“Maybe he’s gay and was admiring our footwear?” I asked my best friend, Kerry.
“No, I think he was admiring our feet,” she said, and we both shuddered. Then we completely forgot about it.
A few classes later, I was dying from a wicked headache, and he offered to walk down and get me some Advil. We were close ever since.
Anyway, fast forward a year or so, and I had gotten a new boyfriend. Said boyfriend refused to touch my feet (which are super nice and always pedicured, by the way).
“If he won’t do it, I’ll give you foot massages!” Marty offered one day. “It’s a win/win/win. You have beautiful feet, I’ve been dying to massage those babies.”
Was I grossed out by my feet being referred to as “babies”? Yes. But for a good foot massage, I was willing to let it go.
“If you won’t, I’ll just have Marty massage my feet. It’s a win/win/win,” I told my boyfriend.
“Please do,” my boyfriend replied.
I was able to squeeze in two or three massages before ‘the incident’ occurred. We were sitting in his car and I had my feet on Marty’s lap. He was staring at my foot particularly more than usual, I remember thinking, when he leaned down and proceeded to kiss my big toe — with a lot of wetness and possibly a smidge of tongue. If you just vomited, I apologize, but so did I (both then and now).
“Okay, I have to go inside now. I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said, ripping my feet out of his lap.
“Sure, hun, see you soon,” he said with a big smile, like absolutely nothing was wrong.
When I told my boyfriend he said he’d “massage [my] damn feet” and I was never to let Marty touch them again.
It was gross, but, hey, at least it got my boyfriend to massage them from then on. And, to this day, whenever I hear a newscaster say a man was arrested on a NYC train for licking a woman’s toes, I always wonder about Marty.
Have you ever been friends with or dated a person with a fetish and didn’t realize how serious it was until you got close to them?