I’d been on the dance floor for more than an hour, shaking my hot ass to back-to-back hits as the deejay kept the music coming. The club was packed, the heat was thick, and the man I’d been dancing with was relentless. He was tall and super-sexy with killer moves that had all the women waiting for a turn. A few had been bold enough to push up behind him and dance along with us, but he never once acknowledged them. He interest was exclusively focused on me.
“Aren’t you hot?” I asked, hoping he wanted a break from all the dancing we had been doing. I didn’t want to just walk off from him. One of the skanks hovering nearby would snap him up for sure.
“I’m hot for you,” he slyly replied.
I laughed. “No, seriously. I could use a drink or something. If I don’t cool down, I’m going to faint.”
He grabbed me by the hand and led the way toward the bar, pushing through the throng of people.
“What’s your pleasure?” he asked once we arrived.
“Anything with ice in it,” I replied. “But I need to hit the bathroom first.” I ran my hand across my sweaty neck. “And I need to freshen up a little. This sweat running down my neck is definitely not sexy.”
“It’s sexier than you think,” he said. “What’s sexier than a hot, sweaty woman who can dance her ass off?”
“A woman who can dance her ass off who’s not flinging sweat all over the place.”
“All right,” he said, laughing, “you’ve got a point. Go handle your business. I’ll be here when you get back. I’m not going anywhere.”
A pack of girls stood a few feet off, eyeing him.
“I don’t know,” I warned. “Looks like I might need to take a number when I return.”
His eyes followed mine, noticing them. He laughed again. “Trust me, that won’t be necessary. This ride is only giving out one ticket tonight.”
“Well, all right then.” I chuckled as I headed off. “I won’t be long.”
I made my way toward the back of the club. The hall was thick with body heat, lined with people talking, drinking, kissing, popping shit, popping E, texting, sexting, and everything in between. Barely dressed women were pressed up against buff-bodied men. I checked them all out as I navigated through the madness. Damn. There was a line to get into the bathroom. At least six other women were ahead of me. My first instinct was to turn around and head back for the bar, but eventually I’d have to come back and the line would surely be longer than it was right now. I decided to stick it out. Maybe the wait wouldn’t be as long as I feared.
I stood behind the last girl, leaning against the wall as I tried to ignore the heat. I closed my eyes, fanning myself with my hand.
“Nice shoes,” a deep voice said right next to my ear.
Startled, I opened my eyes, following the sound of the voice. I turned and looked right into the face of a man with fiery dark eyes that dazzled me at once. His full lips curled into an intriguing grin. Or maybe it was a smirk. I couldn’t tell in this light. I blinked several times, caught off guard by his presence.
“Giuseppe Zanotti,” he said. “The spring-summer line.”
“What are you, gay?” I said with a laugh. I quickly recovered. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, if you are.”
“Not gay. I just know shoes. And feet.”
“I see,” I said, unnerved by his closeness. I also found his accuracy unsettling. My shoes were, indeed, Giuseppe Zanottis from the spring-summer line. I had a friend who worked for the company, and she’d gotten me a pair right before they debuted. I turned away from him and faced the line. It had advanced a little. Now there were only four women ahead of me.
“You have supple heels,” the man behind me continued. “Soft, pink, delicate skin. Those are the heels of a woman who gets weekly pedicures.”
“So you’re a podiatrist,” I muttered, stepping forward along with the line.
“Not a podiatrist.”
“Then you work at a nail shop.”
“No nail shop,” he said. “I’m just a connoisseur.”
He moved up along with me. I turned toward him.
“You know this is the line for the ladies’ bathroom, right?” I asked.
“It’s a unisex bathroom,” he said.
I leaned around, glancing up ahead. A man walked out of the sea-green glass door.
“Oh,” I said, surprised. “I had no idea.”
“Does that bother you?”
“I don’t care,” I said. “As long as I can do my business privately, I’m fine.”
“Good girl,” he replied.
Good girl? What an odd thing for a stranger to say. Like he was my chaperone or something. I glanced over my shoulder at him. He stood behind me, all smoldering eyes and chiseled jaw, not saying a word. He was sexy. I couldn’t deny it. And he was right about my feet. I was a weekly pedicure person. Pedicures and beautiful shoes were my biggest indulgences, and I didn’t slack on either one. My feet and the way I adorned them were the purest displays of myself as a woman.
