The Night I Sold My Soles

I've spent most of the last 20 years in various long term monogamous relationships, giving more than getting back. Do I want to spend the next 20 years chasing the same thing? Giving all my energy to a man and getting a fraction in return? So at the beginning of 2020, I took a couple months off of dating and sex. I’ve been getting deep with my self assessment and looking at my past relationships. Polishing myself from the inside out. On Valentine’s Day I get a mani-pedi, just for me, and spend the day writing looking at my bright red manicure fly over the keyboard.

One Saturday night, the lack of dick in my life is getting to me, and I text all my friends to see who is going out. No one is in town and nothing is happening, apparently. I resign myself to spending a Saturday night watching High Fidelity on Hulu (for the second or third time) and making a pot of Sleepy Time tea (little did I know that in a month that would become everyone's ipso-facto Saturday night and would be for the next year).

Then my upstairs neighbor, Valerie, texts me. She wants to work a Foot Fetish party in Calabasas, and wants me to come so she can have some backup (and a ride there cause she doesn’t have a car). Work a Foot Fetish party? What does work mean? Will we be safe? Do you know everyone involved? She assures me this is not a human trafficking scheme, and a friend she trusts has worked it before. She says it is super chill and we make money for men to worship our feet. My mind is racing.

Beyond the mortal danger aspect, I have some concerns. I am imagining every other girl there being a 20 year old Russian, and I’m gonna feel old and sit in the corner all night. Plus I don’t know what to wear. More importantly I have never been paid for any sexual service. What kind of line would that tread? When she suggests I use it for my writing, I know she is right. Damnit, I must do it for the sake of my art. Luckily, I still have my self care Valentine red pedicure.

I have been having sex since I was 17 and much of it was wonderful, consensual, multi orgasmic, and made me feel loved. But recently it has felt a little cold and distant. Like I’m not real to the men I’m intimate with. I’m feeling wanted for my ass, but not for me. Wanted in the moment, but not cared for. This does seem like an opportunity to switch up the power dynamic. So I say ok. I ask her what to wear, and we agree to leave in an hour and a half.

I get in the shower and scrub my feet. I want to make sure they feel smooth. I shave my legs and take extra care to get each toe, just in case. I run my hand around my ankles to find any remaining scruff. Then a quick shave up the thighs and to the bikini line. Not that I intend on getting that far, but my dress is short, and they will be looking up it? I think anyway. I’m just trying to cover all the grooming bases. I moisturize my feet and body twice after I dry off. I brush my teeth and use mouthwash. From tip to toe everything is sparkling clean.

Now, I hate high heels. I wear Dr Martens with flowers and spiderwebs painted on them. I have one pair of heels that I have owned for 8 years at least and I have worn them 4 times. They are black, slip on and about two inches higher than I am comfortable walking in. I bring these with, but wear my Docs. I have on a short black cocktail dress, which Valerie gave me, and my black full length DKNY coat. I’m entering The Matrix.

We drive to Calabasas. I am relieved to find it was not as far as I had thought, but I’m a little distraught to find we are at an apartment complex. I kind of assumed Calabasas meant a big fancy house, but I guess regular people live there too. On the other hand, it feels a little safer because of all the people living in proximity. Less likely we will end up in a basement for two months. A guy meets us in the driveway, Roger. He is wearing jeans and sneakers. Seems like a regular dude. Valerie tells him her name is Elle. I didn’t think of an alias, but it is probably a good idea. Delaila is the name that pops out of my mouth.

“Like in the bible,” he says, "she cuts Samson’s hair while he sleeps.”

“Yeah.” I hadn’t thought about it. Of course though. Catholic shit really gets in there. I just had to pick a famous biblical whore, right?

As he leads us to a second level apartment, he tells us what to expect.

“There are two rooms for private sessions. $20 for 15 minutes. Set the timer on your phone. There is also a timer on each door that will go off. Then Jules, the security, will start knocking on the door. If anyone tries anything you don’t like or you feel unsafe at any time, leave the room or yell.

“Only feet. Anything above the knee is your negotiation, but we are only here to provide a foot fetish experience.” His words are putting me at ease. It seems like they have this operation down, and they want us to feel safe.

We walk into the kitchen which is open to the living room. There is a bar set up on the counter and a dozen guys milling around and sitting on the sofa. There are about seven girls in dresses and heels. The girls are all in their 20’s and early 30’s. The guys are 25 to 45. No one is white, but me, so I have a niche market going for me. Most everyone is Latinx and Middle Eastern. Roger introduces us by our aliases. I still have my coat on and my heels in my hand, and I get asked for a session. Guess I won’t be a wallflower after all.

“But you haven’t even seen my feet yet,” I say, “ And I still have my coat on.”

“Allow me,” he says, and slips off my coat like I am a lady or something. When the coat comes off every man around the bar begins to notice me. I just got put on the auction block. Elle is going through something similar on the other side of the room. It feels so weird.

