A gay story: The Fall of Troy Pt. 01 Note to reader: this story contains sneaker fetish themes and is more of a slow build – asking you to come on a journey with me!
So I have a foot fetish. Well, it’s more than that – that’s such a generic term, really. Since I was a young guy, I remember liking the smell of used sneakers or socks, especially of a boy I thought was cute. I remember going back to the locker room in grade school to “go to the bathroom” and finding one of my latest crush’s shoes, putting it over my face, and inhaling deeply. There was the occasional shoe that smelled bad to me, but most of the smells were appealing. It felt like getting close to a boy in an intimate way, when being close to him in any other way wasn’t possible. Some people might think that’s creepy, but is it any worse than dwelling on some of the thoughts I had when I’d look at my crushes? I didn’t steal their shoes or mar them in any way…I just experienced them.
And before you write it off as weird or gross, let me make the case for this as a fetish. Some of the theory behind fetishes is that they are substitutes for something, in my case for a guy I can’t be intimate with. So why not a sweaty shirt, or underwear? Those are ways to enjoy a guys scent, for sure, but they get washed regularly and you’d have to find them dirty. Shoes generally don’t get washed. Add to that the fact that, as I’ve discovered (and who better to know?) there are sort of “categories” of foot smells, maybe just a few – some musty, some that just seem to “smell like feet,” some that have hints of Swiss cheese or fish (not like, gross…you’ll have to trust me here) – but each guy’s scent deep down is unique to him and doesn’t really smell like anyone else’s. So that adds a further level of intimacy, I guess. When I huff a guy’s sneaker I’m thinking, this really is his scent and not someone else’s.
I’ve met some guys over the years who were also into either the smell of sneakers or other aspects of feet, and also some guys who were just open-minded and who got turned on because their sneakers or feet turned me on. So I’ve been able to explore various ways to enjoy them. But as I got older and settled down, things like this were just less available – I’m no longer in settings where I tend to be surrounded by guys’ sneakers, I have to work and be responsible, and fewer and fewer of the archetypal “hot young jocks” find me attractive. So, while my fetish wasn’t the primary way in which I got sexual gratification, and I had a regular partner, at times it would rear its head and I’d feel a burning desire for a hot guy’s sneakers: to touch them, smell them, even taste them, but with none available. Sometimes my own sneakers would satisfy me, particularly after a hard workout, but I really wanted someone else’s. I didn’t want it so much that I’d risk lurking somewhere or stealing – there are certainly those who do! – but I did want it, badly.
Like for many people with similar desires that present a barrier or challenge, the internet came to the rescue. I found sites where people would sell anything. Those that were upfront and honest about what they were selling, and for what purpose, kind of creeped me out. The prices were usually exorbitant, tapping into that desperation that some in my situation might feel. Also, the offers felt “forced” to me – some hot jock would advertise that he ran in his sneakers barefoot for weeks in the summer, offer to cum in them and include underwear stuffed into them, and there were pictures of him (allegedly), and “I’m just a poor student trying to make money,” etc. None of that appealed to me, kind of like the online dating profile that’s clearly trying too hard. It also made me feel a little patronized, like, “Here you go, you sicko!” No, I wanted a pair of normally-used, really broken-in shoes, used for honest activity, that deeply smelled of the hot guy who wore them. He most likely wouldn’t want to know how I felt about them (and him), I didn’t need him to know, and I could just enjoy the thoughts and smells of him by myself. That kind of thing.
But you never know what can happen.
– – – – – – –
I like to know where my sneakers have come from, and who owned them. There are resellers of used sports equipment, and thrift stores – but this fetish is a substitute for a guy I would want to play around with but can’t, and I’d prefer the sneakers as fresh off his feet as possible, or at least directly from him.
I’ve had a few pairs of sneakers I’ve bought online in the past, from a Big Online Auction Place. I would typically look for a pair of nicely-worn sneakers, read the description, and see what else the seller is selling. One cool March a while back, when the animals and I were coming out of hibernation and feeling randy, I came across a pair of size 12 Adidas cleats, the kind used for football or lacrosse. I love cleats because they’ve often been used hard. These were originally white high-tops with silver accents, but they had become pretty dirty with use, and one even had a small tear in the outsole. The molded spikes on the soles had obvious dirt still on them. I scrolled down for the description:
“These have really been used, but have plenty of life left! They were my favorites for practice and I used them for a couple seasons before I got new ones. Now they can be yours!”
