BLAKE PLANTY

Wet Fur

I knew the knot in my throat was going to twist any moment—unravel itself like a spindly disaster just waiting to happen. I gagged, felt my mouth squeeze around empty air, and knew how bad it was going to be. The emptiness fell through—nothing came up until I began to heave. The weight in my stomach unfurled without ceremony. I shrunk down to my knees, on to the soggy tile, dazed and confused. Who was that staring at me from the end of the water fountain? I closed my eyes, saw stars flicker behind my eyelids, and felt myself ease off the ground. I was floating. I readied myself to puke, to spew vomit everywhere, to taste the sticky sourness on my tongue. Soon, I reassure myself, it will come.

***

I noticed the first hairs the moment I sat down in the woods. Tiny follicles had sprouted where there weren't any before. I caressed them gently, feeling the thick fibrous hairs bend and curl under my fingertips. They clustered together in messy patches, in dirty pairs that itched fiercely. I groaned, nursing a whimper in my throat trying to resist scratching the patch. It grew in thick tufts of fur, almost scale-like under the hairs, thick and rugged. As I combed through it, I felt the itch seize, disappear into nothing as I scratched it alongside the bark.

The tree stench was strong. I hurried to the back of the stump to kneel, heave, and vomit all up again. No hesitation—I watched in awe as my body totally voided itself. This puberty was having far worse of an effect on me than I thought it would. I relished in my own dumb filth, standing atop a puddle of my own digestive upchuck believing it'd become sentient. A deep breath. The air in my lungs crushed the angry muscles in my stomach. I exhaled, suddenly feeling all the speed and fire in my guts again. I vomited.

***

"How long have you felt this way?"

"Not long. I had my suspicions as a kid. But not anymore. I don't really bother with those questions anymore."

He laughed quietly. He pulled at his earlobe and muttered something to himself. It was a joke, probably, but I didn't hear it. I could only taste the acid still fresh on my tongue, wet and stuck on my gums.

"May I see?"

I take off my jacket. The rash had spread itself all the way from my elbow to my forearm, crawling all the way like a mold. I pictured it as a fungus, all silently connected together, one organ fused together. Living and breathing on the same surface without consequences.

"If I pull the hair out, it just regrows."

He ran his thumb across his chin, deep in thought. Surely something I said must've interested him—or at least make him give a damn. But I continued standing in silence with my sleeves rolled up, bare arm exposed with this hideous growth. It was unnatural—yet it didn't seem to faze him in the slightest. I might have well been showing him a bad sunburn.

"We can give you medicine for that," he said. "I'm not sure how effective it will be. But it's worth a shot, no?"

I shrugged. It never crossed my mind that something like this would require medicine. The doctor seems like a good man, although I'm wary just out of habit. Side-effects can be worse than the disease itself.

I've never thought of it as a disease.

The needle breaks my skin like a mean kiss. I shudder at the contact, the sensation of a sharp object piercing my insides. When the syringe is pushed down, I locked my eyes on the clear fluid dripping down, passing through the measurement lines. It's mesmerizing—my body disappears into nothing as I observe and watch fixated on the fact that this substance is entering inside of me, all wet.

A tiny bead of blood emerged. The doctor pat it down with a cotton swab, puts a Band-Aid over it, and tells me I can be on my way.

***

The next few days I tossed and turned in bed. The fur on my arm began falling out, first in small handfuls and eventually in clumps. I saw in no time that my entire arm was bare naked, that it was as smooth as a baby's ass. One morning, as I comb the hair atop my head, I realize that it's been an entire week without the furry growth. Something clenched in my throat then, and I felt the familiar prickling of tears at the back of my face.

I wanted to cry, mourn the loss of this mysterious wolf's paw. I didn't think it would completely disappear in loose clumps in my sleep. Whatever the doctor had injected me with, it clearly worked to my own dismay.

I sat on the toilet and buried my face into my palm, digging my elbow deep into my knee. Eventually, the tears came, burning and smelling like peroxide.

***

The beach sighed and licked my toes. I wiggled them in the wet sand, like tiny worms. I stepped on seaweed and shells, moonstones, and flat smooth pebbles. I picked one up, held it up to the sun, and watched how the light flashed across its surface. It transformed the entire thing into a rainbow, soft and delicate this early in the morning. I didn't live too far away. Up in the dunes, the sand is cold and bites at my ankles. The crabs and insects came out, birthing a tiny world visitors would typically never see.

I wasted no time. That night, I geared myself with a flashlight, pocket knife, and locked the door behind my rental room. The hot pink hotel sign burned up in the stars, like a blazing eyeball watching the world, my every move. Walking alone across the asphalt, I hurried down the strip of land, the bike path leading to the shore. This is where I would find the dunes, dirty my feet, and hopefully reverse the effects of that drug.

I couldn't stand it any longer. I needed to change back. This nakedness wasn't natural—it made the knots in my belly tighter, sharper. If I wanted them to stop, I knew something would need to change. A beautiful full moon met me, her whole figure full and alive with butterflies ripe in my stomach. I stumbled on to my knees, ate a mouthful of sand, and counted the digits on my fingers. Ten phalanges. My paw is itchy. I undo the bandages, and to my awe, I see the skin tender with a plump reddish hue. I waste no time tapping it, pressing the edge of my nail into the soft flesh, watching the mark form like a delicate engraving. If I were a hospital patient—I wonder who would have noticed me, taken me into their care. Opened up their heart to my condition, my weird bone and body twisting into this animal shape.

Scratching the arm helps. Soon enough I see the skin tear away and the fur emerge, thick healthy clumps of it. Like scratching out a lottery ticket. The prize is winning this body, this mound of muscle and sinew I get to call my very own. A deep growling sensation builds up in my voice. So many people who deny my body. It needs to breathe, expand and exhale like anyone else. It's fire to coal, ignition to air. The pressure tightens in my chest, and I know the howl, the heartache, the vicious cry that tears open through my throat. It's brutal and hungry, lost and lonely, disappointed in my poor two legs that stumble to carry this mis-managed body.

My fur is wet with the lapping of the tides, the long sloppy licks that coat and penetrate the thick of my arm. My fingers remain, human-shaped, but wild like a wolf's, twisting as I bite down on my molars. I'm animal-human, thick with soft fat and a hungry need for meat and bone. My face hurts. It is not unlike my usual state of wanting something better for myself, people with outside-bodies like mine. Reaching down for a seashell, I see a crab flinch and extend a claw out to me. Friend.

Another life is here. It's flourishing. Maybe I can flourish, too. The sand is icy at the balls of my feet, and I know there isn't much time left. The moon will let go of the tides. And I will bandage up the arm again, this wolf's paw, lick my wounds, and wash myself in hot water to dis-imagine the world that came to be tonight. Acid and soap weak on my tongue. I'll welcome it, sad and hungry and perpetually wanting for another human-body to share this sand-filled were-wolf blessing. My cunt itches. The moon is whole like wet sloppy cheese.

Blake Planty is a trans-masculine writer who loves crawling the web at the witching hour. He has work published in Nat Brut, Waxwing Magazine, The Fanzine, Heavy Feather Review, Foglifter Journal, Tenderness Lit, and more. Find him talking about cyborgs and coffee at @_dispossessed on Twitter and online at catboy.club.