At the risk of being indelicate, I have to inform you of a situation in the men's room. One wall is weeping water. I corked the flow with my best-fitting finger, the one with the wedding ring. The drag queen at the next table leaned over for a light, and when I removed my hand from the guts of the pumpkin and reached for my stash of candy bars, I was a single man. When she was finished, with the utmost refinement she flushed a baby alligator. I was ready, my suit jacket stretched over the puddle in her path, yes, even though it is Casual Friday. I would very much like to consummate the deal, but she is holding out for a blood sacrifice. Please send someone right away.
Those are big, black shoes. So very large in fact they cross the aisle of the tube without a second glance as to whom they might be blocking. In this case, it's me. I begin to cross them as my eyes cross at you and they peek up my skirt as I pass, the green eyes painted on the toes give a wink, let me know that you are looking, despite your glassy shades, the leather jacket and the bulging pocket that must hold a blade held in wait, in case there are panties that must be cut away. Midway through my traverse of those enormous boots, I pause, hover over them in midair, not wearing knickers, I want you to stare. With a jerk they move and curl under your legs, your real eyes pacing elsewhere, letting me pass, shoving me on, denying me the thrill, wishing you had let them stay under my spread legs for a second longer, but how was I to know that your boots were gay?