When Jordan Franks bent down to retrieve his keys, he
discovered a shiny leather-bound book the size of an
encyclopedia. It lay flat on its side in the bottom shelf of the
bookcase behind dusty ones of normal proportion. Never having
seen it before, he pulled it from its poorly appointed hiding place,
dislodging the more familiar books.
He looked over the hand-stenciled, gold-lettered cover, which read
“Myra Franks,” and discovered a brass lock—the type often
associated with diaries—ribboned over the middle of the opening.
Hmm. This is very strange. I had no idea my wife was keeping a
journal . . . or diary . . . or whatever it is.
Frank’s mind floated back to the little chapel at Sperlinger
Mortuary. She’d looked so beautiful. The mortician did an excellent
job reconstructing her face, after that horrible car crash. He
shuddered, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. God, how
long has it been now? Jeesh! Barely three days, I guess.
Running his fingers over the raised letters, Jordan wiped a tear
from his eye. Can’t imagine why she’d lock it. We had no secrets.
He walked to the fireplace mantel and took a ring of keys from a
crystal candy dish, where Myra always kept a spare set. Looking
them over, he found a silver one that stuck out like a shark in a
goldfish pond. Twice as small as the others, it possessed a double
serrated edge.
He used it on the lock, which immediately popped loose. Pulse
racing, he opened the book and found that a crude, square area
had been cut out of the pages, much like the space left after a
predator rips the heart from its victim. Pictures of bare feet,
obviously clipped from magazines, decorated the inside cover, in
the midst of which more gold letters assaulted his eyes: “My
Lovely Life as a Foot Fetishist.”
Oh, my God! My wife had a secret life? As a foot fetishist? This has
to be a joke!
He lifted the book to his nose and inhaled. Hmm. Vanilla!
Obviously, not a sock-stashing place. Wonder why vanilla? What in
Heaven’s name was she hiding here and why is it gone?
A foot fetish? Unbelievable! Not once during their.twelve years
together did Jordan suspect his wife was.into feet. Oh, sure, she
sometimes lingered when.polishing his shoes. And those times
she asked to.wash his toes always occurred after a hard day of
gardening in flip-flops, so it seemed perfectly normal. After all, it
was a job that had to be done. And during each foot cleansing,
Myra had finished with tears in her eyes. Hardly behavior typical of
a foot lover doing what turned her on.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked each time, to which she
always replied, “You wouldn’t understand.”
Hmm. Maybe she was crying from happiness. Naw! They were sad
tears, not tears of joy. Perhaps she was upset because she wanted
to kiss my feet, but feared rejection. Or maybe the little tufts of hair
in the center of each toe turned her off. Maybe she liked them
smooth. Perhaps—oh, hell, I could drive myself crazy with
speculation.
Jordan perused the part of the pages not cut out, hoping to find a
clue as to why she cried or why she kept this fetish secret from
him, if indeed it were not a joke, but the pages lay devoid of words.
Am I not an outspoken liberal? Have I not always stood up for poor
souls oppressed by zealots who like to punish others for victimless
crimes? Don't I always quote “Judge not, lest ye be judged,” from
the Bible?
Certainly, I would not have thought less of her for being attracted to
feet. Lot’s of people are into such things, are they not? It might be a
distasteful thing that I don’t understand, but I've never been a
critical man. Oh, God, I hope she didn’t prefer smelly feet, as I would’
ve sorely disappointed her, had that been the case.
Haunted by not knowing what she kept stashed away in the
carved-out space of the book, he decided to take the whole thing
to a lab and have the cavity analyzed for traces of whatever had
been kept there. But during a phone call to Forensic Detective Inc,
where he learned the cost would be outrageous and take up to a
month, he politely declined. The gentleman on the other end of the
line was kind enough to state the obvious: paper fiber and minute
traces of vanilla extract would probably be the only items found.
Searching for the cutouts in wastebaskets also proved futile. He
soon discovered she had done a thorough house cleaning the
morning of the day she died. All trash had been emptied and
hauled away.
A few mornings later, Jordan awoke to the high-pitched ring of the
front doorbell. He donned a robe and stumbled barefoot down the
stairs. When he opened the door, he found a postman with a
parcel post package. Must be another stack of recipes from her
mom, mailed before the accident. She was always sending them . . .
or was she? Maybe it was a lie . . . perhaps the packages were from
someone else all this time.
