Coyote? What the absolute fuck are you talking about

You may be wondering about the plentiful references to coyotes across this website and my profiles on various apps, FetLife, etc. What follows will probably not explain any of this, unless you’re of a particularly philosophical or anthropological bent and inclined to read strange ideas generously. Then, you might enjoy this. Otherwise, I would recommend navigating to any of the other pages; they’re more erotically charged and less about niche identities.

Ready? Lace up your boots, here we go. I’ll start with a section about what this means for you, followed by a section about what this means for me.

~~What Does This Mean for You (dear reader)?~~

Well, you’re probably on this site because you followed an invitation to “come play with the coyote.” In light of that, frankly, it doesn’t have to mean anything for you, other than a funny “hey one time I fooled around with this dominatrix who said she was literally a coyote” story to tell at the bar when you’ve had one too many. Nothing about what we do has to be any different. I’m a Goddess, after all; I can take whatever form I please. And if that’s the group you’d like to fall into, go ahead and click on that booking button and I’ll see you in my dungeon. If you see me in what you believe to be a human-like form, then so be it. However, if you want to fall down the rabbit hole (heh coyote hole heh), you can fall as far down that hole as you’d like. Speaking to me like a coyote is an obvious place to start, referring to me as a coyote, referring to my body parts as coyote parts (hands = paws, for example), that sort of thing. The next step down the rabbit hole involves dropping language entirely in favor of non-verbal communication, along with yips, howls, that sort of thing. Connected to this is the next step: primal play. Primal play is already connected to animal behavior, so this is a fairly straightforward step. Beyond that, well you’ll just have to find out for yourself how you relate to this coyote, won’t you?

And if you’re interested in what’s going on in my head, keep reading.

~~What Does This Mean for Me (Calliope)?~~

Put simply, I am literally a coyote. It’s how I prefer to be seen, referred to, related to. I have never been terribly happy with having a human body—especially the parts that feel especially primate: skin, body hair, human head shape—and this discomfort has fueled many of my explorations of my identity and how I would like to move through the world.

Some of this discomfort with humanness was specifically discomfort with male and masculine humanness. Transitioning helped alleviate this aspect of my discomfort, making my body into a place that was at least somewhat better to exist in. But that was far from sufficient. Having softer skin was amazing, and being heavily tattooed also helped, but the baleful fact of skin was still there, for example.

But then, I turned more directly to kink for salvation. Kink has always served as a playground for identity for me. A scene provides a space where power dynamics and alternative ways of relating to others and to oneself are made explicit and real. Once they are made real, they can be tweaked, subverted, played with to one’s heart’s desire. Far beyond sex, this is the real appeal of kink for me.

So when I got into pup play, I quickly realized it was resonating with something deep in me: it was creating a space where I could be related to as a non-human animal, where I could embody physical attributes of a non-human creature and thereby cast off my human attributes. I went from wanting it occasionally, to wanting it every time I would do a scene, to wanting it 24/7.

It was really when I hit this 24/7 point that I began earnestly interrogating what I liked about pet play/pup play. And was it really pet play if I wanted it all the time? It isn’t really play at that point, then, is it? I had a few relationships where my animalian identity was like an unspoken undercurrent that was always present when doing scenes, but not really fleshed out in any significant way. It was clear I liked being called a dog and bitch, both in and out of scene, sitting leashed on the floor, etc, but I hadn’t yet articulated the specifics—to myself or to others.

Then, I entered my first real relationship in which everything just clicked. Communication was open and healthy—the perfect environment for articulating exactly what it was that I wanted, both in a relationship and for myself.

From the outset, I made it clear that I was a dog, and that this was a part of my identity that didn’t end at the conclusion of a scene, but rather was a fundamental part of my identity. My partner was immediately supportive, and that provided the base from which I would continue exploring what that meant for me.

Partners who ask supportive questions and do what they can to make you feel affirmed in yourself are absolutely invaluable.

At this time, I started doing a lot of writing, articulating (mostly for myself, if I’m being honest) what it meant for me to say “I am a non-human animal.” I wrote something for my now-defunct-but-may-just-be-dormant Substack, in which I compared the questions raised by my animal-ness to those raised by my transness.

While of course the stakes involved with the two are radically different, both of these, in my experience, prompt an engagement with received categories and biological determinism, the extent to which the way you’re born dictates how you move through the world and how you’re seen. Saying “I am something” when people see you and think “oh that person is something else” is challenging, and it leads to an internal confrontation that makes a lot of people uncomfortable.

The self is mutable, incoherent, shifting, and a lot of people avoid that reality in order to soothe their own minds. Humanity is the bedrock on which so many base their idea of personhood, when humanity and personhood are distinct characteristics—non-human persons abound. I should know, I’m one of them. But to suggest pulling these things apart is anathema to many.

People also believe that there is a “real self,” objective facts about the body that inform the self. But in an inversion of the phrase “to be, rather than to seem,” the way one is perceived can inform what one is. By this I mean to say that it is entirely possible to be seen in a way that is congruent with one’s identity, even if the body is in rebellion. And that is what I’m doing here in asserting my non-humanness.

At the conclusion of writing this piece, I realized to myself that what I was describing was therianthropy. I had shied away from this label for a long time, and it was only at this point that I realized why: many therians self-describe as humans with animal spirits, but I don’t believe in the spirit or soul in any substantial way. I eschew a great deal of interiority in favor of near-total exteriority, to the greatest extent possible. Many therians are embodying characteristics of an animal, but that felt like a half-measure, like a compromise with an entity (my humanness and my human body) so hateful that it gave me near-constant distress. So if I was an animal, damn it, I was truly an animal in every sense.

This is when I discovered the term holotherian (or holothere). Holotherianthropy, from the Greek holos, “entirely, all,” indicates exactly what I described previously: a non-human identification that is literal: physical, in addition to mental, emotional, and otherwise.

Once I had this verbiage in my brain, I looked around and realized I was far from the only person who felt the way I did—not “not entirely human,” but “entirely non-human.” Knowing this terminology not only helped me characterize myself, but also helped me connect with other holotherians who knew exactly what I meant. Hearing how they related to the world and to others affirmed my own perspective, showing me I wasn’t alone.

It also prompted self-reflection that led to the final realization of this piece of writing: I am a coyote. Much like many clueless but well-intentioned people out in the country, I thought I had a dog on my hands, but it turns out it was really a coyote the whole time!

In hindsight, this makes sense: I grew up with coyotes; they were always a presence in my life. I had always felt connected to them and never understood why. One of my first tattoos was a coyote with flowers falling from their mouth. Hunting them never seemed fair or right. I identified with their resilience, their mischievousness, their playfulness and joie de vivre.  

Now, the connections feel even stronger. As trans people—especially trans women—are villainized and called vermin in public discourse, the parallels with a species wrongly villainized and hunted for no good reason, blamed for problems caused by the meddling of humans, are clearer than ever.

I told everyone in my life that I had realized that I was really a coyote, and the fit was immediately clear. My coyote body felt more like itself, and I felt more comfortable in it, as if I had correctly identified and understood my body for the first time.

Around this time, I had some breakthroughs that I won’t detail regarding abuse in my past. When I made these breakthroughs, I articulated to myself what my goals were, what kind of life I wanted for myself on the other side of healing from what I had just realized was religious abuse. Upon doing so, some sort of weight lifted, and I felt what I can only describe as a shimmer: the world smelled differently, I could smell more clearly, loping along the street really felt like I was trotting along on all fours, tail swishing. Everything clicked into place in my mind and in my body.

I was a coyote, and I was all right. Still am, as a matter of fact.

Kisses and claws, as always.