Reflection in the mirror of the main restroom: fuzzy black kitty ear headband in front of my usual bleached blonde pigtails, a black sleeveless blouse which I refer to as my Buffy top because it vaguely resembles something Sarah Michelle Gellar wore in a few episodes, black half-slip with a tail attached, Fluevog boots, black-and-purple stripeys, collar with tags bearing my name and breed (Ezri, felinus orpheus), fingerless black gloves, pale foundation and dark eye makeup, eyeshadow and eyeliner extending toward my temples. Not very unusual for me, not even the ears and tail, which I'd worn the night before when I hosted a Trans March benefit. The only really different thing about how I looked was the kneepads under my stripeys, giving me a somewhat Torgo-esque distended-knee look. But nobody was going to notice, and it was necessary, as I'd learned during the Dog and Pony Show at the Citadel the previous month that crawling around for a few hours is rough on the knees. It should be self-evident, but some of us learn by doing.

The 2007 Masturbate-a-Thon was held at Kink.com's Porn Palace near Fifth and Mission. Among its various themed rooms is a rather nicely textured Barn, and Masturbate-a-Thon co-organizer Robert Lawrence decided to fill it with animals. When he asked my girlfriend Vash (Poppers the Pony) and myself (Ezri J. Cat, please to be at my service?) to join the menagerie, we were honored.

Author Sherilyn Connelly

Poppers wasn't there yet when I arrived, and my friend and fellow cat Sadie Lune was just leaving, so I was on my own. I walked to the door of the barn, dropped to all fours, and went into cat headspace.

Tried to, anyway. I was on the ground for less than a minute before a vague acquaintance came up to me and said: "Hi! It's been a while! How are you?" Out of reflex, I responded in human: "Fine, thanks." I cringed as I said it. Cats don't speak human, at least not to humans. I did what I should have done before -- I made the conscious decision right then and there to go CAT; not human, subverbal. There would surely be more people who wouldn't get it, who would try to relate to me as an ape descendant, but it wouldn't work.

I explored, sniffed around, wondered where Poppers was, already feeling glad that I was wearing the kneepads, as the Porn Palace's floors were even less forgiving than Citadel, which at least has occasional carpeting. The gloves had been a good call as well, since before the end of the Masturbate-a-Thon I would develop callouses on my palms from walking on them so much. (I should hope nobody developed callouses from wanking, given the generous amount of lube provided.) In the corner of the barn was one of the Masturbate-a-Thon's webcams, providing live streaming video of girls pleasing themselves. Demonstrating a much better grasp of getting it, one of the girls called me over: "C'mere, kitty!" I went over, on a human level very conscious of what was going on, and on the cat level, not so sure at all, such a strange environment, these humans rolling about, touching themselves and even sticking their hands inside themselves but not touching each other.

A pen! And an empty water bottle! I made it onto camera, but not as far as the girls, because the pen and the bottle kept distracting me. Every time I tried to move past one, there it was demanding I bat at it. Mocking me, I tell you! When the bottle would get close to one of the girls, she'd knock it back over to me, laughing. "I'm playing with a pussy!" Ah, biped humor.

I moved past the barn stalls and up the slight ramp towards the main room, the castle-like dungeon area with many video cameras and mattresses and laid out, and older human men masturbating. Most of the women were in curtained-off area I decided to stay out of. Some people acknowledged me, some didn't. I meowed at a human I was very fond of, someone whom I'd booked at shows I'd organized in the past, and he acted like he didn't even hear me. Interacting with human cats was not what he'd signed up for, I guess.

None of them had, and this was a very different environment than the Dog and Pony Show, which had been an explicitly animal-themed event. It seemed unlikely that most of the people now had read enough of the Masturbate-a-Thon website to see the blurb about "Barn Yard Ribaldry." Specifically referenced were a bunny and a leatherclad wolf, neither of whom made it, so after Sadie left the I was the only animal, later joined by Poppers. The people who didn't want to deal with it tuned us out.

But we were invited by the organizers, so I didn't feel quite as out of place as I might have otherwise. Vash, Sadie and I were even listed on the website as contributing artists. In any event, I'm accustomed to feeling out of place to some degree, which is just part of being a 6' tranny, and Satan knows my everyday life as a tranny is good training for being a cat on special occasions. At least in cat mode, I wasn't towering over people, and nobody called me "he."

If men tended to ignore me, girls were more likely to talk to me and pet me. That was how I liked it as a human, too, though I was seldom so lucky. The scritches from pretty girls were the best, especially from Isobel, a friend who dances at the Lusty Lady and fellow "contributing artist." She knew her stuff. There was also an older hippie (complete with tie-dyed shirt!) whom I was uncertain about at first, but I warmed to him over the course of the evening. He seemed to genuinely like me, and he didn't smell of patchouli, so he was all right.

