On the Power of Things: Sexual Fetishism

Sexual fetishes are among the strangest things for those who don’t possess them. It’s often simply a non sequitur for most people. Why feet? Why leather? Why balloons?

The word “fetish” was originally coined in the early 17th century to describe the amulets and charms of religious significance worn by West African tribespeople, objects to which they assigned great significance and power. This was observed earliest by the Portuguese, who called such an object a feitiço, from the Latin facticius (artificial) and facere (to make).

In its original sense a fetish was, like sexual fetishes today, a curiousity to those who viewed them from the outside. Why, those who studied them must have wondered, should so much significance and psychological value be bound up in these tiny stone carvings?

Over time it was put forward that many distinct objects of mystical or religious significance, and indeed the so-called “fetishization” of these objects, were to be found in religions throughout the world. The Christian cross for example, while often merely symbolic and representative, could be seen as a fetish object when it is shown by an exorcist to the supposedly possessed, or when in fiction it is used to combat a vampire; in order to affect or ward away anything it must be imagined that the object has a power unto itself.

Naturally, of course, this led to some disagreement within the church and among religious scholars as to whether religious fetishism indicated some form of heresy, i.e., that worship of or focus on the object was detracting from one’s connection to the godhead. This is a question to which we will return. Indeed, it is something I’m sure nearly every sexual fetishist has heard at one point or another over the course of their relationships; I feel like you’re more interested in my _____ than you are in me…

The modern interpretation of fetish theory, which takes note of its sexual manifestations, began with Sigmund Freud in 1927. To Freud the essential qualities of any sexually fetishized object were ultimately irrelevant because they were universally, quelle suprise, mere phallic substitutes, an idea which can only be explained through the mental acrobatics required to appreciate his castration theory, which is and are of no use to us here.

These days, the conception of a sexual fetish is reliant on our appreciation and understanding of parasexuality, which is to say that body of behaviors, interactions, and preferences of a semi-sexual nature which are distinct from formal genital copulation. In short, these are turn-ons that are not specifically acts of sex but which are at some level either sexually arousing or which engage specific emotions related to sex. Each of us has a unique relationship to our own parasexuality, and for some this relationship is more robust than others.

While the realm of sensual is not entirely lost on all but a few of us (many are those who may enjoy and have specific preferences regarding things like temperature, amount of light, presence or absence of music, and so on), there are some for whom parasexuality is as important or more important than formal copulation to their overall sexual experience, which can involve not only elements of sensuality, such as those referred to above, but also relational elements between themselves and their partner(s), which include relationships of power and circumstance as well as the way in which those things manifest through acts and experiences. These are the so-called “kinky people”.

What this means is that, for people who are highly parasexual, what others often do to “get in the mood” is an end unto itself. From instance to instance these things may or may not lead to sex, during which these themes and experiences may or may not be carried on, and when all is said and done the parasexual experience may or may not conclude. Sex itself may be a destination or a stopover in the sexual experience of someone like this, or in some cases passing it by altogether can be part of what’s involved.

In any case, among those so persuaded, the aspects of parasexuality can comfortably be divided into two categories: kinks, which describe acts and sensory experiences which one enjoys as an element of that sexual context, of which one may have many and any of which one could usually take or leave as the situation allows, and fetishes, which are either essential or semi-essential in the pursuit of the overall sexual experience. Put simply, kinks are the seasonings and fetishes are the meat.

Naturally, of course, man does not live by meat alone, and everything else on our metaphorical “plate” certainly matters a great deal, as does what’s on our metaphorical “table” and all that’s involved in our metaphorical “meal”, but a fetishist is one for whom a certain degree of participation in their particular fixation is what makes it all make sense.

To put it another way, for someone with a fetish, while many other things may or may not take place during a sexual experience, the fetish is that thing without which the experience would be incomplete. In many ways it’s the soliloquy in Hamlet; whatever the stage setup, props, lighting, and so on (the kinks), the play is simply not the play without “To be or not to be…”

But to continue with that metaphor for a moment, it must be said that, for those who remember, the soliloquy in Hamlet is not the climax of the play, and for many fetishists engagement with their fetish need not be the main event of the experience. In similar fashion to how the text is performed, though, if one is to condense the exhibition at all, the “To be or not to be” speech is quite unlikely to be cut, it exists satisfactorily on its own, and if it is done without it certainly remains, at the very least peripherally, in the minds of those involved.

