Mark Foley is not a podophile. He possesses none of the classic traits. Sure he is neat. Sure he is a wee bit creepy. However, he is not one of us. Yes, I say us. I was once a podophile and according to the experts, I still am.
I'll explain more below the fold.
First of all, I was born with aretifism. It was a difficult disease to conquer so young in life and surely shaped my later years. I, like so many others, turned to the bottle. It provided solace. It helped me escape.
As a young man (lit on a bottle of Wild Turkey), I would cruise the malls, peering through windows. It was shameful behavior, I know; but, I had no control over it. I was just one more paraphiliaist with a secret.
Of course, it all came crashing down for me too. Maybe it wasn't quite so public as Mark Foley, but it was definitely an awakening. It was a lovely day at the park. Mothers were playing, laughing and cavorting with their daughters. Fathers were playing catch with their teenage sons. It was the worst place in the world for me that day. Why?
Lined up against the baseball diamond fence rested my Achilles Heel. Rows and rows of shoes - mules, pumps, clogs, you name it they were there. Neatly arranged. Toes pointing inward. It was irresistible. I held back for a few moments, catching quick glances at a particularly attractive pair of Pumas. When I thought that the coast was clear, I made a dash for them.
I scooped these leather hi-tops with the screaming logo out of their resting place and ran, ran and ran. Until, that is, I ran smack into a low-hanging beam of the dugout. I was out cold.
You know how it ends. The police. The community outrage. The stain on my reputation.
Twenty years later, I am still in recovery. I may always be. Mark Foley is not the same as me. He is something very different. Something very different indeed.