I discovered I was gay on my 13th Birthday. The strippers my father kindly hired did very little for me. It was the short, sweaty balding man (employed to protect the strippers) that set my loins aflame. The instant I experienced those feelings of same-sex desire, my socks constricted around my feet. My toenails shattered and my bones grew compromised. My confused mother had to cut them off with an arrowhead.
The weeks that followed were spent in bed, lost in fantasy, while my feet healed. The intoxicating visage of the short balding man danced in my dreams, arousing me in myriad new ways. Experiments with masturbation to this point had only skirted around the edges of possibility. Now, with an erection the size of Oprah, I was ready to dive into the deep end of masturbation. I was familiar with the concept of semen and, not wanting to sully my porcelain chest, sought a receptacle. Lifelessly by my bed laid a limp sports sock. I slid it over my member like a furry condom and conjured the sweaty balding man in all his erotic grandeur. Upon first plaintive tug, the sock constricted around me, choking my penis harder than any masturbatory hand ever could. I squealed in abject pain, trying my best to remove the sock. The sensation of a thousand fire ants bit into my shaft and refused to let go. The screams summoned my panicked mother into the bedroom. My screams were soon matched my hers as we both watched the sock soak with penile blood. With my mind occupied solely by pain, the sweaty balding man eventually left my thoughts. At that moment, the sock released its grip, leaving my skinned member bloody and weeping in its wake.
It was now apparent that socks disliked me, and I knew why. For whatever reason, socks weren’t made to accept homosexuality. I discussed the problem with my parents, both of whom were very supportive. My mother helped me find some support groups, which resulted in some of the best friends a person could ask for. Buoyed by a mutual desire to eradicate sock homophobia, we took to the streets, with the eventual aim of targeting the sock manufacturers themselves.
The swell of support we received was heartening. We carried grisly placards wherever we went that showed the grim reality of pulped feet and stripped genitals. We used shock as strategy without shame. This was a reality we were forced to endure and the world needed to know. Everyone is entitled to their beliefs, no matter how morally suspect they are. This freedom of belief shouldn’t extend to life’s inanimate necessities.
After many years of campaigning, several leading members of our group, myself included, were eventually granted audience with a man called The Sock Wizard. The Sock Wizard was the man ultimately responsible for every sock in existence. He was responsible for the homophobia. He was responsible for the pain wrought.
The Sock Wizard was clearly riddled with anxiety as he sat to face us. We were expecting a tyrant only to be presented with a scared, snivelling, admittedly arousing, man. Our group exhaled with collective relief before commencing our discussion. Within minutes, The Sock Wizard was in apologetic tears. Over a warm cup of cocoa, we comforted him, allowing him to unload his obvious burden.
Yes, it was true… Socks were made with an innate homophobia, he eventually admitted. It turns out this homophobia was the result of an error. The Sock Wizard had filled out a vital piece of paperwork incorrectly, resulting in the mess we were in now. When asked if the error could be fixed, he muttered something about his pride before showing us his naked, damaged feet.
Copyright: © 2010 Matthew Revert
Matthew Revert is an Australian author of weird fiction. He is the author of the book A MILLION VERSIONS OF RIGHT, available here.