Please note that the characters and situations in this story are fictional
and are not intended to represent any real person, living or dead.

TOE TAG

by
Paul G. Bens, Jr.

I am not ashamed to admit it.  I am a man who’s been with many mediocre men throughout my still relatively short life.  This is not to imply that I have no taste or that all my conquests have been misshapen husks born of God’s frugality.  Some were, by all modern standards, stunning physical specimens cheated only of intelligence or moral fiber; others were blessed with humor and wit, yet afflicted with balding pates or Golden Arches bellies.  But I would not change my time with any one of them.  Not for all the money in the world.  For they each have left me something special from the moment they walked into my life.

How appropriate that phrase, now that I see it on paper.

Tonight, however, I may have found the perfect pair and, should the man attached to them prove equally as fascinating, well...that would all just be gravy.  His name is Tery.  I know it seems pretentious spelled with just one “r."  He swears that’s how it is on his birth certificate.  “Very avant-garde,” I told him when he first spelled it out for me.  I didn’t really mean it.

The candles on my dining table flicker, and their light dances around the rim of Tery’s stylish glasses.  He is exquisite.  Hair nearly as dark as my own, but with the shimmering highlights mine so lacks.  His face is round and full and baked glorious brown by the Pakistani sun of his ancestors.  He speaks with no accent; is as American as you or I, and seems interesting enough.  He does, however, gulp from his wine glass.  Instead of letting the Merlot sit on his palate a moment or two, feeling the sweetness bathe his tongue, relishing the amazing bouquet, he swallows it down in three quick draughts.  It might as well be Boone’s Farm.  It doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things.  All I can think of is how to get him naked.  Rather, how to get part of him naked.

“Great wine, Cyrus,” he says, pushing his drained goblet away from his plate.

#

My name is Cyrus, by the way.  If your name is Bruce or Wendell or Victor you can probably imagine what a hardship it was to grow up as Cyrus.  Neither I, nor my name, exactly inspired other children to be kind.  I am happy to report, however, that I grew into my name.  Or should I say my name grew into me.  My shape got sleek and muscular, my hair grew long, soft and dark, and my cheekbones got higher without turning me into a femme fatale.  I’m a catch and most men let me know it.  “Cyrus.  What a cool name,” they say now.  Because of the way I look.  They probably don’t mean it either.

Now, before you feel the need to comment, I do know that I have a very healthy ego.  I like how I look, I enjoy the power it brings, and I know how to get what I need.  But we all have our little imperfections, that one physical trait we hate in ourselves and covet in others.  I’m exactly the same as you. The difference is that you probably hate the way your nose turns up at the end, or how your ears are too high up your head.  My Achilles heel, so to speak, is my feet.  Real canoes, to use the vernacular.  I only wish my feet were half as beautiful as those whose company I have kept.

#

“I’m glad you like it.”  I smile at Tery from across the table.  I am cool, calm and collected above the linen cloth, but below my toes dance in my Donald J. Pliner Efrems, try to break free, push through the leather and work their way over to his.  I want to feel his toes in between my own.  I need to see them, touch them, worship them, fuck them.

#

I don’t know how it all started or why I have this fetish--God I hate that word!  If I look back upon my life, I guess it began innocently enough with my very first baby sitter.  Now, I’ve always listened with disbelief when friends have told me of memories they had from when they were five or six-year-olds.  The notion is absurd to me.... until I think of Malcolm.

I was three, perhaps as old as four.  I was lying on my parents seventies green shag, as Malcolm--twelve or thirteen (but when one is so young doesn’t everyone seem that old?)--was tugging at my toes.

“This little piggy went to market,” Malcolm purred as he pulled at my big toe.

What an odd tingly feeling in my tum-tum.

“This little piggy stayed home,” he continued, his fingers slipping between what I thought then were simply more fingers.

Why did my legs quiver as he worked his way to the roast beast?  Why did my heart race when the fourth had none?  Why oh why did I feel so good when the fifth went wee, wee, wee, all the way home?

Nothing has ever compared to that first time.

I have, of course, played that childhood game thousands of times since in my desperate search for the perfect pair of feet.  Feet that could make me feel again as I did that very first time.

#

“How do the shoes feel, Tery?”  I ask, pouring a little more wine into our glasses.  He looks down at his feet and it is all I can do to keep my head from tilting down with his.

“All right, I guess.  Like all new shoes.  They feel a little tight.”

I know he is wriggling his toes in them, and my body grows tight in the knowledge.  “They’re not pinching, are they?  They shouldn’t pinch.  They should give a little from the outside edge.”

“Maybe a little.  Are you sure they’re nine and 1/2.”

“They’re a perfect nine and 1/2.  Perfect.”

I was, of course, lying.  When he’d come into the shop, I instantly knew his size.  I’m a professional and very good at my job.  When he sat in front of me, removed his sneaker, I needn’t have measured, but I wanted to touch them, if even through the fabric of sweat socks.  The odor was the sweetest I could imagine, and the height of his arch fit perfectly into my palm.  I knew then and there that I’d invite him to dinner. So, I sold him a half size smaller than he’d need, and instructed him to wear them all day so that they formed to his feet.  “Be sure to wear them to dinner tonight...in case there are any problems,” I told him as he headed to work or home or wherever Tery’s with one “r” went to.  It was a routine I had used over and over again.