Vash arrived, claimed a barn stall as her own, and my equine Eurydice joined me on the ground, gripping her horseshoes in her hands. Poppers had new ears which she'd just acquired and painted that day, as well as a shiny new mane. Some people referred to her as a kitty, and continued to do so even when she neighed at them. Poppers didn't especially care, but I found it highly annoying. I would usually respond with: "Mrrowr!" It translated into human as: "Um, hello, is it not blindingly obvious that she's a pony? Which part of 'neigh' don't you understand?"

Nina Hartley.

We traversed the event from the Barn to the dance floor slash registration area, me trailing behind Poppers. I didn't look up and I had very little peripheral vision because of my human hair, so I saw very few faces, mostly just a forest of legs and knees to be navigated, some of which became very familiar as the evening progressed. (The hippie's green pants, for example.) Got a good look at a lot of prostrate men masturbating, though.

Making our way down the somewhat narrow hallway between the main dungeon and the dance floor, we passed a human who said: "Don't you know you're supposed to stay in the barn? These animals need a handler!" I growled and said: "Fffft! Mrrowr!" It translated into human as: "Frack off, biped!" In human (which I only spoke to Poppers, because animals understand each other), I said: "If he takes off his shoes, I'm going to piddle in them."

Not that I had anything against the idea of a handler per se; animal roleplay is inherently bottomy, and I kinda missed Zoe, who had been our human at the Dog and Pony Show. But Poppers and I were on our own now, and that was exciting, too.

On the dance floor, Carol Queen stood on a table and announced the evening's features, the performances later on in the main room, and the distance-squirting competition. She made a few shoutouts to attendees in the crowd, including: "We're also happy to welcome Poppers the Pony, and a kitty!" This was was how we were referred to by Robert and others most of the night. Nobody seemed to know that my name was Ezri, even though I said frequently said: "Mrrowr!" It translated into human as: "That jangling sound you hear is the tags on my collar, and if you look at them, you'll see that my name is Ezri." Never seemed to work, but no biggie. Poppers was and always had been the star attraction between us; I was just a gravedigger cat who met a princess pony.

Unlike my feline self, Poppers did not have kneepads, and for our journey back to the Barn (or at least in that general direction), she decided to go bipedal. It made life a lot easier for her, and human ponies are frequently upright, so it wasn't out of character. Besides, when you've evolved from apes, it's easier to do a pony-esque prance on two feet. Though my kneecaps were mostly fine, the elastic of the $7 volleyball kneepads I bought at Big 5 were not designed for crawling around on hard floors for hours on end, and they were cutting into the backs of my legs something fierce. Though I envied the loophole which allowed Poppers to be upright, I refused to stand up straight to walk. This was the role I was playing, who I was for the evening and I was going to do it right. Besides, pain just meant more endorphins. Whee!

We were referred to as furries now and then. Even if I'd been able to speak human, I wouldn't have argued the point. I can explain until I'm out of breath how I'm a transsexual and not a transvestite and how I identify as female, especially to anyone who doesn't get it or insists on referring to me as a boy, and lord knows I've spewed out many words on the subject in recent memory, but I simply do not have the energy to explain the difference between being a furry and an animal roleplayer. I so need a break from identity politics. Besides, it would send the wrong message.

Intentionally calling me a boy is probably the most personally offensive thing I can think of (gee, what could go wrong with specifying my big weakness?), but there's nothing wrong with being called a furry. There's nothing wrong with being a boy, it's fine for other people and they're welcome to it, but not being a boy is at the core of my very being. The question of whether or not I'm a furry, on the other hand, is just a notch above hairsplitting. I mean, I'm not technically a furry, but so long as people say she's a furry rather than he's a furry, it's all good. I don't mind being associated with them, in spite (or possibly because of) their undeserved laughingstock status in both the San Francisco hipster and greater online community. (I think I may have been the only critic of Second Life who didn't obsess on furries.) I'm a big hypocrite in a lot of ways, but not enough to be unsympathetic to the marginalization of others.

The featured performances of the evening took place in the dungeon. Lady Monster did a strip tease, Fudgie Frottage and Trauma Flintstone both performed a number, but for me the real highlight of the show was a pair of young opera singers from parts unknown. They performed on and around the stairs in the dungeon, which was the most perfect place imaginable, because it looks like an opera set. I'm not sure how old the boy was, but Robert had told me before that the girl was eighteen and thrilled to be away from home and her parents. I suspect that dressing supersluttyhot in a black corset, pink miniskirt, fishnets and fetish boots (...) and performing arias in a place called the Porn Palace (!) for a group of largely nude and/or wanking sex pre-verts (!!) at event called the Masturbate-a-Thon (!!!) was just about as far away from her parents' expectations for her life as she could possibly get. Watching it all in cat mode with my pony girlfriend is probably not something my parents ever anticipated for me, either, though I doubt my Mom's entirely surprised.

