I am never wearing flip flops ever again. Why?

Well, one night as I was about head out to a club called 213, I decided to expose my toes in a pair of old flip flops. Before leaving, my best friend, Blake, said to me, “You’re seriously not wearing those Jesus sandals, are you?”

“What’s wrong with my Jesus sandals?” I asked.

He stared at me for a moment and replied, “Honey, they’re just horrible and lack anything fabulous. I mean, you’re going out to a gay bar.” Blake threw his nimble hands up and added, “But whatever, it’s your life.”

“And since when did it matter what those fags think of me?” I asked. “And most importantly, why should I care?”

Blake’s left eyebrow went up and his lips pursed tightly. After a second of thought, he said to me, “Because it’s not about what they think, it’s about self-respect and looking amazing. You might be masculine and a "top" but lemme tell you this: Every queer man in the world is Cinderella when it comes to venturing off to the ball. And this ball just so happens to have go-go dancers, alcohol, and shallow, judging bitches.” Blake puts his hands on his hips and concluded with, “I’m not telling you to put on glass slippers, but, unlike Jesus, you won’t last a minute walking on the water. Instead, you’ll drown, sweetheart.”

In contrast to my friend, I am a butch male who hasn’t shaved in two weeks. Think of me as a shaggy dog and Blake as a vibrant flamingo striking the pose of a martini glass. He folds his arms and adds to my silence, “And I kinda care about you. Believe me; a true friend knows these types of things.”

“Don’t you mean a true bottom?” I jokingly shot back.

But instead of laughing, Blake threw his hands up – again – and exclaimed, “Whatever, go to 213 and let them all snicker at them hideous Wal-Mart brand flip flops.”

I knew if I were to continue discussing my choice in footwear with him, it would be an endless ping pong battle. However, part of me knew that the only reason Blake picked at me so much about these types of things is because he liked me. Over the course of our two year friendship, we had grown rather close. And moving in together only brought us closer.

Sometimes we cuddled together on the couch just because we were bored, and only once did I let him blow me. I mean, we’re two gay men living under one roof, it was bound to happen. However, we mutually accepted the fact that we were just friends. Well, at least I did.

Before leaving the apartment, Blake called out to me, “Be sure to wear a condom, you fucking whore.”

Of course he was kidding, but in his words was a hint of a jealousy because I would be surrounded by other men in the next hour. The idea of me drinking, flirting, and possibly hooking up with another guy made him angry. Then again, the entire universe didn’t revolve around Blake’s needs and opinions.

Jump to the part where I entered the doors of 213.

deadmau5's Hey Baby could be heard blasting from the speakers and a flock of homosexual men stood around gossiping and conversing about the latest episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race. It was then I noticed their eyes undress me, but the moment their queer gazers looked down to see my holy sandals and bare feet, they suddenly became uninterested.

They forced a fake smile, and I didn’t need telepathy to read their thoughts.

I tried to talk to guys at the bar. Hell, I even offered to buy this beautiful, blonde man a drink. Instead, he glanced down at my feet and asked, “Why buy me a drink when you can just turn water into wine?”

Rejection and humiliation caused me blush as the prince swiftly walked away. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I could hear Blake say, What did I tell you? Not even Ryan Kwanten could make those sandals sexy.

Shut the fuck up, I replied internally.

After numerous failed attempts at flirting, not finding a hookup, and walking through an invisible barrier of snickering, a semi-attractive man who stood in the corner of the club approached me and said, “Hey, good looking. My name’s Will. How about you?”

He appeared to be in his mid-forties, and beneath his aging face one could tell he used to be a rather attractive young guy. However, the odd thing about Will was his blue eyes. They seemed to have this weird gaze felt rather abnormal and went beyond checking me out.

But after a night of being turned down again and again, I decided to tell him my name. The two of us talked about trivial things, such as my age and where I went to college and how he used to a reflexologist. And during our conversation, I noticed Will would occasionally glance down at my feet.

At first I thought he was going to make a joke about my sandals and tell me that I should be leading the Israelites. But instead, he leaned in close and whispered, “Has anyone ever told you that you have pretty toes?”

After a very, very awkward pause, my little piggys curled up in embarrassment. My cheeks turned salmon and I replied, “Ummm – no.”

“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Will replied, trying to ease my slight humiliation. “See, I run a side business and, well, you’re going to think I’m a weirdo if I say it.”

