foot

My right foot is twitching. Sporadically. Orgasmically. Perhaps it is fitting, perhaps it has succumbed to the pressure of shuffling from skyscraper stiletto heels to barely-there ballet pumps, with no happy medium nor relent.1

I lie on the juxtapositioned sofa, that shuffled its way into such a peculiar position whilst she and I had sex two days ago. Pulsating, promiscuous sex. I have kept it the same to remind me that it truly was real.2

As I lie I absorb the scent of my feet. Like sweat, leather, and freshly mowed grass; the pungent, putrid smell knocks me back. I like it. It reminds me that I am alive. Or at least that I was at some point.3

I notice that the duo of verrucas on my left ball [of my foot] – Torrville and Dean - have become a trio. I am glad that they too have experienced the pleasure of intercourse. Infact their pleasure is greater even than mine, for they receive offspring for their endeavours. I simply receive eczema between the sweaty, sex hungry creases of my once lust parched skin. 4

The TV is flashing in the corner, begging me to pay it some attention. It can offer me products for my every requirement, and scenarios for my every desire, it claims. Well not today. Today my prime entertainment source is my own limb.5

Today, my twitching foot replaces even the divine Christina Scabbia, or the luscious Bette.6

Today is all for me, all about me.7

It is not for you.8

So9

I’ll turn off the TV now.10

I’ll unplug the phone now.11

I’ll hide amongst the duvet now.12

I’ll watch my foot.13

Just for now.14