Pound Cakes
Damn, those feet were big.
Exiting the downstairs doorway of Telluride Hardware and Feed Emporium, I was absorbed in my thoughts when the hefty honkers ruined my concentration.
The Nike Cross-trainers were not new, nor were they rare. Rather, the presumption of the size of the dwellers within them was what captured my attention.
While many would dispute the notion that big feet infer a full set of like-sized appendages, I beg to differ. Living with size 13 and 17 extra wides in my home, and aware that the largest feet on record in the NBA, Roy Tarpley, whose size 25 immeasurably-wides still held the Ripley's record for something, I knew the veracity of the general concept. Just Google that name, and add the word dick.
I traipsed up the stairs before me while my eyes stayed glued to the ground supporting those big'uns. Upon reaching street level, I broke away from them, reluctantly. That reluctance melted, however, at my realization that the bi-ped being they supported was an entity rarely encountered in the wild...errr, Telluride town.
A lanky, obsidian-skinned, double image of the foxy musician, Jon Batiste, stood with impressive feet planted, knees slightly bent, arms akimbo, nostrils flared, stomach concavely absent, onyx eyes checking me out.
Oh, he was licking his thickly dark lips, too, as I raised my own eyes from his nicely bulging crotch upwards to encounter this overtly cocky Pan-like creature. His first words stuck with me, "You be the Doc with the bookends, a'ight?"
For a second I thought I was being mocked. His face was not looking directly at me, but at an angle, which made the cock-eyed scrutiny seem other than sincere. It changed quickly to mischievous when his brilliant white teeth broke out from under the tongue licking those luscious, thick lips, and I responded in kind. "What's up with those 'bookends', bra?" Though noncommittal, by my downward nod he got the fact the comment referred to his feet.
I was gratified the guy had noticed me, but still unsure of any intent, so took the tack of bafflement, instead.
"I seen ya' with those two fly mens a couple days back—ya'll was in the bistro where I'm workin' right now. Kinda stood out. And, your hands was playin' all 'round those studs...Wassup with yo'own self?" Ahhh, now it came clear. My men and the proclivity of mine which was hardly held in check here in the liberal bastion of the mountain town full of 'misfits' did define me, I supposed.
And nobody overlooked my men. Both mature studs made plain our close-knit connection by their own body language, maybe more than I did. I admit, my hands did tend to rove over their 'fly' presences...
Both big hands made the next statement: one wrapped around the bulge I had been assessing moments before and the other fisted itself toward me in a friendly bump request, smile dipping on one corner as he clarified his intent. I bumped back and his fingers opened in retraction.
God, I loved the innate sultriness almost all men-of-color radiate. Especially when they are tail-chasing. This one was evincing the trait exceedingly well, I noticed, and my junk pitched upward by the comprehension.
Did I mention that the rascal was pinching a short, fat blunt between one dark thumb and long forefinger? He motioned me around a corner into the adjacent alley, using the blunt as a carrot. Little did he know that the bulge was much more my 'carrot' of choice. Or maybe he did know. Either way, I followed like I had a nose ring attached to his jeans button, feeling an oncoming event. No one was around that I could see, so what the hell?
Mystery dude lit up as he hoofed it, and the smoke left a definable trail to the back corner. He drew me leftward into a narrow dead end, body language conveying a certain familiarity with it. A throbbing undertone of base drifted down from the small open window above us. Venting the bar behind the wall the man leaned against, it imbued the small semi-enclosure with an erogenous channeling of Grace Jones singing Walking in the Rain.
Turning around to me, he cocked his leg up on that wall, balancing on the other. The enwrapping hand still lightly massaged the noticeably bigger bulge. This act and the smile said a lot. The blunt went to his lips, pointing inward, offering a more intimate share of the herb.
