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Rourke rolled his eyes. The new business would surely be popular with the stay-at-home workers looking for the occasional alternative to coffee, and he had already received a welcome coupon stuffed into his locker at the gym. They would be busy and profitable, of that he had no doubt, regardless of whether or not they required pants to be served.
“I’m going to assume skins, but you know I’m hoping otherwise.”
He was of the opinion that any person with genitalia on the outside of their body, regardless of their species, ought to do their neighbors the courtesy of covering their junk. He would sooner walk into traffic than traipse into the Food Gryphon with his balls out, swinging every time he bent over to retrieve something from a bottom shelf, his cock level with the checkout counter, giving the hapless cashier an eyeful, and Rourke thought his neighbors should assume the same courtesy.Especially now, when you’re being jerked off regularly.
The sound of the milking machine at the Morning Glory facility had begun to buzz at the back of his brain whenever it flipped on during his weekly visit. It had been a month since that very first official appointment. A month of weekly visits, having his cock stroked by a stranger every Wednesday afternoon. A month of having his balls reliably drained by another person, the time he spent thrusting against the bench into the sucking nozzle, the most regular sex he’d had since the divorce. It made him horny. It made him hard in the day leading up to the standing appointment on his calendar. It was training him to come on command, for the whirring buzz and hydraulic hum of the sucking apparatus made his balls ache, and he wondered if he would start to respond whenever he heard a commensurate noise.
Just think what would happen if you didn’t have on pants. You go out shopping naked, minding your own business at the grocery store, and all of a sudden, someone turns the blender on the pulse setting, and you come all over the cereal aisle because it sounds like the milking machine. Clean-up on aisle two; there’s a half gallon of minotaur semen flooding the way.
‘Clothing if your anatomy necessitated covering’ was the unspoken agreement that the residents of Cambric Creek had with each other and what had been in place for years. Lizardfolk and nagas and other species who carried their balls on the inside of their bodies didn’t need to worry about covering their lower halves, although many still did, just to be fashion-conscious. Recently though, there was a bit of unrest with the status quo. Every time a new business opened, the entire neighborhood seemed to hold its collective breath, waiting to see if they would have a sign in the window advisingno pants – no service.
“I can’t imagine they want to risk losing money on their big launch, but you know I wouldn’t be disappointed to see it. I was talking with Xenna from Black Sheep the other day, and she said she was working the drive-through line a week or two ago, and some troll came through to pick up his coffee order with a chub right there where she could see it. That’s just indecent. Folks like you, Cal, you don’t have a choice. It’s not like they’re making jeans for centaurs.”
Callum laughed, a rough scrape of a sound. Rourke had known the big centaur for years but had never done business with them directly until he’d branched out on his own. The agricultural community was small, and the whisper network was mighty. When he had heard Saddlethorne Farm was dealing with some faulty machinery that was putting their workers in jeopardy — their livestock manager already out hurt as a result — Rourke had stepped in to offer his assistance in looking over their warranties and dealing with their equipment distributor. He’d been at home with nothing to do at the time, running down the clock on his non-compete contract, and had merely acted on bored altruism.
Cal had returned the favor tenfold, bringing the tale back to the Farmers Alliance bearing his signature embellishments, Rourke had no doubt. By the time he had waited out his non-compete clause from the company he had been with for more than a decade, Rourke had a line of clients waiting for him, ensuring that he was able to get his new business off the ground successfully. He and Cal had been good friends since.
“Nagas and moths have no reason to cover up. But a troll? A goblin? A Wulvern? I don’t want to see that when I’m out eating or when I’m shopping. I don’t think any of these businesses should be discriminating against lizardfolk; there’s nothing to see. Everything is on the inside. But if I’m sitting at Muffy’s enjoying my breakfast, I don’t want to see someone’s unwashed hog at the next table. I don’t think it’s sanitary, and it’s definitely not polite. It’s a human world, and we’re all doing the best we can. But some of these folks are going out of their way to make it harder for everyone.”
Callum chuckled again, nodding his agreement. “You sure are right about that. I met with Enoch over at the winery this past weekend to discuss a trade in retail labor, stopped off in Starling Heights for dinner. I forgot how many humans are still living over there; it was almost as bad as being in Bridgeton. So, uh . . . have you been over to that new Morning Glory place that opened?”
Rourke nearly choked on his drink at the abrupt change of topic, glad they had the patio nearly to themselves. Gildersnood and Ives was a popular gastropub catering to the business set. Come happy hour, the place would be packed, but right now, he and Cal were some of the only patrons having lunch. He had no idea how the big centaur would have heard about a business specifically for minotaurs other than the vague awareness that a new business had, in fact, opened shop. Before he could get out of the question, Callum shrugged.
“One of my managers, Brogan. I think he stops in three or four times a week; he hasn’t taken a lunch break on our premises since they opened.”
