By Wil Forbis
October 1st, 2003
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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.
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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.
