by Casper D
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Around twenty-one years ago I was unceremoniously fostered out to a URBAN couple.
This was a strange experience for me, mainly because of how people in the neighborhood (not the couple who'd taken me in) treated me. I wasn't brutalized or anything . . . wasn't even ostracized for being SUBURBAN. But I was treated strangely. And this attitude towards me didn't stem from racism, I later discovered. Rather it was a result of a misunderstanding. You see, it had been a long standing tradition in this part of the state that SUBURBAN children who were fostered out to URBAN families were generally the most mentally unstable, unmanageable, emotional wrecks in the child welfare's kiddy corral . . . kids who were rejected by most, if not all, SUBURBAN foster homes.
So naturally, when I was placed in the care of the Dickersons, the couple's neighbors were somewhat wary of me. It didn't take them too long to get over this wariness though. The real fact of the matter was that I wasn't unbalanced or an emotional mess at all . . . well, if you don't count the fact that I craved to have my feet tickled and played with. But other than that, I was okay. The reason I was fostered out to the Dickersons had to do with the overcrowding at Landy Hall, and the fact that the Dickerson themselves had a good reputation for their care of foster children.
Anyway, I made myself at home with the couple, and--for the most part--everything went fine. It's funny, but in any world other than the one I was fostered out to, I would have been considered a very handsome youth. I mean, I have sandy-blonde hair, blue-green eyes, and--according to many--I'm good looking. But in the Dickerson's home . . . even in the surrounding neighborhood, I wasn't viewed this way. I mean, no one said I was ugly or anything, but I never got the impression that anyone there considered me really handsome (they good-naturedly nicknamed me Casper . . . and not just because I was friendly). Yes, I was a little "unique" by virtue of the fact that I was SUBURBAN, but no one in that neighborhood considered me "special". Looking back, it was a kind of sobering experience in that instance.
* * *
On one slow, lazy Sunday, I found myself alone and wandering aimlessly around the Dickerson home. The house was empty save for me and my foster father, Isaac Dickerson, who was taking full advantage of his only night off. Even the couple's other foster kids were gone--off to engage in varying pursuits and activities. I, being the new youth, had none to occupy my time with on the weekend.
So I trudged aimlessly from the corridor and into the living room--the plush carpeting felt wonderful stroking softly against the bottoms of my sensitive sock-clad feet. The television was off, though the cable box above it was still alive with the time of day visible on it's red digital display. And stretched out on the sofa with his back to me was Isaac Dickerson--tall, dark, handsome and strong. He wasn't moving a muscle and appeared to be sleeping. I stood over him for a moment, still somewhat awed by the presence of this man for some reason.
I stared down at him for a long while. I fantasized about him taking me in his strong arms and kissing me from the top of my sandy-blonde head to the soles of my sensitive, extremely ticklish feet. I had weird fantasies too, I must admit. I mean, I fantasized about cranking up the stereo and blasting Led Zeppelin throughout the house, and then my foster father would become so angry that he would do something like tie my feet together, remove my shoes and socks and coat my toes with honey or jelly. Then he would torture me by forcing Shaka (the family dog) to lick the sweet honey or jelly from my feet and causing me to erupt into laughing hysterics.
Any way, I continued to stare at my URBAN foster father for I don't know how long. Mr. Dickerson was still lying with his back towards me, and I assumed that he was sleeping, but then he spoke:
"I can feel you standing there, son. What do you want?" He asked calmly without turning around.
I, who hadn't counted on the fact that my presence would be detected, fairly gasped in surprise. "N-Nothing, Mr. Dickerson. Hope I didn't wake you."
I hurried back down the corridor, making loud, panicked skuff-skuff sounds on the carpet with my stocking feet. For the next few minutes or so after, I sat in the bedroom, almost terrified that Mr. Dickerson would call me back and demand that I explain myself.
When he didn't call, I tried to relax. I lay back on the bottom bunk of the double-decker bed (which I shared with another one of the Dickerson's foster kids) and listened to my frantically beating heart.
Then I began to fantasize again.
I couldn't help but imagine my foster dad using my feet for his pleasure. I imagined him coming into the room right at that moment while everyone else was away. I could just visualize him sliding off my cotton SUBURBAN socks and exposing my bare, pink, very ticklish soles. At teen-something years of age, the soles of my feet were soft and smooth . . . still are now eleven years later, as a matter of fact. I fell asleep dreaming about Mr. Dickerson sliding his index finger up and down my bare soles, sending me into helpless hysterical laughter.
* * *
In retrospect, there were times when I wonder if maybe I did belong in the "unbalanced" category.
Once, when Mr. Dickerson left out late at night to play a big-stakes card game called "bid whist" at a bar/pool hall called Pigstickers. I managed to sneak out of the house and follow him! Hell, I even managed to sneak into the bar! You see, no youth (SUBURBAN or URBAN) in his right mind would sneak into a place like Pigstickers at eleven o'clock at night. But I wasn't in my right mind then, so I got away with it. I appropriated a seemingly discarded glass of some kind of alcoholic beverage (I forget what it was) and was even thinking about walking to a table and pretending to be a customer. I soon abandoned this plan, and just hid myself in the corner-kicking myself for being so stupid as to even come to the place.
