The Foot Doctor Match Maker

Cole:

“Good first day, Kid. You’re gonna be okay. And by the end of the summer, you’ll have muscle on those skinny bones.”

“Hey! I do cardio,” I protested.

My new boss chuckled, “And we’re all very impressed.”

No, they’re really not. All of my fellow construction site workers are beefy, manly men. Muscled, oily, sweaty, dirty men. They’re in their 20’s and 30’s. I’m not quite 19. Before this summer job ends, I will be. But as of today…let’s just say that my baby face doesn’t look a single day older than the 18 years I officially still am. My name is Cole, but everyone here has called me “Kid” all day and I can already tell that it’ll stick all summer. I don’t love that.

I’m home for the summer, having just finished my first year of college. My first year of school has been great, but it’s weird being home. It’s weird because home is a place that I’ve never been before. My parents moved while I was away at school. The home I grew up in for 17 years is someone else’s home now. Like I said…weird. So the job I had in high school isn’t there for me anymore. Well, I guess technically the job is still there for me, but I’m not there for it. So, I’m in a strange house, in a strange town, with strange neighbors, working a strange job and I have no friends. It’s gonna be a long summer.

But I was lucky to get this job. I’ll make a crap-ton of money for three months and have plenty of spending cash to get me through my second year of school. My boss was right, I am skinny. I love to run, but I never work out with weights. I actually am looking forward to toning up a little. And I love that I’ll be working outside every day. Despite being kidded all day about my age and size, everyone has actually been really helpful and nice. I was half expecting, being the new guy, some type of first day hazing or something, but no. If anything, they seem to be looking out for me. Like I’m everybody’s kid brother or something. Right. Kid.

My boss (I think his name is David, but everyone calls him Boss) says, “I gave you my address, right? We’ll see you at my house tonight?”

Apparently, every Wednesday is poker night. Everyone makes it as often as they can. I’m not going to alienate myself by not participating. Besides, I like poker. My baby face sucks at bluffing, but I always enjoy playing. I say, “Yeah, I’ll be there. Aren’t there like 24 of us?”

He grins, “We start with 4 tables of six and consolidate as people drop out. It’s a good time.”

“Cool.”

“Seriously, Kid, you did great today.”

I start to walk out of his office, but one of his big strong hands grabs my shoulder and stops me. “Kid. I just noticed. Those are not the safety work boots I told you were required for the job. Those look like they cost $35 at Walmart. You need to get the right boots. Like now.”

My face flushes, “Umm. Until I get my first paycheck, these were all I could afford. They look the same.”

He shakes his head, “Those are garbage. You have to have the right footwear. It’s not just to protect your feet on a construction site, as important as that is. For insurance purposes, I can’t let you work again without them.” He sighs, “You need to go see The Foot Doctor.”

“The Foot Doctor? Really?”

The Boss laughs again, “He’s not actually a podiatrist. That’s the name of his store and that’s what we all call him. He’ll take care of you – he takes care of all of us. But you have to go right now. He comes to our poker nights, so he closes shop early on Wednesdays.”

“But I need to stop at home and take a shower first. I’m smelly and sweaty.”

He chuckles again, “First, you’re not nearly as sweaty and smelly as the rest of us. Second, it’s a full-service analysis on your first visit and if you don’t leave now, you’ll never make it in time.”

“Can’t I go in the morning before work?”

“No. You can’t be late. I need you first thing. Plus, proper measurements can only be taken in the afternoon when your feet are at their biggest.”

That sounds weird. I say, “But I still have no money.”

He grins at me. “You’re lucky I like you, Kid. I’m gonna call ahead to The Foot Doctor and tell him to wait for you. I’ll also have him put your boots and whatever else he thinks you need on my account.”

I shake his hand, “Thanks again, Boss. So, he’s really not a doctor?”

“No, but honestly, if he were, he’d be the best doctor you’d ever have.”

The Foot Doctor:

David called to tell me he was sending his new guy my way. He asked me to stay open until the Kid gets here and to give him the full-service treatment. To put it on his account. He told me that the wait would be well worth it. David is a good friend.