“Paraffin dips,” he whispered.
“Yes,” I replied, my voice just as low as his. This was a game now, a way to kill time, and I was beginning to enjoy it.
The line moved closer to the door. Only two girls were ahead of me now.
“Polish?” I asked, challenging him.
“Hmmm…,” he muttered, “let’s see…”
I positioned my foot so he could get a clear look.
“OPI. Definitely OPI.”
“Very good,” I giggled, quite impressed. “What color?”
“Chocolate Moose. Spelled with two o’s and one s.”
I turned all the way around to face him.
“Oh my God. That’s exactly what it is. Who are you?” I pressed. “What do you do?”
He made a nodding gesture. “The line just moved up.”
I looked over my shoulder. The two girls were gone. I was now at the front of the line.
“How did they both go in at the same time?”
“The bathroom has two stalls,” a woman passing by said.
Now, that would be interesting. It meant that possibly the foot man and I would be in the bathroom at the same time. Unless, of course, one of the women came out and the other took longer to finish what she was doing. Hopefully, that would be the case. This man made me nervous. He was fascinating, alluring, mysterious, but I wasn’t quite sure he was someone I’d want to be alone with. Why would a straight man who didn’t work at a nail shop know that much about nail polish, shoes, and caring for feet?
“No need to worry,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “I’m the good guy. I’m the one who gives the bad guys something to think about.”
“So you’re a cop,” I said, my eyes on the bathroom door, waiting to dart right in.
“I guess you could say I police things, yes.”
My skin was tingling. I glanced down at my forearms. They were covered with tiny bumps. He was giving me chills. Just moments ago I had been hot and sweaty, but now I was cold with the brisk thrill of excitement. My nipples were even hard. Everything about him had me aroused. Please, oh please, let that bathroom door open. Let one girl walk out so I can go in alone.
“Relax,” he said softly, all inside my head. “Only one will come out.”
His breath was warm on the back of my neck.
The bathroom door opened and one of the women exited. I rushed past her, brushing against her shoulder on my way in.
“Hey!” she exclaimed.
“Sorry,” I said. “I really have to go.”
I’d expected to see a bathroom attendant on my way in, but it was just the two stalls and a long counter with two sinks. It was surprising that more people weren’t gathered in the bathroom, waiting their turn to get into the stalls. I grabbed some paper towels from the dispenser against the wall. That’s when I noticed the sign that read, NO MORE THAN TWO PEOPLE ALLOWED IN RESTROOM AT A TIME.
How odd, I thought, especially for a unisex bathroom. Anything could happen with just two people in the bathroom, especially with a man and a woman. Then again, I realized, the same could apply irrespective of gender, so I guess it really didn’t make a difference.
I ran cool water over the paper towels, squeezed them out, and wiped the sweat from my neck, my nape, and the tops of my shoulders. I looked at my reflection. My skin was still flushed and tingling from the thought of the foot man. A toilet flushed and the woman from the occupied stall emerged and washed her hands. She smiled at me in the reflection of the mirror. I smiled back, tossed the paper towels in the trash, and stepped into an empty stall, locking the door behind me.
As I was adjusting my clothing, I heard her exit. My skin tingled anew at the sound of someone else walking in. The sound was of a man’s shoes, not the heels of a woman. I could smell his scent on the air. We were in the bathroom together, alone, as I feared. I stood rooted in place, unsure what to do. I could hear him walk up to my stall. His feet stopped at the door. I could see the tops of his shoes.
“I want to touch them,” he said softly. It was more of a demand than a request.
I remained in place, my heart racing, my whole body flushed with heat.
“I’m the good guy, remember?”
I still didn’t respond, my hand clasped against my chest, my breath coming quick.
“Out here, in the open,” he said. “I want to see them under the light.”
Inexplicably powerless, I obeyed. I unlatched the lock on the bathroom stall. He pushed the door open, his hand extended. I reached out and took it and he led me over to the fluorescent lights over the sinks.
He took several paper towels from the dispenser and wiped down the area, then lifted me up and placed me on the counter.
He held my calf in his hands, admiring the shape and the curve of the muscle. He kissed my shin all the way down to the ankle, drinking in the scent of my foot. He held it aloft, gazing at it in wonder.
“So beautiful,” he whispered. “Your feet are so beautiful.”
I squirmed against the counter, my pussy growing hot.
