FOOT FETISH FRANK
by Cynthia French
At first it was fabulous
dating Frank, the foot fetish guy
He asked me one night,
can I massage your feet?
And I let him. Ooohing and Aahing
to the sensation of skin against skin
in between my toes, sending sensations
reverberating through my body.
It was almost better than sex
Almost.
Before our next date, I painted
my toenails purple
His face lit up in smiles gazing at my feet
he came out of the closet
"I love feet," Frank said
and I didn’t care.
At least I had found a man that was honest.
So I kept my toenails long and polished
black his favorite color
and he kept rubbing my tired feet
and watching them
and kissing them
and sucking on my toes
strange, I know…but damn it felt good
Then it got worse
or weird
or something.
Frank, the foot fetish guy started showing me
pictures of feet he’d found on the web
excited to learn about a foot fetish web ring
photos of celebrity feet
Mira Sorvino, Gena Davis, Uma Thurman
all their feet for all to see.
He started reading me stories
sexual scenarios of feet fetish frenzies
sent Frank into sexual overdrive
let’s try this and this and this he’d exclaim.
Frank started buying me shoes accentuating toe cleavage.
Then came the socks
All sorts of socks
toe socks, mitten socks
argyle animal print
socks by Miller
sheer socks
stockings (he insisted on watching me put on my stockings)
slippers too, furry ones, open toed
strappy sandals
high heels
ankle bracelets
toe rings
temporary tattoos.
Then it happened.
After I fell and slid across the marble floor of the apartment building lobby wearing my newest 4 inch spiked red heels, spraining my wrist and flashing the doorman, I knew I was in trouble.
He’d pulled me into his foot fetish fantasy world and I couldn’t see a way out.
Even the food in my cupboards had changed.
Whipped cream, chocolate syrup, creamy peanut butter
all things that tantalized his taste buds
as he sucked my toes.
My credit card bill showed
charges of a foot fetish shopping spree
Bath and Body lotions and scrubs
Eucalyptus foot cream
massage books
silk nylons
files and buffers
polish of all colors.
My credit cards maxed,
my wrist wrapped and throbbing
Blushed red from embarrassment
Frank down on his knees in front of me
lifting his pant leg
revealing a sock with a tiny pocket
from which he pulls a ring
and as he say the words, I cry out NO!
I can’t live a lie any longer I’m afraid
Frank. I said
Feet stink.
_________________________________________
I couldn’t find a lot on Ms. French, but did locate this homepage, where there is a sampling of her work. Hopefully, we’ll be hearing more from her soon. I’m inspired. Haven’t written a naughty poem in a while. It’s about time, so watch out.
