Monday, March 18, 2013

Nobody Propositions My Feet Anymore - Aging Gracefully?

Foot fetishism?
Foot fetishism? (Photo credit: C1ssou)
Apparently, back in the day, I had incredibly sexy feet.

When I was in my twenties, running around barefoot in my apartment complex doing my laundry, this guy who was a friend of a neighbor who was having a party spotted me - and my feet - and was instantly smitten.

"I want to be upfront with you," he said. "I have a foot fetish, and you have incredibly sexy feet. I will <insert crude and lewd proposition here> for hours, if you'll let me fondle and play with your feet for a little while."

I was a little surprised, a lot shocked - and, I admit it, somewhat intrigued. He was kinda cute. He might be good at the aforesaid activity (though on the other hand, he might be terrible).

What did he want to do with my feet, anyway?

The writer in me said, "Say yes. This would make such a great story."

Then again, just because this was some guy who was invited to my neighbor's party, did not mean he was not a weird foot fetish serial killer. Though it would be hard to drag my dead body past the crowd of 30+ people in the courtyard.

I let the man sweet-talk me for a few minutes, then asked for a little time to think about it (after all, I still had to add fabric softener).

And my underage son was home, though due to be picked up by my ex within the next coupla hours.

It could be HAWT. After all, I'd seen the famous bondage and toenail-painting scene in Bull Durham.

Alas, it was not to be.  Apparently for that particular foot freak, at that time, it was a now-or-never kind of thing.

Once my offspring was gone, and my laundry was folded, FootGuy was nowhere to be found.

Later, I Met Another Foot Fetishist

I admit it, I was curious, and this new guy, too, thought I had very sexy feet and propositioned me, so we agreed to go for it. As it turned out, the date on which we had planned to experiment intersected with another date, one I marked on the calendar each month with red XXs.

We played around a little anyway, but by Bill Clinton's definition, did not have sexual relations. A lot of rubbing and groaning (on his part), a lot of counting the ceiling tiles on mine, except there were no ceiling tiles. You get the drift.

He was no Kevin Costner. Goodbye, Foot Fetishist #2.

It wasn't that I was unwilling to let him get his freak on, periodically (God, I'm saying this all wrong), but I found out he was a creepy religious type. As in, he informed me that Christianity was very important to him, and showed me his... pages, of his novel in progress. The first pages were full of lavish and loving descriptions of hell; torture and hot pokers and sharks ripping open people who don't die, just scream and bleed without surcease...

I eased out of any future dates very carefully. And if I hear his name connected with some gruesome serial killing, I will not be one of those people saying on camera, "But he always seemed so nice and quiet."

There's More of Them Out There

Bradley Cooper at the
Bradley Cooper at the "Whatever Works" Premiere, Tribeca Film Festival 2009 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
It's not that I think that all men (or women) who are into feet are potential serial killers. I'm sure many of them are perfectly nice - I actually know one. Since he's my ex's best friend, we are Not. Going. There. Ever.

Besides, the man smokes cigars, and that's disgusting. (Next to cigars, feet prolly smell like roses.)

I've had wonderful foot massages as part of loveplay, but nothing that led me to believe my lover was especially into feet.  Sucked a few toes, and had mine sucked, but doesn't everyone? And the Internet is now buzzing with stories about Bradley Cooper and his supposed foot fetish.

It's not that I want footplay to be a part of my sex life. I just liked the possibility.

I Liked Having Sexy Feet

As a teenager, my best friend was kind of a bitch. She had these dainty little feet - size five, I think - while I am five nine and have proportional-sized feet, 8 1/2. When we'd do the whole girlfriends-kicking-off-the-shoes thing, my shoes looked like rowboats next to her tiny ones.It awoke all the Cinderella's ugly stepsisters with big honking peasant hooves complex I'd carried since I was little.

Me: My God, my shoes are huge!

What girlfriends are supposed to say: No, you're tall, they're not big at all for someone your height.

What my (former) girlfriend would say: Yeah, they are pretty big. Too bad you can't go on a diet for your feet.

A pair of co-worker G's shoes.
I covet those butterflies!
Time passed. I worked with a woman five inches shorter than me. Who wore the cutest shoes, and had the same size feet as me. I realized if she could carry shoes that looked cute, with her height, so could I.

It was shortly after that that my feet were first propositioned. Even though my big toes, all squared off, still reminded me of Frankenstein's monster.

I went shoe mad, for a time. I bought strappy sandals and red pumps and gold snakeskin shoes and dainty black shoes with bows on the toes. I got pedicures and wore toe rings. My feet looked mostly adorable for years. But then they started hurting.

I knew what it was - I didn't want to admit it, but my older sister serves as kind of a canary in a coal mine for me. And she developed a serious case of Morton's neuroma - in both feet.

Hers was so bad (because she dragged her feet about seeing a podiatrist) that she had to have surgery. As she described it, they cut them open and scrape off the excess tissue buildup, like scraping meat off a chicken bone. *gagging*

My feet, not so bad (yet). All I needed to do was get some cortisone shots, and be fitted for custom orthotics to wear in my shoes every day.

My double or triple width shoes, flats only, which I have to wear for the rest of my life.

I Am Now a Lifetime Member of the Sisterhood of the Butt-Ugly Shoes

Plus I fail miserably at doing my own pedicures. Afterwards there is so much nail polish splattered all over my toes they look like they've participated in a serial murder.

Co-worker A
It's rather depressing. The women I work with wear shoes so sexy they'd bring tears of envy to the eyes of a porn star. And there I am, in my grandma shoes.

The only thing I have resisted so far is Birkenstocks (though I hear they're quite comfortable).

I've tried going to a regular shoe with just a little bitty heel once in a while, and it feels like I stepped on a nail. You can't look sexy unless you feel sexy, and you definitely can't strut your stuff when you're limping like you have a nail stuck in your foot.

Co-worker G
In fact, some days my foot feels like that anyway. I probably need another cortisone shot. Still hoping to avoid the gruesome meat-chicken-bone operation.

It's not like I was into the whole foot fetish thing. (Although I could make an exception for Bradley Cooper.) But I mourn the loss of my foot desirability. I want to be the one turning down the foot freaks, not be turned down by them.

But it is what it is. Now that I'm old a mature woman in the prime of her life, I know I should be damned grateful - and I am - that I have (relatively) healthy, functioning feet that take me where I want to go.

I would still like to punch that c**t Cinderella in the face.

Want to read more posts on aging gracefully (or fighting it all the way?)

Generation Fabulous

Do you suffer shoe envy, or can you still wear the good stuff?
Have you ever made footplay part of your loveplay?
(You can tell me, I won't tell anyone.)
Your thoughts?

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