Of all the fetishes I’ve encountered, foot fetish is the one I can’t figure out. Some guys love big boobs. All right. I get it. Boob equals nourishment. What does foot equal? I’ve even stumbled across videos of women doing yanky-crankies using their feet. Isn’t it odd? Are there men into elbows? Do they dream of being yanked by a pair of elbows?
You can tell if someone is into feet by gauging their reaction when you ask them. If they crinkle their nose or shiver — nope. If they smile, look down, appear embarrassed, then deny it — yep. Most women I have asked say they have encountered a man who was into their feet. All men deny being that man.
I’ve never dated a woman who was into my feet. Good thing. My talons are a bit unpleasant. Baseball cleats are unkind to feets, y’all. I mean, I clip my nails and all. It’s not like I walk around clicking. But, there are callouses and hair there. My feet support me. My toes are my balance, not her lollipops.
I did date a woman who was into her man having a waxed bunghole. When I asked her why she responded by sticking out and wiggling her tongue like a snake. My butt puckered at the thought as my ass-clit hid. I had another bourbon and lost her number.
Here’s a fetish: How about food? Lay a picnic blanket on your California king, fetch the bananas, cucumbers, and eggplants (ok, maybe not the eggplants). Toss in bottles of honey, syrup, and whipped cream. Heck, you can add sprinkles, if you fancy that sort of high-carb thing. Imagine the messy fun. Cleanup is easy. Roll up the blanket, take it outside, and shake it into the neighbor’s yard — condiments and condoms.
So, what am I to do if my woman is into her own feet? Maybe she would enjoy the occasional minty, lavender foot rub whilst reclining with a glass of buttery chard. Well, I must comply or be replaced, right? I’ll do what needs to be done. I’ll Mr. Miyagi my hands to warm them up, and thumb the fuck out of her sole.
The things we do for love that we may not love doing.