The Podophile
I didn’t want to admit that I found her feet the most attractive part of her, that I had been drawn to her from the outset by the promise that the high-heeled red pumps she had on encased a pair of perfectly high-arched, daintily-toed dogs. And so it was. But is it necessary to tell a paramour about such a fetish or kink—is it a kink? I don’t know but I can’t stand being without her. I truly can’t stand it. And by that I mean I can’t stand to be away from her feet.
When I see her after any prolonged chunk of time, I am beside myself, short of breath, almost on the point of urination. But in all honesty, her face, which is an ordinary face, neither beautiful nor ugly, neither here nor there, and her body, sturdy if not perfectly proportioned, and her personality, neither scintillating nor grating—these elements of her person do not keep me enthralled. No. It’s her feet.
For me her perfect feet represent an idealization of womanhood, and an idealization of all that makes me happy to be alive and happy to be a man. Would I admire them—worship is too strong—as much were I a woman? Perhaps. Depending on my persuasion. My current persuasion battles efforts to play it cool with the feet. Don’t make too much of them, I have to remind myself. Don’t gawk at them. Don’t tell her it’s okay to go barefoot in your apartment, that indeed you’d prefer it if she would, floor’s clean. She’s no dummy. And don’t hold them when you’re making love. It can get weird. She said it was weird one night when we had a particularly fervid session.
She said, “Why do you keep holding my feet, man? It’s creeping me out.”
I let go of her feet and spent the rest of the night with my face in my hands. Where do we go from here? I don’t know. What do you do when you find what you think you’ve been looking for all your adult life? Does it all come down to feet, for me? Is that pathetic? Do I need help? I don’t know if I need help.
“Hi honey,” I say one night when I drop by her place for a visit. I’ve brought Chinese food for us in the little white cartons you see in movies but which actually don’t exist in these parts.
“Isn’t that sweet,” she says, smooching me and grabbing the cartons.
I notice with a rush of blood to my head that she’s barefoot. We sit at her kitchen island and eat with chopsticks. I’m pretty good with mine. She struggles a little and finally drops the sticks and fetches a fresh fork.
“Do me a solid,” I say.
“Anything dear,” she says.
“Should I take you at your word?” I say.
She pauses her fork and tilts her head. “What is it?‘ she says.
“Would you put your feet up on the island while we eat?” I ask.
She furls her brow and drops the fork. “What?” she says.
“I, um, was joking,” I say.
“How is that a joke?‘ she says.
“Never mind,” I say.
But with great regret and remorse I realize that nothing will be the same after this, nothing.
Horror Sleaze Trash 