My caramel-pedicured soles are crossed on the living-room table like royalty on a throne. WeGotTheFeet crawls in, nose twitching, drooling for my scent. “Beg, loser.” He does. Only after sixty seconds of taunting do those lips finally kiss my arch, savoring the sweat of a Brooklyn Goddess. He licks, sniffs, melts. Then, in one effortless motion, my right foot plants itself on his shaved scalp. Instant human ottoman. “Stay still, furniture.” Fade out.