Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Supportive Shoes.

I don't find feet particularly arousing. Unlike The Father, I do not have a foot aversion and so I have been known to be somewhat reprimanding when partners have attempted to slide betwixt my sheets partially dressed in socks. In fact, I've been fairly vocal when an incident of this nature has occurred in manner of, 'What the fuck are you trying to do to me? Turn me into an eighty-five year old? I. Don't. Sleep. With. Men. With. Socks. On.'

Having said that, and at the risk of offending some of my more freaky (if yer know what I mean) readers, I have got to admit that feet, themselves, do not make The Pant pant with glee. I firmly believe in the 'feet-should-be-seen-and-not-licked' mantra. Footsie-footsie, I imagine, is like blending two different types of Roquerfort with sulphur over a bunsan burner.

I'm just not that kind of girl. I have been known, I admit (with deep regret) that when I have been in an altered state of singledom (read, 'in a relationship that was an express flight to nowhere'), I have attempted to prove my commitment through the clipping of toenails, the filing of cracked heels and the loving application of Ingram's. All in vein, really, because approximately 8.7 seconds after receiving the humiliating treatment from me, this particular lover minced his socially acceptable feet right out the door and did not even once turn on his soft-as-a-newborn's-bottom heel for a backward glance. I've since become okay with that.

Upon reflection, I have found that, for the most part, I seem to have the ability to pick partners who share the same nonchalance for feet as I do. I remember asking one lover once...

The Pant: Ah, babe (not very creative in the pet name scores). I've had the most hectic day and my feet are killing me. Please won't you give them just a wee rub (offering large and suitably fruity smelling tub of Body Shop body butter)?

Ex-Lover: Not a fucking chance.

He didn't last long. Can't imagine why.

Now, you might be wondering why I woke up this morning and needed to discuss my incongruent beliefs of sex and feet. The truth is, I'm perplexed.

You see, My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire, who has more than the two nipples per individual quota, sent me this picture:

Yes. That's a third nipple in the middle of someone's foot.

So, friends. There is, after all, a need for supportive shoes. Not to mention, a new meaning to the whole 'foot in mouth disease'. Crikey.

No comments:

Post a Comment