Footsie

This is my normal now. These roving lights, this deep house music that a guy my age slowly appreciates. There's no more going home and sleeping with a wife that detests me, this is my home, spending money more than I care to admit but any doubts go away the moment I go to the "stalls" neatly separated in the back of the club like store dressing rooms. The tv's above flash the name of the Footsie Girl inside. It's annoying the joy I get to read Molly's name flashing in neon purple hues. She's all work and no play. Hardly misses a night. That's my girl. There's a security guard I have to get through first. I give him my name; he checks an iPad too small for such large hands and then gives me the key. My appointment will last a good 40 minutes, but I know it will feel less than that. I use the key to open the stall, but the feet that are usually dangling out of the silicone holes on the wall are gone, and the blurred window shows the shadow of Molly looking for something. I am tempted to look through them and to put a face to the feet. But soon her gorgeous legs slide through the silicone holes until her petite feet are at level with my crotch. "Sorry, Joel!" she says, "I was making sure my sunflower had dried."
I frown, confused until she wiggles her toes. All her toes are painted white, but on her big toe is a sunflower. I hold her big toe still. Her skin is silk, so soft and still wet after washing, the nail painted to perfection.

Dettagli