Trauma

By Le Marquis Vulpes de Mon

Disclaimer: This story contains cub(s) in sexually humiliating situations resulting in PTSD and additions. It also contains homoerotic scenes, drug and alcohol use, nudity, sex/sexuality, and coarse language. Please do not read if such themes disturb or offend you. Discretion is advised.

Notice: This is an original work of fiction, and the events within are not based on actual occurances. All characters depicted within are fictitious, and any semblance to persons both living or dead is purely coincidental.

***

	You never start off a day of school thinking that particular day will leave you damaged for life. Never before have I discussed this with anyone, much less agree to submit it as an article in Vulpine Issues Today. In a way, though, I consider it a final step in achieving full closure. Maybe my account here will even help those who have been through similar situations.
	It was back in '93, and I remember that precisely because I got to spend the summer in Puget Sound. I got to go on a fishing boat for the first time with my dad and uncle, caught a decent sized chum salmon, and I saw some orcas. This was also the same year I saw Jurassic Park in theatres twenty times (no exaggeration). Most of the year was fantastic, to say the least. My parents were still together at the time, and I considered myself blessed because of the other cubs I knew living in broken homes. By any reasonable measure, I was happy, well brought up, and perfectly normal fox kit. 
	Considering the above, I thought I should have had the resilience to deal with any of life's little upsets with relative ease. It is a mindset that has truly hampered my path to healing and reconciliation with my past. By letting one event effectively ruin my otherwise idyllic cubhood, I spent years feeling weak and pathetic.
	I was about to start the fifth grade in September at a K to 9 school. This is an important fact, given the wide age range of the cubs at widely varying levels of maturity and development. With a such a large student body, turning to any of your teachers, or even your peers, for that matter, for any kind of emotional support was largely impossible. You could find yourself with many acquaintances, but no actual friends. Moreover, you could have had the same English teacher for years, and you might remember her, but she would not remember you (For me, this was Mrs. "Veer" - not her actual name, but the somewhat correct pronunciation of her German-Lupine name). Out of a class of 45, on average, there was only two reasons why any instructor would remember you by name.
	Finding cubs of the same species and same age range at this school was also a hot commodity. I suppose now is as good a time as any to introduce Brett. He was in eighth grade as I started the fifth. A big fox. Easily as tall and hefty as the wolves, and as tough as the bears. Built like a brick shithouse. He played defence on the school football team. In my eyes, he was a very intimidating, threatening looking male. His voice had already started to deepen, and, despite only being three years ahead of me, appeared much more physically developed.
	Thing is, Brett and I never really interacted with each other at all. I only knew of him because out of all the foxes in the school (not many while I went), he just stood out the most. In fact, it took nearly a quarter century for us to really get to know each other. I never got bullied by him or mistreated in anyway. All I had was just one negative encounter, and that, for reasons I still can't fully understand, made all the difference.
	About three weeks into the school year, I remember needing to go to the bathroom during social class. Truthfully, I was also bored and wanted to kill time by taking a tour of the hallways, looking at the adverts, school announcements, pictures of the graduates for the measly 12 years the school had been open. Still, I did have to pee, and I did so in the part of the school where the bathrooms were labelled as "Men's". Not "Boy's". Men's.
	Whatever I happened to wear, shorts in this case because the weather was still warm, I had the habit of letting it drop right to my ankles to take a pee, undies included. Of course, I'd use the stalls to avoid exposure. Truth be told, unless I was in the company of rabbit or skunk boys, I simply didn't use the urinals for reasons I will not mention. Let's just say, it was and still very much is a confidence issue.
	Now, to this day, I have no idea why I did what I did next. I suddenly became very fixated on my genitals. It bothered me greatly for many years knowing this was the one thing I could have done differently to avoid what happened next. I don't even remember what had even compelled me to check myself out. Maybe it was something I read in the medical encyclopedias in the library that day, specifically about male anatomy. So, maybe I recalled reading something about testicular torsion and feeling extreme anxiety that one of my balls was twisted and needed to get readjusted, or it would die and fall off from lack of blood circulation? Perhaps I wanted to self-examine for testicular cancer, or something? An ingrowth-hair, and infection, bugs…I don't know. I don't even recall exactly if I necessarily wanted to examine my male parts, but rather something around them. It was so silly, because I was in no pain, nor did I discover anything wrong with me.
