I’m a very tolerant person, except when it comes to bigotry, conservatives and lactose, and tend not to judge others. Which is why a friend recently felt comfortable enough to invite me to my first fetish party.
Fun as this sounded, I wasn’t sure. I tend to be very immature about sex. Porn makes me giggle, and I can’t even say the word “titular” with a straight face. “What if I do or say the wrong thing? What if I have to put my foot in my mouth?”
“That would be perfect!” he shouted. Turns out it was a foot-fetish party, and against my better judgement, I said oh-kay.
But here's a confession: I’ve never been a big fan of feet. I’m self-conscious about my own, which probably stems from the “This Little Piggy” game. Yes, if you want to torture a child for life, convince him that his toes resemble little hogs with an insatiable appetite for roast beef. I dislike other people’s feet even more, which is most likely a result of the time I had to sell children’s shoes at Nordstrom to make a living. The job lasted less than a year, but I’m still haunted by the indignity of having to shove designer sandals on those pudgy little feet...
Ironically, I once waited on famed sex-therapist Dr. Ruth. I should have asked her about fetish party etiquette because once I got to the club, a dark and dingy place near the Westside Highway, I had no idea how to behave. I did a lot of staring. At the wall. At the porn showing me how to use a foot in ways I’d never imagined. At the hordes of people massaging, tickling, worshipping one another’s lower extremities. I kept a safe distance from the action, laughing to myself and thinking of clever things to say incase someone asked me to partake.
“Are you the Toe-minator?”
“Dude, you’re as big as a toe-truck.”
“You’re toe-tally cool, but no thanks.”
I actually ended up knowing a few people--small world!--and chatted about stuff like theatre and movies while the socks were getting knocked off behind me. After they left, I stood against a wall for awhile, semi-admiring the way people went about their fetishes without a care in a world. And then the big moment came: I was asked if I wanted a foot massage. I searched for a dignified response, I don’t know why but I just assumed fetish people were more sensitive to No’s.
“This little piggy wants roast beef!” I said, then turned and ran out of the building. Classy, right? At least I didn’t cry wee, wee, wee all the way home. I was too busy stuffing myself with roast beef from the deli next door.
Have you ever been to a fetish party, or thinking about going to one? I'd love to hear your experiences!
Mark Jason Williams
I find trouble wherever I go