So what are we to make then of fetishism, now that we understand what it is and how it relates to a person’s sexuality? What is its form? What is its nature? What is its relationship to those through whom it is experienced?

To begin answering these questions, we have to become more specific in our analysis, and to first make clear a number of salient points. In order to do this I must concede, as your author, that I myself am possessed of a fetish of my own which involves the feet and footwear of the object of my affections.

To start with, for myself (and I believe for most fetishists), the fetish object does not exist in isolation. Whether neutral or even aversive in its alternatives, it is only powerful as it relates to the person with whom I am enamoured. Specifically, while the feet, underclothes, and to some extent shoes of my partner are powerful indeed, a shoe or a sock or a stocking is as much an inanimate object to me as it is to anyone else until it is associated with her.

A pile of shoes is just that to me. A pair that belongs to her is significant. A pair that belongs to a man is repugnant. A pair that belongs to a child or an infant is inert, as are most shoes from earlier times or from different cultures. The only way that I respond to these things in the absence of someone to associate them with is when I can associate categorically; shoes that are made for women, socks I would like to see her wear, and so on.

From these examples it should be clear that, even for someone who possesses the ability to be moved powerfully by an object, it matters a great deal to whom and in what capacity that object relates. I don’t just “like shoes” or socks or even feet. I like the ones that go with those to whom I am attracted.

And yet, even within this the objects are not entirely equal. I may prefer her sneakers to her flats, I may prefer her new sneakers to her old ones (or vice versa), I may be especially excited when she wears one pair or another from her collection and almost nonplussed when she wears another. It all relies on the appreciation of a number of different factors that relate both to my own experience of these things and to the objective variations within them.

But even within these preferences there is more going on. There’s also the extent to which she relates to them temporally. The ones she’s just been wearing are much more attractive than ones she’s had sitting for months in her closet, regardless of whether I may prefer the others abstractly. There’s a freshness to her connection with the object that dies away within a fairly short span. This much indicates that, again, it isn’t so much the object as it is that object’s connection to her.

Which leads us back to the question of worship through an object and worship of an object. I believe I have made clear that worship of an object is only marginally at play, but we are still left with the question of why, then, if the object itself is not particularly important, should it be important to engage with the object?

For this we must suppose that while my appreciation for my partner is vast it is also broad and multifaceted; when I like someone I like everything about them in lots of different ways, and when we focus our attention entirely upon each other as takes place within sexual congress my awareness of these things, even at a subconscious level, becomes more and more heightened. I like and am attuned to so many things about her at the same time that a fetish provides a welcome relief in that I can, not isolate one thing to like, but collapse all that attention into a single thing. A fetishistic persuasion, then, provides a focal point to which all that energy can be devoted.

In short, I don’t have to be internally conflicted by trying to like her hair and her face and her eyes and her neck and her collarbone, etc., etc., etc., all the way down, a little bit each, all at the same time. Instead, I can turn my attention to her feet and like that one part of her body a ton as a way of liking everything I like about her, all in one place.

But not only is this true of her physicality, what goes along with that is the ability to like the intangible things about her at the same time. How do you make love to a person’s generosity, or their sense of humor, or any of the other things that make them who they are without being able to fit it in within that same collapsing of attention? That’s why it’s so intense and overwhelming, why it’s so powerful, because everything that attracts you to that person gets bundled and focused into that one singular experience.

And how, once it’s all in one place, does one explore that kind of love and attraction, in a way that leads one to orgasm?

It should be noted here that the fetish experience, as I have alluded to above is not a static and isolated thing. Once I have the feet of a beautiful woman for whom I have this love in front of me, and my genitals are being stimulated, it’s not as though I want her to keep still and leave me alone with them. In fact that’s the last thing I’d want. It’s the way she moves, it’s what she says and how she says it, it’s whether I can tell that she’s reciting a script or speaking from the heart, all this incredible minutiae to which I remain alert while being flooded by that emotion, and the tug of war between those two things is what pushes me closer and closer to the edge.

