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Flaviano's Feet
by Casper D

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I’ve had a few Latinos worship and tickle my feet through the years, but—oddly enough—only a few precious times have I tasted and tickled Hispanic heels, toes and soles. The very fist time I sampled them was perhaps the best time.

Those who’ve read my tales before are probably already aware that, around eleven years ago, I was unceremoniously fostered out to an African-American couple. This was an irregular experience for me, mainly because of how people in the predominantly black and Latino neighborhood (not the couple who’d taken me in thank God) treated me. I wasn’t abased or anything . . . wasn’t even forsaken for being white. But I was treated strangely.

This temperament towards me didn’t stem from racism, I later discovered. Rather it was a result of wrong assumptions. You see, (though officials will deny it) it had been a long standing custom in this part of the state that white children who were fostered out to non-white families were USUALLY the most mentally unstable, unmanageable, emotionally wrecked in the child welfare’s kiddy corral . . . kids who were rejected by most, if not all, white foster homes. This unspoken, rather evil policy may have changed by now . . . but no matter how much officials try to deny it now, I know that this is how things worked with the bureau that fostered me out to the Dickersons.

Anyways, I made myself at home with the couple, and—for the most part—everything went fine. I had three handsome foster brothers; Darnel, Ricky and Vincent (who was the biological son of my foster folks). I wasn’t so bad looking myself. I mean, I have sandy hair, blue-green eyes, and--according to some--I’m fairly good looking.

But this story isn’t about me, or my foster brothers. This is about another handsome boy—a Latino lad who lived next door to the Dickersons named Flaviano.

The day I sampled Flav’s feet occurred some years (yes, YEARS) after I was first placed in the Dickerson home . . . it was the day of the big party.

That particular morning the entire Dickerson house was in chaos. My foster brothers and I were running around in just our underwear, bumping sleepily into one another until we completely woke up. The house virtually shook with activity: Music blasting. Sneakers lost. T-shirts found. Breakfast gone cold. Vincent was slicking wave grease in his hair and Darnel was in the shower trying to ignore his foster mother’s stockings that were hanging there (the plumbing in the master bedroom’s bathroom was broken). Ricky—my youngest foster brother—was bemoaning the fact that I had swiped a slice of bacon off his plate.

The years I spent amongst my surrogate brothers was wonderful. The years after, when I wasn’t legally bound to consider myself a foster anymore, were even better. I treasured the times I spent alone in our bedroom . . . the times when I was all by myself and surrounded by my foster brothers’ sneakers and socks. There was a pair of everything in that room we shared—Nike, Addidas, Reebok. And not too far away was the hamper full of their dirty socks.

Whenever I was home completely alone I’d lock the bedroom door and seize whatever pair of sneakers that happened to be left behind. All of my brothers’ sneakers were somewhat worn and had an individual charm. I’d place them near my face. I’d be able to smell my surrogate brothers in those sneaks—and it was always that wonderful combination of sweat and leather and their individual masculinity.

Then I’d lie in the tub in the adjoining bathroom and jerk like mad. I’d pull and rub my penis, imagining all kinds of things. One of my favorite things to imagine was Vince, Darnel and Rick holding me down and licking and tickling MY feet. Yeah, I’d shot my load about three times in that tub and smeared my cum all over my body.

But I digress. This tale is about Latino feet, so I want to tell you about the Dickerson’s next door neighbor, Flaviano.

Flaviano’s golden-tan body is almost perfect. He has a slim build, with dark brown hair that looks so black in the Winter time. He’s clean-shaven and boyish-looking. His chest is almost totally smooth. He's wasn’t as tall or as built as my foster brothers, but he was very firm. His legs were solid and only lightly hairy. And his feet were magnificent, in socks or bare.

Except for my foster family, Flav was generally a loner. I can’t say for certain, but the rumor about town was that Flav and his brothers had to flee their old neighborhood because the Hispanic community had basically exiled them. You see Flav’s brother and his "carnelitos" allegedly used to rip-off the illegal Mexican immigrants who were crossing the borders into California. Most of those people carried with them few items, but these items were generally everything of value in their lives. Still they didn’t put up much resistance when guys like Flaviano’s brother and his brother’s friends bushwhacked them. Again, I can’t be for certain if this rumor is true, but whatever the case, I don’t think Flaviano was involved in it.

