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I Did It For Science: Foot Fetish
I never found my feet sexy. Would that make it easier to sell them on Craigslist?
By Tabitha Thatcher
A lot of men like women's feet. Some men are obsessed with women's feet, and will happily do most anything to have some quality alone-time with them. I am a woman and have feet; ergo, I should be able to profit from them.
The idea of a foot fetish has always been funny to me. I can understand a boob man, a butt man, a leg man, but a foot man? It's always seemed like some kind of Benny Hill conceit. Anything but sexy.
And because it seemed so silly, so innocuous to me, I reasoned, doing it wouldn't feel anything like prostitution. Would I really be able to make money from just letting a guy touch my feet? And would I come to find feet sexy, as well?
• feet (pedicured)
• a variety of stinky shoes and stockings
• the internet
• fake name/e-mail account
• gay neighbor to monitor my safety and babysit my dog
• bottle of wine for said gay neighbor
Because feet are so inherently unsexy to me, I had to do some research. A quick perusal of Craigslist revealed something of a conundrum: the preferred foot type seemed to be well pedicured — but smelly. Stinky shoes and socks, it seems, also figured prominently. I glanced at my nearly destroyed Ugg boots, moldering by the front door. Stinky shoes, check.
I contemplated my feet, trying to see them as a potential client might. I snapped a picture with my phone and considered it objectively. Not too cute. So I was looking at having to spend a little cash upfront to get a professional pedicure. And since I was getting a pedicure, I might as well get a manicure, right? So I was fifty dollars down before I even began, but now I was even more determined to see this through.
Lastly, I wanted to ensure my safety and to find a sitter for my dog. I know it sounds silly, but he's like my kid, and I couldn't bear to think of his big, brown, innocent eyes watching some weirdo lick my feet. My gay next-door neighbor seemed the perfect choice on both accounts. I knew him well enough to know that 1.) he had the requisite blasé attitude toward casual and/or deviant sexual exploits 2.) his dog and my dog were good friends 3.) he worked at home and so was there during the day, and that was when I planned to schedule appointments.
The evening before I planned to post my own ad, I took a bottle of wine to the neighbor's apartment (now I'm down another $10), and after a couple of glasses, I broached the subject with him. Far from being shocked, he was eager to share his own Craigslist exploits, sassily: "Girl, we've all been there. I'm not above letting a guy suck my dick for 400 bucks every now and then. I think you should have men worship your feet. Why the hell not? Now, let me look at those tootsies. Let's see what you're selling, sister."
As we finished the bottle of wine, he took pictures of my feet and we composed my ad.
"Like pretty feet? High heels? Ugg boots? I've got this fresh pedicure, and no one to enjoy it..."
And that was all it took. The responses were coming in fast and furious. By the time we'd finished the second bottle, I had arranged for a guy named Mark to come over the next day. And he was bringing cream puffs because, it seemed, he wanted me to step in them while wearing stilettos, after which he would lick them off my shoes. He would stay no longer than half an hour, and for this he would "donate" seventy-five dollars to me.
"To Mark!" my neighbor and I toasted.
Mark arrived precisely on time, and was well-groomed and polite to the point of obsequiousness. He handed me the pink bakery box with a slight bow, and he addressed me as "ma'am."
"Where would you like me, ma'am?" he asked, as I took the box of little éclairs, so innocently waiting their fate, to the kitchen.
"Oh, wherever you like," I answered, and quickly sensed that my answer disappointed him. He perched on the edge of the couch nervously, and something in his demeanor provoked me to chastise him: "Not on the furniture, boy!"
"Yes, Ma'am!" This seemed to please him no end, and he cheerfully sat on the floor, unable to suppress a wide grin.
"What the hell are you so happy about?" And where the hell was this coming from? My inner bitch was asserting herself as if she'd been beckoned — and maybe she had been? Was this Mark character somehow in contact with said inner bitch in a way I wasn't?
"Nothing, ma'am. I'm sorry." He tried to stifle his smile as I settled into the couch so that he was more or less at my feet — my aching feet, in their ridiculous black patent stilettos that I bought on a whim and never wore.
"I was just wondering if you'd ever done this before, ma'am." Now, this gave me pause. Obviously, he had my number.
"What the hell business of that is yours?" I tried to act outraged, but could barely stop myself from laughing. I nudged him in the chest with my pointy toe. "I asked you a question, boy."
"It's not. It's none of my business, ma'am. I'm sorry."
"Damn right, it's none of your business."