And that, in a nutshell, is kink. That is what the parasexual experience is about. It’s toying with attention and involving both oneself and one’s partner in both mitigating and exacerbating one’s tendency to become overwhelmed, exploiting the patterns and preferences by which one navigates that territory, and indulging the emotions that go along with it all.

I hope this explains a thing or two to those who were formerly confused by those with sexual fetishes. Obviously I cannot speak for fetishes with which I am not as intimately familiar, or for fetishists whose experience differs from mine, but I am willing to believe that I am a reasonably representative example, and that there are parallels and common ground in spite of the differences.

As strange and as odd as we may seem to many, even most of those who are not like us, there is nothing unusual about what we go through and experience in the course of our indulgence, except to whatever extent it is stronger, more powerful, and more profound. If you are one so constructed, consider yourself lucky. I do.


© 2018

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Love Letter to a Femdom

From the first time I saw you I knew I was helpless. Defeated. It wasn’t like being excited, or infatuated. It wasn’t like other things. You arrived in my consciousness with a finality that made me feel like everything that was to come was an epilogue.

When you told me what you were, what you “liked” as you put it, I could tell you felt like you were divulging a secret but to me it was like speaking a profound and honest truth that barely needed to be said— “Water is wet.” “Sunshine is warm.” and “I am a femdom.”

At the time I didn’t really know what that meant, I didn’t understand in the way I do now, but a part of me knew exactly what you meant and how worthy you were of that title. If I’m honest I expected more… I don’t know, cruelty or… or something, and at first I thought of it as something I’d involve myself with out of grace and indulgence, something I would tolerate and humor because I loved you. I would take the pain. I would bear it, as a gift. But as time went on I found little by little that you were showing me what I was too.

We talked a lot in those early days about what was okay, about what would hurt and what would hurt, and the more we talked the more comfortable I became with the strangest things, the more my willingness and my boundaries grew with my trust. I came to know you, and to trust the heart that carried you through all the things to which you would subject me.

Your darkness wasn’t black, wasn’t heavy, wasn’t suffocating. As I looked and as I came to understand I saw a galaxy of deepest blues and purples and reds in you, saw the shine that catches the light like in a bottle of ink. I saw the richness in your depths, and like the bottom of the ocean I saw the clarity and cool in the waters of the murky abyss.

So I was ready. I was ready even as my instinct and body resisted, when it came time for you to enslave me.

It was simple at first.

“I want to give you a spanking,” you had said. And I almost laughed. Oh brother, right? And I took down my jeans, laying myself over your thighs, and I thought, fine, and for the first few smacks of your hand I thought the whole thing was silly. But then something happened.

You had slowed down, almost stopped, and I thought maybe you were finished, but in the split second that I decided to turn back to look at you you grabbed my underwear, the tight little black trunks you like with the white waistband, and you yanked them up into my ass before slapping me four times in a row, quickly, sharply. It took me completely by surprise and I looked back at you, and you snapped, “Head down!” as you hit me again, hard.

To my own surprise I did exactly as you commanded without hesitation, and as it went on I was suddenly heightened, expectant, and nervous. Your strikes began splitting through my mind as I felt the fabric pull against my hips and wedge into my asshole, and I felt my dick being tucked snugly into the shrinking pocket of my y-fronts. It was almost like you were grabbing it, but I could feel your fist on the small of my back and the sting of your other hand. You were lifting my hips off of your legs just the slightest fraction of an inch, and the sensation made me feel completely suspended and controlled by you.

When you suddenly stopped, apparently satisfied with your work, I couldn’t believe how much I craved the next smack and how little I wanted it to be over. My body was still but I felt like I was shaking from the waist down. I wanted you to throw me on the ground, wanted you to tackle me and wrestle me and push me around. I wanted to feel your strength and your dominance. I wanted more.

I had no idea you would bring that out in me, that I would respond so strongly to such a simple act, but from there it was only a matter of time.

A few days after that you put me at your feet for the first time, and that too took me completely by surprise. I didn’t realize until it was over what a significant moment that was in our relationship, how significant it was in the course of my life, but I remember I was down on the floor, on my knees already because I was looking under the couch for something, and you were dangling your slippers in a way that I now would know meant you were feeling the urge.

