Walking on the Wild Side: Reflections from a Weekend at a Furry Convention
Originally written 16th February 2025
Initially, this was going to be a multi-parter of a tale. Part 1 would have told the relatively dry recollections of what it was like to attend a furry convention as an outsider for the very first time, particularly in the light of recent horrendous press coverage of said community, and Part 2 would have been a recap on how I felt afterwards emotionally/intellectually (physically I feel shit because of the common ‘con crud’ but that was to be expected).

Looking at it though, Part 1 would have required me to give too much of my somewhat valuable mental faculties to arseholes who would grind an axe with God themselves for being too woke. I can’t be arsed dredging up whatever the gutter press said about furries, and whatever I would have written would already have been said better by people far more qualified than myself to do so.

So let’s just give a brief recap then - last weekend (February 7th - 10th 2025) I attended my very first furry convention with my lovely partner. As alluded to previously, I was never a furry walking into Scotiacon for the first time. My partner was somewhat adjacent to the community for some time but had finally decided to embrace it and indeed had made their first suit. It was a mildly anxious time.

Those worries soon vanished. The convention was an utter delight. Even though you’d expect a jam-packed gathering to have more than their fair share of twats, I don’t think we encountered a single one. The openness and friendliness of the furry community to a total outsider was something I hadn’t entirely expected (especially after said rotten press coverage). But from the very moment we arrived by taxi on the Friday morn to the moment we said goodbye on the Monday evening, all we felt was love.

From the fantastic fox who took the very first pic of my girl in her completed suit (with their very snazzy dot matrix camera), to the delightful dog we met in the queue to the opening ceremony who – despite being considerably older than us – was also attending their very first con and soon spent many a well-spent hour talking with us over the four days. From the expert dancing cat who wowed us with their moves in a dance battle and welcomed my partner to a females-only event to her former university colleague who proclaimed on seeing her that he had always known she’d be a furry. From the latex loving Mancunian who helped us see in the Sunday with massive hangovers and great conversations, to the Sonic superfan fellow raccoon, to the chain-mail wearing character celebrating a PhD acceptance, and even the convention’s guest of honour who chatted so long with us on the Monday. And that’s just a few of the ones I can immediately remember. It was a truly heartwarming few days, a fond memory to be looked back on many years from now.

Walking through the crowded con spaces though, senses awakened to new sights and sounds unlike much I'd ever seen before (and I've seen some shit in my almost 34 years on the planet), you can't help but take in the experience and relate it to everything you thought you knew before. Introspection takes hold no matter how you might wish to fight it. Indeed, come Sunday night whether due to my fragility from the previous night’s drinkscapades or something else, I felt pretty horrid for one reason or another. Thoughts turned into self-loathing and mild catastrophising.

For one, part of me worried whether or not I was hijacking the experience from my partner. Was she a little resentful of my jumping in with two feet so readily/easily to something that took her a long time to find the courage to embrace/enjoy? I wouldn't blame her if she did.

The vibes of the con were fantastic in the sense that as soon as we entered the space as two neurodiverse individuals, we immediately felt at ease. I somewhat jokingly remarked that it was probably the most neurospicy assembly of people I’d ever encountered. Plenty of people have said that wearing a fursuit helps them to unmask whilst keeping a level of separation that would otherwise have left them unable to do so. Despite her anxieties, my partner did a wonderful job at letting loose in a new space. But again, with me alongside as initially her chaperone and ‘social battering ram’, maybe I feel like I was overshadowing her in a way.

All that love we felt as well – it almost felt like I had earned and deserved none of it. I said previously that I was never a furry. I may have massaged the truth slightly there. Back in the 2010s I was indeed a brony like so many weird internet guys. So much so that I spent many, many nights writing a 40000-word long fan fiction piece about two of the characters. It was an enjoyable time. But after the end of season 2 and upon moving away from home for the first time, I slipped away from it. Not just because I was otherwise preoccupied with my relationship at the time, but because there was a healthy dose of cringe inside myself. I was a twenty-one year old man writing about the romantic machinations of pastel-coloured cartoon characters. Not that my partner at the time particularly cared, but it just felt like time to let it go.

That was 13 years ago, and there’d been many nights since then where I would lay depressed in bed longing for understanding and community. Maybe I could have looked back on those days and what was making me happy apart from my now-ex girlfriend. Maybe I would’ve been able to undertake some introspection that would have led me to the furry community again. Maybe then I might’ve found some of the answers that I sought sooner than I eventually did in late 2020 with my ADHD diagnosis. Hell, maybe I might’ve found belonging, companionship and love sooner than I did.

Is there a part of me that felt/feels undeserving of that affection shown by so many lovely people because I resent myself for not taking the plunge sooner?

