A Speck of Gold
I love to shop, but despise traditional work. So much boredom to endure for a dirty piece of paper that only stands for a speck of gold.
Historically, riches are based on rare and durable materials that also adorn and please. Although gold is inherently worthless in and of itself, its true beauty and value lie in what it represents: opulence, ability, and access to further luxury. These days, gold can buy a life.
A comfortable life. Maybe even a wild life.
I want to be well-off one day, as we all do. Spirituality is fine and dandy, but being prosperous means you don't have to suffer in certain ways. The issue of whether to buy toilet paper or steal it from the university never comes up for a wealthy person. Falling in love is harder when there is no toilet paper. And in times of poverty, my prayers in church are interrupted by visions of an unstocked bathroom.
To make things worse, I like to shop for more than just toilet paper. I am hopelessly addicted to shoes. Leather shoes. Kinky shoes. Dangerous shoes. My dream is to lead that comfortable dream life in uncomfortable shoes, and the more expensive the shoes, the better. To support such a frivolous habit, I need a platinum job.
Career counselors say that successful people do what they love. They market themselves based on unique skills and attributes: "To get gold, you have to make yourself as rare as gold,"
"But how?" I wondered. "There must be something that no one else can do exactly the way I do. Or I have that no one else has."
After much consideration, I found the answer. My feet.
My corner of the market is my feet. My petite curvaceous feet. High arches and fleshy soles. Soft little pink toes. My feet plus my insecure vanity... and my penchant for perverse and detached intimacy with strangers.
I didn't always have nice feet. As a child, my arches were too flat. My mother forced me to wear hideous clunky orthopedic shoes for years. Once the corrected and shapely feet burst out of their bondage, I vowed never to disgrace them again. They deserved nothing less than adornment and adoration from then on.
I flashed everyone with my red Mary Janes and ruffled socks, played dress-up in my mother's satin pumps, and conned adults into endless games of "This Little Piggy" on my toes.
Shoes and feet fascinated me. I loved my mother's feet most of all. While she read a book or worked at the sewing machine, I often played with her feet. I dreamed of the day that I too would be able to wear sandals with little heels and straps covered in tiny pink and yellow leather flowers. Her feet were very small, size 4 1/2, but huge to my childish hands. I studied the entire foot -- her toes, her chipped polish, her soles, the gauntness of her heels. She remained oblivious to my touch, but I noticed everything, even the way her pinky toes culminated in a perfect crease, the veins that bulged slightly under her skin, and the cracked wrinkles around her heels. I ran my soft, unweathered fingers across the hardness wishing that one day I too would have feet so callused...and shoes so beautiful.
By the time I reached high school, I had collected piles of interesting shoes: heels, flats, fuschia, purple, beige, red with colored polka dots, and a priceless pair of French pumps in velvet mauve. After having so many vivid dreams of exotic shoes, I even considered becoming a shoe designer, but received no encouragement from the real world. No one seemed to share my interest. No one took as much notice of my feet and shoes as I had -- until I met Shea, a quirky punk rocker who was born partially deaf, but was able to appreciate music by playing drums.
Shea noticed me before I was even aware of what I was doing. I was naturally coy in Social Studies, with my Mia pointed-toe flats. While pretending to yawn, I stretched a leg out towards the desk in front of me and pointed my toe. Then I arched my foot backwards so that the heel of the shoe dropped down lazily to reveal the graceful curve of my ankle. I let the heel dangle for a while, bounced it to imaginary music, and then rested my foot on the floor. Before I knew it, a piece of folded-up paper flew through the air and hit my arm. Obviously a note from the grinning boy behind me -- Shea. I picked it up discreetly so the teacher wouldn't take away my bounty.
"You have pretty feet," it read. I blushed and looked downwards. I liked my feet, but deep down inside, I never felt like they were all that pretty. Shea didn't mention the note to me after class. It was an awkward moment. Both of us were oddballs, bursting at the seams, but shy in our own ways.
The notes came with increasing frequency: "I like your feet." and "Take your shoe off again." Sometimes he was even bold enough to sign his name: "Hi sexy feet, love Shea."
