“Dude, if you’d get drunk for me and grow your hair for me and grow four legs for me, would you marry me?” That’s what I asked David.
He’d granted my first wish in graduate school. To see him so beautiful and stupid, because he knew it would turn me on to see him that way, was so hot. It was a one-time-only request on my part, because I didn’t want him to hurt himself. But to this day when we make love, if he shares the memory of that time, I come as hard as I did that night, and so does he.
He’d granted my second wish on an overseas assignment. “People are asking me about my hair, since long hair is no longer the style,” he’d told me over the bad-sounding long-distance lines.
I thanked him and apologized for the request, letting him off the hook, but he kept his hair long. It was down his back by the time he and I were reunited, and I nearly lost myself in his long, beautiful hair that he grew for me.
He’d granted my third wish when we moved in together. It had taken a lot of money and a visit to a special clinic that we cannot name. There was a lot of rehab and training to learn to use four legs, a lot of smiling and blushing learning to use the new equipment. But he was glad to be my boytaur, which to this day amazes me. That and the fact of his four legs. He is beautiful four-legged.
“I kind of did,” he replied.
“Did what?” I asked, lost in my reverie. We were sitting opposite each other on the couch, he massaging my feet, I massaging the four of his feet, needing to come, as I always do when I am with him or when I think of him.
“Silly, marry you,” he laughed quietly, a beautiful gentle giggle. He pressed his four feet against me. “I gave you these,” he smiled, enjoying the way I loved the feel of his four beautiful feet. “They’re attached to me, so I gave you me as well as my four feet.”
It had worked out well.
People liked him, once they got used to him having four feet. He was good-looking, usually sporting a cap and a white shirt with shirtsleeves rolled up, his four legs clad in two pairs of jeans with the cuffs rolled up a little to expose his four fine ankles, and he liked to show off his four good-looking feet, which looked so nice in their four flip-flops.
It was easy to explain.
“He’s a centaur,” I’d say, plausibly making up a story about how the real centaurs were just people with four legs, not the fanciful horse-bodied men of legend. People seemed to agree that that made sense, and generally expressed their envy of his four legs.
They’d usually come up with the same joke—”Can I have a ride?”
That’s where I’d always smile and say, “Sorry, he’s mine.”
As often as not, I’d mount his four legs to confirm it, and he’d walk me away on them as my hands held his shoulders, his four flip-flops quietly slapping his four heels as he walked, the four handsome legs undulating under me as I rode him. He liked it when I gave his hind butt a smack and said “Giddyap!”
I could picture a ballet of four-legged dancers doing a rodeo-themed show, mounting each other and saying “Giddyap!,” or a class of young dancers in training. By chance I found myself watching a class of dancers just like that.
It was too cool. Everyone had more feet.
Dance class was letting out, and all the guys were sweating and laughing, bare feet everywhere. But so many! They were comparing feet, and lending each other their feet, even though they already had four of their own. They tied them in foursomes and hung them around their necks or waists, like dance shoes, only they were nice bare feet, dangling heavily, toes pointed downwards, bumping against each other and against their chests and legs.
“Can I borrow your four feet?” one four-legged dancer smiled to another. “I want them.”
“Sure, can I borrow yours?” his friend smiled back. “They turn me on!” He sort of got up on the tiptoes of his four feet as he said that.
They laughed as they awkwardly lifted the heavy foursomes of feet over their necks and placed them around each others’.
More dancers bumped against them as they came out of the room, maneuvering their four bare feet around the two dancers as their foursomes of legs blocked the exit to the class.
I looked in. The skinny, tall young four-handed piano player was still going over parts of the music, his bare feet pulsing to the rhythm, several pairs of them crowded under the piano bench, leaning this way and that, their soles upended. A group of four-legged dancers, barefoot and in four-legged leotards, stood around the piano, going through the motions of the dance with their foursomes of beautiful legs.
Some other dancers remained behind, stretching their legs by standing on two of them and putting the other two on the dance bars around the edges of the room, or on the piano, or on each other’s hindquarters.
Two of them were leg wheels, possibly for a special part in the ballet. They were all legs and only legs, beautiful pairs of legs forming an amazingly beautiful wheel of legs, several bare feet in pairs on the floor and the rest soaring up and around a wheel of legs so tall that their bare uppermost feet almost touched the light fixtures. The two leg wheels worked with each other, matching up their soles and touching them together as they rolled against each ! other and away from each other, against each other and away from each other, then side by side rolling together forwards, or even rolling backwards as they moved forwards, by means of skillful deployment of their dozens of pairs of legs.
Another tall wheel of legs in the room was flirting with a handsome four-footed dancer, the handsome leg wheel lightly touching the dancer all over with so many beautiful feet! Every time the dancer tried to catch and kiss one of the feet, the leg wheel pulled the foot just out of reach, then brought another one within reach. The dancer was turned on, his own four feet working to press him deeper among the beautiful feet enveloping him. He was laughing, aroused.
The leg wheel planted four feet on the dancer’s shoulders, the arches nicely nestling against them. More legs reached around and pressed their feet gently against the dancer’s arms, sides, and legs.
A few feet hung heavily in front of the dancer as if they didn’t know where to go, so the dancer grabbed them and kissed them. One of them raised itself up a bit and planted its toes on his head, mussing his hair affectionately.
The dancer was laughing, saying “Stop!”, but he was loving having his hair mussed by one, two, three, four beautiful feet! It felt so good and he was reaching up with his hands and catching and kissing the feet. I realized it was me who was having my hair mussed by four feet, and grabbing and kissing them, and it really did feel good. I was so turned on!
“I like you doing this!” I laughed, and I heard David say, “I know you do!”
It was so cool to realize it was really David—I must have drifted off to sleep as I lay there on the couch massaging his four feet, because now all four of them were mussing my hair.
“What a nice way to wake up,” I told David, grabbing his four beautiful feet from my hair and holding them to my chest, kissing them. He squeezed his four legs around me and smiled.
“Let’s get you upstairs,” he said.
I was definitely ready for him. “I’m there!”