	Whatever it was, I backed out the stall towards the sinks. Each one had a mirror mounted over it, so I waddled over with my shorts still to my ankles. I had my both my balls held in the tips of my fingers, left in the left, right in the right, all the way over, and I began checking them out. I just stood there, looking at my testicles, then in the mirror, and back again. 
	I looked all over my scrotum, still covered in very fine, thin, short white fur. You probably will not believe me when I say that this was the last time I have ever admired my own body in such a way. It really fascinated me seeing my reproductive organs. The soft fur was so thin that you could still see the skin underneath. I also recall squeezing my balls enough to see them pressed tight against the skin and experiencing mesmerization at the sight of the blood vessels webbed within. Now, I don't think I was masturbating, at least I don't remember intending to do so. It's not that I had a problem with doing "that", especially since I've been doing it for as long as I can remember. Nonetheless, it felt really good and I must have kept on "inspecting" my balls for at least a good two or three minutes.
	Unfortuately, I foolishly took only a cursory glance of my surroundings when I had myself exposed like this, and was completely oblivious to the one occupant in the stall right next to where I had emerged. I've beaten myself up many times for being caught so unaware. For God's sake, I even smelled another fox as soon as got in this damn bathroom. The smell is unmistakable, as we all know, but I dismissed it as my own odour.
	Next, I heard what sounded like a cough, or a gasp, followed by a loud, booming voice, "W-What the in the actual fuck are you doing?! What are you, queer?"
	Yep, it was Brett. Of all people, it had to be him. Mere seconds must have past when I, in a spring-like motion, got my shorts only up to mid-thigh level and darted out of the bathroom in a blur of white, red, and black. I managed to redress fairly quickly, even shoving my tail through the back cutout without having to undo the cross strap button, but not fast enough to have experienced further exposure to others. I thank God this was still a good couple of decades before the smartphone. There were two girls further down the hall, but their backs were turned, so I don't think they saw me. Did nothing for my embarrassment, though, and I couldn't even tell you if there were others who had seen me, privates fully visible for several critical seconds.
	My breathing had become very erratic and I remember feeling intense nausea. I wanted to get away. Run far away as fast as I could. But I could barely move. My legs felt like air while my feet felt like they were fused to the salmon coloured vinyl floor. As one of my many psychiatrists told me, I legit experienced a panic attack, but a 10 year old cub can't be expected to know such things. At any moment, I figured, Brett would come out laughing and shouting something like, "Taylor was masturbating!", and then I'd have to contend with hordes of students exiting their classes to begin mocking me.
	It didn't happen, and I must have slowly stumbled away. Strangely, I went back to class, but don't remember a single word spoken. I think I just sat there, physically present, but not really there, if I'm making my meaning clear at all. I understand many others have had similar experiences, or so I've been told by the many doctors I've seen. The rest of the day past without another memory imprinting on my brain. I do remember, though, still feeling sick. This served as a nice convenient excuse to miss the next three days. The thought of going back to school had me nearly heaving for several days. My little "vacation", such as it was, didn't help ease my stomach issues as the days went on. It just got progressively worse. I figured, the more time past, the more people at the school would know. Surely, I thought, Brett had told everyone by now. Told everyone he saw me "half naked". Told them I was "jerking it", and that I'm "a pervert and a homo." And, worse, told every just how "tiny" I was.
	My mom didn't let me stay home for long. After our family doctor revealed nothing physically wrong, I was told I would then have to speak to the school counsellor. With so many other students with issues seemingly worse than mine, he didn't have the time to give me more than one session, so I was given prescriptions for anti-anxiety medications and anti-depressants (Name one. I've tried them all). I should repeat, I have told no one about what happened until now. The doctors can only treat what they see, and when all they see is anxiety and depression, that's all they attempt to treat. A similar approach also applies to bullying, as I found out in High School. They can only punish what they see.
