How I Noticed Jared

How I Noticed Jared
From left: Samuel H. Levine, Kyle Soller and Andrew Burnap, in “The Inheritance.”
I didn’t notice Jared. He was just some guy in my drama class, until I saw him in bare feet. I have a thing with feet, you see. It’s nothing weird—at least, I don’t think so. I’m not gay or anything sick like that. Jared simply has nice feet- esthetically, you know? I’m not sure what’s wrong with me, but I can’t stop thinking about him right now… I’m just taking that stupid class because I need an art credit to graduate. My ass can’t even sing or draw. So, what choices did I have? I think the class isn’t all that bad. It wasn’t until two weeks ago.
I think I should stop avoiding it and actually talk about it, but I feel like writing it down makes it more real—more twisted. I’m so obsessed that I’m keeping a diary about it, like some damn girl? What the heck is going on? Okay, my head isn’t in the proper place since I’ve been experiencing troubles with my girlfriend. And I swear I had no idea it was a guy when I first looked at his feet. That may sound like nonsense, but it isn’t! The class was helping Mrs. Sagel clean out her closet of costumes. It’s really a long row of closets and cupboards along the wall of her classroom, so that with all the doors open, you can’t see much up and down the line. I was working next to some goth weirdos and was completely immersed in my own world when I just happened to glance over. Some people were laughing, and I think I wanted to see what was going on, but the doors were in the way, so all I could see was the tool and hem of some awful costume dress, and these feet… these perfect feet.
I think I should have figured they belonged to a boy. The balls of his feet were quite wide, and the tendons were visible. hey stuck out just a little from the top  of his feet and went to his toes like guitar strings. Yeah, I suppose I must have known deep down that they belonged to a boy, but can you blame me for wanting to think they belonged to a girl? He does have a peculiar walking way, especially when he laughs, in which he stands on the balls of his feet. It’s really graceful. That was something I had never noticed before. How could I go so long without noticing him? He had to have worn sandals at some point? But I believe it doesn’t matter. All that counts is that I want to see and touch his feet, and for the first time in my life, I wish I could sketch. I’d give anything to have his feet immortalized on paint. I’m writing this because I need to get it out. I’m hoping that writing everything down will keep me from doing something stupid. Maybe if I can explain why they grabbed me, it will all be over. It’s so bad that I had a dream about him last week. It upset me so much that I skipped drama class the next day. You might think that’s stupid, but maybe if I tell you about it, you’ll understand.
We were in my room, playing Xbox together, simply like my mates and I do. He was dressed just like he would be in school. He was wearing a white and teal punk graphic tee, his belt has little metal pyramids all along it, and his jeans are slung so low that when he moves about on the bean-bag chair, I can see a trail of hair running from his belly button to the visible edge of his underwear. I watch all of this quietly, puzzled by his fashion sense, because I always wear the generic jeans and tees my mom buys at Wal-Mart. His hair is also the polar opposite of mine. It’s long for a boy, I think, falling down to the bridge of his nose, and he keeps blowing it out of the way with little puffs that I’m sure he doesn’t even realize he’s doing. In the dream, I get the impression that, while everything is nice in some obscure way, what really catches my attention—and I mean really catches my attention—is that he’s barefoot. I get hard quickly. I can’t help but be glad that we’re now sitting down – wondering: What the fuck!  He’s a fucking dude. Then he realizes my stare and says something that I find completely bizarre, “Don’t look at my feet. They’re ugly.”
I look at him, astounded, and see he’s completely serious. “But, dude, your feet are beautiful.” “Don’t fuck with me. I get enough of that shit from your buddies.” I don’t understand why he’s upset. “What?” “Don’t act all stupid. Why did you invite me over here anyway? Are Chris and Nathan gonna jump out so you guys can play a rousing game of kick the fairy?” His rage brightens his eyes. The blue looks like little chips of ice. “I invited you over because I’ve got a chub just looking at your fucking feet.” “I… Brock, are you serious?” I don’t say anything in return. I just stand up. “Oh my god.” I sit back down and stare at the wall, unable to look at his shocked and perplexed look on his face.   I’m embarrassed by how small my voice sounds. I’m not sure how much time has passed, but it feels like ages before he speaks. “Do you really think my feet are beautiful?”  I nod but do not turn to face him. “I have these scars though…”
