Although I don’t remember the first time someone put my toes in their mouth (it might have been the boss I had a brief affair with when I was nineteen…?), I do know that I’m forever grateful – it’s something I’ve wanted from every partner since. There are people who are really freaked out by feet because of their smell or their aesthetic, but I find them to be absolutely beautiful. Some people who are into feet like their own touched or licked; others like to fondle or worship other people’s feet. As for me – it’s all the feet all the time.
I wouldn’t consider myself to have a foot fetish per se since I don’t need to touch, see, or think about feet to get off; I just love looking at and touching feet and having mine caressed, licked, and beaten. I once even had the soles of my feet pierced just for the craic! I couldn’t dance for a few days afterward, but it was an interesting sensation. It’s always such a delight telling a new play partner that I like having the bottoms of my feet lightly caned and flogged. If I’m really into someone and generally like their smell, I love smelling their feet, too, and have never been grossed out by sock lint between toes or football-induced blood blisters*. I stare a bit too long at high arches and relish the feeling of big, strong hands wrapped around my feet.
There was a time long ago when I was hosting someone from out of state for a dance exchange; he was giving me a massage and started rubbing my feet. “Oh, no you don’t,” I said – “If you touch my feet, you’re going to have to fuck me.” I must have taken him by surprise, because he gently let my foot down and told me that he guessed he would have to concentrate on my back. I was thrilled when I went to visit him months later and, walking upstairs from a wine bar, he pinned me against the wall and whispered into my ear, “I think I’m ready to massage your feet now.” See? Intoxicating.
This is why, on the second evening I ever spent with The Engineer, I laughed when he drunkenly suggested sticking a toe in me while we were taking a bath together. “Go for it!” I said. “It’s just a toe.” He did, and it was quite a bonding experience. Also why I will laugh for ages and ages every time I hear Rachel Lark’s song “Fuck My Toe” (that whole album is fabulous; I highly recommend giving it a listen). Saying yes to something so small let him know that if he could ask for silly sexy things, then it might be okay to ask for other secret desires to be met down the road. Kind of like a podiatric litmus test.
All of this is to say that feet are my jam. My toe jam, as it were. They are our very foundation. They ground us, they move us, they carry us up mountains and down canyons and into forests and rivers, and they give us the ability to dance and play and run free. They connect us to the earth and to each other. What’s not to worship?
*I’m looking at you, honey.