	The remaining year and a half I spent at that school is best described as a medicated, dazed, and self-imposed reclusion. Nothing really happened to me since, yet I still felt my wounds constantly reopened day after day. Brett saw my most personal area, and although, as I discovered much later, he never told more than a couple of people, I felt his knowledge meant he wielded so much power over me. Everyday, I felt overwhelming panic that on a whim he could utterly destroy my reputation.
	To make matters worse, he was not some dumb, ugly jock. He got several honours awards at the end of the school year, where as I only ever got "Merit awards" (I say this euphemistically, because these so-called "Merit Awards" are simply glorified participation trophies, as the "feelings-first" and "no-cub-left-behind" approach to education really started to kick off. I underachieved, but I was no idiot. The award basically just said, "Great job on barely passing. It's okay though, you're simply the last winner." I certainly blamed Brett for my diminishing grades.) He was very handsome, too. He had lovely blonde and black layers in his red coat and headfur. Like the Kingpin in the Spider-Weasel cartoons, he looked fat, but was in fact mostly muscle. As far as I was concerned, he represented a stark contrast to my goofy looking, nerdish face and delicate body structure.
	I got some relief when my dad moved to the other side of the city. My parents assured me this was not a "separation" and that dad just wanted to have a residence closer to work (it was, in fact, a bona fide separation that lasted two years before the formal divorce occurred). To make sure I didn't have to go back to that wretched school, I started misbehaving so badly that mom essentially kicked me out. Living with dad, I got to go to a new school, where no one knew me or Brett.
	Life did not get any better though. I spent the next several years on and off the prescriptions, saw several different counsellors, and drifted aimlessly throughout my education to barely graduate high school. I also got forced back home with mom a year before graduation, because dad had moved clear across the country (I still don't have much contact with him). Six months with mom was all I could stand, and I moved into a boarding home near the old army barracks. This place was full of addicts and guys a step above homelessness.
	It was in the boarding home I got introduced to and hooked onto heroin. I made my money by doing odd labour jobs that lasted no more than six or seven months at a time before either concluding a temporary gig, or outright getting fired. My prospects for any kind of advancement were nonexistent, and after getting into a massive fist fight with one of my co-inhabitants, I spent a couple of years couch-surfing with the few friends I actually had from high school. In 2007, I was hospitalized for O.D.-ing.
	I did manage to kick my heroin addiction during my time in hospital, but I had nowhere else to go afterward. This meant crawling back home to live with my mommy like a Millennial stereotype. I may have gotten over my use of illicit drugs, but I was still getting heavily prescribed a nasty stew of anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds. My only source of income was from going on disability payments. All the government handouts did for me was offer a convenient excuse not to work. For three years, I just played video games, masturbated to porn until the wee hours of the morning, and slept until the late afternoon. I also became a bit of an alcoholic as well. I did anything I needed to to numb myself and not face life. Of course, this just lead to a positive feedback loop where the longer I stayed out of the workforce, living with my mom, collecting taxpayers money, and replaying the incident with Brett in my mind over and over again, the more pathetic and worthless I felt. To make matters worse, I was beginning to look quite physically ragged. Ever since the incident, I felt nothing but shame about my body. Some of the research I have done suggests that the meds may have also altered my growth. I never did get that big "down south", and I have troubles maintaining an erection. All of this just added to my self-loathing and depression.
	Oddly enough, on the same day I was about to down all my meds at once with a rum chaser, I found within myself a will to live that I never knew existed. Instead of killing myself, I got rid of all the pills. They weren't working anyways, and I didn't want anymore side effects. I also quit drinking cold turkey. Next, I looked for any material online I could find to help guide myself out of my depression, and hopefully at long last deal with my trauma. One of my many "head-doctors" had suggested turning to religion, but be damned if I was about to start attending church (I come from a staunchly atheist household to the point of my folks being anti-religion, anti-God, anti-spirit, anti-higher-meaning-to-life, anti-you-name-it). Still, I've had a long, if at all passing, interest in Buddhism. In particular, it's the part about the so called "Four Noble Truths" that really gave me a template for embarking on a path of healing.