I had to wonder if some of these guys knew who their audience was and were hinting at it in their descriptions. The thought of that both turned me on and made me feel exposed.
Scrolling back up the auction page, I saw the seller’s username had “troy” in it, along with a bunch of numbers, with a low seller number in the double digits. He was either new at this, or just sold the occasional item. I clicked his profile to see what else was on offer. There were pads of various kinds, gloves, t-shirts, shorts, and – lacrosse heads. All of these were good signs that the seller was someone whose sneakers I might enjoy having for myself. I often take a little while to browse around for other options, or save the link to consider and wait, but I felt in a hurry this time. Back to the auction, price of $25, buy it now, done.
I sometimes have little pangs of guilt after buying a pair, which mix with waves of anticipation while I wait for them to arrive. Often I’ll go back to the website to check the package tracking. I buy mostly non-sneaker stuff on this site, and generally it goes smoothly: sometimes a friendly seller will send a message thanking me, confirming shipment, sharing a tracking number etc., but often there’s no communication at all. A couple days after I purchased the size 12 Adidas that looked like they smelled really good, there was a message waiting for me from the seller.
“At the e mail if ya need to get at me.”
Hmm. It struck me as unusual, and I had no idea what to make of it. I’d never bought from this seller before, and there were no previous messages I’d missed. I knew that the auction site tended to prohibit direct communication with sellers (allegedly for “safety” but also so they can continue to take their cut) and sometimes they blocked messages trying to establish outside contact, but this one didn’t have an actual email address in it, so it made it through. What did it mean though? Not sure.
A few days later the package arrived. It was a shoebox-sized cardboard box with a hand-written label, and was taped along all the creases. Shoes are never packed very well and don’t really need to be, so they were tumbling a bit in the box. Hearing them thump against the cardboard, and the sound of bits of dirt that likely fell off the spikes, made my heart beat just a little faster and I felt my face flush.
The return address on the label told me the sender was Troy Danners, and while he lived in a place not too far away, it was a state over. Feeling curious, I looked for lacrosse rosters from institutions in his local area, but wasn’t able to come up with much; no way to tell how long ago he played, and he may have gone away to school also. I did a general search for lacrosse players with that name, but no luck. It’s possible he didn’t play in college. The Book of Face was similarly unhelpful, as people had gotten understandably more private online. Oh well, I could be reasonably sure a lacrosse athlete had used what’s in the box, and it was now mine to enjoy. I waited for a good opportunity to have some quiet time later in the day before proceeding.
I admit I was trembling a little opening the box. The top popped open and I smiled – the cleats were so big, and so used. There was still mud and even dried grass on the molded plastic spikes, and a general dirtiness that reassured me they hadn’t been (gasp!) tossed in a washer before sending them. The ivory and white uppers were permanently stained with the tan of dirt and the faint green of grass, both of which contributed to the slight scent I could detect from them. The silver stripes were still shiny, worn in only a few places.
I didn’t expect to find a dirty crew sock shoved into each one, and when I saw this my heart started to beat faster, and I was getting hard. I took the shoes out of the box, caressed each one, and removed the socks, which were stiff. The scent was almost instant in my face, a musky, musty, slightly cheesy smell (again take my word, intoxicating), and I buried my face in one, with the collar sealing around my nose and the tongue under my chin. Was it just a little damp, or was that my imagination? The smell filled my nose and lungs and my head spun a bit. They were so, so hot, and the scent I was inhaling was making me giddy. Who needs illegal drugs when you can get so high from this?
The socks smelled like the shoes, and I rubbed them on me. They were rough and scratched my belly and chest under my shirt. I buried my face in a shoe again, and even bit the inside of the upper while inhaling. My tongue and palate sensed salt – his sweat. But I was getting ahead of myself.
I took them to the bedroom, stripped down, and lay on the bed. I rubbed myself all over with the cleats and the socks, raking my balls with the spikes, pressing them into my rock-hard cock, inserting cock and balls all the way into one and feeling them there, and then putting on a sock like a condom and reinserting myself into one of the shoes. I put the other over my face and inhaled so deeply, sighing his name, “Troy…” on the exhale. I felt my hardness pulse in his sock deep inside his other cleat, a cleat he had run in and played hard in, sweated in, and stripped off himself before getting naked in the shower after a long day of practice or a match. My mind reeled as I imagined him doing all of this, seeing his lithe body scrubbed clean of the dirt and sweat, glistening radiantly in front of me with the occasional bruise or cut, the war-wounds of competitive sports. His cleats would sit silently close by with open mouths, one upright and one on its side where they were tossed, smelling deeply of his strong feet, as if gaping in disbelief at the lacrosse god before them.