We sell much more than just work boots but I named my store The Foot Doctor because the boots are what we’re known for. We also sell work socks, work jeans, belts, work shirts, safety goggles, work gloves, and braces for any and every body part that can possibly wear a brace. But those are all add-ons. People come here for the boots.

I see the Kid coming from a mile away. He looks so young. He’s half my age at best. David was right. This is a ridiculously cute Kid. Definitely worth staying late for.

I push the door open, usher him in and close the door, twisting the thumb lock behind him. He cocks an eyebrow at me and I melt a little on the inside. I explain, “We close early on Wednesdays for the poker game. David had me wait for you.”

I size him up with my eyes. He’s about 5’ 10”, 150 pounds, a 30” waist and assuming his cheap boots are a proper fit, I’d guess a 10.5 shoe. His dirty blond hair is a haphazard mess atop his head and his eyes are a cool blue. The most endearing thing about him though is something that hardly anyone else would even notice. On just his right leg, his jeans are caught on the top of his boot. It gives me a flutter. He has no clue how adorable he is. I feel my cheeks heat up and perspiration beads at my hairline.

“I need a proper protective pair of work boots,” he says. “The Boss said you’d know the specifications. I wear a ten-and-a-half.”

I knew it! I should work a booth at a carnival guessing people’s shoe sizes. Well, hot guys’ shoe sizes anyway. I’d probably have a 99% success rate. I tell my new friend, “Hold on, son. You say you’re a 10.5, but when was your last professional measurement?”

“Umm… Never.” He smiles again and it makes me smile too.

“Well, that’s about to change. You’d be surprised how many people think they’re a certain size, but actually end up being wrong. An improperly fitted shoe, especially in your line of work, is a safety risk. My customers never get the bum’s rush.” Especially when they’re as adorable as you, we’re alone and the door is locked.

“You were already so nice to wait for me. I don’t want to keep you any longer than you’ve already stayed.”

“Didn’t David tell you that this would be full-service?”

“Yeah, but I guess I didn’t realize what all that would entail. I’m still not sure I do.”

I put my hands on his shoulders and guide him to a chair. “Taking proper care of your feet is crucially important. Looking at you I’d guess you’re a runner. Am I right?”

“How did you know?”

I’m desperately trying to see through your clothes and ogle your naked form. I say, “Lucky guess. When you run, you don’t just grab any old sneakers and take off, do you? No. You wear proper runners, and not the cheapest available either. Maybe you have inserts too. Maybe you put on compression sleeves to protect your knees. You stretch and warm up your muscles. You have a whole routine, right?”

“Wow. It’s like you’ve been spying on me.”

Tell me your address and I will. “Eight-hour work days on the construction site are the same thing. You have to prepare and you need the proper equipment. In order to determine exactly what that proper equipment is, we need to begin with a foot health physical. I’ll examine you thoroughly, looking for calluses, blisters, bunions, corns-”

“Ew!”

I laugh. He’s cute AND funny. “How old are you?”

“Almost 19.”

I feel a twitch inside my jeans. “Your feet are still young, innocent babies. But that’s my point. You want to keep your feet that way as long as you possibly can. Take care of your feet and they’ll take care of you. You don’t want gross old-person foot problems.”

“You really are The Foot Doctor. Okay. My feet are in your capable hands.”

Not yet they aren’t, but I’m literally moist with anticipation. A cloud of concern crosses his face. I ask, “What’s wrong?”

“Umm… This is a little embarrassing.”

“Tell me.”

“You mentioned gross foot problems.” He lets out a breath, “I’m pretty sure I don’t have any corns, but…”

“But…?”

“But I’ve been working on my feet all day. Outside in the heat. No time for a shower. On a normal day I totally don’t have a foot odor problem, but today? I might not smell like a rose garden.”

I’d be disappointed if he didn’t have some funky musk. I’m hoping for it. I laugh and tell him, “I deal with dozens of men’s feet every day. I’m not expecting a rose garden but believe me when I tell you, I’ve had some pretty sour experiences before.”

“Again, ew.”

I smile, “You won’t even make my top 100 funk list. I’m sure you’re fine. And we can easily blame any aroma you might have on the cheap Walmart crap you’re wearing.”