Two tufted-tailed young women in school uniforms passing on the sidewalk turned in the direction of Rourke’s sudden laughter, unable to get a hold of himself until tears were streaming from his eyes.
“Four times aweek?! You need to let him know that’s not healthy. He’s going to wind up chafed! Moderation is an excellent concept. And no offense, but this isn’t something we talk about with outsiders. As a matter of fact, I can’t think of anything I’d rather talk about less.”
The centaur rolled his eyes, waving off Rourke’s words as if discussing the particularities of ejaculating for money was the most natural thing in the world to be discussing over a charred wedge salad.
“I believe Brogan said something about wanting to get a new truck without a car note. And I’ll take that as a yes; youdoknow the place and have already checked it out. So, is it as slick as I’ve heard?”
He was saved from answering as the server came around, seating a trio of harpies who all ordered the same magenta-colored cocktail, clinking their martini glasses as they giggled. Callum, to Rourke’s dismay, was undeterred, despite the newcomers to the patio.
“I’m hardly an outsider, you know. We’re hooved brethren, asshole. I’ll have you know the centaurs in town are keen observers at this point. If this place does well, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of our stud farms opens here in the next year or two. The closest one is more than an hour away. You watch how much centaur traffic Cambric Creeks sees all of a sudden if it does.”
Rourke winced, not wanting to contemplate the backup of centaurs on the road; their prodigious members dropped and ready for action at their own farm, leaving a slippery trail of pre-cum down the middle of Main Street. There would be a pile-up in front of the clock tower, mangled cars from the coffee shop to the gazebo, and the clean-up effort would be constant.They’ll have to pass a tax levy just to keep the road hosed down; our property taxes are going to be through the roof.
“I don’t want to hear about centaur stud farms,” Rourke said firmly. “Any more than I want to talk about the milking farm. I am positive that jerk-off clinics aren’t suitable for lunch conversation, Cal. But Iwassurprised when this place opened,” he admitted grudgingly. “There’s one in Starling Heights and one in Bridgeton already.”
“You know they’re owned by a human pharmaceutical company?”
Cal paused, raising a hand to a satyr couple passing before the gated terrace, greeting them in what Rourke immediately recognized as a customer-facing voice. Half an octave higher, absent the bite that occasionally accompanied the centaur’s words.Easy breezy, we’re all best friends. Can I interest you in an upgrade?Everyone ought to spend time working in sales or in the service industry, regardless of species. Compulsory service, a universalthis our polite public voicevoice, learned by all, would guarantee an easier time for servers and shop clerks alike, the whole unification over. He recognized the voice at the coffee shop, at the post office, hells, even at the milking farm, and found himself using it in turn. It signified situational awareness that a transaction was taking place, nothing more, rounded out the edges of all social interactions, and everyone, he thought, ought to possess such a voice.
Cal turned back a moment later, his voice dropping to a normal pitch. “This milking business is just a satellite of the parent company, that’s what I heard. But that’s how they got their business license and the okay to open up shop in town. Pretty sly. I heard Jack was spitting nails when he found out, but by then, it was too late.”
He hadn’t considered the implications of a human-run business in Cambric Creek until that moment, Rourke realized. The powers that be had made it their mission to make Cambric Creek a bastion of non-human-run businesses, from restaurants like the one they sat in now, to hair salons and appliance repair. The landscape of the town bore practically no resemblance to the Cambric Creek of just fifteen years earlier, he’d been told. Self-contained and largely human-free. He imagined that Jack Hemming would indeed be wroth to find out that humans had figured out a way into his precious downtown landscape with business ownership in Cambric Creek, but the milking farm specifically catered to a nonhuman population.
“He can’t be mad about that. It’s not like humans are patronizing the place. I’m not even sure if they have any human employees. If nothing else, it keeps us from having to go back to Bridgeton and keeps our dollars here. We’re not running into the store there; we’re not stopping for dinner there. It’s better to keep things close to home.”
“True enough. Speaking of which, are you going to that ribbon-cutting ceremony for that new park? I thought I saw your name on the sponsor list.”
“Yes, you did, but I don’t think we had to be there. I’m going to be traveling that weekend.”
The ribbon cutting was an excuse to throw a street fair, Cambric Creek’s favorite collective pastime. Little excuse was needed for vendors to pull out their tents and food trucks to line the street across from the municipal lot, kids’ games set up by the community center, the traffic eventually migrating into the pubs once fireworks lit the sky. He and his neighbor Lurielle would have attended such an event together, back when she was his fellow singleton, but now that he had no one to stroll up the block with as they ate foil-wrapped tacos and looked over homemade wares, he would rather not be around to hear the sounds of frivolity as a reminder.
Besides, you have work to do.A new fountain had been put into the minuscule greenspace behind a few businesses that they were now calling a park, and he’d paid for a sponsorship slot, his company appearing on the banner.Your work is done.