He moved in next door to the Dickersons where his grandfather, Alberto "Papi" Munoz, lived. I think the Dickersons and the Munoz’s barley spoke to each other until my foster bro Darnel and Flaviano got a job together detailing cars. It only took a few short months before Flaviano had become so friendly with the Dickersons that he became like a member of the family. And this fact doesn’t surprise me, for Flav is a very affable guy. Combine this with Mr. Dickerson’s encompassing warmth and friendliness, and it’s easy to see how Flav became as much of a surrogate son to him as me and my bros were. Mrs. Dickerson often fought to keep herself from sending a plate of food to Flaviano and his grandfather next door. She often felt sorry for them when she saw all the cheap instant noodle packets in the their trash cans (which was clearly visible over the fence that separated both families’ back yards).

But even though she wanted to send food over, she wouldn’t. She knew Papi Munoz was an extremely proud man. Handing him a plate of food would have been an inexcusable offense. So she settled on discreetly inviting him and Flav over for dinner whenever possible. By the same token Papi kept a stern-but-fatherly eye on us foster boys whenever Mr. Dickerson was away working or whatever.

On this particular fateful day, most of the Dickerson clan was planning to go out to dinner and movie, but Darnel and Flaviano were all set to go to a party.
The party was loud and rowdy, but also elegant and civilized in a manner of most house parties which were chaperoned by the parents of the guy or girl who threw it.

Still, tomfoolery was bound to occur . . . and my foster bro and his co-worker proved it.

By one in the morning, Darnel and Flaviano had passed their alcohol limit and had stumbled into the living room of the Dickerson’s home, where they passed out on the plush carpet, side by side. Neither of them were supposed to be drinking, but it seemed that both had inadvertently consumed potent potables. Darnel (at least from the story he told Mr. and Mrs. Dickerson) explained that he had been the victim of spiked fruit punch (yarite). Flaviano had inadvertently consumed an entire jar of pineapple slices. Pineapple slices which had been soaking in vodka for days! I believed him too. I mean, he certainly smelled of pineapples.

Whatever the case they were both in trouble when Mr. Dickerson walked into the living room and found them. With help form Vincent and myself Darnel was pushed and pulled into the bedroom we shared and put to bed. Vincent took the task of stripping Flaviano down and tucking him in on the sofa.
And later that night I strolled into the living room and spotted Flav sprawled on the sofa.

The Latino party-animal was now clad in a T-shirt, jeans and was barefooted. I checked to make sure no foster family members were lurking about, then crept towards the prone, slumbering Mexican. I made my way to the end of the sofa where his feet rested and leaned down until my face was right in front of his soles. I glanced up at his face and saw that he was sleeping soundly. And the odor of alcohol (mingled with the scent of pineapples) surrounding him should have assured me that setting off a firecracker near his head would not have awakened him. Still, the closer I got to his feet, the harder my heart pounded with fear. My eyes found their way back to the Latino’s bare feet and became transfixed. I’d seen Flav’s feet clad in white socks many times, but only a few times had I seen them bare.

He had great-looking feet with smooth heels and soft-looking soles. I moved my hand down his leg and settled it on one foot. My touch on his sole was light and his body jumped and spasmd without Flav waking up. Even though my head swam with dizziness, I leaned my head down to his bare feet and sniffed—they smelled of sweat and leather. I began lightly touching his feet again. His soles were perfectly smooth and his long toes curled and jerked under my touch. This gave me so much pleasure! I mean, I like having my own feet tickled more than anything in the world—but I’d never pass up the opportunity to tickle someone else’. With one hand massaging his beautiful, ticklish feet, I used my other one to lightly rub the bulge rapidly forming between my legs. I was nearly fainting with pleasure while Flav moaned and whimpered without ever regaining consciousness.

I paused from tickling to admire his feet again. His toes were long and even, with shiny nails. I resumed tickling—using my fingers to stroke his soles. He giggled in his sleep and his body shuddered. My fingers stroked from his heels to his toes on both feet . . . then I switched motion so that I was stroking from toes to heels. I got the best reaction out of Flav when I placed my fingers in between his big and second toe and sort of twiddled them around and around.

I had to stop tickling when I heard noise on the front porch. I woke up my foster parents, because I thought it might be Papi Munoz come to retrieve Flaviano. But, Mrs. Dickerson opened the front door, she didn’t find Papi. Instead she found a Mexican young man named Rafael Quintana.

Rafael was a short, but muscular Mexican. Usually you’d find him dressed the same way; white T- shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. His legs were muscled and slightly hairy, and he wore white socks with his black Nikes. We later found out that Rafael had meant to stumble to Flaviano’s house, but—in his intoxicated haze—he had misjudged the domicile’s location and collapsed on the Dickerson’s porch instead.

