His Name Was Hobart!
by Golden West
Hobart Hansen was one of those guys who looked good, but was totally oblivious to just how good he really looked.
His skin was fair but held a slight tan. His mink brown hair, which he wore in a buzz cut, was attention-grabbing. His sky-blue eyes (yes, not just blue, SKY blue… no wait, turquoise blue) practically glowed. He was very tall and well-built. Round the dorms this twenty-year-old usually wore lounging pajama bottoms and generally went shirtless--showing off his six pack. Then there was his feet. Beautiful, big size thirteen feet!
When he went shoeless and sockless, they were the best pair of bare feet at our college. And speaking of Brewster College, talking about it first is probably the best way to begin this tale.
Okay, Brewster College…
On the outside it appears to be an idyllic personification of a modest, but hoity toity center. A well-kept, shaded campus with tranquil brick buildings and ivy-covered walls. It is a campus devoid of coeducational dorms and where automobiles are not allowed. One who enters its ancient, but immaculately maintained halls is overwhelmed by a sense of having been displaced in time. Thus is the power of a small learning institution known as Brewster, an institution that was built upon the foundation of anti-slavery, anti-caste, anti-rum, and anti-sin.
This picaresque Kentucky campus has a proud and lengthy record of educating the neediest students of merit. When it first opened its doors over a hundred and twenty-five years ago, it had been established by abolitionist Reverend Jonathan Feeney to serve both former slaves and the families of impoverished white people in Appalachia. For his outspoken views on slavery, the good reverend had been forced earlier to flee the state of Kentucky until after the Civil War. Upon his return, he expanded the school and church he'd built and transformed them into a college. He even designed the learning institution's seal--a cross encircled by the words "God Has Made of One Blood All Peoples of the Earth."
Currently the school receives over three hundred million dollars annually, one of the largest endowments among small colleges in the United States. The students don't pay any tuition, and only a fraction of their room and board. This is made possible because of Brewster's rejection of fancy affectations and their clever use of student labor. Each and every student of Brewster is required to work fifteen hours each week for the college. And it doesn't matter how athletically or intellectually gifted a student is, he or she would not have been allowed to enroll had they not met the need criteria.
I was one of the students who met that need . . . though just barely.
Poor "coloreds" and "white trash" most of us students may be, yet Brewster has still managed to come in second as the college with the highest percentage of alumni to go on to earn PhD degrees in the past century.
I love this school. I loved it despite the trauma that the new powers that be intended to put me through. This place has taught me so much. Especially about computers. I mean, even though my Pop is pretty handy when it comes to clicking a mouse (he'd learned all about PCs while staying with old friends in Anchorage) it was Brewster that really taught me how to cruise effortlessly across the Internet and put my mark on the World Wide Web. Yeah, I love this school.
"Derrick!" I heard Hobart Philban calling to me in the distance. "Hey, Derrick!"
"Waz up, Bart?" I asked.
"Haven't you heard? It's official. The board is going to force you and the other scholarship recipients into doing community service in the Cranston Hollows."
I slapped my forehead. The Cranston Hollows was a grouping of Appalachian Mountain communities that, because of the rough unstable terrain surrounding them, are not easily accessible to outsiders. To top it off, there weren't many decent modern roads in the rural area where they were located. In the old days, Brewster used to send teachers into these communities on muleback in order to recruit students and perform community outreach services. Now talk has been floating around campus that the board is thinking about "reaching out" once again. Reaching out to, perhaps, the most isolated Caucasian people in the lower forty-eight
And the pawns that were going to be used to do the reaching would be us--the students of Brewster. Well, not all of us. Not even many of us. Just us students who hadn't met the "total need" criterion at the school--the ones who didn't fall into the category of students who were unable to make any financial contribution whatsoever toward their schooling. You see my Pop is a Protestant minister in a little town called Graff, and though he doesn't take a salary for his clerical duties (he'd always taught me that preachers who work on salary almost always have to compromise their ministering methods and bow to the will of those who signed their paychecks) he makes a decent wage as a supervisor at a sock factory in Lagrange.
Also my father had made some pretty good investments over the years. In fact, back home, my family and I had sort of lived below our means. Not because Pop was cheap or anything, it's just that many of the folks in our neighborhood felt that he provided a loving, but restraining influence on some of the more spirited denizens of our town. I don't know how true this was, but I do know that Pop is more like a parent than a resident minister to a number of fatherless boys in my hometown. For a while, I resented having to share him with other guys. But I outgrew all of that eventually.
My family didn't mind living where we did either. I mean, our neighborhood was poor, but it wasn't a slum. In that little obscure corner of the world, we had good friends and a communal spirit that you couldn't beat. So, there was never any talk in our home about being royalty in exile or the like. Plus, in all honesty, the money Pop made was good, but it wasn't what anyone would call great. However, it was sufficient enough to prevent me from falling into Brewster's "total need" criterion.
Despite this, I never had to pay for any tuition. But I did faithfully perform my required job as waiter at the cafeteria of the Boone Tavern--a hotel that the college owns and operates. I suppose that my current problems stem from the fact that I don't pay nary a dime for my room and board either, so the faculty advisors can justify sending someone like me off to perform extra chores and duties to make up for it.
And I could understand and accept this. I never asked for a free ride at Brewster, it was just how things happened to work out during the confusing time in which I was enrolled. What I couldn't understand was the board's logic. What did they think these all-white mountain folk were going to make of someone like me coming into their town to perform community outreach services? I get the chills just trying to imagine it.
"How can they force me into working in the Cranston Hollows, Bart?"
