The Game's A Foot

The first time I went to a bar in New York I had somebody talking to me before I even had the chance to get a drink. I had no idea what the guy looked like, since he stared straight down the whole time. "Nice boots," he announced.

It's not the kind of line that'll dazzle you with personality, but it's the thought that counts. "Thanks," I said. I'm not exactly Regis Philbin.

"What size are they?"

"Thirteen." It was a lie but it made me feel better. I was the hundred-year-old woman telling folks she's ninety-eight.

"Wow. That's big."

Right around here I started to think, okay, it's time to segue into something else. Let's talk about the weather, or politics, or the skankiness of various American Idols. Let's slide the conversation somewhere interesting.

"What are they made of?" he asked.

I was getting irritated now, and more than a little suspicious. What were the choices here? Car parts? Bacon ends? Lint collected from the navels of Belgian nuns? "Leather, I guess."

"Oh," he said. He still didn't look up. "The stitching looks really, really strong."

I hung on just a few minutes longer before deciding it was time to bolt. My friend Steve was watching and snickering just a few feet away, so I told the guy he was my boyfriend and scurried away.

Steve was hardly a safe harbor. I appreciated his insight into books and movies and human behavior, but balked when he noticed things in my life that I'd missed. "He sure was interested in your feet, wasn't he?" he said, a smirk permanently affixed to his face.

I shrugged my shoulders. "So he likes shoes," I said. "Everybody likes something."

"Okay," he said, rolling his eyes. "Sure. But didn't you think it was strange that he had to taste the leather?"

It had kind of raised a red flag. "He says really good leather tastes slightly nutty."

"How about the soles? What does high-quality rubber taste like?"

My stupidity poked its head up like a gopher on a golf course. "Chicken."

"Oh, okay. Now it's making perfect sense. Why did you have to take them off?"

"He thought they were cramping my instep."

"And they were, of course," he said, as I nodded dumbly. "But it wasn't anything that couldn't be fixed with his tongue?"

Clammy toes started to twitch inside my shoes. It all sounded so plausible when the guy had said it, and yet so preposterous now. For the rest of the evening I could barely wipe the shame from my face. I'd been the unwitting patsy in some perverted sex ritual, the clueless foot for a manipulative fetishist. Sure, I'd been used before, and as long as Rohypnol or KFC existed I'd be used again. But being taken advantage of in a crowded bar, while drunken men guffawed at me behind their beer, totally crossed the line.

The next time I met a Foot Fan, then, I swore I'd get revenge. I'd drive him wild with desire. I'd taunt him with my peerless peds until, unable to bear his frustrated passion, he'd fling himself in front of the nearest cab. Then I'd laugh, laugh, and laugh some more. Sure, I passed out cold when my cat gave birth, but I wasn't thinking properly at this point.

I had to wait more than eight months, but I finally got my chance. I recognized the downward stare and the stupid questions, and I knew the stage was set. Take your seats, boys and girls, I all but bellowed to the oblivious fool. It's time for Foot Fetish Theater!

"These are very rare pair of boots," I said, lifting one up so this poor sap could get a closer look. "They come from a small, ancient atelier in Italy where they still do things the old-fashioned way. They need to duplicate how your feet sweat when they're cramped up all day, so they strip you down to a jockstrap and lay you on a couch while they moisten your toes with their probing tongues. They suck on each one individually, lovingly, digging into all the little nooks and crannies, gently nipping at the warm pink flesh, cleaning the tops and sides like a determined cat."

At the very least I got him to look up. "Don't play games with me," he scolded. "If you aren't interested, just say so. Personally, though, I can't understand why somebody would turn down a foot massage. I employ ancient healing techniques combined with reflexology to create a total foot experience. Hot stones melt the tension from the lower legs, dissolving stress while improving circulation, and biometric toe manipulation opens clogged energy pathways."

Believe it or not, this started to sound tempting. Even with me mentally inserting the phrase "with my tongue" into every line.

"Then," he continued, "a deep exfoliation of salts smoothes and moisturizes the skin. I drizzle your feet with exotic oils known for purification -- mint from the deepest Sahara, sandalwood from Bolivian rainforests, patchouli gathered from virgin crocus --- and wrap them in the softest silk to plump every pore with hydration. A light massage of body cream seals your skin like a warm blanket, and you'll find yourself in a new plane of existence, where improved mental acuity mingles with a renewed sense of spiritual well-being."

This wasn't anything like what I'd imagined. "You don't just want to jerk off on my toes?"

He shook his head solemnly. "Au contraire. What I offer you is a journey of total relaxation, in an aura of peace and tranquility."

I decided to postpone my revenge. Guys always try to tell you what you want to hear, but this one in particular hit it on the nose. I always thought sex would be better if it were more like a spa treatment: I'd lay there, my needs would be met, and afterward somebody would bring me tea. Maybe this isn't enough to tempt you into forbidden fields, but for a guy as selfish as me it was like an engraved invitation from the Queen.

And so I followed him home, his gaze never leaving my instep. Though I'd pictured a lair as exotic and mysterious as the Casbah, his place was packed with all-American crap. The air reeked of Glade Plug-Ins, the carpet was as long as my hair, and Mantovani blared from the Radio Shack stereo. But my feet felt a bliss they'd never known.

To make a long story short, I didn't leave that apartment for nearly five months. Nathan's devotion won me over, totally and completely, and we began talking of love and children and white picket fences. Sure, I got a little tired of watching "My Left Foot," "Kinky Boots" and "On Your Toes" every Friday night, but his ministrations to me more than made up.

I hadn't stood for nearly a week when I made that fateful decision to vacuum, and I found that Odor Eater somebody had lost beneath the couch.

Size seventeen. Not mine, and clearly not his.

He pleaded and cajoled and begged for forgiveness, but I threw all my stuff into a suitcase and left. It was a long, hard walk to the car, and not just because my feet squished in my shoes.