New Year's Feet

Me? Solo for New Year’s Eve like a hermit? Nah, screw that noise. I throw myself a full-blown Feet Party instead. Lights low. Music thumping. Twelve pairs of the prettiest bare feet filing in, heels clicking, toes flexing. Silk stockings roll down slow, each leg kicked up on the table like it owns the place. Big toes painted gold bump together, soft arches stretched, soles warm from the dance floor. A lady with fire-engine soles plops them straight onto my lap, laughing like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Oil glistens across every inch, shiny, slippery, toes wiggling against my jeans. One girl spreads whipped cream between her toes and dares me to lick it clean. Tiny bells jingle on ankle bracelets. When the clock hits midnight the feet clap in my face—every single one tapping, rubbing, toes curling around my nose in sparkly countdown time. Confetti lands between them; I call it garnish. By 12:03 they’re piled high on my chest, fragrant, slick, and the whole place smells like hot skin and champagne. So yeah—solo night, but the party still gets its freak on.