Even darkened parts of my mind that have so mercilessly been snuffed out by sertraline’s cruel but necessary grasp on me were illuminated almost by accident. There are many chat groups at cons like these, and feeling like I wouldn’t have minded partaking in a little bit of weed I joined the NSFW version of one. I had skimmed over the part of the rules where talking about acquiring substances was strictly forbidden, but either way I remained. The NSFW unsurprisingly alluded to lots, and lots, and lots, of sexual matters.

My libido has been a little like Vesuvius since I started on anti-depressants in my mid 20s. Periods of intense activity followed by fuck all for a long period of time. Even in otherwise healthy relationships like my current one, the caldera goes quiet almost against my will. The magma cools and I’m left wondering why I can’t get my head in the game and do what comes naturally. I love sex and sexual activity, but the very meds that keep me around to potentially do it are the very meds that stop me from wanting to do it.

However, something about the convention – the freeness of dress sense, the hormones, the open conversations with all and sundry, whatever the fuck it was – awoke that sleeping volcano. Suddenly my mind was filled with wanting intimacy and lots of human contact again. Suddenly the exhibitionist side of me that in my younger years had had countless dirty video calls and posted raunchy pictures of myself to the internet was dancing around my head (no doubt waggling their imaginary cock around). People were openly posting stories, pictures and videos of their racy con connections in the group – were people then assuming that I’ll be fucking by being in that chat? Do I like it when people assume or know that I’m fucking?

The kinky side of myself that I’d left off the boil for a long time was heating up again. Perhaps the presence of plenty of fetish harnesses did it, but all of a sudden I’m thinking back on when I had explored BDSM in earlier relationships. The desire to cry havoc and let loose the doms of war, taking control of my partner and fulfilling my own primal urges, was back with a vengeance. No bad thing, right?

Well, it wouldn’t be, if I didn’t feel a huge amount of guilt. Because it isn’t just my partner I was having those thoughts about that weekend. A vast majority of them, yes. But on occasion? It might’ve been someone else. Not just outwardly female people either. All my life I’ve considered myself a straight cisgender man. I’m absolutely still cisgender (and I do still look damn good in a dress as I did a couple Halloweens ago), but for some reason straight just doesn’t fit right anymore. I had to look it up, and there’s other ways to categorise it. Neptunic, finsexual, gynesexual. All have their moments where they fit, but as someone who never thought they’d go through a period of examining their sexuality in their mid thirties, it’s a wee bit overwhelming.

Just as overwhelming as that is the weird thought that I might not be entirely monoamorous/monogamous. It’s fucking terrifying to be absolutely frank about it. Everything I have done up to this point feels like just another thing to get people to love me more. I want to be adored in so many ways – as a friend, lover, son, colleague, whatever. It’s why I felt stuck being an almost obsequious people pleaser for the longest time. It’s what I want for myself more than anything else in the world, and it’s why I’m so glad to have the sweetest partner I could have ever have imagined.

So why the fuck do I feel like I want or possibly deserve even more love from outside sources?! Yes, sexual love is up there, but every other kind imaginable. How in the hell can I be so greedy? Being with someone who is demisexual I don’t have to worry as much about them finding someone so unbearably hot that they’d dump me in a heartbeat for them. I’m insanely happy in this relationship, every moment I spend with them is one I treasure and I can’t bear to imagine a single hypothetical future without them. So why does that not feel entirely enough for me?!

There was a term I’d come across during these ruminations – ambiamorous. Comfortability with both monogamous and polyamorous relationships. It’s not a term I’d come across before, but looking back in the past it’s not a concept entirely alien to me. There were plenty of times in my single days when I would go on dates with multiple people before committing to one eventually, but on more than one occasion it almost felt like a loss to let one of them go. I would’ve happily been one of many if I still could’ve been part of their life. I wouldn’t have cared if there were other men, women or enbies so long as they were happy to have me as well.
It’s been almost a week now since Scotiacon. As mentioned, the con crud has fully taken ahold of the household. On top of that, the standard Post Con Depression that we were warned about is also rearing its head. How much of it is due to me getting stuck in my own head is debatable. But do I regret ending up in a state where I’m going over my own identity with a fine toothed comb? Fuck no. In a way it is refreshing to know that life doesn't stop you discovering new things about yourself just because of some arbitrary age barriers.

Most of that Post Con Depression I can absolutely attribute to the feeling of not wanting to put that magical weekend in the past. Such little time in the grand scheme of things, but so many wonderful conversations and instances of joy that I don’t want to let go of just yet. I’ll have to, of course, but just a little longer.
In any case, I know there’ll be more of them in the future. Because in the grand scheme of things and in everything I was worrying about, this realisation is pretty fucking benign. You might have even seen it coming when I was using the past tense.

But yeah, I’m probably a furry now. And I’m just damn fine with that.