	First and foremost, life is suffering, as the Buddha would tell us. I'm certainly no stranger to this rather obvious truth. The second truth, however, is the biggest eye opener for me. Looking back on my life, seriously looking objectively at it, most of my troubles were self-inflicted. If I'm to be perfectly honest with myself, I have to ask, did Brett ever force me spend years of my adulthood living with my mom like a mooch? No. Did he force those needles into my arm? No. Did he ever end up ruining my reputation? No. I never did get bullied or harassed by anyone affiliated with him. Yes, I was afraid he would, and all the shrinks in the world will tell you that fear of an undesirable outcome is perfectly normal. What is not healthy, however, is letting fear consume your life. Such a realization hit me like a semi. I threw away a quarter century of my life because of fear of something that never ended up happening.
	It took me a little longer to act on the Third Noble Truth, but I at least got started on the Fourth. I started going to bed at a decent time and getting up early. Having a set routine was so incredibly helpful. I started eating better and I even started going to the gym. I do occasionally meditate, but probably not as much as the Buddha would recommend. Mom payed for me to get my forklift ticket and material handling certificate. In just two short months, I had landed the first full time, permanent job I ever had in my life, and I've managed to keep this job for the long term (I did get laid off recently, but had another job lined up immediately thereafter. I'm still there to this day).
	With my life finally on track, I then felt I had to confront my past and realize the Third Noble Truth. I needed closure if I was to finally reconcile with my past. In order to let go and forgive, I needed to contact Brett himself. A quick Moogle search reveals several stories of people who, in their adulthood, connected with their childhood bullies with astonishing success. Granted, Brett never bullied me, but I felt my situation similar enough to warrant reaching out to him. Just a few seconds of searching online is all it took to find his Visagebook page. He didn't have much posted, but the few pictures of himself he posted were enough confirmation for me. Plus, he still lived in the same city as me, according to his profile. I sent him a message.
	"Hi! You probably don't remember me, and I'm not sure I've got the right person, but if you are Brett Henninger, I think we both went to James Ferretwitz together."
	In less than 24 hours, I got a response. "Hey! Yeah, I did go there. Not many people there I still keep in contact with, so it's great to chat with someone from there. How have you been?"
	"Great. Just great." (Yes, clearly a lie). "Just happened upon your page here. We didn't really hang out, or anything, but I do recognize you."
	"Well hey, if you wanna reconnect or whatever, just give me a shout."
	And then, he gave me his number. No mention of what happened when we last interacted. He didn't even indicate having any memory of me. I could feel my anxiety coming back. The memory of our encounter played back as if I were living it all over again, and I felt the familiar nausea and shortness of breath. After letting it sit for three weeks, I finally called him.
	"Brett?"
	"Mhm."
	"Uh, it's Taylor. We chatted on Visagebook?"
	"S'up?"
	"Oh, not much. Just work and all. Busy busy, but I guess that's a good thing, right? Heheh."
	"Tell me about. I'm still in between jobs, myself."
	"Huh. That sucks."
	"Well, this economy. Thanks to our accidental socialist government and the senseless war on energy right now. Um, hope I'm not offending you, if you did vote for them."
	"Oh, heh, no, I'm not really all that political, but yeah, I get what you mean. What were you doing?"
	"Just a boring little office job. Data and Inventory Management at a oil and gas company. Ha ha, that should answer your question as to why I don't have a job no more!"
	"Yeah, the industry has really taken a hard hit, eh? I mean, things are kinda slow here in the sense we not as busy as we could be, but still pretty busy."
	"Right on. Where do you work?"
	"At the main distribution centre for Wallyland. I'm, heh, just a grunt."
	"Really now, so am I. Well, 'was', I should say."
	"Didn't you used to play football? I thought for sure you were, I dunno, going to go professional?"
	"C'mon man, it's James Ferretwitz. I was a mediocre talent, at best. I don't like to toot my own horn, I mean, like yeah, I was the one of the best on the team, but that's like being a dung-beetle among retarded ants."
	"Oh? Heh, sorry, I didn't really follow the sports side of things, y'know?"
