Here Comes Trouble
Here comes trouble!
I recognise the dirty, white canvas sneakers and grey socks of regular customer-mistress Ms Marielle Madam walking towards me up Hookers’ Hill. You would probably recognise people from their faces, but from my lowly, ankle-height position it’s their feet and footwear that I get to know and recognise.
I can just see, out of the corner of my eye, however, that customer-mistress Ms Marielle Madam is carrying a bag. That’s bound to spell trouble for me, for customer-mistress Ms Marielle is wont to tease and torment me in the most humiliating and inventive of ways. In fact, she never leaves me alone! Not a day goes by when she does not visit me in order to torment me in some way or other – as is her perfect right as a free young woman of the Gynarchy!
This evening, as soon as she reaches my humble head, she crouches down and manipulates my chin so that I am obliged to look at her shoes and socks. She asks me whether I like the socks she has on today – thick, mottled, grey towelling socks – and do I think they might be warm and sweaty inside her canvas sneakers, since they have been on her feet all day?
It is quite a rare thing for a customer to ask my opinion on their footwear, since they don’t really care what I think, so I do feel honoured to be asked. My answer, however, is already predetermined by law (and she knows it). Under the Female Laws of the Gynarchy, to which I am subject, I must reply that I do indeed like the mistress’s socks, and thank her kindly for asking, but that, if she will forgive me, I don’t like her socks all that much, since it is deeply humiliating and degrading for me to have to study and admire a girl’s socks.
She laughs, of course, at my cringingly obsequious response, and then mock-apologises for the fact that she is wearing plain grey socks on her feet today, as she is sure I would much prefer to study a pair of feminine pink or flowery-patterned socks on her feet? Again I must respond as dictated by the laws of the Gynarchy, which is along the lines that I am honoured and privileged, if degraded, to have to observe whatever style of socks the beautiful customer-mistress has chosen to wear, and I again must thank her kindly for showing me her socks. I even make so bold this time as to venture off script, and positively extol the virtues of my mocking customer-mistress’s plain, grey socks as I politely tell her very much admire the mottled grey effect on her socks. She laughs again, and tells me that the ‘mottled’ effect is down to wear and tear on her socks, as she has worn this particular pair many times before (I know she has – I’ve seen them!)
She goes on to say, sarcastically, that she is glad I like plain-coloured socks, as she has kindly brought me a pair of her used, plain brown socks for me to sniff and get to know. She then delves into her carrier bag and duly produces a pair of plain brown, female socks with just a small stripe effect on the cuffs. She casually drapes one of the dirty, used socks over the top of my confined head, and then scrunches up the other brown sock in her right hand before shoving it into my face directly over my nose. She then orders me to breathe in through my nose so that I might fully appreciate her stale sock-stink.
Needless to say I obey, and immediately my sense of smell is overwhelmed with the aroma of sweaty, girl sock. The owner and erstwhile wearer of the sock commands me to describe the smell to her, which I do by politely informing her that her sock smells tart and vinegary; ammonic even. She laughs and tells me that this will no doubt be down to the fact that she was wearing her brown socks when she went for a three mile jog in the park yesterday, which also, she says, explains why her white sneakers are so grubby and dirty. I thank the mistress kindly for this explanation, and for permitting me to smell her precious jogging-sock smell.
After some 3 minutes or so of having to breathe in the unique and very personal, stinky aroma of customer-mistress Ms Marielle Madam’s sweaty, used sock (but after what seems like an eternity) she finally removes her sock from my face allowing me to once again breathe in the polluted air of the city. It’s a relief for me, and I praise and bless her for her kindness in letting me breathe fresh air again.
She tells me I’m welcome, and then puts her dirty socks back into her carrier bag before walking off triumphantly towards the bright lights of the big city. As well she might, since she has just compelled a helpless humble head on Hookers’ Hill to not only sniff her stinky, day-old socksweat, but also extol the virtues of that sweat. Furthermore, my face now reeks of her stale socksweat – an honour if ever there was one!
