What I Did with My Sneakers in the Back Row of the Bus

I’m going to tell you something short, from back when I was still discovering this side of myself, this weird weakness I have for sneakers. I’m not going to bore you with the whole context or with how I got there. I’m going straight to the point. Or I should say straight to the sneakers.

I was on vacation on the coast, in a little beach town we used to go to every year with the same group as always. That afternoon we had spent the whole day on the sand, between the sea, cold beers, and seafood stalls right on the beach. When night started to fall, someone rented one of those little vans to take us back to the hotel, away from the shore, back to civilization.

We were all completely wiped out. Sunburned, half-drunk, with that sticky laziness a full day of sun and salt leaves on your skin. One by one, people fell asleep against the window, against the shoulder of the person beside them, against anything. I had sat in the last seat, all the way in back, alone, with a lukewarm beer still in my hand and my eyes wide open.

All day I had been thinking about him. About a friends-with-benefits thing I had then, who drove me crazy, one of the few men who didn’t just tolerate my fetish but followed it along, who got into the game with me instead of looking at me weird. Thinking about him had kept me lit up since morning, at a low simmer, without anyone noticing.

The road was dark. The only light was the moon, slipping in in bursts between the trees and washing the inside of the van with silver flashes every few seconds. And in one of those moments, looking down at my feet stretched out on the seat, I said only one thing to myself.

And why not?

***

I was wearing very little. A loose T-shirt, the bottom part of my swimsuit, and a sarong tied at my hip that had loosened during the ride. On my feet, black mid-calf socks that I had folded down at the ankle, and over them, my sneakers. My huge sneakers.

Back then I was still experimenting, trying out which models turned me on the most, which ones gave me that tingle at the nape of my neck. These were cream-colored, a pair I had fallen in love with the moment I tried them on. They were about one size bigger than my actual size, because that was the only one left in that color, but they were so comfortable I didn’t even hesitate. I loved them. I still have them, although now I mostly take them out only for this, to give free rein to what I’m into.

I love the way they look. How they make my skinny legs look even skinnier, the contrast between the heavy bulk of the sneaker and my slim ankles, the socks bunching up right there, in that fold. From the front, in a mirror, the whole set looks beautiful to me. But what really gets me hot, what melts me, is how they look from where I’m looking at them. From above, with my legs stretched out, that exact perspective that only I have.

It’s hard to explain to someone who doesn’t feel it. People think a fetish is a whim, something you choose. It isn’t. It’s more like a switch I discovered was on one day and never knew how to turn off. And big, heavy sneakers, almost men’s sneakers on my little-girl feet, were the model that lit it up best. The more exaggerated they were, the more out of place they looked on me, the more they turned me on.

That afternoon, all day at the beach, I had worn them for a while before changing into sandals, and every time I looked down and saw them sinking into the sand I felt that little thrill in my lower belly. I had been toying with the idea ever since, turning it over and over, telling myself no, that I was crazy, that there were too many people. And now, in the darkness of the van, those same people were asleep.

And that night I had everything. The moon’s play of light and shadow. The alcohol running warm through me. The risk that anyone could wake up, that someone in front might turn their head and suspect something. The memory of that guy in my head. And the sight, that perfect sight of my legs ending in those ridiculously huge sneakers.

I didn’t think much longer. I lifted one leg onto the seat, slowly, holding my breath. I pulled on the thick laces until I loosened them, not untying them completely, just enough so the sneaker would sit loose, open, ready. And I started to touch myself.

***

It felt so fucking good to touch myself like that, in the dark, a few inches from people who were sleeping and knew nothing. I pulled the bottom of my swimsuit down just enough and slipped my hand between my legs, slow, playing with myself with the tips of my fingers. I was wet before I even started.

I took the beer bottle and pressed the cold glass against me. The contrast sent a shiver through me that I had to swallow down so I wouldn’t make a sound. Cold glass, the heat of my own body, and my fingers moving back and forth in the middle. I bit my lip to keep from letting anything out.

While I touched myself I kept looking at my legs. I was projecting images in my head, scenes with him, things we had done and things we still hadn’t, and mixing them with what was right in front of my eyes. My legs. My feet inside those huge sneakers. The socks folded down. All of it together, all at once, until I could no longer tell fantasy from what was really happening.

I caressed my breasts over the T-shirt, my stomach, the insides of my thighs, and always came back to the same place, to the clit, with a slow circle that made my spine climb. At one point I was so wet I was afraid I’d leave a mark on the seat fabric. I slid a folded towel under me without stopping, and kept going.

I must have spent half an hour like that. Suddenly someone shifted in their seat and I froze, my hand still, my heart pounding against my ribs. Seconds passed. No one turned around. Up front someone laughed in their sleep, someone else muttered something, but no one looked back. And I started again, even slower, stretching out each caress, letting the tension build until it became unbearable.

Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up now.

***

When I finally came, I had to clench my teeth and eyes shut so I wouldn’t moan. It was a long, muffled orgasm, the kind that runs through your whole body and that you can’t let out because people are breathing a meter away from you. I stayed trembling for a moment, my forehead against the back of the seat in front, getting my breath back.

But I wasn’t done. I had a goal, one of those small, very personal things that obsess me. I slid to the edge of the seat and leaned in a way that let everything run down my leg, slowly, downward. I wanted it to reach the sock. I like it for reasons I’ll tell you another day, a habit I learned with an ex I’ve already told you about.

It wasn’t easy. It took effort and a little more stimulation, fierce and silent, to keep the dripping moving downward. But I got there. The trail ran down my leg centimeter by centimeter until it soaked the black fabric of the sock, right there, at the folded ankle.

Then I folded my legs until my heels almost touched my ass, squeezed out with my fingers the little that was left in the sock, and smeared it over the sneaker’s broad, thick sole. The last bit I took with my fingers too and practically varnished the base of those big sneakers with it, spreading it slowly, like someone signing something.

I love doing that. Because afterward, out in the street, anywhere, in a supermarket line or waiting for the bus, I think about the people who see me pass by. Someone might think, “look at that weird skinny girl with those huge, ridiculous sneakers.” But none of them, ever, would imagine that if those sneakers could talk, they’d tell a thousand stories. That the soles that step on the sidewalk hold my fluids, my nights, my secrets. That they are, without anyone knowing, the most sexual thing I own.

That’s the part that turns me on most of all, even more than the orgasm. The idea of carrying a secret in plain sight. Of crossing the hotel reception the next day, fresh-faced, smiling, wearing the same sneakers, greeting the same people who had slept a meter away from me while I was coming apart in silence. No one would know. No one would ever know. And I would always know.

***

Already relaxed, with my body loose and my breathing back to normal, I adjusted my swimsuit, hid the towel, and finished off what was left of the lukewarm beer in one swallow. I rested my head against the window and let myself be carried by the rattle of the road, with an idiotic smile hidden by the dark.

I closed my eyes and dozed the rest of the way, with my legs stretched out and my huge sneakers faintly shining under the moon, keeping the secret for me. We got back to the hotel with nothing else to tell.

At least, nothing they know about.

Kisses to everyone.