Jordan signed for the small box and slammed the door. He trotted
to the kitchen and ripped open one end of the carton with a knife.
As he tilted the package, a letter smelling of vanilla, along with a
dozen or so glossy photographs, plus a small tube of lotion
tumbled out. Opening the letter, he leaned against the counter for
support as he read:
God, no wonder she was on the computer all the time! Researching
her family tree, my foot! Jordan shuffled through the pictures,
which showcased the largest feet he’d ever seen, perfectly
manicured, naked and smooth, as if they’d been freshly shaved
and lotioned, no doubt. Unabashed full frontal, profile, and rear
shots. One large and small toe on opposing feet sported what
appeared to be gold diamond rings. He dropped the photos and
looked down at his own feet, which he had considered relatively
attractive—for feet—until now. He shuddered, peering at the hairy
toes and disgustingly small heels, all of which fit loosely into size
seven shoes.
He slid to the floor and wept, more for his poor wife than himself.
My dear Myra kept her fetish a secret because she cared. All these
years, she shielded me from the fact that I didn’t measure up!
discovered a shiny leather-bound book the size of an
encyclopedia. It lay flat on its side in the bottom shelf of the
bookcase behind dusty ones of normal proportion. Never having
seen it before, he pulled it from its poorly appointed hiding place,
dislodging the more familiar books.
He looked over the hand-stenciled, gold-lettered cover, which read
“Myra Franks,” and discovered a brass lock—the type often
associated with diaries—ribboned over the middle of the opening.
Hmm. This is very strange. I had no idea my wife was keeping a
journal . . . or diary . . . or whatever it is.
Frank’s mind floated back to the little chapel at Sperlinger
Mortuary. She’d looked so beautiful. The mortician did an excellent
job reconstructing her face, after that horrible car crash. He
shuddered, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. God, how
long has it been now? Jeesh! Barely three days, I guess.
Running his fingers over the raised letters, Jordan wiped a tear
from his eye. Can’t imagine why she’d lock it. We had no secrets.
He walked to the fireplace mantel and took a ring of keys from a
crystal candy dish, where Myra always kept a spare set. Looking
them over, he found a silver one that stuck out like a shark in a
goldfish pond. Twice as small as the others, it possessed a double
serrated edge.
He used it on the lock, which immediately popped loose. Pulse
racing, he opened the book and found that a crude, square area
had been cut out of the pages, much like the space left after a
predator rips the heart from its victim. Pictures of bare feet,
obviously clipped from magazines, decorated the inside cover, in
the midst of which more gold letters assaulted his eyes: “My
Lovely Life as a Foot Fetishist.”
Oh, my God! My wife had a secret life? As a foot fetishist? This has
to be a joke!
He lifted the book to his nose and inhaled. Hmm. Vanilla!
Obviously, not a sock-stashing place. Wonder why vanilla? What in
Heaven’s name was she hiding here and why is it gone?
A foot fetish? Unbelievable! Not once during their.twelve years
together did Jordan suspect his wife was.into feet. Oh, sure, she
sometimes lingered when.polishing his shoes. And those times
she asked to.wash his toes always occurred after a hard day of
gardening in flip-flops, so it seemed perfectly normal. After all, it
was a job that had to be done. And during each foot cleansing,
Myra had finished with tears in her eyes. Hardly behavior typical of
a foot lover doing what turned her on.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked each time, to which she
always replied, “You wouldn’t understand.”
Hmm. Maybe she was crying from happiness. Naw! They were sad
tears, not tears of joy. Perhaps she was upset because she wanted
to kiss my feet, but feared rejection. Or maybe the little tufts of hair
in the center of each toe turned her off. Maybe she liked them
smooth. Perhaps—oh, hell, I could drive myself crazy with
speculation.
Jordan perused the part of the pages not cut out, hoping to find a
clue as to why she cried or why she kept this fetish secret from
him, if indeed it were not a joke, but the pages lay devoid of words.
Am I not an outspoken liberal? Have I not always stood up for poor
souls oppressed by zealots who like to punish others for victimless
crimes? Don't I always quote “Judge not, lest ye be judged,” from
the Bible?
