Chapter 1

“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.”

“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.”

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?”

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-“

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

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.”

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

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.

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.