	"Trust me on this one. The one year we actually made it to the playoffs, they already had Southland's name on the trophy. They had to pull it off and stick on a temporary one when we somehow won. I'm convinced our school sponsors paid Southland."
	"Oh geez! Ha ha! That bad?"
	"Look at it this way, if you were to cherry pick all of our best players, and pit them against absolute worst from Marquis Vulpes, that big school in the capital, they'd still get crushed. Like, they wouldn't even stand a fucking chance! So really, my football 	career never ended before it began. It just never was."
	We carried on as such for over an hour. Reminiscing, joking, laughing. We chatted like long lost pals. He did reveal that not many his friendships from those days lasted very long, so he was actually really happy to hear from a fellow student from the same school. It was so surreal. I kind of avoided the topic I wanted to discuss, because I didn't want to kill the moment. I'm actually impressed I even managed to dive headlong into the conversation with such zeal. Just as we were about close off though, I brought up "the event".
	"So yeah, before you go, I've been meaning to contact you for sometime because of something that happened back in school. It's really personal for me, and it's been troubling me a lot, so…I sure hope you don't mind if we can, y'know, talk about it."
	"Sure thing. I had a feeling, but didn't want to press it. Just refresh my memory a little, if you please."
	"It's about…the bathroom. When I was, ehh, 'checking' myself. And by myself, I mean 'my' self, if you know what I mean."
	"Yeah, I figured. So what do you want to know?"
	"I just wanted to clarify that I wasn't, y'know, jerkin' it or anything like that. I only wanted to check something…"
	"I see. Yes, I do remember now. For the record, I told no one, except for a few close friends. And it wasn't even a case of 'guys, I caught so and so doing the bad thing in the shitter', it was more like 'yeah, uh, some kid was scoping out his privates while I was on 	the John. Crazy, am I right?' and that's about it."
	"Ah. Well. That's a huge relief. Um, thank you for that."
	"I do need to ask though, was I bit of a jerk to you?"
	"I uh…I dunno. Not really? I mean, I guess you reacted about the same as anyone would, I guess. You were definitely, how should I say, shocked?"
	"Yeah, I seem to remember yelling at you? Swearing and calling you 'fag' or something to that effect. I am sorry for that, by the way."
	"I appreciate it."
	"May I ask, what were you doing?"
	"I was just a weirdo. I don't recall exactly what it was, but I just wanted to check myself out. It was stupid. I don't even remember why I did it."
	"Huh. To be honest, I thought you were flashing me, or something. I mean, you went to the sink right across from me, giving me...a much better view."
	"Oh…uh…No no no no. It was…that second mirror was angled. The other was bolted flat against the wall, if I remember right."
	"Oh yeah, that's right! The sink was also lower for the little tykes or the handicapped cubs. One of the two. Either way, that makes sense now. That one would have had the best view, 'cause you were still pretty short, yeah?"
	"Yes, yes, that was it."
	"Okay. Well, again, I am sorry. For the sake of full disclosure, yeah, I thought you were putting on a show just for me, and not just checking yourself. I remember thinking, holy cow, is this really happening? Right here, right now, and in front of me? You didn't 	get to see me, 'cause you darted out of there like a madfox, but I went completely flush. Seriously dude, my cheeks were on fire. Good thing us foxes have so much cheek fur, otherwise you would have seen me blush. Sure, we can sometimes get red in the inner 	part of our ears, but if you've seen bald people blush, you can see it's way more visible on the cheeks. And, for as much as sweating we can do out of the few places we can, my socks were, like, instantly soaked, and the crack of my ass."
	"Really?"
	"Yeah really. You had a nice ass. And, and please forgive me if it's a little too personal, but…you had a really, really cute package. I've always thought you were cute, but…I wasn't ready at the time to admit the truth about myself. I think that's why I lashed out."
	"Are you…"
	"Yeah. I am. Always have been. And I knew about myself even then, but didn't want to face it."
