What it’s like to have a foot fetish

Nine years ago, it was. Yet, I can distinctly remember the very type of Adidas sandals my muse was wearing (they were blue Adilettes—size 7, I reckon), the exact nature of her french pedicure, the cascade in which her toes descended from her beautiful big toe, one-by-one; the confidence and exuberance that her toe ring exuded.

I’ll never forget the one and only time I got to see the soles of her luscious, perfectly-shaped puppies in high school, after years of burning and anticipation.

It lasted a mere second, an incredibly flawless second, one that will stay with me forever. After all, it lit a flicker, a sort of trick candle inside of me.

A defining aspect of my sexuality has ultimately come down to rekindling the passion that I have felt for her’s and the feet of a few other girls who have given me those same goosebumps, sleepless nights and lustful eyes.

See, for far too long, I appreciated my feet fixation in silence. While my peers raved about the merits of butts and boobs, I stood bemused and simply nodded my head. To save face, I repressed my true turn-on and sometimes tried to convince myself that it didn’t exist.

Having a foot fetish, or any sort of sexual attraction deemed creepy, gross, unnatural or weird by society is not an easy thing to deal with — especially as a teen.

Despite being pretty common (rappers alone who admit loving feet include Big Boi from OutKast, Danny Brown, Lil B, Ludacris, Pharrell Williams, Redman, and Tyler, the Creator), the general public is rarely exposed to the world of foot fetish. When it is, our conception is shaped by films where feet lovers are cast as comically creepy males (remember Mr. Deeds? Road Trip?) and over-sensationalized media reports.

When it wasn’t through television or movies, my generation soaked up our idea of what sex is supposed to be via unrestricted web surfing, our collective juvenile psyche molded by the Jackie Treehorns of the world.

Through mainstream depictions of sex, those fantastically glamorized, unabashedly misogynistic, and deceptively simple displays of heterosexuality, I learned what was considered ‘normal’. And I certainly wasn’t it.

Out of shame, I never told a single soul about my foot fetish until I was 19, about halfway through college.

Maybe that’s why I’m so loud right now.

The fact that I was never able to explore these desires as a teenager truly pains me. My lack of a sex-ed compass in navigating my teenage existential crisis instilled in me confusion, insecurity and a self-loathing that still peeks its head out every now and again.

I thought I was sick. I thought no girl would ever want to be with a freak like me. And everything from hate mail on Tumblr to the negative real-life reactions I received to ‘coming out’ seemed to back up this assertion.

It might be a little easier to brush off this lack of sticks and stones if my obsession for my object of adoration weren’t such a powerful thing.

To me, feet transcend sex and art, and almost take on a life of their own. It’s intense, obsessive, and illogical, and all the praying in the world won’t make it go away.

The elegance of a beautiful pair of feet tantalizes, turns me into a starving Pavlovian dog raised on a diet of smooth soles with a pinkish hue and long, pedicured toes.

An obsession with girls wearing knee-high socks, memorizing the shoe sizes of female friends, knowing what Essie and OPI are — all side effects of my self-indulged delirium.

My love affair is a dichotomy with torture on one end and bliss on the other. In those moments when I have had the opportunity to play with a pair of pretty feet, I’ve felt a profound joy and a sense that I’m at home, at peace with the world.

I’m a discriminating foot lover and that really doesn’t help my cause. I would write 500-word, Pitchfork-style reviews of girls’ feet if it were culturally palatable.

When I do see some terrific tootsies though, I become infatuated like a 4th grade crush. It’s bad.

The way an arch can perfectly epitomize feminine grace; the way a dangled high-heel can fuel a frenzy. There’s nothing quite like running one’s finger slowly down the soft, silky stretch of sexy leggings, knowing the treasures concealed within.

Feet are like a box of chocolates replaced with snowflakes. No two pairs are alike, and every set exudes intricate details, oozing character and personality.

A dainty, soft and smooth, slender and sleek, curvaceous masterpiece of human architecture that makes me melt like a Dali clock, that’s what beautiful feet are to me.