by Kyell Gold
The fox, meanwhile, is keeping his cool, but after a few minutes I notice that he’s sitting a little too straight, his ears keep flicking ever so slightly around, and his tail is bushier than normal. I keep half an ear to the conversation while I try to remember where I’ve seen that before. And it comes to me as I finish the last of my pizza.
The rapid ear-flicks and the bushy tail, at least, I remember from the time I barged into his building, wild-eyed, a week after our first night together, when he’d tricked me into bed. He didn’t know whether I was going to kiss him or beat him up, and though he had a brave face on, as he does now, it was clear that he was a little scared. Once I realize it, it’s as obvious to me as all the signs that he’s male.
“Hey, Lee,” I say, and his muzzle snaps over to me. “Didn’t you say you have an early class tomorrow? Come on, I’ll walk you home.”
He looks like he wants to argue, especially when Jack says, “Ah, just sleep through it,” but I reach out and take his paw, and he gets up.
“Awfully nice to meet you all,” he says, the brush of his tail going down and his ears settling as well. “Hope we can do this again sometime.”
Outside, he walks stiffly beside me, the chill of the wintry air nothing to what he’s giving off. “So how did you—” I finally start, trying to make conversation, and he interrupts.
“Rescued the poor, helpless fairy from the big, mean, football players,” he said. “That what you’re thinking?” He’s not using his vixen’s voice, which is a little disconcerting.
“Huh?”
“Didn’t I tell you that I could take care of myself?”
“What, tonight?” I’m thoroughly confused. I thought I was doing something nice by helping him out of a scary situation. I can’t figure out what I did wrong.
“I certainly don’t need your help to protect myself from a bunch of primitive jocks like that.”
“Hey,” I say. “They’re not all that bright, but they’re not bad guys.”
“Sure,” he says, “if you need a pickle jar opened or a faggot beaten up.”
“Is that what this is about? I told you, those guys aren’t on the team any more. We don’t hang out with them.”
“Oh, like it makes a difference which specific guys it was. They’re all the same.”
I stop, paws on my hips, and for a moment I think he’s not going to stop. Then he does, a few steps further, turns and looks at me. “Well?”
“What about me?”
Blue eyes narrow in the yellow light of the street lamp. A raccoon walks past us and we endure his nervous glances as he walks between us, not wanting to get in the middle of our quarrel. Whether he heard the vixen talking with a tod’s voice, we can’t tell, but he disappears around the corner and then Lee talks, more quietly, but no less passionately.
“Well, I’ve been a good influence on you, haven’t I?”
“You? You?” Now I’m the one raising my voice, and he walks away. “Hey! Don’t…Listen, I…” I’m incoherent, sputtering, trying to form the thoughts into words, and I don’t want to run after him because I know that’s what he wants me to do, and I curse my paws as they take me down the street and around the corner he’s just turned.
“Listen, Doc,” I say, “I am who I am, and…and don’t take credit for everything just because you think you’re so clever. It’s not because of you that you didn’t get beat up that night when I came back. It’s because of me.”
“Oh,” he says in his smug voice, the one that sets my fur on end, “I think it had something to do with me.”
“Christ!” I explode. “You can be such a fucking bitch sometimes!”
A white fox on the opposite side of the street turns at my words and looks at us for a moment, clearly wondering if he should intervene and hoping he won’t have to. I wave him on, growling, “Sorry. It’s okay,” and a moment later he wraps his leather jacket around himself and moves on.
“And you, stud,” Lee hisses, “can be a tremendous idiot.”
He walks on. I clench my fists, willing myself to just turn around and go home. Don’t follow him, I tell myself.
“Look,” I say, striding alongside him. He lifts his nose just a bit and doesn’t look at me. “I got you out of there because it looked like a bad situation. I was just trying to help!”
“I’ve told you, I don’t need your help,” he says.
“I know,” I say. “You keep repeating yourself.”
“Apparently it takes a few tries to get you to understand some things,” he says tartly.
“You know,” I say, “You go on about how football players like to beat up faggots and how we’re just primitive jocks and yet you seem happy to sit there at a table with a bunch of them, just begging for trouble. Why would you do that, huh? Why not just leave them alone?”
“Leave them alone,” he snaps. “Easy for you to say. Why don’t they just leave us alone?”
For a moment, I think he means me and him, not the collective non-football-playing gay population. Things come into focus, slowly. “Why can’t you let that go?”
“Just let it go. Don’t think about it. How appropriate for a football player.” He turns away.
I run after him, grab his shoulder. He wrenches it free and takes another couple steps. I glare at him. “That’s not fair.”
I can see his breath as he pants. “Neither was what happened to Brian.”
“Brian’s not here,” I point out. “I am.”
His ears go back, but not in an angry way. I see retorts flash across his eyes, but he bites them back and just turns away again.
I don’t have to run to catch him, and this time, he doesn’t pull away when I grab his shoulder and turn him towards me. Light mist hangs in the air between us, the fog of our breath combined with the chill of the night. His scent is strong in my nose; I can smell his anger matching mine, and all the other emotions below it. I feel like slapping him or screaming at him.
