My foot fetish arrived with puberty, sparked by a pair of intriguing ankle boots when I was 14. These days, when I admire a woman, it’s from the ground up, and I can recognise people by their feet. (The other day I got a back view of a family friend and knew it was her before my eyes reached her mid-calf.)
I like flat shoes: gladiators, Birkenstocks, flip-flops and clogs; the Clarks website is good for images of women in nice sandals. I’m also a big fan of barefoot artists, such as Florence Welch and Joss Stone. A well-defined ankle with slender achilles tendons does it for me.
I told my wife as soon as I met her, and she was fairly neutral about it. When she was pregnant, I discovered reflexology, and she enjoyed receiving foot massages – as did several friends, some of whom guessed I had a foot fetish. My wife and I have not had any physical, let alone sexual contact, for several years. We don’t talk much any more, apart from practical issues.
A few years ago I met a woman online who indulged my fetish, and met me off the train in a pair of flip-flops. More recently, a male friend let me massage his feet several times. He’s never reacted sexually to me, but he often drifts off to sleep while I kiss his feet and suck his toes.
I haven’t come out to many people, because I’m nervous of their reactions. Luckily, I can enjoy watching synchronised swimming, beach volleyball and judo – as well as sitting at my local shopping centre watching dozens of pretty feet stroll past – without arousing too much suspicion.
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