I can see some tension leave his body. I’m getting excited. My fun is about to begin. So, yeah. I have a foot fetish. And yeah. I happen to own a work shoe store. Most of my customers happen to be working men. This is not a coincidence. They say it’s important to love what you do. I, much more so than most people, am living my dream. Especially when I get ahold of someone like this Kid here. There’s nothing else I’d rather do than my job right here and right now. Of course, not all of my customers are super-hot, almost 19-year-old boys. Most of them are not. And some of them do have gross bunions and corns. Some of them do reek like ass. Some of them, unlike the innocent Kid before me, enjoy making me handle their nasty hobbit feet. But this, right now, makes all the other shit worthwhile.

Some people with foot fetishes like it when the objects of their desire wear sandals. Or flip flops. Or go barefoot. Not me. I like to unwrap my presents. I like to first imagine what might be hiding inside those shoes and socks. Second, I love slowly untying laces. I crave peeling off damp, sweaty socks. It’s like a ritual to me. One that I never want to skip. The Kid bends down to remove a boot and I grab his wrist a little too aggressively, scaring him a tiny bit. I say, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. That’s my job. Full-service, remember?”

He returns to his upright position and I pick up his left foot (present #1) and place it in my lap. I slowly untie the cheap boot and loosen the lace. The boot slips off his foot revealing what I knew I’d find: White Nike crew socks. I bet 90% of 19-year-old boys across the country right now are wearing white Nike crew socks. God bless the fine people at Nike. I love socks. Or, feet in socks. Actually, I’m dying to strip the sock right off, but the long game is always more fun. And the sock is taught and smooth, clinging to his foot around every curve and contour. I swallow down a mouthful of saliva. And then the aroma hits me. It’s intoxicating. I want nothing more than to bury my nose into the arch of his socked foot and inhale the biggest breath of my life. It’s a good thing I’m wearing a pair of my own thick work jeans because not much else would conceal my raging boner.

Cole:

As soon as my boot slips off my foot, it hits me. The smell. I knew it. I really don’t usually have a foot odor problem. Not even after a good run. But today…I knew all that outside labor in the hot, humid day would take its toll. My foot is far away from my face, but it makes my nose crinkle in disgust. The Foot Doctor seems to have no reaction at all and his nose is mere inches away from the source of the problem. Am I imagining it? Maybe it’s psychosomatic. My nose crinkles more. No, it’s definitely real. Maybe The Foot Doctor wasn’t exaggerating when he described the nasty feet he sometimes has to deal with. Maybe dealing with feet all day long has desensitized his sense of smell. Or maybe I’m as gross as any of his customers and he’s just being polite.

Without removing my sock he begins to explore my foot with his hands. It feels both nice and uncomfortable at the same time. I’ve had many foot massages in the past year, most of them unsolicited, and I have to remind myself that this isn’t that. He is a professional and this is an examination. And when the sock comes off any second now, it might feel even more intimate, but in reality, he’ll just be checking for…what did he say? Calluses and blisters? Bunions and corns? Suddenly, he presses his thumb right into my heel. It takes me by surprise and I flinch a little.

He asks, “Did that hurt?”

“No. Why did you do it?”

“I was checking for plantar fasciitis. If you felt no pain, then you don’t have it. That’s good,” says the doctor.

He reaches his hands inside of my pant leg and hooks his fingers under the lip of my sock. He slowly pulls it down, peeling it off my calf, over my heel and off of my foot. His index finger accidentally drags along my sole and I squirm and fail to stifle a giggle. My foot is still damp from being trapped all day in boot prison and I feel the cool air of the room on my newly exposed bare skin. The examination turns more visual and suddenly I’m glad that I recently cut my toenails. When I used to neglect them sometimes, I looked like a wolverine. Of course, with the added attention of this past year, I’ve kept up with such things much more so than in the past. This visual inspection brings my naked foot even closer to the good doctor’s nose. How are his eyes not watering? Anyway, I don’t think he finds any legions or other concerning maladies because he lowers my foot back down to his lap and begins gently sliding his fingers up and down my arches. It’s gentle, but persistent and I have to bite my lip and grip the arm rests of my chair in a concerted effort to not laugh or scream.

