He wasn't a pervert. At least, not that kind of pervert. Taylor didn't derive sexual gratification from feet. Women had other parts much better suited for that type of activity. But he was a sucker for a tiny foot in open-toed high heels, especially when the toenails were painted. Painted toes were yummy. The truck stop whore wore sandals, the cork wedge heels so high her toes were bent. She had small feet--they looked like a size five--and her nails matched her red mini skirt. Taylor spotted her through the windshield as she walked over to his Peterbilt, wiggling her hips and wobbling a bit. Taylor guessed she was drunk or stoned. Perhaps both. He climbed out of his cab. When his cowboy boots touched the pavement he reached his hands up over his head and stretched, his vertebrae cracking. The night air was hot and sticky with humidity, and he could smell his own sweat. The whore blew smoke from the corner of her mouth. "Hiya, stranger. My name's Candi. With an i." "I'm Taylor. With a T." He smiled.