Folks often said that Rafael was bad news—a hardened gang-banging vato. I didn’t listen to people who said things like this for, according to the same gossips, my foster bro Darnel was also a gang-banging homicidal maniac. Hey, no one could prove that Darnel had ever busted a cap in anyone. Well . . . not in anyone who hadn’t asked for it. But anyways, Rafael did look rough. He was not a prettyboy by any stretch of the imagination, but he was a ruggedly handsome young man with square features, a thick mustache and a goatee. If anyone saw him coming, I think the first thing they would assume that he was a gangsta cholo.

Anyways, Mrs. Dickerson went to the door and there was Rafael, passed out on the porch, the smell of booze wafting off of him, currently looking more like some abandoned orphan than a hardened vato. I think it was when Rafael regained consciousness, vomited his guts out, then passed out again that my foster parents first began to soften. Mr. Dickerson carried him in, plunked him down in the armchair and lit a scented candle because Raf really was smelling loudly.

Instead of sending Rafael home like I thought he would, Mr. Dickerson actually took the reputed rapscallion into his house. Mrs. Dickerson wasn’t thrilled about opening her home to some alleged gangster, as she put it, but she didn’t like to see any ‘child" all messed up like Rafael was. He didn’t get stripped down and tucked in like Darnel and Flav had been. Mr. Dickerson merely sat him in the armchair, pulled off his sneaks, propped his socked feet on the footrest and covered him with blanket.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dickerson returned to bed (which surprised me, because what if Rafael had turned out to be an ax-wielding psychotic?) I returned to the living room. I was actually going to make an attempt at tickling Flaviano’s feet again, but I suddenly became more intrigued by my surrogate family’s new houseguest.

At first I played it safe, and decided to only fool around with the sneakers Mr. Dickerson had pulled off Raf.

I could smell the vato’s manly foot odor mixed with leather of those Nikes. I sat in the dark for some time, sniffing his sneaks. The damp, humid smell was strong. All I could think of was Rafael Quintana’s manly foot buried in these Nikes all day and all night long. My penis was hard and growing harder. I eventually reached the point where I actually began to lick his sneakers. They tasted of mingled leather and Latin footsweat. I first licked the toes of these sneaks and then all around them (you ever notice how difficult it can sometimes be to lick the insole of hightop sneaks?). Once they had been cleansed with my saliva, I gave into temptation and turned my attention to the vato’s white-socked size-eleven feet.

Rafael’s socks were a mite dirty, but they were sweaty and stuck to his feet so that I could see the indentation of his manly toes. When the Latino "gangster" began to snore, I felt comfortable—in the almost encompassing darkness of the living room—to bring my face down to his feet. My penis came close to exploding on it’s own when I felt the warmth and dampness of Raf’s socks. Though as deeply asleep as Flaviano, Rafael let out a sleepy sigh and unconsciously flexed his toes inside his socks. I could smell the wonderful built-up of sweat.

Then I ran my face up and down every inch of his socked soles, massaging them with my cheeks. Dancing at the party probably explained why his feet were so sweaty. The faster I rubbed my face against his socked soles, the more heat and salty odor seemed to waft from Raf’s feet. The smell was horrible (wonderful!). I even began kissing the bottoms of his moist-with-sweat smelly socks. I could taste his Latin mansweat on my lips as I tenderly kissed the unconscious vato’s feet.

Growing bolder with each passing second, I wedged my nose in his sock right between his big toe and the second one. I took in the deliciously rancid smell with each inhaling breath. I continued kissing his raunchy, sweat-filled socks for what must have been five minutes. I didn’t stop until Flaviano—stretched out on the sofa across the room, began to mumble and shift as if he were waking up. I was too scared to take any chances, so I dashed back to the bedroom. Then I traversed THROUGH the bedroom to the adjoining bathroom where I wanked until I shot-off four times (three times with lots of jizz, and once with noting but feeling).

Despite the incredible experience I’d had the night before, the next day was rather somber. While suffering through hangovers, Darnel and Flaviano were handed down penalizations for their actions.

"Papi’s gonna put Flav on punishment for drinking a jar full of vodka-soaked pineapple slices." Darnel explained to me and Mrs. Dickerson long after the Latino young man had been taken home by his grandfather.

"Humph! You’d think if that ole coot was gon’ punish that chile it should be because Flaviano is so greedy that he would drink a whole jar full of ANYTHING." said Mrs. Dickerson mumbled as she left the kitchen. "That boy would have been sick this mornin’ even if the pineapples hadn’t been spiked."

