Bliss Stirs

I love blisters. On the feet. I love the way they sort of blossom while you’re not looking, while you’re just minding your own business, doin’ your thang with derring-do or derring-don’t (or Darrin Stephens [York or Sargent; either way]). And only later, upon removal of the shoes that caused them, present themselves in all their ripe, full-to-bursting glory, like blushing debutantes making their breathless and breathtaking entrances at the cotillion down a grand staircase.
Oh, how I love blisters on the feet. I love how, when merely touched by a tentative fingertip, they recoil like nervous virgins, unsure whether the strange sensation is good or evil. Uncertain whether they should want more.
Ultimately, unable to contain their basest need, they fairly beg for release, and, when broken, they weep ever so sweetly. All that pent-up pressure and longing … relieved, at long last. Unabashed relief rushes in, gushes forth, replacing tension, but just as quickly, the blisters feel all exposed and raw, and almost beg for modest coverage beneath Band-Aids®. And then, thus satisfied, yet still pulsing with an odd blend of pleasure and pain, force the feet off themselves, and, if lucky, back into bed, where they can blame the shoes for defiling them. (But they secretly want more, and taunt the feet to seek out the shoes again, each time with less trepidation and eventually totally disregard for the inevitable consequences.)
P.S. I miss the old Band-Aid® wrappers. The ones with the little red string. Peeling apart the two sides of the wrapper is fun ‘n’ all, but I do so miss the little red string that never really worked the way it was supposed to. (If you were plopped on this planet too late to remember the little red string, you really missed out, and I feel sorry for you.)