Not A Date

To be clear, and for the avoidance of doubt, this bright and beautiful, young woman is not my girlfriend, and this is most definitely nota date. Hell, she’s never even met me before, and to her I’m just another piece of anonymous street furniture. She’s just as likely to want to go out on a date with the recycling bin located next to my humble head (the bin certainly has better prospects than me!).

But for just a few precious moments I can at least feel as if I am of some use to her, as I kiss-respect her street-soiled sneakers in public. I can make her feel good about herself; superior; big her up as she heads into town to meet up with her mates.

Like I said, I’m notprivileged enough to be one of her mates. I don’t even know her name. But I do have the inestimable honour of tasting her sneaker-dirt on my lips, and of studying her pure, white socks in glorious close-up, as I serve her feet on the street. What more could an ugly, public footslave like me hope for?













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