I was a model at a Foot Party

*The details of this blog are pulled from 2011–2012. If you feel so inclined, read while listening to "All I Need" by Radiohead, cuz dammit, that track sets the tone.

Feet. Toes. Arches. Heels. Nails. Calluses. Hair. Ugly. Pretty. Power. Power. POWER.

I'm sitting on a park bench. It's a moment to stretch, tilt the head back, and soak up a slice of nature-loving peace. The bench creaks beside me. A man sits. He's short, wide, and compact, a smiling black bowling ball.

He stares in the direction of my feet. In truth, he could be looking at anything down there; cracks in the pavement, the angle of the sun, the scamper of ants, or nothing at all. He could be lost in thought. He could be, but he's not. He's got the focus of a bloodhound sniffing digits through Teva sandals.

Enter the foot fetish, a person who delights in the obsessive power of feet. We'll call him Agent Mercury.

Mercury contacted me after I signed up to be a model at a foot party in Las Vegas. After my failure as a stripper, the trajectory of my attention focused on fetish, and to me, feet are softcore, entry-level BDSM.

So much time and effort are directed at the miracle of not being a quadruped. I have size 11 US feet or 42 in European lingo. Long, slender, elegant feet with decent arches thanks to orthopedic inserts I wore most of my pre-teens to correct the lack of arch.

I doubt I would have the balls to play foot model if I hadn't been complimented for keeping them pampered, scrubbed, painting, and paired with shoes showcasing their form.

On the website for the hallowed hoof playdate, the protocol is cut and dry. Like any meetup, we're assured safety. No one is allowed to touch without permission. We pick our playdates. Ten minutes in a private room runs $20. Tipping is optional. At any moment we feel uncomfortable with a request, the session is over.

The party took place at Fantasy, a swinger venue with 70s style decor expanding in a bingo wheel assortment of themed rooms. There's a coffin room complete with a satin-lined plywood box to play out vampiric scenarios. A medical examination room. A four-poster bed coated in latex. A bondage room with a large St. Andrews cross.

This is how the party worked. Models show up in a range of attire from Boulder Highway streetwalker to evening gown Vanna White. A swarm of males collect in the lobby; a room with a stripper pole in the corner, snack buffet, couches, chairs, and scuffed pool table.

It's dark as hell, but our eyes adjust.

We chat, aware it's not our eyes, boobs, or ass they're interested in. Nor is it a personality contest. Depending on the preference, the client focuses on the size and shape of our feet. Some love huge shovel-like feet, the better to squash them flat. Others want the Golden Lotus of tiny feet. Nail polish in shades of red and French manicure are popular. High arches are ideal. The odor is, well, it just is. The majority want clean, polished feet, but those that love stinky can't get enough of it.

The experienced foot model brings accessories. Tube socks. Dangling strappy sandals. Edible massage lotion.

My first taker was a mid-20's newcomer. In a tiny cubicle off the lobby, I found his nervous energy endearing. He said he'd always dreamt about touching feet like mine. The way he cradled them, lightly stroking, revering the veins and joints, the attention made my mental commentary stutter to a halt.

Twenty minutes later and very relaxed, he used the provided sanitary solution to clean my feet and his hands. Then he thanked me and handed me money. The money was nice, but his gratitude shook me. I had helped him fulfill a long-time fantasy, a lovely pair of feet attached to a lovely person.

Number Two knew his way around a woman's toes. He slipped off my pumps and inspected my piggies as if taking a dome lid off the main course of a meal. He sucked on each toe, careful to let his teeth scrape lightly against the sensitive skin. It tickled but not in a pee-in-your-pants kind of way.

Then he asked if he could put my foot on his crotch. He had pants on, and I didn't find erections repulsive as long as they're not whipped out without permission, so, sure. Let's see what we're working with. The length of my foot surpassed his penis and balls. Apparently, this was a very good thing.

Wiggling, flexing, and kneading his package like a cat on a new couch, he moaned. There was a thrill of power. I could make him cum with a part of my body I considered asexual. Cool. I didn't, but I could have told him to shuck the shorts and let my toes tangle with his singular digit. It would have made his night, but that ping of conscience kept tapping me on the shoulder: I didn't know where the fantasy started or stopped.

The night continued in like fashion. The melting goodie madness of worship and lust was present, an honest exchange of excitement, but it was a struggle to climb from surreal relaxation and ponder the eternal question: What does this man really want? In turn, what do I want to give him?

It's a foot, yes, but what's the fantasy? I was dying to know, were the men bullied? Stepped on? Teased by girlfriends, family members, or did the scenarios invent themselves through media and television programs? If only I could focus, I could form a queenly command, "Tell me your fantasy. What does your dream woman do? What does she say? How does she look at you?"

My second-to-last session was a different vibe, a different story.

When someone asks me to degrade them, my mind screeches to a halt. I have no internal dialogue in which to reference. I'm not against trash talk or humiliation, each to their own, but having never experienced it, my imagination needs prompts.

Afroman was 6'6" and high-strung. There was little conversation to ease into the play. He fixated on my feet as if they were the Holy Grail. All his answers, punishment, and probably a good deal of psychological salvation were held in my containers of pale flesh.

Without removing his jacket, he dove into my feet like they were a bucket of fried chicken, drenching them with saliva, smacking his jaw, and pushing my foot as deep as it would go into his throat. I resisted the impulse to ask if he'd like me to find him a salt shaker.