I turned over onto my stomach, now even deeper inside Troy’s shoe, and started to thrust into it. My balls rubbed inside the heel as the spikes gripped my sheets like the fingers of an overjoyed bottom being railed. I strung the other sock across my mouth like a gag, and buried my face inside the other shoe. The stimulation from touch, taste, and smell was incredible – I was there, buried in his feet after a match, worshipping them and watching him bite his lip, getting turned on by my eagerness to immerse myself in his incredible scent. “You like that?” he’d say. I would just moan…I did moan as I felt my cock’s skin stretch, and the stimulation of his stiff, sweat-hardened sock caused me to leak precum, mingling with the salt of his feet. I thrust slowly, consistently, bucking into one cleat as with each thrust I grunted and then filled my lungs with the smell of Troy’s feet from the other. At last I felt the release coming and I cried out, literally yelled, “Fuck!” as I sent string after string of my load soaking into his sock and wetting the inside of the shoe where his beautiful feet had been, sweating, toes wriggling, arches flexing, as he sprinted and cut and shoved himself against other guys, striving to contribute to his team’s victory.
Afterwards I lay, exhausted, panting, still inhaling the musk and man odor deeply ground into the inside of Troy’s cleats. I turned my head and breathed the air in the room for a minute, to allow my sensory system to recalibrate, and then buried my face again, newly assaulting my senses with one of the greatest scents I’d ever experienced, biting the edge of the hightop’s collar and tasting Troy’s salt, inhaling…Troy. I closed my eyes and drifted for a short while, falling in and out of sleep, smiling slightly and trying to imagine him. Brunette? Blond? Dark eyes? I had drunk him in greedily and it almost didn’t matter – I loved the experience and aside from curiosity, I didn’t care what he looked like. I was attracted to him as one man to another, to his scent, to what he did, to how hard he played. If we were in a room together and he let me touch his feet and shoes, or if he even got turned on a little by my greediness to soak in the smell of him, I would be attracted to him. Looks were immaterial. It was his essence I wanted to wallow in, inhale, and taste.
And I did, for a few more days here and there, sometimes just a fast JO session holding a cleat over my face with the other between my legs, sometimes a longer encounter like the first one. I didn’t cum in the other sock or in the shoe again, because doing that would actually change the scent – his scent – which I was starting to feel familiar with, and could sometimes smell even when his shoes and socks were not nearby.
My curiosity about how Troy looked remained low and in the background, but remained nonetheless. I perused the internet a few more times, and search engines produced pics of some cute guys to be sure. But often the results were a different Troy or a different Danners, and sometimes the pic I clicked wasn’t even connected with the name I was searching, once the link was followed.
And then it hit me. His auction site username. His message, “At the e mail if ya need to get at me.” Maybe he meant his username was part of his email address. I went to my purchase history and found the auction. The site alerted me that I hadn’t yet left feedback, so I took that as my opportunity. I first left generic positive feedback, then opened up my email. I typed “Troy” and the string of numbers in his username, followed by the email domain name in the address line. I typed “Feedback” in the subject line, and then wrote a brief message:
Troy —
Bought your Adidas cleats. Forgot to leave feedback but did just now. They’re great, thanks.
Mark
I sent it, and out of curiosity waited a minute or two, reading other emails. No message back from the mailer daemon telling me the address was invalid, so I closed my email out and shut my laptop. I immediately felt a pang of guilt and worry, similar to the way I felt after buying the cleats. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone fishing by sending the email? But if it worked, he had told me how I should “get at him,” so what was the harm? I probably wouldn’t hear back. But also, what was I actually hoping for? What could possibly happen? Maybe if I could just find one picture – but that was crazy. What was I going to do, ask him for one?
Anyhow, a few days went by and there was no response. I checked my spam folder, hoping and not hoping at the same time, but eventually I forgot about it.
– – – – – – –
One evening about a week later, I was catching up on e-correspondence, and the email program made an unfamiliar noise at me. PLING! I poked around the site and found over at the left that the chat icon was badged with an alert. I didn’t usually use this feature. I clicked it and a window popped up from a “Troy Daniels.” In it were the words, “Hey, thanks for the positive feedback!”
My heart was racing. Was Troy actually talking to me? Heh, if I had been cheeky figuring out his email (I hadn’t, he’d told me! Hadn’t he?) this was really cheeky, messaging me when I’m logged on, instead of just emailing back a thank-you. But hey, what the hell, really.
