Prejudice Begins At Home; Heterosexuals Suck Toes Too


So. The air at the Johnson family ranch has gotten so thick with estrogen that you could hack it with a Weed Eater. One of those big commercial jobbies with two strands of extra heavy plastic line. Like the lead-lined safety vest X-ray technicians wear to protect themselves from the deadly radiation, I’ve taken to wearing a thick hemp hooded sweatshirt, big sunglasses and an I-Pod while I’m inside the house.

I don’t know if it’s the Spring weather already turned into Summer’s high temperatures in early April, or if it’s just a bunch of crabby old gasbags fighting over Mr. Dave’s giant pecker. Things here to my place are what I think I can safely call “tense”[.]

I’ve tried to isolate myself from all this tension by wearing the protective gear. They kept trying to get me in the middle of things as a referee or a judge and I’m totally done with that shit. I work hard to play King Solomon and always cut the baby in half to keep everybody happy, and I always end up in the middle with everybody pissed at me.

But it’s too fucking hot for me to be all bundled up so I’m thinking about leaving the country. Then this morning I walked into the kitchen to start breakfast, and the entire fucking clutch of Johnson women were already there—sniping and shitting on each others’ feet. It seems Mr. Dave rose early to get ready for his annual physical this morning and the girls were fighting over who was fixing his breakfast.

Mr. Dave—a soft-spoken gentleman, and the very definition thereof—was trying to say something, but couldn’t get a word in edgewise. I pulled the I-Pod buds out of my ears to see if I could help him. I was listening to Led Zeppelin, and quite loud at that. I love LZ. “Wo-maaaaannnnnn!!! Na-nah na-na nah!”

“Hey, Dave my good man, how’s it hanging this morning?” I asked him.

“Heavy and low, Mr. Johnson, heavy and low.”

Those of you who read here routinely might suspect that the giant-peckered old geezer was speaking to the condition of said giant pecker. But Mr. Dave is a true gentleman and would never be so crude. It was obvious to me that he was addressing the blue mood and estrogen laden air I mentioned previously. “Let me see if I can help you,” I told him.

“Hey… Hey, ladies… You too, Gram, y’all listen up.” It was then I noticed that Gram had her Navy SEAL killing knife out of her pocket. “And put your knife away, Gram. I’ll not have you gutting my mother in the kitchen. Take her outside and then be sure to clean up after.”

The knife was once mine and the source for one of my arrests. But you have to buy my silly fucking book to hear anything else about that shit. Click over there =====}}}} to my Bloggie Roller and look at the book stuff. Otherwise, just know that when I got the knife back from the Sheriff’s Department, I gave it to Gram.

The gutting comment got me a look from Mother that said, “Dear god, why me?” Shortly after I got the look, she said the words. “Dear god, why me? It isn’t enough that I’m burdened with a homo-sex-u-al for a daughter, you had to give me this,” and here she flops both of her hands in my direction with the palms up. It was one of those “Ta-da!” motions but without any enthusiasm.

“I take it back, Gram. You can gut her where she stands.” I might have actually meant it.

“Ah, she ain’t wurth tha effert to stick a knife in her belly. Assides, Mr. Davie here is all mine when he gits back from tha doctor.”

“Well,” I addressed the entire kitchen, “Mr. Dave has his physical today, and that means he can’t have any breakfast save a glass of plain tea or some water. So you crazy old bat brains need to stop your bickering.”

“Thank you, Mr. Johnson, I’ve been trying to tell them that for the last hour.”

“Then I’ll have lunch waiting on you,” shouted by three of the women at the same time. Now they started in on a lunch menu. I looked at Mr. Dave and could only shrug my shoulders. “That, dear friend, is why I’m paying you the big bucks, sir.”

He looked at me with this deadpan look and said to me, he said, “We need to talk about a raise, Mr. Johnson. And combat pay.”

“You come back from your exam with a clean bill of health, and you got it.” Hell, I’d pay that old man double for the services he provides around here. Maybe I should sign him up to a long-term contract. His servicing all these old women has made my mostly unbearable hen house almost bearable.

That’s when Mother said something that really set me off. “Why are you wearing that gangster hood, Mooner. You’ll get yourself shot.”

At first it didn’t register with me. “What are you talking about, Mother. I’m wearing my UT hoodie.”

