WE COULD’VE HAD IT ALL
He Was Great. His Foot Fetish Was Not.
When feet get in the way of love
After a particularly traumatizing break-up, I looked to anything but healing. Eager to forget my ex, I resorted to Tinder — the good ol’ hub of eternal love stories.
As I (s)wiped my tears away, I matched with Ahmed: Handsome, educated, fifteen years older than me, owner of a red (midlife-crisis-coloured) Ferrari, and clearly well-off.
Bingo.
Due to the lockdown, we opted for a cold winter walk in Amsterdam’s Vondelpark as our first date, discovering that we shared similar values, life outlooks, and relationship desires.
My ovaries pulsated with joy. And by the end of our date, I was over the moon.
He was just too good to be true.
“What’s wrong with you? Do you have a foot fetish or something?” I joked.
“What? No, of course not.” He blurted.
When he sent roses to my student dorm the next day with a note that said, “I meant everything I said. Love, A.” I swooned.
But that same night, as I dozed off in my single-size bed, I received a frantic call. It was Ahmed.
“Is everything okay?” I asked, half asleep.
“I need to be honest with you.”
Oh no.
“Okay…”
“I’m not sure how you figured it out, but I have a foot fetish. I lied because I didn’t want to scare you.”
Come again?
Wanting to seem wise beyond my years, I put on a front of maturity.
Acting like my spouse had just come clean about his gambling addiction, I forced a stern, confident, and hopeful tone — as though to say we’d overcome this together.
“Okay. Thank you for being honest.”
Good enough.
As I wrapped up my kink priestess duties, I reflected on his confession.
How bad could it really be? If anything, I appreciated his truthfulness — a virtue my ex was seemingly allergic to.
By the time our next date rolled around, I’d forgotten about his soleful attraction.
We were at his place in the heart of Amsterdam; think floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city’s infamous canals, an L-shaped cloud sofa facing a widescreen TV, and dimly lit lamps that projected sultry shadows across the living room.
As we cuddled on his couch post-dinner, he placed my feet on his lap, massaging down my calf.
Like a leprechaun screeching down an unlubricated rainbow, he carefully approached his prized treasure: My ten little piglets; his golden nuggets.
Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t bother me. I love a good foot massage. But knowing it turned him on made me feel oddly slutty.
Did letting him touch my feet make me a whore?
Since I had my socks on, would I be classified as a mere cocktease instead?
Was I supposed to play hard to get? Curling my toes in and out in a ‘come hither’ motion?
Before I could sort out my mind-to-toe connection, I felt a pinch on top of my big toe.
He was going in for the kill.
He was taking my socks off.
In a single motion, with a sleight of hand, he yanked my socks and launched them across the room, letting out a groan in the process.
My naked tootsie tots laid bare ogled at with unbridled lust, desire, and hunger.
I had to think of something.
“I’m cold!” I exclaimed, lunging for my socks, unwillingly giving him a sexy display of my heels as I scurried away.
Despite this, I wanted to get to know him — surely a little pedi-philia shouldn’t get in the way of love.
I also, however, knew I couldn’t have my feet salivated over every time we met.
So, I thought ahead.
On our next date, I came prepared, armored with thick, opaque pantyhose that restricted access to my cheeky grippers.
He was taken aback.
“Why are you wearing those?”
“Poor circulation, I’m always cold.”
“I’ll turn up the heat.”
“No, you really don’t have to — “
Before I could finish my sentence, he was off to the heater, turning it to the max — a complete, wrist-spraining, 180-degree turn.
Like a victim in a SAW movie, I had two choices. Both had dire consequences.
I either took off my pantyhose and let this man spiritually wank over my feet or succumbed to the heat festering in my pantyhose.
I chose the latter, roasting my little piggies as a result.
My last straw was while I was getting my nails done.
With all the nail salons shut down, I found an at-home nail tech: A sweet Ukrainian girl named Ana.
Since she required a big desk with good lighting and plenty of nearby sockets to do her work — and Ahmed’s apartment had all the space, lighting, and sockets required to run an entire salon — I asked him if I could get my nails done at his place.
He was nice enough to let me indulge in this luxury.
As I finished my mani, he watched over me, tapping his foot restlessly.
“Are you just getting a mani?”
“Yep.”
“Why don’t you get a pedicure as well?”
“It takes too long.”
Lies.
“I think you should get a pedicure; it’d look nice.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Please get a pedicure.”
He was almost pleading. He needed my toesy-woesies in sight.
Either that, or he thought my feet were shit.
By that point, I’d had enough. No amount of joy rides in his Ferrari would be enough to have my Piggly wigglies live in constant fear.
I wanted them free from the dictatorial shackles of Ahmed the Arch Aficionado.
Shortly after, I got colder and colder to him, and his courtship ended.
While I did feel superficial and guilty for a while, one thing he said during our final conversation made moving on a breeze.
“You have ugly feet anyway.”
And with that, I was onto the next (and eager to book a pedicure).