He slipped off the Zanotti, his tongue running the expanse of my sole, my arch, and my heel. He sucked at the heel for a long moment, and then maneuvered my foot so he could suckle my toes.
Waves of electricity shot through my body. The sensation of his hot mouth on my foot was making me light-headed, almost like I was going to faint. I reached down and touched my wetness, fingering myself as he continued. He unzipped his pants with his free hand, reaching in and pulling out his hardness. He rubbed the arch of my foot against him, rolling it back and forth over his rigid shaft. I moaned with pleasure, pushing my panties to the side and slipping my fingers deep into my wetness. Our eyes held each other as he fucked the arch of my foot, his dick cradling the supple curve, then squeezing itself between my freshly painted Chocolate Moose toes.
He grabbed my other leg and held it high, kissing up and down the length of it as he continued to fornicate my foot. I was high with excitement, one hand tweaking my nipple, the other desperately jabbing in and out of my pussy. I wanted to cum. I needed to cum. Apparently so did he, as he pumped excitedly against my soft heel, clasping my foot tightly in his hand. The pressure built for both of us until it was too much to contain. I came against my own hand, throwing my head back, moaning with pleasure. He came along with me, spewing his hot essence over the top of my foot, his crème brûlée now covering my Chocolate Moose as his oozy goodness dripped onto the floor.
We both smiled, bashfully at first, then the smiles turned to quiet laughter. He removed several paper towels from the dispenser, ran cool water over them, added some soap, and proceeded to clean my foot of his spilled juices. He lifted me down from the counter and handed me some of the fresh paper towels. I moistened them and cleaned myself up. He did the same, tucking his sated cock back into its secret place. He wiped up the floor.
“You first,” he said, gesturing at the door.
“No,” I insisted. “Let’s leave together.”
He reached out for my hand and we exited the bathroom as a happy pair, oblivious of the angry stares of the people in line who had been waiting their turn. We floated past them, high on love, headed home to relieve our longtime babysitter of her duties for the night.
This evening out was our weekly ritual, always at a different club, bar, restaurant, whatever. If we went to a club, he allowed me to have my fill of shaking my booty on the dance floor with the man of my choice. My husband wasn’t much of a dancer, but he didn’t mind letting me get it in. It helped to get me hyped and ready for what was to come next. No matter what the scenario, our night always ended the same way, with his delicious cum on my feet. Sometimes it was under a restaurant table. Sometimes it was in the corner booth of a darkened bar. Tonight it was in the unisex bathroom of a newly opened club downtown. As we passed the bar, I waved good-bye to the man who had been waiting there, still holding a drink he’d bought for me nearly half an hour before. The ice had long melted. He stared after us with a look of genuine surprise and betrayal. Aw, how sweet. He had been saving himself for me. My husband chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled me closer. The man at the bar would be fine. There were plenty of women eager to get at him.
As for me, I was eager for more of my husband. Our ride home would begin Round Two, as I placed my feet in his lap and expertly used them to massage him to ball-bursting satisfaction all over again.
Feet. One, rather two, of the most telling parts of the human body. Aside from the face and general build of a person, feet are among the first things we notice. Are they well clad or cheaply shod? If exposed, what are the conditions of the skin and nails? Clean, pedicured feet usually indicate a person who meticulously cares about his or her physical appearance. Callused heels and corny toes? Not so much. Are they small and delicate or large and wide? The latter, on a man, can mean the exciting promise of something, um, big. On a woman? Not so much.
Whatever the case, feet, for some, are considered just as sensuous as more traditional erogenous zones, like the lips, neck, nipples, buttocks, and genitalia. We’ve all heard of, known, or perhaps even dated (and/or married!) men who were fixated on feet. Some of you may be foot lovers yourselves. I’m sure there are those of you reading this right now who find the very thought of sucking on some toes both repugnant and off limits. Why would I want my husband to suck on my feet after I’ve been walking around on them all day? you ask. And I certainly don’t plan on putting his nasty toes in my mouth! I hope that’s not what you’re about to suggest, Vixen!
Well, that’s too bad. While sucking toes isn’t for everyone, you may never know if you’re not even open-minded enough to give it a try. You just might be missing out on something truly wonderful. Besides, no one is asking you to do anything with unclean feet (unless that is your thing). Some men with hardcore foot fetishes love the natural aroma of toes fresh out of the shoes they’ve been tucked in all day. If that describes your man, why deprive him of that pleasure?