Then I got it and asked Gram if I could borrow her gutting knife. “You are so fucking clueless, Mother. That would be like me shooting you just because you’re a bigoted old Baptist shitbag wearing your pretty new Easter dress.”

Which reminded me. “I had the guys over to the hemp clothing factory make me a special Easter shirt to wear to church with you. It says “Jesus was homosexual because he washed peoples’ feet.”

Mother thinks that since Sister and Anna both have foot fetishes that all gay people have a thing for feet. I remember when I was married to Anna the Amazon—that was before she and Sister fell in love—she couldn’t get off unless I spent at least a little time sucking on her toes. She had big feet too, almost as big as my own.

Anyway, Mother thinks I’m joking about the shirt and attending church, both. She would be terribly wrong on both counts. I’m thinking I’ll wear the shirt with a hoodie. Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

7 Responses to “Prejudice Begins At Home; Heterosexuals Suck Toes Too”

  1. squatlo says:

    Right up front I’m going to address the one thing in this post that caught my attention: you feet-suckers are ruining porn for the rest of us.

    There. Got that out of the way. Had to be said. I don’t begrudge a man (or woman’s) most intimate fantasy or fetish. If you want navel lint as a condiment, lick away. I don’t care what you do for your jollies, and sort of appreciate any advice or tips you can give when it comes to pleasuring others… However (ahem…) this foot sucking fetish has now infiltrated mainstream, routine, run-of-the-mill, man-on-top-get-it-over-with-dammit sex movies. (or Training Films, as a friend at work called them)
    You can’t watch a porn clip longer than a Tums commercial without seeing an inordinate amount of time (yawner moments) spent with close-up shots of feet. Feet being sucked. Feet probing and massaging the genetalia of other folks with feet. Feet being undressed. Toe Sex.
    Enough. Mother fuck, enough. I don’t mind slathering lotion on a woman’s feet, and it’s been known to bring out a happy groan once in a while. But when you can’t turn to pornography without being subjected to this one peculiarly odd fetish again and again, you have to wonder just how much the Toe Sucking Lobby earns. Now you’ve brought it up in a blobber post, and before long there will be a whole Toe Meme sloshing around the Internets.

    Other than that, all I need to tell you is: Wear your hoodie with pride, Mooner. Support your Alma Mater, and by all means protect yourself from the Dueling Ovaries there in the kitchen.
    ( but for god’s sake, at least wear one the right shade of orange!)

  2. mel says:

    Yeah…the whole feet thing never really appealed to me. I mean, I am down for a good foot massage or pedicure, but no erotic foot stimulation is needed. It actually creeps me out a bit.

    And my phone keeps ringing while I try to leave this comment so more later! Grrrr…

  3. squatlo says:

    Mel, it’s probably Mooner calling with a great toe-jam recipe or something… beware…

  4. Father-of-the-Year Nominee, Mooner Johnson says:

    Squat. For starters, I only get involved in that toe sucking stuff at the behest of a lover. My feet are so sensitive I laugh if you look at them. Burnt orange all the way!!! As for the ruination of porn, the cheezy dialog spoils it for me.

    Mel. According to my mother, your lack of a foot fetish means you are not a lesbian. Having said that, my mother is a bigoted old baptist gasbag too caloused to embrace her own daughter’s sexuality.

    Squat. That makes me think of fig jam and I love me some fig jam!

  5. Father-of-the-Year Nominee, Mooner Johnson says:

    Fucking CAPTCHA machine. I just had to punch the code for writing pornski in that last comment.

  6. squatlo says:

    Cheezy dialog ruins “purn” for you? I had to write “purn” instead of you-know-what, ’cause you’ve got some prude of a Capcha Big Brudder watching over your blobber. I can say fuck the pope, eat the rich, and Pussy Makes you Stupid without pause, but “purn” gets me a ‘time out’ and spelling assignment? You REALLY need to fix this shit…

    I don’t watch purn for the sex scenes or the dialog. Both are predictable and dull, and besides, you can’t tell what someone’s saying when their mouth is full of feet.

    I watch purn for the bad jazz. It’s an underappreciated genre, almost impossible to play with a straight face. Bad Jazz. That would make a great band name. Or the label for a purn company.

  7. squatlo says:

    I was wrong. It’s not just porn that gets me in trouble with the CAPCHA gods… PUSSY is now deemed offensive.

    “What’s new, puddy tat?”

Leave a Reply