	Hearing Brett's revelation completely shook my perceptions of him. Funny, but his matter of fact tone suggested this should not have come as any surprise, but then, this was the first time we ever talked. During the conversation, he admitted, for the sake of full disclosure, as he'd often say, that he fantasized about me very often. Looking back, I think a major factor in my adverse reaction to our encounter was borne out of my own conflicted feelings about sexuality. It's not like my school was massively homophobic, or anything. Really now, this was the mid-nineties, and acceptance was already on the rise, especially when you accept that the major advancements in gay rights in recent years didn't just spring up out of nowhere. Times were already changing, but I've always found myself at odds. I never really considered myself gay. Furthermore, I was in love with the idea, the notion, of having a more "traditional family" in the sense I'd eventually hook up with a nice vixen, have a couple of kids of my own, get my tubes tied, and make up for the lack of devotion I witnessed between my own parents. Up until connecting with Brett, I only had a couple of drunken encounters with chicks that were convinced to have sex with me by my doping buddies. I had never been with a guy, even though the thought often entered my mind. Life is also a lot of confusion, as well as suffering.
	I also found out Brett has been struggling with severe depression since losing his job. He even contemplated suicide and briefly turned to alcoholism. You combine this with the fact that he also never had many true friends, despite being so personable and popular. Like me, he lacked emotional support from trustworthy people. Indeed, I found it reassuring to discover I'm not alone in feeling a lifelong sense of loneliness, isolation, and despair. Then again, I also felt a massive amount of regret for not realizing sooner that so much of these negative feelings could have been avoided had I just had the guts to reach out. At least I can chuckle about it now.
	Our conversation ended with Brett saying, "So hey, you never left the city after all these years, eh? We should hang out sometime. Get a coffee, or whatever. I'm really glad we got to reconnect."
	Fortunately, I still had plenty of reserve courage to overcome my nagging anxiety, and we met at pub outside of downtown a couple weeks after our phone call. I confess, it was rather awkward. He mostly just talked about his former job, his plans for the future, and a lot about the food at the pub. Of course, I didn't drink. He did though, but not to excess (he said last thing he wanted was to become a "raging alkie" again). Clearly, he packed on a few pounds over the years, and told me that's what he gets for years of working at desk job. Still, just as I had remembered him, he was big, strong, and very handsome. I'm glad I let him take the lead after dinner, because I'm still virtually unable to initiate, well, much of anything. Never in a million years would I have dared do on my own what we did next.
	"I've got dinner." He said as our server passed us our bill and the debit terminal. "I still wanna hang out some more, if that's okay."
	"Okay. Yeah, I'm good with that."
	"I…I want to have a little…grown up fun. I know you're not, well, LGBTQ, plus, 'ABCDEFG', yudda yudda, whatever, but I think it might do you a lot of good to just let loose."
	"Oh. Okay, I uh…nothing to intense, though."
	"I'll only go as far as you're comfortable."
	And there it was. My first gay bathhouse experience. Also, my first experience with another male. Very few words were exchanged most of the night. We checked in and rented a room (it was more like a glorified fitting room, with a chair, a full length mirror, a shelf and hook for clothing, some gay magazines, and a TV for watching porn). My heart was thumping the entire time. Somehow though, I got undressed and followed him everywhere we went. And yes, I stared at him more than what you might consider polite. I think it was the way he went about, as though it were just a routine thing. We went to the showers and washed ourselves as though we were both in our own bathrooms at home, doing nothing more than cleaning up. We were lucky to show up on a slower night. The facility had a gay dance club on the upper floor, so I think most of the patrons were still busy getting drunk. He did advise me we should be somewhat quick and not enjoy all the amenities in the facility, because last call, from what he explained, is when everyone would filter downstairs. So, we spent a couple of minutes in the sauna before watching some TV in the lounge room. I think he was trying to get me as comfortable as possible with casual nudity, because he didn't initiate anything. No physical contact at all, at least, not at that moment. We just sat on the couch, naked, while he channel surfed for a bit. There was a hockey game on, which we watched for a few minutes, and then he turned the TV off, took me by the paw, and lead me to the room.