I have to turn around since his voice is quiet. He’s pointing to a spot on the top of his left foot that I don’t notice at first. Then I see the faint lavender lines. The scars are thin and pale, clearly old, and they run up his left foot and down his right calf onto that heel.  In a way that my waking mind cannot articulate, the scars make his feet even more perfect. “I think the scars only make them more beautiful. Can I… can I touch them?” I’m touching them now, his response lost on the cutting room floor of my subconscious, and his skin is soft except for his calloused yet smooth heel. The hair on the top of his foot is minimal and fine. After that, I kiss his foot. I can’t help myself. Worse, once I get started, I can’t stop. I’m kissing and caressing his left foot on my hand. I lick the scars going up the side before licking his big toe. I playfully nip at it before pulling it into my mouth. He groans deep in his chest, then presses his right foot on my junk, his toes attempting to stroke me through the thick fabric of my jeans. I feel like I could come just like this, and he clearly does as well, because he pulls out his cock and begins stroking it.
When I awoke, my sheets were wet—I was mortified! I had a wet dream about sucking a guy’s toes as he jacked his dick! Thank god that was just sweat; my entire body was soaked in it. But let me tell you, that was the most sexual dream I’ve ever had. Do you understand why I’m so upset about this? What the heck am I meant to do about this? I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and I didn’t recall his feet having any scars, so I set out to my mission to discover whether he did. I got my answer a few days ago. He came to class with sandals, and he really does! He has the exact same scars! I suppose I must have noticed without realizing it, you know? How else could I have conceived them in my dream? The bad part is that he caught me looking. I was stunned that they were there, and as I looked up, he arched his brow at me. Then he gave me a good assessing look, an up and down job, as if I were a slab of meat. I felt so disgusted  I wanted to punch his fucking lights out, but the worst part—the worst god damn fucking part—was that I was as hard as fucking iron right away. I wish I could say that all I wanted to do was punch him, but a major part of me (and I guess you know which one) urged me to throw him down on the floor, suck his toes, and then fuck him into the rug until he couldn’t walk straight.
Yesterday ….I was staring at him again yesterday. He was standing a few steps away, wearing sandals once more. I swear it was intentional. It wasn’t even that nice outside… yet the asshole caught me looking again. It wasn’t only at his feet either. I’d gently moved my eyes up his body (trying not to think about his slender cock from my dream), and when I got to his head, I was shocked to find he wasn’t talking to his buddy anymore, but was staring at me with this sly little smirk on his lips. I wished I could wipe that smug smile of his face! I wanted to (fuck)beat his ass and stomp(lick, kiss, caress) on his stupid feet. This whole fucking situation is driving me crazy. Today Jared gave me his phone number today.  I was packing up my stuff after class. I wasn’t in a rush because drama was the last class of the day. I always wait till the frenzy to leave has calmed down so that the traffic out of the parking lot isn’t insane. So, I’m standing there stuffing my shit into my bag when he came over to me. I’m not sure who it is at first since all I see are some vans with harlequin patterns on them and then a piece of paper is set on top of my desk.
I look up, but he’s already walking away. I don’t say anything since I don’t know what to say, and I simply pick up the paper. It says on the inside: “Why don’t you just ask me to let you look at them? I’m not going to wear sandals until you do.” There was also his phone number. I look up fast, not quite believing he could be telling me this, and he’s standing in the doorway. He gives me this weird smile, as I’m still not sure what to make of, and continues; “I mean it. No more shows for free you freak.” I’m still not saying anything. I swear I couldn’t do it. Because I was physically unable to speak, I just nodded and he walked away. Why was I simply standing there like a moron? Why didn’t I tell him he was insane or that if he attempted to come onto me again, my buddies and I were going to beat him up? Why couldn’t I just nod and put his phone number in my pocket? I don’t want to call him. I’m not interested in seeing him. I don’t. I just wish I could convince my dick (and my heart) of the same. I wish I could keep from phoning him, but I don’t believe I can. I can’t bear the idea of never again seeing his beautiful feet again. I’ve been in denial the entire time. That noise in my ears, the sound that kept me from thinking clearly or getting out of this mess, was the sound of air rushing past me as I dropped. I can only hope that this abyss has a bottom and that I won’t free-fall forever. It’s then, with a sigh, that I pick up the phone.
Originally published on literotica.
Jack - FOOTandToes

Jack - FOOTandToes

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