Old Mother Hubbard

Red shoes. Gold shoes. Spikes. Mile high clogs. A different pair on my feet every time we have sex. Without them he goes limp, this foot fetished boyfriend of mine. He scours shoe stores, the Salvation Army, unlocked museum cases. Why couldn’t he have become fixated on corsets or wigs?  He’s my big secret. I don’t discuss him with my best friend, hide my oddly shod feet from the Presbyterians around the corner.  We go at it for hours. I’m in a daze. But what to do about the growing bunions, the swollen toes? One day I’ll be forced to give him up, spend my savings on a top podiatrist.

Pris Campbell

Old Mother Hubbard

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