Especially if the fur’s white. Sure, you might get the bulk of it off the individual fibers, but a stain will still be there. It’s not easy to find someone who wants to blow a six-foot tall ferret with a blood stain on the business end.
Hi, I’m Shane. I’m 42 and I’m a furry. And no, I’m not one of those adorable ones who goes to conventions and acts like my favorite cartoon character and makes cute noises and then goes home. I’m a degenerate. I like to be around other degenerates. Especially ones in fur suits. Take a moment to psychoanalyze me from your armchair. I’ll wait.
My ilk don’t have conventions. We get together, don’t get me wrong, but conventions aren’t really our thing. I’d say the closest thing we have is a gaping, semen-encrusted orgy of bodies sweating and panting inside hot suits trying to bring one another to orgasm. If that last sentence didn’t give you an erection, then you probably wouldn’t be interested. (If you are, send me a private message.)
There’s the background, now let’s get to the root of the problem: the pizza-sized blood stain all over the cock slot of my suit.
Last Halloween, I got a text from my buddy about a meetup at the apartment of one of our regulars. I was excited – this guy was a freak. He was independently wealthy, always had the best drugs and booze, and since he owned the whole apartment building, we could be as loud and disgusting as we wanted. I am very loud. I am profoundly disgusting.
Anyway, I went and had an absolute blast. Nine guys and two women. Not that the sexes of the participants mattered, of course. We’re all just furry plugs and outlets, my friends. Furry plugs and outlets.
After the initial debauchery, one of the guys didn’t get up off the tarp. He was facedown with the rear flap of his fur suit open. That wasn’t the odd part, since the flaps of all our suits were open, but unlike us, this guy wasn’t moving.
The owner of the apartment was extremely pissed off. The exposed skin peeking out from behind his Mike from Monsters Inc. costume was beet red. One of the main rules of his house was NO ONE was allowed to overdose. Aside from the complications of dealing with the police and ambulance, it made the whole party look bad. And he NOT want to look like a bad host.
We took turns trying to get the guy to his feet. He was breathing, which was a good sign, but he just wouldn’t respond. Now, I’ve been around ODs before. Shit happens. But something about this guy wasn’t right. I’d never seen him before. Turned out none of us had.
I’d say the majority of us had a go at him at one point or another during the festivities, and I’m fairly certain I remember his furry, green belly pushing against my forehead pretty early in the night. But now he was still facedown on the tarp preventing our collective liquids from soaking into the carpet. It was a really nice carpet.
As the host was looking for his phone to call an ambulance, the prostrate man started to get up. He looked around at us, blinked a few times, then smiled. We all breathed a sigh of relief, then asked the guy what had happened. He just apologized and told us he has narcoleptic episodes after intense physical exertion, and it’s nothing to worry about. Then he made us all laugh when he asked who was ready for another round of action.
All of us were, so we started up again. Then the power went out.
I was balls deep in our narcoleptic Oscar the Grouch when the room went dark. I didn’t mind. Oscar certainly didn’t, either. No one did. I heard the host yell, “must be the ghost!,” and we all laughed amidst moans and around mouthfuls of unimaginable depravity. Supposedly the host’s apartment was haunted by the original owner. But on we plowed, so to speak, making our way from partner to partner in the dark.
A little while later, the room started to smell. Let me be more specific: the room started to smell worse. The regular background scent of 11 people fucking in rarely-washed suits and working up and good, frothy sweat in the process can be a bit off putting to those unaccustomed to our type of fun. But this smell was different. And it was powerful.
Being the troopers we were, we managed to go for another few minutes before one of us threw up. And that was the end of the orgy. People started to complain about the smell and the host went into the kitchen to grab a flashlight and a few candles while we mulled around and wiped off our various wipeables.
A light flicked on and a candle was lit. We surveyed the area and a couple people left. Oscar the Grouch was on the tarp again, ass in the air. Something about the color of his skin, even in the dimness of the flashlight and candles, didn’t look right.
“Hey, Oscar,” I called, and nudged him. He flopped over onto his side. I sighed as one of the women started to take off the head portion of his suit so he could get some air.
The portion came off and the most hideous smell I’d ever encountered filled the air. The lights blinked back on and everyone shouted in despair and horror. We were all coated in blood and other incomprehensibly horrific fluids.
Fast forward a few hours.
We were all at the police station. Oscar was dead. Very, very dead. According to someone at the station, he looked like he’d been dead for a long, long time. They were still trying to ID the body.
Fast forward to a week later.
All of us were charged with desecrating a corpse. In our state of collective disgust and confusion, none of us protested it. It looked like we’d be facing some pretty serious fines and community service, but no jail. Thank God.
They still hadn’t ID’d Oscar.
Yesterday, I was at home when my phone rang. It was my buddy who’d invited me to the Halloween party. His friend, the wealthy party host, had been doing renovations on the apartment. Apparently the smell just wouldn’t get out of the room we’d occupied, so he was tearing down the whole thing. In the process, he came across a note, neatly carved into the wood on the underside of the floorboards.
“If you ever find this, I’m sorry for the trouble I may have caused. I’ve been watching all the fun you’ve had over the years and wanted to try it for myself. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to give corporeality one more shot. It was very, very worth it. Thanks!”
I didn’t really know how to respond to that. It didn’t make much sense, but neither did the narcoleptic furry-turned-cadaver who showed up at the orgy. I asked my friend what we should do, and he replied pretty quickly, informing me we’d be having another “get-together” to honor the dead man’s memory this coming weekend.
I can’t fucking wait. Apparently there’ll be 25 people there.
But I just cannot get this damn stain out of my fur suit. I don’t think it will make a good first-impression with the new folks.