I pulled back my head from looking and in a flash you dropped your slipper, flexed back your toes, and stuck the thick, dirty cotton of your socks against my cheek. I didn’t laugh this time. I felt it immediately, the same combination of shock, fear, trust, and embarrassment. I knew you had me in your sights again, and that something was beginning.

I turned to look up at you, past those pajama bottoms you always wear, and you didn’t smile, didn’t sneer. You just raised your eyebrows and slowly brought your heel to my chin, laying your sole across my face and resting your toes on my forehead. You held the other one up so I could see, turning it back for a moment to inspect it yourself, and I couldn’t believe I was feeling myself swell beneath you. There was something so definite and matter-of-fact about your attitude, about the way you presented them, that I knew it would be futile to resist.

I felt myself tremble as a strange light bloomed in my consciousness, and I almost shook as you brought your other foot to my face. You pushed my head back and reflexively my hands reached for your ankles but without being told I stopped them and laid them back in my lap. It was almost as if I could feel them bound together.

When you made me sniff something screamed in my mind, unable to comprehend, and when I breathed you in I reeled as the stink hit me. But the stronger part of me felt so compelled by your power, so enraptured by your grace, and I felt determined to please you.

It was humbling and humiliating, and I felt the same way I did when you spanked me. I wanted to show you my commitment and devotion. Wanted you to test me. Wanted you to do your worst.

By the time I first took your strapon I had learned to revel in your power and in my subjection, to appreciate the glory and comfort in giving myself to you. You didn’t even have to suggest it. We were laying in bed one night ready to fall asleep, and I felt you against my back, felt the gentleness of your strength, and in the quiet stillness I said it, speaking the same truth you had when all this started. “I want for you to fuck me.”

You hardly even responded but I could tell you were smiling, and you squeezed me tighter and kissed my neck.

When the night finally came and you mounted me, me lying on my back with my knees up, it was dark but I felt I could see you so clearly. And yet, my senses were heightened and I felt I was seeing you with my body.

I wasn’t scared. Wasn’t nervous. But I couldn’t say I was calm. Instead it felt like a rain beginning, my whole atmosphere bathed in cold and swollen mist, and as you nestled between my legs I could nearly feel the sprinkles on my face. I felt you press against me and I could almost hear the heavy drops beginning to beat the distant ground.

“Ah,” I said, I sighed, I whispered. “Oh.” You pushed and suddenly I was opening up to receive you, and I felt the hard, stiff plastic of your girlcock filling me up. A sweet light overwhelmed me, and I heaved as I breathed and focused on relaxing, letting you in deeper.

“Oh fuck! Oh Christ! Oh god!”

I felt the head slip in and I took you deeper still, unable to believe it, in awe of you and failing to comprehend. I was sure you were almost there, and I wanted to feel your crotch and your harness against my cheeks, but I reached down to feel you and found I still had half of it to go.

It made no sense, and I knew I couldn’t take any more, and a part of me was ashamed I couldn’t take it all the first time. I wanted to be a good slut for you, but I was taking all I could, and I could feel my cum rushing through me like my penis was a tap that just needed switching on.

I plead with you to cum, and you agreed, and you only had to pump me three times before my orgasm spilled out of me so easily, and I gushed and twitched and almost wanted to cry.

It wasn’t until later that you actually fucked me, actually dominated me with your feet, actually beat me, and actually made me into your filthy little slaveboy. But now that you’ve made me your bitch, pushed me to such depths, and come so completely to own and control me, I’ll always remember those first times fondly, always think of them with joy.

You are a femdom. I am a slave.


© 2017

Coming Out Kinky, or: Why I Am a Foot Fetishist

For starters, there’s no way to say it that doesn’t ring false in my ears.  I don’t like saying, “I have a foot fetish,” because, to me, it sounds too much like, “I have a goiter,” or “I have a thyroid condition.” It’s not an affliction.  I also don’t care to call myself a fetishist because, to me, the word is too close to words like cellist or flautist. It’s nothing I learned or practiced, and it’s not just something I do.  The most apparently simple version, a statement to the effect that “I like feet,” is not only almost pathetically non-commital, it also, for me, is like saying, “I like chocolate,” or, “I like classical music”– when it’s that good, you kind of assume everybody does.  And anyway, it misses the point; I like Sundays in the park well enough, but they hardly drive me to a powerful, gushing orgasm.

