No Mean Feet
Who'd want to suck on these toes? Turns out, lots of people.
When I was 13, my mother the narcissist famously told me, “I don’t know what happened to YOUR legs,” meaning she didn’t understand how someone with legs as beautiful as hers could have borne a child whose legs were so horrifyingly unattractive they warranted commentary.
Throughout my adolescence and much of my adulthood, I was ashamed of my legs; I didn’t start wearing pantyhose until I was in my 20s and working my first office job, because until then I had taken pains not to let my legs be seen, lest the sight of them prove as revolting to others as it had to my mom. Lucky for me, the fashion trend featuring Frye boots and mid-calf skirts intersected with a chunk of my time in high school, so I could safely skirt up without revealing my hideous legs.
Mind you, nobody who did see my legs when I was, say, in a bathing suit or wearing shorts in the summer recoiled in horror. Looking back at photos, I see that my legs were actually just fine, certainly nothing to be ashamed of. But such is life with a narcissistic mother: you take what she thinks of and says to you deeply to heart, because, gosh, she’s your mom.
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Fast forward to my late 50s. Post divorce, I discovered that my legs weren’t just okay-looking legs; they were kind of awesome-looking legs, at least according to friends and lovers. That recognition led me to start a little running joke on social media; I started posting, with ridiculous regularity, photos of my legs that I’d taken while reclining in my hammock or lounging by the pool. These were not expressions of vanity; I took and posted them ironically, driving the satire home by posting nearly identical photos so frequently it became laughable, at least to those who were in on the joke.
My legs photos inevitably included my feet.
I can say with confidence that my legs turned out okay. But those feet of mine leave a lot to be desired. My toes are stubby, my arches flat, my heels narrow and bony. No matter how hard I try to combat them, callouses insist on hardening the tip of my left big toe and the sole of my left heel. If I could credibly crop my leg shots to exclude my feet, I would; I’ve tried, and it just looks awkward.
While they might not be glamorous, though, my feet have served me well. So I keep up with my pedicures, welcome my feet to the photo sessions, and share them, warts and all (Note: I don’t actually have warts.) on Facebook and Instagram, just for fun.
My feet photos also made their way into my dating app profiles.
I had no idea where that would lead me.
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One day I got a Tinder notification announcing that J, an extremely handsome young man with whom I had matched but not yet corresponded, had messaged me! Yay! On Tinder’s chat, we launched a flirty back-and-forth through which I learned that, in addition to his day job as a nurse, he took part in historical reenactments AND played meditative instruments for yoga studios.
J was just plain sweet, and his excitement about connecting with me seemed genuine. I had just turned 60, and being so desired by a man so young (he was 40), attractive, interesting, and, well, sweet was hugely gratifying. We made the switch from Tinder to texting early on and proceeded to get to know each other better, photographically and conversationally.
J was eager to get together in person, and I was, too. We made plans to meet at one of my local favorite restaurants for dinner; when that plan fell through, we decided to do lunch the following week.
I hadn’t been this excited about meeting a guy in a while.
I hadn’t been this nervous about meeting a guy in an even longer while.
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I am, as we journalists say, burying the lede.
Among the many topics we texted about was the fact that J had a deep and enduring fondness for feet. It had begun, he explained, when he was 15:
“I was sleeping over at my blood aunt and step uncle’s house as we were going trout fishing in the morning. After dinner we cleaned up, and Tom and I went into the living room to watch some TV. My aunt came in wearing a long t-shirt and ultra sheer nude full pantyhose. No shoes or slippers. I was like WTF. The smell was intoxicating and I simply couldn’t believe it. I was a magician at the time — cool shit, though, not cheesy tricks. So I showed them a few and they laughed. Once I manipulated my aunt to get on her knees for a coin trick… I really just wanted to see the bottom of her feet, and it worked! I came that night like 20 times… why was she dressed like that?”
I was in a far more adventuresome phase of my journey then than I am right now; I’m not sure I’d keep this ball rolling if it rolled my way today. But who knows? In addition to the sexy stuff, and the foot fetish information, J wrote things like this: “You give me the warmest good feeling. I desire the entire package you’re delivering. I want to know your favorite song, color, foods, and movie, but I also want to hold you and make love to you.” When I told him I had a cold, he asked if anyone was taking care of me, “getting you soup, Motrin, water, Kleenex….” Call me naive, but I found that charming.
Also, he told me his cock was “a bit thicker than a paper towel tube.”
I tried not to think about how he figured that out.
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Pre-date, we exchanged “requests.” None of what either of us desired from the other was particularly unusual, but J had a way of saying things that made me want to indulge his fantasies. There’s a cadence and vocabulary to most such conversations — “I want you to suck my dick till I cum all over your face” is boringly common — but J’s turns of phrase were often intelligent and surprising, making him all the more appealing.
J took his time building up to his “biggest request”: that my “ultra ultra sheer nude nylon feet smell like a [female] insurance adjuster’s feet at 5 p.m.” He also specified the ideal brand name and denier. (10 would be fine; 20 would make his head explode.)
Time to go shopping, I supposed.
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J was even more gorgeous in person. Over lunch I found myself gazing at him, marveling at the smoothness of his face, the hazelness of his eyes, the hunkiness of his beard, the sincerity of his smile and the whiteness of his teeth, the strength and sensitivity of his hands…. He was alluring, so alluring that after lunch, despite my best intentions, reader, I brought him home.
That’s when things got weird.
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I can’t remember exactly what he did with or to my deliberately stinky, sheer-hose-wearing feet.
What I do remember: he kept his thigh-high knit woolen socks on the entire time.
And this: Turns out he had a kinkier kink than any ol’ foot fetish.
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I’m clearly not shy about sharing intimate details. But I’m going to spare you the details here, other than to say that what J wanted even more than my unwashed, hose-clad feet involved his tasting a certain something that my body produced. Okay, I’ll spell it out: J wanted me to poo in his mouth. Now, I’m a pretty open-minded gal, and I’ll try just about anything, once. But not that. Much as I liked the guy, I just couldn’t bring myself to do this thing he craved.
A few days later he wrote in hopes of arranging another rendezvous. I had to be honest and tell him that, much as I liked him and enjoyed his company, I just couldn’t make this work.
He graciously let it be. We haven’t communicated since.
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We tend to throw terms like “fetish” and “foot fetish” around like jokes.
They aren’t.
And we shouldn’t.
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I originally planned to call this newsletter Tender, an obvious play on "Tinder” that also conveys my tender regard for nearly all the men I’ve encountered on my wild ride.
Of all the men I’ve met, I think I feel the most tender toward J. I think about how hard it must be for him to find a partner willing to join him in the activities he desires, what a burden those desires must be. I think how dear and earnest he was, how truly excited he was to have me in his life — and how sad he must have felt when suddenly I wasn’t.
People don’t pick their fetishes. I’m guessing J would be a far happier man if he weren’t saddled with the specific, hard-to-accommodate yearnings that are central to his sexual being. I hope he’s found someone willing to play along.