Playing in the Processing Center
The South Texas Ice Processing Center, also known as STICP…
After another twelve hour marathon of pulling weeds, pretending to care about botany, and trying not to pass out in those damn greenhouses, I dragged myself toward the courtyard near the “resource center.” This adults-only detention center for illegal immigrants had exactly zero resources unless you counted dust, razor wire and the occasional rat that looked like it paid rent.
But in the middle of what was basically a prison – complete with steel toilets – I saw him.
A body sprawled across the concrete like someone had dropped a mannequin mid delivery.
Alejandro González.
Barefoot, filthy, and unconscious — like STIPC had finally decided to unplug him for maintenance.
For a second, I just stood there - blinking through the heat haze. Alejandro and I had history — the kind that involved fists, bruised ribs, and the kind of trash talk that would make a priest retire. We’d been boxing rivals back when STIPC still pretended its cruelty was “community engagement.” I’d spent months wanting to knock his teeth out, and he’d spent months trying to return the favor.
But seeing him like that? Limp as a rag doll, handsome face slack, chest barely rising?
It hit me with this weird cocktail of emotions — part concern, part disbelief, part “oh great, now I have to deal with this.” The kid used to be a walking thunderbolt in the ring, and now he looked like someone had wrung him out like a wet shirt.
I knelt beside him, slapped his cheek lightly, muttered his name. Nothing. He was hotter than the greenhouse air, breathing shallow, and smelled like he’d lost a fight with a compost pile.
“Damn it, Alejandro,” I said, because yelling at unconscious people is basically therapy in STIPC. “You couldn’t wait until after dinner to collapse?”
I checked his pulse — still there, thank God — and tried to haul him upright. He flopped around like a drunk marionette. Typical. Even unconscious, the bastard was difficult. Instinctively I playfully tweeked his bare toes for a bit, already a plan was forming in my head. I removed my own shoes and socks.
"What are you doing??” I asked myself aloud as I did this.
And in that moment, I didn’t see the kid who used to try to knock my head off.
I saw another prisoner STIPC was grinding down to dust.
I kind of lost it for a minute, for as much as I hated Al … I wanted him. Always had. Especially his gorgeous feet, which were bare and helpless before me at that moment. When my mind finally cleared, I realized I had used my own socks to bind the unconscious eighteen-year-old’s wrists and ankles!
Once I was certain he’d remained restrained even if he regained consciousness, I crouched down and moved my face closer in between the boy's soles. I inhaled. The fragrance of Alejandro González's feet filled my senses with bliss. I moved my nose up and down the young detainee’s bare soles to experience every unique smell coming from every inch of his soft, pink soles. My nose tickled my former opponent who bent his toes and wrinkled his soles in an attempt at minimizing the light tickling stimulation I was inflicting on them with. He was still out cold but giggling like crazy--his arms unconsciously struggled against their restraints. It was no use. I pressed my lips against the sole and took a deep breath again so I could smell Al's sweaty feet some more. Then I extended my tongue to taste the salt of my former opponent's sole.
I briefly wondered why he was barefoot. The idea that he’d fainted during the grueling work period was understandable. But what happened to his shoes and socks?
I didn’t dwell on this question too long as I continuously kissed my former rival's sole, as well as the balls of both feet ... and tenderly at the base of Alejandro González's perfect toes. Al, his head (complete with his thick glossy black hair) hung limply towards his hairless bare chest, was still unconscious ...the only sign of life being his reflexively wiggling toes.
I began licking this unconscious eighteen-year-old’s soles. Starting with Alejandro's right heel, I slowly worked my way up his instep eventually leading to his toes. Then I sucked each toe for several seconds before moving onto the next. Then I repeat the entire process on my former opponent's left foot before starting once again on his right.
That’s when he regained consciousness. Like a light switch suddenly turned on.
"Aaaaaaaaaqaqaaqsah! Please stop, Gabriel! That tickles. Hee hee hee! STOOOOOOOOOOP IT, MIJO!!!" he begged. But I didn't care about his begging. In fact I upped the intensity of my tickling feet worship--further torturing the eighteen-year-old. And when I finally stopped tickling them with my mouth I placed my fingernails on the eighteen-year-old’s smooth sole flesh.
And just when he thought I was about to tickle him with my hands, I took it upon myself to nibble his big toe. He convulsed and I began to really rake his entire foot over and over again with my teeth in a shark-like biting frenzy. He went berserk. He pulled hard against his bonds and screamed like crazy. "Please! Stop! Nnoo, nooo, sta sta ta tt top it, top it NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! PLEASE!!!" he begged barely recognizably through his rapid panting guffaws. I bit and chewed for some time, tormenting one foot and then the other. I did this until he actually fainted!
I untied his wrists and ankles and casually strolled away. I knew that he wouldn’t reveal what had happened to him to anyone. Why? Because Alejandro González had a handsome face, a lean-but-toned body and gorgeous feet. But, most importantly, he had pride.
He’d never tell.