I Am Salt of the Earth, Trodden Underfoot

Finding Myself Underfoot - Part 1

The entire memory, of course, gets dimmer with time. Some things, though, can never be forgotten.

I was a repressed guy in late highschool. I kept to myself and did not keep a circle of friends. In the odd chance I mingled with others, it was because I had to. World Youth Day was coming to Toronto, and being in a Catholic school, we were preparing to house youths from around the world. Part of our preparations included decorating the gym they would be housed in.

Our class wasn't asked to do much, from what I recall. But there was a volunteer opportunity. We were to create a giant felt banner that proclaimed the biblical verse that was being honoured by Pope John Paul II that year. It was Matthew 5:13, most famous for five of its words than the entirety of the verse:

You are the salt of the earth, but if the salt has lost its
flavor, with what will it be salted? It is then good for nothing,
but to be cast out and trodden under the feet of men.

This was not the kind of project that excited or inspired me. Scripture? Religious festivities? But it piqued one particular girl's interest, and that made me raise my hand after seeing her arm go up.

The girl was Melissa.

She was tall and blonde and had the most beautiful smile. There was a rumor she liked me, and I knew about the rumor because it was used to taunt her. I was pretty sure it was a lie. No one had ever liked me. It didn't make sense for my situation to change, and least of all with Melissa.

I was especially intrigued by Melissa because she pretty much exclusively wore sandals or flip flops. And over that year, while she sat in front of me, I had begun to become very aware of her feet and how they made me feel.

Melissa's feet were somewhat of a paradox. They were relatively big, around a size 8 or 9, but they were wide. Her soles were what I would discover were called 'meaty soles', but she had an incredibly high arch from years of acrobatic dancing. She had short toes, but she could use them like fingers, picking up pencils and hair clips and dropped tissues. I had once seen her pick up a calculator with her feet, but the classmate she had picked up the calculator for wanted nothing to do with it after.

I had found myself thinking about her feet out of her flip flops, crossed under her chair, as I would lay in bed at night. My erection would send me squirming as I imagined kneeling and approaching her feet, taking them in my hands, and feeling her silky doles on my face, my neck, my chest, then down my pants. I could not explain why I could not imagine slipping Melissa some tongue in a kiss, but I convulsed at the thought of tongue-bathing the soles of her feet and sucking each toe like a never-ending lollipop. In an era before the internet and easy photographs, this memory game was the closest I had to explore the strange depth and complexity of my more primal urges.

None of this really made sense to me. But what I could understand was how pleasurable it made me feel when I thought about playing with a beautiful pair of feet. Pleasure I could understand, even if it meant walking through hell to purse it.

So my hand rose to volunteer alongside Melissa, while my gaze sank below Melissa's desk. She had been wearing sneakers that day, which frustrated my desire but kept the promise of release. I had yet to see Melissa reach the end of the day with shoes and socks still on. There was still time, and I did not want to miss it.

When we reached our crafting area in the theatre room Melissa kicked off her sneakers. My innocently bold move had paid off already. I watched her tip toe on her black socks to the supplies. She alternated from one foot to the other, pointing and flexing and rolling her ankle. I appreciated the curvy silhouette of her socks, but they would help me keep from getting too distracted.