Foxy

Have you ever met a real outlaw? About a year ago I was seeing a client who could be best described as a drug dealer. He ran weed and weed products from one end of the country to the other. He was shaped by the time and the place he was from. It’s an area that is still as it was when it began. Rules are up for speculation. I didn’t know this about him right off. At first I didn’t quite know how to take him. He has a fox face and little laugh that is cartoonish. He is auburn from head to toe. He told me tales of growing up in the wilderness and traveling the world. Eventually I started calling him Foxy because it just fit. I was both fascinated and terrified by him. Sex with him was animalistic and spontaneous. We’d chief on some of his oily paper blunts and fuck until we couldn’t. We’d usually start with me bracing my hands on the kitchen counter with one leg on the floor and one wrapped behind his waist. Then we’d wind up in the bed and I marveled at how it was so easy with him. What was most interesting to me was that I couldn’t get a read on him. Men tell me all sorts of things and you never quite know if it’s true. At any rate, he confounded me. What did he want? We got along so well and conversations were effortless. We barely knew one another, but we knew one another. I liked him and was happy when he would return. Then one day he opened up some and told me about a relationship he had with this older woman. I gathered that it was on the rocks. He told me he was looking for a place to crash while he was in New Orleans. I started to laugh because I finally figured him out, He is a player. He said his job can be dangerous and he’s tired of “dodging bullets.” Okay. That’s great! Why don’t you move on in! Not really. He said “I’m getting a little older” and so forth and so on. I’ve never had a man try and move in with me so fast in my life. On the other hand I was quite flattered. He must have felt like I was a success or comfortable financially. The sex had been a performance or maybe an audition. Okay. Well maybe not all of it. While I’m sure he enjoyed himself he really made an effort to dazzle me with complicated sexual poses and lots of attention to my nether regions. I’m not complaining. Don’t get me wrong. Also, he came on strong and fast and he commanded the room each time we met. I would just step back and let him expound on what his life is like and we both bonded over the fact that we are both “wiley” and love to get away with it. We are both hustlers. I was impressed in him that it took me more than one meeting to see him for who he is. He’s not a bad man. He’s just the kind of man who’s been through a lot and has seen a lot. He wore black. Mostly. He even wore expensive cowboy boots. He had the “villain” persona perfected beautifully. I imagined he’d look great in an old silent film where the bad guy is tying a helpless lady onto train tracks. In my experience these aren’t the kind of men you take in. I’m not sure that the danger he spoke of would stay away. It might come to my house. So, I politely and ever so gently told him that he was a good client and I enjoyed his stories and the gifts he’d bring and of course, the sex. I also explained why we couldn’t be roommates. He was graceful and didn’t push the issue further. We wrapped up what was to be our last session and he took my hand as I led him to the door. He could be so very tender. He left. As I watched him walk away he lit another oily blunt and disappeared in a veil of smoke. That was the last time I saw him. It’s a shame. I would have liked to hear some more of his stories.