Throughout all of this, beginning around two that afternoon, a buff and well-bronzed gentleman was in the middle of the dungeon. He was wearing little except a chain or two and a non-operative vibrator in his ass (whether the batteries had run out or it was simply not turned on, I couldn't tell), and was constantly stroking, only pausing to squirt on more lube. Carol told the audience that he was going for the new world record for sustained masturbation -- nine hours and change, I believe. A few times during the opera performances he moaned in a way that he hadn't during the other features, and I thought he might pop his cork early, inasmuch as coming after seven hours can qualify as premature ejaculation. The power of Callas compels you!

Then again, he managed to not orgasm when special guest co-host Nina Hartley assisted him earlier in the day, so the man's self-control was unquestionable. She was more successful in helping Sadie get off at the 2006 Masturbate-a-Thon, with just her voice and some nipple action. Now, one of the big rules was not to touch anyone else (thus keeping it masturbation, y'see), but, as Carol pointed out, being Nina Hartley gives her a lot of leeway.

Nina's easily my favorite "past her marketable prime in this youth-fetishistic culture yet still very hot genetic blonde girl porn star" this side of Sharon Kane; I love their eyes, and if you look at Nina and Sharon (pre-plastic surgery) and then Vash, a pattern emerges. I was hoping to get some scritches from Nina, but no such luck. It didn't help that I was more than a little starstruck and was afraid to approach her. Dumb shy kitty.

Carol Queen.

As the distance-squirting contest began, Poppers and I ventured back into the Barn, where an Urban Cowgirl wanted to groom us. She brushed Poppers, who stood still as ponies are wont to do when brushed. She then brushed me, and I squirmed and purred and nuzzled as cats are wont to do when brushed. It felt wonderful.

Someone started using one of their whips as a cat toy, moving it lightly around in circles, up and down, never hard or fast enough for it to pose any danger, and it was more for a show than anything resembling an actual functional whip. I ran, chased, jumped, did groundhog kitty, bring it closer!, and surprised myself by being able to run around in tight circles fairly fast. Meanwhile, someone else was trying to get Poppers to chase a feather toy. She said: "Neigh." When he kept trying to get her to chase it, she said: "Neigh!" It translated into human as: "Um, hello, is it not blindingly obvious that I'm a pony? Which part of 'neigh' don't you understand?" Some people need to be told things more than once.

Poppers asked me: "Would you like to go into the stall and go to town?" I did, so we did. The philosophical point of the Masturbate-a-Thon is the decriminalization of masturbation, and while everything was consensual and non-compulsory, self-love was highly encouraged. Poppers and I were ultimately there to provide atmosphere and variety, and nobody would give us any static or was even keeping track of whether or not we masturbated. But it certainly seemed a shame not to join in.

The stall was 3'9" wide, 7'10" deep and 6'6" high. Narrow and cramped but not uncomfortable, especially not for a pony and a cat who already very comfortable in each others' presence. We snuggled close together, and she gave me one of her horseshoes, which had a small metal bar going across the middle for use as a grip. Poppers fucked herself with the other one, each of us occasionally tasting it. Her ponypussy was quite yummy. I rubbed myself through my stripeys and then through my panties and eventually directly onto my kittydick with the cold metal. She eventually switched to a Homedics brainsucking vibrator, and I used a more direct method as well, my kittydick still poking up through the horseshoe in a way that J.G. Ballard would surely approve of and we both touched and masturbated each other, which was technically against the rules, but the stall door were closed and nobody was watching -- a photographer had followed us around for much of the evening and had taken what seemed like several gigabyes of digital pictures of us, but he was long gone now -- and it was what felt good. We'd forgotten to bring any lube into the stall, but ponyspit did the job nicely. After I came, I realized it was my first time reaching orgasm in a sex club-type setting; it's never happened at the Power Exchange (which I'm very fond of), nor the Citadel (I'm glad it exists), and most of my nights at Black Sheets ended in tears rather than jorm (that was another lifetime), but now here it was, a rather momentous occasion, in a barn stall during the Masturbate-a-Thon. So unexpected in the scheme of things, and yet so dead-on perfect and so hot.

About five minutes later, a woman poked her head over the stall door and said: "I just wanted to let you know, we're striking the set." Perfect timing, and perfect phrasing. The show was over.

Masturbate-A-Thon 2007 - by Sherilyn Connelly

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