Let me ask you this: Do you enjoy having your feet massaged?
Of course you love having your feet massaged! Done correctly, it can be one of the most incredible, soothing, cathartic, relaxing, and erotic experiences ever. Sore feet can be the source of a great deal of pain and stress, especially if you spend a lot of your time standing or rushing around. Having someone lovingly massage your soles, toes, heels, and the aching muscles therein can be enough to bring you to tears of gratitude. If you can imagine having a foot massage that starts with someone doing it by hand, then transitioning to using his lips and tongue, well ladies, you’ve got yourself the ingredients of a bona fide foot-fetish fantasy!
Many keep this kind of fetish hidden until what feels like the appropriate moment, lest they be considered too fringe and freaky. Believe me, there is nothing freaky about literally loving to love feet. Nothing at all. There are plenty of men who become excited at the very idea of being given permission to let their appreciation for the exquisite architecture of the arch, toes, and a well-turned heel go wild. Why not let them? Ladies, if you’ve never had your toes sucked or sucked a toe, give it a try. You just might find that you have a knack for it. It could prove much more sensuous than you think.
If you, your husband, or both of you happen to have a thing for feet, then this is the perfect fantasy for you. Before we dive into this feetfirst (I couldn’t resist), let’s make sure those tootsies are in proper sucking order. Clean and pretty feet are mandatory for this fantasy!
Now that you’ve got pretty feet (and hopefully pretty hands to match), you’re ready to get things going. While sexy lingerie, hair, and makeup play important roles in this fantasy, your shoes will be the stage that allows you to perfectly spotlight your deliciously inviting feet.
If your husband is a true foot man, you can really blow his mind by taking things to the next level. Sure, sucking your toes and you rubbing your foot across his body may turn him on, but why not go one step further? Become a master at the ultimate pedi-fetishist experience: giving good “foot.” It is like giving head, but using the opposite end of your body. Like fellatio, giving foot—for these purposes, let’s call it “pedatio”—is not for the uninitiated. It is not just about putting your feet on your husband’s dick and rubbing. There is a method to the act, an attention to detail that requires practice and focus to perfect what you’re doing.
Not surprisingly, there are sites on the web that offer step-by-step instructions on how to do it. I found an excellent one on, of all places, eHow.com, called “How to Give a Foot Job.” And this isn’t the only place you might find such information. Oh, no! Not by far! Please, Google the terms “how to give” and “foot job,” and you’ll find more information than you’ll be able to digest. The woman who wrote this particular article has contributed several sexual how-to articles to the site and is listed as an “authority.” From the step-by-step detail she provides, it sure sounds like she knows her stuff.
By letting your feet do the talking, you and your husband can enter an exciting new realm. Who says hands and fingers should have all the fun? Toes are digits, too, you know. Your husband’s strategically placed and wiggled big toe can be just as stimulating for you as his finger or penis (depending on the size of his toe). His heel, carefully planted, massaging your clitoris, can elicit outstanding results. Don’t underestimate the power of your feet just because you’re running around on them all day.
They just might take your relationship on a walk to remember!
Feet, for some, are considered just as sensuous as more traditional erogenous zones, like the lips, neck, nipples, buttocks, and genitalia.
Some men with hardcore foot fetishes love the natural aroma of toes fresh out of the shoes they’ve been tucked in all day.
Clean and pretty feet are mandatory for this fantasy!
While sexy lingerie, hair, and makeup play important roles in this fantasy, your shoes will be the stage that allows you to perfectly spotlight your deliciously inviting feet.
Become a master at the ultimate pedi-fetishist experience: giving good “foot.”
Your husband’s strategically placed and wiggled big toe can be just as stimulating for you as his finger or penis (depending on the size of his toe).
Please tell me this V-Log isn’t going to be what I think it’s about. Tell me I’m not about to find out that you’ve just tried to do a foot fetish fantasy with crusty-ass feet. Please, please, say it ain’t so. Oh my goodness! You did. Have you no shame?
And stop it with the… but I was busy crap. You read the chapter that came before this. I went into great detail about how to care for your feet, especially if you have a man who has a specific passion for them. You should be taking care of your feet anyway, for personal hygiene’s sake. It shouldn’t take your man having a thing about feet to make you take the time to care for them. Do it for you, not for him. Do it for your health, for the environment. Feet can get mad funky. Haven’t you ever heard of toes that smell like Fritos?