I ask if there is somewhere I can put my coat, because I want to put it down, but also I need a minute to process the energy coming at me. In a bar or something, maybe one guy likes you, maybe you flirt with two, but the other men keep their eyes and energy on their conversations. Here there is only one conversation. That we are for sale.

I take a couple deep breaths as I put my coat away, slip out of my Docs and put on my heels. They help with the character. I am not me. I am Delaila. I feel more comfortable as her in them. Delaila is a powerful woman who knows how to control her interactions with men. Most of us get pulled around by them, cheated on, abused, lied to. Delaila is a perfect whore. She says give me the money and I don’t need any of that other bullshit. It is a transactional relationship, built on something solid. Money. After all, marriage, when it comes down to it is transactional. Ultimately, you are just consolidating incomes in order to make retirement more comfortable.

I walk back to the bar, confident in my role, shifting my weight from side to side in my heels. The guy who wants a session gravitates towards me. I make a drink and we chat. He is from Paris and is leaving to go home tomorrow. His face is like a baby even though he is over six feet tall. His body is like a baby too. A giant baby with a French accent. We talk a bit, and I begin to like him, and when he asks if I am ready, I am happy to say yes.

In the room, I don’t really know how to begin. I was told by Roger that I should get the money upfront. So I put my hand out and try to say something clever, but just outright ask for the money like I am working the drive through window. He gives it to me and I manage a Merci Bien. I put it in the little purse Elle told me to bring to keep it in.

“What should I do?” I ask because I literally have no idea.

“Sit on the bed,” he says. I sit and take a big swig of my drink. Vodka. I never drink vodka. Delaila does though.

“Would you like to take off my shoes?” I ask.

“If you would like me to,” he says.

“Yes, please do,” I say.

He slides off my heels, and then I hear the intake of breath. I knew this moment was coming. I have exceptionally beautiful feet. It is an empirical fact. Size 5 1/2. Even toes. High arches. Unmarred and perfect, my little feet have received much praise over my life from lovers, dancers, yoga teachers.

“I don’t think one session will be enough,” he says, “I have the room for the next time slot. Would you like to have that session with me as well?”

“Yeah, why not?” I respond. I like the way he is looking at me, and he just gave me $20, and will give me 20 more in 15 minutes. After my approval, he kisses the ball of my foot. Then the toes one by one. His full lips feel squishy. He licks the big toe, and the humidity of his mouth squiggles up my spine. He takes the entire big toe in and sucks on it with some pressure. He is also working the arch of my foot and the whole sensation makes me laugh.

“Why are you laughing,” he asks, briefly disengaging my second metatarsal join from his suction.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It feels good. I like it. But I am ticklish to a fault. When I was little my older sister used to tickle me until I cried.”

“I do not want to make you cry,” he says. So French.

“You won’t,” I reassure him,”But I am very ticklish and I will laugh. But please, proceed.” I lay back on the bed and let him have at it.

He goes back to my big toe. He puts it in his mouth and sucks again. Then puts all my toes in his mouth. Then the ball of my foot. He sucks half of my foot with his mouth and works it down his throat as far as possible. He activates his gag reflex so that thick spit starts coming. It feels like hot goo. My foot slides farther into his mouth. I am watching, enthralled. I don’t know what I expected, but it sure wasn’t this. Then he takes his fingers and stretches out the side of his mouth so he can get it past his teeth. He moves back and forth holding me by the ankle with both hands, fucking his own mouth. I can barely believe this is happening and am letting out little surprised gasps. I am kind of turned on by how this man knows what he wants. He wants me to fuck his throat with my foot like it’s a dick, and he has no shame or hesitation about it. He has paid for this, after all.

It feels like my toes are going down a well. A well with teeth scraping the sides of my feet and hot lava at the bottom. The idea that I am dipping my toes in the burning iron core of the earth begins to fuck with my mind. I don’t know if I can stand it for another second, when he pulls my drenched foot out of the liquid hell down his throat. He bites around the outside of my heels and kisses them. Presumably because he couldn’t fit those in his mouth as well.

During pauses in the action, we talk about Paris, New York, Thailand. We have been to many of the same countries, and he is impressed at my conversational French. Delaila should have a little of the world under her belt. She should speak French. She is a woman, who is shocked by nothing, A woman who knows what the fine things in life are like. She is worldly, yet wide eyed. Interesting. Intelligent. Witty. Everything a good courtesan should be.

He does the other foot the same way as the first. Down his throat until he gags and that thick spit starts again. It still feels wild, but I’m not going mad this time. It doesn’t feel like he will swallow me whole like the boa constrictor song, not at all.

Soon enough our back to back sessions are over. He asks for another, and I say I need a little time in between. There is a spray bottle full of rubbing alcohol and paper towels next to the bed in a little basket. He lovingly sprays down my feet and wipes the spit off them with a paper towel. The cooling burn feels good as it takes the lava out of my toes. He blows them dry and slips my heels on for me. It still feels a little gushy at the ball of my foot though. I follow him out to the living room like a newborn giraffe.