	Our room had a dimmer switch, and he turned down the lights enough to conceal the fact we were locked in an oversized, tacky orange coloured closet. I could hear some of the other patrons already funnelling into the area outside our room, and this made me really nervous. Without speaking, Brett faced me and place both paws on my shoulders. He rubbed all around me from my upper arms, to my chest, and my should blades, not massaging me, but caressing. His eyes focused mostly on his work, but every so often he looked at me to check for signs of discomfort. Part of me wanted to express some kind of approval, but I felt I would sound too much like a dork by saying, "Oh yeah, baby, that feels good," or some such nonsense. I just let him do his thing, and I do confess to very much enjoying his very gentle touch. Eventually, his paws migrated all the way down to mine, and he held them delicately. Again, eye contact was kept to a minimum, as he ran his black fingers over mine. The thought didn't even cross my mind that he was looking at my naked form and judging me negatively. Then again, I found myself too busy to consider such thoughts by focusing on his body. I could see he was slowly growing to full erection. It surprised me to see this big, hefty, alpha male fox, equipped with a tool only slightly bigger than mine. He definitely had bigger testes than me, but they didn't hang low like mine. Against such a large background, he looked fairly tiny.
	Slowly and methodically, he pulled me into an warm embrace. He didn't try to kiss me. Instead, he just held me, and I held back. For all I know, we stayed together as such for several minutes. I could feel his package pressed against mine. Amazingly, no anxiety came over me. I actually felt comfortable held by this big, powerful fox.
	I never did ask him if he was deliberately trying to create a situation where I had to relive my past, but in a positive way. I mean, he could have also just been admiring my body for his own arousal, because he did repeat that he found me attractive. Maybe it was both. Either way, he broke the embrace, and lead me over to the mirror. He had me face it while his paws glided all the way up and down my body. Very lightly, he must have traced through every square inch of my body surface. Anytime he did look up to see my expression, it was through the mirror. After feeling me all over for a few minutes, he stood up, positioned himself right behind me, and squeezed my ass. At this point, I finally moaned, and closed my eyes for a few seconds. When I reopened, I could see his chin rested on my left shoulder. Smiling, he looked me in the eye, but still by our reflections. His paws came up under my arms, and onto my chest. I could feel his paw pads pressed flat against my pecs, and he held me tight. Feeling more comfortable, I responded by placing my paws over his. Tilting my head towards his, I actually felt the urge to kiss him. The angle, though, didn't allow for our lips to get close. Besides, he seemed content to just watch my reaction. He had a slight grin the entire time.
	Next, his paws migrated down to my privates. My breathing became much heavier. Mind you, I wasn't afraid of him. I just felt an intensity in my groin well up before he even grasped my male parts. Yes, there was some anxiety and nervousness, unsurprisingly. Plus, based on the only two intimate encounters I've ever had up to that point, I felt the need to inform him about my ability to perform.
	"Um, don't take it personally if I don't get fully hard. I'm probably not going to cum either."
	"It's okay." He whispered quietly into my ear.
	His paws went right where I had hoped they would - my balls. I bit the bottom of my lip, because his unmistakably experienced paws got my gonads in just the right way, with the right amount of pressure applied. Before the sensation wore off, he released my nuts and caressed all around the area, my groin, my sheath, my hips, my upper thighs, and in between my legs up to my taint. He expertly teased all the sensitive, erogenous flesh down there. I also really enjoyed it when he stuck his right index finger into my sheath. When did this, he successfully coaxed my short length out. Sadly, as I feared, I could not stand at full mast; however, that didn't stop him from teasing my tip, grasping my shaft, jerking me off a little, and probing the folds of furry skin behind my under-inflated knot. I could also feel his own cock, completely engorged and rock solid, pressed into my left buttocks. His right paw depart my privates for a moment so he could move my tail off to the side. Shimmying over a bit, he positioned his dick along my ass crack. He didn't try to penetrate me at all; he just humped his knotty fox-dick in between my cheeks. In between soft humps, he reached back around and took each one of my balls in his each of his paws. This is precisely why I thought this session was in fact designed exclusively for me, because he played with my orbs the same way I had done all those years ago. Unlike last time, though, this felt so good. My eyes shut tight and I moaned loud. My God, I thought how my life would have turned out so differently if I had this moment all those years ago!