Why would you even attempt this kind of erotic role-playing if you weren’t going to do it right? Toe jam? For real? Seriously, who even has toe jam in this day and age? There’s simply no reason for it. Pedicures are relatively inexpensive. Nail shops are as commonplace as air, found in practically every strip mall of practically every neighborhood in practically every city, village, and hamlet around the country. There are even nail shops for pets. That means right now, somewhere in America, a bulldog is walking around with better-cared-for feet than you. Think about that. A bulldog. Consider those words.
All right, let us examine how your misadventure went down, shall we?
So you order this book from Amazon.com after hearing one of your clients rave about all the sensuous stories and fantasies it details. She and her husband have already tried out the Video Voyeur and Self-Pleasure chapters, to great success. Those fantasies are now being incorporated into their regular sexual menu. She simply can’t stop raving. You have to get in on all the action. Not their action, mind you. Some action of your own.
Yes, I know this is all rather meta. I’m writing a V-Log about you, even though I don’t know you exist yet because I’m just writing this V-Log now. Oh, and your friend—the one who recommended this book to you—hasn’t even read the book yet, even though you’re in it. How could she? It’s not out yet, because I’m just writing it. But wait, you’re holding the book in your hands and reading this V-Log right now, so that means the book’s out. And you’re in it! Confusing? Of course it is. Meta stuff can be pretty hard to follow. But here’s the thing: I already knew that you existed. Women like you always exist. You’re that random chick—that’s right, I said chick—who constantly needs to be checked for the simplest and most commonsense things, from the elements of basic grooming to inappropriate over-sharing in mixed company. Sure, you may look sharp and together on the surface, but underneath there’s a whole lot of raggedy going on. You know who you are. You’ve long needed to learn this lesson, and it’s high time someone sat you down and set you straight. Actually, you shouldn’t have even jumped ahead and read this book first. You need to go back to square one and start with the book that precedes this one.
Toe jam. Man. I’m still reeling over the fact that I have to write about this.
What is most unfortunate is that you’re the owner of a successful and lucrative business that allows you and your husband a certain level of financial freedom, so you really are savvy in that regard. Sadly, that has been your excuse for not taking care of the things you consider unimportant, like regularly shaving your underarms, waxing your lady parts, and taking note of the condition of your feet.
You are the master of covering things up, choosing to defer giving them attention rather than dealing with them on a regular basis. Your underarms are hidden under expensive blouses, which, in turn, are covered by well-tailored business suits. You eventually get around to shaving them, but go way more days without doing so than you should. Your rampant bush rages beneath dignified Spanx, covertly taunting all who would threaten to shear it. Worst of all, your hooves—your hideous hooves—are crammed into the most fashion-forward shoes on the market. Chanel. Gucci. Jimmy Choo. The ever-desired red-soled Louboutins. Shoe salesmen simultaneously love you and fear you. (Big commission! Frito funk!) Consequently, you’ve taken to ordering your shoes online, where there’s no fancy-schmancy salesperson judging your feet. Women and men alike admire your shoe game, oblivious of the hideous humpbacked beasts lurking within. Discerning eyes sometimes notice a hint of bumpiness beneath the leather in the toe area, but most are so dazzled by the beautiful shoes, they somehow miss that telling detail. You don’t go out enough to warrant anything strappy or open-toed, so your cringe-worthy digits remain cloaked from the world. Oprah once told Naomi Campbell that she was far too pretty on the outside to have her insides not match, or something like that. Well, girlfriend, the same thing goes for you and those beautiful shoes that you have cloaking those monstrous feet.
Anyway, I digress. Back to the fiasco that was your attempt at this fantasy.
Because you are so business-minded, you haven’t really taken care of business where it counts. Your man, a stay-at-home husband, is devoted and loving, accepting of whatever it is you choose to throw his way. He doesn’t complain about anything, often opting to keep his thoughts to himself just to maintain harmony at home. And while you’re not cruel and unloving, you aren’t exactly the most sensuous woman, either. You give him regular sex, but that’s just how you do it… you give it to him. It’s more surrender than lovemaking. There’s nothing truly participatory about it. It’s just something you allow him to do so that you can get it out of the way and move on to more pressing matters, like making money so your family can keep moving up the food chain. There’s a McMansion you’ve had your eye on in a community just outside the city, and even though the economy has affected many of your friends, you and your family have been thriving—financially, anyway. Definitely not sexually. On the erotic front, you could use a stimulus check.