#

When I think back upon my life, I find it all quite funny.  Most young queers feared getting caught staring at the other boys in the shower or leering at the swim team’s bulges; I was petrified that my peers would spot me watching soap bubbles caress their lithe soles, or feel me leering as their muscular arches temptingly pushed off from the concrete hardness of the pool’s edge.  It was even worse for me.  I was part of the swim team.  The second man in the 300-meter relay, which meant I was the lead’s anchor.

Vincent Chinn was my best friend and my relay partner.  His mind was sharper than steel and his body--to quote James Goldman--was made for mortal sin.  When he would take his position on the blocks, shake out the nerves--first from the left leg and then the right--I thought I would die.  Only a shield of razor thin Lycra separated his muscular posterior from my face, and as he bent down to stretch, the bulge between his legs would certainly have made me the envy of many girls and at least ten percent of the boys.  But I never noticed either as my hands went around his ankles.

My god, his were beautiful.  They weren’t big doorknob ankles like I have.  They were subtle rises where one’s fingers could easily nest.  Vincent reached down into the cool water, splashed it up over his feet and my hands.  The long, willowy tendons strained under firm flesh, brought his heal up ever so slightly, and gave me sight of the mercilessly beautiful arch, all pale and soft and pliant.  Right there, I wanted to run my tongue along the underside, watch his body writhe at the sensation, see his toes spread wide and inviting in a fierce ecstasy.  All I could do, though, is watch as argent beads of water traveled down, tear by tear, over the tempting navicular, alongside remarkable blue gray veins, and through the lightly dark mane that decorated his toes.  A lone droplet clung to the hair, licked down the side of his exquisitely shaped little piggy, and was quickly banished never again to know such joy.

My own Speedo did little to hide my erection.  I was not--am not, I must admit--a hugely endowed man, but the fabric stretched the waistband far enough from my pelvis that, should they have cared to look, the spectators most certainly could have seen my pubic hair peeking out.  As the starter pistol shot that day, so did I.  Viscous pearls seeped through fabric and fell to the floor into the wetness Vincent had left behind him.

I also realized that day something that has ruled my life.  There’s always a better pair right around the corner.  If Vincent’s were beautiful, what were Tommy’s like?  If Tommy had toes that spread wide, would Alex’s spread wider?  If Alex’s spread wide, could I fuck them? Could I possibly wet them with my mouth and then run my cock through them?  If Alex could do that, would Martin let me do the same and then lick my come from the top of his feet?  Would they want to do the same for me?

#

“Pinching.  That’s not good.”  I fake a frown, a concerned look of a professional shoe salesman whose reputation would not be sullied by the inferior workmanship of some third-world nation’s child.

“It’s all right,” he protests, taking the last bite of the lemon chicken I’d slaved over (if phoning a wonderful little bistro down the street is slaving.).  “I probably just need to break them in a little.”

“Nonsense.  No shoe should be broken in.  It should fit or it should be returned.”  I rise from the table, down the rest of my wine, and manage to mask the bulge in my trousers with my napkin.  “Why don’t you go sit in front of the fire, take off the damnable shoes.  I’ll fix us a brandy and check the fit.”

#

My job at Barney’s Shoe department is a good one.  I relish it every day.  Of course, it took me a while to develop the self-control necessary to keep the job.  One could only explain come leaking through trousers as a “spill” so often before suspicions were aroused.  So, in the early days, I started wearing two sets of briefs and carrying in my brief case (no pun intended), several extra pair.  But as the years went on, I could hold it in, stop the surge before it raced out of me.  That made the chase even more fun.  Now this is not to say that I was some come-spewing machine.  I mean, you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince, and most of the men’s feet did nothing for me.  Hammer toes, bunions, in-grown nails.  I could feel them all through the stockings, and if any were present, my dick would become turtle-esque.

#

“There’s a wonderful selection of CD’s in there,” I call over my shoulder as I work at the kitchen counter.  “Please choose something you’d like.”  I take my little supply of rufies, hidden behind the box of Earl Grey, and drop one into his Brandy Snifter before pouring a generous amount of Gran Torres for each of us.  I swirl the glass to make sure the tablet has left no evidence floating on the surface.

As the dark amber purls, Tery exclaims a little too loudly,  “Wow you got some really highbrow shit out here!”  The tiny hairs on the back of my neck bristle; I reach for another ruphinol.  He’s not the one.  I know that now.  Far too boorish for my taste.  “Do you have any Madonna or even some drum and bass or something?”  Perhaps a third?  No, that would be overkill.

I smile and hand over a snifter as I join him.  “I’m afraid neither of those are quite my taste.”  The player shuffles discs as I press a button.  Strains of Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini deliquesce into the room.

“Oh, you like that romantic stuff.”  He swirls his brandy, samples the scent.  Perhaps I was wrong about him.  But then he downs it with one fluid motion of his wrist.  Ah well.

“You know, that is meant to be sipped.”