	We carried on for close to an hour. It was starting to get noisy with the other furs out there having their own sex sessions. Brett turned on the TV, put on some porn, and turned the volume up just enough to match the ambient noise, but not so loud as to drown anything out. When he got back behind me, he grabbed me by the hips and humped his prick along my crack again, but more vigourously this time. I think he lasted a minute before pulling back, pointing his prick to the ground, and splashing his spunk between my feet, even getting a few squirts on the mirror, and grunting like a boar. He was shaking so much that it looked like he was having a seizure where he stood. I must confess, I felt jealous of him for enjoying sex so much that it had such a powerful effect on him. Me, I struggle to climax, even when I'm masturbating to porn. This time was no different, because he tried jerking me off for several minutes in one paw, while the other fondled my balls. Make no mistake, I really enjoyed the sensations, but I wasn't going to cum this way, irrespective of his loving attention.
	"You are enjoying yourself, yeah?"
	"Uh huh." I responded.
	"Good. I'm really having a good time, too, in case it wasn't obvious. I am getting tired though. So here…" He then lead me over to the chair and sat me down. "I'll just let you finish yourself off, since I think you know how to work it to that point sooner than I 	can. Just watch the smut, if you like, or fantasize about the most fap-worthy things you can think of. Don't mind me though if I watch and admire."
	I did as he commanded. It took me awhile, but I did coax my limp dick out of my pouch again. Brett had squatted down in front of me, and watched me as I masturbated. His gaze fixated on my junk, and I remember that almost dopey looking grin on his face. I started fapping furiously, trying to rub one out just for him. Occasionally, I would stop so I could grab my bag, push my nuts as far as they would go, and present them to him. It aroused me more by showing him my fragile, vulnerable masculinity. Also, I had hoped he would take the hint that I could have used a little help reaching my climax. He leaned in every time I did that and gave my beans either a kiss or wet licks. At one point, he even started sucking my balls. As much as I liked that, the sustained sensation only served as a distraction to reaching the finishing line, so he stopped to let me work. Towards the end, I had to hide away in my head space, fantasizing like I was fapping alone. Finally, my back arched and I oozed cum out of my semi-hard dick with nowhere near as impressive a load as what Brett had spilled earlier. This got him to really smile, and he leaned in to lick the semen off of my shaft and ballbag. Post-orgasm, the head of my cock is always hypersensitive. His licking had spurred moaning so loud from me that I was damn near screaming. I had to tell him stop, and he did so respectfully. 
	After I came down from my high, we both got dressed. He offered to let me stay at his place, and I accepted. We slept together, and it felt so euphoric, calming, and blissful. Since this time, we've had occasional get togethers, up to and including return visits to the bathhouse. Our encounters don't always get lewd. Often times, we just play video games in the nude at his place, or we'll play boardgames with his friends. Thanks to him, I have a social life now. I even had the courage to set up a profile on a dating app, and his friends helped me put together a bio devoid of the self-deprecation I'd likely have written. For the first time in a quarter century, I'm at ease with my body again and certain in my sexuality (somewhat bi, but definitely with a female preference). Also, he eventually found work, and luckily it was in the same city (he had to consider relocating if something didn't come soon). We're still good friends to this day.
	I know some of you might dismiss this as a contrived, fairytale ending, but I should remind you that none of it was remotely possible without finally letting go and forgiving myself. Brett required no forgiveness. None of my peers needed to be forgiven, or even my parents. Believe me when I say that it is so liberating to own, truly own, your all of your faults and all of your regrets, and to find a way to love yourself enough to accept them. I don't even blame my doctors for keeping my in a chemically induced, zombie like state for so many years. I'm sure some out there might take this article as advice for calling up a girl you never had the courage to ask out before, or calling up someone who bullied you just to get some closure, but you would miss the larger point I've tried to make here. I had to find my own path to healing and the strength in within myself. It was always there. My truest hope is that out of this, others can find encouragement and inspiration to walk their own path. My best wishes to you all.

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