“Don’t just walk away from me, dammit!” I say, louder than is necessary.
“Oh, now I’m not supposed to just let it go? Didn’t you just want me to leave all those football players alone?” His eyes are piercing, challenging me, and I want to shake him, he’s being so frustrating. I grab his other shoulder and he puts his paws on my stomach, bracing himself to push away from me, and we stay frozen there.
I can feel his heat, the pounding of his heart matching the quick lashing of my tail. My paws are tight on his shoulders, my blood is hot, and I’m thinking I should’ve just walked away. Let us both cool off, that’d be the sensible thing to do. But I don’t want to be cool. Part of my anger is knowing that he’s right, and I’m sure I see in his eyes that he knows that I’m right too. But there’s more in his eyes, too; the anger isn’t uppermost anymore, though it lingers in his scent. What I see there mirrors what’s battling with anger inside me, and I see the change in my expression reflected in his eyes.
In a heartbeat, in the silence with his question hanging in the air, the tension between us changes, and we both feel it. We’re both all worked up, and it doesn’t matter that it was an argument that did it. We’re breathing hot and heavy, warming the night, and anger and bitterness are subsumed into something else as I look back into his blue eyes and say, “No... don’t let go.” Then I’m crushing him to me and we’re together and kissing in the middle of the street, and the chill of the night is gone. All I can feel is his heat against mine. Our clothes might as well not even be there. I’ve got one paw down on his tail and he’s cupping my butt in his and I thank god he’s in his blouse and skirt, because I didn’t even stop to think about what passersby might see.
“How many blocks to your house?” I pant raggedly when we wrench ourselves apart.
“Six,” he says, tongue lolling slightly out.
“We’ll get there faster if I carry you,” I say, and for once, he doesn’t spurn my help.
September 2006
And there’s still my one big secret left
to tell.
It’s the morning of our first real game. Randy’s ritual to kick off the season is to be hung over Saturday morning, so when the phone rings, he howls and clutches his head. “Shut it off!!”
I grin and grab the phone. “Probably coach making sure we’re up,” I say, clicking the phone on. “Hello?”
“Hi,” his voice says in my ear, low and husky. I freeze.
After a moment of silence, I get, “Hello?” His normal voice.
“Hi,” I say, finally.
He chuckles. “Surprised?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll make this quick. I just wanted to remind you what you can do. I’m looking forward to being impressed today.”
“You’re coming?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it. I’ll wear your favorite outfit.”
I smile. The last few preseason games, he’s shown up in his regular clothes, with friends. “Coming alone?”
“No, actually.”
“Okay.” I don’t ask him to explain why his friends won’t care if he dresses like a woman in public. If anyone can explain, Lee can. “I’ll see you there, then.”
“Make me proud.” For that, he goes back to the husky feminine voice, and I’m shivering just a bit as I hang up.
I’m all ready to explain to Randy that it was a friend of mine from out of town, but he’s still holding his head and moaning, and doesn’t seem to care.
Game time is crazy, the stadium’s packed and fans going nuts, but I spot Lee in the stands almost immediately. He’s halfway up the student section, in blouse and skirt, talking with friends. We don’t acknowledge each other, but I know he sees me see him. With that done, I turn my full attention to the game.
I’ve been getting better through the preseason, but this game is something else. I can’t even say for sure what’s different, not until later. All I know is I’m remembering everything and I’m hungry for the ball. I understand for the first time what they mean when they say that the game comes to you. It’s an amazing feeling.
I pick off three passes before they stop throwing to my side, and bust more plays than I can count. I even save a touchdown when I force a fumble from their running back. Mike gets torched twice for scores, but we win by a field goal anyway.
After the game, coach gives me the game ball—my first one ever. I take it with me that night even though it’s stupid, I could be recognized, but I don’t care. I want him to see it.
Of course, when I get to the apartment, there are a couple other balls that demand my attention. Our clothes don’t last long, and pretty soon we’re on the bed and playing and talking a bit like we do. He makes some remarks about me getting lucky, and finally I say, “I’m not lucky, I’m good.”
His foxy, cocky grin stretches from ear to ear. “I told you you were,” he says.
“So, what,” I ask, still capable of speech because although we are naked and rubbing pretty heavily against each other, he hasn’t yet reached over for the lube to finish off our little play. I’m so jazzed inside I almost don’t need it. “You got some Bull Durham thing goin’ on here?”
He laughs. “I’m not that old. Do I look it?” His paw reaches to the side table.
There goes my speech center. I just shake my head. Something cool slides along my cock. Anticipation and arousal have me twitching and squirming, so I take it out on his erection, since he’s takin’ his sweet time. He squirms a bit, then leans in and says, “Do I feel that old?” as he sits back on me and oh dear god everything just melts away for those glorious few minutes.
When I finish my shower, he’s lying under the covers, and I grab my football before joining him. He raises an eyebrow. “I’m not that loose,” he says.
I flip it to him and he bobbles it, catches it against his chest. “Game ball?”
“Yeah.” I scoot under the covers and grin. No, more than a grin; I can’t stop my teeth from showing.
He looks shrewdly up at me. “Your timing was off for most of the third quarter. When you thought they weren’t going to throw to you, you got lazy.”