Too late for that, I thought.

The man went silent for about a second and finally confessed, “I manage a foot fetish site for men who like to watch other men’s feet being serviced.” He then reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to me. I took the card from him and, in magenta, Comic Sans font, read the words: " – A Site for Gay Soles."

To be honest, I had no idea what to think.

Will noticed the strange expression on my face and replied, “It’s nothing weird like stepping on bread or wearing high heels.” He shrugged and then added, “Well, at least not the video I want you to be in. I’ve already filmed enough short clips of bread stomping.”

And at that moment I was just about to throw the card in his face and yell, Fuck Off!

But before I had a chance to expresses my disgust, Will quickly added, “Four-hundred and fifty bucks a video. All you gotta do is lay back and let me give you a massage.”

The profane words on the tip of my tongue suddenly stopped from spewing out. I looked at him for a moment and, in a state of disbelief, asked, “You wanna pay me four-hundred and fifty dollars to rub my feet?”

Will nodded his head and said, “It’s a filming session that takes about an hour. As I said, all you gotta do is lie back and let give you a massage. It’s that easy.” He smiled rather perversely and added, “Remember, I use to be a reflexologist, so I know what I’m doing.”

I was quiet and, after brief consideration, I asked, “Will my face be on camera?”

“Absolutely not,” he replied. “Just those beautiful... handsome... toes.”

I gave it some thought. I mean, it DID seem a little strange, but to be offered that amount of money to literally do nothing honestly seemed like a great deal. Plus, it wasn’t like I would be doing anything like actual porn. My penis and face wouldn't be recorded, so nobody would know it was me. Also, it sounded like an easy way to pay my part of the rent.

I looked at Will, whose strange eyes begged me to say yes…

And I did.


“You’re going to do WHAT?!” Blake exclaimed, after I came home and told him about my new job. If this were a movie, the camera would dramatically zoom-in on his disgusted expression.

“It’s just a foot massage video,” I told him.

“Yeah! From a fucking weirdo you met at the bar!” he yelled back. “Jesus H. Christ! I know I called you a whore, but I never knew you were a foot whore!” Blake sat down on the couch and added, “And you can’t just go over to a creep’s house you barely know. I mean, don’t you remember what happened to that one guy who got abducted by Logan Moorehead?!”

I sighed with great annoyance and replied, “Logan was a serial killer, not a middle-aged guy with a weird kink.”

“He could be a murderer who likes to eat toes!” Blake shouted, throwing his hands up and quickly standing back up. “And even if he isn’t Jeffrey Dahmer or Ted Bundy, do you really wanna be plastered all over the internet for every gay man to see? Gay men who like feet, may I add!”

“My face will not be on camera,” I tried to calmly inform him, hoping it would tame his inner-diva. “Besides, it’s like, almost five-hundred per video.” I stopped for a moment and, with a bit of attitude, I added, “And you’re one to criticize someone for having a weird kink! I mean, you like armpits for crying out loud!”

Blake’s face suddenly turned crimson red and, after trying to search for a witty comeback, he quietly replied, “…that’s not the point.”

“Then what is it?” I asked. “Are you jealous that another man will be massaging my feet and not you?”

“First and foremost,” he replied sharply, using his pointer finger to indicate sass. “I have no desire to caress the lower extremities for which you walk on. And second, I am not jealous of a man who runs a dirty foot site! If anything, I’m worried about your well-being, because the whole situation not only sounds ridiculous, but absolutely sketch.” Blake then stormed from the living room and to his bedroom. “OH, and just you know,” he yelled down the hallway, “I’m padlocking my underwear drawer! God forbid you get the stupid idea to start selling my gym socks!”

And with that, Blake slammed the door.

Bitch,” I exclaimed under my breath.

I went over to the couch, collapsed from heavy annoyance, and turned on the television. At that moment, my cellphone started going off. It was my sister, because I recognized the harp string melody ringtone I saved under her contact. I hit answer and said, “Hey, Monica.”

“Hi, how are you?” she asked. Beneath the heightened voice from the estrogen pills, I could still hear my older brother. See, ever since her transition from Spencer to Monica the year before, she called me at least three times a week. I mean, I am the only family that still talks to her.

“I’m good,” I replied. “I just had to deal with The Queen.”

