Conflict of Interest

I've had some success with those "dating" apps, but I always feel a bit fucked up trying to use them. I mean, look, I get that for a lot of guys, dick pics are basically a pawshake and blowjobs are first base. It's not like I haven't had my fair share of slutty moments. But I want a serious relationship, eventually at least, and I just have a hard time thinking that the guys who spend all their time trying to get laid (half of them with shit like "no rodents, no femmes" in their profiles) are going to make good boyfriend material.

Not that this wolf is demonstrably better. The only thing I know about him is that he must be tied to the Falstaff Program – probably an intern, or maybe a former awardee, though he doesn't really look like the bookish type.

"S-sorry. Never been with a predator..."

He huffs down at me, wearing an easy smile on his parted muzzle. I like that I can see it in his eyes. It feels authentic. "S'alright. I've never been with a mouse before." He hesitates a bit, gaze drifting down my body until he's looking at the ungodly amount of dick throbbing in anticipation. His tail flicks behind him a few times, as he apparently enjoys the view.

"I think I'm good if you... y'know."

His eyes travel back up and there's that smile again. It's so warm I feel myself growing a bit hot in the cheeks. You'd think blushing would be hard to do when you've got a guy's erection partially wedged inside you, but I manage.

"You sure. We can do something else... I don't wanna—"

I interrupt him by wrapping a few fingers around his muzzle. I couldn't actually hope to hold it closed, but he gets the hint.

"It's fine. I want this."

He nods, and I wrap my arms around his neck, drawing him into a soft kiss. He grabs my waist and pulls me closer and I feel him gasp into my muzzle from whatever sensations my body gives him.

I realize now that I've wanted him since last night.

We were at an upscale bar that catered mostly to corporate types around Midtown, so it was an appropriate setting for the meet and greet for this year's Falstaff Scholar awardees. We were about to spend the next four days together in a series of lectures and other events, and it seemed like a good way to break some of the ice on the eve of the first day's events.

There were only nine awardees, and all of us were predictably-boring people. Getting an award like this took years of dedicated effort. There hasn't been a lot of time for pursuing things we're really passionate about. I didn't hold it against anyone, but it did make for dull conversation.

About two drinks in, I noticed this wolf checking me out. I wasn't usually into big predator types. Most of the gay one's I'd met were cocky to the point of arrogance, and that was a real turn off to me. But this guy is stunning. With a coat of blended gray and brown fur, a height of seven feet, and perfectly-styled headfur, he possessed the kind of authentic handsomeness that Hollywood types spend thousands to imitate. If that weren't enough to make him stand out, the way he was dressed did – his sky blue button-up and khakis were a step down from the suits and other formal attire most of us were wearing. He even had the top three buttons of his shirt undone, allowing a generous amount of his chest ruff to show.

Since he was in the part of the bar reserved for our event, I knew he was part of our group, but he wasn't one of the awardees. Given that he couldn't have been more than a year or two older than me, the logical conclusion was that he was an intern or some other low ranking staff member. It wasn't that weird that he was checking me out. I'm not over-the-top flambouyant, but I've been told I give off pretty strong gay vibes, especially when I've had a few drinks. So, just to show that I didn't mind, I bought the guy a whiskey sour – my favorite drink.