Confessions of a Furry
By Wil Forbis
October 1st, 2003
I always knew I was... different. Even as a child, I stood apart from the rest. Some little boys profess a love for the paraphernalia of manhood at an early age, eagerly playing with Tonka trucks or riding about in jazzed up three wheelers. Other young lads dance to a different drummer and can be found raiding their sister’s collection of Barbies or dressing up in their mother’s gowns. I veered down neither path and instead spent my early childhood amassing a collection stuffed animals and lying about on the sheepskin rug in the family room. I was an aesthete for the pleasures of touch. The plushness of a play rabbit or teddy bear would send my head reeling. The sensation of a thousand hairs of the sheepskin caressing my body was almost too much to take. My definition of beauty was completely intertwined with my sense of touch and I was always on the lookout for new works of art.
The first incident that indicated that my love of things furry was becoming a sexual orientation came at the age of nine. I had taken to ditching softball practice to play ‘house’ with my neighbor, Becky Satchell. A recurring game of ours was performing wedding ceremonies for her various stuffed teddy bears. One day, while she presided over the matrimony of her fuzzy polar bear, Rufus, to a rather vainglorious panda named Ethel, I felt a twinge of jealously. I knew, in my heart, that only I truly understood Rufus, that only I could make him happy. When Minister Becky got to the section of vows where she asked the guests whether they know of any reason these two should not be married I had to act. I blurted out, "I love you Rufus" and then grabbed the doll and ran into the closet, only consenting to emerge if Becky would unite us in matrimony.
That was the last time Becky Satchell invited me over to play. But I knew I was a furry... and there was no going back.
What is a furry? It is simply a person who prefers to have sex with other persons who happened to be dressed up as giant stuffed animals. You might say that this sort of behavior is strange, but frankly, I think "normal" sex seems quite strange. The blatant nakedness repels me, as does the complete lack of fuzzy ears, arms and tails to caress as lovingly as you would your own. To me, furry sex is the way sex was meant to be - plush, aesthetic and processing certain purity. You may think that furries are freaks or abominations in the eyes of God (though I challenge you to find a Biblical passage that plainly condemns furrydom) but we are everywhere. We are your co-workers, your neighbors and your relatives. We pay taxes, vote for members of political office (Yes, we skew Democrat but this could change if a well known member of the Republican party with a predilection for dressing up as a giant chipmunk fulfills his promise to eventually out himself.) and are employed in all sorts of vocations, from veterinarian to dog catcher, from seamstress to rug salesman. Furries are an essential part of the American fabric and have been for a long time. (We count Benjamin Franklin, Clark Gable and Chet Huntly among our fraternity.) You may already be aware of this if you've ever been to a furry-pride march and heard the group chant, "We're here! We're furry! And we aren’t going anywhere (in a hurry.)"
My first genuine experience with furry love occurred when I was 20 years old. I had been away at college and was driving back to my parent’s house for a visit. I realized that it was getting late so I decided to stop for the night in a small town on the way. After checking in to a motel I decided to step out for a beer. After downing a few at the local saloon, I grabbed my copy of "Teddy Bear Monthly" and headed to my room. But on my way back, I peered down an alley and what I saw made my heart skipped a beat. At the end of the alleyway was a short man dressed as a fuzzy grizzly passed out on a pile of garbage bags. (I discovered later that he was a transient who had been paid to wear the outfit as a promotion for "Grizzly Bob's Lube and Oil Change.") Trembling, I approached him. As I passed my hands through his matted mane I felt a jolt travel up and down my spine. I leaned in close to smell his musky scent - a combination of dirty carpet, man sweat, and cheap wine. Stirred by my attention, my grizzly-prince awoke from his alcohol-induced hibernation and spoke.
“Hey, get your hands off me you goddamn faggot!”
Like a true creature of nature, he was at first threatened at my love interest. But I felt certain that if I could make him understand the mixture of genuine tenderness and unbridled animal lust I felt for him, he would consent to join me back in my hotel room. (In the end I convinced him with $20 and a forty ouncer of 211 malt liquor.) Our night together was magical. I caressed his motley mane and shivered as he pawed my back. Finally I engaged my love most proper, and said, "You’re about to truly be a ‘stuffed’ animal!"
Sadly, that was only night I spent with my first love, but I knew I had finally found myself. And once you’ve crossed over to furry love, you realize there are others like you all over the place . Back in college I discovered that the captain of the swim team liked to dress up as a Golden Retriever and be given a bone to chew on. The staff of my part time job at the Copy Center included a young man who would’ve died could he be reborn a man sized raccoon. In my final year I had a professor of ornithology who was clearly possessed by the love of fuzz. We shared things that can only be shared by a man and another man wearing a giant kangaroo costume.
Upon graduation, I knew I had to take a big step and reveal my orientation to my parents. My father was furious at the news. He screamed, “I don't care if you want fuck men! I don't care if you want to fuck goats! But I will not have a furry as a son!" My mother was more tactful. "Your father and I have spent many years building a certain standing in the neighborhood," she said. "Something like this could just ruin our reputation. Why, you saw what happened when the rumors came out about the Robard's boy, and he was only a child molester." Needless to say, that was the last I ever saw of my parents. But months later, my estranged cousin Jacob called me and explained the real reason he was called “the black sheep of the family.” We met later that week for drinks.
Though my real family abandoned my, a new family in the form of the furry community rose up to take its place. The furry community is comprised of like-minded lovers of fuzz who wish to offer support to their brethren. We have a weekly roundtable at a local eatery, the Plush Codpiece, to share stories, laughs and warmth and celebrate all things furry. Of particular interest of me is a program that helps young furries realize their feelings in a safe, nonjudgmental environment. It’s a group that has helped me immensely and after a lifetime of confusion and shame, I can now say I feel happy. Accepted. Loved.
Yoiks…. And late! I've got a date with a certain 6 foot tree sloth who doesn't like to be kept waiting.
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Wil Forbis is a well known international playboy who lives a fast paced life attending chic parties, performing feats of derring-do and making love to the world's most beautiful women. Together with his partner, Scrotum-Boy, he is making the world safe for democracy. Email - acidlogic@hotmail.com
Visit Wil's web log, The Wil Forbis Blog, and receive complete enlightenment.