Sexually, you and your husband are stagnant. There has been absolutely no variety, not for years. Yours is an all-missionary diet, all the time. You’ve long realized this and may have even felt a tad bit of guilt for not being interested in doing more in bed. Just because your husband is stay-at-home doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve special treatment. You need him, after all. Who’s going to run the household and look after the kids? Not that that’s his only usefulness. He’s a man. He needs to feel like one.
You love him; very much so. But you need him at home so that you can focus on work, and the last thing you want is for him to develop a wandering eye while you’re off making the proverbial bacon and doughnuts. Enter your friend raving about this book. Enter you reading the Foot Fetish chapter. It’s a perfect match, so you think, especially since your shoe game is pretty on point. Just like that, in an instant, you decide (unfortunately, without your husband’s input) that this will be the fantasy you introduce to kick up your sexual play.
You arrive home past eight that night (so typical), with making merry on your mind. Your husband, as is his usual fashion, is harried and tired, having cleaned the house, made dinner, helped the children with their homework, chased the baby around from room to room, and done the online banking and bill paying. After you’ve eaten and he washes, rinses, and puts away your dishes, you kindly tell him to have a seat and take a load off. You’ve got special plans for him. Your husband is astonished. You’re doing something nice especially for him. What manner of trickery is this!
You run him a steaming hot bath, something you haven’t done in a long time… years, even. You add fragrant, soothing oils to the water, then lead him into the bathroom. He’s shocked, stunned, and immediately protests. No, he says, let him take care of you, you’re the one who just returned from a long hard day at the office. He knows this because you constantly remind him of how you spend so many long hard days at the office. Still, you insist. His day was probably much harder than yours, you reply. Inside, of course, you don’t really mean this. He’s a freaking househusband, after all. You’re the one who’s on the phone all day negotiating deals, pursuing new business, steadily on the grind. You work hard for the money. So hard for it, honey. Your poor husband is so very grateful that you finally seem to understand how rough he has it at home—a truth that, sadly, you have yet to comprehend.
You undress him, surprised at his well-toned body. Was he always this fit? How had it slipped your notice? But then, you don’t notice a lot of things because you’re too busy making that money. Your husband, however, has always tried to remain sexy and appealing for you, so, unlike yourself, he takes time during the day to squeeze in a workout. Some of that money you make goes toward a membership at a twenty-four-hour gym. You both have memberships but, alas, he’s the only one who makes the time to actually use it. He keeps his hair trimmed, his nails clipped, and his skin moisturized. He wishes you would do the same, but he’s never exactly known how to say this to you. You’re so damn touchy and resistant to criticism. He’s actually relieved that you seem to be in such an upbeat mood tonight.
He slips into the steaming bathwater, hopeful that you are finally starting to pay attention to the things that really matter, like love, affection, and attention to your man. You kiss him as he settles into the water, exit the room, closing the door behind you, greet your parents at the door ten minutes later as they scoop up the baby and the kids, leaving you and your man free to enjoy this, literally, fantastic evening.
Once they’re gone and your husband is still soaking in the tub, you change into something seductive—at least, the closest thing someone like you has to something seductive, which is a black teddy that you’ve owned for what seems like forever. You bought it during your college years to impress a boyfriend, and you graduated more than twelve years ago. The teddy is, admittedly, a little worn for wear, frayed around the edges, more grayish than black, a bit holey in the seat, but no matter. It works.
See, you don’t consider lingerie that important. You never have. Spanx? Now, those are important. Gotta keep those emerging rolls around the middle under wraps. Business wear—suits, blouses, dresses, blazers, slacks—that stuff is important. Nice coats are important. So are cashmere capes with fur trim, and Hermès scarves, oh, oh, oh, and let’s not forget the Tiffany necklaces and those blasted David Yurman bracelets you love so much. And expensive shoes. Those are definitely important. But lingerie? Meh. Not so much. That stuff is for women with too much time on their hands, women who prance around in garters, fuzzy slippers, and bustiers for someone else’s amusement when they could be out making that dollar-dollar-bill, y’all. Unless they’re hookers, call girls, and escorts. That’s different. If lingerie is the tool necessary for a person to make money, then you understand. But it isn’t your tool, so you don’t bother.
