Agony of Da Feet Read online

AGONY OF DA FEET

  By

  James W. Lewis

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  Agony of Da Feet

  Copyright © 2010 by James W. Lewis

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of nonfiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  AGONY OF DA FEET

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  I didn’t think I heard him right. Did my male co-worker tell a female co-worker he was getting his feet done after work?

  I had to know, so I asked him. To my surprise, he confirmed it—and I sensed no shame.

  What the hell, I thought. Men get ... pedicures?

  I had no idea; me so ignorant. Must’ve missed the memo on that metrosexual movement. In my testosterone-flooded mind, “men” and “pedicures” didn’t swim together in the same body of water. Really, how would a trip to the nail salon sound between two guys?

  “Hey, man, wanna play ball after work?”

  “Naw, dude. Gotta treat these dragon feet first!”

  “Whaaaat? You gettin’ your feet ‘did’?”

  “Yup!”

  “Cool. I wouldn’t mind somebody workin’ these ol’ corns. Feet looking like I been runnin’ on rocks. Hey, can I roll?”

  “Yeah, let’s roll. Hey, you see that move Kobe put on...”

  Right.

  Some things don’t mesh—or so I thought. Real iron men don’t do pedicures, manicures, facials—none of that please-pamper-me stuff. No sir.

  And yet ... I was curious. How did a grown-ass man wind up loving an occasional toe-tweaking?

  My coworker told me about the Calgon powers of feet treatment. Feet doctors didn’t just nip away reckless toe nails. Oh no. They soak the feet. Scrub away crust between the toes. Massage the phalanges, heels, ankles, calf muscles—the whole nine.

  He reminded me how our ground stompers got it rough. What other extremity makes steady contact with hard surfaces while carrying the full weight of the human body? In most cases, feet are crammed in tight quarters we call shoes or high-heels, the humidity an African jungle, intensifying a funk that could clear a room when set free.

  Feet do have it rough. A little TLC wouldn’t hurt.

  That night, I pulled the shoes off, my sock snagging a chipped piece of Plexiglas disguised as a toenail. Strips of scaly hard skin peeled off the balls of my ten-in-a-halves. “Calluses” they call it, aka clumps of skin long passed on. My right big toe was a half-healed victim of blunt-force trauma from playing basketball, its nail detached, departed and deranged.

  My feet. Boy, boy, boy. Not quite “Hammer time,” but still in need of a rescue mission.

  I told my girlfriend “Lisa” about my co-worker’s pedicure visits. To my surprise, she replied, “So? Men get their feet done all the time at my salon.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  Soon as those words left her lips, I knew what would come next:

  “I have an appointment this weekend.” She looked at my feet. “And since you like stabbing me with those pitchforks, I’ll make one for you, too. And don’t punk out.”

  Lisa had jokes, but I couldn’t argue. Since I failed to trim my nails that night, those daggers definitely looked like Spartan weapons.

  So I did what I was told, but determined to safeguard my virility. I’m a man, damn it!

  I stepped inside the beauty salon, chest-out, chin-up, reminding myself I’m still a dude of dudes while bobbing my head to a jazzy percussion from the salon’s surround sound. Five female customers sat inside, either waiting their turn or “beautificating” their nails or toes. Stench of nail polish remover flattened my nostrils, so strong it turned my stomach.

  I adjusted to the vapors, but my head mimicked a knee-jerk reaction once I noticed a man sitting across from a woman gettin’ his manicure on, chit-chattin’ about whatever. Another gentleman sat in a leather massage chair, feet dipped in water while reading a Vogue magazine. Chillin’.

  What the hell? Manhood oozing away before my eyes or what? And was I next?

  While digesting that thought, a young woman led me and Lisa to similar massage chairs, then in broken English, asked us to remove our shoes. I lost the shoes and socks, hiked up the pant legs, then placed my feet in the foot sauna. Feet in, the whirlpool bubble action commenced.

  Easing into the chair, I pushed the remote. Rollers pressed the muscles around my lower back, traveling up along my spine. Oh my. I leaned the chair back, the mechanical wheels deep-stroking harder, feet soaking in bubbly water with a dash of Epsom salt. The massage chair and soft whine of a jazz trumpet ascended chill mode to its highest peak, my mind on a whole new channel.

  I say again ... oh my. I had discovered the root of pampering by tapping into my feminine side.