"I want you to call me filth, dirt, the worst things you can think of," he said. "I'm a worthless piece of shit. Grind your heels as hard as you can into my eyes."

How this man wasn't gagging for his life was beyond me. How I didn't gag is also in question. When I wasn't kicking at him hard enough, he grabbed my ankle and dug my heel into his eyes, nose, ears, and throat.

"Tell me I'm worthless, I'm scum, I'm not worth the ground you want on."

Forcing a sneer, I mumbled my way through his litany until our forty minutes ended. I blanked out most of the dialogue, but I remember the feeling behind the words. My heart hurt. Ached. I didn't think him less than a human, scum, a worthless piece of garbage, but a part of me awoke, stretched, and wanted to kick him with all my strength.

Going from high to low, I was DONE. Take me out of the oven and stick a fork in me, Sarah Jessica Parker. This was leagues better than the hustle of the strip club, but I felt like I needed a dousing of sanitary solution, not just on my soles, but internally, somewhere in the vicinity of my soul.

The self-help would have to wait. I'd made decent, much-needed cash, and my footsies were squeaky clean. But nope, not finished. Most of the girls had left. Two guys remained. One had been waiting for me all night.

Mr. Whitebread looked like a bleached piece of driftwood. I imagined him a sweet teenage man-boy hunched over his anime playing cards in the cafeteria, so when he asked me to stay, I stayed. His request: trampling. Could I please just stand on him?

I'd seen a video or two on trampling with the curious fascination one witnesses a car crash but never had I intentionally, consciously stepped all over a man. I knew I could do it, but should I? Serious injury can occur. No part of me is dainty or petite, and your girl is thick with muscle. Half-joking, I asked if he had a waiver I could sign. He quickly responded, "I signed one when I arrived."

"Oh damn. Okay. Lead the way."

The stripper pole strikes again.

He laid down next to it, and I used the steel to brace myself. Watching our bodies in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, I planted my shoes tentatively over his ribcage. He directed my movements like a seasoned conductor, but visions of my heel puncturing his lung, hearing the whistle as it deflated, and seeing the flashing red lights of an ambulance played leapfrog as I concentrated on jumping on his belly and thighs.

To his credit, dude knew how much pressure he could take, where to take it, and for how long. His groans and exclamations were one of pleasure - masochistic pleasure. He wanted me to leave marks he could admire the rest of the week, and yes, it was fine if my heels broke his skin. Nice, how it went from "just stand on me" to "leave divots."

Okay, fine. Let's do that. Leave a mark. A memory. A scar. Remember me. It's your fetish, not mine. Not yet. I want to go home, but I'm in charge here. If I want you to beg, you will beg.

He never begged me to stop. Which, wow, good for him? And wow, maybe I don't know anything about pain.

I went home that night feeling drained, satisfied, and excited. This wasn't the deep internal twinge of sexual lust, although my pussy parts gave flare gun salutes to the possibility of acting as a primordial goddess. Not one to shirk a devious desire, where was this going? I weighed my options. So far, the fight scene videos were fun. The exotic dancer route was a dead-end. Being a foot model was a roller coaster of unsuspecting surprises.

I like surprises. But I don't like treating people like garbage. I don't believe in degradation and humiliation as a means to a monetary end. I could go to bed wiping my hands with being a foot model and telling myself I was raised different. Attention to fetish, fantasy, and sexual manipulation have no place in a "decent" person's life, and most of the shadow world of sex could turn out to be what everyone is afraid of: morally, ethically, and spiritually wrong.

Except I know what wrong feels like, and this ain't it. Wrong is suppression of awareness, festering dissatisfaction, and self-deception. It is a depressive feeling weighing my will and passion with heavy stones called other peoples' opinions. Those stones are not mine to carry. I'd rather have the wings of empowerment.

Back to the park bench and my ant-gazing companion, Agent Mercury.

Without looking at him, I ask, "What makes a man want to feel like pavement? Gum-sticky, spat upon, grimy pavement? What makes him need to be walked on, disregarded, and gorged?"

He continued in penetrance of nature, "A man like that will desire this treatment if he knows he might treat another like trash. He's afraid, deathly afraid, if his will breaks if he loses control, he will turn on someone weaker, perhaps a woman or child, and do his best to make them feel weak and helpless. He does it for release, so he may never become the worst of himself, but he can't do it alone."

Agent Mercury finally looks at me. His eyes are warm brown, so kind, so loving, so honest, I can't look away.

"A man like that seeks a woman who could never hurt or humiliate him out of anger or hatred. He seeks a Goddess."

"What's the Goddess's purpose?"

Surprised he says, "You're the center of our world. The reason we exist. The only reason we have any purpose in this life. All you have to do is accept what pleasure is offered, how you want it, when you want it, and with firm boundaries we can understand."

My cheeks puff up. "Whoa, man, that's a lot of responsibility."

He nods, slowly. "Yes, it is. I'm sorry I missed you at the party. I would have liked to see you in action. I bet you were a natural."

"Why do you think that?" I ask and a part of me is scared. "What is it about me that screams I want to be in charge?"

Mercury, also known as the wing-footed god Hermes, messenger and liaison to the Underground, looks again at the tiny marching ants and smiles.

"I don't think telling you will do any good. I'd like to show you, if I may…Goddess?"