As a result of this failure to realize the relevance of investing in a few nice pieces of La Perla, Agent Provocateur, a couple of Cosabella bras and panties, or hell, just some basic Victoria’s Secret, now, in this moment when you actually need some, you don’t have a thing. Nothing but cotton underwear and utilitarian bras—which in your mind should work just fine because this fetish is all about feet, not bras and panties, but, well, maybe you should at least put forth the effort.
So you reach for that ancient teddy. It’s a little tight around the middle, but we knew that already, Spanx girl. Oh well. What can you do? So you squeeze into that ancient teddy and a fresh pair of sheer black hose. Your coarse, raggedy heels snag the hose as you pull them on, sending rivers of runs up the back of your right thigh. Fortunately, you keep lots of hose on hand, this being a familiar daily exercise for you. You’d rather stock up on extra hose than take the time to have your heels scraped. If that’s not the laziest, most pathetic thing ever. How can you be so polished about so many other things, yet so wack about the basics? Ugh.
Finally, you pull out a pair of stunning, black strappy Louboutins, a six-inch pair you’ve kept hidden in the back of the closet, a treat for yourself from this season’s new line. You had no idea if you would ever wear them, and buying them wasn’t even about the wearing of them as much as it was the having. They are such gorgeous shoes. You must have been prescient when you bought them, though, because now, with this foot-fetish fantasy thingy, you finally have an excuse to put them on. You step into them, your craggy hose-covered bumpy toes and cracked heels hanging over the front and back. You ordered them online and when they arrived you realized that they ran a bit small, but you didn’t want to send them back. You walk around in them now, familiarizing yourself with their shape and feel. You stop in front of a full-length mirror. Nice, very nice, you think as you fluff your hair. The teddy isn’t that bad. Yeah, it’s kind of tight, but your husband knows your body. He loves your body, so he says. You pull at the crotch from the back, moving a hole in the seat from view. There. That’s better. Everything is perfect, except for…
What’s that faint scent in the air? It’s slightly familiar, yet not. You lift your pits, sniffing each one. Everything seems okay there. Your deodorant is one that brags about how it works overtime. Maybe it’s nothing, you think. Just to be safe, you spritz on a smattering of perfume. That’s right, there’ll be no bath for you, no freshening up to present a clean canvas for your husband after sitting on your funky ass at work all day. You smell just fine as far as you’re concerned. You took a shower this morning and you didn’t do much running around at the office today. You’ve stewed in your juices all day, but it was a slow cook, not a boil, so I guess that makes it okay.
*Sigh*
Before I go any further, can I just say, um… ew? Like, super-ew? Über-ew? Ew to the infinity times forever? Yeah. That. Okay, back to this…
So you strut into the bathroom, you sexy vixen you. Wait. No. Let me take that back. I refuse to let you use the term vixen in your present state. You are not a vixen, honey. You are the anti-vixen right now. You’re a nixen.
So you strut your nixen ass down the hall toward the bathroom. You fling open the bathroom door, completely disarming your half-sleeping husband. The poor thing was so exhausted, he drifted off in the bath. He rouses himself, believing he’s dreaming, as you saunter over to the tub and sit down on the side.
“Wow, what’s this?” he asks.
“A surprise,” you reply.
“No kidding,” he says, his nose unconsciously crinkling. “First a bath and now this? But what about the kids? Suppose they catch us?”
“Don’t worry about them. They’re with their grandparents for the rest of the night.”
“Even the baby?” he says with slight concern.
“Even the baby. My mom is happy to spend some time with her.”
“Nice,” he says with a smile of relief, followed by a slight frown. “Do you smell something?” he asks.
You sniff the air, but all you get a whiff of is the extra layering of perfume you’re drenched in.
“Something like what?” you ask. “I put lavender oil in your bathwater. Is that what you mean?”
“I don’t know,” your husband says. “No, I don’t think that’s what it is. It smells kinda strange. Almost like corn chips. Did you snack on some? Are you still hungry, because I can make you something else to eat.” He rises to get out of the tub, but you push him back down into the water.
“I’m fine,” you say. “Just relax.” You sniff the air again. Nada. You shake your head. “I don’t smell any corn chips. You must be imagining things.”
“Maybe,” he says, returning his attention to you. “So get up and step back. Let me have a look at my sexy wife.”