The Queen was our nickname for Blake and she let out a laugh. “Oh lord, what’s the royal highness bitching about this time?” Monica asked.

I paused for a moment and decided it was best not to bring up the foot deal. Instead, I simply left it at, “You know – everything.”

“Well, he’s an Aquarius,” Monica responded, as she lit a cigarette from the other end of the line. “You know how water bearers tend to be a little cunty.”

“Yeah, well, the zodiac is total bullshit,” I said, flipping through different channels. “And I don’t understand why he argues at me over every little thing. Like, tonight I couldn’t even go to 213 without him nagging about my sandals, and the week before that there was this ordeal over Samantha Jones from Sex in the City. I fucking hate Sex in the City. It’s always the most trivial bullshit he goes after.”

“You wanna know why he’s always fussing at you?” Monica rhetorically asked, while she blew smoke in my ear. “It’s because he likes you.”

“Well, duh!” I shot back.

“And I don’t mean the common gay guy crush,” she continued. “I mean, Blake really likes you. You don’t notice the magnitude of his feelings, but a lot of other people do. I remember when I came over to your place a week ago, and when your back was turned he kept staring at you with this look in eyes.” Monica paused for a moment and added, “It’s the same gaze in a child’s eyes when they stare into the universe. And you wanna know something else?”

I didn’t reply, because I knew what my sister was going to say.

“You really like him too,” she told me. “Because if you didn’t care for Blake, you wouldn’t have roomed with him for so long and put up with his big, dramatic mouth.”

God, kill me now, I thought, as cheesy emotions stirred around in my stomach.

Monica laughed and concluded with, “Hell, maybe I’ll catch the flowers at your wedding someday.”

“That’s not gonna happen,” I told her.

“Well damn, I was looking forward to being the one who caught the bouquet,” she sarcastically retorted, trying not to snicker.

“No, I mean there’s not gonna be a wedding or flowers, and I promise you that I’m not secretly in love with my best friend.” I puffed out my lips and said, “I’d rather have electrical clamps on my nipples.”

“Who knows? Maybe Blake is into that kind of stuff,” Monica added, as she put out her cigarette. “And you can both live happily-ever-after being little perverts.”

After turning the subject away from Her Royal Highness, we spoke for a good thirty minutes about my sister's life, and how Monica was doing since the operation. She confessed to me that it had been difficult, but all in all she was glad that Spencer was now just an old photograph.

“But here’s the thing,” she told me. “No matter who you become, there is always the person you use to be staring back at you. They either become your enemy, or you come to terms with them. And the same thing can be said about the person you love.” A deep silence befell Monica. After a second or two, I could feel the warmth of her smile from the other end of the line as she concluded with, “And the person you love most must always be yourself.”

That statement hit me hard. All of the anxieties of the world, be it my job, becoming thirty, my denial for having feelings towards Blake, and, of course, the silly foot escapade became still like a calm ocean. On the surface of my existence and lying on the couch, I told Monica that was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard.

“Well, thank you,” she told me. “But let’s face it, you believe the most beautiful thing in the world is The Queen’s ass in a jockstrap.”

I bit my bottom lip and jokingly told her to fuck off.

We then said our goodbyes and ended the conversation. I turned off the TV, curled up into a little ball and reflected inside of myself. I asked the person within if it were true, you know, my feelings for the bitch down the hall. After a couple of minutes of deep thought, I discovered there was in erection in my pants.


When I got off work the next day, I made my way to Will’s place for some easy cash. Part of me was worried. Not because of impending doom, but because of the fact that I would soon be subjected to a stranger’s fantasies and my feet would become filmed and jacked off to anyone in the world.

Nevertheless, my eyes saw green and took the shape of dollar signs. After traveling for fifteen minutes, my phone brought me to the destination of Will’s house on Melone Drive. To my surprise, he lived in a nice townhouse in a community that made it mandatory to take care of your lawn.

Upon parking my Prius in the driveway, I took deep breath and looked down at my shoes in floorboard. This is it, I said to them. Prepare to be Internet famous.

When I got out of the car and made my way to the front door, each step felt awkward. I rang the doorbell and heard someone from the other side shuffle around. Am I really doing this? I thought to myself, and almost immediately another inner-voice exclaimed, For four-hundred and fifty bucks? Hell yeah!

