Kush was my high school friend—another guy whose feet haunted me. Back then, I never said anything, but he lived in flip-flops or those thick-strapped Raiders sandals, always with different socks and heavy sneakers. Everything about them made me desperate to taste.
In school, he was the chillest dude—never talked shit, no drama, just known for being the stoner (shocking, right?).

After graduation, I kept chasing my deepest desires with former classmates. Eventually, I slid into his DMs about his insane feet—especially since his Instagram had a whole highlight reel of just his feet/legs (no idea why, but I wasn’t complaining).
Years passed. Every so often, I’d remind him of my offer. Always a "no"... until one day, he messaged: "That invite still open? Single now—down to try."

Next day, I stocked the best weed and finally lived the fantasy. Buried my face in those soft, rank, perfect soles—sniffed his crusty socks, locked eyes to watch him process it, licked every crevice of sweat. For a second, I was that desperate teen again, swallowing every inch.