He notices my predicament and explains, “Sorry again. I just need to check for high arches.”

I guess that makes sense. I mean, I think I’ve heard of high arches. It must be a real condition. I would assume that high arches are bad, but I really don’t know. I ask, “What’s the prognosis, Doc?”

He chuckles, “You’re gonna pull through.”

He continues on to examine each toe individually and I can’t help but let out an embarrassing groan of pleasure. What toe conditions could he be checking for? I’m not sure I want to know. Next, he tells me that he needs to know if have any pain anywhere. He says he’ll be pressing all areas of my foot and I need to tell him if anything hurts. So that’s what he does. Every square inch of my foot, top, bottom and sides gets a press and it’s all pleasure, no pain. Am I supposed to be enjoying the examination? Is something wrong with me?

Reading my mind, the doctor says, “There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. At least not with that one.” He sets my bare left foot down and replaces it with my still booted right foot. He begins the same routine on foot #2. As the boot comes off, I get a fresh waft of smelly funk. Now there are two feet fouling up the room. How is he tolerating this? This foot, fresh out of the boot, is extra damp and ultra-sensitive. I twitch and flinch at every touch. For the third time the doctor says, “Sorry.”

The Foot Doctor:

I’m practically getting high on his scent. If I’m not careful I might have an eruption inside my jeans. That would be uncomfortable. As I begin the same routine on his right foot, I start asking him some questions. This is unusual for me. I usually focus on my fetish and talk as little as possible, but this Kid isn’t just another sexy guy with sexy feet. I like him. He’s funny and cool. And at the very least, I’ll see him every Wednesday for the next few months at poker night.

“Where do you go to school?”

“Augustana.”

“Good school. Do you like it?”

“It’s cool. I like the campus and the classes. And my classmates are all pretty nice. Nothing like the assholes in high school.”

I scoff, “Only losers like high school. High school sucks.”

I guess I said the right thing because he rewards me with an adorable laugh.

“What’s your major?”

“Chemistry. I love lab work. And with everything you’ve taught me today about proper foot care, I’ll be able to stand in the lab 8 hours every day and remain corn-free until the day I retire.”

I bark out a laugh. “Are you making fun of me?” I squeeze his captive foot in my hand, not too hard but hard enough to display my dominance. “That’s a bold move considering the vulnerable position you find yourself in.”

He giggles, but it’s a nervous giggle.

I smile, “Kidding.”

He relaxes.

I strip off his second sock and this foot is as beautiful as the first one. As I do so, my thumb again “accidentally” drags along his sole and he involuntarily jerks and laughs. I pretend to be sorry for at least the fourth time. I’ve lost count. Would he notice if I steal his smelly white socks? I want to keep them on my bedside table forever. Maybe if I sell him a new pair of work socks and make him try them on, his old socks will be forgotten. Forgotten in my pocket.

I ask, “I assume the college paired you up with a roommate. How’s that going?”

I can hardly decipher his reply because my visual inspection has his musky bare foot only inches from my face. I’ve never sniffed glue or smoked pot, but I think I’m actually starting to buzz.

The Kid says, “His name is Danny. He’s a really nice guy. We became friends on the first day. I was afraid at first that we’d have nothing in common because we seemed so different. We’re the same height, but he’s on the wrestling team. He’s athletic and popular. His biceps are as big as my thighs.” The Kid flexes for me and, unimpressed with his own bicep says, “Mine are not.”

I laugh again. While it’s true that the Kid here is not gonna win a weightlifting competition anytime soon, when he flexed, it made my dick twitch in its denim prison.

I say, “You said you two are friends, right? I’m sure he doesn’t care about superficial stuff like that.”

“You’re right. He doesn’t. And being roommates, we spend more time together than with anyone else on campus. We’re cool.”

I’m not this kid’s dad (thank god), but it seems like there’s something he’s not saying. I feel protective of him. I prompt, “But…?”

He sighs, “This is gonna sound weird and maybe he and I were just raised differently. Maybe it’s how his family is or just how he grew up. Danny kind of doesn’t understand the concept of personal space.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. If this kid were my roommate, I’d pretty much violate his personal space on a daily basis too. “Had you ever shared a room with anyone else ever before? Like with a brother or something? Is he the first roommate you’ve ever had?”

“I’m an only child.”

“Look, Kid. When you share such a small room with another person, you end up all up in each other’s space. Tell me what you mean. Give me a couple examples.”

“He hugs me.”

I smile and a tingle spreads in my chest. I want to hug this kid right now too. I say, “Okay. And this bothers you?”

“Umm. No? But it’s weird. Is that weird? It’s kind of weird. He hugged me the moment I met him 9 months ago and has hugged me once every single day – that we’re in the same town – since then.”

“Okay. Some guys high-five, some guys fist-bump, some guys clap shoulders, some slap butts… I guess Danny hugs.”

“Yeah. A lot. And he holds the hug a beat or two longer than what seems natural. If so much hugging were natural. And sometimes during the hug, one of his hands accidentally ends up under my shirt and on my bare skin.”

“Uh…”

“Well, I guess I’m a little ticklish. I know it’s an accident, but he has to feel me flinch every time it happens. And there’s no way he doesn’t feel the goosebumps it gives me immediately upon contact.”

I’m halfway through my pain point/pressure test on his second foot. “So, we’ve established that he’s a hugger and you’re not. Have you thought about telling him? If he knew it made you uncomfortable, don’t you think he’d stop?”

Who the hell am I to suggest that someone else might stop doing something that he thought was making another person uncomfortable. I’m basically molesting this poor kid’s sexy, smelly foot as we’re talking.

He considers this, “But I don’t want to risk our friendship or make our roommate dynamic awkward. And besides, I never said I didn’t like the hugs. He’s a really good hugger. I just said it’s weird.”

“So, you like the hugs then.” I say it as a statement. An established fact.

He nods.

I shake my head, “What else you got?”

“He… Umm… He gives me massages.”

I haven’t met him, but I’m starting to really like Danny. I have a sudden mental image of this Kid with all four of his limbs tied to the corners of a massage table while he’s spread eagle and totally naked. In my mind he’s fully erect and a perfect 6 inches. Not small, but not so big that I can’t swallow him whole and too easily bring him to multiple convulsive orgasms. I shake the image clear of my head, but not so much that I can’t revisit it later, when I’m alone and sniffing his dirty socks while I lie in my bed giving myself multiple convulsive orgasms… I clear my throat and ask, “Massages?”

“Yeah. Unsolicited. Like, he just starts massaging on me. Pretty much every day.”

As I knead away at the Kid’s naked, captive foot, I ask, “How. Tell me what he does.”

“So, his last class runs later than mine. Every day I make it back to our dorm before him. If I’m standing when he enters, I get my daily hug first. If I’m sitting at my desk, he comes up behind me and massages my neck, shoulders and upper back. I don’t ask him to; he just does it. For like a half hour. I never massage him back, but he keeps massaging me.”

“And you don’t say anything about it? You just let it happen?”

“Like with the hugs, I don’t want to hurt his feelings or jeopardize our friendship. It’s not worth it. And like with the hugs, I kind of like the massages too.”

This Kid. I can’t stop smiling. “So you like the massages then.”

“Well, yeah. He has big, strong wrestler hands. He puts his hands on me and I kind of turn to jelly.”

He sees the confused look on my face.

“It’s just that it’s weird, right? Don’t you think it’s weird?”

This Kid is so asking the wrong person that question.

He continues, “I did try making myself unavailable, but that didn’t work out too well.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought, what if I’m not at my desk when he walks in? If he misses his opportunity, maybe he’ll slowly get out of the habit. So I took to studying while sitting on my bed with my back safely against the wall and my legs stretched in front of me.”

“But that didn’t work out?”

“Now he comes in, sits at the foot of my bed, puts my feet in his lap and gives me lengthy foot rubs.”

I really am about to cum.

“He always starts over the socks and halfway through, the socks come off. And you heard me right. I said ‘always’. It wasn’t a one-time thing. If I was on my bed, a foot massage was coming my way. Like it or not.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes! Of course I like it. His big, strong hands working away at my tired feet? But it makes me uncomfortable. Have you ever felt guilty pleasure and awkward embarrassment at the same time?”