The door opened and in the threshold stood the man I met at the bar, and he had an eager look his face. “Come in,” he said, opening the storm door and motioning me to enter. I gulped and proceeded into the house.

When stepping inside, I noticed that interior decoration was fine with a leather couch, plasma screen TV and hardwood floors to accompany them. However, the odd thing that stood out to me was posters of a Manga I knew nothing about until Will asked, “Do you like GeGeGe no Kitarō?”

“Um, what?”

“It’s a Japanese cartoon from the 1960s,” he told me. “My favorite character is Rat Man.”

I’m not judging anyone out there who likes anime, but I found it odd that it was the first thing he mentioned when having someone over. Normally men in their mid-forties would offer their guest a drink. A guest that was willing to participate in a weird kink video, may I add.

“I’m not that big into anime,” I replied.

Instead of an actual response in regards to Japanese cartoons, Will looked at my dress shoes and said, “Sorry about the wood floors. I know it can exhausting to the feet, unlike carpet that is soft and gentle.”

The words soft and gentle had this eerie undertone that made me feel a tad bit uncomfortable. But hey, Blake likes armpits, I like legs, and Will likes feet. In a world of strange little kinks, who was I to judge? As long as he stuck to the deal and simply gave me a massage without doing weird shit like taking a dump on my feet or spreading molasses on them I was fine.

Plus, like I’ve said before, it was a simple way to pay the rent.

Will’s tone became a little more odd when he purred, “I bet they’re tired from walking around all day at work.”

My toes started to quiver and I said to him, “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Right,” he replied. “Let’s just step into my studio and make those little piggys a star.”

Oh my God, I thought to myself.

The two of us walked to his bedroom where a camera’s eye on a tripod was aimed at the foot of the bed. On the dresser located in the room was a wicker basket containing various different Bath & Body Works lotions including Cucumber Melon, Italian Citrus Sun, and many more.

As I began to take off my shoes, Will stopped me and said, “No, leave them on.” He paused and added, “I will take them off as we’re recording along with your socks. See, it builds suspense for the viewer. Think of it like porn. Which is better? Jumping straight into the nudity, or doing a little strip tease?”

This guy can’t be serious, my mind echoed.

But without any questions, I got on the bed and placed my feet on a black silk pillow. I took a deep breath, calmed my nerves, and said to Will, “I’m ready.”

He positioned the camera a little and, before hitting the record button, exclaimed, “Action!”

As a rested on my back, I felt Will’s hands start to slowly remove my shoes. After which, his finger moved up and down on the bottom of socked soles. I closed my eyes and tried to think of something else, but the only options were this creep and Blake. Never in a hundred years would I have thought The Queen would be my sweet distraction from perverse foot worshipping.

And then came the removal of my socks, which left my feet bare, exposed, and at Will’s mercy. Meanwhile, the camera witnessed and recorded everything without any emotion. He started by using his thumb to apply pressure to the Lisfank’s joint of my right foot.

To be honest, Will’s massaging techniques felt incredible and my body started to melt with relaxation as he manipulated my feet. The entire day of managing my stupid co-workers and answering to my asshole boss became completely irrelevant as he applied the cooling touch of peppermint lotion.

But after about ten minutes into the recording session and letting Will service me, he started to hassle deeply like a wolf and growled, "Yeah, bitch, I bet you like that.”

My eyes shot open and I asked, “What?”

“CUT!” he yelled. Will turned the camera off, dropped my foot and, from the edge of the bed, he exclaimed, “You weren’t supposed to speak!”

“I’m sorry,” I told him. “I just felt uncomfortable with – ”

“With what?” Will interrupted, as his eyes became a little more creepy. “It’s MY video, MY audience, and I KNOW what they want to hear. They want a little dirty talk, you know, like the way a daddy speaks to a filthy slut.”

An awkward and fearful feeling came over me, and I didn’t know exactly how to respond. This guy is crazy! My intuition screamed. As my feet started to recede away from Will, he grabbed them and added, “Listen, I’m sorry. I will edit out the voices. Let’s just finish filming the movie. Okay?”

I nodded my head slowly, and agreed to finish up. After Will said action, I relaxed and let him continue to caress my feet. Inside my inner-thoughts, I could hear Blake telling me to leave and that I was an absolutely idiot for going along with this idea.

After ten more minutes of having my soles rubbed, Will called cut and gave me an ecstatic glance.

