Letter from South Beach

by Jefftaur

The boytaur thing is definitely catching on in South Beach.

The boytaur thing is definitely catching on in South Beach.

Along Lincoln Road plaza last night, the foot count on the pavement must have beat out the head count by at least four times! Not because every last guy’s gone over, but because there are enough guys who are six-legged, or who have even more, to more than make up the ratio!

All the open-air restaurants and cafes are packed with boytaurs, and often you’ll see a newly wristfooted guy tackling a meal for the first time with his big new handsome appendages, with the patient and delighted help of his boyfriend. Sometimes you’ll see two new wristfooted boytaurs helping each other out, laughing as they clumsily work their way through their meals together, always ready to lend each other a helping wristfoot, almost too distracted by each others wristfeet and boytaur bodies to even eat.

The handsome boytaur waiters and busboys zip about on four or six deft and silent feet, expertly managing trays and dishes with their hands or, even more often, experienced wristfeet, always glad to help out any less-experienced customers, explaining their deft moves with large wristfooted gestures.

Some restaurants, with an eye on their many wristfooted customers, have begun offering a wide variety of finger—or rather, toe—foods, and you’ll see boytaurs grabbing pieces of fresh flatbread in their wristfeet toes and dipping them in a variety of succulent sauces, before offering the treats to their partners. And many times, they just dip their wristfeet toes directly, because the receiver cannot help in any case kissing and licking the toes of the giver even after the flatbread is gone, the giver’s wristfoot trapped between the wristfeet of the receiver as he kisses and sucks the beautiful toes, looks of ecstasy on their faces that only a boytaur could know.

This makes the movie theatres rather crowded, seats spilling over with legs upon legs. But nobody minds, happy to take the overflowing legs, feet, and wristfeet of their neighbors into their multilegged laps, absently kissing them or giving them wristfooted caresses as the movie plays, the audience a continuous tangle of warm, friendly feet and legs.

Outside of the clubs, there are so many legs and feet milling around it’s hard to tell whose legs are whose, and all the guys are proudly showing off their many feet in flip-flops and slick black leather sandals, greeting friends with loud cries and wristfooted hugs. And inside, the floor is covered wall-to-wall with pounding male feet and legs, as the boytaurs dance to the infectious beat, often unable to stop themselves from growing even more feet and legs as they dance long into the night.

Hot weather is bringing boytaurs to the beach in many-legged droves. You’ve never seen so many flip-flops! Some of them knock around volleyballs with their wristfeet. Others lay out in the sun, multiple legs sprawled, rubbing tanning oil all over each other’s many-legged bodies with slow, intent wristfoot massages. Still others fool around in the water, aiming huge splash volleys at each other with their wristfeet, and then swimming quickly away with the coordinated kicks of multiple pairs of legs and the strokes of so many large, beautiful feet and wristfeet!

New boytaurs are joining in on the fun all the time, whether they’re changed by the sweet boytaur come of the many boytaurs already on the beach, or by any of the various boytaur dishes—and drinks—served by the seaside restaurants, cafes, and bars. It’s so cool to see two new boytaurfriends come, laughing and stumbling, out of a bar, supported only by each other (wristfooted arms around each other’s shoulders) and by their many new pairs of stumbling bare feet!

At night, you’ll see the boytaurs cruising the beach-side strip, like that Latin boytaur there in his red convertible, muscular and bare-chested, silver chain around his neck, one bulging, wristfooted arm hanging out over the door, the other wristfoot resting lazily on the steering wheel. Suddenly, his boytaurfriend is at the passenger side, planting his wristfeet on the door and catapulting his barefoot, four-legged body into the passenger seat with a powerful thump that rocks the car. Half a second later, he’s got the driver’s face held fast between his wristfeet and they’re kissing, deeply, as the driver, with one of his four feet planted firmly on the brake, wraps one wristfooted arm around his boytaurfriend’s back while running the other wristfoot gently down his friend’s chest and stomach, wristfoot toes seeking the contours of his pecs and abs.

At the clubs, the salsa dancing has begun, the infectious rhythm spreading through the boytaur crowds. One boytaur dances, barefoot and shirtless, his four bare feet moving in the rhythmic pattern that makes his two pairs of hips swing and sway in motion that heighten the sexuality of his entire muscular, four-legged body, as he runs his wristfeet up and down his torso, teasing his nipples with his wristfeet toes.

The main attraction of the evening is a performance by Ricky Martin, and the boytaur crowd goes wild when he appears on stage, throwing their wristfeet into the air, as they see his four bare feet peeking out from under the hems of his baggy, black four-legged pants. The energy is instantaneous as he grabs the microphone in his hands and begins to sing, his four feet moving rapidly as they carry his four-legged body in his rhythmic, sensual dance.

The many-legged crowd goes wild again when the song splits into harmony, and they realize that the harmony is being sung live—by Ricky Martin’s boytaur clone! He appears at the edge of the stage, barefoot with the same tight black shirt and baggy four-legged pants as his original, but with a headset rather than a microphone, leaving his large, tan, sexy wristfeet free, but for a second headset dangling from one wristfoot big toe. With a cry, the original boytaur Ricky discards his microphone with the start of the percussion breakdown.

After quickly donning the headset, the two boytaur Ricky clones begin to dance together, palms against wristfeet soles as all eight of their feet move to the driving rhythms of the band. The two boytaur Rickys roll the heads back to add the occasional laugh or shout to the ever growing crescendo of the band as they continue their four-and-four-footed dance, but most of the time their concentration is on their eight bare, floor-pounding feet. Then a roar goes up from the boytaur crowd as they see that the original boytaur Ricky’s hands are slowly becoming wristfeet to match those pressed against them, the bones and flesh lengthening and growing into the large, sensuous boytaur wristfeet. Then suddenly, the transformation is complete, the band reaches its climax, the two boytaur Rickys plant all eight of their feet firmly on the floor and grab each other’s faces with their wristfeet, pulling each other in for a deep kiss before suddenly spinning away on their many feet to both face the crowd, all smiles, to launch into the final verse.

The crowd goes wild for their sexy coordinated four-legged dance, aided by gesticulations with the wristfeet at the ends of their muscular arms. Then their harmony grows into a chorus as dozens of shirtless wristfooted boytaur Ricky Martin clones pour out on to the dance floor, all their bare feet slapping and pounding the floor… dozens upon dozens of bare boytaur feet, dancing long into the night.

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