Fall is here, and with it comes a new freelance gig. In today's times, when I am still unemployed and there's no day job in sight, a guy has to do what he can to pay the bills. Thanks to the magic of Craig's List (who knew that it wasn't for just finding hookups or roommates or hooking up with roommates) I found a make-your-own hours job (my favorite kind) writing blogs for adult-toy site, theirtoys.com. Check out my post, The Gods of Gay Lovin, and others  here.

I recently said oh-kay to a day at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden with my good friend, Rebecca Wilson, writer and editor extraordinare. There wasn't much arm twisting involved with this decision. Maybe a little thumb wrestling. It was a beautiful day out and Rebecca is one of the smartest, coolest, insightful people I know. Just being around her made me come to an important conclusion: I'm a turtle in a koi pond.

So, what does that mean? No, I haven't hit the crack pipe again. It means that while dozens of koi were waiting for some human to feed them, the turtle barreled through the fish to get what he wants. I have no proof that the turtle was a he by the way, but since this story is more about me than the creature, let's just assume.

Staring at the koi made me think of the word coy. Shy, bashful, reluctant to take a stand. Secretive. Things that I used to be, but now drive me crazy.
Yet, I've realized that my brutual honesty and outspoken demeanor may 
may be the reason I'm single. But what should I do, act like a Geisha just to get someone to date me? Not say what I feel because it means others will feel better about themselves? Get your head out of your shell, it's not going to happen. 


So, if marriage and babies and white picket fences never happen either. Fine. As Dante once said, "The hottest place in Hell is reserved for those who in time of crisis remain neutral." And I don't believe in Hell. But if I did, I'd be one of those koi. Waiting patiently for something to happen and someone to take care of me. I'd rather be the turtle any day. At least I'll stand out.

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. 

“Not toe-night.”
“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.