One of my favorite stories to tell about my adventures as a single lady is the time that I met the foot fetishist.
I didn’t know that at first, of course.
I met Mr. Foot on Match.com. Rather mundane “get to you know you” emails led to Mr. Foot mentioning that he had a thing for feet. Compared to a recent first date I went on, where over the course of dinner the guy asked me, totally out of the blue, if I could help him re-enact his rape fantasy, foot fetishes seemed relatively harmless.
Having never met a foot fetishist, I did the only thing I knew how to do — I made a joke about it. I wrote back and said:
You’ll be thrilled to know I have ten toes and two feet, both supported by an ankle.
Ha. ha. ha. Right? WRONG. For a foot fetishist I had just opened the floodgates. Mr. Foot’s next email dropped any pretense of caring about me as a person and honed in on my feet. He clearly stated that if we were going to meet, I would have to send him a picture of my feet first. If they weren’t up to snuff, I just wasn’t dating material.
And really, wouldn’t you like to know what a foot fetishist thinks of your feet? Are you foot-worthy? I wanted to know! So in response to Mr. Foot, I sent this picture:
Well. Not 20 minutes later did I receive this response (verbatim from email):
I don’t expect you to understand, but, that photo excites me profoundly. If we date and you want something from me, your feet with freshly painted black toenails and flip flops could get me to do anything! If you answered your door wearing the stockings we mentioned without shoes and the black toenails, I would be in heaven!! Okay, I will stop. Is it clear that I love the photo?
I AM FOOT FETISH WORTHY! A question I never realized I needed the answer to, was now fulfilled. And of course, now I need to meet the guy. Why? Because there’s a story here that needs uncovering and as the single lady of record I am here to uncover it.
So I set up a date with Mr. Foot at my favorite bar on the planet, Martunis. This is a gay piano bar that is very dimly lit and serves fabulous cheap martinis. Worst case, I get to sing along to “Hello Dolly” and drink a few martinis. The guy is already nuts about my feet, what could go wrong…
Suffice it to say, this started off as a horrible first date. Mr. Foot didn’t want to talk about ANYTHING but my feet. How much can I really say about my feet? They’re feet for christ’s sake! Generally, I’m a pretty good conversationalist and I can draw out a conversation. But not this time. Two martinis down and 30 minutes in, I realize this is not the date that I wanted. So I switched gears.
Upon sipping my third martini and feeling the liquid courage warming me up, I said coyly to Mr. Foot
You know, I’m wearing boots because I don’t show toe on the first date.
Mr. Foot nodded solemnly, taking this not as a joke, but as a serious statement about the sacredness of my feet. To this guy, seeing my toes was tantamount to me shaking my boobs in his face. And of course no one in their right mind would do that in a bar on their first date…
Except that I was drunk and bored, so upon seeing his response I exclaimed:
BUT I WILL FOR YOU!
And took of my boots and plopped my feet down in his lap.
To describe what happened next… well, upon receiving my pantyhosed feet Mr. Foot let out a giant (I mean GIANT) sigh.
UHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Whatever pithy conversation had occurred prior, was now over. No talking. Mr. Foot moaning and a foot massage (plus showtunes) were the only things happening.
It was a fantastic foot massage. I turned down Mr. Foot’s offer to “go back to my place and kiss my toes through my pantyhose” but I thoroughly enjoyed my foot massage. And when my drink was done, and it became apparent that Mr. Foot only wanted me for my feet, I extricated them from his lap, put on my boots and wished him a lovely evening.
And that, my friends, was the foot fetishist.
