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© 2003 by Nikki Isaak

Definition:  "santorum" = "That frothy mixture of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex." Named after Senator Rick Santorum. (This phrase was created by a reader of Dan Savage's nationally-syndicated column, "Savage Love," 6/12/03)

"Want to fuck?" Gary asked his fractious boyfriend. Gary wasn't in the mood, but sex usually loosened Mark up. That way, there would be less yelling before Mark conceded what was bothering him.

"Sure." That's what Mark said when he wasn't in the mood, either. Gary let it pass. More than once, they'd initially been like this, but as one or both of them came closer to coming...

Gary got the lube and a condom out of his nightstand drawer. Mark was ready, a pillow underneath to help elevate his ass. Gary stroked himself while lubing Mark's ass, and, seconds later, his own hard dick.

Gary went through the motions, desperately plunging himself into Mark's bowels, while he gave Mark a reach around.

Mark came first, of course, quiet as a goddamn mouse. Moments later, Gary lost it, too, shuddering volubly as he jismed.

Mark tossed the pillow on the floor and rolled over.

Gary, peeved at his abrupt dismissal, went into the bathroom and flicked on the light. As he slid the condom off to piss, he noticed that it was covered with amber froth ­ also called santorum, a mixture of lube and fecal matter.

Normally, santorum didn't bother him. After all, it was an occasional, logical by-product of butt-fucking. Still, he'd been infected with Mark's bad mood.

"Santorum alert!" he yelled into the bedroom, above the sound of his piss hitting water.

Mark didn't respond.

"Did you hear me?" Gary yelled again.

"Yes, I heard you!"


"Well, what?"

"Make sure you're not leaking." Gary was angry now.

"Who cares? That's why we bought gray sheets, right?"

"Yes, but..."

"Then let me sleep!"

"You're the one who's been pissy all night­"

Mark, fast for a large man, was in the bathroom. His face was florid.

"Did it ever occur to you that I'm not ready to talk about my bad day?" Spittle accompanied Mark's every word.

Gary, aware that Mark would never strike him ­ or at least he hadn't in the three years they'd lived together ­ backed away nonetheless. Even if Mark did try anything, Gary knew he could easily escape. That was one of the benefits of being a shape-shifter.

"I wanted to lighten your load. After all, I am your lover." A cold tone had crept into Gary's voice.

"Yes, you are. If you'll let me sleep on it, everything will be fine." Mark, suddenly conciliatory, tried to hug Gary. Gary pulled away.

"Fair enough."

"Must you always do this?" Frustrated, Mark returned to the bedroom, pausing by the bed.

"Do what?"

"Draw out the fight! I get mad, blow up, and a few minutes later, I'm reasonable again. You, on the other hand, simmer for days­"

Hearing that, Gary "turned". It was an unconscious response. Ever since he was a child, he'd used his "talent" (as his parents called it) to escape private conflicts when his anger became dangerous. His dark eyes became olivine, as he dropped to the floor, his slender flesh melting into that of a normal-sized, furry calico.

"Fine. Be a pussy about it, then!" Mark flounced onto the bed, and rolled over.

Senses bursting with new stimuli, Gary darted towards the kitchen, where the cat door ­ and the world beyond it ­ awaited.


The night was warm and alive. Two houses down, a raccoon knocked over a plastic garbage can filled with empty cat food tins (Gary would check them out later). Crickets made their music as moths sought light. Mosquitoes jiggled about the suburban air, fat with cooling blood.

Mentally, being a cat wasn't much different than being a man. Gary's physical responses were quicker, but not so much so that he lost his humanity in the glorious wash of sights, sounds and smells that men never experience, swaddled as they are.

A mouse, darting around the outside of the house, attracted Gary's attention. He swiftly caught it, tasting and toying with its innards while he quietly raged against Mark.

His mouse-torture was interrupted by a low feline growl coming from behind him.

Great. Just what I need.

Gary turned and faced his challenger, a black cat with white-tipped paws and ears, standing in the middle of the moonlit road.

He briefly considered running. Then his ire, raised by Mark, kicked in again. Another point to consider: what if this cat was a shape-shifter, like himself?

Better end it now.

Silently, tail twitching, Gary moved towards the other cat.

*                  *                  *

An hour later, Gary came home. Blood smeared his skin, most of it the other cat's (who, it turned out, wasn't a shape-shifter).

Scrapping with the other cat had calmed him. As the shower's hot spray battered his aching, transformed body, the shower curtain was pulled halfway open by Mark, who stood there, looking apologetic.

"You okay? Those bites and scratches look bad."

"Appearances can be deceiving," Gary said, reaching for his lover's semi-erect dick, all the apology he needed.

© 2003 Nikki Isaak. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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