Out of Position Read Free Page B

superhero movie is the best was better than that, and that one consisted mostly of quoting their favorite bits with gunshot noises. “Do you know her? The fox who was in here last week?”
    The bartender sets down my shot, and some light beer in front of the squirrel. I down my shot before he has a chance to walk away. The squirrel sneers. “No, I didn’t know the stuck-up priss.”
    “Fine. Enjoy the beer.” I stand up and walk out, ignoring her muttered “asshole” and Randy’s “hey, Dev.” For a minute, outside in the night, I worry that he’ll follow me, but maybe he remembers Wednesday and doesn’t want to get into it again. He’d rather be in the arms of one of the two big-breasted bitches at the other end of the bar. I wish that was all I wanted.
    I try to find the row house again, but there are no numbers on the street and they all look alike. I don’t even know why I’m looking. I want to yell at the fox. I want to hold him. I want to grab him by the throat and tell him to get the fuck out of my head. I want to kiss him again. A ferret asks me if I’m lost as I wander from one front porch to another, and I say, “Pal, you don’t know the half of it.” He leaves me alone.
    I find what I’m sure is the right house three times. Each time I stand there for fifteen minutes trying to figure out if the pattern of the peeling paint is familiar or not. I peer at the names on the mailboxes, but I don’t even know the little fucker’s name, and they don’t put “Little faggot fox” on the listings. Plenty of people come home while I’m looking around the porches, but only one fox, and she is definitely a vixen. For real.
    At 12:30 in the morning I find a cross street that looks exactly the same as the street I’ve been wandering up and down for two hours. I look at all the row houses on that street and find the right house two more times.
    At 1:30 in the morning I go back to the bar and snag the first girl I see who isn’t attached and isn’t the painted squirrel. I take her back to my room and we go at it, and it’s fine. It’s not great. It’s not fireworks. I kick her out at 3, get back to bed and lie there staring at the ceiling. I get the crazy idea that if I bring a pair of binoculars and look through the upper story windows, I could find the ceiling that has the specific pattern of water damage I remember and then I’d know where he lives. I go so far as to check online to see where I can get a pair of binoculars close by, and I realize that I have gone completely around the bend. I’m sitting at my desk at four in the fucking morning shopping for binoculars so I can look for the ceiling of the apartment where I had the only gay experience of my life. Not to mention how crazy I would look walking up and down the street looking through third floor windows. Lion Christ.
    I need to find that fox. I want him out of my head, and one way or another, I’m gonna get what I want.
    Saturday practice is another disaster. I’m running on two hours sleep and coach bumps me down to the second team for the last drills of the day, where I get paired with a frosh backup wideout who is a red fox. He’s not my fox, though; he’s about six feet tall and only has to tilt his head a bit to look me in the eye. Plus he’s got a deep voice. But he has the same slender muzzle, and twice I get caught imagining it sliding over my cock and lose my focus.
    I wait to take my shower until the rest of the team is gone.
    I don’t know what to do. I retrace my steps from the bar the next day, this time borrowing Randy’s car and finding the right street, absolutely for sure this time. I park at seven o’clock and sit in the car watching the whole street, everyone who comes and goes.
    Eight-thirty. A policewolf comes over and asks if I need any help. I say I’m waiting for a friend from the football team. He checks my ID and leaves me alone. Thank god there are some fans in this town.
    Nine-twenty. Two male foxes