What I can say is that, for as long as I’ve had any personal consciousness of note and certainly long before my attraction was of a sexual nature, I can remember feeling a very particular and very special way toward the feet of my female peers, and at a deeply compelling level.

I have many pre-sexual memories connected with what is now an essential part of my sexual identity, everything from the first eligible pair I remember laying eyes on, when I must have been no older than 5, to early requests (made with complete innocence) to various playmates, within a few years or so of that.  I suppose this much is to say that, for better or worse, it has always been with me as a fundamental part not just of what would become my sexuality, but of the very consciousness through which I experience the world.  From the formative days of my development, apropos of not a single nucleating or catalyzing event, I have always responded to the feet of the opposite sex with significant interest and, ultimately, a secret, private fascination.

As puberty dawned this manifested in the form of the nearly continual search beneath the desks of my female classmates for dangling shoes or glimpses of socks, and of plaintive, half-formed wishes to interact with them that had not yet begun to approach the level of true desire.  By that time, of course, I had become acquainted with society’s unusually fraught and anxiety-ridden relationship with the lower extremeties, characterized most often by something that can be summed up in the words, “Eew!” and “Yuk!”  When the subconscious dots joined together and I began to realize that my special feelings were in fact a powerful source of arousal and thrill, I think it was then that the first feelings of shame began to set in.  And it wasn’t that anyone had ever shamed me, it was just that I inferred the natural extension of the general disgust at the subject of my affections when confronted by my singular adoration of it.

In the private world of my mind, though, I was free to appreciate and adore, to ogle and to dream.  I imagined a variety of little scenarios and took my inadvertent kicks where I could find them.  In short, I subsisted, alone and isolated, unable to realize even the vaguest approach to experiencing the things I wished for so continually.  In that, I guess, my experience was not unusual for my age, except that while most people at that point take tacitly for granted that they will eventually have sex and only when and with whom remain to be seen, I felt utterly baffled as to how anything remotely like the sex I wanted would come about.

This circumstance saw me through most of early adolescence, but it wasn’t long thereafter that I, through the fortuitous possession of a 56k internet connection, discovered what a world unto itself the fetish was.  For one thing, I learned the actual word, learned that it had a name and that it was a known quantity in one way or another, and I learned that there was a surreptitious, not to say clandestine, group of enthusiasts and pornographers who seemed to know all about it.

I can’t say for certain if it was because the images, short videos, and Shockwave-based pages took so incredibly long to load, or if because of my bookish and imaginative nature I was drawn to something essential about the literary form, but in addition to the images of foot worship and the glorified images of foot models for which I waited patiently, I found myself more and more preoccupied with a certain amount of erotic writing, and it wasn’t long before I stumbled upon what would provide me with a thrill that was absolutely existential in nature, and which would strike me on a deeper level than I had previously understood to be possible.

Like most fetishists my affection for the feet of beautiful women extends beyond a distant appreciation of their visual aesthetic, and to read empassioned descriptions of the smell of their stink was more than just thrilling, it was validation, even vindication, and so too were the depictions of the acts, attitudes, and atmospheres which formed the context for that sensual experience.  Whether forced, tricked, enslaved, punished, or indebted, all of the scenarios involved a level of what falls under the umbrella of female domination, and this was something I also understood and recognized immediately, from before I knew it had a name.

For nostalgia’s sake I read over some of them again just a few weeks ago.  You won’t find the website anymore (it’s long since defunct and I had to access it through the magic of the Internet Archive’s “Wayback Machine”), but it was all there exactly as it was.  And, to my sadly unsurprised disappointment, I found that, yes, in almost all cases the writing was incredibly poor.  Very much the cheap camcorder equivalent of erotica.  And I remember being aware of this at the time, to the point where I even hid a Word file in the depths of the filesystem of the family computer and spent considerable time rewriting and expanding one story in particular, which I thought deserved a better treatment than the one it had been given.

