The lessson was born back in the day when certain schoolkids thought it good sport to step a vicious ball-of-foot on the back of another’s shoe. Sneaking up from behind these naredowells would deliver the dreaded flat tire, an affront — or aback it should be better said — more to the ego than to flesh and bone. Not to say that many a bone leadingg to the heel wasn’t bruised or skin risen like ruffled feathers beneath a newly pinking sock. But the wound was more to the ego. It was just after suffering my fifth such attack in less than two school days that a plan I now consider dreadful was delivered to my unprotected brain. I say “delivered” because I accept no blame for the idea. It just popped up, really. I know that I am guilty for having acted on it, and I live with my fate.

Having served my time in Juvi Hall and been released with two promises — one overt and the other silently understood — I bear the cross of a thousand Jesuses, though the flesh wounds of holy nails are not mine. The overt promise was that I would not do such a thing again as had brought me there. As my first go round at fighting back had earned me a reputation as someone not to be trifled with, such an action wasn’t necessary in any case, so there was no skin off my heel on account of that guarantee. It was the second promise, the unsaid, that has doomed me to the thousand pound weight of unendingly painful restraint.

I was made to understand, you see, that a good fellow would portray contrition constantly and without armor crack. Contrition and contrition alone would do if I was to be regarded as rehabilitated. It matters not that the regarding was only in the eyes of the one time jailers, none of whom would be with me to regard any further. Nevertheless, their imprint on my psyche was — and was known by them to be — ultimate. So profound indeed was their steel bootprint that it compelled me from the inside out all the days of my life to play the obligitory promethean pentitence as if they, like a panel of gods, looked down from the curtain tracks as humorless, harsh critics, curtain to curtain, day after oppressively theatrical day.

But just beneath the reach of the boot track of my one time all time jailers, somewhere near soul’s edge, remained the everlastingly ignightable evil glee, glowing steadfastly. Eternally. Sweet, sweet revenge knows no limits in its satisfaction to the ego, no matter its temporal price.

Pride, though the soul’s enemy in the ether, is its inextricable partner from the vantage of physicality.

And oh how sweet that bloody day was. Who could think a foot could bleed so much! Cascading waves of electric joy frame my edges and explode orgasmically from my insides to my borders and back again when I become aware of the emotional memory. I say become aware because once you’ve had it, the feeling never quite goes away. Deep within me this seemless pleasure lies, ironically sustaining me through a painful life caused solely by its very existence and, of course, decency’s dictation that it be concealed.

© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon