Cake Under the Mistletoe

On the internet, nobody knows you're a dog. Old joke. It wasn't that funny fifteen years ago. But, on the internet, nobody knows you're a werewolf, either. New joke. And it still isn't that funny.

Legend has it that children born on Christmas Day become werewolves. That's just silliness, of course, given the millions born on that day, and the relative scarcity of lycanthropes in the population. But at the stroke of midnight between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, at the magic hour when animals are supposed to talk? That's a different tale altogether.

My mother was no superstitious peasant woman that Christmas Eve in 1967. The indigestion from her mother's eggnog turned out to be labor. I understand she spent much of it cursing my father for being frisky in March and making her miss the midnight service and the Children's Pageant.

Childhood was easy enough. There was no sign of anything abnormal. Then, puberty hit me like a freight train of hormones and hair. One day, cracking voice. The next, a full-fledged loup-garou in the dining room. Thoroughly modern suburbanites do not take well to a werewolf in the family. My father, ever the shrink, blamed my mother for too-early toilet training. Mother just sniffed and said I had to have gotten it from his side of the family.

We adjusted. The eighties were a time of odd enough music that if I decided to put Warren Zevon on repeat a time or two, nobody noticed. Dad called it my hebephrenia and consulted experts about hysterical hair growth. And I just got used to locking myself in the basement three nights a month.

I made it through school, and college. I couldn't take night classes or live in the dorm. I had a social life, and a place off-campus with a sturdy basement. College expanded my mind, enhanced my self-perception and got me my first blow job. Most gay kids figure it out early, but my condition made me decide to wait on sex.

Who knew what effects it could have? I had read enough horror stories to have a healthy fear of changing in mid-sex, and waking up to newspaper headlines of mangled college boys. My fears were all out of proportion.

No change, no mangling, but no telephone call the next day either. It was so nice to have something normal happen for a change.

After graduation, I got myself a little house, a nice job as a draftsman and settled into domesticity. My lycanthropy left me with a keen interest in folklore and the occult, and as the nineties drew to a close, I found myself running several mailing lists.

CreatureoftheNight was the most heavily trafficked. We weren't a role-playing game, but several people, myself included, had online personae. If I didn't post during the full moon, well, it was taken as a quirk akin to VanHel's referring to stake sharpening or Erzabet's virgin fetish. I'd come to grips with my disorder, and knew it was just something I would live with the rest of my life.

I wasn't uncomfortable. The house had a finished basement, and I'd reinforced the door and added several locks. I had a big dog bed, a water bowl and knew how to keep the beast quietest.

CreatureoftheNight decided to have a real holiday party to celebrate our fifth anniversary. As listdad, I offered to host the party at my place. It was scheduled for the week before the full moon, which should be just fine.

I finished checking my e-mail, doing list mod sort of things, and checked the October evening. It was still early, so I got my shoes on to go out for dinner at the local all-you-can-stomach steak house. The computer announced "A missive, o my lord and master."

It was from Furball, one of the other "weres" on the list. He wanted to come for the party but needed a place to stay. He knew he was imposing when he asked.

I fired back a note saying that of course he could crash at my place, if he felt safe with an old alpha wolf like me. I liked Furball. He was younger than I was, very smart and funny, and a complete sweetheart on-line. One of the list members had tried to bait him into a flamewar once, and he had steadfastly refused, his sweetly-worded, gentle tone never wavering. I'd banned the idiot as a disruption.

When I waddled home from the buffet, fuller than was comfortable, I was greeted by another message from Furball informing me of his arrival time and asking for a chat session tomorrow. I was out of time, so I filled my water bowl and headed to the basement.

When my belly is full, the wolf does not need to hunt. I slept the night away on the big soft bed, waking now and then to drink water and go back to sleep. At sunrise, I climbed the stairs, grabbed a bagel on the way to the shower and then made a proper breakfast after I was dressed. My food bill is ridiculous for a bachelor during that week.

I never remember my dreams when I'm changed. This morning, I seemed to recall dreaming of hunting, but not alone. A smaller male wolf hunted with me. I wrote it to wishful thinking and checked my e-mail. Then I puttered. I chatted with Furball. He was as sweet in chat as on the list. I called mom and let her know I was fine again this month.

I had far too much Chinese for dinner, and locked myself in. The dreams were clearer this time, not just hunting, but of playing as well. At one point, I closed my jaws on the smaller wolf's ruff. He rolled over and showed me belly. When he rolled back over, I mounted him to show dominance, but he didn't yelp like a beta male, but rather whimpered like a female. I nipped at him as if my intention was mating and not domination.

I woke in my right mind. Another chat with Furball, more weekend puttering, and then a final night in the basement.