Eventually someone spotted me.
I immediately pretended to be passed out at the table (the glass of the unknown alcoholic beverage nearby, clearly and purposely visible). It's not easy to fake unconsciousness while you're scared to death, but somehow I pulled it off. The person who spotted me asked everyone if they knew who the sleepy little SUBURBAN-boy was or how I'd gotten there. It didn't take long for the news to reach my foster dad at the opposite end of the bar. Mr. Dickerson, who had walked to the bar/pool-hall because it wasn't very far from the house, carried me out of the pool-hall and towards the car belonging to his friend, Earnest Jackson. Once we were situated in the back seat, Mr. Dickerson lifted me onto his lap while Mr. Jackson drove us home. He stroked my forehead during the entire drive. He told Mr. Jackson that he had no idea why I'd followed him. He even verbally expressed concern for my well-being, because he wasn't sure how much I had drank. He would have been surprised to discover that I hadn't ingested half of the glass of the unknown beverage I'd swiped.
Upon arrival, Mr. Dickerson carried me into the house, and undressed me. As he pulled my shoes and socks off, I silently begged (while still pretending to be passed out) that my foster dad would just slide his tongue once across the soles of my bare feet . . . even plant a kiss on my instep, or kiss my toes. But he didn't. Mr. Isaac Dickerson, I'd learned right away, was forever more attracted to the breasts of full-grown URBAN women . . . and not the feet of young SUBURBAN youths. He put me to bed with a modicum of paternal tenderness, but without the slightest trace of sexual attraction.
The next morning, he wasn't even too angry about my sneaking out to follow him to Pigstickers. He knew that I wasn't trying to be a willful, obstinate foster son, but rather I--much like a cocker spaniel puppy--just wanted be around him. He was probably touched by the fact that I loved him so much. Still, he never understood in what way that I loved him. I partially loved him in the father-son sense . . . but I also loved him in another way. A way that I just didn't have the courage to reveal to him. I still don't . . . unless of course he's reading THIS! Sure I changed the names to protect the innocent and blah blah blah, but I'm sure that anyone who was involved in the events that take place in this story would be able to recognize themselves AND me.
After the way he'd carried me home and put me to bed, I began to desperately crave his touch and affection more. Once, while playing football with my foster brothers and a few of the neighborhood boys, I got tackled by three husky URBAN lads. I wasn't hurt more than usual by this, but I could hear Mrs. Enid Dickerson (my foster Mom) yelling fearfully--probably fearing that the slight-looking SUBURBANboy had been crushed. So I took advantage of the situation, and pretended that the three young offensive linemen had knocked me cold!
I played the role for all that it was worth, keeping my eyes closed and remaining perfectly limp as Mr. Dickerson checked me for injuries and then carried me in his strong arms off the lawn. He carried me into the house and sat down on the sofa with me still on his lap. Mrs. Enid Dickerson hovered above us and, after making certain that I wasn't dead or too severely injured, ordered her husband to put me to bed. My foster father complied without complaint. He was deeply concerned himself. I still feel guilty about worrying him so much that day.
He lay me on the bed and undressed me. I was "conscious" now, but was still pretending to be a bit groggy. He pulled off my worn sneakers, and wrinkled his nose a little as he slid off my smelly, sweat-soaked socks. As unreasonable as it sounds, I was hurt by the fact that the smell of my feet repulsed him. I wanted him to love the smell of my feet. I wanted him to bring my sweaty socks to his nose and take deep whiffs. I wanted him to lift my bare toes to his nose and sniff for all that he was worth. But he didn't.
"What's the matter son?" he asked, seeing the depressed look on my face.
"Nothing, Mr. Dickerson." I lied. "I was just feelin' bad about losin' the game."
"Oh, cheer up, boy--the other team won by default." He said with a bright smile, as he continued pulling off my sock. I giggled as the sock slid past my sensitive heel.
"Good, you're smiling again."
I became sort of bold and told Mr. Dickerson that I wasn't smiling because I was "cheered-up", but rather because of the way he'd slid the sock off my very ticklish foot.
"You're ticklish?" he asked.
I nodded, looking forlorn and depressed again. "My feet especially."
"Well, if this is the only way to get you to laugh . . ."
Then, without warning, my foster dad slid his index finger from the heel of my right foot all the way up to the area below my little toe. I jerked and laughed. He then scraped his finger across the area below my toes, down the arch, then brushed it back and forth. I began to scream out loud, it tickled so much!
"Oh, you can try that if you want to, but it ain't gon' help . . . " he said, noticing that I was now curling my toes in a desperate attempt to protect them from his tickling fingers. He raked his fingernail from the heels of my bare feet, across my arches and towards my toes--causing me to flex my arches and wriggle my toes in a frenzied attempt to escape his fingers. I had found the secret! All I had to do from then on was pretend to be deeply depressed. Whenever Mr. Dickerson saw a hangdog look on my face, he'd grab my foot, relieve me of my shoes and socks, and begin tickling my feet like crazy.
As you can imagine, I was depressed a lot during the time I spent living with the Dickersons!