I also saw and remembered, with no fondness at all, the extent to which fetishes and kinks that I do not share, particularly one for incest and an even less savory one for youth, were represented in the haphazard mixed bag of the site’s design.  That too, came back to me– the prevailing feeling of something finally knowing what I was talking about and still, on occasion, having no idea what I meant.  I suppose this is always the burden of pornographic consumption, that if you and your own tastes (sometimes, even morals) are not the progenitors of the content then you are subject to the caprices of the sexual constructions of others, which, especially in the context of kink, can be alienating in a way that is just short of disturbing.

It was from this position, about a year later, that I confronted the unwarranted, unsolicited exposure of my burgeoning sexual consciousness to the scrutiny of others.  An internet watchdog program had been installed without my knowledge on the computer I was using and it had snitched on me, both to my mother and to her husband at the time (not my father), who was an abusive prick, and they took it upon themselves to confront me about it.  While my mother did her best in her ignorance and confusion, the asshole, unburdened by any care for myself or my wellbeing, told me in no uncertain terms that I was a pervert and that the material I was viewing was sick.

I’ll make the point very clear that I was not victimized by this.  It didn’t hurt my feelings.  I knuckled down against the pathetic brute the same way I did later when I was punching and headbutting him on the occasions when he tried to beat me up.  It was, however, a shock to my system in that 1) it reinforced my assumption that the world beyond my mind would not be generous in its estimation of my persuasions, and 2) it stripped away the veil of privacy in which I had conducted my explorations, and I was thrust beneath the interrogation lamp to account and take responsibility for what I had not wrought.  I felt, with harsh light thrown upon me, like a cockroach that refuses to scatter.

I had been psychologically and personally invaded, and within that even my agency and its ability to discern things in a complex way had been denied.  One of the more troubling things about the whole confrontation was that, in fact, I had recognized a certain amount of perversion and sickness in the significant amount of ground I had covered, and it was never made clear exactly what I was being accused of.  In short, as secure as I was in what I had responded to, and as unwilling as I was to have that sullied by the ignorant vituperations of a bully, there was a level of truth in their condemnation that I was inclined to concede.  But that was a line I was never allowed or invited to draw.  I was never given the chance to define and own and establish, embryonic as it was,  what it was that I was willing to be insulted for.

It’s taken me a long time to work my way out of that pervasive feeling of dissociation and alienation. I never felt ashamed, just completely misunderstood and mischaracterized, and I saw that misapprehension of the truth in the culture around me, the idea that being different somehow makes you a weirdo, or even a creep.

I wouldn’t say it caused me much strife or turmoil in my younger days. It simply put the that entire category of experience and feeling in a kind of shell, one that was vivid and significant on the inside but which I did not, under any circumstances, divulge to the outside world. I knew my feelings and thoughts on the subject were precious, and they had to be guarded from people who would not, and maybe could not, understand. I had a reverence for the things I loved, they had a majesty and grandeur to them, and the Philistines would trash it while they sneered.

When it came time for me to actually start dating young women, beginning my freshman year of high school, I was gratefully unburdened by any reticence in interacting with girls. I was lucky in that I felt categorically at ease in their company, as I always have, and in the specific case of the girl to whom I gave my virginity I was very lucky indeed; whether or not she was aware of the real effect that it had on me I’ll never know, but on the night in question we were headed to a party in the back seat of a friend’s car and, like a dream, she kicked off her shoes, placed her feet in my lap, and teased me for the entire trip, and then when we got out of the car she winked at me and told me I owed her a foot massage (which of course I gratefully obliged). That was the first crack in the ice that had formed around my sexuality and, while I didn’t admit to it then and wouldn’t until I had my first real girlfriend about two years later the experience gave me a subconscious sense of hope.

From there, as the years went on, I had a number of relationships with women who were sympathetic and indulgent of my needs, and who enabled me to have hundreds of positive fetish experiences despite being universally unmoved by the act from their perspective. While I was still “in the closet” in that I would be more or less appalled to have my secret known, I was open in a private context and getting, in essence, what I needed at the time.

