Please forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been four months, three days, six hours, two minutes and fifty-seven seconds since my last confession. I wish to confess the sin of lust. I have been looking at ladies ankles and having lascivious thoughts… thoughts about socks, thoughts about touching ladies socks and darning them when they have holes in them. I felt so aroused at the thought of Jodie Foster’s socks the other day, I had to go and stand in the refrigerator and fondle a piece of cheese to quench my raging desire for cotton. I have been having dreams… disturbing dreams, father… dreams about young women putting tomatoes in their socks and standing in them, so the red juice soaks through the white cotton. I’m ashamed to say that I stroked my armpits sexually upon awakening after having this dream last Saturday. I have also emptied the shelves of tomatoes in my local supermarket in the hope that a sock-wearing vixen will come my way. No, Father, it’s a figure of speech, I’m not attracted to female foxes – unless, of course, they are wearing socks. In which case… maybe.
I got escorted out of my local clothing store the other day for drooling on the merchandise… rows and rows of socks, just sitting there on the racks… it was filthy! Those socks… they were what utter trollops would wear… a polyester/cotton mix which would crackle with static if slid over the female foot… God! I couldn’t help myself, I had to manipulate my right ear vigorously! I still have the friction burns on my ear lobe – I nearly set it on fire, such was my passion and lust for the elasticated tops. Good lord, I’m ill, I’m ill, I’m ill… Help me, Father! Yes, Father, I will say fifty ‘Hail Mary’s every time I think of socks in a naughty manner. Thank you Father, you’ve been a great help.
You would happen to be, er… wearing, um… socks by any chance, would you?