Once she was gone, Darnel went on and on to me about how the Dickerson and Papi were prone to treating him and his peers as if they were children. And I couldn’t disagree. And I was so flattered by the fact that Darnel would deem to talk to me (he usually treated me like Fuzzy Zeller performing at the Apollo Theater) that I ended up keeping him company while he was confined to the house. When the rest of our foster family all took off to follow their own pursuits, Darnel and I secretly made our way over to Flav’s house next door. Papi was supposed to be keeping a jailer’s eye on both Flav and Darnel, but hey, the guy was like seventy years old!

When Darnel and I entered the house, we found Papi nodding over an old copy of the now defunct STREETBEAT magazine on the sofa, and Flaviano was at the kitchen table apparently contemplating which color of primer paint he was going to coat his old Chivvy with.

"You get into Streetbeat Magazine, Papi?" Darnel asked the older Latino man.

"Well, now, no, I don’t usually," said Papi, coming out of his doze with a start. The old man was so confused that he didn’t even recall the fact that Darnel was not supposed to be over, and that both his grandson and my foster brother were supposed to be "on punishment".

The old man forgot everything. In fact, Papi was so energized after being startled out of his doze that he turned to me, Darnel and Flaviano and said, "Come on, muchachos, let’s go to Hambriento El Lagarto (a local eatery)."

So regardless of the consequences, that’s exactly what we did.

In the restaurant/bar Papi jokingly introduced me and Darnel as his nephews (on the way to the restaurant old man Johnson jokingly called us as ‘the Rainbow Coalition’) and ordered us all some Mexican dish that I still can’t name. The moment Darnel and I finished, Papi ordered us something else.

We finished our second plate of hot, spicy mystery food and Papi ordered us a brand Mexican grape soda that made me sick. As nonchalantly as I could, I excused myself from the table and made my way into the restroom. Darnel followed. At first I thought he’d sensed that something was wrong with me and was concerned, but then I realized that the food we ate was affecting him the same way it was affecting me. He splashed water on his face while I heaved into the toilet. This act was contagious, for no sooner had I finished vomiting, Darnel was bent over a toilet with the dry heaves.

After we’d cleaned ourselves up, we returned to the table, smiling and pretending as if nothing had happened. Flaviano knew exactly what had happened to us and he kids Darnel and me about it to this very day.

That day at Hambriento El Lagarto was the last day of fun we had with Papi Munoz before he died.

I remember how tenderly the Dickersons dealt with Flaviano after Papi passed on. I mean, the family wrapped him in a sea of kindness because the Latino young man was clearly in a state of shock brought on by the unexpected loss of his grandfather. The entire family dealt with him like a newborn while he stayed with us until his mom and brother could fly out to make arrangements for Papi: meals were prepared for him, his bath was drawn for him, his clothes were cleaned, pressed and laid out. And when Flav fell asleep in front of the television, Vincent’s strong arms actually carried him to bed! The tenderness of Mrs. Dickerson, the head pats of Mr. Dickerson, the solicitude of me, Darnel, Ricky and Vincent . . . these were clear indicators that Flav could do no wrong for at least a week.

I was in a state of shock over the loss of Papi myself, and so was Darnel. But my foster brother and I dealt with our shock in our own way. Darnel became taciturn and surrounded himself in walls made of a cold lack of emotion. Papi was one of the few people whom Darnel had dropped his guard around (I don’t think he did that for anyone else but the Dickersons), and even I could see that the old man’s death was effecting him far more than he let on. To this very day folks will tell you that Darnel often behaves like a cold-hearted thug. But he does have a softer side. And when he was around our foster parents or Papi Munoz, you saw it.

I remember how I handled Papi’s death. I did what I always did to keep my mind off death . . . the one thing that made me feel so ALIVE. I met my buddy LP at the park and then we made our way over to his house. Not long afterwards, LP was lifting my sweaty sock-clad feet up to his shoulders. I put my right foot to his mouth and he began to suck on it through my sweat-dampened sock. I moaned with pleasure as his tongue caressed my toes. I felt the warmth of his mouth around my toes and moaned. It made me hot, and I just couldn’t help stroking my penis as his mouth worked over my feet.

He paused from worshipping my feet, peeled off my socks and began to mercilessly tickle my soles. My best bud had a sadistic sneer on his face as attacked my bare soles with his fingers. He reached for one of his ever-ready eagle feathers and began brooming it between my bare toes. I begged for mercy.

Once he grew bored with my crying and pleading, LP stopped tickling me and proceeded to nibble on my toes while holding both of my feet to his mouth. When he began to suckle upon my toes I shot off without any warning. As usual, having my feet worked over had taken my blues away. Yeah it was only a temporary remedy, but better than no remedy at all.