dixie digit  

I open the door and see her standing there and I immediately want her in my mouth. I want to savor all the sensational tastes that her body has to offer. I want to suck her…

“Ah, hello.”

I’ve forgotten to speak. How annoyingly awkward.

“Sorry, it’s just that I don’t get many supermodels at my door.”

Yea, that’s all I got. Deal with it. And she does.

“You need to work on your one-liners there Romeo.”

She saunters past me and the atmosphere of my life changes. Her scent. It’s woman, for sure. But not every woman. It’s blessedly unique. No one else’s but hers. It’s not shampoo or perfume or fabric softer. It’s not gel or lotion or crème. It’s the fragrance of her perspiration as it saps through her pores and coats her skin. It’s the aroma of her most private parts. Sticky and musky. Tangy and sweet. Dirty and delicious.

I want all of her in my mouth.

“I hope you don’t mind me popping over like this. I’ve been dying to see the inside of this apartment.”

“Oh, you live right next door?”

I know she does.  

“Yep.”

She spins on her heels and I feel my head swoon. Her bleached hair is pulled up tight on her shiny forehead with a black band. It reminds me of a Gwen Stefani video I once saw. Her facial structure is perfect. Well, perfect for me. Exactly what I would want in a woman’s face. Sturdy chin. Full, wet lips. Smooth, clear complexion. Tiny, adorable ears. And those positively radiant, mesmerizing eyes. I would take my tongue and…

“So, you got anything to drink?”

I do.

“Ah, yea, sure. I’ve got some bottled waters in the fridge. Or coke. I can put ice in it.”

Did I really just say that?

“Anything, ya know…alcoholic.”

She speaks my language. Have I absolutely died and gone to some place better?

“Yea, actually…I have some beer or I could whip up a Captain and Coke.”

“Beers good. Thanks.”

She turns again and moves gracefully through my living room toward the patio. I live on the second floor and my balcony overlooks a small parking area and then a thickly wooded area. She peers out for a moment then turns her attention to my media center and begins reading through the DVD titles. The afternoon Florida sun blazes through the blinds and illuminates a heavenly aura around her. It’s almost absurd enough to break the spell I’m under. Almost.  

I continue to stand frozen staring at her. For how many seconds? Minutes? Days?

This situation is so weird. I am abnormally attracted to her. She’s got me spinning about in my head and I can’t seem to halt the inertia.

Now she’s looking through my book collection. I hope she is impressed.

Dammit! I wish I wouldn’t have moved my Pahlaniuks to the other room. I replaced them with physics books. How **** boring am I.     

Still, she seems to be really admiring them. And me…well, I’m still admiring her.

Bending over to read titles on the lower shelf exposes the smooth skin of her lower back. She is so **** hot.

My eyes continue down and rest on her tight ****, tucked neatly into a pair of cut-off jeans. Then I continue down her sleek bronze legs. Shapley. Defined calves and slim ankles. Not frail, just perfectly slim. And then to her feet.

Let me just pause here for a moment so I can hopefully clear up any confusion you may feel over the next several paragraphs. You see, I have an insatiable female foot fetish. Match that with my fixation and desire to stick every womanly part into my mouth and you have quite a sexual appetite. An appetite that unfortunately many women consider a sick perversion.

I can trace the roots of this desire all the way back to my childhood. Summer of 1982. I’m hanging out at the community pool. There’s this girl named Ray that all the boys are gaga over. We would chase her around splashing each other as we battled for her attention. This one afternoon, as I came up out of the water and grasped the edge of the pool, I found myself face to foot with her. I’ll never forget the way the sun glistened off the little drops of water that beaded on her feet. Or the way she wiggled her painted tootsies just inches from my face. I was hypnotized. Without understanding why, I wanted....no, I needed her toes in my mouth. And so they were.

I probably don’t have to tell you that this particular scene did not end well for me. However to this day those are still the most perfect, sexy pair of feet I have ever laid my eyes on.

Until this day.

This woman before me. This neighbor of mine. This gorgeous creature that is at least 10 years my junior, has just usurped the most vivid sexual image I’ve ever managed to retain.