  Sitting on a chair-on-wheels in front of the foot bath, another young woman assumed the toenail duties; Lisa had her own nail technician. Wearing a white mask that made me feel like Typhoid Mary, I set a wet foot on a foot rest and with the precision of a barber, she whacked off excess nails and edged them up—big piggy down to little piggy.

  With a bottle that looked like an over-sized jug of Elmer’s glue, she poured the “glue” around my foot and scrub-a-dub dubbed, stroking the nerve endings near my heel. Rubbed up my calves—almost to the back of my knee. Oh ... boy! I gripped the chair. Tingles shot up my leg to my butt. Poked a spot, I tell ya.

  I turned to Lisa. She pressed a hand over her mouth, seconds from exploding in laughter. My eyes said “shut up.”

  Cuticles came next. Yeah, cuticles. You know, those hard strips of skin at the base of your toenails? Of course you knew that. You say “cuticle” at least once a day around your buddies, probably at a sports bar.

  With a metal nipper thingy, she clipped away cuticle strings, adding to the pile of dead nails near the foot bath. She “cuticled” each toe, knobbing my midget digits with the same care of a newborn baby.

  But not for long. She went from babysitting to manhandling my feet.

  The pedicurist held a heel up. Like a DJ scratching vinyl, she sandpapered the bottom of my feet with a foot scrub. Calluses didn’t have a chance. Dead skin became sawdust, cutting the air. She swatted a hand near her face, frowned, said something to Lisa’s pedicurist in another language, then shook her head.

  A large clump of rubbery skin fell on top of the dead skin pile. I turned to Lisa, her eyes all teared up. She didn’t hold back her laughter this time.

  Embarrassing.

  Oh, well. But at least the pedicurist revived my feet! And she didn’t stop there, either. Oh no. Time for the “bling.”

  She slapped top coat on each toenail. Gave them a spit-shine, like turtle wax for nails, a gloss. Even made my deranged big toe look half-way decent, an impressive feat for “da feet.”

  My paw paradise lasted about thirty minutes. Feet clean, toes with a nice tint, no more dead skin. When I left the salon, I felt a weight had been lifted. Light on my feet—literally. Considering the clusters of skin shaved off, I understood why.

  I e
njoyed the experience. Went in feeling like a duped passenger riding a pink bus; came out with a fresh shiny pair of “wheels.” But the ride hasn’t stopped. I’ve even decided to get my wheels rotated every other month. And you’d better believe I’m still maxed out on my Man card.

  Now should you get a pedicure? Well, take a look at your feet. Do they remind you of Yoda from Star Wars? If so, it may be time to take a trip to your nearest “Toeminator.”

  And don’t worry—you won’t leave less of a man.

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  Thank you for reading! I would love your feedback with a written review of my work!

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  About the author

  James W. Lewis is a novelist and freelance writer published in several books. His novels are SELLOUT and A HARD MAN IS GOOD TO FIND, both available now. After spending twenty years in the Navy, James retired from active duty and is now completing his studies in Kinesiology. He also is part-owner of the publishing company The Pantheon Collective. You can find more of his work at www.jameswlewis.com and www.pantheoncollective.com.

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  Other Ebooks By James W. Lewis

  SELLOUT (novel) – Three individuals—a black woman, black man, and white woman—face the consequences and struggles of dating interracially.

  A HARD MAN IS GOOD TO FIND (novel) – A young woman learns she should’ve been more careful with what she asked for in this erotic comedy romance.

  THE CUT UP (cocktale) – Sometimes a wife can remain calm, cool, and collected–even when catching her husband in bed with a young girl over half his age. One possible response? Invite the bold bitch to dinner! 

  That was one possible reaction of civility, but Eve quickly decides another route. Really, there's no need to overact upon seeing a young girl in her bed with the man she's loved for over twenty years. Sometimes, a butcher knife is all you need.

  THE TWO MINUTE DRILL (cocktale) – Men sometimes exaggerate super-human do-it-until-the-sun-comes-up sexual process. In reality, however, for most males--approximately 75%, according to a recent medical study--the "party" ends within two minutes.

  MR. TELEPHONE MAN, WHO THE #$@* IS ON MY WOMAN’S LINE (cocktale) – A three-month trip to Seattle is small beans for a young sailor and his girlfriend, considering its short distance from San Diego. The time away only makes the relationship stronger, right? At least, that was the plan … until the sailor called her home and a man answered. Damn.

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  *EBOOKS ARE AVAILABLE ON MOST MAJOR ONLINE EBOOK RETAILERS*