Long ago and far away… 

Sometime in my late 30’s, (a few moments post-divorce) I dated [very part-time] a fellow who, over the course of several dates, revealed a healthy preoccupation with my shoes.  More accurately, he adapted his long-standing (no pun intended) adoration of women’s feet in general to a very focused and somewhat intense fetish of my feet in any shoes.  


Rubber flip-flops, beat up Birkenstocks, heels (slip-on or strappy – didn’t matter), mules, Top-Siders, wood-sole clogs, tall riding boots – any footwear my feet were in.

Whenever and wherever we met.

Every encounter (read: unplanned, mutually agreeable rendezvous) – whether he could see my feet or not – made him near-ecstatic as long as my feet were shod.  When they were pedicured, he would be near apoplectic with joy.

It was a level of lust directed at me that was oddly flattering and, well, something else I could not name.  Exciting? Intriguing?  Curiously inviting?  A turn-on?  I really wasn’t sure.  It wasn’t altogether negative but I wasn’t fully onboard, either.

Some people neck or makeout; other’s whisper sweet nothings into the tender lobe of their lover. 

Not this guy.

His attraction to my feet and footwear was matched by his semi-controlled carnal desire for their extensive cleansing and gentle caressing and massage.  I remember the first time.

The previous weekend, we had been out, but not out together, socializing in a local bar, each with our own friends.  We acknowledged each other with a casually tossed chin, “Hey.”

The later evening cleared away the lightweights and I, usually one to drive “the professionals” home safely, remained to eavesdrop on the drinkers.  All but one of my girlfriends had gone home; the last of whom lived within walking distance of the bar and had she not been liquified could have easily walked the five downhill blocks to her tiny beachside cottage.  She sat, laughing in a far corner, trying not to go home with another scruffy one-night stand (who already had his hand halfway up her milky white thigh).  

I was adrift at the bar, listening to warped politics and muddy gossip, awaiting my friend to make up her mind, when the fellow two stools away leaned over and asked if we hadn’t attended the same high school.

We had.  But I was not ready to engage in 2AM conversation with some vaguely familiar guy, especially when my friend was in short need of a ride home.  He was cute, in a messy unkempt, private school sort of way.  His face warm with fading sunburn; his eyes  dark and inviting but I was not interested in going there.  It was late, and my patience thinning.

He continued to volley questions over the person between us.  I answered every other inquiry until he moved, unblocked, to my right, where he stood, right foot chucked on the bar rail, one large hand on the bar, one hand on the back of my chair.  He had planted himself in a man stance.

He had the barkeep bring us coffee when I explained my wait.  He was less a jerk than I remembered and we left together an hour later, dropping my friend at her home, first.

After discovery of basic attraction, we wordlessly began a choreography of late night run-ins which mostly took place at a local watering holes in the small shore town in which we both lived.  

His work took him into deep water; I worked in a local swanky nursery selling shrubs and perennials to women who knew nothing about plants. He was muscular, tall, a bit chunky, and rough in the right places.  After a few drinks he was crass and forward and decidedly had no problem stating what he wanted from anyone who would listen.  Sunfaded blond, deep blue-eyed, he was the exact opposite of what I found attractive.  I like darker, furry and stubbly men with rougher hands and street smarts, maybe an education not much past community college, if that.  Besides, smart boys were never attracted to me.  As friends, sure.  As lovers, never

Clearly a below-the-ankles man, he desired (to the point of worship during some sessions) to bathe, dry, kiss. suck, lick, oil and massage and nibble every bit of both my feet, ankles and calves, one at a time.  I got used to it.  Sort of.

What was really surprising, not knowing anything about fetishes, was his incredible enthusiasm:  having me to fondle and enjoy for often the better part of two hours, we would then have sex.  Really good sex.  Surprisingly [expletives] good sex.  He was inventive, attentive, slow, masculine, erotic, sensuous, funny, firm, generous, teasing, tuned-in.

Sometimes, right there in the kitchen or bathroom.  Sometimes, he would carry me (to keep my feet clean, of course) up the attic steps to my bedroom, lay me on the bed and have his way, making sure I was satisfied above everything.

And for months I remained completely baffled by his attentions.  I never questioned him, though I wanted to a hundred times, to learn more about his needs…because, other than allowing him to basically worship my body from the kneecaps down, he required NOTHING from me.  (Well, not exactly “nothing”:  he needed to know his attentions were not making me uncomfortable, and he required reciprocal physical ‘attention’, which I provided).

He did not make me uncomfortable.  He was not wishy-washy in his desire, either. He did his thing, he did me, we did each other.  Mostly, he did his thing and brought me along, nicely.

Sex was almost a relief, after the awkward time spent watching him fondle and adore my feet.  There was not too much I could do to him while he had me seated on the edge of the bathroom or kitchen counter, or on the lidded toilet as he knelt unbuckled or untied my shoes, slipped out my feet, removed any socks.  He would then draw warm water – sink or tub – and lather me lovingly below the knees, cleaning gently between each toe.  Rinse, pat dry, then give me a piggyback or over-shoulder carry up to the bedroom.

Twenty-something years later I remain totally baffled.  At that time, I had never been with anyone who had a kink, for lack of a brtter word; certainly there had been enthusiasm from the opposite sex but over what I’d considered “normal” parts, not my feet.

Over the months we dallied, he became somewhat possessive, and I, overwhelmed.  We ended things as they started:  intermittently bumping unto each other until we changed partners.

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