How I Was So Right About the Sexiness of Metatarsal Slippers

What did I say? The lingerie of the cast world? I think so. Well, probably anyway.

In a not too distantly past conversation with a close and equally desperate friend the topic of just how to pick up men came up. Not just men you understand. Desirable men. Very desirable men who were interested in equally desirable but slightly desperate women. Ok we didn’t mind if the men were not quite so desirable and very desperate.

Well now I know the answer. Disablement. Metatarsal slippers. Crutches. Who would have dreamed that these simple solutions were the simple solution to a question women and men have been asking for years, decades, millennia? Fuck all that putting on a posh frock, smearing ones lips with stuff that had previously been smeared onto unwitting animals, forcing ones broken feet into very tall red stilettos. No, just break a metatarsal and you have it made. This is what happened:

Having been released into the wild wearing my aforementioned slipper I was officially allowed to go swimming. The aforementioned friend and general hero person took me.

I crutched up the steps into the foyer of the health club. A man instantly approached me. And sympathised. And told me the story of how many sexy sporting injuries he had accrued over the years. And how we were bonded by a common theme – metatarsal injuries. I told him my story. Of my career as a footballer. How I broke my metatarsal playing in a match for Wales. He escorted me to the lift, gave me his number and invited me for a drink.

I got in the lift. A man was in the lift. He sympathised. He told me the story of all the sexy injuries he had acquired in his life as a rock god. Of how we were bonded by a common theme – crutches. I told him my story. Of my career as a professional footballer. How I broke my metatarsal playing in a match for Wales but how heroically I scored the winning goal before falling down in agony. We travelled to the top floor and back down again. He gave me his number and invited me for a meal.

I got in the pool (with a lot of hobbling). There was a man in the pool. He sympathised. He told me of all the sexy injuries he had endured in his career as a screen idol. Of how we were bonded by a common theme – disablement. I told him my story. Of my career as a professional and highly-paid footballer. How I broke my metatarsal playing in a match for Wales but how heroically I scored three winning goals before falling down in agony. We travelled to end of the pool and back again. He gave me his number and asked me to marry him. Bingo.

What more can I say really? The proof is in the pudding. Or the wedding cake. Metatarsal slippers – sex on a plate (or foot).