Me: Hey, you’re welcome 🙂
I stared at my response. I worried the “hey” seemingly echoing his “hey” might be taken sarcastically, or maybe it was cool? I was shaking a little now. There was no response for several minutes, so I closed the chat and went back to emailing.
PLING
You have to be kidding. I opened the window.
Troy: So, do you like em?
I stopped breathing. What does one say? What is even an appropriate response? “Yes, so much I made love to them repeatedly and can still taste your sweat on my lips?”
Me: Uh, I guess? Still a lot of life left, like you said.
I was already kicking myself for sounding…annoyed? Like I thought his (probably totally innocent) question was prying and accusatory? Again, no response for a couple minutes, closed the window.
PLING
Sigh. Opened the window. And I felt the blood drain from my face.
Troy: So, what are you doing with em?
Oh GOD. A hilarious thought crossed my mind: of course I can’t tell him what I’m actually doing with them, but what the hell would someone say who wasn’t a crazy shoefucker like me? What do people do with used shoes? What would anyone, who wasn’t me, do? What —
Me: They’re great for yardwork.
I don’t know where that came from, but it sounded good. Whew. Normal. I left the damn window open because I figured there would be another reply. I thought about closing the email program entirely, but sure enough a minute later —
Troy: Do they fit ok?
I had been taking a sip of coffee and nearly sprayed it. Was he just bored? Is this what today’s youth do for fun, chat up people they’ve sold things to?
Me: They do.
This time the reply only took a few seconds.
Troy: Do they feel good on your feet?
Aaaalright, this was going too far. Isn’t it funny how, when a fantasy you harbor actually seems to be playing itself out, you freak out and want to run away from, rather than towards, the situation? I considered simply repeating my last statement, but went with:
Me: I’m not sure how to answer that. They fit well.
Troy: I think you know.
I couldn’t believe the words I was seeing, or what I typed. Just stop talking to him. Don’t type —
Me: know what?
Troy: How to answer that.
Me: I’m not sure what you want me to say, or why? I think I’m gonna go.
Just log out. Can you block someone? You can. Have I before? I think so.
Troy: don’t go 🙁
I didn’t respond, but also didn’t log out or block him. His response by itself might have further creeped me out, but the frowny emoji caught me off guard and made me stop for a moment.
Troy: its just a little footfag fun right?
My head was spinning. Was this really happening? Should I be offended? No, I was definitely that, derogatory term aside. But I pushed back.
Me: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Typing, typing…
Troy: oh pls do you think you’re the first dude I sold some gear to? You should have seen some of that stuff no one could actually use it, it was so trashed.
I hadn’t checked this actually; it was something I usually did in addition to seeing what else a seller had for sale, which in Troy’s case was fairly mundane. I quickly went back to the auction for the cleats I bought, clicked to Troy’s profile, and looked at his past feedback. There were five or six listings in which the item could be viewed. The first one I clicked at random happened to be a pair of team-branded socks that looked pretty dirty, and even had a hole in one toe. Okay, 1-0 Troy.
Troy: sooo…do they smell good?
Ears ringing, not knowing what to say.
Troy: cmon, I even wore em for a day and put my socks in em for you before sending.
Jesus H. Christ. I was creeped out, turned on, exposed, flattered, and totally at a loss. I needed to buy time and think.
Me: LOL that was nice of you?
Troy: cmoooon dude stop pretending. Just tell me you liked them.
Me: I’m not sure why you care what I think, I bought them, you got paid, and I left positive feedback.
There was a pause of a minute or two before he began typing again.
Troy: how come I can totally understand and be ok with why you bought them but you can’t do the same for me about why I sold em?
Wow. Okay. Crank shot into the goal, 2-0 Troy.
Me: How old are you?
Troy: 25
Phew. At least I was talking to an adult. I double-checked that my chat was “off the record” anyhow.
Me: Fine. They’re fucking amazing and I love wearing them. They smell great too.
Troy: HHAHAHA YEAHHHH FOOTFAG i knew it!1
Me: Glad you’re amused.
Troy: nah man it’s cool. kinda hot actually
Now I was starting to move from creeped out to turned on.
Me: Oh really?
There was a longer pause this time, maybe three minutes or so, and then —
Troy: gotta run
The chat window indicated he was now inactive. I thought about a “talk to you later” reply, but who was I kidding? The kid seemed to have a million potential issues, maybe gets a thrill from selling his used stuff to guys who’ll buy, probably just hasn’t discovered the sites where he can make bank yet – best to just leave it be and forget about it.