Certainly, I would not have thought less of her for being attracted to
feet. Lot’s of people are into such things, are they not? It might be a
distasteful thing that I don’t understand, but I've never been a
critical man. Oh, God, I hope she didn’t prefer smelly feet, as I would’
ve sorely disappointed her, had that been the case.
Haunted by not knowing what she kept stashed away in the
carved-out space of the book, he decided to take the whole thing
to a lab and have the cavity analyzed for traces of whatever had
been kept there. But during a phone call to Forensic Detective Inc,
where he learned the cost would be outrageous and take up to a
month, he politely declined. The gentleman on the other end of the
line was kind enough to state the obvious: paper fiber and minute
traces of vanilla extract would probably be the only items found.
Searching for the cutouts in wastebaskets also proved futile. He
soon discovered she had done a thorough house cleaning the
morning of the day she died. All trash had been emptied and
hauled away.
A few mornings later, Jordan awoke to the high-pitched ring of the
front doorbell. He donned a robe and stumbled barefoot down the
stairs. When he opened the door, he found a postman with a
parcel post package. Must be another stack of recipes from her
mom, mailed before the accident. She was always sending them . . .
or was she? Maybe it was a lie . . . perhaps the packages were from
someone else all this time.
Jordan signed for the small box and slammed the door. He trotted
to the kitchen and ripped open one end of the carton with a knife.
As he tilted the package, a letter smelling of vanilla, along with a
dozen or so glossy photographs, plus a small tube of lotion
tumbled out. Opening the letter, he leaned against the counter for
support as he read:
God, no wonder she was on the computer all the time! Researching
her family tree, my foot! Jordan shuffled through the pictures,
which showcased the largest feet he’d ever seen, perfectly
manicured, naked and smooth, as if they’d been freshly shaved
and lotioned, no doubt. Unabashed full frontal, profile, and rear
shots. One large and small toe on opposing feet sported what
appeared to be gold diamond rings. He dropped the photos and
looked down at his own feet, which he had considered relatively
attractive—for feet—until now. He shuddered, peering at the hairy
toes and disgustingly small heels, all of which fit loosely into size
seven shoes.
He slid to the floor and wept, more for his poor wife than himself.
My dear Myra kept her fetish a secret because she cared. All these
years, she shielded me from the fact that I didn’t measure up!
Gale Chester Whittington, Gay Author
Free Short Story
Don't forget to remember: Bargains fade, lose their shimmer.
Real heart thirst does not sever but lives forever.
Real heart thirst does not sever but lives forever.
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| SOOTH YOUR SOUL! Visit my other website for exquisite photos and useful tips on flowers, aquariums, guppies, and ponds. FreeFishCareTips.com |
| "You can only fit so many martyrs in a before it rips and falls apart."--Gale Chester Whittington Blog Archives |
| The Secret Life of Myra Franks By Gale Chester Whittington ==Copyright 2004-2009== |
Dear Myra,
My Darling TippieToes24,
---my sweet-footed cyber mate---
Keep these pictures in the secret hiding place you have
readied in loving anticipation. They have been carefully
photos downloaded from the Internet could never
provide. Take them out, my darling, and kiss them in
the dark of night or whenever you feel lonely. Gently
massage your lovely toes with the creamy lotion, so that
with your every breath, the sugary vanilla scent will
remind you of me and mine. My feet will tremble with
pleasure at each touch, for your love reaches across
time and space.
Love Without Defeet,
Your fleet-footed SizeFifteenMan7,
a.k.a. Ted.”
My Darling TippieToes24,
---my sweet-footed cyber mate---
Keep these pictures in the secret hiding place you have
readied in loving anticipation. They have been carefully
photos downloaded from the Internet could never
provide. Take them out, my darling, and kiss them in
the dark of night or whenever you feel lonely. Gently
massage your lovely toes with the creamy lotion, so that
with your every breath, the sugary vanilla scent will
remind you of me and mine. My feet will tremble with
pleasure at each touch, for your love reaches across
time and space.
Love Without Defeet,
Your fleet-footed SizeFifteenMan7,
a.k.a. Ted.”
| SOOTH YOUR SOUL |