Every day of my life. I say, “Maybe?”

“So I started leaving my shoes on. I figured if he walked in and found me on my bed as usual, but my shoes were still on, he’d skip the foot rub.”

“Did he? Skip the foot rub?”

“No. He sat down at the foot of my bed like always and put my feet in his lap like always. He almost seemed to enjoy this even more. Like my feet with shoes still on were a wrapped gift just for him.”

That’s exactly how I feel. Okay, Danny has a foot fetish. And he has the world’s best subject to exercise his demons on. If I wasn’t already, I am now totally jealous of Danny. I want to manhandle these beautiful feet every day. I want to trade lives with Danny.

The Kid continues, “So, he untied my lace and slipped off my shoe before giving me the same foot massage I’d been getting daily at that point. The thing is, the shoes being on made it worse for me.”

No. He means better. Not worse. It was better.

“Fresh out of the shoe, I was extra sensitive. He had to realize it, right? My sock was damp and my foot twitched at his every touch.”

Precum is absolutely gushing out of my dick at this point. I bite my lip. “So, he hugs you and gives you friendly massages. Is there anything else?”

“No. We’re friends. He’s a really nice guy. We talk about classes and friends and home and family. I’m super glad he’s my roommate.”

“You said you’re both very different people; I mean, he’s an athlete and popular. You said that you are not those things. Do you two share any of the same interests? Do you like the same books? Movies? Music? Do you binge the same shows?”

“Books and movies, I don’t know. Shows and music, yeah. I mean…I think so. Whenever I’m watching videos or shows on my laptop or on my phone, he comes and joins in with me. We talk about it and laugh and we both seem to enjoy it.”

“So, do you plan it? Do you have a schedule? A set routine? How does it work?”

“No routine. If I’m watching something he comes and sits next to me. It’s kind of another personal space thing of his. I know that laptops and iPhones are small, but he kind of leans right into me. Shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. One time, he actually fell asleep with his head on my shoulder.”

I’m starting to get a clearer picture here. This is a really smart, sensitive, intuitive Kid here. How can he be so clueless? I have finished my examination. I place his right foot down and declare it as healthy as its counterpart.

I ask the Kid, “Does he ever cross a line with you?”

He crinkles his nose, “What do you mean?”

“Everybody’s line is drawn in different places. Does Danny ever do anything to you that you don’t want done? Does he use his strength against you?”

“No.”

“Does he tickle you?”

“Only accidentally when he doesn’t realize it.”

“So… Never in a torturous, evil manner?”

“Never.”

“His hugs and massages are harmless?”

“Totally. A little weird, but well-intentioned.”

“He doesn’t violate you in any way?”

The Kid cocks another eyebrow at me.

“Does he… I don’t know. Does he spy on you in the showers?”

He’s shocked, “No!”

“Does he creep on you while you’re sleeping?”

“Oh my god! Of course not!”

“Have you ever caught him sniffing your dirty clothes?”

“Ew!”

“Does he try to get you naked? Does he parade himself around in front of you naked more than absolutely necessary as roommates?”

“He’s a nice guy. He’d never do any of that.”

This Kid. So smart and so dumb. I measure his feet. “You were right. You’re a 10.5. But these work boots come in European sizes. A man’s 10.5 is a European 44.”

I disappear into the back room and return with a pair of work socks and the proper sized boots that meet all of David’s specifications. There are several more things that I would generally do right now to my captive customer under normal circumstances. I would personally be the one to put his new work socks on his gorgeous feet, all the while taking unnecessary time and explaining the virtues of compression and breathability. I would put his new boots on his feet for him, ‘accidentally’ swiping up each sole multiple more times while doing so and lacing them up slowly and lovingly before putting him through numerous tests to ensure a proper fit. After pulling them back off, I might even be so bold as to give him a tongue bath, licking his salty, musky dried sweat right off his baby-smooth feet. Sucking his toes one at a time and making his eyes roll back into head. Then I’d tell him that he needs more safety gear. I’d fit him for a back brace, making him reach his arms high above his head, exposing his navel while I take measurements I don’t really need. If his belly button were a sexy innie, I’d continue the charade. If it were a gross outie, I’d leave it be. The thing with belly buttons is you never know what you’ve got until it’s revealed. I wanted to do all of that to this Kid today. I planned to. But now I can’t.