Did all this make fucking his sneakers more, or less hot though? I took a break from all of it and went to bed early.
– – – – – – –
Turns out it was hotter. Searching for “Troy Daniels” and “lacrosse” the next morning netted the information I was now very curious to know. He played for a smaller community college in the next state and had graduated the prior year. So he hadn’t played for the big programs, but the boys in the smaller ones got just as sweaty. And this boy…his roster photo revealed fair skin, dark, slightly wavy hair long in the back (an apparent requirement for lacrosse), dark gentle eyes, full pink lips. He wasn’t smiling, but he also hadn’t posed with that tough-guy-athlete look on his face many of his teammates had. He just looked relaxed, natural, boyish, and almost pretty. But the photos of him in play showed an unexpectedly sturdy build, and legs that were fair, smooth, and heavily muscled like a marble statue. The action photos where he was apparently in the middle of changing directions, where it looked like his legs and feet were assaulting the turf under him, were so sexy. In one of them, he was actually wearing the cleats I now owned. I flipped back to his bio – jersey #18, height 6’0″, weight 180, and I happened to know an additional statistic: shoe size 12. Back to his game photos…even underneath a bright red lacrosse helmet, his face shone. Just gorgeous.
PLING
Of course.
Troy: Hey Mark
Were we on a first name basis now?
Me: Hi.
Troy: get off with my shoes today?
Jesus Christ! Before I could type that we probably should just not chat with each other, he replied quickly.
Troy: I wanna see.
Absolutely killing me, this guy.
Me: Oh yeah the last thing I want is to end up on your insta or ticktock or whatever platform of the minute you kids are using.
Troy: kids??? how old are you grampa?
Me: 42
Troy: ooo, daddy!
He punctuated his sentence with the hearts-for-eyes emoji. Well, that was unexpected. I hadn’t had my coffee and was still off my guard. Sure, I’d play along….
Me: I prefer “zaddy.”
Troy: HAHAHA ok zaddy it is. I wanna see, Zaddy.
Me: I just don’t get it. Why?
Troy: do I need to back it up and have you go through why you bought my cleats, and then lead you along to imagine that there might be a similar reason I was selling them?
No no no no he was actually making me like him. This was a valid point and I felt that in some sense I owed him, just a little. Maybe it was some of that guilt previously mentioned. But I managed a playful reply.
Me: Yer a smartass.
Troy: Cum laude, Engineering. Graduate school now for the same. Yes I am.
Dammit. This really wasn’t happening. I honestly couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that someone might sell his personal items to derive pleasure in the same way that I was doing by buying them. I figured most just sold whatever would sell, and the ones who had a clue were just opportunists, kind of like the “gay for pay” actors in porn, willing to sell their stuff but not wanting to know what happened to it. And for fuck’s sake, he was crap smart and seemed to like older guys too. Dumb fucking luck. I shook my head trying to snap out of it. Still resisting.
Me: This is crazy. I was just trying to be nice and let you know I left feedback.
Troy: You figured out the puzzle I sent you and contacted me by email, when you didn’t have to. You wanted to connect with me!
Me: I was just being nice!
Typing…for a while…
Troy: what if I told you you’re the only one who figured it out and got in touch with me and I was hoping for it, and now I think it’s cool that we’re talking? Maybe I was hoping some hot zaddy would figure it out and contact me to tell me how much he liked my shoes.
I think this was the sort of explicit permission I needed to hear, to be able to start to relax and actually believe this was happening. I waited a few moments to really think about whether I should proceed. I still thought about just blocking him – what if he was really just trolling?
Me: What do you want to see?
Troy: you jizzing on my cleats.
Funny enough, I had pictures on my phone of just that, sent to a friend (formerly with benefits, now moved away) who shared similar interests. I found one that was just the cleats, the end of my cock, and cum spattered across the silver stripes. No real identifiers, so I figured what the hell. I sent it to my email, then put it in the chat to Troy. There was no response for a minute or two, then –
Troy: WHOAAA fuck dude! Zaddyjizz right across the side! You really christened those. Nice job.
The kid was turning me on legitimately at this point. I decided to push a little.
Me: My turn. Do you like my cum on your cleats?
Troy: I do.
Me: Does it turn you on?
Troy: “I don’t know how to answer that.”
Me: Are you fucking making fun of me now?