You oblige so that he can take you in, in all your old-college-teddy, unwashed, perfume-doused glory. As you do, one of your craggy nails snags the front of the hose. A run races up the front of your right thigh. His eyes follow the run as it rises higher and higher up your leg.
“Nice shoes,” he says, being polite. He’s been long disgusted by your unkempt feet. He’s even tried to give you pedicures himself, but you always rebuff him, claiming you have work to finish and no time for silly distractions like foot care and whatnot.
You, of course, have no idea how much of a turn-off your hoofers are, so, in response to his compliment about your shoes, you dance your way over to him, placing one on the side of the tub, close to his face, so you can show off the spectacular Louboutins. He gets a full-on whiff of what he has been smelling all along. It hits him like a concrete wall as he realizes that, all this time, there really were corn chips right in the room.
“Baby!” he cries, unable to keep the ruse going. “Do you smell your feet?”
“What?” you exclaim. “What are you talking about?”
“Your feet,” he says. “They smell like Fritos. No, like ass. How can you not smell that?”
You bend down and sniff, finally catching the funky breeze.
“Wow, I must have stepped in something.”
You sit on the toilet and unfasten the shoes.
Oh. Do I even need to say that the fantasy’s pretty much DOA at this point? Good. Then I won’t.
But it is. Okay? Everybody’s sex drive has been crushed at this point. His, yours, mine, the readers. Even the Frito-Lay company must be thinking about rebranding Fritos right about now.
So you unfasten the shoes. You remove the snagged hose. And there, between your rusty, crusty, corn-cobbed toes, is the most disgusting, unidentifiable dried goo-cum-dust-bunny-esque stuff—an erection and mood killer of epic, malodorous proportions. And it’s just hanging out like it’s always been there. Hanging out like that’s where it belongs. Is it dead skin? Is it congealed lotion that you somehow, in your morning haste, failed to rub in all the way? What is that stuff?
It’s toe jam. A thing once believed to be an urban myth, the Bigfoot of hygiene, oft spoken of but, really, who’s ever actually seen toe jam on someone? You’ve gotta be some kind of lazy/filthy/McNasty to have goo jammed up between your toes. But you do. It’s alive and well, rather, unwell. Right in your own and your husband’s face.
This is beyond repugnant. You’re lucky you don’t get your lady-card revoked for this.
Okay, you guys, do I even need to address everything that is wrong here? That went wrong here? That shouldn’t have gone wrong? Please don’t make me do that. I can’t. I just can’t.
Whew! Thank you. Thank you for not making me go there again.
Let’s all just agree that this woman—you, if it applies—didn’t thoroughly read the prior chapter. You didn’t read The Vixen Manual: How to Find, Seduce & Keep the Man You Want. You apparently were able to find and keep a man—how, I can’t even begin to guess—but you definitely didn’t do it via the art of seduction. Somehow in your life, you missed the good hygiene memo, too. You missed a lot. Too many things for me to list right now.
And I’m not just going to let your husband off the hook, either. He deserved that face full of corn-chipped, jammy toes you gave him. He should have long ago sat you down and given you a good talking-to about the state of your foot affairs. In my opinion, he is just as much a part of the problem as you. It takes two to tango, two to make toe jam. This was a joint effort. Shame on you both.
Aside from the fact that your husband should have said something about your bad feet long ago, you should have discussed with him beforehand your plan to implement the foot-fetish fantasy. It was highly unfair of you to spring it on him, particularly when your feet are in such a poor state. While it might seem like a good idea to surprise your man with one of the fantasies from this book, it’s best that the two of you read it together, picking out something that mutually strikes your fancy. I can guarantee you that if you had mentioned to your man beforehand that you were going for the foot-fetish fantasy, he would have loudly protested and suggested the two of you try something else. Your husband knows the state of your feet. He knows the quickest way to kill the thrill in his pants is to shove those befunked crustables up in his face.
Ladies: Always, always, always take care of your bodies. Pay attention to grooming. And unless your husband likes a wee bit of stank on his woman as an aphrodisiac, please, take a hot bath before you even think about sexing him, especially after returning from a long hard day at work. That’s not just good hygiene, that’s courtesy, decency, dignity, respect. Come on, people, this isn’t rocket science. It’s everyday living. Wash your monkey. Take care of your feet. It’s the right thing to do.
I’m so disgusted right now.
*throws the mike down and exits the room*