This isn’t the same Kid to me anymore. He’s not the random hot guy who walked in here an hour ago. He’s a really sweet, smart, sensitive, naïve Kid who has a boyfriend. He just doesn’t know it yet. Danny doesn’t have a foot fetish, or a tickle fetish. He has a Cole fetish. He’s in love with this Kid. And who could blame him. I am too. Dammit! How did it become my responsibility to clue this Kid in? Where are his parents? No, I’m not his dad. Or his teacher, his counsellor or even his Life Coach. But I feel like it. I feel like I’m his damn Uncle. That’s not what I had planned on feeling right about now. I squeeze my eyes closed and try to push the last lingering naughty thoughts from my mind as the Kid tries on his new socks and boots without my assistance. I’m not even 40 yet, but suddenly I feel like a dirty old man for what I’ve done here today. But I can make up for it.

“Hey Kid. Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

He blushes, “No. I haven’t.”

“How about a boyfriend?”

His blush deepens, “Not one of those either.”

“If you were to have either a girlfriend or a boyfriend, which would you prefer?”

I watch his Adam’s Apple bob as he swallows. “Umm… I’ve thought about it a little. I think it wouldn’t matter to me either way as long as it was the right person.”

I feel a lump in my throat and tears sting my eyes as I say, “That’s the most beautiful answer to that question that I’ve ever heard.”

He sees my misty eyes and reaches out a hand in concern, “Are you okay?”

I ignore the question, “Has Danny dated anyone since you’ve known him?”

He leans back and contemplates my question. “Come to think of it, no he hasn’t. That’s also weird because girls are constantly coming to our door looking for him. He’s always nice to them and gives them a few minutes of his time, but he never invites them in and he never leaves with them.”

“Why do you think that is?”

The Kid shrugs. “He hasn’t clicked with the right one yet?”

Danny is clicking with his right one alright. He just isn’t getting any clicks back. Yet. I place a hand on the Kid’s knee and give a gentle squeeze. “Let’s review what we know here. Danny is a good friend and a really nice guy. He is popular and a star athlete, but he spends most of his time hanging out with you. He turns away hot chicks because he’d rather be with you, even if it means rubbing your stinking feet. Every time he sees you, he smiles and hugs you. He gives you innocent massages just to have contact with you. He watches your lame videos and shows on your laptop just to be near you. Kid! Wake up! Danny is in love with you!”

His eyes bulge, “What? That’s not… Wait… Really?”

“You are both the smartest and the dumbest person I’ve ever met in my whole life.” I’m grinning at him. “Or you’re just an idiot 18-year-old boy like we all once were.” I give the knee another gentle squeeze, “From everything you’ve said, it sounds like you might like him too. I mean, ‘like-like’. Do you?”

He flops back in the chair. “I mean… Maybe? We only left school two days ago and I already kind of miss him. He’s definitely a gentle giant.”

I laugh, “Close your eyes and imagine Danny walking through the front door right now. How does that make you feel?”

He closes his eyes and a smile slowly materializes on his lips. He opens his eyes and leans forward again. “I felt a tingle.”

My eyes prickle with tears again and the lump is back in my throat. “Here’s the thing Kid. It’s a scary thing to take a chance and put yourself out there. He’s scared too. It’s especially dangerous when it’s two boys. What if he opened up to you and you turned him down? Not only would he be crushed, but he’d have to go on being your roommate. He might not have come right out and shared his innermost feelings with you yet, but he has made the first move. He’s been making that first move every single day for 9 months. He’s been dropping obvious clues everywhere that you’re too busy tripping over to actually notice. If this boy gives you the tingles, you need to get your head out of your ass and talk to him. Like really talk to him. He took the first step; you need to take the second step.”

The Kid frowns, “But the summer just started. I won’t see Danny again for 3 months.”

“You both go to Augustana, right? Where does he live?”

“Peoria.”