I dated Shea briefly, got my fill of foot rubs and shoe shines, but nothing too out of the ordinary. When Shea moved out of town, I took an interest in his friend, Alex. After we had dated for a couple of weeks, he confessed to me that he, too, had what he called a "foot fetish."
"What's a foot fetish?" I asked.
"It is when feet turn you on."
"Oh," I said. "Yeah. I know what that is, I guess."
I did know. I had already had my foot experience with the other guy. Mama told me that boys liked breasts, hips, legs and things like that, but she didn't let on that they all liked feet, too. Foot perversion ran rampant and my mother was clueless.
In spite of his teenage inexperience, Alex was a wonderful lover. He paid attention to my entire body, but especially to my feet. He loved to be touched by my feet. He stroked them, massaged them, sucked my toes, licked my arches, and begged me to pitter-patter them across every inch of his skin. Suddenly, my feet were becoming naughty. There were rows of cleavage. Strange sensations. Nerve endings awakened in new ways. Toes became tiny phalluses and clits. Heels were asses, and the twin front pads, breasts.
"Ooooh, suck that piggy like a little dick," I told him. And when he got to my pinky toe: "Why don't you pretend like it's my clit again."
Feet can be foreplay, or they can be a substitution. A way of saying, "You aren't getting any closer to me than my foot." With Alex they were both.
Foot fetishists seemed to be everywhere. In fact, I didn't know that their infatuation was deviant until I was in my 20's and tried to play one of my childhood games with my girlfriend.
When I was young, I used to torment my dog Bingo in many ways. One of my favorite tricks was to put Cheetos between each of my toes and wave my feet in front of his muzzle. Bingo didn't quite know what to do. He hesitated at first, knowing instinctively that it was not usually allowed. But when I held my extremity out as an offer, he couldn't resist. Fixated on my foot and the treasures it bore, he began to lick. However, the Cheetos were difficult to dislodge. He lapped and sucked, enduring the close proximity of my dominant human feet to reach his goal. He couldn't look me in the eye, yet I felt his tickly whiskers, his slimy dog slobber lubricating my toes. Disgusting, yet funny. Dogs are so cute in a pitiful way. They will eat anything, even Cheetos in between your toes. They hardly know what to do when the alpha dog (me) grants them a special pleasure.
Titillated by the frantic hunger in my dog's brown eyes, I shuttled my fantasies into my adult life. However, my girlfriend, Susan, wasn't as enthusiastic about the variation of the Cheeto game I had proposed. She tolerated it only to make me happy.
One night we were barefoot on the sofa eating roasted chicken. Our cat, Rhubarb, sat on the coffee table following each strip of meat with her bulging, watery eyes. Finally I indulged the cat's blatant begging -- except she had to work for it. First I propped Susan's foot up on the coffee table. Then I took a couple of pieces of greasy chicken and stuck them between Susan's toes. No sooner had I said, "Here kitty kitty" than the cat had attacked her feet. Much like my dog used to. Rhubarb tried to tug on the protruding chicken without making too much taboo contact, but failed.
Soon the scratchy licking began. I was rolling and howling on the sofa, thinking how that kitty tongue must have felt on my girlfriend's feet. All the while Susan squealed, 'Gross! Stop! Make her stop!' But she stayed still so as not to kick the cat's delicate little white face.
(And I wonder why she broke up with me. At least the cat liked me.)
I was dismayed at my partner's reluctance to play. After that day, in the back of my mind, I knew I was different.
Years later, I went to my first swingers' party. A kinky Scottish threesome caught my attention. The man was fairly muscular, tan, and wore his hair slicked back into a ponytail with a certain porn star flair. His primary partner was an aerobics instructor. Her tan lines told me that she only wore a thong in the sun; the skin around her pussy formed a perfect transparent pair of white panties. The couple's part-time "third" was a brunette, also bronzed, but with more modest tan lines. Both women were stripped naked except for their matching strappy black velvet sandals with 3 1/2 inch heels. Of course I noticed. They were the only naked women in the room still wearing shoes!