Hobart looked truly woeful for me. He was one of the few people who, in spite of the fact that I'm very good at presenting the image of being emotionless and indifferent, could truly see the full spectrum of tumultuous emotions raging beneath my placid external shell. "They'll probably make it a new requirement for your special scholarship."
Oh, I forget to tell you that I was recruited for Brewster while still in high school. My grades were so high that I was allowed to skip my senior year to attend the college on the condition that, once I earned my doctorate from a University, I would return to Brewster and teach for at least two years. I was both flattered and amazed at the amount of faith and trust this school had in me. Still, most students would never have agreed to such precarious terms. But I did because, among other things, a growing rift had been developing between my father and I for some time. I felt that I needed to get out of Graff and away from him as soon as I could.
But I wasn’t thinking about that right then. You see, Hobart was barefoot then, and I was once again distracted by his beautiful feet.
Bart was shopping off-campus at the Antique Village Mall in Cedarville when I girded my loins and summoned enough nerve to approach him. At first he tried to ignore me, but I complimented the flip-flops he was wearing. I also complimented his brlmishless feet. I said only women take care of their feet that well. Stupid, yeah I know.
But instead of being creeped out he liked the compliment. We were friends. Still just friends, mind you. From that point on.
My mind snapped back to the present when my brain fully digested what my buddy had said to me.
"What if I refuse to do outreach in the Cranston Hollows?" I asked, adjusting my glasses upon my nose.
"I can't be for certain,” Hobart began, with a slight frown. "But I assume that refusing would mean that it's back to high school for you."
I would have raged and cursed at the injustice of it all, but how could I be in front of my good friend Hobart? Like me he was eighteen. But he was from Alabama and truly did fall under the "total need" criterion. He coached resume writing at The Brewster School of New Opportunities, did odd jobs at a nursing home in Lexington, and was very grateful for the chance he had been given to attend college. I would feel like a total jerk if I refused to spend a few hours a week working with the Appalachian disadvantaged.
I once entertained thoughts of trying to “date” Hobart, but she seemed steadfast in regarding me as something akin to a buddy/brother.
Everything ended when he started hanging out with new friends. I was kind of a loner, so when Hobart didn’t hang out with me I was pretty much alone. I occupied myself by getting into skating. One day I was having a great time by my lonesome before running away, after losing my bike. And I lost it to Hobart and his new friends! It’s funny how people can almost totally change when they become part of certain groups.
I think Hobart (and his new friends) and I got into a fight over some kind of skater gang bullshit. All I remember is that it was four against one and I was getting my ass kicked. I managed to break away from them and ran to a bathroom. I locked the door and then they grabbed a screwdriver and were trying to get the handle off to get into the room. I panicked and jumped out of the window. I was totally paranoid that they would be after me and so I hid out for the rest of the day in the dorms trying to figure out what to do. I’d forgotten the fact that Hobart knew exactly where my dorm room was!
He confronted me there,
I later learned that he had come to me to apologize, but I didn’t know that. When I saw him I started swinging like my life depended on it. A surprised Hobart used those wonderful feet to back away from me in order to sprint away … but he ran in the wrong direction! I heard the thud as my handsome buddy’s skull impacted the wood that made up the back wall of the closet. I panicked as Hobart fell limp in my arms.
I ran my large hands over his brunette head and was relieved to find no blood, but now I wondered how I would get back to my house carrying an unconscious eighteen-year-old. Luckily he began to come to rather quickly. I tried soothing him as he slowly regained consciousness, but then I recalled all that I’d done for him … and the fact that he hadn’t been appreciative at all of the sacrifices I made to make him happy and help him through school. I soon became angry. So angry that I stopped soothing and stroking him and started slapping him and hitting!
His attempts at trying to get away or fighting me was replaced with terrified acceptance of his current situation.
I don’t know why I tore off his shoes and socks and began ravenously licking his beautiful bare feet. I was like an animal and intent on getting everything from my buddy that henceforth (?) had denied me.
I liked taking advantage of his feet--licking his smooth soles, sucking his pale succulent toes.
I loved it when he suddenly REALLY looked at me licking and sucking his toes. I knew there was an understanding between us, and he actually looked as if he was beginning to enjoy the experience. He closed his eyes and had a blissful expression at the feeling of my tongue as it moved up and down his saliva-slicked soles, sliding in between each toe, knowing how forbidden and socially weird this way. The way it tasted was fantastic to me… you see Hobart hadn’t washed his feet in a and they tasted like a thin film of dirt he had collected from the uncarpeted floors at his dorm and school hallways.
While he was dazed, I retrieved his socks and smelled them and sucked the sweet sweat from them. I’d peeled them from unwashed feet that had been running and chasing after me earlier, so they were PLENTY sweaty and fabulously fragrant!
After draining everything I could from his socks, we sat down on the bed and he placed his bare, saliva-slicked feet in my lap--and his big blue eyes were rolling in his head. He looked as if he were on the edge of fainting when I began massaging his feet! I started at the pad behind his toes and move gradually to his heels, then back up to his toes. I am now totally addicted to his feet and it's such a tender moment of trust and love. But soon my tongue is once again sliding gracefully up and down his big bare feet. And he moans as if the feeling of my tongue is doing this the absolute best feeling in the world. When I began to nibble on his toes, he actually did faint.
I couldn’t believe it at first.
I looked at that handsome eighteen-year-old lying there with drool oozing down one corner of his mouth. I sure as hell wasn’t going to kiss him now or something. So, I stripped his limp body completely naked, lifted his ankles to my shoulder and did what came naturally.
But the sight and lingering smell of the feet now propped on my shoulders distracted me.
So once again I found myself licking Hobart’s soles and sucking his toes, even while he slept on. I shot my load so many times as I did this, I never did get around to actually fucking him.