“Perfect, just perfect!” he exclaimed. “Other than the little hiccup during recording, I have to say this was the BEST shoot I’ve done in a while.” Will sighed and added, “I know my followers will absolutely adore your beautiful feet. They remind me of Ryan Gosling’s, only more delicate and tender.”

I then quickly asked for my socks and shoes and he asked, “May I put them back on you?”

“No,” I immediately shot back, not intending to sound freaked out. “I can do it myself.”

Will looked disappointed and replied, “Oh well, at least I offered.” He paused and then added, “I’m going to go to the bathroom. When I get back I will give you the cash.”

I didn’t bother to respond, and the foot director left the bedroom and proceeded to the bathroom. Before slipping on my socks, I noticed the drawer of the nightstand beside the bed was slightly open. To this day I can’t tell you why my curiosity enticed me to look inside, but I did.

Inside the stand was a photo album and, not to my surprise, the cover read: The Foot Collection.

At first I thought it would be typical pictures of different men and their feet participating in bizarre, lude conduct. However, its content ultimately made my jaw drop.

For within the photo album was Polaroid snapshots of severed feet which looked to have been captured in a closet. They were positioned to form a macabre shrine around a skull. Hell, there were even toenail clippings in the plastic slots and hair follicles, presumably shaved off someone’s toes. When flipping through the album, the pictures became more bizarre as the they revealed Will sucking the toes of dead feet.

My gut did backflips and my eyes grew immensely in shock as the realization that Will was serial killer crept in. I told you! Blake’s voice yelled within me.

Suddenly, the bedroom door opened and in came Will. “Sorry, I couldn’t break the hundred dollar bills but – ” He stopped in mid-sentence when he noticed the photo album in my hands. His face went flushed and all his colors drained. Before I could have a chance to speak, he coolly asked, “What the fuck are you doing with that?”

My mind, my spirit, and my sense of rationalization were miles away from each other in different directions. However, my shaking body sat on the bed in fear. “I – I – I just – I mean – I didn’t – um –”

Every word came out chopped up and in the form of a frightened shudder. All the while, Will went from a semi-friendly creep with a foot fetish to a distorted monster. His erotic smile turned into a frown as his eyes narrowed. Hell, the director didn't even look human anymore as he asked, “So, you discovered my dirty little secret, eh?”

Immediately I replied, “I promise. I won’t tell anyone. Please, just don’t – ”

Kill you?” Will interrupted. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but you leave me no option.”

When he darted towards me, I dropped the photo album and jumped over to the other side of the bed in a dash of sheer adrenaline. “Get away from me!” I yelled.

“Come here, or I swear to god I’ll cut your feet off while you’re still alive!” the maniac demanded in a nightmarish scream. He sprung over the bed and tried to grab me. It was then I punched him square in the face and attempted to run out of the bedroom. The only problem is, I tripped over the camera and fell to the hard floor.

Before I had a chance to get to my feet, a bloody-nosed Will jumped on top of me and pinned me down. I tried to get away, but he had me in a choke hold and began to strangle me. As I gasped for air, my head became light and all I could hear was Will growling.

The last thing I recall before blacking out was the foot monster whispering, “You’re gonna regret breaking my fucking camera.”


Hours later I awoke in what appeared to be the garage of the house. The first thing that came to focus was Will. In a twisted, loony voice, he said, “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey.”

It quickly became evident that straps held me down to a wooden table, locking down my wrists, torso, and ankles.

“Please,” I begged him. “I won’t tell anyone. Please.”

“Yeah, that’s what they all say,” Will replied coldly, as he started tightening a tourniquet around my right leg. “But both you and I know that if I let you go, you’ll go blab to the police -- and we can’t have any of that.”

Electrical fear shot through me as I frantically asked, “W-what are doing?!”

The man made his way over to the head of the table and stuck a ball gag in my mouth. I wanted to pull away, but severe limitations didn’t allow me to.

“It’s a simple procedure, twinketoes,” Will informed me, as he then pulled a circular concrete saw from beneath the table. My eyes became so huge that I’m surprised they didn’t fall out of their sockets. He laughed and added, “I’m going to put your foot in my collection.”

If I was able to scream, people on the other side of the world in China would’ve heard me. Despite the extreme fear that was in the garage, Will put on the harmonious tune of Supertramp’s Goodbye Stranger to juxtapose the tone.

