Tantalizing Tootsies
pg.2

I introduced myself to the ladies, including the pregnant girl with her belly protruding from her pinstriped button-down shirt, and one woman who couldn't have been a day younger than 60. The remaining ladies were sexy little twenty- or thirtysomethings. I distributed chocolate and wine and sat down to chat. At least half of the women were there for the first time.

White sheets served as dividers along three walls, and within each partitioned section a bench or chair and a pillow on the floor offered seating. We were supposed to limit our "sessions" to ten minutes, giving everyone a chance to take part in the fun. Men began to arrive, first leaving a donation at the door. I overheard a young man in a leather jacket and a short, older man with dark skin chatting with one of the girls. Joe, the younger one, said this was the first time he'd been to a party like this. "So why'd you want to come here?" I asked, jumping into the conversation uninvited. He shrugged.

"You like feet? Hmm?" He nodded at this. "You like them when they smell less than fresh?" At this, the older man, John, looked at me and said, "Thank you for doing that."

"Doing what?" I asked him.

"For talking about it. Nobody ever talks about it." I found it surprising that these foot lovers go to this place where they are welcome to worship, admire, and adore women's feet, and no one talks about it. The atmosphere was reminiscent of my seventh-grade school dance -- shy boys, shy girls, they both want to boogie, but few have the nerve to proffer the initial "Wanna dance?"

"I'm a veteran," John said. "Been coming since the first party, and I like smelly feet."

"Well, mine are pretty ripe," I said.

"I'd love to take a sniff at them, whenever you want."

Nervous and curious, I said, "Well, let's go then." I went off to find a chair, with John behind me. I plopped myself down in a comfy chair and waited for John to do his thing.

I enjoy a good foot rub, but that was not why I was there -- I like to encourage people to find out what they're into and to be okay with that knowledge once it's discovered (as long as it's legal and not morally offensive). In this case, I felt no sexual draw to these men. Rather, I felt as though I were doing them a favor, titillating them in ways they may be too uncomfortable to ask of the women in their lives.

John smelled my feet. Like, really inhaled, the way I would breathe in night jasmine on a summer evening. He took his time with each size-10 pedal extremity. I didn't know what to say or if I should say anything. Basically, I sat there and watched him as he buried his face in my feet. I felt relieved that they were freshly pedicured -- hey, if they can't smell nice, at least they can look nice.

Ten minutes were up. John seemed to know this before I told him. He then sprayed my feet with an antibacterial cleanser and dried them with a paper towel. It was my only session of the evening; the rest of my time at the party I spent catching up with friends and swapping session stories with Stephanie -- she got to stand on someone's chest (called "trampling" by those in the know).

The girls who attend Footnight find it fun, exciting, and rewarding to raise a toe to sexual repression. Me, I was curious to experience a rarely visited corner of the fetish world while hanging out with friends, meeting new people, and offering Stephanie another adventure for her memoirs.

I got home and shared my thoughts with David, a man so secure in himself and our relationship that he would never feel threatened by the strange men I might have allowed to have their way with my feet. Looking my love in the eye, I said, "I'll give you ten minutes to worship and adore everything except my feet." He laughed, and then, realizing I was serious, he made every minute count.

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