.

“Would you share your fur with me?” I Queried softly.

He started to answer quickly, then took a breath to settle himself before Responding, with great sincerity, “It is warmth to us both.”

I nodded, smiling softly, beginning to disrobe. He was quicker about his own doffing, but he bore my slowness no grudge. I wondered if he were looking upon it as a strip tease, but I tried not to act on the idea. I’d never tried such a thing, and I didn’t think I’d be very good at it. When I was done, I padded close to him and took him into my arms. I could feel him trembling, and I simply held him for a few moments. At length, he pulled away from me a little, looking into my eyes, silently asking what to do next. I led him to the bed, where we arranged ourselves into a comfortable cuddle.

Giving him a squeeze, I whispered to him, “Now… tell me why you wanted to engage me like this.”

A brief hesitation, he mumbled, “Is it okay that I still think you’re sexy?”

My chuckle was soft, and I gave a chaste nuzzle to his muzzle. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.” I paused, then said, “What else did you want to talk about?”

“Why do you think I want to talk?”

“Because you want a companion.”

I could feel the resistance pass swiftly through his body before he relaxed again. “What did Wilford tell you about me?”

“Only that he thought your sexual interests might fit with my own. He said nothing else. He’s far too discreet to share anything that may have passed between you. Being a companion means keeping the space safe, confidential. In our way, we are healers.”

“You said you hadn’t done this before.”

“I haven’t. I’m talking about family. The family that is The Menagerie took me in as one of their own, and I have shared many things with them, my own thoughts and feelings as well as theirs.” I pet his headfur gently. “So how may I help you, Randall?”

He pressed his cheek into my chest fur, and his tail twitched softly behind him. “You already are.”

“How so?”

A brief hesitation before he whispered, “Feel wanted.”

My heart gave a thump at those words. I had been right: He was, in very important ways, like me. I could make any number of guesses about the origins of his fears. They might match my own; they could be completely different. One psychiatric variation regarding his attraction to me might concern itself with sire issues, while another might choose other authority figures. It could be as simple as the oldest of my ghosts: the idea of worthiness.

“You told me that part of why you wanted to be with me was because of my age, my experience. You called it maturity.”

He nodded against my chest.

“Would it surprise you to know that I still can be a bratty pup sometimes?”

That got a laugh from him, and he squeezed me about my middle. “That’s good, though. Nobody should forget what it’s like to be young. Bratty, even.”

“And how are you bratty, my good skunk?”

“I don’t spray, if that’s what you mean.” The grin in his voice was welcome. “I usually avoid dropping trou and squirting someone, even if he deserves it.”

“Very civilized of you,” I chanced. It worked: He mock-bit at my belly, and we both laughed. After a moment, he turned his head to look at me, his head still pressed to my chest. I returned the smile he gave me.

“This is what you were talking about,” he said. “I get what you mean, now. And yes, Wilford can make me laugh, too. That’s…” He considered. “That’s a big deal. It’s like making a connection.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” I nodded. It’s what a companion does. It’s part of why you keep coming back to engage Wilford. That connection is what makes being sexual with him more than just… let me see, ‘bumping uglies,’ if you know that one.”

“His isn’t ugly.”

Randall sat up suddenly, clapped a forepaw to his muzzle, and looked at me with wide, fearful eyes. I reached out to him gently, touching his arm, smiling softly at him. After a few moments, he finally relaxed, barked a laugh, and fell back into my embrace.

“Does that count as ‘telling tales out of school’?” he asked.

I pretended to give it careful consideration. “I’ll take it as a positive review.” I grinned at him. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah,” he said. He put a forepaw to my chest. “How about you?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “I feel very companionable.”

He looked at me, his eyes asking all the right questions.

“Randall,” I whispered. “I hope that we won’t stop talking. I would, however, like to share further… if you want.”

Smiling, he said, “It is warmth to us both.”

That’s when he kissed me.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A few things left to say here. His real name is not “Randall.” During our intimacy, I shared the rest of my name; he knew my work, and that’s why I have his permission to tell you this much of our story. What happened between us, is private, not a source of titillation for the masses. We talked a lot that night, during and after a great sweetness of both sexual and emotional intimacy. After quite a long time together that evening, he settled most amicably with Phil, and he told me that he hopes to engage me again, especially if we can spend some time watching one of the movies I told him about. I will not disclose the amount that he negotiated; I will say that my share amounted to about what a good talk therapist might get for the same amount of time. I found the experience to be particularly gratifying, and not for monetary reasons. (I’d be lying by omission if I didn’t admit that the money was also a great help to me; however, it wasn’t the source of my gratification. Randall was.)

I don’t know if I would want to find any other clients. The skunk is, thus far, the only furson who seems to find me attractive. Perhaps he will be the only one to whom I may minister as a companion. Wilford and I have not “exchanged notes” about our mutual client; the otter has told me only that the skunk is happier, more communicative, and apparently took very good mental notes on how to perform a certain activity that I’ve had years to perfect. Wilford is particularly happy about that.

That same evening, Abram talked to me about what happened, and more times since. His primary emotion is pride. I took chances, I let my heart lead me, and he thought me a particularly fine companion… although not as a profession. I agree. I had earned a bachelors degree in psychology, hoping to follow it up with at least a Masters in Social Work, so that I could become a practicing therapist. That idea was nipped in the bud when I realized that I would become too involved with my clients (emotionally, not sexually). My empathy could not be kept to merely a professional level; the intensity of my emotions would require too much of myself to provide therapy to many fursons, as a job.

“Randall” is the wonderful exception that proves the rule. I can be genuinely empathic with him, listening and helping, while the intimacy between us has reached many levels. I am a good companion for him, and he is a good client for me. Matches this good don’t happen often, so I suspect that I won’t be offering myself to any others in quite this way.

However, I must conclude with Abram’s observation: Never say “never.”