The party was divided into separate areas for various levels of participation and activity. I dared not set foot on the "anything goes" mattress where the Scottish man was wallowing. Instead, I sat timidly at the door watching the sandal women take turns riding a contraption at the edge of the mat -- the infamous Sybian. (A Sybian resembles a saddle that impales its riders with a vibrating dildo.)
I moved closer to watch the blond manipulate the vibration level for the brunette. Buzz. Throb. Buzz. Throb. While they toyed with the controls, I dreamed of caressing their feet. I love having my shoes worshipped. Maybe they would too.
The blonde's leg was closest to me, so I began with her. First I ran my hand down her tan calf only to find that she didn't shave. How strange. She sculpted a narrow mohawk above her pussy, shaved her armpits, plucked her eyebrows, but left the long coarse blond hair on her legs.
I massaged the muscles flexing under her fuzzy skin and moved my fingers down to her shoes and feet. The velvet straps were soft. I imagined her feet would be even softer, but much to my surprise, they were scratchy and covered in calluses. I didn't mind. In fact, I had always loved my mother's feet because they were hard and cracked, yet beautiful.
I continued with my exploration, but the women seemed more interested in the dildo machine than the weird girl fondling their feet, so I stopped and left.
Shopping for shoes became an erotic journey in itself, and a lonely one at that. "Please indulge me," I would call out to the salesclerk telepathically, "Please look at me! Tell me how beautiful my shoes are!" I pranced back and forth in different models, barely dodging the scattered boxes, purses and other bare feet on the floor. I didn't care. I had found two more pairs of perfect shoes. I put them back in the boxes and headed to the counter. No matter that they would total $140. And I was running low on toilet paper again...
"Will that be cash or credit?" she said smiling, but showing no teeth. Her make-up was flawless, perfectly blended to complement her pale white skin and auburn bob. She was younger than me, but not too young.
"Credit." I didn't have much time left before my fetish shopping experience was over. I had to say something.
"I needed some new shoes, right?" I asked.
"Oh, everybody does. And they're so cute," she added. "We've been selling a lot of these this season."
"So I can wear these, like, to the grocery store, can't I?" I knew the answer, of course. My compulsion to engage her in further shoe talk led me through streams of idle chatter.
"Oh, yeah. This is a style that's casual enough to wear around during the day or out at night."
I looked down into the box at my new leather slippers.
"Can I wear them home?" My heart fluttered. "I mean, so I can break them in?" In my fantasies, she would kneel down on the floor, remove my old shoes, rub my feet, smother them in kisses, and bind them in a new clean, tight leather. How I would relish the dark cowhide against her the clear skin of her hands. My perfect lines. Her perfect tones. Maybe she would even look up towards my hemline and comment on my shapely calves. My athletic thighs. And maybe even...
"Sure!" she said perkily. "You can wear them." But instead of servicing me further, she simply motioned to the fitting stool and continued with her paperwork at the register.
Disappointed, I took off my stinky old mules and replaced them with the new daintier versions. Hardly as sensual as I had imagined. I went back out into the mall area, sliding purposefully on my slick soles until my old feet and new shoes had officially shaken hands.
Not all girls enjoy such twisted naughty games, but many men do. I discovered I could get certain men to pay me to be the porn freak that I am. At last, I had found my trademark -- and my lust. Gold coursing through the veins from my skewed brain to my wanton feet. Gold that would win me more shoes and even a comfortable, yet exciting life. I became a dominatrix catering to shoe and foot fetishists.
Here is an excerpt from a typical foot-oriented phone interview:
"And do you have any fetishes?"
"Like what?"
"Like leather, vinyl, lingerie, stockings, garters, shoes, feet....things like that."
"Well, I do like feet."
"Foot worship?" (Foot worship is licking the dominatrix's feet.)
"Uh, yeah."
"And shoe worship too?"
"If the Mistress desires it...."
At this point I sound like an aberrant shoe clerk with my slew of questions: "What kind of shoes do you prefer? Boots? Lace-up, go-go, granny, or thigh highs? Shoes only? Leather, vinyl, black, colored or patterned? Open or closed-toed? Chunky heel? Stiletto with or without platform? Wide band or strappy sandals? Painted toes or not? Toe rings? Clean or stinky feet? Any kicking or barefoot trampling? How about a foot pressing your cheek into the carpet? And do you give good foot rubs?"