And for a while I thought that’s all there was. I thought the best I could hope for was to accept the generosity of acceptance. But for a few months now, nearly 15 years after discovering the abundance of my fantasy, I’ve enjoyed something more. I’ve finally begun living the kinky sex life I always imagined.

I knew there was something special about her from some of the earliest of our interactions, when she hinted at a vibrant sexual consciousness, and throughout our courting I was attracted, most of all, to her erotic curiosity.  I knew good things were in store when, one day, after weeks of trying to guess my fetish and after a half dozen little conversations that were in the ballpark, she finally guessed right and her response was someting I never could have expected: I dropped my confession just as an unavoidable distraction arose and as we bookmarked things in order to deal with it, she whispered, with a gleam in her eyes, “FEET?!  Oh man, I’m gonna have to know more about that.”

She’s asked me a number of excellent questions as we’ve gone along together, and I’ll try here to recapture my answer to one of them.  A few days after she was clued in we were playing a question and answer game over text, and she said, “My turn.  What is it about the feet?”

I’ve tried to rationalize it over the years, tried to make sense of it in spite of its apparent defiance of reason, and the philosopher/psychologist in me has tried to find the core symbolism and deeper meanings of it all.  This is what I’ve come to:

I started out by saying that I’ve always known I liked them, that it’s something I’m drawn to like a woman’s breasts or hips or vagina, and then I went on to say that it gets a little weirder than that.  I told her that I like being made to worship them, to kiss, and lick, and suck them, and that I like having them pushed in my face.  And I suppose, symbolically, it’s that worshipping what is literally the lowest, least glorified part of them speaks to the regard that I have for the rest of them.

I went on to tell her that, as I have indicated before, perhaps the most salient aspect of the fetish is one for the smell and, perhaps because of that, for dirty socks.  With that, I think of it as a symbol of purity within a context of filth.  A woman’s shoes walk through a world of dirt and piss and nastiness of a thousand kinds, but inside her feet are purely her, essentially her, and that essence is soaked up in her socks, and therefore the stronger the better.

The last thing I mentioned on this particular occasion was that I like being subjected to a woman’s feet for extended periods of time without, necessarily, any reference to the sexual aspect of the act, and that is, simply enough and as funny as it may sound, a state of meditation.  I find a particular, innate sense of calm and reassurance in having her cover and wipe and cradle and push on my face with them, and there’s nothing else that brings me to quite the same state of consciousness.  Beyond that there’s a sense of communion with what I’ve described above, and ultimately I suppose that that confluence of reverence, relish, and self abdication is what I mean by submission.

But beyond the fetish itself, what of the rest of it?  I have other quirks and kinks, other interests and preoccupations, but they all center around a dominant female role. What is it, ultimately, about women? And what is it about their power?

In short, you either get it or you don’t.  You either know, in your core, that the feminine human spirit is something precious and magnificent and you’re called to respond to it accordingly, or you lumber along, oblivious, and unable to hear the greatest music in the world.  For me, as someone who believes in nothing supernatural, who is irreligious in all regards, and for whom the transcendent is found only in reality, women are the closest approximation of the divine.  Adoring and serving and caring for them is the closest I get to a religious experience, and the harmony and flow of that, I’m sure, is as good or better than any of the alternatives.

I don’t know that any of what I’ve put forward here serves adequately as an explanation, something that follows through pure deduction and which could persuade someone who can’t relate to at least something about it a priori, but if I’m honest I also don’t know that I care.  I am no evangelist for my own unique joie de vivre, and I could care less about convincing anyone.  My only wish in the writing of this article has been to elucidate what for some is a mystery, and to enunciate what for others is as natural as breathing.

If there was anything I could say to someone who is in the position that I was in all those long years ago, it would be that, indeed, it does get better with time, and that it’s worth it to trust yourself and to trust in the validity of your feelings and experience.  The world, or perhaps I should say the special people in it, have a soft spot for things felt and shared in earnest, and if you can just get in touch with that core of honesty and find a way to be okay with it then the rest will come when it ought to and it will be better than you can imagine.

There’s nothing wrong with me or the way I like to have sex.  And it feels good to finally be able to say that.


© 2017

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