One complicating factor I’ve found while working my love quest is my interest in pretty women’s feet. Yes, I have an adult foot fetish, and knowing that many women vilify guys with foot fetishes as disdainful sub human in extreme cases, helped intensify my shyness over asking ladies out as a young man. The foot fetish or more precisely, how I though people would react to it, made me afraid to ask anything of anyone pretty enough to arouse me sexually as a boy. Frankly though even as a boy, I never understood why so many are so grossed out at the thought of massaging someone’s feet. I mean, once you assure that the feet are clean, what is the difference between kissing a foot, or a hand, or a breast, or a pair of lips, or any of the genitals? In fact, there is no difference beyond the irrational prejudices that so many hold, yet cannot explain. Unfortunately, that impenetrable rationale never helped me much to be less afraid of rejection.
So I’d further extend the argument: Consider that just as a gay person does not choose his sexual orientation, I did not pick my objects of sexual desire either, which primarily are the pretty legs and feet of beautiful women. We do not choose these preferences but instead, discover them. Indeed I learned of mine, not through decision, but rather through experimentation. I found out what they already were. I did not decide what they were. In fact, what constitutes a ‘beautiful woman’ seemed to be programmed into me long before I understood its adult sexual ramifications. I was born with an appreciation of certain forms of beauty. I’ve always been drawn to tall, thin ladies with smaller feet and hands, and at least while a kid, to women in authority, like school teachers, house mothers, and teachers’ aids. But unfortunately, their authoritarian air also made me more afraid of rejection from them.
This foot fetish has accompanied me since the start of my love quest in the beginning 1970s, and way before that even. Indeed, the earliest recallable memories of when I was two or three years old, reveal a strong desire to sit close to pretty girls’ sexy legs, feel their radiating warmth, and smell the accompanying feminine scents of soap, shampoo, perfume, and skin softener. I always looked forward to Mom and Dad going out for the evening, so I’d get to listen to records with the two teen-aged babysitters who lived up the street when we lived in Altoona, and sit beside them on the floor while they sat on the couch. They never knew (I don’t think) that I thought them sexy; especially at only three or four years of age.
But in many ways, I was more easily aroused sexually as a toddler, than I’ve ever managed to be as an accomplished adult. I so wanted to remove their shoes and massage their arches and toes. But even at that young age, I knew that I didn’t dare try or even ask to, because there would be hell to pay if I did. These earliest chapters in my foot fetish story could be summed up by saying that I spent a great deal of my time longing for and admiring pretty women’s feet. Yet I was highly afraid to display this interest. The foot fetish made me quite shy. It suurpirsed me while journaling about this that even as early as three years old, I was already afraid of sexual rejection.
My reaction upon seeing pretty feet was (and is still today) automatic and near instantaneous. I never chose to experience it or not, though at times, I’ve made willful yet unsuccessful efforts to repress it. This response seems as immediate and thoughtless as when the doctor hits the patellar ligament with that little hammer during a physical exam, and then the knee jerks forward as a result in healthy people. My foot fetish is just as reflexive and, I believe, just as healthy though I must say that I still find admitting to it to some women quite difficult, and nearly impossible to own up to when I was a boy. I was more shy back then than today. But shyness still hampers me somewhat in my love quest; particularly in the realms of full sexual expression. Having a preference that people by in large consider odd or strange seemed to add much to the degrees of bashfulness and lacking sexual self confidence I experienced while growing up.
Yet in spite of all the shame and resulting shyness I’ve felt for having this foot fetish, along with the intense need to conceal it, I never wanted to eliminate it, and don’t believe that I could even if I wished to. I never saw it as a defect in my psyche but rather, as the means to achieve lasting sexual satisfaction, assuming I can find the right women to play with.
Indeed, the foot worship sessions I’ve experienced have been so pleasing as to make most any amount of indignity toward me and my “odd” desires worth enduring. So, it would be next to impossible to renounce that pleasure and swear to never indulge it again. It’d be like asking a gay man to change his sexual orientation. Not possible today. Besides, as mentioned above, the nearly instant arrousal I experience when I glance a pretty pair of feet is so involuntary that I believe that no amount of therapy, hypnosis, or de-conditioning would rid me of it, and I’d not want to spend the money on such therapy even if I could afford it.
Thus I’ve accepted the foot fetish as a facet of me that is equally valid as my arms or my heart. It’s a defining part of me, and I’ve never been one to want to muck with what nature has given to me. Even as a boy, I fully accepted it. Indeed, the better strategy has proven for me to be to find women who like their feet worshipped, rather than to drive the attraction to pretty feet out of my mind. Should they say that I don’t measure up to their expectations because of my foot fetish, then that’s a strong clue that they don’t measure up to mine and that I should just move on.