I look out the window and I see a new world, much the same as it was before...but always different. Always changing. I still have no real idea what I am, though I have been here for just short of a century. My physical form, that of a tall, voluptuous plastic female Canis lupus morph with a luscious cascade of hair in ringlets halfway down my back, is beautiful by some standards, caricaturish or even cartoonish by others. My spirit...well, that's the riddle, isn't it?
I don't want for creature comforts: the male who created my physical body in a fit of...well, "lustful mad science" just about covers it...endowed me with more than just outward charms. He also made sure I had considerable wits about me. I have long since bought and sold the Fauna Club, where I worked during my formative years. Now I have a few comfortable places to hang my hat, including this office. I have developed a professional life that I quite enjoy, and that provides for my few real needs. Frankly, most of my fee schedule provides a gatekeeping function more than anything else; while I would never be so presumptuous as to say it "keeps the riffraff out" (wealth does not guarantee character), I can say that it makes my services aspirational, and sets certain expectations. Also, it keeps me in hats.
The intercom sounds. "Belinda," says my secretary, "a Paul Madrigal is here to see you." My only appointment of the day is a college student--a big cuddly Panthera tigris morph male, from his photos--whose friends probably put him up to this. I don't get many his age, and those few usually have arrangements made by well-meaning rich fathers. His background check revealed surprisingly little, except for good scores in accounting classes and a decidedly working-class origin. So either he saved up money from the world's best door-to-door sales job, or his buddies pooled their savings on some sort of silly bet.
"Thank you, Julie. Please send him in," I say pleasantly. She does, and a huge orange-and-black striped cat enters, looking self-conscious as so many do. Typically these days, PT males his age come in two flavors: gawky things with big clumsy paws unable to get out of their own way, and jocks.
I'll work with either, but I've always more enjoyed the ones who start out clumsy. Oh, Nikolai, this one reminds me a little of you, I think fondly. I stand, a bit formally, but relaxed, and let my natural smile expand a tiny bit. "It's nice to meet you, Paul," I say. As he crosses the room--timidly for such a big powerful cat--I offer my paw, which he takes in his with unnecessary gentleness. But he means it, and I am flattered as always. Hey, it's sweet. I'm a sucker for sweet.
"Um...likewise, Belinda--may I call you Belinda?" he asks. Poor dear. He's petrified he's going to do something stupid. I feel like I should just tell him to and get it over with, but somehow I don't think he'd find any humor--or comfort--in that idea.
Instead, I reassure him. "Of course," I say, patting his paw with my free one. "Please, have a seat." I pull away smoothly, and resume my nicely-upholstered dark-stained bamboo executive chair, behind the matching desk. I like this ensemble: traditional-looking furniture sets certain unspoken boundaries which I can open at my discretion--and bamboo is quite sustainable as a building material. Just because I'm constructed from expensive polymers doesn't mean I don't like nature.
Paul sits in the substantially cushioned chair in front of me. From his posture, he clearly expects the chair to swallow him up, and seems a bit happily surprised when it doesn't. He's only stocky, not grossly overweight, but he is a tiger, and tigers spend most of their time constrained by a world designed around smaller people. As it is, he's a good foot and a half taller than I am, and doesn't lose a lot of that height when seated. "So," I continue. "Tell me about yourself."
He's staring. He swallows hard. It's cute, really. I smile inwardly. "It's okay," I say. "I like to get to know people." It's true--even more so when they don't know themselves, as is clearly the case here.
Paul clears his throat--nerves, not sinus trouble. "Well, I--" he starts, then stops. His voice still has a tiny bit of a squeak amid the growing rumble. "There's not really much to tell," he says, sounding a bit sheepish.
"Everyone has a story," I say. It's true. "You're still in the introduction, but I bet it has the makings of a happy one. Maybe I can help: what would you most like people to know about you?"
He swallows hard, looks away for a second. When he looks back to me, his bright green eyes dart to my ample bustline, covered demurely as it is in a tailored blue wool jacket and tan silk blouse. Well, he's still definitely male. They don't linger before meeting mine, though, even though he still looks totally lost. "I...I would like people to know," he says, stalling a bit, "that...that I'm a nice guy. I'm...nice to spend time with..."
Good. He not only is worried about my opinion of him, but cares about it himself. I figured by his scent that he wasn't bad to be around when he walked in the door. Besides confusion and shyness, the only other things he smells like are Johnson's Baby Shampoo and some sort of generic conditioner. I've had clients his age come in reeking of Tag or Axe, which I've learned heralds the coming of either some really excruciating sessions, or in some extreme cases, me booting the client immediately. After all, I can afford to turn people away now and again.
I nod, feeling my smile warm a little. I like this one already. "Of that, I have no doubt at all, Paul." He blushes even more than he had been already. "So what do you like to do?" I ask.
"Oh, you know, hang out, play video g...um...softball, weightlifting, and stuff." He says.
"Video games?" I ask. I don't let people hide guilty pleasures around me. After all, I AM a guilty pleasure!
"Um...well, not as much anymore..." he says, hesitating.
"Paul, there are no wrong answers with me, except dishonest ones," I say, gently but firmly. It might interest you to know that I play video games from time to time, though generally just the casual ones, not the high-end immersive stuff like Conquerors or SimUniverse."
"Oh," he says, a little surprised. "It's just usually girls don't think too much of guys who don't, you know, get out of the house..."
"It takes all kinds. If you love playing video games, then play. Maybe you'll find someone who likes them too, and doesn't mind you pulling an all-nighter every so often."
He smiles unconsciously, and the way those big green eyes widen just a bit, I can tell I've just introduced him to a new possibility. "As long as you pay some attention to her when she's not playing."
"Yeah," he says, perhaps a little dreamily. "I mean, that makes sense."
"So, you enjoy playing video games," I continue. "Any in particular?"
He nods. "Mostly network puzzle games. I mean, I do pretty well in Team Conquerors--mostly map-based and not first-person--but...I like puzzles." Oh, boy, I think. He's barely drinking age and he not only loves to solve puzzles, but he plays games where you have to take the long view and not just shoot your way out. Does he even know how much of a catch that makes him?
"I see," I answer, pleasantly noncommittal. I don't want Paul to think I'm testing him--I mean, I'm not, entirely. Still, I do reward him by scooting my chair around a little bit, and...okay, maybe dipping just a tiny bit forward as I reach into a drawer in my desk to pull something out. My blouse is buttoned and tied at the top, so I'm not showing anything off, but...I've noticed that with some guys it's the suggestion that matters. "Seen one of these before?" I put it on the desk.
"Rubik's Cube," he says. "Classic." True enough. They've been around longer than I have.
"How do you solve it?" I ask.
"Well, it's already solved," he says without thinking. Yes, our boy does have a keen grasp of the obvious.
"True enough," I answer, "but when it is scrambled, can you unscramble it?"
"Well, sure," he says, a tiny bit of pride in his voice. "There's a bit of group theory involved, but really, you don't have to know the math--just make sure that you know which edge colors you have facing where, and eventually it just falls into place."
"So you don't just peel off the stickers?" I ask, teasing.
