"Well, I have often wondered how many toes I can fit in my mouth," I said. It was true; I did often wonder this. "But the unfortunate truth is that I'm not flexible enough to even raise my foot up to my face, much less stick my toes in my mouth." I couldn't even touch my toes without bending my knees. I had never been very flexible in all my life. The school gym teachers and nurses woefully failed me every presidential fitness exam based solely on my inability to bend or not bend parts of my body, depending on whatever president was in office.
Come to think of it, there wasn't anything else that appealed to me about sticking my own toes in my mouth. I didn't particularly want to suck on my own toes. I didn't have a foot fetish. Maybe it was just the forbidden nature of the act, the knowledge that my toes always lay beyond my reach, that made me obsess over it so much.
"This is a weird conversation for a first date," said my date. I didn't care for his judgmental tone but he was quite handsome and we were already at the restaurant. He took a sip of his wine. "What are you getting at?"
"Well, I'm unable to stick my toes in my own mouth," I said, slipping off my shoe and sock underneath the table. "So I was wondering: How many toes can you fit in your mouth?"
"I don't want to fit any toes in my mou—" His final word was cut off by the act of my big toe slipping past his lips. He spit, trying to push me out, but I was determined.
"C'mon, that's only one toe," I said. "I think you can do better than that."
But he kept shaking his head from side to side, trying to get my big toe out. Then the waiter came by.
"Excuse me, sirs, but this behavior is highly inappropriate to do here."
"Why, because we're both men? How very dare you!"
"Sirs—"
"This is America, land of the free," I lied to myself and to everyone in the restaurant. "I am very much allowed to go on dates with other men at any restaurant of our choosing, and you can't infringe upon my right to love whomever I want. Love wins!"
"Mrgnnbhthhlll," said my date around my big toe. He was profusely sweating and red with exertion at this point.
The waiter bowed their head. "V-very well," they muttered and scampered back to the kitchen, defeated by love. At the next table over, the ghosts of Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Martin Luther King Jr. began to applaud.
"This, right here, is exactly what I died for," said Martin Luther King Jr.
Ruth Bader Ginsburg nodded. "Wakanda Forever."