A man is like a cat; chase him and he will run. Sit still and ignore
him and he'll come purring at your feet.
at the store for chocolate and tampons on the way to the party and
smiled in response to the cashier's knowing look. I wanted to say, "The
tampons aren't for me, okay?" But I never would have done so in front
of the ever-unabashed Stephanie, which is the reason I had invited
her, and no one else, to join me at this party that was sure to be
unusual. She's the kind of friend you can count on to pick up Imodium,
Vaseline, and a pregnancy test on her way to your house.
I was instantly
intrigued when Mistress Luna, a professional dominatrix, told me
about this once-per-month soiree. "It's called Footnight," she said, "and, Barb,
I think you of all people would have a wonderful time there." She'd
asked me to attend previous foot parties, but I'd never been able
to make it. This time, my schedule was open, and I had Stephanie
as my accomplice.
Footnight theme was "Beautiful Bosses and Sexy Secretaries." Having worked
as secretaries for various companies, Stephanie and I were prepared
to dress professionally. But we had questions: "What shoes do we
wear? Do we shave our legs?" Stephanie was worried about those little
hairs on our toes -- should we shave those? What, exactly, are these
guys going to do with our feet?
We were told that
some men like smelly feet; before last month's party, Mistress Luna
called to tell me she was working hard to stink up her sneakers for
the evening. I throw away shoes at the first sign of funkiness, but
I had red tennis shoes quarantined in a plastic bag at the back of
the closet. On the day of the party, I put on a pair of black knee-high
nylons and retrieved my red sneakers. To satisfy the party's theme,
I'd switch my sneaks for heels at the last minute.
If you're a man unfamiliar
with the concept of foot fetishism, imagine that how you feel toward
breasts, another man can feel toward feet. This alternative man,
more common than you think, gets excited at the prospect of coming
into contact with a woman's foot, just as many guys would do a happy
dance should a few dozen pretty girls allow them to fondle their
upper regions. There's no difference; it's all anatomy. So the mammary-man
should respect the foot-man, just as he does the derriere-man and
the very rare eye-man.
the party, began in Las Vegas three years ago and has been in San
Diego for a year. Businessman and foot-lover Steve
Savage began hosting Footnight parties because he wanted to "help
people start living some of their fantasies in real life with real
people and to [help them] realize that the ladies love it as much
as they do." There are many men who are embarrassed by their obsession
with feet; Savage wants these men to overcome their shame and have
a great time. He has documented many of the parties with photographs
and stories on his website, footnight.com.
Because I'm a bit
kinky, I had a tad more of an idea than did Stephanie about what
we were getting into. Armed with our PMS purchases and two bottles
of red wine, we arrived at the party. Comparing my garb to the garb
of other women present, I noted that I was the only woman who thought
a red boa was office-appropriate.
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
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 what?" I
"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.
to take a sniff at them, whenever you want."
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.
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.