“I know.”  He grins and I think he’s enjoying the role of beast to my beauty.  “But you get more of a buzz if you shoot it.”

I “shoot” my brandy, reel for a moment as it burns its way to my belly, and motion for him to sit on the overstuffed divan.  “Shall we take a look at those shoes, now?”

“That’s really not necessary.”  Surely he slurred a bit.

“Ah, but what good would I be if I’ve shilled a defective pair onto you.”

My palm wraps around the calf of his leg.  I lower myself to one knee.  His foot slides upon my thigh, and I delicately tug at the bow.  The ridges of the lace vibrate through my fingertips and my breath quickens.  I savor every moment as my fingers loosen the crossties; lift the tongue up ever so slightly so that my finger can feel the pulse of his flesh beneath the stocking.  With my right hand I cradle the hardness of his calf and with my left I gently lift his foot from the shoe.  Of course, my fingers trail ever so innocently over the curve of his arch.  He doesn’t flinch, shows no displeasure at the tickle.

“You take your job very seriously, donchu?”  He mumbles.  The lids of his eyes begin their long, slow droop.

“I am a man of extremes.  I take everything seriously.”  I pretend to examine the interior of the shoe.  The leather and sweat give off a marvelous musk, and my shirt tickles my nipples as I drink in the scent of him.  “Exactly as I thought.  9 & 1/2.”  I hold it up to give him a perfunctory glance, but he is far too gone to see the numbers clearly.  “Perhaps the problem is the socks.  They are a bit thick.”

The elastic of the sock gives easily under the guidance of my index finger, and the short raven hairs of his legs cling to the fabric.  Misty powder escapes as I pull the garment away, and I breathe it in, allow it to roll around my nasal cavities, enjoy the fragrance as it travels through my body, tempts the most tender parts of my anatomy. Finally, the lovely thing lies naked upon the leg of my trousers.  His toes are perfect little ovals--not broad or flat and character-less--and perfect pearls of nails adorn the tops of them.  The phalanges are short and stunning and the metatarsals are long and sleek and quiver under my touch.  My hand wraps around them, skates over the top until my fingers find the virgin, lenient flesh of his soles.

“That feeeeels really good,” Tery purrs as I coerce his toes to go wide, to let my fingers inside him.

“You have the most exquisite feet I have ever seen.”

Tery laughs a little, draws in his breath as I trace my tongue over his large toe, serpentine the tip of it, and then take it wholly into my warm mouth.  There is nothing so wonderful as the tastes of transudation and Desenex and salt mingling over one’s palate, and my cock, dissatisfied with my leisure, pushes itself through the hole of my briefs, leaves a trail of pre-come across my pant.  “Wow!”  He manages to get the simple word through his mouth and I know that he is mine.

“Do you know what I wish, Tery?”  I ask as I move his foot to my crotch and press in.  He can barely shake his head now.  “I wish I could have a pair of feet as fine as yours.”

His tongue darts out, tries to soothe parched lips.  “Welllll, I’d giivvvvve ‘em tos ya if I cooouu.”  With that his eyes roll back and his head drops down upon his chest.

He is out.  Gone.  Mine to do with as I please.  My cock is my master now, and I rip the other shoe from his foot.  My clothes take seconds to come off and I stand before his glorious pair.  I am rock hard and I drip onto the carpet as I kneel and raise his foot.  The space between his big and second toes invites me, and I paint it with the tip of my dick.  Slowly I force the tip into him and the roughness sends shivers up my spine.  I cradle myself there, letting his toes grasp my cock before I start to move back and forth, ultimately working myself all the way in.  His balls press down to the base of my dick.  His arch massages my balls as I fuck him, first quietly, like a new lover, and then harder and unrelenting until my sperm shoots out over the breadth of his foot.

I know there is always a better pair right around the corner, but never have I found a fit so perfect.  I know I cannot give them up.  I am a man of extreme tastes.  I care for only the best: the most expensive wine, the most technically magnificent music, the finest clothes. I am the same with men.  I deserve the best and yet I find only mediocre men with magnificent feet.  My friends all say that I must learn to settle; yet I cannot.  Will not.  I want what I want.

After basking a moment, spreading my ejaculate over Tery’s feet, I go into the kitchen and open a drawer.  Inside I find one of my little tags and I scribble on it his name and the date--Tery, April 19, 2003.  From under the sink I take a Glad black trash bag and split it at its seams, and then go and place it under Tery’s feet.  I spread it out, cover as much of my very expensive rug as I can.

In the bedroom, I open the closet, and stare down at all the most beautiful feet I have found.  Lined up along side the shoes they wore are my lovers.  The tags on the toes remind me of their one-time owners:  Marcus, December 2002.  Dario, October 2002.  The list goes on.  One pair, however, will have to go, displaced by Tery with one “r."  Who shall it be, I wonder, as I reach back into the darkness of the closet and find my hacksaw.  I hate this part of the night.  The sound of bone being chewed away is like nails upon the chalkboard to me.

But, the perfect pair is the perfect pair.

___________________

© Copyright 2002, Paul G. Bens, Jr.  All rights reserved.