Feet. Do you like yours? I have to say mine are a bit too long. They’re like those DIY limos which are ordinary cars, cut in half, and an extra straight bit welded in to lengthen them. My feet go straight in the middle – they’re a bit plate-like.
Now my ex had lovely feet, like a tricky race course - all curves and no straights – yet she hated her feet and I could never figure out just why. Mind you, she had a few peculiarities like that. For example if you touched her belly-button she would scream. She wouldn’t even clean it in the bath – there’s probably lint in there turning slowly into diamonds… And her hair! Her hair sometimes made me wonder is she was really an alien. It was the most elastic hair I have ever seen – I couldn’t resist playing with any rogue ones that feel out. You could have made an excellent catapult out of what could be garnered from her hairbrush…
Anyway – feet. They play a peculiar role. Foot-fetishism is well-documented, but why on Earth does it exist? Tits, arses… perfectly understandable… but feet? How does that work? Is it perhaps those curves? Is the curvaceous foot a subconscious stand-in for a curvaceous body? I guess that could work for a man.
But what about women? Could my long feet bring me some welcome interest, hmmm? And women love shoes – and men don’t. Could that be women transferring their re-imagined and perfected self-image on to a shiny, curvy, red sling-back?
This is quite exciting stuff. I think I’d better focus on gnarled wobbly knees for a while to calm me down.
Was it not Herbert Mangle, the great Wallsend poet and hypothetical vegetarian, who once wrote:
O how I worship your plates of meat
In sling-backs red they stride the street
Your body’s curves mirrored so neat
If you should go – could I keep your feet?
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