Tears of Laughter
It’s another dreary, wet night in the heart of the city, and the feet of passers-by keep on passing by. Few want to stop and stand and get wet in such inclement weather – merely to have their feet kissed by a wretched humble-head such as yourself!
But then, out of the gloom, you espy from the corner of your lowly eye a hoodied goddess heading confidently towards you – a hardy, female soul who is disposed to grant you the honour of kissing her boots on a dismal night such as this! Oh joy! Oh praise! Thank you to the gods!
See how, as the young woman stretches forth her anklebooted foot in the rain, her right jean-hem rises up an inch or so to reveal the top of her plain grey bootsock. What a sight for sore eyes – the sock of a girl! Inside her boot! Whilst she is still wearing it! And now just inches from your face!
If you were permitted to talk you would verbally extol the virtues of this beautiful young woman’s sock. If you were permitted to kiss or nuzzle your customers’ socks, you would now do so. For this is the sweaty, warm bootsock of a ginger-haired and hoodied goddess! But sadly, of course, you are permitted to do no such things. You are merely an ornamental street-foot kisser; a piece of street furniture as insignificant, and as powerless, as the recycling bin next to your humble head. A bright young woman like this would no more permit you to touch her sock than she would any other part of her glorious, female body. She is above you – in every sense of the word – and you must content yourself with being closeto her sock. You can look, but not touch – not even with your menial mouth!
Ha! Ha! Do you think the heavens are weeping for you, impotent slave? Do you think that’s why it is raining? Or are they tears of laughter on the part of the gods – laughing at you as you are mesmerised by the merest glimpse of a girl’s ordinary-everyday bootsock!
The wearer of the grey bootsock moves on – and she certainly is laughing at you!