Carl is a typical client. Among other inclinations, he has a shoe, leg and foot fetish. I put him to work at fulfilling my fantasies in ways the shoe clerk and swingers hadn't. First, I purchased a "slipper bench" expressly for foot worship. It is long upholstered stool designed for the foot of the bed. In my house, it sits in the torture chamber.
"Take off your clothes, fold them neatly, and crawl to me at the bench." I instruct.
After a couple of minutes, Carl comes bumbling around the corner on his hands and knees, head bowed. When he arrives at my feet, he stops, but never looks up. For a moment, nothing exists but my brilliant feet.
"Do you see my beautiful new shoes?" I ask. I had chosen black patent leather platform babydoll shoes with a 6" stiletto heel. Absolutely stunning.
"Yes, Mistress."
"I need them polished."
His muscles quicken at the prospect of contact. He begins to kiss and lick the shiny tip of the shoe.
"OK, boy. Now the platform and sole. Clockwise and then underneath." He slurps on with zeal.
"No slobbering!" I give him a swift brush on the back with a flogger. Instant obedience. Carl is frantic for more and will do anything to prolong the worship.
I have him stop once I'm satisfied. I cross my legs so that my toe is almost touching his chin. "If you deep-throat this heel just right, I might even let your little tongue flick my toe."
His nervous, hot breath leaves an intermittent fog on the sheen of my patent leather. Fetish and desire give him no choice. He backs up to fellate the most daunting part of my attire -- the dagger. Of course Carl can't take the stiletto very deep or hard, but I make him believe that he has swallowed it all. By force and with gusto.
Men enjoy showing off their oral techniques in nontraditional ways. Perhaps they hope to convince women to grant them access to other intimate areas. Actually, working on a shoe is probably good practice for them as lovers, although I doubt their wives and girlfriends would thank me so kindly.
Of course there are variations on the norm. My most interesting foot client is a young white-collar sub I call 'Dog Boy.' He loves to be humiliated and degraded in brutal ways that his wife would never withstand. He wears a cheap dog collar and leash and plays the lowly beast who deserves contact with nothing but my feet -- my stinky feet. Yes, it's true. Not only does he like shoes and feet, he likes them as smelly as possible. He requests that I wear rank tennis shoes without socks while I get ready for our session. Once they are properly ripened with wet stench clinging to my toes, I have him remove them and then clean my feet with his tongue. Often I strap one tennis shoe, or my old leather mule, over his face and kick him lightly. He looks up at me from his humble position on the floor with desperate but ecstatic eyes.
"Sit up," I tell him. And he does so eagerly, especially when I yank his leash.
'Whine." He lifts his trembling paws and whimpers -- a strange sight with the bulky shoe stuck to his head and the choke chain locked tightly around his genitals.
"You stupid worthless dog."
He pretends to shake out of fear. I swat his member with a leather crop and it gets even harder.
"Bad dog. You don't even deserve to smell my ass, so all you get is that old shoe. You worthless piece of....."
Sometimes it is difficult for me to degrade someone, especially a dog (because I really do like dogs), but his rigid body language reminds me how happy he is.
I throw squeaky toys for him, whack him on the behind with a newspaper, reprimand him for peeing on the floor, shedding fur on the sofa or humping my friends' legs. Occasionally, I even let him play Bingo's Cheeto game. He visits me weekly: $800 a month. A shoe fetishist's best friend.
Effective marketing involves making yourself unique and valuable. It's both finding your niche and creating a need for your special services. It's standing out in the crowd. In my field, I do.
What is precious, rare, exotic about me? A skewed childhood, a childish adulthood, and a fascination in the bizarre hidden in our mundane existence. And above all, a sense of humor and acceptance.
I possess nothing that approximates the eternity of gold, silver, diamonds, or rubies. My deviant feet and brain will eventually fade from this world. However, while I'm still all in one piece, I can gain riches such as cash, shoes and even free porn videos. I am supported by my two sturdy feet with one big toe planted firmly in the pervert corner of the market, and the other, in the shoe store.