Two weeks had passed. Brandon still felt a confusing mixture of shame and bliss burn in him when he replayed the details of the events. In the immediate aftermath he was mortified. Anthony, of course, was clueless to Brandon’s torment. He had chucked the destroyed Vans into the back of the Jeep with the tripod, casually thrust his mud encrusted pants and socks into the half petrified Hunters, and drove them home, merely observing that Brandon seemed “checked out.”

As Brandon drove himself home that night, uncomfortable in his twice saturated underwear, he swore this would never happen again. Perhaps he had been wrong to steep himself in triggering situations. Maybe meeting Anthony was the completely wrong approach. He entered a new week determined to live by a creed of avoidance. On Tuesday he passed the construction site of a new gas station, the tall upside-down v of a concrete pump hose rising above the array of work trucks. There would be men. There would be boots, slipping through the mush of cement. But Brandon looked ahead and drive on. On Friday, stopped an intersection, he rolled the window down as the heavy tang of fresh asphalt and tar wafted in. Immediately to the left of his car, two workers talked, one with his foot resting on a battered water jug. Only for a moment did Brandon’s eyes linger on the dusty, loose-laced Timberland, whose tongue lolled forward revealing a black sock beneath sun bleached jeans. Brandon adjusted his sunglasses and stared ahead at the red light.

By Saturday, his curiosity got the better of him and he found himself on Anthony’s channel. Two new videos were posted. One thumbnail showed the tops of Anthony’s hunters above the swampy ground, like two rubbery green ribbons encircling his legs. The other showed a black Van disappearing into pasty clay. Brandon clapped the laptop shut. Perhaps it was time to stop following Anthony. And so it was determined that this entire experiment, and friendship, should end.

Then Anthony called.

“You seemed off last time. Maybe it’s been too much, ya know?” Anthony mused over the phone. Brandon nodded, only half knowing that Anthony couldn’t see him agree, and at the same time wondering what shoes were being worn on the on the other end. “Hello?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“So why don’t you just come and hang out tonight? I’ve got the fire pit out back. Let’s just chill and have some beers. No outings. No videos.” Brandon agreed, although there was practically nothing in the world he liked less than beer.

Brandon was relieved when he arrived to see Anthony was not in the sexy Vans. Another long sleeve T, pale jeans, and gray crocs. Nothing particularly sexy about crocs. He smiled with relief as Anthony clapped him on the back and beckoned him to the backyard.

Anthony’s property wasn’t exactly “redneck,” but it also wasn’t what you would expect of a guy who works in insurance. The quintessential Pennsylvanian farmhouse was more befitting of a grandmother who cooled pies on the gracious windowsills. Beyond the house was a large pole barn-style garage and a few other ramshackle outbuildings strewn against the edge of a field that had probably once belonged to the house when it was the heart of an operating farm. Anthony’s “fire pit” was more of a series of charred rocks with some recycled gas grill racks laid across them. A pathetic excuse for a fire smoldered and belched thick smoke.

“Damn, must’ve grabbed wet wood,” Anthony smiled as he kicked at a stray corn cob from the adjacent field.

Brandon laughed and choked as the slight breeze carried the fumes into his face. “Some charcoal lighter would do the trick,” he managed through the coughs.

Anthony squatted and poked at the hopeless, hissing mess with a stick. “Good call. You can grab some from the garage. It’s to the left of the side door. And grab yourself a beer from the fridge. I’m going to get some drier wood.”

Each set upon his task, and Brandon pushed his way into the cluttered garage. It was gloomy and smelled like two-cycle motors, rope, and weed killer. It also had the same, organizational feel as the back of Anthony’s Jeep. Brandon smirked and shook his head, then started picking through the packed shelves and scanning for the lighter fluid. As he rummaged through stacks of rags, boxes of horseshoes, and an ancient monster of a computer monitor, he felt his foot kick something on the floor. Brandon squatted down in the dull light and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark objects on the rough, straw-strewn concrete. It didn’t take long for him to make out the shape of some old boots and discarded shoes.

The first in line was a pair of destroyed Wolverines, yawning open with cracked, scuffed leather, circles of white paint dribbled over them. Brandon fingered a fleck of paint, imaging Anthony wearing the boots, oblivious to paint as it slowly dripped from the side of a bucket.

Next was a pair cleats. They weren’t in particularly bad shape, but they had been there a while, their originally purple and orange pattern faded under a blanket of fine, gray dust. Brandon picked one up, turning it over as a few stands of dead grass fell from the inside. He had never thought of Anthony as playing a sport before, but it made sense. Completely unathletic himself, Brandon had no idea what sport this shoe was for, and he imagined a younger Anthony in various types of uniforms, flipping through them like mental tv channels.

The third pair was a strange addition to the mix. Neither work related, nor particularly old and discarded, Brandon found himself staring at a pair of red Adidas Tubular Invaders. He recognized them instantly, with their suede perforated tips and signature wide straps, which usually covered the laces, hanging open. Brandon remembered when he first saw someone wear them, and had thought them clunky and weird looking at the time. But having been part of Anthony’s collection, they now gained a sudden appeal. Brandon’s feet crunched on the dirty floor as he bent closer. As if it was a reflex, he plunged his hand inside of one, just as he had with Anthony’s left Van that day on the tailgate. The soft padding inside the collar enveloped his wrist, and the all too familiar ache down below began as he thought about his hand occupying the same space that Anthony’s ankle had at some point. Brandon stretched his fingers into the toe box and flexed them, imagining Anthony’s feet wiggling inside of them. Had he worn those brilliant white socks inside of these, too? Or black ones? He lifted the shoe off the floor and then noticed the petrified clods of old mud and grass clinging to the soles. Brandon moaned slightly. Perhaps that’s why they were in the garage. Maybe Anthony had stepped into something and had kicked them off in here, not wanting to track it into the house. Whatever the case, apparently he had forgotten them. Brandon brought the red suede closer to his face in the dim light as he mused if Anthony had worn them in mud on purpose.