Troy: HAHA yes.
Me: So, what do I get to see?
He sent me a link to his bio under the lacrosse team roster. I felt a little guilty for having already stalked him, but also flattered that he was clearly trusting me at this point. Or maybe I felt bad that he was trusting me at this point. I knew he had nothing to fear, but how did he?
Me: Seen it.
Troy: Whaaat?
Me: I googled Troy Daniels and lacrosse, it wasn’t hard.
Troy: ohhh shit. Yeah I forgot my name is on here, maybe I should change that. Also yeah I bet it WAS hard after you googled!!!
Me: I’ll let that one slide. Why did you change your name on the package?
Troy: you know, to keep safe from the freaks who buy my stuff.
Me: Ahem.
Troy: Nooo not you you’re cool.
Me: How do you know? I bought your cleats and I smelled them and thought of you and got off, repeatedly.
Troy: whoa whoa howa dude! haha.
Me: Well…just sayin.
Troy: yeah.
I was worried I pushed too hard or I was losing him, or he was confused, any number of things. I thought about asking if he was gay, or bi, or whatever, but didn’t think that would help. Text chat is difficult.
Troy: can I see you?
I considered this for a few minutes, and felt it was probably fair at this point. I also figured I’d just send a link, rather than a photo, to be safer; this was weird territory for me. I remembered I had a photo/poetry blog I used to post to regularly, but hadn’t for a year or so. The photo of me in the “about” section was only a couple years old, so I sent him the link to that. It was a few minutes before he replied.
Troy: Whoa, Zaddyyyyy
Again with the hearts-for-eyes emoji.
Me: Troy, can I ask you something?
Troy: bi
Me: Haha, okay…and you dig older guys or are you just humoring me?
Troy: Hahah “dig.” I think you’re “swell” zaddy.
Smartass. And whip-smart.
Me: …
Troy: Yeah when I like dudes they’re generally older than me.
Me: Fair enough.
Troy: my turn. I told you what I do, what do you do?
Me: I’m a physician for a small hospital
Luckily “Mark Smith” was an outrageously ubiquitous name, and I didn’t need to worry too much about things like ordering used cleats to my home.
Troy: Whoa, DOCTOR Zaddy!!!
Several emojis made an appearance.
Me: Yes and he now has to do some work, because.
Troy: noooooooooo
Me: I’m guessing we’ll chat soon enough.
Troy: Wait send me your underwear.
Demanding little fucker.
Me: I’ll consider the request. Now I have to go! 🙂
– – – – – – –
You can imagine that we chatted more, on and off. He was actually lovely to talk to, about a number of things. Maybe he was bored or looking for friends, but he frequently messaged me during the day. His mom had recently been diagnosed with cancer, and as I had a fair bit of experience with oncology patients, I was able to provide some reassurance and comfort on that front. He was in graduate school for chemical engineering and aspired to work in pharmaceuticals. He told me he traveled locally on occasion as part of his graduate program, and often made the joke, “I know where you live,” and ‘threatened’ to visit. I told him he was welcome to visit but that a heads-up would probably be nice. It was weird to become friendly, given the circumstances under which we had met, but he became this friendly presence that would “bother” me frequently by chatting when I had my email open. Like most acquaintanceships of this kind, communication kind of peaked and then trailed off somewhat, until we just chatted sporadically.
Oh, and yes, I did eventually send him some underwear, sweated in, but “not jizzed on or anything like that,” per his request.
– – – – – – –
The year was drawing on and fall was settling in. I was busy working from home on Halloween evening, shifting focus back and forth from phone calls, to the stream of adorable trick-or-treaters coming to my door. I hoped supplies would last until 8 PM, the official end of the evening’s candy-gathering in my neighborhood. As fewer and fewer witches, superheroes, and toddler ghosts came to call, I thought about a nice hot bath and some creepy podcasts or YouTube stories. When the clock read 8:10, I figured it was time to close up for the evening. As I started to head towards the foyer from the living room, the doorbell rang. Never one to deny a kid candy, I detoured through the dining room, grabbed the bowl, and continued to the front door.
There behind the full-length glass of the storm door, illuminated by the house lights and the various decorations, stood a briefly terrifying sight. I blinked for a second after my heart restarted, and regarded the person who ostensibly had come late for candy. At about 6’0″, this was no kid. But he was in costume, with knee pads, a white-and-red jersey with the number 18, a red helmet obscuring his face, and gloved hands…holding a lacrosse stick.
I pegged him for 180…and a size 12.