I want to find Elle and do a check in. She is in a session, so I’m guessing she is all right. I try to talk to the other girls and get some info, but the ones not chatting up a prospective client are looking at their phones. They don’t seem open to conversation, so I go back to the bar and refresh my drink. Then a short, very fat, bearded man approaches me. He says that he likes to be humiliated and subjugated. He wants to be debased.

“Can you do that for me?” he asks.

“I think I can,” I reply. He tells me I am beautiful, and he knows I will be good at dominating him; he can just tell. His beady eyes light up and his beard parts to reveal a tic tac smile. This is validating as fuck. And I’m getting money out of it. So far this is win win.

We go in the same room I had my first session in, and I demand the money, put out that it isn’t in my hand at that moment. Delaila knows how to take control of a man.

“Get on the floor,” I say, “Take off my heels.”

“Yes,” he says in almost a whisper, and immediately obeys.

After he completes his task, I sit on the edge of the bed.

“Look at my foot,” I demand.I hold up my right foot so it is in his face. “What do you think?”

“It is beautiful,” he whimpers.

“Then kiss it,” I say, indignant he hasn’t done it already. “You like that, don’t you,” I say.

“Yes, goddess,” he says. Hmm goddess. I don’t hate that at all.

“You like groveling at my feet. I wonder what else I can make you do.”

“Anything,” he says, “I’ll do anything you want. Even come to your house and clean your toilet,” he says, not daring to look up. I laugh a little. Cleaning the toilet seems pretty basic. I am a writer after all, why not get a little more creative with his imaginary servitude.

“Is that all?” I press. “I want more than that. What else will you do for me.” I am searching for a clue as to what he really wants me to say. What is the psychological key that will unlock his domination fantasy? I will know by the sound of his whimpers when I find it.

“I will do everything for you. I will clean your whole house…I will cook for you and your other men...” he cannot go on.

“Yes,” I say, “You can clean while I bring men home, and listen outside the the door while I fuck them.” I’m drinking vodka this whole time and it’s like gasoline on my word fire

“Oh yes, goddess,” he says rolling in agony on the floor under me. I steady him with my foot on his throat.

“They get to fuck me, but you don’t” I say looking in his dishwater brown eyes staring up at me. “How dare you look back at me,” I say. He quickly averts his gaze, and barely sighs out an apologetic, “Yes, goddess.” I move my foot to his face, and crawl my toes over his mouth into his nose and eyes. His tongue reaches out like a snake to try and get whatever bit of flesh it can. It tickles when it runs on the arch of my foot and I let out a giggle. He squirms beneath me like an earthworm. I keep the arch of my foot over his mouth and his beard scratches while his tongue licks in a fury. I giggle more, and he spasms from his groin, curling his legs in.

“I love your mean laugh,” he says between my toes.

“You want me to laugh at you? You like it! Keep licking my feet, you beast. That’s it.” It actually feels really good, and between the vodka and the drunk power trip, I feel an orgasm creeping up from his tongue running continuously on the arch of my foot. And I am laughing and sighing and looking at myself in the mirror.

“It feels like I’m coming,” I say and moan. He moans and wiggles and wallows in the discomfort of his neglected erection. “You only get to make me come through my feet,” I say, “I have young bucks to fuck me the right way. You only get this.”

“Yes, goddess,” he keeps saying over and over to himself.

As he is cleaning my feet, he asks for another session. He has one coming in 10 minutes or so. “But this time, would you wear your Doc Martens?” I agree, laughing.

“Oh that laugh!” He says.

I do five sessions total all night, and at 2am, I have $100. I could make more, but I don’t want to. Elle wants to keep going, she came here to make money after all. I can’t stand the idea of another hot well sucking my feet into it, so I retire my one night career and talk to the other girls on the couch. The party is getting down to the diehards. The girls are opening up now, having already made their money and been properly plied with alcohol. Now we are all friends. We talk about how empowering this feels. How men treat us like we don’t matter more often than not, and here they are paying to worship us, and our vaginas are not even involved. They are all different types, the girls, but all Latina. One with great legs and tattoos. One with a wide waist and flat booty. One is skinny and really young with short hair styled like a flapper and clear heels. She is from Florida and just got to LA. All of them made money tonight. Two of them ask me for a ride and are crestfallen when I say I live in Culver City.

Elle/Valerie made $160, she tells me on the way home. It is 4am as we pull into my parking spot. I am exhausted and sick of the wetness between my toes. It’s a lot of psychic energy prostituting, even just your feet. The constant conversation. The psychological play. Being touched by a stranger, who you would probably never choose to have touch you if money wasn’t involved. Tonight was worth it for me because I didn’t need the money. I wanted a story, and I sure got one. But what if I was depending on this night to make my rent like Valerie who lost her job? What if I needed this night to buy diapers? How much more exhausted would I be if I had hustled, done twice as many?

I am pondering all this as I take a shower. I am happy to be alone. I can still feel the men on and around me. They come in and out of my energy field as I finally drift off to sleep, and I dream of sharks swallowing me from the feet up. I can feel their teeth scratching my heels.