“What are you doing in here?” Anthony leaned in the door, beer in hand. “I said charcoal lighter was on the left. Your other left,” he chuckled as he snapped the bottle from the shelf directly next to the door. “Let’s go!”

Brandon sighed with relief as he dropped the red high top, shards of dirt splintering onto the floor. That was ridiculously close. Anthony had almost found Brandon with his nose buried in an old shoe. Fuck! What was wrong with him?

After a few generous squirts of the lighter fluid, a welcoming blaze lept from the makeshift grate. The fall evening was calm, but the barely perceptible breezes steered the sparks in enough directions that Brandon and Anthony found themselves sitting practically side by side in the small sliver of space that seemed immune to the worst of the flames.

Twilight fell and the sky around them grew purple as the glow of the fire intensified its reflection off the front of the two men, who sat and “shot the shit,” as it were, about nothing of significance. Brandon relaxed into evening and began to let go of the incident in the garage. As Anthony mindlessly prodded the flames with a stick in one hand, a beer in the other, Brandon absently twisted kernels of corn from a cob he had plucked from the yard and tossed them into the flames, watching them sizzle and burst open. He was sinking his nail into one when it squirted loose from his fingers. He watched out of the corner of his eye as it struck Anthony’s left leg and slid down to rest a crease of his jeans near the hem. Brandon’s eyes darted to Anthony, who was still staring into the flames talking about his jerk of a boss.

Brandon’s gaze fell back to the kernel of corn, a little nugget of gold in the firelight nestled in a sling of denim, right by Anthony’s foot. He was tantalized by the grain, which rested, undetectable, so close to that foot that had been the bane of his existence for the past two weeks. He wrestled within himself. He could reach over and flick the little bugger off. Or ignore the damned thing. Besides. Anthony was wearing Crocs tonight. Crocs. It’s not like he was sporting those sexy red Tubulars sitting forgotten in the cobwebs of the dusty garage. As Brandon prepared to peel his gaze away and focus on something, anything else, Anthony shifted in his chair, slightly sliding his left foot back out of the Croc. The telltale black formstrip of a puma sock snaked down Anthony’s ankle.

“I don’t know,” Anthony was saying. “I could tell him off, and it would feel great in the moment, but it would probably suck for me in the long run, ya know?” Brandon knew all too well about the long run versus instant gratification argument, as he continued to stare beneath the hem of Anthony’s jeans. Anthony began to jostle his leg up and down. It was an idiosyncrasy Brandon had noticed before, but never had it been so sexually significant. The little corn kernel bounced gently in the crease of the jeans and settled forward toward Anthony’s shin.

“I just can’t even think clearly when he’s around. I dunno. It’s like the ass brings out the worst in me.”

“Mmm, yeah,” Brandon agreed weakly, not taking his eyes of the scene happening completely unbeknownst to Anthony. That damned foot had Brandon completely under its spell, so much so that it had him wishing he was a goddamned kernel of corn.

Were it a perfect world, where anything was acceptable, what would Brandon do at the moment? Would he take Anthony’s foot in his hand and cup it against his face, breathing in its scent? Run his hand under the leg of his jeans, up his sock until his fingers found the top, and slide them in? Brandon considered this as the kernel of corn hypnotically swayed beside him, but truthfully, it was the forbidden that made this so hot, the inaccessibility, not the possibility of Anthony’s foot. Besides. Hundreds of YouTube followers would probably kill for this moment, too. Just the chance to sit next to Anthony’s foot, which had possibly elicited countless eruptions of cum over its artful tease.

Just then, Anthony slid his foot back into the croc and he leaned forward in his chair to set another empty beer bottle next to his others. As he stood and stretched, Brandon watched in amazement as the little enveloping fold of his jeans broke, and the kernel of corn slid free and tumbled into one of the holes in the top of the croc.

Anthony turned to face him, and as though he had planned an evening of torture for Brandon, brought his left foot up to rest on the seat of the chair as he placed his hands on his leg. Did Brandon imagine a squeal of delight from the Croc as it made contact with the plastic Adirondack chair?

“I dunno,” Anthony was repeating, pensive lips pursed. “Enough bitching for one night.”

“You’re fine,” Brandon replied, trying to look as though he was staring off into the darkness as he strained to see if the corn kernel was visible.

“Naw,” Anthony disagreed, now wagging his knee back and forth, the Croc now crunching much more audibly as the rubber smacked the chair. “This isn’t why I invited you—you don’t need to hear all this. I’m going to grab more beer. Can I get you something?” Brandon barely heard the words as he imagined the kernel of corn, sliding over the top of Anthony’s puma sock, and perhaps coming to rest under his arch, where he had imagined his cream to have soaked Anthony’s foot just two weeks before.

“I’m good,” Brandon managed. Anthony slapped him on the shoulder in his trademarked, good-natured way and walked into the darkness between the fire pit and the garage. “Right back,” he called over his shoulder, the sound of the Crocs whispering through the dewy grass.

Brandon stared into the fire and softly murmured “fuck,” as he plastered the inside of his jeans. It was the third hands-free orgasm he had ever had. And every one of them over Anthony’s left foot.