I met Martin one Saturday night at a party at his place. His apartment is impeccable. He has amazing style, modern, expensive furniture, and an impressive kitchenware set, which he used often (he served homemade Creme Brule at the party). Martin has a stable, homely quality so I flirt with him, and decide to go for “the good guy” instead of my usual “bad boy” type.
About a month later we have the boyfriend thing in full swing. It felt great to have a nice, normal guy, in fact, it’s like I’m dating a male version of Martha Stewart.
One morning Martin went to work and allowed me to stay in bed. Later, I wake up at the crack of noon and went on Martin’s laptop. We have such a trusting, comfortable relationship that he gave me his password. I checked my email and Facebook. Then, after closing the browser, I noticed a video file on his desktop. I decide to look at it (it’s not snooping if it’s on the desktop, right?). The video starts and I see the view from someone holding a handheld camera facing down on his erection. The person picks up a grey Converse shoe and slides his dick in. Then he starts to pump the shoe hard, groaning, as the camera gets shaky. The whole ordeal is about 30 seconds. I can’t help but watch again. The second go I notice that it’s actually Martin in the video. OK, so Martha has a shoe fetish.
Later that evening we hang out and I don’t bring up the video at all. The next morning Martin gets in the shower. When he comes back I have the laptop and I ask: “Why do you have a video of you fucking a shoe on your computer?”
“What? No I don’t,” he replies.
“It’s right here,” I say pushing play. He looks embarrassed. “Do you have a shoe fetish?”
“No!” he says and I can see he’s searching for an explanation. “I don’t know how that got there.”
“Well nobody’s been here except for me, and I didn’t download it.”
“I don’t know? Maybe it’s like a pop-up or something.”
“It’s OK if you have a shoe fetish. There’s nothing wrong with it but you have to let me know if you want to explore it.”
“I don’t! I don’t know how that got there,” he repeats.
“Seriously, Martin? You’re lying. I can recognize your dick. It’s you.”
Martin grabs the laptop from me and shuts it. In a whirlwind fluster he finishes getting ready for work. After this incident our relationship squanders. I guess he’s more ashamed of his fetish than I realized. Oh well, I just wish I could tell him that you can’t run from your fetishes, especially when your Converse are on your cock and not your feet. I don’t even want to fathom what he’d do to a pair of LA Gear Lights.