Like Ray’s, her feet are polished a deep golden bronze by the sun. Her nails shine with a bright digital red hue. Her toes are perfectly aligned and offer just the slightest hint of a curl. Perfect round heels. Curved arches. Symmetrically sexy. And on the top of each foot, a tattoo of a smaller foot. For the sake of avoiding confusion I’ll tell you now that they are the feet of her daughter. And while that in itself is not exactly stimulating, the fact that there is ink there at all is. Incredibly so. But that’s another fetish for another random entry. Bottom line here is that I want every single inch of them and her, in my…

Suddenly, she is looking right at me.

I’m cold busted. Damn.

See, when you go through life with an uncontrollable desire to stuff the feet of every beautiful woman you see into your mouth, you are going to occasionally get busted staring. Comes with the territory. And when you get busted, for whatever reason, it feels like you’ve just committed the most heinous crime in the history of mankind. I mean, get caught gawking at some cleavage and most babes will just roll their eyes and say, “boys will be boys.” But get busted salivating over a woman’s feet and she will somehow feel violated. Or offended. Or totally grossed out. Suddenly, you become this disgusting pervert who needs to be locked away from society. I’ve never quite understood that, however I’ve come to terms with it and I accept whatever penalty is handed down to me. Why? As a vampire must suck blood, my desire too is insatiable and I absolutely need to feed it.

And it makes me terribly happy.

Still, I don’t want this one to feel that way about me. I’ve only known her for less than two minutes and already she owns me. Her scent. Her smile. Her manner. She could get me to do anything for her. 

If she walks back out that door disgusted with me, I will be crushed. Broken. As if we had been together for years and I’ve just discovered that she never really loved me.

So again…DAMN!  

I guiltily make eye contact and await my sentence.  

Her eyebrows raise and she holds her cupped and empty hand up to her mouth in a mock drinking gesture.

“Oh, right...sorry.” I turn quickly and head back to the kitchen to get her a beer. Relief floods through me. I live to stare and drool another day.

I retrieve a couple of Natty Ices from the fridge and take a deep breath.

I can see her through the breakfast bar.

She’s made herself comfortable in my reclining chair. Kicked off her flip-flops and slung her bare tanned legs over the chair arm. Her feet dangle there. Her toes dancing to the beat of some silent rhythm.

I close my eyes and I can hear it too. It’s my heart. I take a deep inhale and her scent floods my senses.

I’m ready to face her again.

“Here ya go. Hope you don’t mind Natty. Not the best taste but its got a decent alcohol content and it’s super cheap.”

“No, that’s cool. Beer is beer to me.”

I sit down on the sofa adjacent to her. In my tight little living space there isn’t another option except the floor. Unfortunately this places her dangling digits out of eyesight. But I don’t mind. Without the distraction maybe I can carry on an intelligent conversation with her.

“So…” I begin.

She beams me a smile and in one grand cartoon like motion, muscles her way around so that her legs are now draped over the other side of the chair…facing right toward me. A mere arms length away. And then her toes start dancing again.

I’m **** memorized. 

“You’re a bit of a foot guy aren’t you?”

“Whaaa. A foot guy. I don’t...ah…”

Her laugh halts me.

“It’s okay man. I know I got great feet.”

She does.

“You, absolutely do.”

She stretches her arches. She rotates her ankles. She flexes and scrunches her toes.

“So what do you do for a living? I mean, other than ogle helpless girls feet.”

My turn to laugh. I think. I give it a whirl and it sounds forced.

She pulls her legs back and readjusts herself into an Indian style sitting position.

“Hey man, try and relax. Okay.” She nods her head yes and I follow suit.

She’s crafty. I’m a good dog.

“I think you’re a pretty cool dude. I mean, I’ve seen you around ya know. Around the pool and ****.” She bends her petite arm and takes several hefty gulps before lowering the can back to the chair arm. Moments later, I’m shocked by a belch that’s much too obnoxious to have been created in such a sensational body. All the same, I laugh again. Only this time it’s for real. Unpracticed. Uncontrolled. Carnival laughter. Holiday laughter. Love-comfortable laughter.   

“Now that’s what I’m talking about.” She offers with her supermodel smile.

“Yea…no ****. That felt really, really good.”

“Not as good as my monster burp.”

This sets us both off and we laugh until the beers are gone.

So why am I standing here now, with her severed big toe in this Dixie cup? That’s a damn good question.

A damn good question indeed.