Fursuits aren’t really made for sex.
Which reminded me of this:
In some ways it’s easier to accept and sign off on bizarre-yet-harmless behaviors and obsessions if there’s a sexual component. None of us can really help, control, or direct our sexual interests or fetishes; we can, however, control how we choose to act on them. Someone who gets rock hard or dripping wet when dressed up like a fox or a raccoon or Ann Coulter makes a rough sort of sense. But someone who fantasizes about being an animal or hangs out with people who do without the excuse/cover of sexual fetish or compulsion? I’m sorry, but that’s just sick.