“They weren’t throwing to my side,” I point out.
“Doesn’t mean you can take plays off.”
My ears go back, just a little. “It was hot out there.”
He turns the ball over in his paws. “Hot on both sides of the field.”
I slump back against the pillows. “Jesus, nobody’s perfect.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t try to be.” He brings the ball to his nose and inhales.
“I thought I was pretty good,” I grouse.
“You were good,” he says. “But you can be better. You have to be better at the next level.”
I turn my head. His blue eyes are even with mine. “The pros?”
“Sure,” he says, and places the ball carefully on the floor. “This is a good start. You going to get eleven more?”
Eleven more? “Can’t I just be proud of this one?”
“You should be,” he says, and yawns hugely. “I am.”
He says it simply, without emphasis, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. When I don’t say anything in reply, he leans up for a soft kiss, and then turns away to back up against me. I put my arm around him and pull him tight against me, trapping his bushy and still-damp tail against my chest, wiggling my sheath between his cheeks, resting my muzzle between his ears. He goes to sleep almost immediately. I lie awake.
How can two simple words keep me staring at his wall, holding my breath for fear I’ll wake up and have dreamed them? How can this little fox make the best day of my life even better? I wish there were better words to say how I’m feeling. The best I can do is to say it feels like I’m stuck under his tail and living that moment of release over and over again, only the point of release is not inside my groin. It’s inside my chest, and I’ve never felt anything like it before.
I brush the fur on his chest, not wanting to go to sleep, not wanting this moment to end, ever. I bury my nose in his fur and close my eyes and inhale. I can feel myself drifting off, and I think, I want to feel like this again. I will feel like this again. I’ll make him proud of me.
And I know that I’m not just doing it for him, but also for me. I don’t mind doing it for him, though; he’s the one who gives me that little push that I needed, gives me something to play for. He’s my Gipper, my Rudy, my dying-kid-in-the-hospital-wing.
Eleven more game balls? No sweat.
Now, I got a secret.
Don’t Blink
I’ve always loved superheros, so I’m not sure why it took me so many years to write a superhero story. The intersection of powers and relationships is fascinating to me, because even extraordinary people are still people, and the fact that you can lift a car over your head or teleport doesn’t mean you understand relationships any better.
I had already introduced a comic-book League of Crimefighting Canids, and their speedster, Red Lightning, in “Waterways,” so I just wrote some of their stories down. Red did eventually get his own story (“Stop the World”), but the first one I wrote was about a power that was always my first or second choice in our “what superpower would you have” games through college (shape-changing was the other, and Blink Coyote is already in a very pleasing shape, so there was no need to write that one). “Don’t Blink” first appeared in issue #4 of Sofawolf Press’s Heat, and was the first of many stories of the League of Canids (I removed the ‘Crimefighting’ to make the name flow better and to bring it from the sixties into the eighties, at least). It won the Ursa Major award for Best Short Fiction in 2007.
[return to TOC]
Jake knew that training was necessary to become a top-flight superhero, so he endured it patiently. When Marcia took his training into her own paws, however, he usually attended those sessions with enthusiasm. So it felt odd, on this late spring night, to be hesitating in the doorway of her bedroom as she slipped out of her jacket and blouse.
“Well?” she said. Her long ears
twitched, satellite dishes
The coyote unbuttoned one button on his shirt, reached for the next. “Sorry, I just...”
“No, no.” She placed a finger on the third button as the coyote was about to unbutton it. “Undress your way.”
She stepped back from him, lowered her skirt to the floor and then tossed it into the hamper in the corner. Her short, fluffy tail rested against the vanity as she leaned back, folded her arms under her bra, and watched him.
He eyed the cleavage her pose created, and grinned. “You got it.” He concentrated, extending his arms forward for dramatic effect. He hesitated only for a moment—toward her or away?—and then figured out how he could use the mirror behind her. He closed his eyes and pictured himself in front of her, and when he flexed his power, he contracted the ‘field’ as much as he could.
In the mirror, over her shoulder, he watched his clothes hang in the air where he’d been one second ago and then fall to the floor. That never got old.
Her paws reached out for his sides, fingers sinking into his tawny pelt, her thumbs rubbing at the border where the tawny dissolved into ivory. He returned his attention to her, fitting his paws neatly around the curve of her dark brown shoulders.
“You’ve gotten really good at that.” She reached down to his sheath, full and heavy with his swollen member, and used it to pull him forward. “C’mere, now.”
“Come in handy if I ever need to strip for a supervillain,” he said. “Maybe like some evil woman I need to distract.” He moved his large paws down to her small rear, shoving his fingers under her pink panties and pulling her hips against his.
Their muzzles met. Her long ears folded over to touch the tips of his. He pushed her panties further down and broke the kiss, licking up her pink nose and the gentle slope of her muzzle.
“Jake,” she said in mild reproach, turning her head to the side.
His ears flicked back. She didn’t let his sheath go, though, so he didn’t stop pushing her panties down, crouching to finish the job. She stepped out of them and shook her head. “You canids with your tongues. Come on, onto the bed.”