“That’s only 2 hours from here. Text him. Find out if he’s busy this weekend.”

“I don’t have a car.”

Dumb 18-year-old boys. “Does he? Maybe he could come up here. If not, you can borrow my car, or I’ll drive you down there myself.”

“Why would you do that for me? You’ve hardly known me for an hour.”

Because I’m a gross creeper and I need to make up for my earlier behavior. A tear rolls down my cheek and I force a smile. “I’m a sucker for a true love story. Send that text! Now!”

Cole:

The Foot Doctor is a really nice guy. Just like with David and my coworkers… How did I get so lucky?

I text Danny: “Hey. It’s Cole. I feel kind of stupid saying this. I know it’s only been a couple days but… I don’t know. I miss hanging out with you.”

Danny texts back immediately: “I am pretty awesome. I’d miss me too if I were you. LOL”

He adds a winking yellow emoji guy and I smile.

Me: “Are you free this weekend? If you can find a way to get up here, I’d like to show you around. Introduce you to some people. Hang out. Go to the beach at the lake or maybe go to Six Flags.”

Danny: “Really? We’ve never done anything off campus together before. Yeah, I’m free. I’d love to come see you this weekend. I can borrow my mom’s car. Wait. Is this just because you miss my incredible foot massages?”

Me: “LOL No. I mean I kind of do, but that’s not why. We can go to the beach or do whatever you want, but more than anything, I need to talk to you.”

Danny: “Are you okay?”

Me: “Better than ever. Well, once I… When I see you again… I’ll be better than ever. Danny… I… I didn’t know until just this moment that it was possible to stutter in a text.”

Danny: “Dude. Cole. You know you can tell me anything.”

The Foot Doctor has been reading this text exchange in real time as it’s been happening. I look into his eyes and he gives me a nod of encouragement.

Me: “Danny, I like you. I mean, I like-like you. There’s like a million reasons why and I want to tell you all of them. If we stay in all weekend, talking, eating pizza and getting fat, that’ll be fine too. I kind of feel like I’ve wasted the better part of 9 months and I have some catching up to do.”

There is a long pause with nothing. Excruciatingly long. I feel like I might cry. Finally, three dots appear.

Danny: “I can’t believe this is for real. I didn’t think you… I mean you never…”

Me: “I always did. I’ve just come to realize that my head was too far up my ass to… Danny? I really need a hug.”

The Foot doctor laughs. Danny and I text a few more times back and forth and we hammer out a plan to meet up Friday night and spend the weekend together. At my house. Where my unsuspecting parents live. This is going to be a big weekend. The Foot Doctor and I both stand. I’ve never been a big hugger, but I hug the shit out of him.

The Foot Doctor:

The Kid hugs me hard and for the third time in the past 20 minutes, a large lump swells in my throat. He thanks me again, but I just wave it off.

He says, “David told me you give all of his guys foot check-ups every six months. I guess my feet won’t be seeing you again until a year from now when I come back next summer.”

I grin, “Oh, I think I’ll be seeing your feet again sooner than you think. Like, tonight. At the poker game.”

He looks confused, “I’ve heard of no-shoes houses but not no socks. What do I not know about the game tonight?”

“David didn’t tell you, huh? We’re not just playing poker. We’re playing Strip Poker! I have no doubt your naked feet will be making a grand appearance.”

The Kid looks concerned, “Umm…”

“It’ll be fine. You’re among friends. But I will say, if you’re gonna sit next to me, you do need to stop at home and take a quick shower first. You do kind of reek.”

The Kid blushes, “Oh my god! I knew it! This is so embarrassing.”

I chortle, “I’m just giving you crap. You’re fine. Really. But still… Take that shower.”

I unlock the door and let him out, wearing his new work socks and work boots. He seems to have left his dirty old white Nike crew socks behind. Maybe that’s because they were out of sight and out of mind. Out of site in my back pocket. A souvenir for me. It’s not creepy. Not really. If I’m like an Uncle to the Kid, that’s fine. Sometimes Uncles and nephews horse around. Wrestle. Have tickle fights. Steal each other’s dirty sweat socks. Right? Maybe not. Do I need help?