God, how I squirmed and shook. With all my might, I tried to break free from the straps. When I heard the roar of the saw start up, all my blood went cold and the reality of this nightmare became all too real.

Goodbye stranger, it’s been nice,” the chorus sang. “Hope you find your paradise! Tried to see your point of view, hope your dreams will all come true!”

Tears literally poured from my eyes like buckets of water, and extreme anxiety and panic made me want vomit. Hell, I did vomit, but the gag made me swallow back down the acidic, regurgitated food.

Goodbye Mary, Goodbye Jane,” the happy song continued. “Will we ever meet again? Feel no sorrow, feel no shame, come tomorrow, feel no pain.”

And at that ironic moment, the blade’s teeth ate through my flesh and sent great, great pain through every nerve ending in my body. The worst part is when the metal cut through the bone. Blood sprayed all over Will’s face, and he laughed maniacally.

Finally, my foot separated from leg and it hit the concrete floor of the garage. The feeling of nothing below my ankle felt worse than the pain itself, and I found myself in a deep state of shock. My body convulsed and shook as Will came over to my side with the severed foot. He sucked the big toe that once belonged to me and smiled like a demon.

Minutes later, I felt cold due to blood loss, and I shivered from both physical and mental pain. Even with the gag now off, I couldn’t bring myself to scream.

“I’m sorry I had to do that,” Will confessed without any sympathy. “I just needed to add you to my collection.” He paused and then said, “Be glad I didn’t take your other foot as well.”

On the edge of my life, the one person I thought about was Blake. But, it wasn’t him being a bitch or saying, I told you so. Instead, I saw him beautiful and naked before me. Not in a sexual way because, believe me, I was nowhere near in the mood to want to have sex right after having my leg amputated. However, I imagined him the way my sister said he saw me: As the universe and more.

And I begged for God to keep me alive, because I wanted one last chance to tell him how much he meant to me. Please, I prayed. Send me a deus ex machina.

And at that perfect moment, the sound of a doorbell alerted both me and Will that someone was at the front door.

Who the fuck is that?” he growled, holding my barefoot in his hands.

There then came the sound beating on wood and the voice of man called out, “It’s the police, open up!”

See, while I was unconscious, Will accidentally uploaded a personal video of him licking the soles of another man’s severed feet instead of my foot massage video. Turns out he had a bad habit of not naming his files, and thousands of gay foot lovers across the world witnessed his macabre lunacy on I didn’t discover this until later.

In no time, law officials busted down the door, came in, and arrested the blood-covered foot heathen. After handcuffing the bizarre freak, they called an ambulance and a police officer said to me, “Don’t worry, help is on the way.”

How that for a deus ex machina? An inner-voice that wasn’t my own asked.


The next thing I knew is that I woke up in a hospital room.

Praying that it was all just a horrific nightmare, I pulled back the blanket to realize my foot was indeed missing, and the events that happened at Will’s house actually did happen.

I began to cry as the crippling truth that my life had been ruined sank in. My heart broke and bitter anger built up inside me like an emotional volcano about to blow. And at my most traumatic, lowest moment, I heard Blake’s voice say, “It’ll be okay.”

He stood in the hospital room door with a look of sorrow on his face.

“Please,” I told him. “Go away. I don’t want you to see me like this.”

However, this didn’t stop him from coming to my side and wrapping his arms around me. I cried in his warm embrace as held me and said, “You couldn’t keep me away even if you tried.”

I sniffled in anguish and asked, “I bet you think I’m freak now, don’tchu?”

“Absolutely not,” Blake replied. “You’re the last thing from that. Honey, you’re a goddamn survivor.”

I confessed to him everything I wouldn’t have had the chance to tell him if Will had killed me. In the middle of a hospital bed, I poured my feelings out to Blake. I told him that I loved him and that I was afraid I’d never see his face again.

At that precious moment he kissed me on the forehead.

As a year passed, Blake helped me mentally recover and was there by my side when I had trouble walking in my prosthetic leg. Every time I fell, he helped me back up and encouraged me to keep going. Eventually we moved away to the West Coast to escape my painful memories and started over.

And now, as I tell you this story, my best friend turned lover sleeps naked next to me. He accepts me despite my physical affliction, and loves me for who I am. And the funny thing about this ending is that his face is gleefully buried in my armpit.