One Way Of Looking At A Fox

I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

Alex

I suppose I started falling in love with him while I was reading his dossier, preparing for my next assignment: him. Special Agent Fox Mulder. Now that I think about it, how could I NOT love someone with a name like that? Fox: sly, wild, beautiful, cunning. All accurate descriptions. Even his nickname, Spooky, was apropros. He's a remarkably skittish man... about certain things.

I'm thorough, so of course the information they provided wasn't enough. I had to do a little digging on my own. I checked out his school records, and discovered that he'd taken a remarkable number of literature courses for someone going into the criminal justice field. They mostly focused on poetry.

I liked that, I really did. I feel that I, myself, have a rather poetic soul. Oh, yes, I know that the psychiatrists would relate this to self delusion. I've been diagnosed as a sociopath more than once. Still, one must have a concept of oneself, and this is mine: a poetic soul. There aren't many of us in the world. I was delighted to find Mulder.

It was clear from the beginning that he had a romantic nature. I mean, really... Can you say 'Don Quixote'? To the world at large, there aren't much bigger windmills to tilt at than the ones he goes after. They simply never see that they actually ARE giants.

The picture didn't hurt the infatuation process. That sulky bottom lip... I just wanted to BITE it.

I had decided to do a bit of field observation before the assignment actually started, so I stationed myself across from his apartment the day before our 'official' meeting was to take place, and watched. When he appeared almost naked in the window, it took my breath away. He really is a gorgeous man, and he seems totally unaware of it.

When he left his apartment in the grey drizzle just after dawn, I followed. It isn't easy to tail on an empty, early morning street, but I managed it. He was preoccupied, which helped. WHAT he was preoccupied with endeared him to me almost immediately.

A nursery rhyme, can you believe it? He was chanting one of the old poems that all good little children used to know by heart, back in the dear dead days before video games and half hour commercials masquerading as cartoons. The 'Misty, Moisty Morning' rhymes, one of my personal favorites.

Oh, that was fun: following him into the donut shop, watching him express that secret greed he keeps so well hidden, and making contact (both methaphorically and physically). The first time I laid my hand on him, simply gripping his wrist, I thought he was going to jump out of his skin. Skittish, like I said. He felt the electricity, too. The few words we exchanged were innocuous enough, but that look he threw back at me as he was leaving...

Well, I HAD to follow after that, didn't I? It was such a clear invitation, even if he DIDN'T know he was extending it.

He'd taken refuge in a doorway, sheltering from the sudden deluge that had caught him about halfway back to his apartment. I crashed into his little sanctuary, pretending I hadn't known he was there. I almost ran INTO him, wanting a taste, however brief, of that long, elegant body, but I held off. I wanted to spend a some time with him, and that meant showing a little restraint.

He seemed wary at first, till I brought up the verse. 'Oh, my. Small world, isn't it?' He relaxed a little then, and we introduced ourselves. We both got a kick out of working the verse into the conversation. Most people would think you were crazy if you said I could be playful. They haven't seen the results of some of my more difficult assignments. There are all KINDS of ways to be playful. Cats are VERY playful with smaller, more vulnerable creatures.

We ate breakfast together there in the doorway, watching the rain stream down outside, hitting the sidewalk so hard it threw a spray of mist back at us. I remember deciding then and there that we'd have breakfast together again someday, but in the traditional manner: after a night of hot sex.

It might have gone on longer, but... Well, I couldn't resist teasing him a little. He reacts so beautifully. Perfectly harmless little remarks about... ahem, donut holes. I didn't have to hold his wrist when I fished in the bag those times, but I did. I had him shaking before I let go. So responsive. I had started to get hard while I scoped him out with the binoculars. It quickly developed into a raging hard on.

What can I say? He does it for me.

I guess I pushed just a little too hard. He ran. Literally. Oh, he made a polite excuse about things to do, then he pounded off into the downpour. His clothes were plastered to him before he went two steps. I was left to imagine ripping them off him, then drying him with my tongue. With that image in my mind, I began my first slow hand dance to a fantasy about Fox Mulder.

I've had him since then, many times and many ways: slow and sweet, angry and hard. It's good, but the memory sometimes rivals the reality. It's that first contact my mind goes back to, before I knew him in the flesh. When all I had was the memory of my hand on his wrist, the scent of him, and the excited anticipation of what lay ahead...