You fellas call it what you will, but for the Fiesta Fox, there was only one word to describe it – breakfast. During the hey day of the Reynolda Raiders, I reckon the personal lady excretions of his various conquests damn near functioned as a food group for Ricky.
Seriously though, as much as Foxy enjoyed the taste, texture, and smell of the squirt from a feisty broad, his real talent lay in evaluating the flavor of a man’s ejaculate.
At first, Ricky reserved his gift for himself, sampling regularly from the baby food jars filled with his own marinade. The results informed his diet for the following week, as he claimed that certain foods enhanced or improved the taste of his leche. For instance, if Foxy felt his batter was leaning too heavily to the savory side, he’d spend the balance of the following few days wolfing down sweet potatoes by the bushel trying balance it out. For Foxy, it was chemistry.
At first a few of us Raiders were unsettled by Foxy’s practice, especially when Woodie’s parents stopped by for a visit, only to be greeted by Ricky slurping a fresh wad through one of them curly straws he brought home from Flipper’s nephew’s birthday party. However, one night, over several puffs of dreamer, Rick explained his logic – do you think Julia Child would ever serve a dish without sampling it first? Made sense to me. Foxy always was a pragmatic fella. Moreover, Foxy revealed, he wasn’t sampling simply for taste. There was a bigger fish to fry.
Sensing our collective curiosity, Rick walked over to Schilling, handed him an empty shot glass glass, and commanded him to drop his drawers and provide a sample. Initially, Schilling was outraged at the suggestion. But, whether it be the stone cold earnestness in Foxy’s hazel eyes, or the fact he was loaded out of his goddamn gourd on some quality skee, soon enough Schilling was pumping his meat twinkie to completion.
Once he was through, Ricky took the glass from Schilling’s limp right hand and, staring Schilling straight in the eye, swallowed the contents in one quick gulp. The Fiesta Fox then closed his eyes, deep in concentration. We all sat in rapt silence, watching the man do his work. After about 60 seconds, Foxy opened his eyes, smiled, and walked away to his bedroom. We heard him rummaging through his dresser, before he finally emerged, holding a bottle of pills. He handed the bottle to Schilling and confidently informed us that Schilling had an iron deficiency. If Schilling took two of those pill supplements every morning on a full stomach, he’d boost his energy levels and enjoy healthier nails on his fingers and toes.
Schilling took Foxy at his word, took the pills, and sure enough, within a week, he had a noticeable spring in his step and nails like a young Cybill Shepherd. Foxy was right.
After that, every Sunday morning, each of us Raiders would come to Foxy with a spent rubber. Like a regular Jonas Salk at home in his lab, cooking up the next vaccine to save the world, Foxy, hunched over his old, worn particle board night stand, would carefully empty the contents into a clean red ashtray he procured from the Shoney’s over on Peter’s Creek Parkway. Ricky would spend a few moments examining the clam sauce, swirling it around the edges of the circular ashtray, occasionally dipping in a thumb and forefinger to test viscosity. Then he would drink.
The results were uncanny. Over time, all of us Raiders enjoyed improved health by virtue of Foxy’s unorthodox medial practice. Country’s acne improved. Bunn got over his peanut allergy. WEW no longer felt blue in the winter time. The gift even worked across species, as Rick was able to diagnose Petey’s hip dysplasia weeks before the local vet. It was a marvel indeed. But just another tool in the vast kit of the Fiesta Fox.
