I love getting Athlete’s Foot.

When I was in high school, I got Athlete’s Foot from my HS locker rooms. For those unacquainted, Athlete’s Foot is a fungus that develops around your toes and can spread over much of the foot. The skin becomes red, and itchy, and develops small boils that are full of water, much like poison ivy. It doesn’t really hurt; it just itches. And BOY does it feel good to scratch it.

Every night, I had a ritual. After brushing my teeth, I would sit on the edge of my bed, and slowly pull my socks off one by one. I would look at my disgusting feet, and wonder why the hell I didn’t ask for an ointment from my nurse mother. And then I would scratch. I would scratch the hell out of my feet. Scrape the nails over the skin until every little bubble was popped, and every bit of redness had been thoroughly rubbed raw. I would do this for each foot, sighing in luxurious orgasmic relief, and then wipe them off and fall peacefully asleep.

Scratching Athlete’s Foot feels incredible. The relief is indescribable. It makes all your hair stand on end and your toes curl. It sends shivers down your spine. I daresay it’s even as good as moderately bad sex. I was addicted to it. Whenever the infection cleared up after a few weeks, I would actively try to get it again at school. I would even wear old dirty socks with new shoes just to transfer the stuff to my new kicks.

Eventually it did go away, and I let it die off this time for good. But I still sometimes think about it, late at night, as I’m sitting on the bed. I’ll take off a sock and maybe give my foot a little scratch, but I’ll feel nothing aside from a light tickle. The magic is gone. It’s been gone for years. I suppose I should count myself lucky that I got to spend so much time with it while it was still around, but I still miss it all the same.

Maybe I should consider getting a gym membership…